The Lure of the Moonflower (27 page)

The comtesse had been dead by the time revolution had broken out—some said by her husband’s hand. The comte and his two older sons had gone to the guillotine, wrenched out of hiding, denounced by an anonymous source.

Nicolas had maintained a good pretense of grief. He had come to England with the other émigrés, feigning filial sorrow well enough to fool even the heir to the French throne. He had quickly become an intimate of the French court in exile at Hartwell House in Buckinghamshire, playing cards with the Duc de Berry, all the while weaving his web of agents and informers.

The court at Hartwell House had been particularly miffed when news of Nicolas’s duplicity had come out.

“You have lied to King Louis before,” Jane pointed out. “Why should he welcome you now?”

“His Majesty,” said Nicolas, “said much the same thing. He seems to believe he needs an earnest of my good intentions. A gesture that will render me persona non grata at the Palace of Saint-Cloud.”

He lifted the drugged glass of wine, turning it this way and that.

Jane watched him closely, revolving these new possibilities. There was no denying that Nicolas was an accomplished liar. But one thing she could trust in him: his self-interest. His allegiance to the revolutionary regime had always been driven more by revenge than conviction.

Nicolas, not Jack, was the real opportunist, for sale to the highest bidder.

Nicolas was also, Jane thought practically, a snob. He might sneer at his father, but when it came down to it, what he wanted—what he had always wanted—was to be feted by the very same society his father had attempted to deny him.

“An irrevocable gesture,” said Jane. “Such as, perhaps, stealing a queen?”

Nicolas smiled at her, the roguish glint back in his eye. “Check and mate.”

He lifted the glass to his lips to drink.

“Wait.” Jane stilled him with a hand on his wrist.

Hoping she was doing the right thing, Jane removed the glass from his hand and set it firmly down on the table.

“I have a proposition to put to you.”

“Words that warm the farthest reaches of my heart.” The honeyed words lacked conviction. It was cupidity rather than Cupid driving her former lover now. “What terms?”

“I have reinforcements waiting on Berlengas.” There was no harm in telling Nicolas as much; he must know that the English held the island. “Write the orders. Have the Queen delivered there.”

“Who are these reinforcements?” Nicolas’s pose was relaxed, but his eyes betrayed him.

Revealing any information was always a gamble. Perhaps, Jane realized, Jack had been right when he accused her of gambling. She preferred to think of it as weighing the probabilities, but what was that but another name for a game of chance?

Jane looked the Gardener in the eye. “Lord Richard Selwick. And his crew.”

“Ah.” Nicolas sat back in his chair. “You interest me, strangely.”

“I had thought I might.”

It wasn’t just that Lord Richard had the influence to press Nicolas’s case with King Louis. Nicolas had his own private history with the Selwick family.

He tapped his fingers lightly against the arm of the chair. The sigil of Brillac glittered in the candlelight. “But it was not Lord Richard Selwick with you at the abbey, was it?”

There was no mistaking the blade beneath the velvet of the Gardener’s voice.

Jane raised a brow, keeping her voice lightly amused. “You are well-informed. As always.”

“Where you are concerned, I leave no stone unturned. Who was he?” They weren’t playing anymore. The game had turned serious.

Jane leaned back against the divan, feigning an ease she didn’t feel. She ought, she thought grimly, to have let him drink the drugged wine. Working with Nicolas was always much more dangerous than working against him, perhaps because it was never entirely clear where the one left off and the other began.

“Do you tell me the names of all of your agents?” Her pearl earbobs swayed, heavy and rich, as she leaned forward. “Such as, for example, your man at the abbey?”

“Ah.” Nicolas sat back, propping one ankle against the opposite knee. “But he wasn’t my man.”

“Whose then?” Jane took another gamble. “I assume Mr. Samson isn’t his real name.”

“His real name is Rene Desgoules.” Nicolas rose abruptly from his chair, pacing towards the narrow slit of a window. He left the glass of wine behind him.

