The Spymaster's Men: Persuasion Part 13

"d.a.m.n," Amelia cried. By the time Harold returned with Grenville, the intruder would be inside. "Do we have a neighbor who would call at such an early hour-by way of the gardens?"

"I know of no such neighbor, Miss Greystone," Harold said, wide-eyed. "Who would call at seven in the morning? Besides, who knows that his lords.h.i.+p has even returned to town?"

The man was an intruder! "Come with me. And grab a knife-no, seize that poker, in case you have to use it."

Of course, there could be a simple explanation, but she would not give the stranger the benefit of the doubt, not in these times of war. Amelia rushed from the library, not bothering to wait for Harold, but she heard him following her. She wished that there had been time to genuinely become familiar with the house. She didn't know which rooms had doors leading outside onto the gardens.

The doors to every chamber had been opened that morning, however. They rushed past the largest salon, a gold-and-red room, leaving the center of the house. She continued past the music room. Then she thought the better of it and about-faced, crashed into Harold. She seized him and dragged him with her into the small, airy room. A piano and harp was in its center. Two dozen gold chairs surrounded it. Behind the instruments was a pair of gla.s.s doors that opened onto a small brick patio and the gardens.

Panting, she halted at the doors. The gardens would soon be spectacular-blooms were emerging everywhere. But she did not see a gentleman in a white wig and blue jacket. "He is already inside."

"I should get his lords.h.i.+p." Harold was terse.

Amelia wondered where the gun closet was. "Follow me," she said. And as she left the music room and turned right, she saw Grenville approaching.

His eyes widened. "What are you doing? Why do you have my gun?"

"There is an intruder in the house!" she cried, trembling with relief.

He reached her, removing the gun from her hands. "You are shaking!" He put his arm around her. "Amelia-what are you saying?"

"I was checking on the dining room when I saw a man in the gardens-heading for this side of the house! But he is gone now-he must be inside," she cried. She looked at Grenville. What was he doing wandering about the west wing on the ground floor?

He handed Harold the gun. "Take care, it is primed," he said. Then he took both of her hands in his and smiled. "I think you are imagining things. I have been making a cursory inspection of the house, Amelia. I went through every room in this wing. I did not see anyone. Are you sure you saw someone outside?"

She stared at him in sudden confusion. "Yes, I saw a bulky man with white hair. He was on the far side of the gardens, by the street, and he was heading toward the house."

Grenville did not seem alarmed. "Harold, please put the pistol back in the middle drawer of my desk in the library. And you may put that poker back, as well." He put his arm around her. "What did you intend to do, if you found an intruder? Do you know how to fire a pistol?"

"I most certainly know how to fire a pistol-I am an excellent marksman," she cried. "We should search the house, Simon. I saw someone outside."

He studied her for a moment, then nodded. Taking her arm, they went to the threshold of the ballroom. The doors were closed. Grenville pushed them open.

Amelia stared into a huge room with gleaming wood floors, red walls and gilded columns. Above her head, there were four magnificent crystal chandeliers. An entire wall of French doors opened onto a large flagstone patio, which overlooked the gardens. "This room is stunning," she said. She had never been to a ball, but she could easily imagine the room overflowing with guests in silks and brocades, diamonds and rubies.

"There hasn't been a ball here since Elizabeth and I were engaged."

His tone was odd.

Distracted, Amelia looked up at him. Had they had an engagement ball, then?

He grimaced. "I haven't thought about that night in a decade."

She realized the memories were not pleasant. They were standing side by side, so closely that her skirts brushed his thighs and hips. She did not move away. Instead, she studied him. He lowered his gaze and stared back at her.

Her heart raced. Nothing had changed since the previous evening. Neither the specter of an intruder or the vast list of tasks she must get through could diminish his effect upon her. "There is no intruder," she said softly.

"No. There is no intruder."

"I did see someone in the gardens, Simon."

"Perhaps you did. But he is gone now. I am an early riser. I will keep an eye out tomorrow, and instruct the staff, when they arrive, to do so, as well."

His body was hard and warm, dwarfing hers. Amelia knew she should put some distance between them, but she couldn't seem to force herself to do so. "Why aren't you alarmed?"

"Because I can't imagine why a thief would attempt to steal into this house when the entire household is awakening." He did not move away from her, either.

