Authors: Dearly Beloved
"Perhaps. I can hardly be less successful."
"An officer has to accept that men serving under him will be killed," Wellesley said obliquely.
"Yes, and I did that in India." Gervase's gaze rested on his glass of port, whose blood-red depths reminded him of things he had seen in the army, things he would rather forget. "But I am no longer an officer. I will not ask anyone else to undertake a task that has already killed four men."
Wellesley looked at him measuringly. "As you wish. Do you have a plan?" He was too practical a soldier to argue with a man whose mind was made up, particularly when success might make all the difference in the upcoming battle for the Iberian Peninsula.
"A fishing boat can take me to the Netherlands. After that, I'll travel overland to Denmark. I've done this sort of thing before, though not when the issues were so critical." He shrugged. "I speak French well enough to pass as a Frenchman, and I have the necessary identification papers."
"You make it sound simple," Wellesley observed. "But I imagine the other agents were also well-qualified."
"They were, but it takes luck as well as skill. Perhaps I'll be luckier."
"Let us hope so." Wellesley lifted his glass in an informal salute. "Do your damnedest to come back alive."
Gervase's mouth twisted. "Believe me, I am even more interested in that outcome than you are."
After Wellesley left, he sat in his library thinking of what he must do before he could leave for the Continent. Since he kept his affairs in good order, little needed to be done. He could leave for the coast by tomorrow evening.
So tonight would be his last with Diana. A year ago, he had been fatalistic about the occasional dangerous mission his work required, hoping for success but not overconcerned by the prospect of failure.
His life was much richer now, and he cared about whether he survived. The thought of leaving Diana was acutely painful, and he wasn't sure which aspect was worse: the separation itself, or the gut-twisting fear that she would find someone else in his absence. It had been bad enough when he went to Ireland in January, but this journey would be longer and infinitely more hazardous.
It was ludicrous to be so concerned about a mistress. Before he met Diana, he had felt a contemptuous superiority to men who let women lead them around like lapdogs.
Now he better understood how that was possible. He would ever let his mistress make a fool of him; if she tried, he would sever the ties between them instantly.
But part of Diana's charm was that she never threatened or demanded. The perfect woman, and at the same time, an utter mystery.
He sighed. At the moment, the time was better spent in visiting Diana than in speculation about what she would do in his absence. There would be time enough for brooding on his journey.
* * *
Gervase arrived earlier than usual, and the deviation from normal worried Diana. Her anxiety was increased by the remote expression on his face when she went down to greet him in the drawing room. She had learned that even when he was at his most withdrawn, affection from her would soften his sternness, so she lightly crossed the room and embraced him, lifting her face for a kiss.
He held her tightly, his mouth demanding, and she sensed that his tension was not because of her, but for some other reason. Leaning back in his arms, she asked, "Is something wrong?"
His clear gray eyes were searching, as if trying to memorize every line and curve of her face. "Would you like to go out somewhere this evening? It's early yet."
It was an unprecedented suggestion since they valued their time alone together for both the passion and the peace. Wondering what lay behind his words, she replied, "That would be lovely.
What did you have in mind?"
He considered. "How about Vauxhall? The gardens opened for the season a fortnight ago and there is always something amusing going on. Have you ever been there?"
"No. Would I need to change into a different dress?"
He surveyed the soft rose-colored muslin gown she wore. It was simple, but the lines were elegant. "Just a shawl. The evening is a little cool."
One of his carriages waited outside and within minutes they were on their way. Gervase said little, but he held her hand firmly, the length of his forearm hard against hers, their fingers intertwined. Something was clearly amiss, but Diana preferred to let him speak in his own time.
Vauxhall had flourished for almost a hundred and fifty years, a pleasure garden south of the river where people from all ranks of society went to enjoy music, entertainments, dancing, fireworks, and most of all, to watch other people.
Rather than take a boat across the river, Gervase had his coachman drive them over London Bridge. After he had paid seven shillings for admittance, they strolled the lantern-lit walks, Diana holding his arm and enjoying herself immensely.
Music from the concert filtered through the cool night air, and the atmosphere was festive. Young couples held hands, aspiring dandies eyed the crowds through quizzing glasses, wide-eyed shop girls in their best gowns brushed elbows with jewel-spangled ladies, and some who were not ladies, like her.
Eventually they took a small round table and two chairs in a quiet alcove formed by tall shrubbery. While Gervase went in search of a footman to order refreshments, Diana enjoyed the passing parade. It was all quite amusing, until she noticed a still figure, unusual in a place of constant motion.
She turned her head, and found herself staring at the Count de Veseul. He less than twenty feet away and his dark face regarded her from the edge of the flowing crowd. With insulting deliberation, he stared at the soft, curving flesh exposed by her low-cut gown, then raised his cane in a mocking salute.
Diana was too far away to see the cane clearly, but she had a vivid memory of the serpent head, and how he had used it that night at the theater. It had been months since she had seen Veseul, and she'd almost forgotten his existence. Now the menacing glitter in his eyes brought back the terror she'd felt then. Even though she was safe with so many people around, she felt alone and helpless without Gervase at her side, and the terror would not abate. She shivered and pulled her shawl around her shoulders against a sudden chill.
Time hung suspended as she stared at Veseul, willing him to go away. Then suddenly Gervase was walking toward her, and she was able to wrench her eyes away from the Frenchman. She grasped his hand and pulled him down next to her, feeling safer for touching him. "That man there, do you know him?"
Surprised, he followed her glance. Veseul bowed his head ironically, touching his hat in acknowledgment of the viscount. He was joined by a woman, a glorious golden creature dressed in the height of fashion, who stared at Gervase and Diana, but especially Diana, with cold pale eyes. Then the pair turned and walked away, disappearing swiftly in the crowd.
