Chapter 16
Sixteen
As she marched up the hill, her back ramrod straight, Elizabeth cursed herself for a fool.
She’d done it again. Acted without thinking.
After everything that’s happened, you’d think I could plan ahead, even the slightest bit…
But she’d been so shocked to open her eyes and see him standing at the foot of the bridge.
It was one thing to dream about a man, to imagine what you’d say to him, but to have him show up like that…
just suddenly there. All the speeches, so carefully scripted during long nights she hadn’t been able to sleep, had completely run out of her head.
Of course, she’d imagined James on bended knee, not scolding her as if she were a half-witted child.
He must think I belong in Bedlam, walking on the bridge like that!
She resisted the urge to look back over her shoulder.
Alix’s mother Madeleine once told her only a girl just out of the schoolroom would give a man the satisfaction of glancing over her shoulder.
Madeleine had lived at Versailles, attended the Queen. She was experienced in handling men.
She’d barely started her first—and last—season.
Elizabeth kicked at a clump of grass, scattering tiny crickets in all directions.
She’d sworn that if she ever crossed paths with James Dinsmore again, she’d be as composed and elegant as Madeleine de La Brou.
Instead, she’d ranted at him about how he’d ruined her.
When she knew perfectly well she was equally at fault.
She’d known the risk when she’d slipped off with him.
She simply hadn’t expected to be caught—at least not so publicly.
Of course, it would have helped if James had offered to marry her.
A familiar heaviness settled over her, the weight that had nearly pulled her off the bridge.
What was he doing here, on Harcrest lands? She hadn’t even asked.
He had to be meeting with her brother. There was no one else on the estate who might give him leave to call, no one else with whom he might have business.
Rafe had made no mention of such an appointment; then again, her brother refused to speak James Dinsmore’s name aloud.
What ever could they have to discuss—unless it was she?
Doubtless that was the answer. How infuriating that he’d keep her in the dark about issues that concerned her future.
How typical. Elizabeth lengthened her stride as she neared the house.
How fortunate she’d found a way round her brother’s infernal passion for secrecy ages ago.
James was ushered into Rafe Harcrest’s study, a massive room with an elaborately patterned red carpet spread on the floor and towering bookcases reaching from floor to gilt-trimmed ceiling.
The Earl of Moreham sat at a heavy mahogany desk, books piled high around him, poring over columns of figures.
Carefully marking his place with a silver letter opener, he closed his account books, sat back in his leather armchair, and studied James, his eyes lingering on the scar.
The expression in their hazel depths was difficult to read. Was it satisfaction?
“You are late, Dinsmore,” he said coldly.
“I will presume your lack of punctuality is not intended as a discourtesy to me, but rather to some accident on the road.” He stared pointedly at James’s muddied Hessians, but made no effort to inquire as to the nature of the accident, or whether James had suffered any injuries.
Rafe motioned with an elegant hand to a straight-backed chair that had been drawn up in front of the desk. “Sit.”
James would have liked to refuse the command, or better yet, to pull up one of the upholstered wing chairs that were scattered about the room.
Instead, he nodded and thanked Moreham. He arranged his long limbs in the chair with languid ease.
“I apologize for my tardiness. It was unavoidable. It is good of Your Lordship to see me.”
“Let us not play at words, Dinsmore; we both know perfectly well that goodness has nothing to do with this meeting. Indeed, I should be surprised if you had a passing acquaintance with that sentiment.”
“Forgive me, my lord,” James said, looking down at his gloved hands and flexing one, slowly, like a leopard considering his claws, “but I have not come here to discuss my character.”
“Ah yes.” Rafe smiled grimly. “You’ve come to destroy mine.”
“Despite how it may seem, the purpose of my visit is on Lord Grenville’s behalf. And I do not seek your destruction, but rather your cooperation.”
“My cooperation?” Rafe’s brows arched skeptically. “If Grenville wishes to gain my cooperation, he has chosen a most peculiar messenger.”
“He thought by sending me to speak for him, he might gain your attention.” James knew he must choose his words carefully. “It was essential to convince you of the urgency of his request.”
