Chapter Seventeen #2
Her horse was a beautiful roan mare and Evan’s a black stallion of sleek proportions.
Their ride along a subsidiary creek of the Thames was their first. It being the sixth day of their honeymoon—and with no snowfall to deter them—Evan had finally agreed to let Durham’s grooms saddle two horses so they could go riding.
Inès thought his consideration of her physical comfort typical of her husband’s kindness.
They had spent so many hours of each day and night in their bed that it was true, she admitted to herself, she would not have sat a horse easily until now.
But she would not have traded the diversion of riding for the bliss of her husband’s intimate attentions.
He cared for her. Deeply. Sweetly. She cared in equal measures for him—and she loved him for all of it.
Craved his attentions like a child craved sweets.
His lips on hers—his hands on her body, his skin on hers—was all she required, and she was crazed enough to admit it.
“You are smiling at me again.” He brought his mount abreast of hers along the trail and raised a branch obstructing his way.
“I have much to celebrate these days.”
His brows arched over a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “As do I. It is the reward of honeymoons.”
She blushed deeply.
They made their way back to their lair.
“When did you first learn to play the piano?”
“I was six. My mother was very accomplished. I loved to hear her playing and wanted to be just like her. I asked and she began to teach me. I think in the beginning I liked it because the practice was so repetitive. I did not know that then, but of course, I do know now that it is the means by which one becomes proficient. I am glad you like my attempts at it. If it helps to establish me as your one and only partner, I am delighted.”
He stopped his horse. “Why would you think you are not my one and only, now and forever?”
“Is that young and foolish?” She put a hand to her cheek, hot with more silly embarrassment. She would be jealous. Crazy with it. “Forgive me. I know how men of your status take mistresses after marriage. They do in France. Here too. To expect fidelity from you is— I don’t know. But I want it.”
He slid from his saddle, threw the reins over a tree limb, and went to her side.
#
His hand went to hers. “Get down from there.”
She flexed her shoulders. “No. Je suis desole. I should not have started that. Let us go on.”
“No, Inès. We talk now. Here.”
“I want to return. Let this go.”
“No. Get down.” His hands rose to her. “S’il vous pla?t.”
She went to him.
He backed her to a slim oak tree. “I do not want to hear more insecurities from you about our future together. If I have to ever say again that I love you with all the loyalty that implies, I will die of it. I promise you that nothing you could say or do would make me love you less.”
She said nothing, but nodded. Then turned for her horse.
“No!” He brought her around. “No more half measures! I know you were in Boulogne.”
As if she were in a dream, her mouth slowly opened. Her eyes clouded. “How?” she gasped.
“I was there.”
“In Boulogne?” She winced.
He nodded. “In camp. More than a year ago, September. I was there in disguise with a friend of Kane’s. We were invited to a reception of the army and navy staff. I heard you play.”
She shrank back from him. “You knew? All this time? You knew who I was and you—”
“No, I did not know when I met you that you had been the vice admiral’s lady.
That night, long ago, I saw that woman from afar.
In profile. She…wore a turban. I had forgotten the color of her hair.
I saw only a wisp of it, you see. But she…
” He gazed down at his wife now and saw the same beauty, the same elegance, the same sensitive lady he had witnessed that night and never forgotten.
“She was so lovely, so accomplished, that I remembered the essence of her for many months.”
It would do neither of them any good at this moment for him to tell her he had coveted his memory of that lady.
“When I met you, she had drifted from my reverie long before.” He dug his hands into her waist. “There is only you in my mind and heart now.”
She stared at him, marveled at him. “When did you learn that I was that woman?”
He cupped her cheeks. She was so sweet, so tender. “The other night when you played Beethoven for me. I saw you in profile as I had seen you in Boulogne.”
“And you knew from those things I had told you, and what the Ramseys said about me, that I worked for Scarlett Hawthorne’s network.”
“I pieced it all together.”
“And you are not ashamed of me?”
“What? Why would I be ashamed? I am wildly proud you did so well, and for so many years!”
She curled in on herself. “But…I hurt him. I destroyed him.”
“Your Frenchman?”
She grabbed a breath. “I did.”
“He is our enemy, my darling.”
