The Reluctant Bride (6 page)

‘A whirlwind engagement, Major Woodhouse.' She wished her voice sounded stronger, for her tremulous whisper only emphasised her position as an object of shame. She indicated the half-naked man at the bottom of the garden. Angus's torso glistened with sweat in the morning sunlight. Engrossed in his task, he was unaware he had a visitor.

From a distance he looked strong and manly. Her heart seemed to shift a little, as if the heaviness of her unhappiness were almost too great a weight for it to bear.

‘If you want to make yourself known to my husband I shall organise tea.' Turning, she went inside, wondering if she would be able to find what she needed, even for so simple a matter. Major Woodhouse could draw his own conclusions, but it was best for them all – her unborn child, included – that her domestic clumsiness not reveal just how new a bride she really was.

Angus let the axe fall and turned as he sensed a presence, which he knew was not Emily. She'd looked like she could sleep for a hundred years when he'd checked on her early this morning after he'd risen from his makeshift bed on the floor by the scullery fire. An odd spark he was reluctant to identify burned in his chest at the memory of her face, lovely and serene in repose. Emily and her child lived. Emily was still his wife and he could still look forward to the little family that gave him hope there might be happiness on the horizon.

‘Woodhouse!' Wiping the sweat from his brow with his forearm he smiled and looked past him to the house. He was about to – dubiously – offer refreshment, but the other man cut in.

‘A brief visit, Angus. Strictly business so it would be best if we were not interrupted. Thing is …' Major Woodhouse drew level and rested his boot on top of the newly split pile of logs. ‘A rather urgent problem has cropped up and we need your help.'

Angus waited. Several years before, he had been involved in a reconnaissance mission in Spain, scouting out the mountains ahead of their unit before the troops advanced. He'd been commended for the detail and accuracy of his intelligence but had resisted becoming involved in similar operations.

Though Woodhouse had never declared direct involvement in the government's clandestine efforts to destroy the French Republic, Angus knew he sympathised with their desire to restore the Bourbons to the throne once Napoleon was defeated; that he passionately believed it to be in England's interests; however, he did not know how closely involved Woodhouse was in covert operations.

It didn't take him long to find out. ‘The Foreign Office advised me one of our agents was attacked in Bern last week.' Major Woodhouse came straight to the point as he withdrew a leather drawstring pouch. ‘I'm looking for a dependable envoy to supply him with replacement papers.'

Angus betrayed nothing. Not his distaste for subterfuge when he was comfortable on the battlefield where he knew exactly who and where the enemy was. Nor the unexpected frisson of excitement that he was about to be offered a mission that would give him something meaningful to do after so long on half pay, doing nothing.

‘Francois Allaire, wealthy banker, is his alias.' Major Woodhouse tapped the pouch. ‘You'll find passports and letters of introduction for both of you. In just over a week he's due to meet the Paris prefect of police, but without the right papers he's in a perilous situation.' His brow clouded. ‘Some months ago and in similar circumstances we lost a valuable and long-serving agent. We can't afford the same to happen, which is why I'm approaching you to help us.' He sent Angus a searching look. ‘There is no one I'd trust more than you.'

Practicality and a healthy dose of aversion to lying, even for so good a cause, made Angus hesitate when only moments before he'd all but embraced an opportunity to feel useful and serve his country.

‘And my disguise? The green jacket of the 60th?' He shook his head. ‘Sorry, Woodhouse. While I'm no friend of Bonaparte's, you need a diplomat, not a soldier.'

The man he'd known and respected for so many years since they'd joined as recruits contemplated him a moment. When he spoke again there was a brittle note to his tone. ‘My apologies. It never occurred to me you'd decline.' With a brief but pointed scrutiny of the back of Angus's humble dwelling he added, ‘I thought if your patriotism were not inspired you'd at least view affairs differently in light of your changed domestic situation.'

Angus put a conciliatory hand upon his friend's sleeve. ‘I am still in the pay of the British government and my loyalty will always be towards my country. I'm just questioning whether someone else would do
this
job better than I.'

