Shana Galen (22 page)

“Manage what?” she parried, not fooled by Camille’s act.

“Manage to make him fall in love with you,
chérie
.”

The blow hit home, but Lucia did not lower her guard. “I hardly think that’s the case.”

“Oh, I assure you it is. I have never before seen him look at a woman that way.” Though her tone was light, Lucia saw the flash of jealousy, of hurt. Noting her opponent’s vulnerability, Lucia struck back. “Is there something between you two now?”

Camille’s eyes flashed fire. The woman obviously wanted to answer yes. Wanted to flaunt an affair with Alex in front of Lucia like a victory banner. They were feelings Lucia was coming to know well.

Camille studied her, then smiled enigmatically. “What do you think?”

“I think no,” Lucia answered. “Not anymore.” Lucia lowered her defenses a little. She’d seen the sadness and hurt in her pretty brown eyes.

“Have you known Alex long?”

“Years.”

Cautiously, Lucia moved forward, perching precariously at the opposite end of the couch.

“I was born an aristocrat, like you,” Camille continued. “My family went to the guillotine, but Ethan helped me escape. I worked with him for years and then with Alex after Ethan married.”

Lucia shook her head. How many stories of death, destruction, and the blade of the guillotine was she to hear? How could she have paid so little attention
to France’s bloody revolution? How could she have cared so little? “I’m sorry about your family.” She touched Camille’s arm gently.

“Thank you.” Camille glanced at her fingers, and Lucia withdrew them.

“And I do hope that your brother is alive. I pray you will not face a similar pain. But if anyone can find him, Alex can.”

“I know.”

“You care for him a great deal, don’t you?”

Lucia frowned. “Of course. He’s my brother. My twin.”

Camille smiled thinly. “I meant Alex.”

Lucia felt heat in her cheeks. She looked down and murmured, “Oh.”

“You care for him, but you can’t understand why he won’t admit he feels the same, even though you see it in his eyes.”

Lucia glanced at Camille suspiciously. “You sound as though you speak from experience.”

Camille shrugged—a distinctly French gesture that neither confirmed nor denied. Lucia couldn’t decide if she was being helpful or inching her sword into a vulnerable piece of Lucia’s armor.

Lucia took a shaky breath. “Sometimes I do sense he feels something more than—” More than lust, she thought, but couldn’t bring herself to say it.

“Did you know his father?”

Lucia recoiled, the question throwing her off balance. “The old Marquis of Selbourne?” she stammered. “No, when he died, I was still very young.”

“And has Alex ever spoken of him?”

Lucia tried to remember, frowning because she was unsure of Camille’s battle strategy. Lucia advanced cautiously. “Not very much, no. But I know from Ethan that he squandered the Selbourne for
tune, leaving the family almost penniless when he died. Alex had to work for years to build it back up, but I don’t think it’s a topic he likes to discuss.”

“I’m sure that’s true, but with the Winterbourne fortune safely intact, Alex never had any need to worry. Ethan would have provided for him.”

Lucia shook her head. “He’d never allow charity. And I don’t think it was the financial insecurity but the rumors, the gossip, that was—” Lucia stumbled over the words.

“Humiliating?”

Lucia nodded.

Camille sat back, looking every bit the child with a juicy secret to tell. “You only know the half of it. Do you know where the money went?”

Lucia shook her head, not certain she
wanted
to know.

“Women,” Camille said. Lucia felt the first tiny prick of Camille’s weapon.

“I already know the old marquis was a rake.”

“No,
chérie
,” Camille said, leaning forward confidentially. “Alex is a rake, but his father did more than seduce the women he wanted. He ran off with three of them, leaving Lady Selbourne, Alex and Ethan’s mother, to fend for herself. Unfortunately for her, he did not stay gone. His affections were fleeting, and he soon tired of his paramours. Within the space of a few months, he would return to London and search for his next ladylove.”

A chill ran down Lucia’s spine. She could imagine the pain Alex had felt when, as a child, he’d discovered his father had left his mother for yet another of his mistresses.

The scandal alone would have been crippling, but if he’d cared for his parents at all, he must have been devastated.

As if reading her thoughts, Camille said, “Old Selbourne was the laughingstock of London. They called him Love’s Fool. Alex once told me he’d been taunted with his father’s escapades at school, and he rarely escaped the abuse. His mother certainly didn’t want him at home where he would witness his father’s follies.”