Jane rose, too, moving behind the divan, resting her hands on the gilded rail. “Why tell me that?”

Unless, of course, it wasn’t true. A falsehood designed to create the impression of honesty. What was a name, more or less?

Nicolas looked back over his shoulder. There was a fraught pause, as the candles guttered in their silver holders and a seagull cawed outside the window. “I told you. He’s not my man.”

Jane wouldn’t have believed him under any circumstances. It became ever more difficult to do so when the door crashed open and the man himself appeared in the doorway. He tripped over Nicolas’s walking stick and, kicking it aside, stalked into the room.

“I had to hear it from the guards downstairs,” he complained in rapid French flavored with the distinctive accent of Marseilles. “Why didn’t you tell me you had her?”

He might no longer be Mr. Samson, merchant, but the tone of grievance was the same.

“As you may have noticed, Desgoules,” said Nicolas calmly, “the lady and I were having a private conversation.”

“Lady?” Desgoules spat eloquently. “Put her in chains and have done with it.”

Nicolas’s face froze into an expression of aristocratic hauteur. “She is my captive, Desgoules, not yours.”

“I speak not for myself,” said Desgoules, drawing himself up, “but for Fouché.”

The captive in question moved quietly towards the door. Desgoules used his foot to kick it shut, oak crashing against stone.

As the reverberations died away, Jane raised the swordstick she had scooped up from the floor, the point sharp against Desgoules’ throat.

“‘Every hectare of ground, every painting, every candlestick’?” she quoted, without turning to Nicolas.

“You are a rather valuable commodity,” said Nicolas apologetically. “Wouldn’t you rather I benefit than this creature?”

“Shoot her! Why don’t you shoot her?” Desgoules was quivering with impatience, but not quite brave enough to make a grab for the swordstick. “You’re taking too many chances. You always take too many chances.”

“Not this time,” said Nicolas, and there was a curious note to his voice. Out of the corner of her eye, Jane could see the glint of silver. Nicolas’s pistol, elaborately chased, a masterpiece of art.

But still deadly.

“Drop the pistol,” said Jane levelly, “or I shall run Monsieur Desgoules through.”

“Will you?” said Nicolas reproachfully. “Will you truly?”

Beads of sweat stood out on Desgoules’ forehead. His eyes darted sideways, making him look more than ever like a rat in a trap. “Take the shot, man! Take the shot!”

Nicolas let out a light sigh. “If you insist,” he said, and pulled the trigger.

T
he acrid scent of powder filled the air.

Jane jerked sideways, out of the way, but she needn’t have worried. Desgoules’ mouth opened in a silent expression of shock. His hands went to the hole in his chest before he dropped, heavily, to his knees, and from there, facedown on the floor at Jane’s feet.

Jane froze, the swordstick clenched in her numb hand. “You shot him.”

“Did you think I was going to shoot you?” Calmly Nicolas set down his pistol, waggling his fingers in a bowl of rose-scented water to remove any nasty traces of powder. “I told you. He wasn’t my man.”

The blood throbbed in Jane’s temples. “No. He was Fouché’s man.” The pieces clicked into place. “You wanted me to kill him for you, didn’t you?”

Nicolas shrugged, dabbing his hands dry on a piece of linen embroidered with the arms of Brillac. “It would have been convenient—although it did seem unlikely.”

If pushed . . . if cornered. . . . Jane had never killed, in self-defense or otherwise, but she knew that someday the necessity might arise. And it would haunt her.

Nicolas knew that, too. “Two birds with one stone,” Jane said tightly. “Eliminate your enemy and—”

“And?” Nicolas prompted, looking far too amused for a man with a corpse at the threshold of his room.

And win a point in the game between them. Prove to her that she wasn’t as virtuous as she had thought. Streak blood on her hands. Render her vulnerable.

