Chapter Nine
D espite his assertion, the marquess seemed in no hurry to make any clandestine forays to further their efforts. Indeed, to Valencia, the next few days passed in a dizzying whirl of mundane activity. Bonnets, gloves, silks, lace—the shopping seemed endless, as did the stream of invitations from the hostesses of the haute monde .
Between the two, Valencia barely saw Lynsley, save for a briefing at breakfast to go over the daily schedule. His ministry talks had started in earnest, leaving him little time for strategy sessions with her.
Damn . If the dratted man thought to leave her stranded in the opulent salons while he seized the chances to learn more about their quarry, he was in for a rude awakening.
After returning home from an evening concert at the residence of Madame. De Vergennes, Valencia found her mood growing more discordant by the moment. Lynsley had once again announced that he was engaged to dine with the gentlemen from the Ministry, and while she had no real reason to doubt his word, she couldn’t help wondering whether he was leaving her in the dark.
Turning her gaze from the night sky, she tightened the sash of her wrapper and moved away from the window. The clock on the mantel showed it close to midnight. Tomorrow evening they were due to meet Rochambert face to face. Surely Lynsley would want to discuss their plan of attack.
And yet, he had passed by her door a half hour earlier without so much as slowing his step. Tiptoeing closer to the door connecting their suites, Valencia listened for any sound. If she heard a snore, she just might burst in and shake him out of his comfortable slumber. Her own nerves were so on edge that sleep seemed impossible.
“Ahem.” A soft cough and the clink of glass announced that the marquess was still up.
Valencia hesitated for a moment, then snapped the brass latch open. To hell with waiting and wondering. Lynsley had no right to treat her as if she were not an equal in this mission.
“Any new information I should know?” she asked, masking her misgivings with a brusque question.
Lynsley looked up from his notes. He, too, was dressed in naught but a silk robe, his bare feet stretched out to the banked embers of the bedchamber fire. “None to speak of,” he answered. He lifted his brandy glass to his lips. “If you are having trouble sleeping, feel free to help yourself to a drink.” There was a tray of decanters on a sideboard by his chair. “The sherry is excellent, but you may find the armagnac a bit strong for your taste.”
“I’ve owned a tavern for a number of years, sir.” She marched straight for the spirits, refusing to retreat in the face of his icy calm. Did nothing ruffle the man’s composure? He was always so cool, so collected.
While she, with her limping step and prickly moods, always felt so awkward, so unsure in front of him.
“Trust me,” she added. “I can drink any man under the table.”
“No need to prove it tonight,” he answered. Both his voice and his expression remained perfectly neutral. “We both must keep a clear head for tomorrow.”
“As to that, sir.” Valencia paused beside his chair, fighting to keep her smoldering anger from flaring into flames. “Don’t you think we ought to be discussing our strategy for confronting Rochambert?”
“Actually, the last thing I want is to confront the man at this point.”
“Then what have you in mind?” she demanded.
Lynsley shrugged. “If I think of anything specific, you will be the first to know. Otherwise we will just have to play it by ear.”
She bit her lip, wondering if he was holding something back. Not that she had any hope of forcing him into a verbal slip. When it came to dueling with words, the marquess was the master.
Still, the idea that he was toying with her piqued her pride. “I trust . . .” Seeing the back of his collar was twisted, she reached out to smooth the fabric. Her fingers slid lightly over the folds, tangling with the curling strands of his hair.
The sudden sensation—a tantalizing tickle of silk on silk—sent a strange tingling through her.
“Lud, your muscles are tied in knots,” she said, feeling him tense beneath her hand. Without really thinking, she began to massage the back of his neck.
“The meeting went on for hours.” His voice took on a sharper edge. “I will unwind in a moment.”
“Sit still and lean forward,” she ordered, drawing her hands out from the ridge of his spine. The sloping stretch of his shoulders was broader than she had imagined, and the contours more chiseled. Intrigued, she deepened her touch, exploring the subtleties of his shape. “Try to relax.”
Valencia heard his breath rasp in and out. Increasing the tempo of her strokes, she worked her fingertips in slow, circling paths. Beneath the silk dressing gown, she could feel the warmth of his body and sculpted strength of the slabbed muscle.
Her pulse began to quicken. There was something acutely intimate about his closeness, and the faint thud of his heartbeat against her palms. She leaned a bit closer, inhaling the subtle spice of Madame Aix’s cologne mingled with his own male scent.
