Nothing But Deception Page 7

  Dearest Beatrice,

  Lord and Lady Wilbourne have graciously offered me the use of two seats in their theater box at the Royal Haymarket this Friday evening. Love Laughs at Locksmiths is playing—a comic opera that I am told is quite enjoyable. I plan to attend, and would like very much if you would consent to accompany me. If you are amenable, I shall send a carriage for you prior to the show.

  Veuillez agréer, Madame, l’assurance de mes sentiments distingués,

  Philippe

  Bea twirled in a circle, and just barely stifled the urge to jump for joy. He wanted to see her again! Just for herself, not anything to do with his work. She hurried over to the desk drawer where she’d stashed the first note he’d sent. Then, he’d addressed her formally. Not so now.

  Under Philippe’s note lay the more sinister, coded message the spies had used. She couldn’t wait to be rid of it. She pulled it out as well, heart thudding as she laid it side by side with the letters from Philippe. She had to be sure.

  The handwriting was not a match.

  Her smile stretched wider, and she snatched up a pen and paper to answer the charismatic Frenchman in the affirmative.

  If Alex Bainbridge found it odd that Lady Beatrice Pullington and his sister-in-law, Charity, requested a meeting with him outside the presence of his wife, he kept his thoughts to himself.

  That is, until Bea explained that no, she and Charity were not there to conspire with him about a surprise celebration of Elizabeth’s impending motherhood. Indeed, they were there to discuss a conspiracy of a very different sort. Bea told him what had happened at Vauxhall Gardens.

  “You did what?” His dark brows drew together and he stood, the massive oak desk in his study forming an imposing barrier between himself and the two women. “With Charity?”

  Bea suppressed the urge to shiver at his tone. Most often she thought of Alex Bainbridge as the duke who loved her best friend to distraction, but now his expression reminded her that to many, he was a ruthless and powerful man, feared in business and politics. “I’m truly sorry. Had I thought it anything more than a harmless adventure, I’d never have brought Charity.”

  “But you’d have gone yourself?” he demanded.

  Bea lifted her chin. If the duke sensed his prey was weak, he would eat her alive. She couldn’t allow that to happen. Instead, she summoned her sauciest look and replied, “Your Grace, the last time I checked, I do not answer to you for my own actions.”

  She held her breath. The response bordered on disrespectful, but she’d rather be defiant than dismissed.

  He sighed. “No wonder you and my wife are such close friends. All right, never mind. The important question is what we do now.”

  “Exactly.” Bea smiled.

  Alex eyed the note she’d turned over to him when she and Charity had first arrived. “I read French well enough, but I have to commend you on deciphering the hidden message here. How did you do it?”

  Bea shrugged. “It arrived under unusual circumstances, so my curiosity was naturally aroused. I surmised there had to be more than what I read on the surface. I have always loved to read and interpret poetry—this was not so different.” Bea carefully omitted the fact that her passion for poems extended to authorship…what mattered here was her ability to interpret words, not write them.

  “Poetry? Interesting.” He set down the note. “About this gathering you observed—I assume you did not recognize either man?”

  “No,” the two women answered in unison.

  “What did they look like?”

  Bea thought. “It was dark, and their clothing was nondescript—intentionally so, I would say. One was short, not much taller than me. The other, more average.”

  “Their faces?” the duke prompted. “Any detail, no matter how slight, could prove useful.”

  Bea held out her hands apologetically. “Their hats were pulled low.”

  “The shorter one had a beakish nose,” Charity put in.

  Alex perked up, glancing between Bea and Charity. “Could you draw them?”

  “I am a poet, not an artist,” Bea said—then sucked in a breath as she realized she’d just admitted to being a poet, not just an admirer of poetry.

  “I can,” Charity offered, distracting Alex and saving Bea from further explanation. “I’m no Philippe Durand, but I have a steady hand. And it will make me feel useful, instead of just dragged along. Only Bea could have interpreted that note, and my skills at French are too weak to translate exactly what transpired, but I do remember what those men looked like.”

