Page 8 of The Worst Spy in London (The Luckiest With Love #2)

A nnette sighed. “It is a common enough story. We all did whatever we had to for survival. My mother came here with her wedding ring, one necklace, me, and the clothes on our backs.” Her mother refused to talk about the causes of the Revolution, nor how the baron had been targeted by his tenants.

After years of thinking it over, Annette decided she didn’t want to know her family’s history.

It had been wiped away by blood, and now she was an English girl with a job in London.

As the Reign of Terror had reached every corner of France, so did the spread of violence. While it had started with executing the aristocracy, it soon spread to every layer of society until the butcher feared the baker, and even Robespierre himself was guillotined by his former compatriots.

Damaris shook her head. “I’m sorry, I know that. I heard the Duchess of Westbrook’s cook was a chevalier with his own demesne over a score years ago.” She hesitated. “I’m so sorry you went through that at such a young age. If…if you ever wish to speak on it, I am willing to listen.”

Annette managed a wan smile of appreciation.

“Back to the matter of import. My family is aristocratic, and they all hate Napoleon for declaring himself the Emperor when we all know who is the rightful king of France. So if my cousin is stirring up trouble, it would be in the name of the Bourbons, not Napoleon.”

Damaris’s gloved fingers skated over the loose papers.

“Annette.” Her voice came sharper than she’d ever heard.

“I think he’s building a hand grenade.” She picked up two letters written in French.

“Those are instructions for a grenade, correct?” Hand grenades had once been popular on the battlefield, and both women had seen paintings of them at a museum.

Annette took the page with a shaking hand. “It is,” she confirmed. “He must be corresponding with someone. Surely he’s not spying alone.” She held up another piece of paper, which had Napoleonic propaganda scrawled across it with watery ink.

Damaris glanced around the room. “Your cousin is the worst spy in London,” she remarked. “Look how easily we discovered this.”

“A grenade…at the ball tonight?” Annette glanced over the other letter.

“Right here is the direction for the Westbrook townhouse in Mayfair. As well as notes on the servant livery and people who might attend.” She glanced up at Damaris.

“But England is fighting against Napoleon. Why would he threaten his allies?”

Damaris leaned in, their foreheads touching as she glanced over the list. Then she pointed. “The diplomat from Russia. Napoleon and Russia currently share an alliance. Perhaps he wishes to target any Russians attending the ball?”

“To destabilize the alliance? Blame Napoleon for the attack, so it seems like the French have betrayed them?” Annette rubbed a temple, thinking it through. “I suppose it makes sense.”

“We need to tell someone.” Damaris took the letters out of Annette’s hands and set them back exactly how she’d found them. “Perhaps the duke?”

Annette laughed. “We’d never see him. We’d be lucky if we spoke with the butler.”

“A grenade going off at a ball means we have to try,” Damaris said.

Annette nodded. “Let’s go, then. We only have a few hours.”

Once back in the coach, Damaris glanced at Annette sitting across from her. The rolled-up pamphlet of erotic imagery filled her reticule, poking at her hip through all the fabric. The terribly drawn images sprung to her mind. She’d be thinking about those for weeks.

Curiosity dug its claws in Damaris, and she opened her mouth. Then shut it. Too inappropriate. Keep your questions to yourself. But perhaps if I ask it in a delicate way… She opened her mouth again, then shook her head and snapped her mouth shut and glanced at the floor.

“What?” The amusement lacing Annette’s tone made Damaris glance at her. “Do you have something to say?”

Damaris hesitated, then it all came out in a rush. “The women—in the pamphlet. And the bad painting. I—I’d never thought, never imagined women could do those things.” She blushed. “I know I’m sheltered. I just…you did not look surprised.”

Annette’s expression grew serious, though Damaris thought she could spy a smile lurking in one corner of her red mouth. “No, I was not surprised.”

“Because you’ve seen these images before,” Damaris hazarded.

Annette nodded slowly. “Partially.”

Damaris blew out a breath through her teeth, wondering how far she could push before she offended her new friend. “Because…of other reasons?” Her heartbeat pounded in her ears.

Laughter danced in Annette’s eyes. “Perhaps. What are you asking?”

No, Damaris couldn’t outright ask that question. She tried another method, her hands close to trembling for some strange reason. “How…how common do you think these thoughts and feelings are in women?”

Annette shrugged. “I know not. I can say I’ve known several women who preferred the company of their own sex rather than men.”

Damaris nodded, mind reeling. The thought of kissing a woman didn’t seem distasteful. Life with a woman, rather than marriage with a man, didn’t make her cringe. Maybe…maybe that explained all the odd feelings in her body when she was at the finishing school and saw a pretty girl.

“Ask,” Annette dared.

Damaris flinched. “Hmm?”

“Ask me. I can see it on your face—you’ll die of curiosity if you do not.”

