Shana Galen (17 page)

“That must mean yes.”

She felt him shrug.

“Does she know about you?”

“Probably.”

“Am I the only one who
doesn’t
know?” She threw up her arms.

Beside her, Alex stiffened. “This is serious, Lucia. Lives are at stake. You can’t tell anyone this information. Ever.” The tone of his voice, the barest hint of fear, made her skin prickle. She thought of Francesca and little Colin and Sarah.

“But your brother—”

“He retired after he married.”

“Good.” She let out a relieved sigh. “But you said Dewhurst will go to him about my disappearance?”

“It seems likely, but there’s a limit to even Freddie’s ingenuity. We have to get you home quickly. I’m sending you back to England as soon as we reach Calais.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll go to Paris and bring your brother home.”

“John,” she breathed. Alex would find him, see him safely home. Unless—

She tensed, her fingers gripping Alex’s arm. “You don’t think John’s a spy?”

There was no answer.

Fear ripped through her, making her fingers shake. “No. That’s—”

“Absurd?”

“Yes. John couldn’t be a spy. I would know.”

“It should be absurd, but the king’s dementia must be spreading. I can’t conceive of any other reason Wentworth would have for sending a child to Bonaparte’s France.”

“A child?” Lucia straightened indignantly. “He’s twenty, the same age as I am!”

“God, Lucia, I don’t want to think about that now.” Beside her, he shifted in the dark. If his hands were free he’d probably be raking them through his hair right now. So John
was
a spy. Her stomach clenched so tightly with fear that she was almost physically ill. But she swallowed her panic. She knew John. He was clever and charming, creative and quick thinking.

Now that she thought of it, he’d make an excellent spy.

“Try my bindings again,” he said, interrupting his thoughts. She steadied him, and he moved so his back was to her.

“So,” she began, anxious to know more, “which of Napoleon’s nefarious plans do we have to thank you for thwarting?”

“I can’t tell you particulars.”

“Tell me something,” she said, pulling at the rope. “I’m itching with curiosity now.”

He chuckled. “It won’t impress you. Mostly I
gather information about troop movements, ship building, invasion plans. I pass it through a contact to a London operative. Usually Dewhurst, although I can’t be sure. He takes it to Wentworth, and from there to the secretary or the prime minister.”

He was right. She’d hoped for something more exciting.

“I told you,” he said over her silence. “For the most part it’s dull, much like life in London. Balls, dinner parties, the theater. Once or twice in a year something of real importance crosses my path. That doesn’t mean there isn’t any danger.”

She nodded, though he couldn’t see, and continued to fumble with the knots of his bindings.

“Anyone can betray you. The French discontents like our friend Camille give me valuable information.”

Lucia winced, remembering her behavior toward the woman. Camille had probably done more to help Lucia’s country than Lucia would do in her lifetime.

“But contacts also increase the risk of identification,” Alex said.

“Is that what happened? Why you’re not in France now?”

“Yes. I took a risk, wanted to bring the information to Pitt personally, but I was nearly apprehended. I escaped, but my informant, Henri, was caught. I didn’t know if my identity had been discovered.” He paused. “Now it’s certain. That bastard Décharné tortured Henri, forced him to reveal my name, probably Camille’s as well. Hopefully, Dewhurst will think to warn her before she returns to France.”

The ship lurched, but the rolling in Lucia’s stomach had nothing to do with the choppy water. The thought of Alex hurt, of that horrible Décharné torturing him, was more than she could bear to contem
plate. She yanked on a knot with renewed vigor. “Who is this Décharné?” she asked through teeth clenched with effort.

“An actor, believe it or not. During the Revolution, he gained power in the tribunals, and now he wants to hold on to it. My capture will solidify his place in Bonaparte’s inner circle.”

Another knot came loose, and Alex wiggled his wrists. Lucia sat back, rubbing her raw fingers, thankful for a moment’s respite.

“The question is,” Alex said, and she could hear him working his bindings. “How badly am I compromised? Wentworth’s network would have alerted us if Bonaparte’s men knew who I was, so Décharné must be keeping it quiet.”

The ship pitched again, and Lucia gripped Alex’s arm to steady herself. “Who is Wentworth? Do I know him?”

Alex chuckled. “He doesn’t move in your circle, Lucia. He’s a quiet man, gives any credit he deserves for his work in the Foreign Office to the secretary. But he is a hero in every sense of the word. He’s saved England more than once from possible invasion.” He paused. “There’s no one I respect or admire more.”