She looked at him, but saw not him at all. “Oh, Evan. He went to the country, to his chateau, after I left, and he…”
Evan had learned through Durham and Carlisle that Rossard was no longer on the French Admiralty staff. They had all assumed that he had retired in some disgrace. Now Evan waited for her to finish her statement.
“He shot himself.”
Evan crushed her to his chest. What he said in that moment, he had no idea. The words were murmurs of horror and defeat, sadness and triumph.
She found some words eventually—and she told him, forthright, her chin up, “I recommended to him that drawings and paintings he received were accurate depictions of English towns. I told him I had been there. I never was. Never. But he believed me.”
Evan looked down into her eyes. “They were Giselle Laurant’s work.”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
“Giselle was the artist who depicted the false sea levels of southern English towns.”
“I knew. I should not have. I did not ask. I did not need to. I saw the drawings and I knew her style. I knew she executed them.”
“Does she know you knew this?” Evan asked, terror creeping through him.
“No! I have said nothing to her. I will not. She should not know I was the agent in Boulogne. One fact is a secret as long as only two know it. But…but do you think Giselle knows I was the one to feed it to the French?”
“No.”
“Mon Dieu. But…but, Evan, are you sure?”
“I am. Carlisle became acquainted with Giselle as she did the work. She did not tell him what her mission was, but Carlisle could see what it was once he saw her art. Then, as she finished, she was attacked and abducted by French agents. They were to take her back to France, even got two of their top agents to arrange it. But it was Carlisle with Lord Ashley, Langley, and I who rescued Giselle from them. We still search for the two who were in charge. One was a woman, another her male counterpart. She calls herself La Mère. He is dubbed Faucon.”
“The mother and the falcon. Intriguing. So like the French, eh? Picking names for themselves.”
He rubbed his thigh. “I carry a reminder of La Mère.”
“She is the one who shot you!” Inès grew angry. She clutched him close. “She is a poor marksman.”
“She is. I am glad she did not shoot higher.”
She cuffed him. “You can laugh at this?” But she smiled, too.
“Let’s return home, shall we?”
They took the road back, and as they went, Evan noticed an iron might to her character that he had not measured before this.
She seemed to be free, now that her past was out and known.
He wanted that woman to be proud of her past, rejoicing in her present, and free to embrace her future.
She had done a remarkable service to the world.
The Grand Army of Napoleon had never struck at the belly of England.
Instead, it had turned to meet its enemies in Austria.
Evermore would he honor his wife for her extraordinary heroism in the face of enormous odds.
#
As they approached the house, the young footman who had served them these past days stood at attention just inside the front door. He looped their coats over one arm, but looked anxious as he dug from inside his frockcoat a sealed envelope and handed it over. “My lord?’
Evan saw his distress. “What’s wrong?’
The youth indicated the note. “A message from Sir Raphael.”
Evan could see that whatever disturbed the young man, he contained his anguish. It raised Evan’s curiosity. “Do you know what’s in here?”
“I can guess, sir. The news is not good, sir.”
Evan tore open the envelope.
H~ ! Return to London. Pitt needs you. Our runner from Paris confirms: Bonaparte has won a major victory over Austria and Russia on a plain called Austerlitz.
Devastating losses to his enemies. Bony sent word back to Paris.
At theaters there, people stood and sang La Marseillaise.
The army set off fireworks. Apologies to cut short your honeymoon.
Evan passed the note to Inès.
She read it, then stared at him. “We will pack.”
“I am sorry, my love.”
She shook her head. “This is important.”
He inhaled, anger building inside him. “Pitt has raced against time to pour money into our army. It’s not been enough, soon enough.” He gazed at her with a sad smile. “I hate to leave here.”
“Nothing will change. You are mine. I am yours.”
“Now I must share you with the world. Was it ever so with newlyweds. We will be stellar together.”
She would make it so. Be his hostess, and their house a haven for his family, his associates, and his friends. His work would be hers, too.
Truly, had not they shared that even before they met?
She would find a way to get Luc free. She’d create a plan. She would never have to use the etui of arsenic she’d sewn into the hem of her wool winter coat.
She kissed his lips and hurried with him up the stairs.