Once Upon a Scandal (8 page)

“Did he levitate with delight? He has always craved position.” But then she blushed again and knotted her hands in her lap. “I shouldn’t say such things. We are not close, but we are cousins, after all. I wish Gerard well. Charlotte, too. Her head is filled with bows and fripperies, but she’s very sweet. And given that she was Sir Aldus’s ward, she has always had my sympathies.”

“They are more than well.” Already, they’d moved into Jane’s townhouse, hampering his investigations. “You’ve restored the Fitzsimmons name in spades, and, of course, Montford has your father’s title now.”

He regretted his careless words, because the spark that had so enlivened her dimmed, then flickered out entirely. Silly to imagine it, but the room grew darker as she sat silent for a long moment, caught up in thought. “I am glad, then,” she said at last. “It was well worth the sacrifice.”

Sacrifice indeed. In his amusement over the lurid press coverage of her passing, he’d nearly forgotten. For him, this was a means to an end, satisfying a number of needs, not all of them implicitly fair. He had not been entirely honest with her, after all. But Jane had trusted him. She’d played her role, but really, it had not been playacting. She’d set aside her former life at his suggestion, with no hope of retrieving it. The weight of it was suddenly uncomfortable, and he grasped the back of his neck, kneading it to ease the sudden tension there.

“Are you ready to move forward?” He searched her face for any lingering doubts, wondering if he’d been foolish, cruel even, to expect so much from her. “Assuming an identity involves more than putting on a new suit of clothes. It is quite easy to lose yourself in the process.”

Those large, brown eyes watched him speculatively, and he had the prickling sensation that she saw straight through him. That she was looking for the real Lord Marworth, when he’d been lost long ago. “It’s far too late to turn back now, Benjamin.”

“You are right, of course.” The time had come to focus on the task ahead, not on the guilty spurt of pleasure he’d felt at hearing his name upon her lips.

• • •

Sipping slowly at his glass of wine before dinner, Benjamin waited by the fireplace in the hall for Jane. She would come down soon, Banning having sent word she was well enough to do so. He did not want to overtax her, after all. The weeks ahead would be challenging ones, and if he was apprehensive about them, what must she be feeling? It was not as if he’d be here to smooth her way. He needed to return to London to see the last of his preparations put into place.

Essentially, they’d created a person from whole cloth. The real Lillianne Martine no longer existed. According to Jane, the two had exchanged regular letters when they were young—belabored exercises designed to polish their French and English skills respectively—but Lillianne had died in a smallpox outbreak shortly after her fourteenth birthday. There had thus been no marriage at the age of eighteen to Pasqual Fauchon, an obscure but wealthy nobleman from the north. No Pasqual Fauchon either. He was yet another fabrication.

However, even a suspicious individual would be hard-pressed to discover the deceptions. If there was one thing Benjamin did well, it was seamlessly weave lies with reality. He’d created a convincing new personal history. Forged identification and travel papers. Established lines of credit all over London. And tomorrow, a woman who was no stranger to reinvention would arrive at Painshill to bring Lillianne back to life.

In less than a month’s time, the mysterious Madame Fauchon would arrive from Paris. She would bear a remarkable resemblance to Jane, because they’d been blood relatives after all, the daughters of twins. But there would also be differences both significant and subtle. She would take up residence in a suite of rooms at Grillion’s Hotel and present herself to the Bank of England, taking possession of the personal effects bequeathed to her.

Armed with a new wardrobe from the most exclusive modiste in France—a neat trick, that—Lillianne would insinuate herself into Society. It should be an easy task, given Jane’s notoriety. As a widow from the Continent, Lillianne would not be constrained by the strictures governing a debutante’s behavior. And that was crucial. There was every likelihood she’d find herself in places no lady should be.

This being a time of war, people would wonder what she knew of the goings on in Paris. What was rumored in its streets. And if anyone else was involved in the missing dispatches, they would be curious indeed about the contents of those Bank of England boxes. While Lillianne mingled in Society, listening for rumor and innuendo, Benjamin would have a firsthand opportunity to study the boxes privately.