Lucia stared at her, horrified by the smug little smile she saw on Camille’s lips. She’d revealed her secret and was obviously pleased by its effect.

Lucia’s head was spinning. It all made sense now—why Alex thought any man in love a fool, why he was so afraid of love himself. He didn’t want to become like his father. Alex refused to be the source of the
ton
’s amusement. Not for her. Not for anyone. But how could she convince him that it didn’t have to be that way? He didn’t have to make a fool of himself to love her. Why couldn’t he see that?

“I understand now,” Lucia said quietly.

“Do you?” Camille arched a thin brow in triumph. “Then you must know that Alex will never marry you. He will never risk falling in love. Being called a fool. If he felt a little less for you, well, then perhaps it would not be so great a risk. But as it is…”

The proverbial knife slid cleanly into Lucia’s heart. She wondered weakly why she hadn’t seen it coming. Camille was obviously far more adept at this game than she. The woman had vanquished her effortlessly and probably thought the way open to win Alex for herself.

But Lucia tucked her white flag away. She was not such an easy victory. It was she, not Camille, who was with Alex, and that meant she still had a chance. It also meant risking her heart.

She glanced at the shield and swords behind the gloating Camille. Alex’s armor. Was her weapon—her love—strong enough to penetrate the hurt and pain he’d suffered? Did she dare try? Could she go on if she didn’t?

A
lex stared out the window of the drawing room, drapes pulled carelessly open so he could see the vendors and students going about their morning routines. Camille was gone. She’d left to make her own inquiries about Dashing, and he hadn’t really tried to dissuade her. His own efforts had failed miserably. None of his contacts had seen Dashing. It was as if the boy had simply slipped off the face of the earth.

He’d heard plenty of warnings concerning himself, however. Décharné had tracked them to Paris and ransacked his town house last night. It was only a matter of time before he discovered this apartment in the Latin Quarter as well.

Alex ran a hand through his hair. Dewhurst was meeting him in two days at the Good Patriot, and it would take at least one good day, perhaps more, to make it back to Calais.

He was running out of time and options. And how
was he to supposed to tell Lucia they were leaving Paris without her brother?

He’d considered every scenario, prowled the hallway outside her bedroom door for half the night. Part of him wanted to wake her, tell her outright, and force her to accept it. The other part wanted to put it off, wanted to play the hero a little longer.

In the end he left her alone. She’d learn the bad news soon enough. Alex scowled down at the busy streets. He needed to find her a new dress. Every time he saw her in that low-cut red gown, he wanted to rip it off her. It left almost nothing to the imagination, but it was the
almost
that he wanted to see.

Bloody hell! Why did he still want her? He spun from the window and began to pace the drawing room. He hadn’t touched her in days—three to be precise—and he still couldn’t rid her from his thoughts. His need for her wasn’t even so much physical anymore, although his body hadn’t come to terms with that yet. Lately he found he just liked being with her. He liked the way she chewed her lip, the way she said his name, the way her azure eyes darkened when she was angry or aroused.

He sighed, and his traitorous gaze strayed to her bedroom door again. Was she sleeping in there, curled up like a kitten? Or on her stomach with an arm thrown over the side of the mattress? Or perhaps on her back, hair spread beneath her head like a golden pillow?

Did she sleep in the dress or had she taken it off? With an oath, Alex paced the room again.

He was staring out the window again when he heard her door open. He tensed and didn’t turn around. God help her if she wasn’t wearing a wrap.

“Alex?” she said, the lilt of her voice raising the
hair on the back of his neck. He inclined his head to acknowledge her.

“Are we alone?” she asked. Alex almost groaned. The question set his blood pounding.

“Alex?” she said again.

“Yes.” His voice was husky as he finally turned to face her, letting the curtains fall. “We’re alone.” And God help him.

He stared at her—cheeks rosy with warmth, eyes misty from dreams, and her hair wantonly tousled. His gaze slid down her body. She was
not
wearing a wrap over the dress. He wondered if her skin was still heated from her bed.

His perusal was not having the effect he desired. Still the innocent, she was blushing prettily, but she didn’t look away. She met his hungry gaze, and he averted his eyes first.

It was either that or take her right then.

“I want to talk to you about Camille,” she said a moment later. “I don’t trust her.”

“Why is that?” He swept the curtains aside again and peered out. He should have guessed this was coming. Camille had not been exactly complimentary toward Lucia when he’d returned home last night.