She realized he was right. A thief would break in at night, when everyone was asleep. "If I am correct, and a man was in your gardens, then he was not a thief."

Grenville's brows lifted.

"This is a time of war, Grenville. There are stories I could tell you," she said, thinking of Julianne's husband, who had been one of Pitt's spies.

"Are you suggesting that you could tell me war

stories?" He smiled, as if amused.

"Julianne became quite a radical-she was a huge Jacobin supporter, until she fell in love with Bedford." She decided that now was not the time to fill in the rest of the blanks. "You must have heard about the French deserters who showed up in St. Just parish at Squire Penwaithe's."

"I did. Are you also suggesting that a spy-or a Frenchman-was in my gardens?"

"All I am saying is that you must keep the gates locked, and that anything is possible." She was firm.

"I will keep that in mind," he murmured. He gave her a very odd and thoughtful look, indeed. "Did you sleep at all last night?"

She slowly shook her head. "I slept fitfully. My mind kept turning over all I wish to do. I have been up since five. But, I am usually up at six," she added, suddenly feeling foolish. She was such a sensible woman, but she was rambling. She hoped Grenville did not think her a hysterical ninny.

"I can see that you are going to try to build Rome in a single day," he said softly, but his mouth was curving slightly.

"I meant it when I said I intended to try." She smiled back.

"Harold heard me call you Amelia."

She started.

He touched her cheek, very suddenly. "I am sorry you were frightened." He dropped his hand. "I am going to rouse the boys, if they are not up already."

And before she could respond, Grenville had turned and was striding away, leaving her standing there outside of his magnificent ballroom, aware of that insistent yearning again.

HYDE PARK WAS MAGNIFICENT in the spring. Daffodils were blooming, the lawns were emerald-green, and the elms and oaks were thick with new foliage. The sky was perfectly blue. No clouds marred it. The sun was bright and strong. It was a perfect day.

Or was it?

Simon sat the dark bay Thoroughbred hunter he had recently purchased through an agent. The mare excelled at the hunt, and was fearless when it came to jumping high hedges and wide stone walls. He had heard that she would take an "in and out" without the slightest hesitation. He looked forward to their first hunt.

Now, though, he kept a loose rein, allowing her to walk slowly along the riding path.

The park was very busy that day. Other gentlemen were on the path, astride their mounts, and at least a half a dozen open carriages were in sight, filled with gentlewomen in their afternoon finery. Pedestrians abounded, too, the ladies with parasols. King Charles spaniels were afoot. One gent walked a mastiff. He was recognized by everyone and greeted warmly. He responded in turn with a brief nod or a curt "h.e.l.lo."

He did not mean to be abrupt, but his mood was hardly light. Jourdan's contact had failed to show.

He had left the house before five that morning, in disguise, to meet the Jacobin. But no one had been waiting for him at the cobbler's shop on Darby Lane.

That failure meant one thing. His contact had either been imprisoned or he had been killed.

And either scenario was threatening to him. If Pitt's agents were onto Lafleur's men, they might eventually uncover his masquerade.

But there was more. Amelia had almost caught him returning home.

His heart lurched. He would not make that mistake again. The next time he went out as his French cousin, he would make sure to change his clothing before he came within sight of his house. As it was, he had shed the white wig and the blue coat the moment he had entered the ballroom. He had left the items behind a love seat. After Amelia had returned to her duties in the house, he had fetched the items and burned them.

He hated deceiving Amelia.

But she could never learn the truth.

He could not tell her he had been sent to France to spy for Pitt and his cronies, and that he had been deeply embedded in the revolutionary government in Paris. Nor could he tell her that he had made a terrible mistake. He could not tell her that he played both sides, and that he did not know how the game would end. He would never tell her that he would sell out his own country-if he had to-to protect his sons.

She would never understand his offering his talents and services to the Jacobins. She would think him a coward-and rightly so.

G.o.d, she would finally despise him!

His heart raced. She continued to admire him. He was experienced enough to realize that. But if she ever learned the truth, she would finally lose her faith in him.

Oddly, he so needed her faith!

If she ever learned the truth, she would be in danger. He desperately hoped that he had not put her in danger already, by bringing her to London with him. But she was only the housekeeper. No one would ever guess that they shared a past, that they had almost become lovers once, or that they were friends. No one could possibly know that he needed her as a friend and wanted her in his bed. No one would ever know that she held a very significant place in his life.

