The Spymaster's Men: Persuasion Part 5

But the affair no longer felt like ancient history. It felt as if they had met yesterday.

I believe you were trying to purchase this.

Amelia stiffened, recalling the seductive murmur of his voice exactly. They had met at the village market. Amelia's neighbor was preoccupied with her newborn infant, and Amelia had taken her three-year-old daughter for a walk amongst the vendors, to give the taxed mother a chance to do her shopping. The little girl was desolate, as she had lost her doll. Hand in hand, they had wandered amongst the merchants, until Amelia had espied a vendor hawking ribbons and b.u.t.tons. They had oohed and aahed over a red ribbon, and Amelia had tried to negotiate a better price with the merchant for it. She really had no change to spare for a ribbon for the child.

"This is now yours."

The man standing behind her spoke in soft, seductive, masculine tones. Amelia had slowly turned, her heart racing. When she looked into a pair of nearly black eyes, the entire fair-its merchants and the crowd of villagers around her-had seemed to disappear. She found herself staring at a dark, devastatingly handsome man, perhaps five years older than she was.

He had smiled slowly, revealing a single dimple, holding the red ribbon out. "I insist." And he had bowed.

In that moment, she had realized he was a n.o.bleman, and a wealthy one. He was dressed as casually as a country squire, in a hacking coat, breeches and boots meant for riding, but she sensed his authority immediately. "I don't believe it proper, sir, to accept a gift from a stranger." She had meant to be proper, but she heard how fl.u.s.tered she sounded.

Amus.e.m.e.nt filled his eyes. "You are correct. Therefore, we must rectify the matter immediately. I would like an introduction."

Her heart had slammed. "We can hardly introduce ourselves," she managed to answer, flus.h.i.+ng.

"Why not? I am Grenville, Simon Grenville. And I wish to make your acquaintance."

Rather helplessly, perhaps already smitten, she had taken the ribbon. Simon Grenville, the Earl of St. Just's younger son, had called on her the very next day.

And Amelia had felt as if she were a princess in a fairy tale. He had driven up to Greystone Manor in a handsome coach pulled by two magnificent horses, taking her for a picnic on the cliffs. From the moment she had stepped inside his carriage, an attraction had raged between them. He had kissed her that very afternoon-and she had kissed him back.

Lucas had quickly forbidden him from calling upon her. Amelia had pleaded with him to change his mind, but he had refused. He had insisted that he was protecting her-that Grenville was a rake and a rogue. But Simon hadn't cared. He had laughed in Lucas's face. A secret rendezvous had followed. They had met in the village and he had taken her to stroll in the magnificent rose gardens at St. Just Hall, where another heated encounter had ensued....

Lucas had gone away to attend the quarry or the mine, she could not recall, a.s.suming she would obey him. But she hadn't. Simon had called on her almost every day, taking her for carriage rides, for walks, to tea and even shopping.

She had fallen deeply in love before the week was out.

Amelia could not stand such memories. Her body was on fire, as if she wished to be with him still. She sat up, throwing the covers aside, oblivious to the chill in the air. Amelia slid her bare feet to the floor. She had been such a fool. She had been a lamb, hunted by a wolf. Oh, she knew that now. He had never had a single serious intention toward her, otherwise he wouldn't have left as he had.

Thank G.o.d she had never succ.u.mbed to temptation; thank G.o.d she had never let him completely seduce her.

"I am desperate to be with you," he had murmured, breathing hard.

They were in one another's arms, in the gazebo that was behind the house. He had just given her so much pleasure. She was flushed and exhilarated-and she desperately wanted to consummate their affair. "I am desperate, too," she had returned, meaning it. "But I can't, Simon, you know I cannot...."

She wanted to be innocent on their wedding night. She wanted to give him her virginity then.

His stare had darkened, but he hadn't said a word, and she wondered when he would ask her to marry him-when, not if he would do so. She had no doubt that his intentions were honorable. She knew he loved her as she loved him.

Simon had been courting her for six weeks. Then one day, the stableman hurried to the manor and announced that William Grenville was dead. He had been found on the cliffs, his neck broken, obviously having fallen from his horse. The family was in mourning.