Major Woodhouse kicked at a chicken pecking his boot before fixing Angus with a level look. ‘In Spain you spent three days and nights in rain and sleet lying out ahead of Bonaparte's army. Your intelligence was first rate. When you were eventually caught and interrogated your quick wits saved your life. You were promoted to Major. Since then you've continued to serve the army with distinction.' He paused, assimilating his argument. ‘It's because I knew you planned to resign your commission, and in consequence would be champing at the bit'—he sent another contemptuous glance, this time towards the scrapheap by the back door where Miranda was scraping out the remains of a bowl of gruel—‘that I thought you'd be open to my proposal.'

For the second time in a few days Angus felt mortification at his inadequacy. The dwelling was supposed to have been a short-term abode after he'd come back from war. Stretched for funds and with only himself to worry about he'd not bothered to look for something else.

Major Woodhouse's tone became cajoling. ‘This mission is part of a complex campaign to ensure homeland security. Our agent, in his guise as a Swiss banker and funded by the British Government, is proving that English gold is an effective tool in turning the loyalties of key French generals who are themselves starting to predict the fall of Napoleon. If Allaire's cover is blown, every agent we have recruited throughout Switzerland, Spain and France is compromised.' Woodhouse looked grey as he added, ‘For he
will
be induced to talk.'

Angus digested this in silence. He was no coward, but espionage did not sit well with him. He would have preferred a mission that involved straightforward tactics.

Woodhouse clicked his tongue. ‘For months you've been searching for something worthwhile to do, anyone could see it, Angus.' He sounded impatient. ‘All I'm asking of you is to help ensure we don't lose another valuable, long-serving agent.' His lip curled as his glance encompassed Angus's dwelling briefly once more. ‘I can't imagine a man of your pride relishing your current situation.'

He could see Angus was wavering. He cast another disparaging look, this time at Angus's worn boots, before warming to his theme. ‘Our British agents are in league with French generals disenchanted with the Corsican invader. Together with representatives of the House of Bourbon we are confident of soon toppling Napoleon. But to ensure success we need to send someone who speaks impeccable French; someone dependable – and fast – to furnish Allaire with the necessary papers.' He cleared his throat. ‘On a more practical note, the job I'm offering you comes with a government pension after the war is won.'

A pension. Instant remuneration. Angus stared at the lowly lodgings to which he'd consigned his beautiful wife and registered that he was not insensible to his friend's rising passion; and not only from a pecuniary point of view. He missed excitement.

‘All we're asking of you on this mission is to play the messenger. Play yourself if you're uncomfortable with charades: the painter who won't let a war raging across Europe interfere with his passion.' Major Woodhouse's tone became more persuasive. ‘Tuck your easel under your arm and dust off those letters of introduction to the curators of the world's finest art collections to which the war denied you access.'

Angus shifted, the frisson of excitement within tempered by the reality of his changed circumstances. Even a veritable host of galleries could not outweigh his concern for Emily and his desire to see her safely delivered of her child. Some naïve part of him kept alive the hope that through his steady dependability Emily would develop for him some small affection.

He realised it was a pipe dream. Emily would appreciate him far more if he were playing the hero abroad than slavishly attending to her meagre comforts at home.

‘My wife is in a delicate condition. How long am I likely to be away?'

‘Once you've delivered the requisite papers to Allaire your mission from this side is completed.' Woodhouse muttered over the calculations. ‘Two hours hard riding to the coast; the packet leaves every Tuesday and Friday; the channel crossing might be done within three hours, if you're not becalmed, and then another two to three hours to reach the home of Monsieur Delon. Perhaps you'd be looking to return to England several days after that.'

‘Delon?'

Woodhouse raised an eyebrow. ‘You are familiar with the name?'

‘I have heard it mentioned in connection with Jack Noble.'

Woodhouse's momentary confusion was replaced by suspicion. ‘Miss Micklen … I mean, Mrs McCartney, spoke of this?'

Angus tried to dilute his friend's objection by returning to the matter at hand. ‘I presume there will be future requirements?'