Except he had addressed her as Amelia that morning, in front of the young servant. It had been a terrible slip of the tongue.

Servants gossiped. He was going to have to be much more careful.

And he thought of the simple breakfast she had served, the table set as if for a state dinner. She had gone to so much trouble, and she had been so pleased to seat him and his boys at the table.

At eleven, she had insisted upon serving an elaborate meal of eggs, sausages, ham and too many side dishes to count. How had she managed that? He still did not know. But when he had looked at her, wondering if she had defied him and if she had been in the kitchens, cooking like a servant, she had smiled sweetly and denied it.

There had been another slip. He had asked her if she wished to sit with them. He hadn't considered the invitation or what it meant-n.o.blemen did not invite housekeepers to dine-and she had swiftly refused.

It would have been natural for her to have joined them at the table. Her role as a housekeeper was not natural at all. He was going to have to be as careful in his own home now as he was outside of it. He was going to have to start to consider Amelia as a part of the dangerous game he played-in order to keep her out of jeopardy.

It had been hard, keeping his attention on his sons and his plate. He had kept watching her coming and going instead.

He realized that, in spite of these vast burdens, he was almost smiling, and just then, some of the weight lifted from his shoulders. His sons needed her. So he had made the right choice.

"I see that you are in a good disposition today."

Simon started at the sound of Sebastian Warlock's slightly amused tone. He had been so preoccupied that he had not seen the spymaster approach, astride his black gelding. "h.e.l.lo, Warlock. You are deluded. I am never in a good disposition-or haven't you heard?"

Warlock's mouth curled. He was a tall, taciturn man with an open disdain for fas.h.i.+on. He was somberly clad as usual, in a black-velvet coat, dark breeches and riding boots. His dark hair was pulled back and he wore a bicorne hat. He was darkly handsome, and the ladies pa.s.sing by gave him a second glance.

"I believe I saw you smiling. Not that I blame you. The fresh air must be invigorating-after Paris."

Was that a jab? Simon wondered. Was he referring to Simon's incarceration? Simon had no intention of mentioning it, for if the spymaster did not know he had been imprisoned, it would be for the best. It would be harder for Warlock to ever discover the extent of his duplicity. On the other hand, the spymaster seemed to know everything. "I am enjoying my new mare and a perfectly pleasing spring day."

"Let's tether the horses," Warlock said, and it was not a suggestion. He halted and dismounted.

Simon followed suit. They walked their mounts off of the path and toward a grove of oak trees, where they tied them to a branch. "I have missed town," Simon said, simply making conversation.

"I can imagine that you have. I am very sorry for your loss, Grenville."

He shrugged. "She was too young to die."

"They are always too young to die."

"Yes, they are." He knew they were both thinking of the innocent victims of the war and the revolution. His stomach curdled.

"I do not think a regime of terror can live on indefinitely." Warlock had begun to stroll toward a pond. Simon followed. "Tyrants always fall."

"There are divisions within le Comite and within the Commune," Simon said, referring to Robespierre's governing committee and the Parisian city government. "But no one is safe from suspicion. Everyone fears a knock on the door in the middle of the night." How calm he sounded!

"As you did?"

Simon tensed. "I would have been a fool not to fear being discovered."

Warlock halted, as did Simon. The hairs in his nape rose as Warlock said softly, "What do you have for me, Grenville?"

He knew, Simon thought, with a sinking sensation. He knew he had been imprisoned, and he was a brilliant man. If he hadn't figured out how Simon had gotten out of prison and then out of France, he soon would.

He knew he could not gamble now. There was a chance that Warlock did not know of his incarceration, but his every instinct told him that was not the case. Therefore, he must begin to reveal parts of the truth....

"I did not expect to ever return home," Simon said carefully.

"And I did not expect to ever see you again." Warlock stared.

"So you knew I was incarcerated?" He tried to forget that dark, dank prison cell, no easy task, when he dreamed so vividly of it every night.

"It is my business to know such things. You are one of my men. I was told on December 24 that you had been imprisoned four days earlier. I was dismayed."

Of course he was. "The moment I returned to France, at the end of November, I was certain I was being watched and followed," Simon said tersely.