  “Good. When you’ve sketched them out, and Beatrice has written as much of their conversation as she can recall, we will take all of this to Castlereagh.”

  “The head of the Foreign Office?” Bea worried aloud. “What if all this comes to nothing? I’ve no wish to appear a fool in front of Viscount Castlereagh. Do you know of anyone in a lower office who handles this sort of thing?”

  Alex gave an amused grunt. “This may come as a surprise to you, Bea, but I have no previous dealings in espionage. I have no idea how far this network of French spies extends, or what offices they may have infiltrated. I do, however, know Castlereagh, and have reasonable confidence that he will handle the matter appropriately. He has worked ceaselessly, particularly this past year, to bring the Congress of Vienna together and bring peace to Europe.”

  “I see, and I apologize.”

  “No matter,” Alex replied. “Ladies, I trust you understand the seriousness of this matter. Napoleon’s return has thrown all of Europe into turmoil. If this note, and this meeting you observed, are indeed related to the rogue Emperor’s campaign, we cannot afford to dally. Charity, can you complete those drawings this afternoon?”

  “Yes, absolutely,” she told him.

  “Good. I’ll have to ask a few questions, but I want you both to be prepared to meet at the Foreign Office on the morrow. Bea, you may have stumbled upon something that could affect the very future of our country.”

  Richard Durand had never been plagued by guilt. But now, more than ever, he was convinced he was doing the right thing. He tapped his foot as he awaited the messenger from London. When he’d envisioned climbing the ladder of success—or at least following Napoleon Bonaparte as he did so—Richard had never thought to spend this much time in dark alleys and dirty cafés.

  Tonight’s meeting location was in an alley behind an apothecary. Richard shifted uncomfortably at the sound of rats scuttling in the darkness, gnawing on garbage.

  But the discomfort was worth it. Just look how the armies of France had rallied at the Emperor’s return. The people held no love for Louis XVIII…where were the King’s followers now?

  He shook his head. Would Bonaparte’s charisma be enough, when his supporters were faced with a coalition army of 600,000?

  In truth, the numbers would be fewer. The Austrians and the Russians had further to travel and posed no immediate threat, though if France survived the first wave of the coalition, they would eventually have to deal with these other armies. England, Richard’s sources informed him, was offering in funds what they could not supply in trained soldiers.

  Nonetheless, the threat was grave. Louis XVIII had allowed the French army to deteriorate. Less than 60,000 soldiers had remained by the time the Emperor had returned. Many more had enlisted in the short weeks since then, but Napoleon would need a great many more men beyond the current levels to ensure success.

  Unfortunately, Richard’s plan to help him was not proceeding smoothly. There was no time for error—and yet a key informant had missed their last meeting.

  The man Richard had waited for sidled up in the darkness: André Denis—or whatever name he was using these days. Richard identified him by the cigar he kept habitually clamped in the convenient gap where two teeth had been knocked from his mouth in a long-ago fistfight.

  “What did you find out?”

  “We contacted her. She never received the summons.”

  A partial re
lief—their informant hadn’t turned against them, or been caught. Still, they’d been careless. “How is that possible?”

  André swallowed. “We believe the message, ah, went astray, though our man swears he placed it in the designated location.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It is possible he identified her garment—the note was to be pinned inside—incorrectly. But, monsieur, there is little danger. The message was not intentionally intercepted, simply misdelivered. And because it was in code, there is little chance whoever ended up with it had any idea of what they received, assuming they noticed it at all.”

  Richard was not reassured. “Loose ends are what nooses are made from—and I’ve no desire to hang.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Do you know for certain in whose hands the missive ended up?”

  “No.”

  “The plan was specific. Is there a chance the misplacement was intentional?”

  “No,” André declared. “Peters is not intelligent enough to act as a double agent.”

  Having never met the man, Richard could only take Denis’s word. As much as he hated having only secondhand knowledge, it was prudent, for now, to remain behind the scenes—a puppeteer controlling the marionettes’ actions, but ready to cut the strings—or tighten them into a noose—if need be.