She could hear the admiration in his voice, and behind it something else—pain?

“There, I have it!”

Lucia started when Alex jumped up. She heard the rope from his bindings drop to the floor, and then he was moving around the room.

“What are you doing?”

“Searching. Maybe there’s something we can use.”

There wasn’t. For what seemed hours, Alex blindly explored every corner, but the cabin was virtually empty. Finally Alex slid down beside her,
pressing his back against the wall and, to her surprise, gathering her close to him.

Lucia snuggled gratefully into his warmth. She was exhausted but too anxious to sleep. Alex seemed to sense that she needed a distraction, something to take her mind away from worries about her brother and Décharné. He took her hands in his and kissed her bruised fingers. And then he began to talk.

They’d never really talked before. Alex was always stoic and silent when in company, and she too garrulous. But she was silent now, listening to the sound of his voice—low and resonant—in his chest. He talked of trivial things: his plans to improve Grayson Park, a problem with a servant, his favorite tree to climb as a boy. And when Lucia finally drifted into sleep, she dreamed of a dark-haired, gray-eyed boy scaling a tree to rescue a kitten.

When she awoke, she told him stories about growing up, how Francesca had never gotten into any trouble, and how John got away with everything.

When Alex laughed after the first few tales, she was encouraged and told him more. She’d never heard him laugh so much, and she wished she could see his face.

“You should laugh more often,” she said at the conclusion of a story that ended with her father banishing her, yet again, to her room for life.

“Why is that?”

“Because you sound like a different person when you laugh, young and innocent.”

“I’ll avoid it at all costs from now on.”

“Oh, yes, I forgot.” She sighed and turned in his arms. “You want to look the devil himself, and you often succeed with those black looks you give me.”

“If I give you black looks, it’s only because you deserve them.”

She sat up. “And how did I deserve them at Ethan and Francesca’s wedding? You nearly scared me to death with your stern, elderly expressions.”

“Elderly?” He chuckled. “I was—what—twenty-four?”

“I thought you were quite old and decrepit,” she lied.

“And I thought you were a brat who needed a spanking.”

“I probably did.”

“And wouldn’t I have loved to be the one to give it to you. Even then I wanted you.”

Lucia’s breath caught and her heart hammered in her chest. “I thought you didn’t notice me,” she whispered.

“That’s because you were fourteen, and ignoring you was the best way to keep my hands off you,” he murmured, lips close to her ear. “You were dangerous then.”

“And now?” she breathed, afraid to hear his answer.

His mouth met hers in the dark. It was a gentle kiss, tender, and full of checked passion. When she tried to deepen it, he pulled away.

“This is all there is now,” Lucia said. “I’ll marry Dandridge and you’ll—do what you do, and we’ll nod at each other at balls, and you’ll never touch me again.” She heard the sob in her voice and tried to swallow the tears. A year from now she’d see him leading some other girl onto a dark terrace, and she’d wonder if he kissed that girl the way he’d kissed her last night.

“It might be like that, but you might also marry a man you respect and forget about me.”

Lucia wanted to laugh. Forget Alex? That would be like forgetting she had five fingers on her hand. He was too much a part of her now.

“You don’t have to marry Dandridge, Lucia.”

“Yes, I do,” she said, pulling away from him. “I can’t cry off. If I did, my family—”

“Are you going to live your whole life trying to please your father? You never will if you’re always trying to be something you’re not.”

She gasped and sat back, stunned. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t speak, stunned by how accurately he had seen the whole situation. Her first impulse was to deny it, deny everything, but she couldn’t. All her life she’d been trying to please others. She resented it, and resented her family for forcing her into a mold she didn’t fit. But she was also afraid—afraid of the consequences of not pleasing them. Hot tears welled up, stinging her eyes, burning like the pain in her heart. Who was he to judge her?

“Lucia.” Alex touched her arm, but she jerked away. “I don’t want to see you make a mistake.”

“Oh, I think it’s far too late for that.” She could almost feel Alex flinch at her words. They both knew she was talking about him. He had hurt her, and she wanted to hurt him back. But not like this.

“Alex—” she began, reaching for him. But her arm froze, and she twisted to face the door.

“Footsteps?” she whispered.

“Yes.”

“Oh, my God, Alex.” She rose shakily to her feet.

