The Impostor (7 page)

She had succeeded. After days of anxious searching through a strange and dangerous city, she had found Sebastian, warned him of the danger encroaching and he had believed her. He had not known her, but he had believed her, and she could only pray it was enough, that what she had told him would keep him safe.

But now she had a new problem. Sebastian had no intention of leaving London, and as long as he was determined to discover the truth of the missing and dead members of Omega Group, she must remain with him. To protect him. To protect her father.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment and dropped her head into her hands, wondering what she would do. By now, her father would have discovered she was gone. No doubt he would guess, also, why and where. But what choice had she had, when she learned Sebastian was in danger? She would sooner have cut off her hand than see him come to harm.

To distract herself from the terror of her own thoughts, she looked around at her surroundings. The room Sebastian had given her was the loveliest room she had ever seen, lovelier even than Jane Cameron’s bedchamber. It was beautifully, airily furnished in shades of blue and gold, with graceful furniture carved out of dark wood and polished to a high sheen. The carpet underfoot was thick and soft; the curtains made of some heavy, luxurious material. The windows looked out into a large, quiet park below.

Tonight, for the first time, she had lived in the Earl Grenville’s world—the staggering luxury, the extravagant balls, the beautiful women. She had never seen this aspect of Sebastian’s life before.

Of course, she had known from the first he was one of the richest and most powerful men in England, but wealth and titles meant little in the midst of war. The life they had shared on the Continent had been one of hardship. They had been equals in their suffering and deprivation.

Years ago, when they had been in Spain and Portugal, she had never permitted herself to imagine his life after he returned to England. With death hovering so close to them, she had always lived in the present. Their dances had been danced around campfires beneath the star-flung skies. Their reality had been one of constant danger and bloodshed, of snatched rest and stolen moments, of long, bruising marches beneath the brutal sun.

But tonight, she had fully appreciated for the first time just how false that reality had been. This, she thought, hugging her arms to herself, was where he truly belonged, amidst the finest houses, the finest carriages, the finest things money could buy. She thought of the small cottage in Wycombe with its leaking roof and rough-hewn floor; she thought of the dirty London inn she had been occupying, the only one she could afford.

She had done the right thing, all those years ago, she thought. She was no fit wife for Sebastian Montague.

She undressed in the flickering lamplight, peeling away the borrowed dress of some coarse material the housekeeper had sent up, until she stood naked in the center of the room. As she did not expect whoever Sebastian had sent to fetch her valise would return anytime soon, she put on a dressing gown she found in the wardrobe.

For the first time in weeks, she realized how exhausted she truly was. She had been apprehensive for so long, suffered under such an agony of anxiety, feared so constantly that she was too late, she had been unable to sleep well. But Sebastian was safe and alive and well, and she had delivered her warning. She could finally rest.

It took her a moment to extinguish the unfamiliar Argand lamps. At the cottage in Wycombe they could only afford to burn simple tallow candles. When she had finally managed the task, she climbed back onto the high bed, sinking into the soft feather mattress. Her entire body seemed to relax at once.

He had held her in his arms tonight, had danced with her again, and even though he had believed her to be another woman, Tessa had missed him so much for so long that it had seemed enough.

She only hoped now he had believed the lie she’d told him.

That night, in the cocooning darkness of his bedroom, Sebastian dreamt of the Spanish sun.

It was old and familiar, more memory than dream, chaotic with blood and bright as a summer afternoon. The relentless heat never changed, nor the fear that gripped his heart with iron fingers. The smoke of the cannon burned his lungs; he could hear the screams of dying horses and dying men. And then, as a bullet ripped through his thigh and left a trail of fire in its wake, that moment of pain so blinding he thought for a second he might lose consciousness entirely.

His unit had scattered. His commanding officer was dead. Sebastian had watched him die, watched a ricocheting cannonball bounce off the ground and hit him square in the upper body. Blood had exploded through the air, flung out like skeins of scarlet thread before splattering in thick black pools.

Sebastian had cried out, reining in his horse and raising his good arm to wipe the blood and sweat from his eyes.

The fire spread, licking at the hills with tongues of flame. A boy cried softly in the tall burning grass. Sebastian clung to consciousness and Sparta’s blood-soaked reins, turning the massive warhorse back toward the river.
Good boy, good boy.
Thirst clawed at his throat. His vision trembled, faded for a moment before clearing briefly. Not far now. The cannon pounded rhythmically, and the hot sun burned the back of his neck. Sweat crawled from his skull down the collar of his wool uniform, plastering his shirt to his skin.

He could see the river just aside, but he was too weak from the loss of blood to cling on any longer. His fingers slackened on the reins, and then he was tumbling, falling into the dry grass. He was going to die, he thought, as the flames spread ever closer. He could hear men screaming as they burned.

He could only pray it would be quick. Fire was a terrible way to die.

Soft hands. Soft cool hands on his body, a voice whispering his name. A woman’s voice. A voice he knew. A voice he loved. She said his name, a tender litany that wrapped itself around his heart, as though protecting him from the fire and danger and death.

“Don’t leave me,” he said, his voice hoarse. “Please, don’t leave me.”

He opened his eyes against the sun and the flames, knowing that once again he would be unable to see the face of his rescuer.

Only this time, as he squinted against the light, he caught a glimpse of her, of golden eyes and fawn-colored hair.

It was Tessa Ryder.

He jerked awake. His heart beat so hard he thought it might burst in his chest. Disoriented, he stared up at the heavy dark velvet that draped the bed, the blank-eyed blue peacocks hand painted onto the Chinese wallpaper. Not Spain. He was home now, in England, in his St. James townhouse, as the summer rain beat a muffled tattoo against the rooftop.

