Persuasion (17 page)

“Did you hear the latest news? The French crossed our lines and have taken Menin and Courtrai. We will surely invade Flanders now.”

Simon made certain his expression did not change when he was surprised. He hadn’t heard. Lafleur needed information before the invasion. “I imagine we may already be on the march. Have you heard any details about the impending invasion?”

“I have heard some gossip. There is an argument amongst the Allied command over leadership. I have also heard that Coburg has mustered some sixty thousand men. I doubt the French can raise as many troops,” Dominic said.

“Do not be too sure. Times have changed since the conscription became law last August,” Simon said bluntly. “I heard it projected before I left Paris that the army would total one million troops by this fall.”

Dominic paled.

“Hopefully they will not even come close to that number, but I myself have seen how rabid the common man has become. The army offers mobility now that no one could dream of before. Privates quickly become sergeants. Cobblers become generals. I am afraid.”

Dominic clasped his shoulder grimly. “Think about getting out now, while you can. Your children need you, Simon.”

Simon almost laughed. His entire raison d’être was his sons. But he would not tell his friend that. “I will get out when I can, but that time is not now.” He looked Paget in the eye. “I need something, Dom, something that could save my life if I am ever uncovered after I return to France.” He realized he was sweating. He doubted Paget had anything that valuable to impart, or that he would give up such information if he had it, but it was worth a try.

“I may have something for you,” Dominic said thoughtfully.

Hope flooding him, Simon just looked at him.

“There is a mole in the War Office.”

Simon almost choked.

“Warlock knows. The mole is working closely with Windham. In fact, Warlock even knows who it is, and he has known for some time. He is being kept in place, and being carefully used against the French.”

Simon was almost dazed. There was a French spy in the War Office.

He had just been given information that could save his life and those of his sons. If he ever told Lafleur that his man had been made, he would be trusted completely. But Warlock’s clever game would be over.

He managed to speak. “I am not sure I should ask, but who is it?”

“I happen to know, because I helped uncover him. However, I believe that the fewer people who know the mole’s identity, the better.”

“You are right,” Simon said, still shocked. But he had all the information he would ever need now—if he ever had to go so far as to betray his country. “Warlock is playing a dangerous game.”

“Yes, he is, but no one is better at such subtlety and subterfuge.”

“No one,” Simon agreed. But he felt like he was lying, because just then he was the one up to his neck in deception and lies.

* * *

“A
ND
FROM
THAT
MOMENT
on, they lived happily ever after,” Amelia said softly, her hands clasped in her lap. She had just told the boys an outrageously sensational but eventually happy story of a dark knight and his princess. The story had been filled with gypsies, thieves, sorcerers and even flying dragons.

William was hugging his knees to his chest as he sat in his bed. John was soundly asleep in the adjacent bed, a small smile on his handsome face. But it was past nine, and that was terribly late for a four-year-old child. “Did you make up that story, Miss Greystone?” William asked seriously.

Amelia approached and he scooted down under the blue covers. “I most certainly did,” she said.

William yawned as she turned to pull the covers up high over John. “Prince Godfrey reminded me of Father.”

Straightening, Amelia tensed. Her heart lurched. Simon had not joined them.

All day, it had been an act of sheer will not to think about last night. The kiss they shared had been haunting her throughout her duties. But so had her newfound comprehension that he was lonely. She felt certain she was right. Simon was lonely; he missed his family.

She wished that Simon had joined them for the telling of the tall tale she had just fabricated. But she had not been given an opportunity to ask him upstairs. In fact, there had been no casual conversation after supper at all, much less any sense of intimacy or any hint that he had ever thought about her in any way other than as his housekeeper. He had thanked her perfunctorily for the meal while arising. And then he had asked her if she was going to read to the children. She had replied that, yes, she intended to do so. He had nodded and left the dining room, abruptly ending the brief exchange.

She knew he would have enjoyed the past hour, no matter what had happened last night, but she also knew it was probably better this way.