“She’s in love with you, Alex.”

His hand tightened on the curtain, but he shook his head in dismissal. “It’s an infatuation. Nothing serious.”

Silence greeted his statement, and he glanced at her. Immediately he regretted his words. Not because he didn’t think they were true, but because Lucia clearly applied them to herself as well.
Is that how you think of me?
her eyes questioned him.

The momentary flash of pain he saw there almost
undid him. He wanted to tell her she was different. That her feelings meant so much more to him. The silence continued.

“Be that as it may,” Lucia said, looking away. “I don’t trust her. You told me only Dewhurst, Ethan, Wentworth, and my brother know about Madame Loinger’s.”

Alex shrugged. “I can’t fault your memory.”

“You failed to mention Camille knows about Sophie, too.”

“I didn’t realize she did…what’s your point, Lucia?” Irritation sliced through him. Jealousy was one thing, but it didn’t justify accusations of betrayal.

“She could be the traitor.”

“Dammit, Lucia.”

“Sophie told me Camille was in Calais the day before we arrived,” Lucia went on hastily.

He held out a hand. “And?”

“And maybe she’s the one who told Décharné where to find us.”

“
Why
would she do that?” He glared at her. “He’s after Camille as well.”

Lucia raised a brow. “To save herself? To gain power?”

Alex shook his head.

“I don’t know, Alex. Why does anyone betray his or her colleagues?”

He took a step forward, intent on silencing her. “Camille would never betray me.”

“Think about it, Alex.” Lucia met him in the center of the room. “She was in London the night before Décharné abducted us at your town house. Maybe she told him you were there.”

He took her by the shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. “Lucia, I’ve known Camille for years.
Don’t you think if she wanted to betray me she could have done it before now?”

“But—”

“No,” he bit out. He ran a hand through his hair, turning away from her in annoyance. “Enough.”

“She told me about your father.”

Alex froze. “What about him?” He didn’t move, didn’t look at her.

“How he treated your mother.” Lucia was right behind him now. He could feel her brush against his back. “How he made a—a fool of himself and your family.”

Her words wrapped around him like a noose. “Didn’t you know?” Cynicism dripped from his tongue. “I thought you ladies of the
ton
ate and drank scandal at Almack’s.”

Lucia winced. “I had heard rumors but nothing concrete.” She reached a hand out to him. “Alex, I’m sorry—”

He walked away from her. He didn’t want her sympathy—would have preferred scorn, derision—anything but pity. All his life, his father—alive or dead—had plagued him. He couldn’t help that he resembled his father in appearance, but Alex made certain that was the extent of the comparison.

His father fell in love a dozen times a year; Alex never loved. His father’s life was a snarled mass of romantic entanglements; Alex strove for freedom.

As a child, he had been hurt and confused by his father’s affairs and dalliances. As an adolescent, he was humiliated. The worst insult someone could hurl at him became, “You’re just like your father.” It had taken years, hard work, and determination, but Alex had proved them wrong. He’d rebuilt the Selbourne name and fortune. And though he was as
much a rake as his father had been—as many men were—he never fell in love. He’d no intention of altering that now.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Alex,” Lucia said, and he rounded on her. She held her ground. “You’re not your father. No one would dare—” She broke off, and he raised a brow.

“Call me a fool?” He sneered. She nodded.

She took a step forward, and he could smell her enticing scent of cinnamon and vanilla. Bloody hell. After all they’d been through, how did she still manage to look and smell so alluring?

“I don’t want to talk about my father.” His voice was firm but soft. “He has nothing to do with this.” His eyes flicked to her mouth—full and rosy and moist.

He hadn’t been this close to her in days. She put her hand on his arm, and the heat from her skin burned through the linen. No, he didn’t want to talk about his father. He didn’t want to think about his father or the fact that, at that moment, he couldn’t have cared less if every man, woman, and child from Aberdeen to Athens called him a fool, if only he could touch her.

He reached out, wrapping her in his arms, pulling her effortlessly against him. In his arms, she was the last puzzle piece, snapped softly and surely into place. Grasping her unbound hair, he wound the silk double around his fist, angling her head back. Her eyes stared up at him, wide, pupils dilated.

“Alex,” she began. “This is a bad idea.”

It was. Very bad. And even then he might have been able to stop it, stop himself, but her small pink tongue darted out, and she wet her lips unintentionally in anticipation.

