Chapter Five
“I plan to return to London soon with Zephora.” Rafe announced this to his three colleagues with a prick of fear. They were two lords and a man who ruled in the rough neighborhood of Seven Dials.
Seated around his desk in his study, the three were his best friends who had worked with him for years, on government policy with William Pitt, then prime minister, and with espionage activities.
Together, they had saved Lord Carlisle’s wife, Giselle, from capture by French agents here on the southern coast. They had removed the threat of retribution to Lord Halsey’s new wife, Inès, by taking her brother Luc from his prison.
They had also helped their Irish rascal, Dáire O’Neill, save his own beloved from capture and harm.
All three had arrived together in Brighton yesterday in response to Rafe’s need.
“I am so pleased all of you have come here to me so that we can prepare for that.”
Rafe thought Zeph ready to face the ton.
Picking and choosing carefully the hosts and hostesses whose homes she would enter, Zeph could take her time, too.
It was vital she become accustomed to meeting strangers who had no intention of harming her.
As for others who would, Rafe had his friends here in preparation for that.
“Whatever you want, Rafe. We are at the ready.” The Earl of Halsey had been the one who led their rescue mission to Paris, a tall fellow with brown hair and a carefree manner of joy about him now that they had survived the rescue…
and that his pregnant wife remained healthy through their weeks-long ordeal.
The journey had been dangerous. The outcome, unpredictable.
The chance of capture by French gendarmes was great, the prospect of prison high.
Originally, Halsey intended only to save Inès’s brother Luc from prison.
But consulting with a Parisian fellow whom Inès had known to be a great help to other Englishmen and women in need, Halsey and Rafe had sought out a lady who was influential in French Society—and a friend of Josephine Bonaparte.
Countess Nugent, a longtime resident of Paris and once a mistress of the old Duc d’Orleans, was also the aunt of Augustine, Lady Ashley, and guardian of that lady’s friend, Amber, Lady Ramsey.
The countess had asked them to save a young woman sent to the Conciergerie by the same man whom many in Paris hated, René Vaillancourt, the deputy to the hated minister of police, Joseph Fouché.
Clive, the Marquess of Carlisle, smiled at Rafe from his seat. “What is it you need?”
Dáire O’Neill—a black-haired, black-eyed Irish devil—was the most powerful man in the rough-and-tumble Seven Dials. He commanded a group of talented men and women who worked the underbelly of London, Dover, and, many said, Calais as well. “Anything,” he offered.
“I need guards, Dáire. Around the clock,” Rafe said.
“Not a problem. Four in shifts of six hours each?”
“That is precisely what I want,” Rafe said.
“What did she do?” the Irishman asked.
“She took a notebook from René Vaillancourt. A betting book.”
Halsey glanced over at Dáire with dancing violet eyes. “She gave it to the Paris rags. They published lists of those indebted to Vaillancourt. Generals and tradesmen alike had their names splashed about the city. No one was happy. Especially Bonaparte.”
Rafe snorted. “He tries to claim his people are so honorable.”
“How in God’s name did she get access to such a thing?” Carlisle asked Rafe. “Has she told you?”
“She was invited to his house for different events. Managed to sneak out, claiming illness or fatigue.” Zeph had evidently been able to wander Vaillancourt’s house and, being stopped by no one, find this book in his study. “This notebook was small, and she could slip it into her corset.”
Dáire whistled softly. “That takes a hell of a lot of pluck.”
“Don’t I know it,” Rafe said with a rueful smile. She was one of the bravest women he had ever known.
“Did she intend to flee afterward?” Dáire asked, a frown forming on his long, strongly boned face.
Rafe blew out a breath. “So many go to Vaillancourt’s house, I doubt she thought she’d ever been tracked.”
All three of his guests winced.
“But someone either saw her,” Rafe added, “or the newspaper publishers somehow tracked her.”
Carlisle tipped his head. “The damage to many people’s reputations is great. Vaillancourt nearly lost his position.”
