Regency Spymasters 01 - Spy Fall (24 page)

My sincere thanks go to Natasha and Daniel Yaqub for letting me borrow their very real “rainbow” eye color for my fictional Lamarre family.

I was fortunate to receive excellent editorial guidance from Alethea Spiridon Hopson, Kate Fall and Gillian Bagwell. The beautiful cover for
Spy Fall
exceeded my expectations and I have Carrie at Seductive Designs to thank for that. My deepest gratitude goes to my agent, Kevan Lyon, for guiding me through the publication process.

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Spy Fall

Other books by Diana Quincy

Compromising Willa

Seducing Charlotte

Tempting Bella

Engaging the Earl

You have just finished reading
Spy Fall
, Book 1 in Diana Quincy’s Regency Spymasters series. Read on for a sneak preview of Book 2,
A License to Wed
, coming Spring 2015.

Being a practical man, Will Naismith did not believe in ghosts so he couldn’t account for the one standing in front of him.

Elinor Dunsmore.
Elle
. The chatter of the guests surrounding him fell away. It had been almost six years since he’d seen her, five since her death—although reports of her passing had clearly been greatly exaggerated.

He adjusted his spectacles on the bridge of his nose. If he didn’t know better, he’d suspect the lenses were failing him, but there was no mistaking that smoky grey gaze tinged with mischievous merriment. Where had she been all this time? Elle had always craved excitement, perhaps she’d finally found it.

“Drink?” Lucian Verney placed a glass of wine in his hand.

Will took a fortifying gulp of the sharp, sweet liquid. “The woman with Whitworth’s wife…who is she?”

“Devil if I know.”

“You’ve never seen her before?”

“Not in the two months I’ve been here.” After attending university with Will, Lucian had joined the diplomatic corps and was now stationed in the French capital.

Will stared at Elle. How was it possible for her to be standing in a Paris drawing room making polite conversation with French government officials and British diplomats? She had adopted the new French style of dressing, draping herself in fabric so sheer that no reasonable English woman would ever dare appear thus in public. The diaphanous Grecian-like confection showcased her long legs, the flesh-colored drawers beneath adding to the illusion of indecency. The draping material seemed to caress the delicate bosom and slim hips he’d once known intimately, had practically worshipped really, before she’d vanished from his life. A gold embroidered shawl draped over one shoulder and tucked around her slender waist, was her sole concession to modesty, but did little to hide the full power of her feminine allure.

The Elle he remembered would not view her attire as scandalous; she would be attracted by its freshness and artistry. Even as a young girl, she’d always embraced the new and the different, had always sought the next exciting adventure.

He’d mourned her twice—first when she’d slipped away to marry her Frenchman without a word to him, and then again, less than a year later, when he’d learned she’d died in the childbed. She appeared decidedly robust for someone who’d supposedly been tucked up with a spade for several years. Whatever had delayed her journey to kingdom come, he was grateful; she was a welcome sight for his desolate eyes, for a heart still ravaged by her abrupt departure from his life.

She conversed animatedly with two English women, including the formidable wife of Lord Whitworth, the Crown’s current ambassador to Paris. A heavy-set man approached the ladies and placed a proprietary hand at the small of Elle’s slender back. She greeted the man with a cool smile that revealed the animal-like points of her incisors; the imperfectly charming smile that tinged her aristocratic bearing with a certain recklessness that never failed to stir him.

Jealousy stabbed his gut. There was no mistaking the newcomer’s falcon-like features and permanent scowl. Gerard Duret. What the devil was Elle doing cavorting with members of Napoleon’s inner circle while her family in England mourned her death?

“But I do know the cull with her,” Lucian was saying. “That’s General Duret. He’s the one you have to watch out for. He’ll be the first to drive a sword through our collective heart once the peace fails.”

Will was well acquainted with the man’s reputation. General Gerard Duret of the Corsican’s police ministry was highly placed in Napoleon’s intelligence network.

“Ah, here’s your French
ami
.” Lucian turned to greet Henri D’Aubigne and gestured in Elle’s direction. “Naismith is inquiring after Duret’s companion.”

“You speak of Madame Laurent?” The free-thinking writer seemed to know everyone in Paris and his fervent dislike of Napoleon made him a valuable informant. “She is most charming. Duret is entranced and guards the lady as though she is a most precious diamond. It is understood that his wife is most displeased.”

“Is he docking her?” Lucian asked.