“The ship’s docked.” He swore and was instantly on his feet, legs braced apart, ready. “Stay close to me. Do exactly as I tell you.” He moved in front of her, his body caging hers.

The footsteps paused, and a key rattled deafeningly in the lock, then a sliver of light sliced through the darkness as the door creaked open.

T
hree men crowded into the small cabin, and Lucia clutched at Alex’s back. Two of the men held pistols and another a lantern. “Don’t try anything, Selbourne,” one of the men rasped in French. “We’re armed.”

“Go ahead and kill me. They’ll be one less spy to try in Paris.” Alex’s voice was indifferent, but from the way his muscles bunched beneath her fingers, she knew he was as tense as she.

“Then we’ll just hurt you real bad.” The man chuckled. Lucia peeked at him and saw he wore a patch over his left eye. Alex yawned and spread his arms in invitation.

“Let’s just keep this simple,” the one with the raspy voice said. “Walk away from the woman, then put your hands behind your back. We’re not going to hurt her, are we, boys?”

“No, not yet,” Patch answered. All three laughed, Patch laughing the hardest.

Lucia clutched Alex’s arm tighter. Without looking at her, he murmured, “Just go along for now. I won’t let them hurt you.”

She wondered how he would prevent it if he allowed his hands to be bound again, but as they were outnumbered and unarmed, they really had no choice but to comply.

On the deck, it was dark and windy. Her hair and dress whipped about her, making it difficult to see anything at first. But when she finally got a view of the docks, she was surprised they’d anchored in an area away from the main activities. Décharné wanted secrecy, and she hoped that worked to their advantage.

Turning away from the shore, Lucia spotted the bony little man talking to several soldiers in French uniform. His gaze met hers briefly, and he gave her a malevolent grin, then motioned to Patch and Raspy and the man with the lantern to take them ashore.

She and Alex were rowed ashore and dragged to a ramshackle warehouse, empty except for a desk, several chairs, and papers strewn haphazardly about the floor.

Décharné’s men shoved Lucia and Alex into the chairs in the center of the room, ordering them to sit silently. Lucia shifted, feeling the leering eyes of the three thugs on her as they whispered together by the door.

Patch and Raspy were the worst, ogling her, smiling toothless grins, and licking their thick, chapped lips. Her skin prickled with loathing. She glanced at Alex and then stared harder. His eyelids were drooping, and his head lolled to the side. Leave it to a man to choose a time like this to take a nap!

She started to move her leg forward, waiting for the thugs to look away so she could kick him surrep
titiously, but then she saw his hands. His body was angled so his hands were hidden from Décharné’s henchmen, and he was working furiously at his bindings. Hope surged in her. Wonderful man!

She just prayed he’d be free before Décharné’s men decided to act on the ideas she saw reflected in their leers.

The sound of hoofbeats startled her, and she heard horses and what sounded like a carriage pass the warehouse, driving away from the docks. She didn’t know what that meant, but from the look in the thugs’ eyes, it wasn’t good.

“He’s gone to the palace,” Patch remarked, moving away from the door. “Can’t wait to tell the emperor.”

“Be gone at least a quarter of an hour,” Raspy said. They crept closer, and Lucia scooted back in her chair.

“That ought to be just enough time.” Patch closed the distance, and before Lucia could cry out, he grasped her arm with a grimy hand and hauled her against him. His hand locked on the back of her neck, and he pulled her face close to his. She gagged when his foul breath assaulted her, and it was several moments before she could focus again. When she did, she was looking into his eye patch.

“I told you I’d be back, didn’t I, whore?”

Her body convulsed in disgust as his hot breath and wet spittle hit her cheek. Then his mouth slammed into hers, and bile rose in her throat, thin and acidic. She tasted blood as his mouth fastened on her, cutting her lip on her teeth. Then his slobbery tongue invaded her mouth, and her entire body bucked to escape the attack. Laughing, he pushed her back, and she stumbled but was caught in a bruising hold by Raspy. His hands gripped the bodice of her dress, tearing it open, the renting
sound of the fabric echoing in the nearly empty building.

“Alex!” she screamed, unable to fight back because her hands were still bound. Then she was thrown forward and Patch had his tongue in her mouth again. Her vision dimmed, and she had to focus just to breathe.

Dizzy and disoriented, she heard a low snarl, “I would stop now if I were you.” The voice was far, far away, and dots of light were dancing before her eyes.