“Did he?” Rafe found that almost amusing. “How did you learn that?”
“Giselle and I had dinner the other night with Scarlett Hawthorne and Todd Carlton.” Carlisle grinned. “Scarlett knows as much as if she were Bonaparte’s secretary.”
“And Todd Carlton knows what goes on in the great man’s bedroom.”
All four men laughed over that one.
But Rafe sobered. “Did Scarlett know that the woman Halsey, Inès, and I rescued was the one who took the notebook?”
“If she did,” Carlisle said, “she never let on.”
Rafe thanked heaven that he and his friends had formed a tight bond with Scarlett Hawthorne, the shipping heiress who ran the largest espionage network on the Continent. Her chief clerk, a hulking fellow who watched over her like a giant dragon, was just as good an ally.
“Do you think Scarlett would be interested in meeting Zeph?”
Carlisle chuckled. “Meet another woman with guts? Ha!”
“Scarlett wants every asset she can find,” said Halsey.
“After you are in Town,” Carlisle said, “we will throw a few events to introduce Zeph to the renowned Miss Hawthorne.”
*
Zephora stood on the model’s step that Madame Clermont brought with her to do her adjustments. Today’s confection, a new one of many to hold her blossoming breasts, was a peppermint muslin with white lace trim at the bodice and puffy, short sleeves.
Zeph whirled toward the six-foot mirror.
She had known she would look superb in this color.
One of her favorites, the hue allowed her flame-red hair to glow.
Today, in her growing need to feel totally free as air, she let it hang loose to her waist. The dressmaker smiled.
Clermont had often told her how she adored her “violently red” hair.
Zeph leaned forward and told herself that her skin would soon be as vibrant and return to a decent luminescence.
For now, the new phenomenon of her hair’s healthy recovery was an aspect of herself that she had forgotten she possessed.
She grimaced. That, along with her ability to do complex arithmetic, which, thank God, was coming back to her rapidly lately.
“You like the gown, mademoiselle?” The modiste stood to one side, her delicate arms crossed before her as she admired Zephora in the dress. The lady always came alone, Rafe having ordered her to bring none of her clerks.
“I do.”
They spoke French to each other, and Zephora appreciated the opportunity to do it. She was not so stilted in conversation using French as she was in English.
“You say, madame, it is a proper day gown?” Zeph knew not English fashions for the hours of the day.
“Oui, mademoiselle. Very delicious looking, is it not?”
Zeph nodded. The delicate green was not quite right for late August, but it was exactly the right color to spark a glint in Rafe’s hooded eyes.
“Do you mind waiting for me here? I wish to show the gown to my uncle.”
That she was his niece to the world tickled her. That he introduced her so nonchalantly as that to Madame Clermont and those neighbors to each side of his townhouse brought a quiver of amusement to her lips.
But after the incident when she had broken apart in his arms, he had renewed his cool demeanor toward her.
She felt abandoned. Where once he had shown himself to be the only man in this world whom she could depend upon to be her friend, her companion, her confidant, now he was merely her host, her acquaintance, her distant but benevolent uncle.
His indifference stung.
“But of course, mademoiselle. Do go and show Monsieur Durham the gown. He will chuckle at the beauty you present.”
Zeph took the lady’s hand to climb down from the stool. “Oh, in that you are so right, madame.”
She picked up her skirts, barefoot and carefree. She dashed down the hall toward the winding stairs to his study on the first floor. His door was usually always open, so she was surprised to find it closed.
Very well.
She knocked.
He bade her enter.
Rafe rose from his chair behind his desk.
The three other men who rose to their feet looked at her as if she were some untamed creature from the backwoods of Virginia.
“Pardon me, sir.” She addressed Rafe formally, acknowledging Halsey, but not knowing who the other two were or his relationship to them. “I can return later.”