Woodhouse hesitated, then replied, ‘For many years the Delons have assisted foreign emissaries who would see a Bourbon monarchy reinstated.' He stared at Angus as if determining his friend's commitment. ‘If you do accept, yes, this will be the first of further operations. It is likely they will introduce you to other members of their association.' Clearing his throat, he added, ‘I will therefore need reassurance that your loyalty to the cause extends beyond this first operation.'

Angus hid the frisson of irritation that swept over him at his friend's pomposity. Although Woodhouse was the first he would turn to in a crisis, the man had the ability to get under his skin like no one he knew. Yet Angus also knew he had more to lose by rejecting the opportunity being presented. Not only from financial considerations.

‘And this unfortunate soul you mentioned previously. Should I not know the circumstances of his death if you fear Allaire faces the same peril?'

Woodhouse reddened. ‘Initially we attributed the late Monsieur Perignon's death to his well known voracious … carnal appetites, however it appears he was betrayed,' he hesitated, ‘though we have no proof of this. Then all went smoothly until Allaire was attacked. Again it appears Allaire's perilous situation is due to betrayal within our ranks. He sent Angus a searching look. ‘So you will help us?'

Angus needed no further persuasion. Betrayal from within was an insidious threat and in a different league altogether from simple espionage. He nodded. ‘I assume you wish me to leave at the earliest. Tomorrow? Anything else I need to know?'

‘If Mrs McCartney questions you, say nothing of the real nature of your business.' Woodhouse scowled, as if imagining the lengths to which a woman might go to have her curiosity satisfied. ‘She may try to persuade you that Jack Noble kept her apprised of his activities. Do not be swayed. Noble was under the strictest instructions to say nothing.' His scowl deepened. ‘If you heard the name Delon mentioned by Mrs McCartney it is clear she has no understanding of the need for discretion.'

‘I'd have thought the charge of indiscretion was better laid at Jack Noble's door,' Angus muttered.

Woodhouse appeared to be making an attempt at mastering his exasperation. ‘Noble was recommended for his position by no lesser personage than the Foreign Secretary himself.'

‘Then I fill esteemed boots,' Angus replied with heavy sarcasm for he knew Woodhouse would consider Noble's selection as unlikely as Angus did. ‘And the risks? There are always risks it is well to be apprised of.' He was thinking of the perils that dogged him in Spain: the silent, deadly wraiths of the night that could slit a man's throat before he knew what had happened.

He was not expecting a woman's name.

‘Madame Fontenay … Fanchette Fontenay …' Woodhouse's look turned to contempt. ‘She's been a thorn in the side of the English for years. A blood-thirsty revolutionary responsible for the deaths of countless British agents … including our lately departed aforementioned agent in Paris.' His lip curled. ‘I've heard she had a rare ability to inveigle her way into the trust of the most cynical using her vast arsenal of apparently limitless feminine wiles.'

At Angus's undisguised interest Woodhouse continued, ‘She was last seen heavy with child many years ago before disappearing into the shadows. Then within the last twelvemonth a woman fitting her description was seen in the vicinity following the deaths of Perignon and several fellow compatriots.'

‘Anything else?'

‘She married, surprisingly, some unwitting nobleman. Whether he knows it or not, he now funds her zealous hatred of the Bourbons and all who try to return them to their rightful throne.'

Angus nodded thoughtfully. ‘A physical description would be helpful.'

Woodhouse raised his eyes heavenward. ‘Hair like a raven's wing, eyes like liquid amber and skin like honey … despite not being in her first flush of youth. If you can enlarge upon that lyrical tribute you're not likely to pass it on, I'm told. Word is she was once mistress to one of Bonaparte's trusted generals and that she and Bonaparte remain on good terms.' He turned on his heel and preceded Angus up the garden path that led around the house. ‘Take care when it comes to this Fontenay woman, Angus,' he said over his shoulder. ‘Though it's not your immediate mission, we rely upon her capture. That said, if she entered your orbit you'd have no chance. Her kind is only successful through an instinct for sniffing out a man's susceptibilities, and I know damsels in distress are yours.'