"He's the Count de Veseul, a French royalist who escaped to England during the Reign of Terror," Gervase answered in an edged voice. "He sometimes acts as a liaison between the British government and the Bourbon court-in-exile. Does he take your fancy?"
Shuddering, Diana said, "No! He frightens me. The way he was staring..." She shook her head, unwilling to explain further. With Gervase beside her, her fears seemed petty and unreasonable.
His momentary jealousy assuaged by her words, Gervase covered her cold hand with his. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have left you. Any woman alone here will attract unwelcome attention, especially a woman as beautiful as you."
A footman arrived with their food and drink.
After the servant left, Diana asked, "Did you recognize the woman with Veseul?"
"She's Lady Haycroft, a widow," he said briefly.
Surprised at what sounded like embarrassment, Diana asked, "Do you know her well?"
Shrugging, he said, "I've met her occasionally at those government social functions that I can't avoid. She's looking for a rich husband. I suppose that is why she is here with Veseul. There are few eligible men of wealth that she hasn't attempted to... further her acquaintance with."
It didn't take a genius to read between the lines. Since no one seemed to know if Gervase was married, his wealth and virile good looks would certainly attract predatory females. Diana found her brows drawing together in a definite frown.
Seeing the expression, Gervase grinned. "Yes, she has cast out lures, and no, I haven't taken them. Lady Haycroft is all ice and hard edges, not what I look for in a mistress."
Clearly the connection that helped Diana sense his feelings ran both ways. He seemed gratified at her reaction, so perhaps it was not a bad thing. Blushing a little, she applied herself to her plate, washing the thin sliced ham down with a sip of burnt wine, then wrinkling her nose. The drink was a Vauxhall specialty, but perhaps it was a taste that needed to be acquired. Outside, someone announced that fireworks were about to start, and she heard the sound of people moving to find vantage spots.
Setting his fork down, Gervase said. "There's something I have to tell you."
His voice was serious, and Diana glanced up at him, stricken. "You are tired of me and want a new mistress. You brought me here thinking that a public setting would prevent me from making a scene."
"Good God, of course not!" He clasped her hand under the table reassuringly. "Do you think I would set you aside so casually?"
She looked away, not able to meet his eyes for fear that her incipient tears would start. "I don't know. I don't understand how men think, either men in general or you in particular."
His grip tightened. "I don't know how your mind works either, but I promise I wouldn't dismiss you in a public place merely to save myself some discomfort. If it ever comes to that, I'll tell you in private, so you can throw things if you like."
The hard rat-a-tat-tat of firecrackers announced the start of the display. Flinching at the unexpected noise, Diana smiled tremulously. "I'm afraid that I'm a cryer, not a thrower. You would probably prefer throwing."
"You're right about that," he agreed with feeling. "But all this is quite apart from what I wanted to tell you." He stopped, as if thinking about how best to phrase it, then said simply, "I'm going away for a while."
"Like your trip to Ireland?"
He shook his head. "Not exactly. I'll be gone longer, and... there's a chance I won't come back."
Her eyes widened as she stared at him. In a hushed voice she asked, "Are you going over to the Continent on some secret business?"
In the red flash of a skyrocket she saw an approving nod for the shrewdness of her guess, but he said only, "I can't discuss it, Diana. If all goes well, I'll be back in a few weeks."
"And if all doesn't go well?" Her fingers were clenched hard over his, as if that could prevent him from leaving.
"You needn't worry. I'm going to send a note to my lawyer in the morning. If I don't come back, you'll be provided for."
"That isn't what I meant," she said fiercely, fighting tears. "You can't go and get yourself killed! There is too much unsettled between us."
An unearthly flash of violet light lit up the alcove, and in its coruscating brilliance she could see a subtle shift in the muscles of his face before he said softly, "Then you'll be waiting for me to return?"
"Of course." Three rockets boomed outside, one after the other, as she swallowed hard, trying to dispel the lump in her throat. "Why did you bring me to Vauxhall?"
His eyes slanted sideways as he thought. "Perhaps I thought that if tonight was different, you might remember me better."
"Does that mean you are leaving tomorrow?" He nodded, and she stood abruptly. It was difficult to breathe. He was not a man to mention a trivial danger, and if he was warning her that he might not return, the hazards must be great indeed. "Then why are we wasting time here? Please take me home now. I know a better way to create memories."
He stood also. The leafy alcove was nearly private, and in the unsteady light he studied her, his face shadowed, before he pulled her into a crushing embrace. "Oh, God, Diana, you are so beautiful, and I want you so much..." he whispered before he lowered his head to claim her lips, rendering words impossible.
A whole series of fireworks exploded above, shattering the air like cannon fire while the alcove filled with flaring sheets of light in scarlet and green and icy white. As hot and furious as the sky over their heads, desire blazed between them. Outside, people cheered and applauded the fireworks show, while Diana strained against Gervase, her mouth and tongue and hands as demanding as his, her body driving into his, as if the barriers of fabric that separated them could be overcome.
Finally he pulled away, his breath coming hard, and took out a handkerchief to gently blot the tears on her cheeks. His voice husky with passion, he said, "Come, it's time to go home. I want to make love to you with every minute that is left."
Closing her eyes for a moment, she nodded, then raised her hand and brushed her hair back as she schooled her features. His fingers lightly touching the back of her waist, Gervase guided her out, seeking the quickest route to his carriage.
Behind the alcove, hidden from view by the shrubbery but able to hear every word that had been spoken, the Count de Veseul stood quite still, his hands lightly laced on the gold head of his cane, his face impassive except for the trace of satisfaction revealed by the bursting fireworks.