A stirring from above drew his attention. Jane was moving slowly down the stairs, wearing another hastily made up dress, this one a rose-hued evening gown with a modest scooped neckline. It flattered her coloring, but the cut did little to accentuate her figure. Which was a good thing. He didn’t understand how it had happened, this new awareness of her, this … he didn’t even know what to call it. Admiration? It was a distraction he could ill afford. But she was under his protection now, like everyone else who lived here.

“You look lovely, Jane.” Setting aside his wine glass, he met her at the landing, bowing over her outstretched hand, just as he would at any Society party. But they were essentially alone, and she smelled of fresh lavender, and he lingered, perhaps longer than he should, to breathe in an underlying note of verbena. Clearing his throat, he straightened. “May I escort you into the dining room?”

“Don’t you find this strange?” she said, laying her hand on his forearm. “Here we are, observing all the formalities of a ton function, and yet I am quite soon to impersonate another person entirely, and you are a spy.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “I thought you might appreciate a return to normalcy after recent events.”

She looked up with her own, rather curious smile. “I am not sure normalcy exists for me anymore. I’ve slid from one scandal into an even more brazen one. And I am about to dine alone with a man for the first time in my life. What would
A Lady of Distinction’s Guide
say to that?”

So she too had noticed the intimacy of the setting. “One of your pesky books on manners, I presume?” They’d reached the dining room, colorful with its bright Chinoiserie wallpaper, gleaming woodwork, and French doors opening onto a stone patio beyond.

“It was my favorite,” she replied, sinking gracefully into the chair he’d pulled aside for her. “A primer on the strictest morality and decorum. But it’s lost now in a heap of ashes with the others.”

“No doubt a well-deserved fate.” He took a seat across from hers. “I tend not to trust people who flaunt their morality. In my experience, they’re the ones hiding the most shocking secrets.”

And just when he wondered if he should not have said it, if she would take offense, she giggled unexpectedly. “You are likely right. I’m an authority on the strictest social behaviors, and look at me now.”

Actually, he was finding it difficult to look away. Oakley had gathered Jane’s hair loosely about her face, and the softness of it gave her an unexpectedly winsome quality. “There are degrees of scandal, Jane. I don’t fear for your soul just yet.” His soul was another thing entirely.

As the first course was ushered in, he motioned to Maybanks, his butler, who came up behind Jane with a decanter of red wine. “No, thank you,” she said. But of course, the old servant ignored her, pouring a generous portion into her glass anyway. The habit of a lifetime.

“Don’t mind Maybanks,” he said when she looked up at him, eyes questioning. “He can’t hear a thing. Besides, wine is a great restorative. Or so I tell myself. He will give it to me regardless.”

“A deaf butler? How does he hear the door when you have callers?” Maybanks bowed regally and moved on to Benjamin’s own glass. “How does he answer bell pulls?”

“He hasn’t always been deaf. In any case, he has been in service here all his life. He knows nothing else. And he has worked out a clever system with the others, who all help out. He’s quite good at understanding what people say if he has the chance to read their lips.”

“He’s obviously a valued member of your household,” she said, her voice gentle. “I’m just not certain I can swallow the wine down, given my last experience with spirits.”

“But wine is quite different from cognac, Jane.” He was happy for a topic that reminded him of their true purpose here, which he should not forget. “Very soon, you will be a French woman raised on wine since birth. Going forward, it will seem odd for you to refuse it.”

“One glass only then,” she said with a grimace. “But I will count it as a sacrifice in the name of my country.”

“Hardly that.” He chuckled. “It’s an excellent vintage.”

So why was he having so much trouble swallowing his?

You yourselves will allow that war, commerce, politics, exercises of strength and dexterity, abstract philosophy, and all the abstruser sciences, are most properly the province of man.—
Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women

In the end, she had two glasses because Marworth was right. There were many things she could fault the French for, but their wines weren’t among them. Precisely how such a delightful beverage had reached the table when there was a wartime embargo, she didn’t know, but it was a reminder he occupied two worlds, one familiar, the other dark with secrets. And as they moved into his study following dinner, she fought back a needling apprehension. Their lovely dinner was now finished, and that dark world was about to present itself.