“That’s enough,” he growled, shifting abruptly and trying to brush off her touch.
“Lud, why are you so snappish tonight, Thomas?” She deliberately used his given name, the first time she had done so in private. After all, she was no longer a young fledgling, in awe of her superior. “You are acting like a bear with a thorn in his arse.”
Swearing softly, Lynsley shifted the papers in his lap.
Good Lord, was that a telltale twitch?
Was it possible that the stone-faced Lord Lynsley was not impervious to normal masculine desire?
Cocking her head, she regarded him with a curious stare. “Are you in an ill-tempered because you haven’t had sex for a while? In our Academy class on seduction, La Paloma said that men get awfully edgy if they go too long without it.”
Lynsley’s shoulder muscles went rigid as steel beneath her lingering hand.
“Thank you for the lecture on male biology,” he said through gritted teeth. “But I assure you, as the head of the school, I am quite familiar with the curriculum. And if I need any further elucidation on the subject, I shall ask.”
Apparently she had touched a sore spot.
“Seeing as you don’t have a wife, you must seek sexual release elsewhere. Since you claim you have no cher amie in London, you must have a bawdy house that you favor,” she persisted, taking a rather perverse delight in seeing him squirm. “I’ve heard that Cupid’s Cave is highly favored by gentlemen of the ton .”
“My personal life is not a subject that I discuss with anyone,” he snapped.
“It doesn’t seem to me that you have much of one,” she replied. “From what we heard at school, you are married to your job. Why is that? Why have you never taken a wife?”
He rose abruptly. “You are out of line, Valencia. Way out of line. Kindly return to your own quarters.” His voice was carefully controlled. “I have work to do.”
She was about to retort when a spark of the fire flared up, throwing his profile in harsh contrast. She had never seen him look so tense, so tired—his face was drawn so taut it seemed his cheekbones might slice through the flesh.
Suddenly ashamed of herself and her childish taunts, she dropped her chin. “Yes, sir,” she whispered, and retreated without another word.
Bloody hell. Against his better judgment, Lynsley poured himself another brandy and downed it in one gulp. To his dismay, he saw his hands were shaking.
He must get a grip on his emotions. He had spent years perfecting his iron-fisted control over mind and body. Only to have it come perilously close to cracking into a thousand tiny shards at the touch of Valencia’s hands.
She had been naked beneath the sashed wrapper. The shape of her breasts had been tantalizing apparent though the cream-colored silk, and the lamplight had silhouetted the sinuous curves of her hips.
He pressed his brow to the cool marble of the mantelpiece, hoping to quell the rising heat in his blood. Fire crackled through his limbs, its burn far more potent than any French brandy. Had she any idea how mesmerizing she was with her ebony hair tumbled around her shoulders and her emerald eyes alight with anger.
And curse him for a damnable fool, he had reacted with pure, animal lust to her touch.
Admit it! whispered one of the demons who had taken possession of his reason. For one mad moment he had wondered what she would have said if he had suggested that she satisfy his primal needs.
Valencia, her glorious body twined with his.
The idea was . . .
Impossible.
Setting the glass aside, Lynsley stared at his palm. He had been gripping it so tightly that the pattern of the cut crystal was imprinted on his flesh. Damn the woman for having such a powerful effect on him. Ten years should have been long enough to drown out the spark of elemental attraction. But the thunder and lightning of that ill-fated Atlantic gale was nothing in comparison to the storm of emotion now raging in his head.
Duty must never give way to desire. It was one of the cardinal rules that the Academy drummed into its students. He had better heed his own teachings, else risk seeing this mission go up in smoke.
No, he would not—could not—fail. For her sake, as well as for that of his country. He couldn’t live with himself if Valencia were hurt again because of a weakness on his part.
Letting the dressing gown slide from his shoulders, Lynsley raised his arms over his head and arched back into a deep stretch. Balance. Yoga was all about keeping mind and body in perfect harmony. He must quell the dissonant voices that threatened his equilibrium. Control the strange impulses coursing through his flesh. And most of all, he must maintain a distance, a detachment from her.
The job was already far too personal.
The next evening saw the curtain rise on their first move to meet Pierre Rochambert. Arriving at the Comedie Francaise , Valencia forgot for the moment her personal musing on the marquess. The stylish crowd and ornate architecture were fascinating, and like the thespians backstage, she felt a thrill of anticipation, now that the moment for playing her own role was at hand.