Amelia had been stunned. She had met Will several times, and he had been everything the earl's heir should be-n.o.ble, upright, handsome, charming. And Simon adored him, she knew that, as well. He spoke of him often, and so highly.

She had rushed to St. Just Hall to tell Simon in person how sorry she was. But the family was not receiving; she had written a hasty note and left it with a servant.

He did not reply. A few days later there was more stunning news-the family had left Cornwall. And Simon had left with them.

He did not write.

And he did not return.

Amelia realized she was standing by the open window, her feet bare, in just a nightgown. Somehow, a tear had arisen and was slipping down her cheek. She s.h.i.+vered.

He hadn't ever truly loved her. His behavior that summer was entirely reprehensible. She wiped the tear away. Impossibly, she felt raw and bruised. Was she still hurt, after all these years?

And in that moment, she recalled her father. He had been a rake and a rogue, she knew that now, although she had not known it when she was a child. Amelia had adored her handsome, das.h.i.+ng father, and he had loved Amelia. He had said so, time and again. He had taken her with him when he made his rounds of the tenant farms, and lavishly praised her for every small accomplishment. And then one day, he was gone. He had left her mother and his children for the gaming halls and fallen women of Amsterdam and Paris.

Amelia had been seven years old when Papa had left them. She had been certain he would come back. It had taken her years to realize that he wasn't ever returning.

But she had known almost immediately that Simon was never coming back. He had left without a word, he hadn't really loved her.

Papa's betrayal had bewildered her. Simon's betrayal was crus.h.i.+ng.

A year later, he had married the Lambert heiress. She had not been surprised....

Amelia stared out to sea. From where she stood, she could see the night-clad, s.h.i.+mmering waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Only a very naive, very young, very innocent girl would have ever believed, even for a moment, that St. Just's son, heir or not, would ever be genuinely interested in her. She could blame him for pursuing her and nearly seducing her, but she had only herself to blame for the folly of falling in love, and then having her heart broken.

Well, there was good news. She wasn't a trusting young girl anymore. She knew better. Grenville was not for her. He might arouse her and attract her, but it was not to be. He was grieving now; he had lost his wife. She was his neighbor, nothing more. If she could help his children, she was happy to do so. She even wished to help him, for the past was forgiven. But there would not be anything personal between them.

She had learned her lesson a very long time ago.

Amelia did not feel better. There was simply too much tension within her-and too many unanswered questions.

THEY WERE COMING FOR HIM.

He heard the soft, steady footfalls and he was terrified. He clutched the bars of his cell, certain that there would be no escape this time. He had been caught. He was on the list of the d.a.m.ned. He was going to the guillotine....

And ghastly images flashed, of the innocents he had seen kneeling before the guillotine, some in hysterics, others silent and stoic, and then of his friend, just days ago, who had told the crowd as he marched up those b.l.o.o.d.y stairs, "Don't forget to show my head to the people!" The bloodthirsty crowd had cheered but he had wanted to weep, except he did not dare, as Lafleur was with him, watching him closely for a sign of weakness....

He cried out, because Will was there, going up those soaking wet steps. He screamed.

The huge iron blade came down. Blood rained, filling his vision, as the child wailed.

Simon Grenville sat bolt upright, panting and covered with sweat. He was on the sofa in the sitting room of his private apartments, not standing with the roaring crowd at La Place de la Revolution-a place Will had never been!

Simon groaned, his temples hammering, as the child wailed even louder. He realized his face was covered with tears and he used his sleeve to wipe his cheeks. Then he rushed to the chamber pot to vomit helplessly, mostly the scotch whiskey he'd been drinking since the funeral yesterday.

When would the nightmares stop? He had been incarcerated for three months and six days; he had been released in time to attend Danton's trial, as he had prepared to leave Paris for London. In the last year, Georges Danton had become a moderate and a voice of reason, but that had only incited Robespierre, and it had, in the end, ensured his b.l.o.o.d.y death.

