Racing with the Wind (Agents of the Crown) Page 15
Hugh’s eyes flashed just for a second. “I was aware you were visiting the gallery and I happened to be near when I heard the shots.”
Mary thought that too great a coincidence. “Were you following me?”
“Let’s just say I was concerned about your destination today. As I mentioned, that district is not safe.”
“You were following me!”
“Get used to it,” he insisted in a harsh voice. It was a final pronouncement, allowing no debate. If she hadn’t been so angry, she might have been thrilled at his caring for her.
He took her hand, regret in his eyes. “Mary…”
His voice was a whisper, and she had the impression he wanted to say more. A great tenderness swept over her and she did not pull away. His warmth and strength were comforting, and she had to admit she had been shaken by the disaster in the street. It was all she could do to resist the overwhelming desire to crawl into his lap and revel in his warmth. But fear held her back, fear of what it might mean if she gave in to her desire for him.
In a calmer voice he said, “Promise me you will not go there again.”
She could see he was genuinely concerned, and she had no desire to return to the gallery. For that reason, she gave him what he wanted. “I promise.”
The carriage moved on, eventually returning to the central part of the city and following the river Seine. When the vehicle finally stopped, Mary was surprised to see Luxembourg Palace, a massive chateau with wings on each side of a central building.
“Why have you brought me here?” Mary asked after Hugh got out, helped her down and instructed the driver to wait.
“There is a place on the other side of the palace I sometimes come when I want to be alone to think. It’s a very special place and…I thought you would find it calming after what you have just been through.”
She didn’t know what to say to that, so they walked in silence on the wide dirt path leading around the right side of the palace. The only sounds were from Mary’s shoes and Hugh’s boots on the hard-packed earth. At last he took her hand and led her into what appeared to be a grove of trees. His grip was warm and comforting.
Off the path, she could see ahead a long rectangular pool of dark green water and a tall stone fountain at the far end. They were in a grotto. She could hear water falling and birds in the trees. Her eyes traveled the length of the rectangular reflecting pond to the large stone at the other end, not recognizing the carved images except to note one was a coat of arms. The trees lined both sides of the pond. The sun had emerged from the clouds and filtered through the leaves, casting a soft glow of green around them. It was very peaceful, like a place out of a fairy tale. A fountain with two streams of water and a white marble statue graced a niche of the grotto. The running water made a gurgling sound.
“It’s so…beautiful. I was not aware this place existed.”
“The fountain was built nearly two hundred years ago by Marie de Medici, the Italian mother of King Louis XIII. I think she must have been missing her home in Florence when she had it designed.”
“What is the statue?”
“It’s supposed to be Venus in her bath.”
“Oh.” Mary looked closely at the white marble form in the distance, imagining it to be the goddess. The sound of water flowing over the stone blended with the chirping of the birds, and she felt calm enveloping her. “It is peaceful here, restful.”
“Napoleon restored it after the Revolution. We can give him credit for that.”
Mary nodded. “He did some good—at least for Paris.” Her mind conjured up Notre Dame once again.
Hugh had a faraway look, too. “I used to come here to think…about my brother.”
“Your brother?” Mary had never heard Hugh Redgrave had a brother.
“I was eight when he was born. I had been the single child in the family for many years. I doted on him, and I allowed him to see me as a hero. I guess I wanted to be one. His, at least.” A boyish smile crossed his face.
“He was just a younger version of me.” Hugh shrugged. “Whenever I was home, we were inseparable, he was my shadow. I suppose it wasn’t surprising he came to share my passion for horses. I taught him to ride.” He paused, an expression of pain crossing his face. For a moment Mary thought he would be unable to go on.
“I was away from our family estate one day and Henry decided to ride my stallion, a horse much like your Midnight. It was foolish of him, but no one was around that afternoon to stop him. Likely he planned it that way. Anyway, he took my horse. How he…” Hugh paused again before continuing. “He must have been riding him too fast. The men who found him believed he was pulled from the saddle by a low-hanging branch. He was killed in the fall. A broken neck. I arrived home just as they were carrying his body back.”