“The Emperor is a great lover of the theatre, Madame Daggett,” confided Madame Gervaise the wife of their host. “And he adores Corneille’s plays. I do hope you enjoy tonight’s performance of Cinna .”
“I am sure I shall be enthralled,” she replied.
“Monsieur Talma is our most brilliant actor, Madame Daggett,” added Madame Gervaise. “He is the Emperor’s favorite.”
“And so is Mademoiselle George,” added Mersault dryly. “Indeed, when she made her debut in Paris in ‘02, she was often called upon to give private performances backstage.”
Valencia raised her lorgnette and surveyed the surrounding theatre boxes, which were fast filling up. “And does the current Empress see that as a comedy or a tragedy?’
He gave a Gallic shrug. “Paris is not very prudish about such things,” he replied. “We French have a certain . . . joie de vivre .”
“Yes, I am beginning to see just how much people in Paris enjoy life.” Valencia slanted a look at Lynsley who appeared to be paying no attention to her tete a tete with the minister.
“And what of you, Madame Daggett?” asked Mersault in a conspiratorial whisper. “Do you enjoy life?”
“Very much.” Valencia lowered her voice to a matching murmur. “Though New Haven is rather dull.” She paused. “It is so provincial, even for America. And seeing as its college was founded to teach the clergy, the city is quite straitlaced.”
“Ah, my condolences.” He winked. “We shall have to make sure that you enjoy your stay here. Paris is anything but provincial.”
Fluttering her fan, Valencia turned her profile to the lamplight, aware that the man’s gaze was caressing her face, her bosom . . .
A smile drew her lips upward. It was rather nice to be the subject of such obvious admiration, even though the Frenchman would likely be flirting with anyone wearing skirts. Flowery words, florid sentiments—the fisherman and farmers who frequented her tavern were not much given to poetry.
Mersault edged his chair closer. “Tell me, does your husband permit you to explore our city on your own?”
“Thomas?” She gave a tiny toss of her curls. “I have my ways of getting him to accede to my wishes.”
“I am sure you do,” he replied with a throaty chuckle.
“Pray, do share your bon mots with the rest of us, Mersault,” said Lynsley rather loudly.
“I was merely pointing out some of the notable people in attendance to your wife, Monsieur Daggett.” The Frenchman’s words came out smooth as butter. “There, in the second tier, is General Penaud, commandant of the Imperial Guard, who is notorious for his insatiable appetite for Breton oysters and beautiful women.”
“Does everyone misbehave in this city?” growled Lynsley. As yet, his manner was not overtly upset, but the tone implied trouble could be brewing if his wife were too attentive to other men.
“It is an unfortunate weakness of us Parisians, monsieur,” answered Mersault.
Levalier gave a slight cough. “Let us not give Monsieur Daggett the wrong impression of our city, Gaston,” he murmured, then quickly changed the subject. “Do you attend the theatre often at home, monsieur?”
“New Haven has little to offer in way of theatrics,” replied the marquess stiffly, his gaze lingering on Valencia just an instant before returning to the stage.
“Jean-Louis tells me your city is known for its institution of higher learning,” said Levalier’s wife.
Lynsley gave a gruff nod. “Yes, Yale College is considered one of America’s finest. My father, Naphtali Daggett was appointed to the first professorship, and later served as its president. When the British raided the city during our War of Independence, he fought with a company of students despite his advanced age and was taken prisoner during the fighting. The beating he received from his captors cut short his life. He died the next year from his injuries.”
“Then you have personal reason to feel no love for the Redcoats,” remarked Mersault.
“Indeed. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to see your Emperor boil the Lobsterbacks in oil. In New England, we steam them in seaweed and serve them with melted butter.”
Levalier laughed. “Speaking of cuisine, sir, I should like to hear more of your own trading business. You deal in spice from the Caribbean?”
“Nutmeg and mace from Grenada, along with cacao from Mexico. Of late, though, I have been dealing with a merchant in Martinique for a special type of sugar.” Lynsley proceed to explain the merits of soil and climate for each of the Leeward Islands in excruciating detail.
Valencia repressed a smile as she watched the faces of the Frenchmen grow glazed with boredom. Was there any subject that the marquess could not discourse on with intelligence? His breadth of knowledge was remarkable. A fact which was helping him play the role of a prig to perfection.