How had she ever fancied herself in love with Nicolas?

Jane found herself desperately wishing she had Jack there with her, a strong presence at her back.

Rapidly, she said, “Fouché suspected you, didn’t he? He sent Desgoules with you to make sure you didn’t abscond with the Queen.”

Nicolas spread his hands wide in a gesture of graceful assent. “And now there is no obstacle to our departure.” Catching sight of the narrowing of Jane’s eyes, he added quietly, “He was not a very nice man, Desgoules. He would have done far worse to you without blinking an eye.”

Jane’s eyes dropped to Desgoules’ fallen form. Somberly, she said, “Don’t pretend this was on my behalf.”

“But wasn’t it?” Nicolas raised a brow. “Why would I betray my Emperor but for the chance of your hand?”

It was, as far as Jane could tell, still entirely unclear who was betraying whom. “You forget,” she said, “the small matter of a thousand hectares, a dozen Fragonard paintings, and a very old grievance.”

“Ah, yes,” said Nicolas, the corner of his mouth twisting up in a grin that had little humor to it. “That as well.”

There was the sound of heavy footfalls approaching the door.

Before Jane could say anything else, Nicolas leaned his head out the door and shouted, “Guards! Guards! We have an enemy in our midst!”

An ensign skidded, breathless, to a stop outside the door. His eyes widened as he saw the man crumpled on the floor, the slow stain of blood seeping out beneath him.

Bonaparte was calling up young soldiers now, more and more soldiers to fill his endless armies. This soldier looked no more than sixteen, and his complexion turned a delicate shade of chartreuse as he stared at what was most likely his first dead body.

It took him a moment to find his voice. “Monsieur . . . Monsieur Desgoules—”

“Was a traitor,” said Nicolas, with well-feigned woe. “I caught him in the act of ransacking my dispatches. He has been suborned by the English. When I accused him of his perfidy, he attacked my fiancée, holding my own sword to her throat.”

The ensign stared with wide eyes at Jane and the sword cane in her hands. Jane tried to look like someone unaccustomed to handling a blade.

Nicolas put a comforting arm around the younger man’s shoulders. Pushing him towards the door, he said rapidly, “My position here has been compromised. Have a carriage prepared and my royal guest fetched from the next chamber. It is necessary that I take her to a place of safety at once.”

The young soldier blinked. “But . . . General Thomières. Surely I should . . .”

Nicolas looked at him sternly. “Do you want to be responsible for a valuable prize falling into the hands of the English? Quickly now! There’s no time to be lost. I have it on good authority that the Pink Carnation is on his way here even now. Yes, the Carnation,” he said, as the young soldier paled. “You understand the seriousness of the situation? Question everybody. Trust nobody. And fetch me a swift carriage and a good bottle of claret.”

“Sir, yes, sir.” The soldier scurried off, glancing over his shoulder to make sure the Carnation wasn’t behind him.

“Trust nobody,” said Jane, watching Nicolas as he seated himself at his writing desk, penning something in a quick, elegant hand. “Excellent advice.”

“He won’t take it.” Nicolas dusted sand across the paper, then held it up to inspect it before dripping red wax on the folds and pressing it with his seal. “A note for Thomières. The Queen is being transferred to a safe place pending voyage to France.”

The sword cane was still in Jane’s hand. She touched the blade to the sealed note. “Give me one reason why I should trust you.”

Nicolas smiled winningly. “Because my heart is at your feet?”

It wasn’t his heart at her feet, but a murdered operative. That, in its own way, was better assurance. Fouché wouldn’t take the death of one of his picked men lightly. The tale of subornation might fool a young soldier; it might even fool Thomières. But it wouldn’t pass muster with Napoleon’s spymaster.

“It’s not your heart I need,” said Jane, “but a swift carriage. Quickly now.”

But she kept the sword cane in her hand as she followed her old adversary to the door.

•   •   •

“She won’t come that way.”

