The Making of a Duchess (23 page)

   He stopped and whirled to face her in front of a bakery whose windows were darkened. "I'm not going to wait. That's the mistake my father made. He waited too long to get us out and then—"

   He glanced up and saw that Stover was ahead of them. "Come on." He took her arm and would have pulled her along with him, but she yanked back and stood her ground.

   "You are not your father," she said, looking directly into his eyes to see the impact of her statement.

   He scowled, but she was less intimidated by that now. "I know that."

   "Do you?"

   He glanced at Stover, and Sarah followed his gaze. Stover was waiting for them, but his foot was tapping impatiently.

   "He couldn't save your brothers, and now you feel that you have to."

   "Of course I have to save them. It's my duty."

   She grasped his arm. "No, Julien. It's not your duty. You've done all you could—more than most. If you don't stop now, you're going to find yourself on trial for treason. Right now they have nothing but a mention of a letter. We show them the letter and explain everything. Perhaps that will be the end."

   But she knew that was a lie, knew that there was more to this than Sir Northrop had told her initially.

   Stover approached now and said under his breath, "The hour is late. We should go before it gets dangerous."

   Sarah nodded but did not take her eyes from Julien's. He shook his head at her. "Do you think they need evidence to convict me? The government pays men to lie on the witness stand all the time. If they want me, they'll have me."

   His words were her worst fear, and her hopes sank. It seemed they were doomed no matter what course they took.

   "At least I can save my brother first," he whispered.

   "Don't look now," Stover murmured, "but our tree-like friend is approaching."

   Sarah could scarce turn to look before Valère pushed her behind him, thrusting her against the rough wood of the bakery. But Stalwart's man was so large that she could see him around Valère. The inhabitants of Seven Dials made way as Oak lumbered toward them. Finally he stopped in the middle of the road, hands on his hips. "The captain would like to offer you the use of his carriage."

   A sleek black carriage, as nice as any seen in Mayfair, stopped behind Oak, and the dark-skinned man turned and opened the door.

   "I don't think—" Stover began.

   "This is not a request," Oak said.

   "That's what I was afraid of," Stover muttered. "Should we make a run for it?" he said over his shoulder. Those were Sarah's thoughts exactly.

   "I think we'd better see what the captain wants." Valère gave her a furious look, as if to say that he would be halfway home if it weren't for her.

   He took her hand and led her to the carriage, keeping her close by his side. "Berkeley Square," he told the captain's coachman, then helped her up the stairs. The three of them took the seat opposite Captain Stalwart. Sarah was between the two men, but the relative safety of her position did not stop her from trembling when Oak shut the door and the carriage started on its way.

   "What is this about?" Valère was direct as usual.

   "I'm not a sentimental man," the captain said. With his hat pulled down and his collar high, only his eyes were visible. They glittered in the darkened interior, for he hadn't lit the carriage lamps. "But I find the story your lady tells interests me. Is it true?"

   Sarah's heart lifted. Could her words have made some impact?

   "Every word," Valère said.

   "How is it you are here and this brother of yours still languishes back in France?"

   "What business is that of yours?"

   Sarah flinched but refrained from apologizing for him. Valère was going to get them all killed, but at least she would be silent while he did it.

   "Do you still want passage to France?"

   "Yes, and I'm willing to pay for it."

   "Oh, you will." The captain steepled his hands. "We sail in five days. Five thousand pounds now, and five thousand on the day we sail."

   Sarah could not stop the gasp that rose up in her throat. Ten thousand pounds! That was a ridiculous amount of money. Valère would never agree.

   "Five thousand the day we sail, and seven thousand when you bring me and my brother safely home again. You see"—he spread his hands—"I don't intend for this voyage to be one-way."

   Stalwart did not speak, and for a long while there was only the sound of the wheels clattering over the cobblestones. That and her heart beating. It was so loud, Sarah feared all could hear it. Finally, Stalwart said, "I'm not certain seven thousand is enough to account for the risks you expect me to take."

   "You won't do any better. Twelve thousand is a lot of money."

   Silently, Sarah agreed. Twelve thousand pounds was more money than she thought she would ever see in a lifetime.

   Finally, the carriage slowed, but no one inside made any move to depart. Sarah sat completely still, feeling the darkness close in on her. She tried to ignore it and was thankful when the captain finally spoke.

   "The
Racer
sails in five days from the east dock. Be on board by midnight, or we leave without you."

   "Very good." Valère opened the door and climbed out, reaching in to assist Sarah.

   "And Valère?" the captain said as Sarah climbed down the steps. "Bring the blunt, or you'll be food for the sharks."

   Sarah looked back and shivered at the glint in his eye. The carriage door shut behind her, and then the captain was gone.

"Well," Stover said, downing his second brandy, "that was a successful venture."

   Julien poured him another and then refilled his own glass before taking his chair behind his desk. Sarah, who was sitting on the couch, had refused the brandy, though she looked like she needed it badly.

   "Scary as the devil," Stover said, swirling his brandy, probably to cover up the shaking of his hands, "but successful."

   "Do you think you can trust him—the captain?" Sarah asked.

   "As much as I can trust any of his kind," Julien said, leaning back. "I don't see that I have much choice."

   "I wish you didn't have to go."

   Stover crossed the room to sit beside her. "Don't worry, Mademoiselle Serafina, His Grace always returns none the worse for wear. And think how much it would mean to have Valère's brother at your wedding."

   She glanced at Julien, and he smiled tightly. There would not be a wedding, but Stover did not need to know that yet.

   "A week doesn't give me much time," Julien said. "I have documents to acquire and money to withdraw— and all without making anyone in the government suspicious." He gave Sarah a pointed look, reminding her that her task was to keep the Foreign Office from suspecting any more than they already did.