Damaris wetted her lips with her tongue, using it as an extra beat to form the question. She took a breath. Ignored the slippery feeling twisting through her stomach. “Are you… have you…ever, erm, acted in ways like the women in the drawings?”

Annette wasn’t even trying to hide her amusement now. She grinned. “Yes, yes I have.”

Damaris gawked at her. “Is it…pleasurable?”

Annette chuckled. “I certainly think so. I don’t tell many people, for obvious reasons, but yes, there are plenty of women like myself, who enjoy the intimate embrace of another woman.”

Damaris’s cheeks heated for some reason. “Oh…that’s lovely. Well done, you.”

Annette was laughing at her now. Drat, why did she always have to be so awkward? “Thank you,” Annette said seriously, though mirth shone from her eyes.

Drat, she was making a hash of it.

“If my parents—” The words came out before she could finish even thinking the thought.

“Yes?”

“If my parents weren’t so set upon using my marriage to raise their social standing, perhaps I’d have time to explore that, too.”

Annette sighed. “They are quite serious about it, aren’t they?”

Damaris grimaced and nodded as the coach rolled through the bumpy London streets.

“I don’t understand why, though. My father is a well-respected solicitor.

Perhaps the most prestigious solicitor in London.

We traveled to Bath and Brighton last year on holidays, so I know his financial situation is strong.

” She blushed, realizing she was talking about money matters with someone outside the family.

“Being a solicitor is a trade. He can’t become a barrister—that’s a vocation for gentlemen, and he’s too old to begin a new career anyway.

But my parents always aim high, seeking greater acclaim and reputation.

“We’ll never be part of the ton . Not while my father prepares their legal documents.

” Damaris shrugged to hide her frustration.

“My mother almost bagged a baronet’s third son for me, but that failed.

I know I’m lucky to be invited to these private balls, but they’re never enjoyable to me.

Perhaps if I could focus on the dancing rather than looking for a man, I’d relax and like them much more.

I wasn’t heartbroken when I was jilted,” she added suddenly, as if that was important for Annette to know. For some reason.

Annette’s eyes flickered with emotion.

“What about you?” Damaris asked, embarrassed she’d shared this much.

Annette cleared her throat delicately. “My mother said she doesn’t expect me to marry.

She can be very strict, sometimes harsh.

But I know that’s because she went through some difficult experiences.

She was the daughter of a chevalier, used to living a life of luxury.

The only thing she was expected to do was have babies.

Then everything happened, and she had to rebuild our lives.

She sewed all hours for years to keep us from starving.

And I’m grateful to her for it.” Annette paused, thinking.

“She’s not a warm, demonstrative mother by any measure.

But she knows I prefer women, and she has never castigated me over it.

In fact, she said it was better that way because she didn’t create this modiste shop to hand over to my future husband.

She wants it to be my inheritance, so if I never marry, all the better. ”

Damaris nodded. “You and your mother have led fascinating lives.”

Annette blushed. “Oh, I’m not sure about that.”

Before Damaris could ask another question, the coach ground to a halt. This time she waited for Beecham to climb down and open the door.

“Miss Dunham,” he began. “It’s nearly the fashionable hour. Your mother is almost certainly awake and wondering where you went.”

“I promise we’ll be quick,” Damaris said, slipping out of the coach and past the man. “We’re just delivering this message and then we’ll be done.” She stepped out of the way so Annette could follow her.

“Perhaps I could deliver the message,” the poor coachman offered. “You two can wait here in the coach and I’ll speak with the butler.”

Damaris shook her head. “We’re out now,” she pointed. Then she linked arms with Annette. “Come, let’s hasten.”

But it did not go well. Damaris hadn’t been able to argue her way past a very tall, very supercilious footman, and they had eventually returned to the coach, dejected.

“May I return Miss Morand back to her shop and you home?” Beecham asked eagerly.

Damaris glanced at Annette for answers.

“Should we try Bow Street Runners?” Annette asked.

She brightened. “Excellent suggestion.”

“You should do the talking,” Annette prodded, unusually quiet. At Damaris’s questioning glance, she added, “I’m French. I’d rather not be dragged into this more than I already am.”

Damaris nodded briskly, pretending confidence she didn’t feel.

Now that they’d left the upstairs room and the scent of gunpowder had faded, she began to feel a bit silly about the whole thing.

Did they really believe Annette’s cousin was a provocateur and spy, sent to drive a wedge between Napoleon and his Russian allies?

It made the most sense out of everything, unfortunately. Damaris had heard her own father say that the alliance between Napoleon and the Russians could end the war in Napoleon’s favor. But at the same time, Napoleon didn’t share power well, and it could all come crashing down around his ears.

Damaris relayed the new instructions to Beecham, who merely sighed, shut the carriage door, and climbed back into the box.