She smiled at William now. “I suppose there were a few similarities between your father and the prince. After all, they are both very handsome men.”

William started. “You think Father handsome?”

“Yes, I do. Now close your eyes and dream sweet dreams,” Amelia said firmly.

But William surprised her by saying, “My mother did not think him handsome.”

Amelia had just blown out one candle. She tensed. “I am sure she admired him, William,” she managed to say.

“I don’t know. She did not like him very much, and he did not like her.” He was watchful.

Amelia felt her heart break. She returned to his bedside, and sat down on the edge of the mattress. “Sometimes, husbands and wives do not get along as well as they should. But sometimes they get along famously. It rather depends on the individuals, and their reasons for marrying in the first place.”

“Did your parents like one another?” he asked.

She started. “The truth is, they did love one another, but my father had an obsession for gaming, William. He left us in the country, because he preferred the gaming halls of cities like Paris and Amsterdam. And in doing so, he hurt my mother terribly.”

William nodded grimly. “Father leaves us all the time, but not to gamble. He has great estates in the north. One day, he has said he will take me with him when he goes.”

Tears welled. “I know he cannot wait to take you with him.” Impulsively, she kissed his cheek. “But you must be a bit older, I think. So in the meantime, you must excel at your lessons and make him proud.” As she stood, she added, “But he is already terribly proud of you!”

William smiled at her. “I know.”

Amelia smiled back and went around the bedroom to blow out every taper. But her temples throbbed. Simon should have been present for the boys’ bedtime story. Tomorrow, she would make certain he joined them!

She paused to glance through the darkness at the sleeping boys. Her heart surged with the affection she felt for them. Surely Simon was not risking his life out of some sense of patriotic duty, not when he had a great estate to run and William to groom as his heir.

She stepped out of the bedroom, leaving the door ajar. She went across the hall to the nursery, where Lucille was sleeping. She wanted to spend a few minutes with the infant, and then she would say good-night to her mother.

Mrs. Murdock was not present, and Amelia knew she had the habit of going down to the kitchens before bed to make tea with honey. Amelia sat in the chair that was stationed by the cradle.

Lucille was sleeping on her stomach, her thumb in her mouth. She was beautiful even in sleep, with her blond hair and plump cheeks. And her pink nightgown was adorable. Amelia stood and brushed her tiny back with her fingertips. The baby did not stir. How could Southland not come for her? How could Simon not take one look at her and fall madly in love?

Was Southland going to take her away?

Her heart lurched with dread. As far as she knew, he hadn’t replied to Simon’s letter. It had been three weeks. He could be traveling. Otherwise, it meant he intended to ignore the fact that he had sired a daughter.

Amelia wondered if she should suggest that Simon send a servant to Southland’s London flat to find out if he was in town or not. She dreaded doing so, but Lucille belonged with her natural father, not Simon Grenville, and certainly not with her.

“I wish you were my daughter,” she whispered, stroking the sleeping baby another time.

She knew she would be heartbroken when Southland came—if he came. And she knew she had to consider the possibility that he would not come. Simon had yet to acknowledge the baby. But if he held Lucille only once, he would surely begin to thaw toward her.

There was no time, she supposed, like the morrow.

Mrs. Murdock returned in her nightclothes, her gray hair sticking out of her nightcap like tiny wires. Amelia and the women exchanged whispered good-evenings. “Are the boys settled?” the governess asked.

“They are both soundly asleep. I will see you tomorrow.” Amelia smiled and stepped out of the nursery.

Her gaze veered down the hall. The door to Simon’s suite was at the end, not far from the stairs, and it was closed.

It was probably a quarter to ten by then. He surely remained in the library. In any case, she should swiftly cross the hall and go downstairs, before taking the east staircase to her bedroom. She should not wonder—or even care—where he was.

Amelia started down the corridor. But her pace did not increase as she approached his door—only her heart rate did. Instead, as if of their own volition, her steps slowed.