He did not want to recall standing helplessly in the crowd, pretending to applaud the execution, when he was so sickened he could barely prevent himself from retching.

Afterward, the Jacobin had bought him a gla.s.s of wine at a nearby inn, telling him how pleased he was that "Henri Jourdan" was departing for London. The timing could not be better, he said. The Allied line ran west to east from Ypres to Valenciennes and then to the Meuse River, Namur and Trier. The French were expecting an invasion of Belgium, soon. And Lafleur had slipped a list into his hand. "These are your London contacts."

Simon had gone back to his flat for the very last time-only to find one of Warlock's couriers there. For one moment, he had thought he had been uncovered, but instead, he had been told that his wife was dead....

Simon stood unsteadily-he was still very foxed. And that suited him very well. He walked over to a handsome sideboard and poured another scotch. The baby kept crying and he cursed.

He had enough problems without that d.a.m.ned child. He hated that b.a.s.t.a.r.d, but not as much as he hated himself.

But he had escaped the guillotine. How many French political prisoners could claim that?

He thought of his relations in Lyons, none of whom he'd ever met, all of whom were now deceased, a part of the vengeance wreaked upon Lyons when le Comite had ordered the rebel city destroyed. His cousin, the true Henri Jourdan, was among the dead.

He was acutely aware he was on a tightrope.

One misstep and he would fall, either into the clutches of his French masters or those of Warlock.

The Earl of St. Just was well-known. When he met with his Jacobin contacts, he would have to be very careful that no one would recognize him. He would have to manage some sort of disguise-a growth of beard, his natural hair, impoverished clothes. Perhaps he could even use chalk or lime to add a false scar to his face.

His stomach churned anew. If Lafleur ever learned he was Simon Grenville, not Henri Jourdan, he would be in imminent danger-and so would his sons.

He had no delusions about the lengths to which the radicals would go. He had seen children sent to the guillotine, because their fathers were disloyal to La Patrie. Last fall, an a.s.sa.s.sin had tried to murder Bedford, right outside his own house. In January, an attempt had been made on the War Secretary, as he was getting into his carriage outside of the Parliament. There were emigres in Britain now who were in hiding, fearing for their lives. Why should he think his sons safe?

Everyone knew that London was filled with agents and spies, and soon it would have another one.

The reach of the Terror was vast. The vengeful serpent was inside Great Britain now.

Simon downed half the whiskey. He did not know how long he could play this double-edged game without losing his own head. Lafleur wanted information about the Allied war effort as swiftly as possible-before the antic.i.p.ated invasion of Flanders. And that meant he would have to return to London immediately, as he would not learn any valuable state secrets in Cornwall.

But he was a patriot. He had to be very careful not to give away any information that was truly important for the Allied war effort. And at the very same time, Warlock wanted him to uncover what French secrets he could. He might even want Simon to return to Paris. It was a tightrope, indeed. But in the end, he would do what he had to do-because he was determined to protect his sons. He would give up the state for them; he would die for them if need be.

The baby cried again.

And he simply snapped. He threw the gla.s.s at the wall, where it shattered. d.a.m.n Elizabeth, for leaving him with her b.a.s.t.a.r.d! And then he covered his face with his hands.

And he began to cry. He wept for his sons, because they had loved their mother and they needed her still. He wept for Danton and all of his relations who had been victims of le Razor. He wept for those he did not know-rebels and royalists, n.o.bles and priests, old men, women and children...the rich and the poor, for these days, it was guilt by suspicion or just a.s.sociation, and the poor wound up without their heads as well, when they were as innocent as his sons.... And he supposed he even cried for that d.a.m.ned b.a.s.t.a.r.d child, because she had nothing and no one at all-just like him.

And then he laughed through his tears. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had Amelia Greystone.

Why had she come to the service, d.a.m.n it! Why had she barged into his home? Why hadn't she changed at all? d.a.m.n her! So much had changed. He had changed. He didn't even recognize himself anymore!

He cursed Amelia again and again, because he lived in darkness and fear, and he knew that there was no way out and that the light she offered was an illusion.

"AMELIA, DEAR, WHY are you packing up my clothing?"