His expression broke Mary’s heart. She had always thought his eyes masked something deep in his soul. Now she knew it was pain. “I am so sorry, Hugh. But it was not your fault. You could not have known.”
Hugh sighed. “Perhaps not, but I encouraged him. His death drove me away from my family for many years and into the service of the Crown. For a while I cared little for anything, even my own life. I was willing to take any assignment. It is very hypocritical of me to accuse you of being reckless; few have ever been more reckless than I was in those days. But in France I found myself again. And I found purpose. It was like coming back to life.”
Mary was silent. He’d explained so much and yet still she was left wondering. One thing was certain, however. Hugh Redgrave, the Marquess of Ormond, was more than a rake. Much more.
He stepped close. “Mary, I’m sorry if I was rough with you. It’s just that when I saw you on the ground it made me think of Henry. And when I heard the shots…well, it…” He closed his eyes, unable to go on.
She cupped his cheek with her hand. “It’s all right. I’m glad you found me.”
He opened his eyes. They were obsidian pools reflecting only pain, and while she was suddenly aware of how close he was, she wanted him closer. Without thinking, she leaned toward him and rested her head on his chest. It felt so right, like this was the place she was meant to be.
He wrapped his arms around her but spoke not a word. A moment later, he pulled back and she looked up, their eyes locking. Mary knew her expression gave away everything she was thinking, everything she was feeling. She wanted to comfort him, but more, she wanted to love him. And she wanted him to love her.
Hugh lifted her chin with his finger and brought his lips to hers. Gently he kissed her, as if she were the most precious thing in the world. But the kiss was gentle only for a moment. He soon parted her lips with his tongue and his hands pulled her hips tightly to his. He had taught her how to kiss, how to want his body close. She could feel the hard ridge of his arousal. Her tongue tangled with his as her fingers tangled in his hair. She couldn’t hear the birds any longer, only the sounds of their breathing.
Hugh broke the kiss, and without a word he took her hand and led her around the grotto. Confused and aching for more, she searched for something to say, anything to break the silence. “Wasn’t this the place where Michael Ney was executed by a firing squad?” She realized it sounded a bit absurd given what they’d been doing.
He chuckled. “Only you would remember such a fact.” His thumb stroked the back of her hand, a lover’s caress. “The answer is yes—and no. It was not here in the grotto but on the grounds in front of the Palace.”
“It seems a terrible deed to occur in such a lovely setting.”
“Yes, it was, but I don’t think about that when I’m here.”
“Do you come here often?”
“No, but when I do, it seems to restore me. I guess that is why I thought of it today…and I wanted to share it with you.”
She considered the man holding her hand. Strong and silent at times, deeply passionate at others. Always sensual. He was an enigma, but God, how she could love him.
It seemed, as it had before, that he f
ought for control whenever they kissed. She knew if they persisted it would lead to a place she was not ready to go, though her body yearned for a joining with his. She supposed she should be grateful for his not taking advantage of the passion between them. More the gentleman, he.
“Thank you for sharing this with me, Hugh, and for telling me about your brother.”
* * *
The ride home was silent, though he did not let go of her hand. When he dropped her off at her uncle’s apartments, she curled up in front of the fireplace with a cup of tea to think. There was indeed much going on in Paris. Somehow both Hugh and Decazes were involved. And what of her uncle? There were too many pieces of the puzzle missing. And around it all swirled the growing passion between her and Hugh.
The next afternoon, Mary was sitting in the parlor when her uncle’s butler Pierre announced the vicomte. The French nobleman’s left arm was in a sling, the white fabric prominent over his dark blue jacket.
She frowned in concern. “How is your arm?”