   "And I have calls to make tomorrow," she answered. "But I also want to do what I can to help you, Your Grace."

   He frowned. In his opinion, she had seen more than enough to prove to herself and to make a case for the Foreign Office that he was no spy. "I think you've done quite enough, my lady," he answered. "You have a wedding to prepare for."

   "Oh, but I want to help," she retorted with a forced smile. "I don't want there to be any secrets between us."

   Julien clenched his jaw to keep from reminding her exactly who had kept secrets in their relationship, and the moment was mercifully ended by tap on the library door.

   "Pardon the interruption, Your Grace," Grimsby said, opening the door. "Mr. Rigby is here to see you."

   Julien sighed and exchanged a look with Stover before Rigby breezed in. "Well, here you all are!" he exclaimed. "You'll never guess my news."

   "In that case, just tell us," Julien said.

   "I can't just tell you. We need champagne. Oh,
buona
sera,
signorina."
He bowed and, ever the gentleman, took her hand and kissed it.

   "Good evening, Mr. Rigby. You have news?"

   "Grimsby?" Rigby turned to the door. "Where is that champagne?"

   With a pained look, Grimsby bowed to Julien. "Would you like me to bring a bottle, Your Grace?"

   "Go ahead." Julien had learned long ago that giving Rigby his way resulted in a more peaceful evening. The butler left to fetch the bottle, and Rigby turned and stared at them accusingly. "Where were all of you tonight? I thought everyone was to attend Mrs. Southwick's musicale. Valère?" He rounded on Julien. "Your mother says you were to go to Vauxhall Gardens. Did you take Stover with you?"

Julien didn't answer, and Rigby didn't require one.

   "Because if you were going to take him, you should have asked me to go along. As it was, you missed the most exciting night of the Season. Everyone will be talking about it tomorrow."

   Stover looked dubious. "Everyone will be talking about Mrs. Southwick's musicale? Doubtful."

   "No," Rigby said. Grimsby returned with a tray, carrying the bottle of champagne and four glasses. Rigby took the bottle, popped it—spilling champagne on the carpet, Julien noticed—and poured it into the flutes. When everyone had a glass in hand, he announced, "I proposed to Miss Wimple!"

   "Oh, how wonderful!" Sarah exclaimed.

   Julien raised a brow. "Did she accept?"

   Rigby glared at him. "Of course she accepted. She practically fainted with happiness."

   "Happiness, eh?" Stover said.

   Rigby set down his glass and crossed his arms. "Yes, happiness. The woman would have eaten her left arm if it would have made me propose sooner."

   "Oh, dear," Sarah said.

   Rigby turned to her. "Well, not literally—"

   "And what precipitated this proposal?" Julien asked. "Just last week you couldn't get past her—what did he call them, Stover?"

   "Horse teeth."

   "Oh, no." Sarah shook her head.

   "I never said that," Rigby protested. "Well, maybe once. But since those words were uttered, my opinion of Miss Wimple has changed."

   "Why?" Stover asked.

   "Does something need to happen to make it change? If so, I think it's called love."

   Julien laughed. "More likely, it's called your father. What'd he threaten you with?"

   "Hmpf." Rigby shook his head. "I don't respond to threats."

   Julien did not speak, just waited, and finally Rigby broke. "All right! He promised me he'd buy me that new hunter I saw at Tatersall's the other week. You know he's going for fifty pounds."

   "So you married her to acquire a horse?" Sarah looked incredulous.

   "Not very romantic, is it?" Julien said, glad he wasn't the only one to fail in this area.

   "But," Rigby interjected, "the proposal was quite romantic. I had rose petals strewn over the terrace, and during the intermission at Mrs. Southwick's program, I led Miss Wimple—Amelia—onto the terrace, got down on one knee, and proposed." He glanced down at his breeches. "I hope these rose petal stains come out of this fabric."

   Julien rolled his eyes, and even Sarah was shaking her head. But she raised her glass anyway. "I think we should toast to your health and a long happy life together, Mr. Rigby."

   "Thank you." Rigby lifted his glass, and Julien and Stover followed reluctantly.

   They toasted Rigby's engagement, and Julien glanced at Sarah across the room. She was watching him, her expression thoughtful, and for the first time in this ordeal, he wondered what life would be like with her as his bride. He hadn't even wanted a wife, and now when he looked at her, it was difficult to imagine life without her.

   Unfortunately, it was difficult to imagine life with her. She had spied on him, thought him a traitor. She was a governess, and he was a duc. A marriage between them would never work. After he returned from France, they would have to end this farce and go their separate ways. But he was beginning to wonder if he would be able to send her away.

The next few days passed quickly. Sarah was busy preparing for a wedding that would not take place and avoiding the Foreign Office. She would have liked to have been more involved in Valère's preparations, but he was skillful at evading her and stayed locked in his library. She knew she had angered him by not following his dictates with Captain Stalwart, but she sensed this was more than petty anger. He wanted distance between them. Perhaps that was for the best. She knew their separation was inevitable.

   The benefit of Valère's locking himself in his library was that the family did not go out. Those circumstances made it simple for her to avoid Sir Northrop, and he finally resorted to sending her a letter, passed on by her maid, Katarina. As she sat in her room and read the note, she trembled. It was filled with veiled threats. Obviously, Sir Northrop's patience was at an end. Sarah wished she had someone else to go to—even The Widow, but she feared the worst had befallen the other spy. She had disappeared completely, and now Sarah worried the same might happen to her. And she knew what would happen to Valère if he was not able to find his brother.