Jack’s stepmother stepped out beside him on the large terrace in front of the fortress. All around them, the setting sun painted the sky a brilliant red and purple that only accentuated the jagged cliffs of the isle of Berlengas, jutting out into the sea around them. The wind had risen, slapping the waves into a frenzy. Whitecapped, they dashed themselves against the base of the narrow causeway that connected the Forte São João Batista with the island.

“I know that,” said Jack quickly, but despite himself, his eyes turned again to that narrow and twisting stone bridge, the shadows playing tricks on him, presenting him with the image of a carriage, the echo of horses’ hooves against the stone.

His stepmother was right: anyone would be mad to attempt the bridge at dusk in a high wind. Under the very best of conditions it would be dangerous. And these were not the best of conditions.

If Jane came at all, she would come by sea.

“She will come,” said Jack fiercely. “She knows what she’s doing.”

His stepmother furled her parasol, tucking it under her arm. “Most of the time.” Before Jack could retort, she added in a voice like vinegar, “I care about her, too, you know.”

Jack looked down at the cracked paving at his feet. The last thing he wanted was to have a discussion about his emotions with the woman who had married his father—who, for some bizarre reason, everyone, with the exception of his father, persisted in referring to as “Miss” Gwen.

It didn’t seem to bother his father. In fact, his father was as happy as Jack could ever remember seeing him.

It was very odd thinking of one’s parent as a person. Even odder being introduced, in one fell swoop, to his father’s new life: a wife, a family, albeit a rather amorphously connected family. Miles Dorrington had attempted to explain how everyone was connected, but Jack would have needed a chart to map it all out, and frankly he just wasn’t that interested.

He was more concerned about what was happening with Jane.

The urge to turn his back until his stepmother went away was strong, but the urge to talk about Jane was stronger. “You were her chaperone?” Jack said, the words half lost on the wind.

“Chaperone, second in command.” Miss Gwen rested her parasol point on the ground, frowning out to sea, her eyes searching the waters that separated them from the mainland. “I’ve known her since she was born.”

“Was she always . . .” Jack stuck.

“Maddeningly omniscient?” Miss Gwen gave a sharp bark of a laugh. “Yes. Even as a child. Oh, she hid it well. The girl had good manners. She knew when to keep her mouth shut in adult company. But if you made the mistake of asking! The vicar,” she said with satisfaction, “never questioned her about her catechism again.”

Jack’s throat worked as he looked out across the waves. “How much of a chance do you think she has against the Gardener?”

Miss Gwen didn’t belittle or make light of his concerns. “The man’s twisty; I’ll give him that. And there was a time . . . There was a time when he might have been a danger to her.” She looked shrewdly at Jack. “I take it that is no longer likely to be a concern.”

Was he wearing a sign on his chest? Jack felt like a raw youth caught mooning beneath a girl’s window.

“Jane isn’t the only one who is maddeningly omniscient,” Jack muttered.

“Where did you think she got it from?” But Miss Gwen’s gloat was short-lived. Her eyes narrowed on a speck on the horizon. Leaning forward, she jabbed her parasol at the water. “There! Don’t you see it? Look again.”

Her eyes were better than his. All Jack could see was a pale streak against the dark waves. Slowly it resolved itself into a boat.

“It might be a fishing boat,” said Jack, his voice rusty.

“At this time of night?” Together they craned to see.

Navigating the choppy waters with the skill of long practice, the skipper moored the boat at the base of the fort. Two flights of long stairs led up to the platform. As Jack watched, a lithe figure in boots, breeches, frock coat, and curly brimmed hat swung out of the boat, saying something to the skipper in passing.

It might be Jane, as planned, dressed in the Gardener’s clothes. It was supposed to be Jane dressed in the Gardener’s clothes. Jack cursed the uncertain light that played tricks with his eyes. He couldn’t make out features from this distance; the figure looked like a dressmaker’s doll.