“I must offer my compliments to your chef on a delicious meal,” she said, taking the seat beside his desk once more. It had been swept clean of the papers relating to her demise, and instead, a leather-bound portfolio lay neatly upon it, bathed in the bright glow of an oil lamp.

“Pierre will be most pleased to hear it.” He was sitting in a chair he’d pulled beside her. “He once cooked for Bonaparte himself, you know. But the emperor has a violent temper, and when Pierre dared to scramble his breakfast eggs instead of coddling them, he needed a quick route out of the country.”

There it was again. That ridiculous warming sensation in her chest. “Has every person in your employ been rescued from some sort of indignity? Some kind of danger?”

He tilted his head. “Rescued? I certainly hadn’t thought of it that way. I only know they’re an intensely loyal lot, and given the work done here, that’s an imperative.”

Could he not see that his kindness had earned their loyalty? Hers as well. She had the sudden suspicion that she could be talked into doing anything for him. That she could trust him. And it was frightening, because even her own father had abused her trust. She didn’t think she could survive the pain of another betrayal.

“Do you work with others in Society?” she asked, willing away a thickness that made it difficult to swallow. It was past time to focus on the task at hand, past time to remember Marworth was no knight in shining armor.

He nodded. “One of them is arriving tomorrow. She’ll help prepare you for your role in all of this.”

“I know the basics of it, of course. But how can I find the dispatches if I don’t know what I’m looking for?”

Benjamin grew serious then. More serious than she’d ever seen him. “You understand that once I share this information with you, there will be no going back. You’ll be as immersed in this as I am, which is a dangerous thing.”

She took a deep breath. “Of course. Go on.”

“There are two fronts to this war. The first is measured in battles won and lost, the second in terms of intelligence uncovered and utilized. Recently, we gained a decisive advantage in the latter. One of Wellington’s most trusted aides was able to deconstruct Napoleon’s version of
Le Grande Chiffre
.”

“The Great Cipher? What is that?

“An incredibly complex diplomatic code with roots in the seventeenth century. It has flummoxed our best codebreakers. Until now.”

“Thus giving Wellington the ability to decipher enemy dispatches,” she said, the consequences of it just dawning. “Is that why the tide seems to have turned in Spain?”

“Exactly,” he said with an approving smile. “Just a few days ago, a key battle at Vitoria was won because we intercepted a letter meant for Napoleon. In it, his brother, King Joseph of Spain, revealed his troops would be joining the French forces there. Wellington learned how many soldiers were coming and, more importantly, when. He routed the French before the reinforcements arrived.”

“And King Joseph’s forces?”

“They, too, were overcome, their guns either captured or destroyed. Even the king’s baggage train was taken, more than 100 wagons piled high with the wealth of Spain. Not to mention Joseph’s diplomatic pouches, his ceremonial sword, even his solid-silver chamber pot.”

“I’d have left the chamber pot behind,” she replied, willing away an inappropriate smile. “But in all, a tremendous victory.”

“Yes, it was. Unfortunately, the news of it sent to Whitehall also included the identity of Wellington’s codebreaker, along with his position on the staff, even his current location. And that is precisely the information that has gone missing.”

A frisson of dread swept through her. “The man will be in grave danger if it falls into French hands.”

“Undoubtedly. If and when Napoleon learns the cipher has been compromised, he’ll demand a new
chiffre
. He’ll not want Wellington’s man alive to decode it.”

“And you think Rempley is somehow involved?”

“It’s quite possible. After all, the dispatches were in his care when they went missing. He’s the chairman of a select committee in the Lords that receives such information.”

“I wonder if it’s the same one Father chaired. It was the first to be informed of battle movements and reported directly to the prime minister himself.”

“Did your father ever discuss the information he was privy to, or bring any of the dispatches home?” There was none of Society’s indolent Lord Marworth in the way Benjamin held himself, the steady focus of his gaze. It was almost unnerving.