“And just what are you going to do about it?” Patch jeered, releasing her.

She turned her head slowly in an effort to ward off the dizziness and saw Alex. If she’d had any hope, what she saw destroyed it. Alex was still seated in the chair, his arms tied behind his back.

“Don’t worry,” Raspy said. “We’ll let you watch.”

“Difficult,” Alex said, then rose slowly, never taking his eyes from Patch. “Since you’ll be dead.” The look in his cold, gray eyes made the hair on the back of Lucia’s neck stand up. With a roar that filled the room, he hurled himself at Patch. They collided, and Patch was knocked off balance, sending both men sprawling across the floor.

Lucia fell back, struggling to keep her own balance. She was frozen with fear and confusion, and Raspy’s hand was locked on her arm. Everything was happening so fast. She just knew that somehow, miraculously, Alex’s hands were free and he was thrashing Patch brutally where his eye had once been.

Patch cried out in agony, then struck back, knocking Alex hard against the edge of the desk. Patch rose to his knees and threw himself at Alex, arms flailing wildly. Alex rolled, avoiding Patch’s beefy arms and bringing his fist up so it struck
Patch squarely in the stomach. Patch’s eyes widened, and his mouth went slack. He gurgled, then fell on his side. Lucia screamed when she saw his hand gripping a knife embedded in his abdomen.

Alex rose, turning to face Raspy. Lucia gasped at him, Alex was not even breathing hard, but his face was a mask of deadly fury. The angel of death disguised in a handsome mask.

Suddenly she was thrown aside, and Raspy reached for his pistol.

“A gun!” she managed before hitting the floor hard enough to knock the wind out of her. Struggling for breath, she clamped her eyes shut, dreading the boom of the gun’s discharge. An eternity passed. The space of one hard-fought breath, then she heard the pop and saw the flash. Screaming silently, she pulled her arms over her head, but it didn’t mute the sound of Alex’s body falling.

“Oh, my God,” she wheezed, hands tearing at her hair. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears burning them and wetting her cheeks. “Alex.”
Alex. Alex. Alex.

“Dash it! I think I’ve gotten gunpowder on my cuffs.”

Lucia’s mind stilled, and her heart faltered, then skipped.

“Thought you might need a hand, old boy.”

But it couldn’t…

She opened her eyes and, lowering her arms, saw Alex gripping one of the chairs. At his feet lay Raspy, a pool of blood spreading on the floor and soiling Alex’s boots.

She whipped her head toward the sound of his voice, was rewarded with a flash of blinding pain, but when she could focus again, she saw Lord Alfred
Dewhurst standing at the door in—what else?—full evening dress.

“How?”

Strong arms gripped her, and Alex was lifting her to her feet. “Are you hurt?”

She stared at him, then looked back at Dewhurst. She blinked. Her thoughts diverged in a thousand directions. Why wasn’t Alex dead? Where had Dewhurst come from? Had he been on the ship all along?

“Sweetheart,” Alex said, holding her tighter. “Are you all right?”

There was blood on Alex’s cheek where he’d been cut in the fight with Patch, and she longed to wipe it away, but her hands were still tied. “Alex?” she finally croaked.

He gave her a relieved look. “Are you hurt?” His hands roved over her arms, her shoulders, until he cupped her face. Then she was in his arms, and he was holding her tightly, stroking her hair, and whispering to her. A moment later, the pain in her arms lessened as they were freed, and she was sitting in one of the chairs. Through her haze, she heard Alex talking to Dewhurst. It seemed a long time later that she and Alex were alone, and Alex was kneeling in front of her, his gray eyes searching her face. He was asking her something…walking? Could she walk? Hurry. Something about hurrying.

She reached out and put her leaden arms around him. He was alive. He was whole. She could feel him, warm and solid, against her. He hoisted her into his arms, and she buried her face in his neck, the familiar smell of him enveloping her.

She closed her eyes, drifting in a swirl of muted sounds and flashing images. One moment they were in the warehouse, and she was in Alex’s arms. The
next, he was pulling her off a horse behind a small white house.

Alex spoke to a stable boy in French, and to Lucia’s dismay the boy seemed to know him well. Alex took her hand but instead of taking the path to the main entrance, he led her toward the servants’ entrance and rapped loudly on the shabby white door. There was movement within, and a large, dark-skinned woman pulled the door wide.