Prig. Reminded of the previous night, she felt a faint tinge of color steal to her face. She had been out of line. Outrageously so. She had no right to provoke him, to pry into his personal life. But somehow, her temper had got the better of her.
She had not apologized. She had felt too awkward and unsure to broach the subject. And Lynsley, drawing no doubt on centuries of good breeding, had acted as though the incident had never occurred. Just like a consummate gentleman.
No—just like a patient schoolmaster overlooking the transgression of an unruly student.
Slanting a look at him from under her lashes, Valencia wondered if he would ever see her as naught but an errant fledgling. A blot on the Academy record book.
She had given him precious little reason to respect her judgment. From the earliest days at the school, her temper seemed to get the better of her in his presence.
Trouble . She had been naught but trouble.
The soft swoosh of the rising curtain reminded her that the mission must take center stage. Focusing her eyes straight ahead, Valencia resolved that her own mordant musings would from now on remain hidden in the wings.
“Madames et monsieurs . . .”
The play passed pleasantly enough, with each act drawing enthusiastic applause from the audience. However, she listened with only half an ear, intent on rehearsing her own lines for the coming supper engagement. She would prove to the marquess that she, too, could play the role she had been trained for without a slip.
“Did you enjoy the acting, Mrs. Daggett?” inquired Mersault as the curtain dropped on the final scene.
“Very much,” she murmured.
“Well, prepare yourself for another treat. Supper will be another feast for the senses.”
Folding her fan, she slapped it lightly against his sleeve. “You are whetting my appetite, sir.”
“You are in Paris, madame. A city that offers pleasures for every palate. I promise you won’t be disappointed.”
“How gratifying to hear it, Mr. Mersault.” Lynsley moved between them. “Like our previous president, Mr. Jefferson, I am quite fond of your country’s claret. You must recommend a wine merchant so I may order some cases to take home.”
“No doubt you will also wish to order some champagne as well, Monsieur Daggett.”
“On the whole, I find the stuff too frivolous for my taste,” said Lynsley gruffly. Taking Valencia’s arm, he turned away. “Come, my dear. The carriage will be waiting.”
It wasn’t until the wheels started to roll over the cobblestones that the marquess spoke again. “Just a reminder, Valencia.” He had made no mention of the coming challenge until now. “Don’t do anything rash.”
Her chin rose a notch. “Is that an order?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied calmly. “As a matter of fact, it is.”
In spite of her resolve to remain detached, she bristled. “And suppose I disobey?” She knew she shouldn’t seek to stir up trouble, but that air of calm and logic kept goading her to challenge his authority.
“Then I shall be forced to take steps to ensure your insubordination doesn’t compromise the mission.”
“Should I take that as a threat, Thomas?”
“No. It is merely a statement of fact. But I trust it won’t come to that. You gave me your word, and I have faith in your integrity, Valencia. And your sense of honor.”
Damn. He had her neatly boxed in.
“Very clever,” she muttered.
A glimmer of a smile curled on his lips. “How else would I survive a school full of strong-willed females?”
“By locking us in a dungeon?” she quipped.
“The thought had occurred to me on several occasions,” replied Lynsley.
“Most likely all of them included me.”
Valencia thought back on her days as the top Merlin. She had been brimming with youthful hubris, sure that she was invincible. How very na?ve such self-confidence must have seemed to him.
“There have been others who have come close to matching your spirit,” said Lynsley.
“But none so stubborn as to defy your every lecture on common sense.” Her lips quivered, unsure whether to form a smile or a scowl.
“Perhaps I learned a few lessons,” replied Lynsley.
The admission surprised her. “Such as?”
He didn’t answer right away, but leaned back against the squabs, as if deep in thought.
Lynsley was not only a master of the rhetorical, she realized. He was a master at withdrawing into the shadows. To a place where his inner self was hidden. And no one else was allowed to follow.
Valencia bit her lip as she slanted a look at the shroud of darkness hiding his face. Had anyone ever penetrated his defenses?
“Confine you flirtations to Mersault tonight,” he finally said. “Let us not show too obvious an interest in Rochambert.”
“I haven’t forgotten all the lessons from the past,” she said.
“Good, for those who do not recall history are doomed to repeat it.”
A hint of wry humor? Or an oblique warning? With Lynsley it was not ever easy to discern his true meaning. “Seeing as I am reminded every day of what damage Rochambert is capable of,” she replied. “I am no more keen that you are to have him gain the upper hand.”