And she heard a movement from within his rooms, a thump of some sort, and her heart lurched wildly. He was in his apartments.

She hesitated, and then realized what she was doing—she was standing outside his door, straining to hear!

Just as she started forward, he cried out harshly.

The sound was rough, as if he had been hurt. Amelia seized the doorknob. “Grenville?”

“Damn you,” he cried.

She froze, thinking he was cursing her. Sounding as if he choked on a sob, he cried, “Lafleur!”

He was dreaming. Amelia barged inside.

“Prêtez-moi!”
he shouted.

He was speaking French!

She rushed through the suite. No lights were on in the sitting room. Directly ahead was the open door to his bedchamber. The king-size canopied bed was front and center. Of ebony wood, with red-and-gold hangings, it dominated the room. Several candles flickered from one bedside table and she saw Simon instantly.

He was on his back in the bed, asleep, one arm flung over his face. He had shed his coat, but was otherwise dressed. Clearly he had lain down for a moment.

He muttered something and thrashed out. Amelia hurried forward. She set her taper down and grasped his shoulder to shake him. “Simon.”

And before the word was even out of her mouth he had seized her, thrown her down on the bed and had the barrel of a pistol grinding into her temple. His body covered hers.

Fear exploded as their gazes met. “Simon, it is I!”

His dark eyes were wide and burning with fury; his face was a mask of ruthless rage.
“Bâtard!”

“Don’t shoot,” she gasped, terrified now. “Don’t shoot! It is I—Amelia!”

And she saw the comprehension flood his gaze. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded, and he shuddered, removing the gun from her temple.

She began to breathe, hard and fast, sweat pouring down her body. He was on his hands and knees above her. “I heard you crying out,” she answered, gasping.

He sat up on the bed beside her, and set the gun in the drawer of the bedside table, which remained open. He had reacted so swiftly to her that she hadn’t even seen him open it or seize the pistol. Amelia also sat up, and then she collapsed against the half-dozen pillows on his bed, trembling wildly.

Simon stared at her, as if torn between shock and revulsion. Their gazes locked.

He had drawn a gun on her. He slept with a pistol beside his bed.

She could not stop shaking. She could not look away from him. She was never going to forget the look she had just witnessed—the rage, the fury, the burning determination. If she had been a stranger, she would now be dead.

Oh, God.

But he was trembling, too. She saw that he was covered in perspiration. His lawn shirt clung to the hard planes and flat surface of his chest and torso. He was breathing hard, as if he had just been in a foot race.

“Are you all right?” he asked roughly.

She touched her temple, where he had jammed the pistol against it. Who had he thought her to be? “Is it loaded?”

He stared at her, not answering—which was answer enough.

She realized she was feeling ill. He slept with a loaded pistol by his bed; he was afraid of intruders in the middle of the night; he was afflicted with terrible nightmares.

If he was not involved in clandestine war activities, he was involved in something equally horrible.

“Did I hurt you?”

She flinched and met his dark, probing eyes. “Not very much.”

He cursed. Then his regard moved from her eyes to her mouth and down her bodice to her waist. It instantly lifted. “Does...your head hurt?”

Amelia tensed impossibly—differently. She was in Simon’s bed. “A little.”

He stood up. “You shouldn’t have come in here!” he exclaimed. “What the hell did you think you were doing? These are my private rooms!”

“You were having another nightmare. You sounded hurt!” she cried, shuddering. But she hugged herself. How did one get out of the middle of a king-size bed without looking like a coward—without evincing that she was afraid of being seduced? And then, how did she get past him?

He flushed. “We both know what happened the last time I had a dream and you dared to interfere.”

She did not move from her position in the middle of his vast bed. She tried not to notice the way his shirt molded to his muscular chest and shoulders, how his breeches outlined his hard, powerful legs. Other than the candles that burned from the bedside table, the room was in darkness.

Amelia leaned forward, about to throw her legs over the side of the bed. His hand slammed down on the mattress by her hip, preventing her from moving. “You shouldn’t have come in here.”