“So it is rumored.” Henri selected a
quenelle
from the silver tray proffered by a roaming footman. English funds kept the portly gourmand well stocked with rich food and quality spirits, indulgences evidenced by the way his silk waistcoat strained across a generous abdomen. “But one never knows for certain.”

Duret’s mistress.
Nausea roiled in his chest. “Does she live here in Paris?”

“She used to reside in the city with her husband, a
vicomte
, but she disappeared for many years after the husband’s unfortunate demise.”

“What happened to him?” Lucian asked.

“He departed for his club one evening and never returned.” Henri bit into the meatball. “His body turned up a few days later. His death was either the handiwork of footpads or the unfortunate result of lingering revolutionary fervor.”

“But that was years ago.” Will watched Elle lean close to Duret to whisper something into his ear. “Where has she been since then?”

“
Je ne sais pas,
” Henri said. “She reappeared a few months ago and has taken to hosting salons which are
de rigueur
in society this Season.”

“Have you attended her gatherings?” Will asked.

“I have had the pleasure. As I said, the lady is charming. She invites artists, academics and diplomats, and keeps an excellent table.”

“I have not been invited,” Lucian said, looking offended at the oversight.

“And does Duret attend?” Will asked.

“But of course,” Henri said between bites, before finishing off the meatball. “If he hasn’t already taken her to bed, it is clear he desires to. He rarely leaves Madame Laurent’s side.”

“What does he see in her?” Lucian craned his neck for a better view of the woman in question. “She’s pretty enough, but not exactly a beauty.”

Will followed his gaze, taking in Elle’s high-sloped cheeks and large, wide-set eyes. It was true. She was not a great beauty. She was much more than that. Elle was the most vitally alive person he’d ever met. Refreshingly honest and candid, she’d always lived in the moment, ready with a lusty laugh, humor glinting her eyes when she’d teased him away from his studies.

Few could help being drawn by that exuberance; he certainly hadn’t been able to resist her considerable charms. Even as he’d fallen foolishly and irrevocably in love, he’d known she was above his touch. A bastard had no business laying hands on the daughter of a marquess. He turned to Henri. “What do you know of her?”

“Not much. She is English—high born, it is said—but her French is impeccable.”

Lucian eyed her gossamer gown. “She certainly seems to have adopted the Paris style of dressing. No respectable Englishwoman would dare be seen in company wearing the indecent gowns these French chits parade around in.”

Henri chuckled. “It is the result of our revolutionary affection for the values of republican Rome. Even our fashion must reflect these new philosophical and social ideals. The dressmakers are expected to produce a maximum of elegance with a minimum of fabric.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I, for one, find it most pleasing.”

“No doubt,” Will said dryly. That Elle would embrace a daring new fashion didn’t surprise him, but why desert her old life? To become a Paris society hostess or some frog’s whore? He closed his eyes and forced a deep, calming breath. Imagining Elle in Duret’s bed sickened him, but the idea that she’d willingly placed herself there threatened to drive him to bedlam. He opened his eyes to find Henri’s craggy face studying him.

“Do you know the lady?”

“We were acquainted once, but it was a long time ago.”

They were interrupted by their hostess, Lady Whitworth, who had taken a position at the front of the room. “May I have your attention,” she said. “The auction is to begin shortly.” Elle and a number of other ladies in attendance began moving toward the front of the room.

“Auction?” Will murmured to his companions.

“For an opportunity to waltz with the lady of your choice,” Henri said. “The monies collected will be donated to the Women’s and Children’s Home in Paris.”

Lucian inhaled a shocked breath. “Auctioning off ladies of good family to the highest bidder? You’d think we were at King’s Place off Pall Mall,” he said, referring to a bawd house frequented by gentleman of the upper orders in London.

Henri chuckled. “Must you English be so provincial? You are not purchasing the lady’s virtue, just the opportunity to take her for a turn on the dance floor.”

“Still, it is hardly proper,” Lucian said stubbornly. “This sort of thing would cause at scandal at home.”

Henri helped himself to champagne from a passing footman. “But you are in Paris,” he said jovially. “Why not enjoy all of the delights our fair city has to offer?”

Will swallowed the last of his wine and placed the empty glass on the footman’s tray with a decided thud. “Why not indeed?”

Elle watched the bidding with detached interest, certain Gerard Duret would outbid everyone, mostly through sheer intimidation, for the opportunity to take a turn with her. Few desired to cross a man reputed to be more ruthless than Robespierre.