“Request? Don’t play me for a fool. I served in His Majesty’s army. I know the difference between a request and a requisition.” Rafe’s fingers drummed impatiently on the desktop. “You and Grenville have gained my complete attention. Now tell me precisely what it is you want.”
“It has come to the attention of certain circles within Whitehall that over the past several years you have built up a network of trade relationships throughout France. Extensive relationships that you have taken great pains to conceal with cover companies, false fronts, holding companies, and middlemen.” James paused, allowing his words to sink in.
“You even have a number of ships, chartered in other men’s names. ”
“You’ve forgotten to add that these are very lucrative networks.” Rafe’s fingers stilled. “Isn’t that really what this meeting is about, Dinsmore—extortion?”
“It is not.” James forced his voice to remain cool. “We have no interest in your money, only in access to your networks. Your connections in France are most impressive, my lord, and even more impressively concealed.”
“You wish to use my connections for spying.” Rafe spat the words as if they fouled his tongue. “Gentlemen do not poke about in each other’s business, listening at doors and reading one another’s mail.”
The very words he had said to Grenville. “And gentlemen do not soil their hands with trade,” James countered quietly.
Rafe’s mouth tightened. “This estate was mortgaged to the hilt when I inherited it. I would not stand idly by and see my stepmother and half sister deprived of home and security. I did what I had to do to protect them.” Light from the tall windows that lined his study caught the gold signet ring he wore on his left hand and the jeweled Moreham crest blazed.
“Family, honor—these things may mean little to a man like you, Dinsmore. But they are everything to me.”
James would not discuss Anne; he would not betray her confidence, nor dishonor himself by attempting to defend what he had done on her behalf.
His eyes locked with Moreham’s. “Your honor is secure, Moreham. It would serve His Majesty’s government far more to have your networks continue to operate as they have in the past…
discreetly. Indeed, immediate access to your networks would be invaluable in a matter of critical importance to His Majesty’s government. ”
“So you’ve gone from panderer to patriot? Fascinating.” Rafe’s words were sharp, but his tone betrayed curiosity. “And you need my voucher to make introductions, do you not?”
“It would smooth the way.” James nodded. “I understand your people are rather fiercely loyal to you.”
“As I am to them. And I should appreciate more detail before I put so much as a single life at risk.”
“The factories you deal with make textiles, not just pretty cloth for ladies’ gowns and gentlemen’s waistcoats, but common stuff as well—woolens, osnabrigs. Large sums of money pass through these institutions, with few questions asked.”
“And is it fabrics or funds which have caught the attention of Lord Grenville?” Rafe didn’t wait for an answer.
“I shall hazard a guess…the funds. But the sums are hardly worth blackmailing an earl to acquire.” He sat back in his chair.
“And you wish my shipping and banking contacts as well? Tell me, Dinsmore, speculation is involved, no doubt, but what else is at stake here, and why is it of such urgency?”
“A man’s life.”
“One man?” Rafe prompted. “He must be important,” he added when James was not forthcoming with additional details.
“He is.”
“And will you be representing Lord Grenville at that appointment as well?”
“I will.”
Rafe eyed Dinsmore curiously. “These are dangerous times in France. A man may lose his life for saying the wrong thing, wearing the wrong color, looking askance at his neighbor—”
“Are you concerned for my welfare, Moreham?” James asked, amused.
“Hardly. Merely pointing out the precariousness of the current situation. My wife is French, in case you have forgotten.”
“I doubt I ever could,” James said dryly, thinking Anne rarely referred to Alix without appending some epithet against the French.
“She barely escaped the assault of a bloodthirsty mob on her family’s chateau; her father, the Comte de La Brou, was not so fortunate.”
Elizabeth, sitting atop a ladder in the library next to Rafe’s study, her ear pressed against the back wall of the bookcase, lost her grip on the leather-bound volumes of erotic poetry piled in her lap.
James Dinsmore is planning to go to France, and he chastised me for walking blindfolded on a wall?
Everyone knew what was happening in France, the violence sweeping the country as centuries of peasant wrath boiled over.
They’d executed their king in January. Now the revolutionaries seemed to have gone mad, slaughtering people left and right—they’d even built a machine, the guillotine, to do the work more efficiently.
Making a grab for the sliding books, she very nearly bumped her head against the shelf above it.