He grinned. “I’ll live. It’s only a flesh wound, more embarrassing than painful. I am so sorry Lady Mary that—”
“Come,” she interrupted, “sit down and I’ll order some of your wonderful French coffee for us.” Then she called the servants and did just that, requesting both coffee and pastries. As they took seats in front of the fireplace she inquired, “How is Theresa?”
“Shaken, but she seemed fine by the time we arrived at my town house. She was mumbling something about Paris being safer under Napoleon—probably a hysterical reaction to seeing blood spilled. My coachman took her home.”
The coffee and pastries arrived. Mary peered at Decazes over her cup and asked, “Does that happen often? The violence in the streets, I mean.”
“More often than I would like. The streets of Paris still present opportunities for those whose ambitions would see them control France.” His face reflected worry. “But it is getting better, Lady Mary. The city will one day return to a calm and tranquil place.”
Mary did not share his certainty, but being in the center of history appealed more than violence repelled her, so she smiled and took a swallow of coffee. “Well, it certainly made for an exciting afternoon.”
Decazes chuckled. “I admire your courage, Lady Mary. You are taking all this in stride, and that tells me you are not the meek sort.”
Suppressing a laugh she said, “No, I’ve never been accused of being meek.”
After a few moments of pleasant conversation, Mary made a decision. As long as they were alone, she might ask about his work. With all that she’d observed, she knew he was involved in something surreptitious. Perhaps he was a spy for some government…but which one? It seemed unlikely that he would tell her all but she might learn something that would explain what was going on. At least, so she hoped. It was clear that he had a fondness for her.
“Tell me what consumes your time here in Paris, Vicomte. Tell me all you are doing.”
Over the next hour, he told her details of his work with the new government and his brother the comte. He seemed proud of his contributions, working hard to instill new reforms that would, as his brother put it, “royalize France and nationalize the monarchy.” Decazes did not talk of other assignments, however, and Mary found herself getting impatient. What he had shared had been interesting but it was also all above board. She wanted to know the rest.
“Have you many dealings with the Prussians? I see them at the Tuileries each evening, and they seem a strong presence in Paris.”
He seemed surprised. “Well, they have troops still in the city, of course. You must know that no Frenchman particularly likes the Prussians, however. There has been bad blood between us since the clash in Berlin years ago. Their desire to annex Saxony was a particular annoyance to King Louis.”
So he didn’t think much of the Prussians. Then why was he passing them information? It was all so confusing.
As his expression grew pensive, Mary poured them more coffee. “Is there something wrong?”
“No,” he said, “I was just thinking of our visit to the cathedral the other day. I think I lost something there.”
Her heart stopped, but she kept her face blank. “What?”
“Oh, just some notes to myself. Did you happen to see them?”
“No, I was looking up the whole time at the windows and arches. I only looked down when we went to leave, when I realized I dropped my glove.” She forced herself to laugh, trying to convey how silly she’d been.
Decazes examined her over the rim of his cup. “Lady Mary, will you be free this Saturday evening?”
That was three days away. Her uncle would be back, which meant she would have the added benefit of his advice if anything difficult developed. And there was always Hugh. “Why, yes, I think so. There is no affair scheduled that evening, at least not that I have heard.”
“I was thinking you might like to go to dinner and the theater. Have you ever been to La Tour d’Argent—The Tower of Silver, near the cathedral? It’s my favorite restaurant, and they serve wonderful veal.”
Well, what he offered was yet another chance to get closer to him and to discern where his loyalties truly lay. Then, too, she legitimately liked Decazes. If he wasn’t a spy and a traitor, they might be good friends. For that reason, she answered in the affirmative.