The lady ahead of her moved forward as the bidding began. While waiting her turn, Elle surreptitiously scanned the crowd for the man she was desperate to find. Frustration churned inside her chest. Still no sign of Moineau, the man who’d promised to find her missing child
.
It had been more than a month since she’d last heard from him. Where could he be?

Polite applause signaled the end of the latest round of bidding. The flushed-cheeked lady moved into the crowd to join the gentleman who had won a dance with her.

“And now, I give you the exquisitely enchanting Madame Laurent, a vision whose presence illuminates any room,” said the auctioneer, a bald, trim man of medium height.

Elle stepped forward with a good-natured smile and executed an elegant curtsy. The crowd applauded and the bidding began.

“Three francs!” called the portly Monsieur Henri D’Aubigne, a Parisian writer she found quite amusing. She saw he stood next to Lucian Verney, a newer arrival to the city who worked for Ambassador Lord Whitworth at the embassy. She made a mental note to introduce herself to the young gentleman soon. Mister Verney might prove useful to her cause.

Several others entered the bidding and drove up the price. In the few months since reopening the Paris house, she’d emerged as a popular hostess and sought-after guest. Elle had always had a way with people and she intended to use it to her advantage, especially now, with so much at stake. The more people she encountered, the better the chance she’d meet someone of influence who might assist in the search for her daughter.

“Eight francs,” called the auctioneer. “Do I have an offer for eight francs for Madame Laurent, the most enchanting of ladies?”

Once the price for the pleasure of her company had grown too steep for many of the early bidders, Gerard moved to the front center of the crowd so that he stood only a few feet away from Elle. He dipped his chin, signaling his acceptance of the price to the auctioneer. With his silver-streaked thick dark hair, he was not an unattractive man, but the way he looked at her made her uneasy. His cold raven gaze held hers, barely concealed desire emanating from his strong, barrel-chested frame.

“Général
Duret bids eight francs for a waltz with the lovely Madame Laurent!” The auctioneer’s words tumbled into each other, belying his nerves now that the powerful police ministry official had entered the fray. “A very generous offer, indeed.”

Chills fluttered through her back, but she smothered all outward signs of discomposure. Smiling coquettishly, she exclaimed, “Oh, la. Surely, I am worth more than a mere eight francs.”

The crowd laughed and a few called out that she was infinitely more valuable.

“Do I have an offer for ten francs?” the auctioneer called without much vigor, clearly expecting the transaction to be at an end given the reputation of the gentleman who’d made the last bid.

“Twenty francs,” called a self-assured masculine voice.

Surprised anyone would challenge the powerful
Général
Duret, even in this insignificant way, Elle looked in the direction of the smooth rich voice—obviously that of an Englishman—but couldn’t see to whom it belonged. The man stood near Henri and Mr. Verney, but was obscured by the crush of people around them.

The permanent scowl on the general’s face deepened. “Twenty five,” he said, his voice thick with displeasure.

“Twenty five francs from
Général
Duret,” said the auctioneer with obvious relief.

“Forty.”

Duret’s expression hardened. He clasped his hands together and manipulated them until his knuckles cracked, a habit she detested. A murmuring hush swept the crowd as more heads turned toward the back of the room for a glimpse of the man who dared to publicly challenge Napoleon’s malevolent lieutenant.

“We have a bid for forty francs.” The auctioneers blotted perspiration from his forehead with a well-worn kerchief that had once been white but was now a dullish gray. “Do I have an offer of forty-one perhaps?” He gazed hopefully at Duret.

The general stared at him for a moment, banked fury evident in his dark eyes. “Alas,
non
,” he finally said in a light tone. “Sadly, I shall not dance with the lovely lady in public this evening.” The crowd seemed to release its collective breath and the chattering resumed.

Elle stepped aside to make room for the next lady on the auction block and made her way through the horde, straining for a glimpse of the gentleman who’d paid so outrageously for the privilege of dancing with her. He stood with his back to her, mostly obscured by the crowd, but she caught a glimpse of dark copper hair. Her scalp tingled. There was something familiar about the man.

She reached Henri and Mr. Verney; her buyer turned and their gazes met. She stared into pale hazel eyes that sent her tumbling back to long-ago summers in Dorset, to salty sea air and the weathered sandstone family home where her happiest memories were housed.