“
Mon Dieu!
” She put a hand to her heart. “Monsieur Homais. Come in. Come in. Hurry.”

Lucia vaguely remembered that Alex used another name here, but she couldn’t remember what it was. They were ushered into a small kitchen as the woman continued to babble in French. Lucia understood some of it, but the woman’s accent was vastly different from the elevated French of her tutors.

Alex answered the woman readily enough, motioning to the door of the kitchen. The woman made a few additional exclamations and rushed into the main part of the house.

Lucia stared after her, then turned to view her surroundings. “Where are we?”

“Madame Loinger’s. The brothel.”

So this was the kitchen of a brothel. She frowned. It didn’t look very different from any other kitchen. It was hot and cramped, and food was simmering on the stove.

Lucia heard a burst of laughter from outside the door and jumped. Alex tightened his grip on her hand. “It’s nothing. Just customers.”

Customers. Lucia stared at the door harder. Women of ill repute were just on the other side. She strained to hear but could catch only the murmur of voices and an occasional tinkle of laughter. The
kitchen door opened, bringing in the scent of cigar smoke and cheap perfume.

Through the smoky haze emerged a woman with bright red hair, bright red lips, and a red dress to match. Lucia balked. The woman’s gown was low-cut and fashionable, but she was holding a cigar between two fingers of one hand. In the other dangled a crystal glass with brown liquid.

“Christophe!” she exclaimed, coming forward and embracing Alex warmly. She kissed both his cheeks, then his lips, then his cheeks again. Lucia’s jaw clenched, not that he noticed. Alex had forgotten her and was embracing the redhead warmly. After another round of kisses, Lucia cleared her throat, and the woman turned her brown eyes, rimmed with kohl, on her.

“And who is this?” she asked Alex, waving a hand at Lucia. “No. We cannot talk here. Come upstairs.”

She took Alex’s arm and led him from the kitchen. He grabbed Lucia’s hand, and she was dragged along. She glared at him, but he was talking to the woman. The woman who
still
had her hand on his arm.

They followed the redhead to the second floor, and at the top of the landing, she directed them down a hallway wallpapered with a ghastly red and gold print. There were rooms on either side. The doors were closed, but the sounds coming from inside made Lucia blush. She lowered her head and stared pointedly at the garish carpet.

Finally the woman opened a door at the end of the corridor, and Lucia saw immediately that it was a bedroom. A chaise upholstered in red fabric took up one side and a large bed with a red covering dominated the other. Near the door was a small wardrobe, and there was a nightstand next to the bed. The wall
paper was the same red and gold as the hallway and—Lucia stumbled—huge paintings of nude women littered the walls.

She snapped her eyes to the floor again. Alex chuckled and led her to the chaise. “Sit down, sweetheart.”

“You will be safe here,” the redhead told them in heavily accented English. “This was Claudette’s room, but she left us recently so it is empty.”

Lucia kept her eyes downcast, wondering if Claudette had chosen the room’s decor, or if the interior was furnished the same throughout.

“Lucia.”

She glanced up at Alex and realized he’d been speaking to her. He knelt before her and took her face in his hands, turning her head toward the light from the candles on the bedside table.

“How are you feeling?” He sounded concerned, and she saw the worry in his gray eyes.

“Tired,” she whispered. Now that she was sitting down, the weight of the past hours pressed down on her. “I feel like all of this is a dream.”

He nodded, then rubbed his thumbs along her cheek. She closed her eyes, and he took her hand again, rising to sit next to her. Lucia glanced up, then right back down. The redhead was lounging on the bed now, and the woman was practically falling out of her dress. Lucia peeked at Alex to gauge his reaction, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Alex,” the redhead said when she had his attention. “What is the trouble this time? I saw the militia pass by. Are they looking for you?”

She took a puff from her cigar and downed the auburn liquid in her glass. Lucia blinked. She’d never seen a woman smoke before, and ladies never drank anything stronger than ratafia.

“They’re looking for us, but Freddie’s thrown them off our scent. He’ll lead them in the wrong direction, then double back. We hated to come here—”

“No, no.” The woman waved her cigar. “You are always welcome here. You will be safe. And who is this dear, shocked creature you have brought?” She gestured at Lucia with the end of her glowing cigar. “She looks as if she’s frightened to death.”

Lucia straightened, determined to appear as worldly as this woman.

“This is Lucia, Ethan’s wife’s sister.”