He closed his eyes again, trying to recall the woman in his dreams. It was always the same woman, in all of his dreams. Of Talavera, of Badajoz, of Salamanca. He knew it was the same woman, though before tonight, he had never seen a face, could give her no name. But in the years since the war, she had been his only talisman against the nightmares that harrowed him in the darkest hours of the night.

Only, of course, his rescuer could not possibly be Tessa. He had never even met her before. He had only dreamed of her because hers was the last face he had seen before going to bed tonight.

He had only dreamed of her because she was the first woman he had desired in a very long time.

For a moment he was unable to stop himself from thinking about Tessa’s small, slender form against his. A wave of heat washed over him at the memory. And yet it had not simply been the sensation of her body beneath his own that had piqued his interest. It had been the steadiness of those amber-gold eyes as she gazed at his damaged face, the cool courage in the face of fire, the unexpected facility with a sword and a pistol.

He wasn’t entirely sure why he found the last so enticing, but he decided it really had been far too long since he had last been with a woman. He should not consider the way a woman wielded a weapon to be arousing.

Especially since he knew he could not trust her.

But he could not stop thinking about her, imagining her in the cheap, plain nightgown that had arrived in the small valise he had sent one of his footmen to fetch from the inn. Sebastian knew precisely what her nightgown looked like because he had searched the valise thoroughly before directing a chamber maid to bring it upstairs to Miss Ryder.

Unfortunately, the small, shabby piece of luggage had contained nothing of interest, nothing that could tell him more about this woman that had saved his life and lied to him tonight.

What was she doing here? What did she want from him?

He shoved the thoughts away, knowing the questions could drive him mad if he didn’t stop thinking about them. Instead, he blinked up into the darkness. How long had he managed to sleep this time? The fire burnt low in the Rumsford grate, shedding flickers of light over the lavishly appointed room so that gold and pewter winked in the strange shadows and reflected again in the tall, ornate cheval glass by his bedside. Through the silk curtains draped over the windows, he could see the streets were still dark. He glanced over at the clock ticking away on his bedside table, barely making out the hands. Half past four. He had managed to sleep for only two hours.

Though he was still exhausted and his head was pounding, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. From long and painful experience, he knew he would not be falling asleep again tonight.

Chapter Seven

It was barely seven o’clock in the morning when Sebastian climbed out of a hired carriage and climbed up the front steps of Apsley House on the southeast corner of Hyde Park.

When he reached the door, he knocked briskly. It swung open almost instantly, and he found himself staring at a stone-faced butler, who, despite being shorter by nearly a head, managed to gaze down at Sebastian over a large, imperious nose.

“Yes?” he asked, in a distinctly unencouraging tone.

“Earl Grenville to see the Duke of Wellington,” said Sebastian, trying not to grin at the butler’s hauteur.

“His Grace is not at home at the moment,” said the butler, though he sounded slightly mollified by Sebastian’s title.

“Tell His Grace it is in regards to the Omega Group,” said Sebastian. “I’ll wait here.”

The butler hesitated a moment longer, but he finally gave a nearly imperceptible nod and shut the door. A few moments later, it opened again and the butler bowed.

“His Grace says he will see you in the morning room,” he said.

Sebastian nodded and followed the butler inside. The Duke of Wellington was sitting at breakfast, and when he saw Sebastian standing in the doorway, he gestured for him to come inside.

“Grenville!” exclaimed England’s greatest hero, rising slightly to his feet. “Imagine my delight when I was told you are here to see me. Won’t you sit down and have some breakfast?”

“Thank you,” said Sebastian, who was quite hungry, having departed Montague House before he had a chance to eat. He helped himself to kippers and eggs from the buffet table before taking the seat that the duke indicated.

As he ate, he listened to Wellington’s easy stream of conversation. But Sebastian had never succumbed to the hero worship that afflicted so many other young army officers, and now he found that with age, Wellington had grown even more narrow-minded, pedantic and reactionary.

Finally, when they had both eaten their fill, Sebastian sat back and said bluntly, “Forgive me, sir, but I’m here about the Omega Group. I hoped you might have a moment to talk.”

As he had anticipated, Wellington’s mouth tightened with displeasure. The old snob had disliked the Omega Group even more than he had disliked the professional soldiers of Wycombe, though Sebastian had never been on the receiving end of Wellington’s dislike, due to the Grenville title.

“Yes,” he said. “What of it?”

As briefly as possible, Sebastian summed up what he had learned from Tessa about the disappearances of the members of the Omega Group, as well as Pierre Sevigny’s return. Wellington listened in silence.

“I would like permission to go to Abchurch Street and search through the archives there to see if I might find what Sevigny was interested in,” he concluded. “As I understand, all documents pertaining to the Omega Group are kept there?”

Wellington nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said. “Yes, very well. I would, of course, be delighted to write you a letter granting you entrance. If you will follow me, please.”

He led the way to his study, where he went to his desk and wrote a quick note before sealing it with a splash of red wax. When he handed it to Sebastian, however, he said, “You said that it was Edward Ryder’s daughter who came and warned you of Sevigny’s return?”

Sebastian nodded, looking surprised.

“Hmm,” said Wellington, studying him closely. The letter remained loosely clasped between his fingers. “Did you ever meet Miss Ryder on the Peninsula?”

“No,” said Sebastian. “I have never met Miss Ryder before.”

“I see,” said Wellington. He hesitated. “Do you not find it curious that she came to you, of all people?”

Sebastian stiffened, feeling every cell in his body going on alert. “Yes, actually,” he said slowly. “But she said her father wished to warn me.”