Two days had pa.s.sed since the funeral. Amelia had never been as preoccupied. As she prepared to close up the house, her mind kept straying from the tasks at hand. Frankly, she had been worrying about Grenville's children ever since the funeral. She was going to have to call upon them and make certain that all was well.

She smiled at Momma, who was lucid now. They were standing in the center of her small, bare bedchamber, a single window looking out over the muddy front lawns. "We are going to spend the spring in town," she said cheerfully. But she wasn't truly cheerful. She realized she was reluctant to leave Cornwall now. She would not be able to offer comfort to those children if she were miles and miles away.

Garrett's heavy footfall sounded in the corridor outside of Momma's bedchamber. Amelia paused as the heavyset manservant appeared on the threshold of the room. "You have a caller, Miss Greystone. It is Mrs. Murdock, from St. Just Hall."

Amelia's heart lurched. "Momma, wait here! Is anything wrong?" she cried, already das.h.i.+ng past the Scot and racing down the hall.

"She seems rather distressed," Garrett called after her. He did not follow her as he knew his duty well; Momma was almost never left alone.

The gray-haired governess was pacing in the great hall, back and forth past the two red-velvet chairs that faced the vast stone hearth. A huge tapestry was hanging on an adjacent wall, over a long, narrow wooden bench with carved legs. The floors were stone, and covered with old rugs. But a new, very beautiful, gleaming piano was in one corner of the room, surrounded by six equally new chairs with gilded legs and gold seats. The instrument and the chairs were a gift from the dowager Countess of Bedford, recently given to Julianne.

Mrs. Murdock did not have anyone with her.

Amelia realized she had secretly hoped that the governess had brought the baby. She dearly wished to see and hold her again. But her disappointment was foolish. The child hardly needed to drive through the chilly Cornish countryside.

"Good day, Mrs. Murdock. This is such a pleasant surprise," she began, when she wished to demand if anything was amiss.

Mrs. Murdock hurried toward her as Amelia left the stairs, and tears quickly arose. "Oh, Miss Greystone, I am at a loss, we all are!" she cried. She seized Amelia's hands.

"What has happened?" Amelia said with dread.

"St. Just Hall is in a state," she declared, her second chin wobbling. "We cannot get on!"

Amelia put her arm around her and realized she was trembling, she was that agitated. "Come, sit down and tell me what is wrong," she said soothingly.

"The baby cries day in and day out. She is hardly nursing now! The boys have decided to do as they please-they are running wild! They will not attend the cla.s.sroom, they defy Signor Barelli, they are running about the grounds, as ill-mannered as street urchins. Yesterday Lord William took a hack out-by himself-and he was gone for hours and hours! And we could not find John-as it turned out, he had gone into the attics and hid!" She started to cry. "If they did not need me so, I would leave such a horrid place."

She hadn't said a word about Grenville. "The boys are surely grieving. They are good boys, I saw that, they will soon stop misbehaving." Amelia meant her every word.

"They miss their mother, we all do!" She choked on a sob.

Amelia clasped her shoulder. "And his lords.h.i.+p?"

Mrs. Murdock stopped crying. A moment pa.s.sed before she said, "The earl has locked himself in his rooms."

Amelia tensed. "What do you mean?"

"He has not come out of his apartments since the funeral, Miss Greystone."

AN HOUR LATER, AMELIA FOLLOWED Mrs. Murdock into St. Just Hall, shaking the rain from her coat. It was so silent inside the marble-floored foyer that she could have heard a pin drop. Outside, the rain beat down on the windows and the roof. For that, she was somewhat thankful, as it drowned out the sound of her thundering heart.

Keeping her voice low, she said, "Where are the children?"

"When I left, they had both gone outdoors. Of course, it is raining now."

If the boys were still outside, they would become terribly ill. A liveried manservant appeared and Amelia handed him her soaking wet coat. "What is your name, sir?" she asked firmly.

"Lloyd," he said, bowing.

"Are the boys within?"

"Yes, madam, they came in an hour ago, when it began to rain."

"Where were they?"