With a groan of need, he brought her mouth to his, seeking to assuage his gnawing hunger for her. But the touch of her lips, her small sigh of pleasure, the feel of her tongue meeting his, only left him wanting more. His mouth slanted over hers again and again and still it was not enough. Not nearly enough.

He needed this. He needed to be the man he was in her arms. There was no playing of parts with Lucia. He wasn’t a spy, or a rake, or a man with too many deaths hanging over his head. He was just Alex.

His hands were lifting the hem of her dress, caressing her thigh through the paper-thin material, when he heard the sprinkle of laughter.

“I hate to interrupt,
cher
, but I have something I
know
you will want to see.”

Alex looked up to see Camille standing in the doorway, waving a paper. “I knocked,” she explained, shutting the door. “But no one answered.” She gave them a playful look. “Now I see why.”

Alex glanced from the paper to Camille’s face. Despite her light tone, he knew her well enough to see that whatever news she brought was deadly serious. As he loosened his hold on Lucia, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled.

Lucia moved out of Alex’s embrace slowly. He was staring at Camille and seemed to have almost forgotten her. Camille
would
have to interrupt the first time Alex had shown any interest in her in days. The French woman was probably congratulating herself on her timing. But Lucia was careful to mask her irritation when she turned to face Camille, and she stayed close to Alex. No matter what
he
said, she didn’t trust the woman.

“What have you found?” Alex asked Camille.

“A message.” She waved a paper to and fro, smil
ing too widely—like a dog with his bone. “From Mr. Dashing.”

“How?” Lucia jumped forward, barely restraining the urge to snatch the paper from Camille’s hand. “What does it say? Is John well? Safe?”

Camille clucked. “Patience, Lucia.” She wagged her finger. Lucia wanted to break it.

“Stop playing games,” Alex said. He held out his hand, but Camille evaded him. Holding the paper aloft, she crossed the room leisurely and sat on the couch, stationing herself in front of the crossed swords. She made a show of adjusting her cloak and gown. Lucia clenched her fists behind her back. She was on the verge of tearing the woman’s eyes out.

Finally Camille said, “It was given to me only this morning by one of my contacts.”

“What’s the date?” Alex asked.

Camille glanced at the letter, still keeping its contents to herself. “Two days ago.”

Despite her annoyance, Lucia’s knees went weak with relief, and she had to grasp Alex’s arm to keep from stumbling. John was alive. Alive and well. Only two days ago he had penned a message!

“I hope you are familiar with Shakespeare,” Camille added, sitting back on the couch cushions and making a show of pondering the letter’s contents. Lucia frowned, and beneath her hand, she felt Alex stiffen. He seemed to be tiring of Camille’s game as well.

“Why?” he said.

“Because—” Camille waved the paper again. “This appears to be a passage from one of his plays.”

Alex stomped to the couch. “Let me see.” He held out his hand, and Camille hesitated only a moment before handing him the letter. Lucia rushed to his
side, peering over his shoulder to read. It was John’s handwriting. His words and from his own hand. He was
alive
.

“Why didn’t he use the code?” Alex said, shaking the paper. “What is this supposed to mean?”

“Perhaps there’s a new code,” Camille said silkily.

“Based on Shakespeare? Middleton does most of our decoding, and Sebastian only knows the love stories. I’d believe it if this were
Romeo and Juliet
, but this…”

Love stories? Code? Lucia had been too overwhelmed to read the missive closely, but now she said, “Let me see, Alex.”

He handed her the letter and she pursed her lips as she read lines from Shakespeare’s
Julius Caesar
.

Alex raised an eyebrow when she glanced up at him. “It’s Mark Antony’s funeral speech,” she observed unnecessarily.

“Does it mean anything to you?” He sounded irritated.

She bit her lip, trying to piece the mystery together. “John loved the play,” she said slowly. “He
had to memorize this speech for school, and one year during Michelmas break he quoted it until we were all ready to murder him.”

“But why would John send this to the Foreign Office, to Middleton to be decoded?”

“I don’t know.” She pressed her lips together. From the corner of her eye, she saw Camille gloating. Lucia turned back to Alex.

“What’s special about
Julius Caesar
?” Alex said, pacing now. “It’s the story of Brutus’s fall. He’s a patriot.” He turned and paced back, his feet seemingly working in tandem with his mind. “Brutus wants to serve his country, but he’s also naïve, and Cassius is able to corrupt him.”