Chapter 16
Martin Powell gazed across the desk at Hugh Redgrave, watching him read the missive. It reminded him of something he had once heard: A country can make a man. That was certainly true in Ormond’s case. A country had molded the man. His duties in France had changed him, required things of him, and after each conflict a different man moved forward. Like a rock being weathered by tides and rain, Ormond had been shaped by war. No, not all of Britain’s heroes in the war with France were celebrated. Some had served in secret. Ormond was one of those, a man of stealth and strategy. As long as Napoleon had remained in France, the British lord remained the thief of the emperor’s secrets. Ormond and Martin had survived many narrow escapes and worn many costumes. Along the way, they had become friends.
Martin’s Paris office was not large, though it was all he needed. It had a good-sized wooden desk, now covered with maps and papers piled in neat stacks. A few bookcases held various government documents and records, and a large black safe stood in one corner. He and Ormond often retreated here to think and to plan just as they did this night.
Ormond looked up from the paper. “What does all this tell you?”
“You will find the story amazing, my friend.” Martin reached into the bottom drawer of his desk to pull out the French brandy he kept there. He poured the amber liquid into two glasses he took from a shelf and handed one to Hugh. “It seems we are not yet finished with those who resent the Bourbons. We’ve identified some Napoleon supporters who want to return the Nightmare of Europe from yet another of his exiles. Now of course it is St. Helena. From what we’ve uncovered, they are willing to undertake drastic measures to see it done.”
Ormond sighed. “We’ve been down this path before.” He took a big swallow of brandy. “What kind of people would join such a group?”
Martin almost laughed, grim though the answer was. “Napoleon’s former soldiers, his officers now on half pay, government workers ousted by the ultra-royalist Chamber, enemies of the monarchy, liberals objecting to the revenge of the ultras… The list is a long one, I’m afraid.”
Ormond grimaced. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. The king will face treachery for years to come.”
“Louis is a wise leader, one who can weather the storm.”
“But he is an old one. I wonder if he will be able to deal with opposition like this.”
Martin tried to bolster his friend’s spirits. “The men he has attracted to his government—men like Decazes and Richelieu—will bring stability. It gives me hope, Ormond. England will one day benefit from the friendship it offered Louis when he was in exile. You shall see.”
Ormond
gazed into the distance. “I hope you are right. France needs a stable government. Hell, Europe needs one.”
Martin nodded. Leaning back in his chair, he put his hands behind his head just as his eyes caught some papers upon his desk. They reminded him: “Oh, there is something else I wanted you to see. It adds a strange footnote to our concern about Napoleon’s friends lurking in the wings, a rather bizarre connection to our own English poet, Lord Byron.”
“What?” Ormond said.
Martin nodded. “I know it sounds strange, but when the dethroned ruler escaped from Elba, Byron admitted he was dazzled. Now the poet is stirring the fires of revolt with poems extolling Boney’s virtues.” He picked up a sheet and began to read.
“‘Farewell to thee, France! but when Liberty rallies
Once more in thy regions, remember me then
The Violet still grows in the depth of thy valleys
Though withered, thy tears will unfold it again
Yet – yet – I may baffle the hosts that surround us
And yet may thy heart leap awake to my voice
There are links which must break in the chain that has bound us,
Then turn thee and call on the Chief of thy choice!’”
Martin finished reading and shook his head. “Think of it! ‘The Chief of thy choice’? Is it any wonder Napoleon’s supporters are inspired?”
“Just what we need.” Ormond grimaced. “A poet urging a return to insanity. I had hoped, perhaps unreasonably, that Napoleon was finally gone from the hearts of the French. The king will not be able to bring all the factions into the fold. Not if such treachery succeeds.”
“It bears watching, certainly.”
Ormond took another drink as Martin stared at the brandy he swirled in his glass. “I’ve had my hands full dealing with information coming from the new government and watching Lord Baynes’s niece, who has become a major project, so I’ve lost track. Have you uncovered anything involving the Prussians?”
Martin raked his hand through his hair as he considered the question. “There have been Prussians in the mix at the meetings of Napoleon supporters we’ve infiltrated, but for what purpose we do not yet know. They have never been fond of the French, so it seems a strange alliance.”