  “It is essential we trace that note. Your people know who attended the salon that evening. Whose cloak was a close enough match to have been mistaken for that of our contact?”

  “That was two weeks ago,” his man protested.

  Richard gave him an icy glare. “I care not if it was two years ago. Figure it out.”

  Family dinners at the Russell home were a weekly affair, one Bea usually attended with little fanfare. But this week, it seemed everyone’s focus was on her.

  “How goes the painting?” her sister, Sarah, asked. She gestured to their mother and her other two sisters. “We are all ever so jealous.”

  “Very well. Monsieur Durand has done several sketches and hopes to begin on canvas soon. He is very…thorough.” Bea hoped the lighting was dim enough that no one would notice the telltale flush creeping up her neck.

  “Has he a studio here in town, then?” Sarah asked.

  “I don’t believe so. We chose a site on Montgrave as the painting’s setting. An old garden, ever so lovely. When Monsieur Durand begins work in earnest, I imagine most of our time will be spent there.”

  “Lady Bainbridge is in residence?” her mother asked. “Why would she choose to stay in the country during the height of the Season?”

  “Ah, no.”

  Lady Russell’s eyes bulged. “You cannot go out there alone,” she declared. “Here in town it is one thing, but—”

  Bea suppressed a sigh. “I have no intention of going to Montgrave alone.”

  Lady Russell ceased bristling, though still she sat with arched brows, awaiting an explanation.

  “I have in mind a paid companion.”

  Bea was spared the necessity of elaborating on the merits of this nonexistent good woman, for her father cleared his throat. “Beatrice, I’m not certain this is the best time to involve yourself with anyone French.”

  Bea bit her lip. Thank goodness her father was referring only to Philippe—and that he had no idea how “involved” she was in French matters far more weighty than a single kiss. If he knew of her escapade at Vauxhall, or the note she’d turned over to Alex Bainbridge, he’d likely convince her mother and sisters to move in with her—guaranteeing Bea would never again have a private moment, let alone get to know Philippe.

  She said only, “Monsieur Durand is an artiste, Father, and far removed from such political matters.”

  “Perhaps, but what of his family?”

  “His mother has passed on.” Bea shrugged. “I know little of his other relatives.”

  “An inquiry might not be without merit. These are tricky times. Already the Duke of Wellington is mustering his forces, and Parliament has committed a hefty portion of England’s coffers to defeating General Bonaparte. England’s position is clear, and it is essential that we support our country.”

  “Papa, Bea is only posing for a portrait,” Sarah pointed out.

  Bea did her best not to squirm, praying her father would not find out she was scheduled to meet with the head of the Foreign Office the very next day.

  Lord Pullington heaved a sigh. As head of a houseful of women, he was no stranger to their pleadings. “True. All I’m suggesting, Beatrice, is caution. You’ve always been a responsible girl. You’ll do the right thing.”

  Lord Henry Owen’s home in Kent was stately, but not imposing. His butler was the same. Philippe had been able to secure the nobleman’s country address with relative ease—Owen was a recluse, it seemed, but not in hiding. As to his alter ego, the elusive artist Henri Gaudet, Philippe did not yet know what to think.

  He’d gotten so caught up in his desire to paint Beatrice Pullington—not to mention his desire for that same lady—he’d neglected his original purpose in traveling to England. That is, until guilt had finally gotten the better of him. It was bad form to take a deathbed promise lightly.

  Philippe waited now in a drawing room with deep burgundy walls, whose color was nearly obscured by the many paintings and bookshelves lining the walls. A pianoforte stood in one corner, collecting dust. A comfortable room, though devoid of a woman’s touch.

  Philippe turned toward the large fireplace, lit to ward off the spring chill, then sucked in a breath at the painting hanging above the mantel.

  A pair of young lovers walking on a Paris street. Standard fare for every aspiring painter.