The figure glanced up at the fort and lifted its hat ever so slightly.

The caw of the gulls and the splash of the waves thrummed in Jack’s ears. “There’s something wrong.”

He couldn’t say how he knew, but that wasn’t Jane. She wouldn’t have lifted her hat; she would have waved. The height was right, as was the general build, but the movements were all wrong.

“That’s not Jane.”

“No,” said his stepmother, leaning as far over the side as she dared. “
That
is Jane.”

Holding his hat with one hand, the man that wasn’t Jane held out his hand to someone else on the boat.

She stepped out of the boat gracefully, holding up the long skirt of her gown with one hand. The white gauze of the gown glimmered even in the fading light, turning her into something out of myth or fancy, the Lady of the Lake rising to give Arthur his sword.

Only the hand she was holding, Jack was quite sure, belonged not to the mythical king of the Britons, but to Britain’s great enemy, the Gardener.

“
Him
,” said Miss Gwen.

Jack couldn’t have agreed more. Miss Gwen drew the hidden sword from her parasol, holding it at the ready. Jack cocked his pistol, pointing it at the top of the stairs.

A useless gesture, he knew. He couldn’t fire without risking hitting Jane. He could only hope the Gardener wouldn’t realize that.

There had to be a pistol in the Gardener’s hand, behind Jane’s back. That was the only explanation. Why, otherwise, would she be climbing the stairs with him so easily, so gracefully, one hand resting on his arm with an intimacy that made Jack’s finger tense on the trigger?

Jane stepped onto the platform, the wind flattening her sheer skirt against her legs, teasing little wisps of hair out of her topknot. The sleeves of her dress were long and tight, entirely impractical for combat. Pearl earrings glimmered in her ears; her hair had been bound up with a gold fillet. She smelled of rare perfumes and expensive lotions.

“Miss Gwen! Jack.” There was no gun at her back. Looping her skirt over one wrist, Jane dropped the Gardener’s arm and moved forward. “As you see, we have arrived.”

The scent of her hair wafted behind her: not lavender, but French perfume, a scent for seduction. Jack had liked it better when she smelled of sulfur and donkey.

Jack kept his pistol trained on her companion, who was watching them with a slight, mocking smile playing around his lips. The Gardener gave a slight bow. “Miss Meadows. Mr. . . . ?”

“It’s Mrs. Reid now,” growled Miss Gwen.

The Gardener raised his hat. “My condolences to Mr. Reid.”

“Colonel Reid,” Jack said tersely. To Jane, he said, “What in the devil is
he
doing here?”

The Gardener strolled forward. He held his hands up so that Jack could see he was unarmed. “You have the advantage of me, sir.” He considered Jack critically. “You are not, I think, a Selwick. Who are you?”

The Gardener’s seal swam before Jack’s eyes, red as the setting sun, red as the blood of good men.

“I,” said Jack, “am the Moonflower.”

That, at least, discommoded the Gardener. He narrowed his eyes against the stinging wind. “I thought I had you killed in Calcutta.”

“You certainly tried.” Jack leveled his pistol at his old adversary. “Allow me to return the favor.”

“Wait!” Jane blocked Jack’s shot with her body. Slowly he lowered his pistol as she said rapidly, “We have a truce in place. The Gardener has given us the Queen. He wishes to . . . reconsider his allegiances.”

The only thing the Gardener was going to reconsider was his grip on this mortal coil. The man was entirely without morals. He was as slippery as a snake, which frankly did a disservice to reptiles everywhere.

And this was the man whom Jane was bringing into their midst?

Jack looked at Jane incredulously. “And you believe him?”

Jane ignored him. To her former chaperone, she said, “The Queen is in the boat. If you could call someone to take her to an appropriate chamber?”

Miss Gwen gestured imperiously with her parasol to one of the sentries on the battlements, part of the detachment of British marines who were holding the island of Berlengas.