“Please do not leave, Zephora.” He gazed at her with a formal smile, but then his eyes—oh, yes—his eyes traveled down the sugared peppermint.
Past lace at her bodice, over her breasts, down the flow of the supple fabric, up her hands and arms and back to her eyes.
His lashes fluttered as he caught himself and inhaled.
“You may know Lord Halsey. But allow me to introduce you to my other friends.”
Rafe strode around his desk to stand next to one man taller than he by several inches. This fellow, like the others, was dressed fit to appear in anyone’s drawing room, his brown hair combed, his violet gaze friendlier than someone about to meet her for the first time.
Rafe gestured toward him. “This is the Earl of Halsey. You may remember him.”
“I hope you do,” said the gentleman with a bow and a smile.
She shook her head. She knew him not.
Rafe went on. “Halsey was in our rescue party with his wife, Inès. Inès Bechard.”
She fought for a memory. A frail one came, a woman dressed in a veil of yesterdays. “I do not remember you, my lord. I am sorry to say. Your wife I do know, but vaguely, I fear.”
“Inès will be pleased to see you again, Miss Butler.” The man offered his hand to shake. “My wife did not come with me to Brighton for this meeting. She expects our child soon and finds travel uneasy.”
“Oh, I am so happy for her. For you, too. I long to see and talk with her.” The lady could help fill in large gaps in her memory of that night and the many days that followed.
Halsey smiled. “She vowed when I left London that when you came to us in Town, you would have long afternoons together.”
“That is wonderful.” She turned to Rafe, concerned he and she were leaving here. How much time did she have to prepare emotionally for crowds? “We are going to London soon?”
“Only when you say you are ready.” Rafe gave her his look of assurance.
Confident then that Rafe would go only if she wished it, she smiled at Halsey. “You will give your wife my congratulations, won’t you? And please forgive my faulty memory. I am not quite yet myself.”
“I understand.”
“Allow me to present this fellow here,” Rafe said of a congenial fellow with soft brown hair and a charming grin. “He is the Marquess of Carlisle, another friend of mine.”
She offered her hand. “How do you do, my lord? I am happy to meet you.”
“As I am happy to meet you. I hope to introduce you soon to my wife, Giselle.”
“Thank you.”
Rafe said, “Here now, this last gentleman is one we rely on for many tasks. I present Mr. O’Neill.”
This different sort of introduction had Zeph tipping her head and smiling at the broad-shouldered man with dancing black eyes and curly, dark hair. “I am intrigued, sir, at Sir Raphael’s definition of your actions.”
“I leave it to Durham to describe them, Miss Butler.”
His Irish accent had her turning her attention toward Rafe. “I came for only a moment or two.”
“What did you wish to discuss?” he asked her.
“It can wait.” I got what I came for. She flashed a wicked grin at him. “Pardon me, gentlemen. I excuse myself.”
Each visitor bade her adieu.
She smiled herself away and up the stairs. She heard the door close, their conversation one she was not invited to hear.
What did these men have in common? Most likely it was their status, their wealth, their place in Society, perhaps even their education. Except for O’Neill, who had no title, but the look and gravitas of a powerful man. What did he do for a living? Not what the others did.
But a new memory pierced her. A woman with pale hair and a sharp mind. Was this Halsey’s wife, Inès? Yes! And Inès was Luc Bechard’s sister! Luc was the one who had blocked her prison guards from repeatedly raping her.
Zeph stopped at the first-floor landing, pressed a hand to her chest, and sagged against the wall. She could not remember Halsey. Only his wife.
But another memory, recent and satisfying, worked its warm way into her heart. It was how Rafe had forgotten himself and allowed his eyes to absorb the delectable gown.
And me beneath it.
She grinned. So much for your facade, sir. I see you, and I call you on how you play your hand to win the day and walk away from me.
She continued back to her suite. She’d have this gown, thank you, and another of teal green. In silk. To dance in.
Some victories were small, but useful, weren’t they?