  Except that this was the work of a master. The couple’s features were beautifully rendered, the glow of their affection evident in each detail, down to the possessive rest of the man’s hand at the small of his lover’s back.

  Philippe studied the work, absorbed in each brushstroke, until he heard the soft pad of footfalls on thick carpet behind him. He turned.

  An older man, tall but leaning lightly on a polished cane, stood a few feet back, his gaze trained on the same spot Philippe’s had been a moment ago. Lord Owen.

  Philippe cleared his throat, nodded toward the painting. “One of yours.”

  “Mine?”

  “I’d recognize a Gaudet anywhere.”

  “Ah, I understand. As would I. Yes, that particular painting is a favorite.”

  Philippe belatedly remembered his manners. “Forgive me, my lord. I am Jean Philippe Durand.”

  “Yes.” Lord Owen nodded. “I understand you are an artiste as well. I saw mention of your arrival in the papers. I had not anticipated the opportunity to meet you, as I rarely travel to London. Although, if this situation with France worsens, it may be prudent to return to Parliament.”

  “Oui, I am an artiste. Painting is my profession, and my passion.”

  “A pleasure, then, to welcome you into my home.” The English lord adjusted his grip on his cane.

  Philippe sensed his underlying questions, but admired his restraint in not asking.

  The two men paused in silent accord, returning their gaze to the painting above the mantel. A servant entered, set a tea tray on a table, and left unobtrusively.

  Now that he was here, Philippe, too, felt no hurry to confront the deeper matters that had brought him to England. Instead he examined the remainder of the room more closely. It was well furnished, and he recognized the work of several artists, but no piece drew his eye like the one before him. He indicated it. “Are there others?”

  “No. Unfortunately, the one above the mantel is the only one I have.”

  Surprise made Philippe turn to face the older man. “You have only one of your own works? How can that be?”

  “My own?” An odd expression flickered across his features. “No, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’ve not wielded a paintbrush since I was a lad in the schoolroom.”

  Philippe took an uncertain step back, glancing once more at the Gaudet
hanging above the hearth. Had all this been for naught? Disappointment flooded him. “I am sorry. My mother told me…but perhaps she was mistaken. Her last months were not kind to her body or mind.”

  The old man’s keen blue stare fixed on him. “Who is your mother?”

  “Solange Durand. Her maiden name was La-Claire.”

  “Solange.” Lord Owen breathed the word, almost reverently, as a visible change overcame him, and he moved unsteadily for a large chair at the edge of the carpet.

  Philippe’s spine prickled. “You knew her.”

  “Oh, yes.” The man paused, lowered himself into his seat. “Yes, I knew her. Your mother was the only woman I ever truly loved.”

  Philippe swallowed. How did one respond to such a declaration?

  The older man nodded. “I wondered, of course, what would bring a well-known artiste such as yourself to my remote home. Now I begin to understand.”

  “I fear I cannot say the same.” Why, after thirty years, would his mother suddenly find it so crucial for him to meet this man—so crucial she would concoct a lie connecting him to Gaudet? How many lies had there been? What had she hoped to accomplish? A happy or tearful reunion? But one could not reunite two people who had never met.

  “I know what you’re thinking.” Lord Owen spoke. “If I so loved your mother, why did I not remain with her?” He shook his head. “I have no good reason, beyond the foolishness of youth.” Pain, regret, thickened his voice.

  Philippe moved awkwardly to a chair across from the one Lord Owen occupied. “You owe me no explanation.”

  “Perhaps I do.” Lord Owen studied him intently. “I am old, but not yet blind. I see the blueness of your eyes gazing back at me. That and the fact Solange sent you here…it is enough.”

  He tipped back his head to rest against the chair and closed his eyes. “Oh, Solange.” It was a cry, rendered from somewhere deep and painful.

  Philippe sat in silence, allowing the man whatever time he needed. Finally Lord Owen opened his eyes and leaned forward. “You are my son, are you not?”

  “Oui, my lord. I believe I am,” he answered quietly. “I did not know either, until shortly before my mother’s death.”