Chapter Twelve
“ F orgive me for missing supper, said Lynsley as he entered the library. “The meeting at the Ministry ran late, and then I decided to observe the pattern of evening traffic around Place St. Germaine.”
Valencia looked up from the book she was reading. “Did you discover anything of note?”
“The Café Benoit serves a very forgettable claret,” he replied dryly. “Aside from that, I consider several hours passed in watching the daily routine of the local residents time well spent. It is always a wise strategy to know the lay of the land.” He moved to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of cognac. “How was your afternoon?”
“More interesting than I expected,” said Valencia.
His brows arched in amusement. “So, have you found that you have a weakness for fancy plumage after all?”
“Such fripperies seem even more absurd after watching the others agonize over which shade of cerise to choose.” She paused. “But it was worth the effort, seeing as Rochambert joined the shopping party for a short while. By the by, his taste in colors runs to rather gaudy shades of blues and greens.”
“Our friend does appear to be quite a peacock.” The marquess settled into one of the leather armchairs. As they had no social engagement scheduled for the evening, he had shed his coat and cravat. Untying the strings of his portfolio case, he slid out a sheaf of papers.
“He certainly struts around with his proverbial tailfeathers in the air,” muttered Valencia. “Thinking that every female around him will be blinded by his beauty.”
The swirl of the amber spirits momentarily obscured his expression. “Has he sought to single you out?”
She nodded. “I was treated to Italian ice cream and a not-so-subtle interrogation on my relationship with my husband.”
“And?” he inquired.
“I’ve hinted that ours is a cold-hearted arrangement,” replied Valencia. “You are a calculating prig, who married me for my family’s trade connections. My own ambitions are just as pragmatic.”
“Ah.” He set his glass down. “That should prove useful.”
She waited for him to elaborate.
Without further comment, Lynsley drew out one of the documents from his case and began reading.
She watched the firelight wink off his reading glasses, then returned to her study of the street plans of Paris. The old engravings provided page after page of exquisitely detailed maps showing the different quartiers.
Now, if only she could chart the inner workings of Lynsley’s mind. She was completely lost when it came to following his thinking. So many twists and turns, so many hidden paths that trailed away into shadows.
The same could be said for her, she supposed. Her own feelings were a convoluted maze of contradictions. She should be glad that he seemed unconcerned about any risk to her from Rochambert. It was what she had demanded—to be treated dispassionately, as simply another weapon to use against the assassin.
And yet a part of her was a bit disappointed that he hadn’t expressed a tad more concern over the unexpected appearance of the enemy.
A blade cut two ways, she reminded herself. If she wished to live by the sword . . .
A rude word punctuated the crackle of paper as Lynsley turned a page.
Peeking up, she saw him rubbing his fingers through the sidewhiskers that now curled well below his ears. “Do they itch?”
“Like the devil,” he said. “Though it’s not quite as bad as the time in Moscow, when I had to grow a full beard.”
“Moscow?” Intrigued, Valencia put aside her own musings. Lynsley so very rarely offered any glimpse into his life, past or present. “Is Tsar Alexander as handsome as they say?”
“The Angel was barely more than a lad when I was there. I had dealing with his father, Tsar Paul I, whose looks and behavior were less than divine.”
“Wasn’t the father a bit of a mad monarch?”
“As commander-in-chief of the army, he once court-martialed a rat, and then had the animal executed. So I daresay that qualifies as queer in the attic,” replied Lynsley dryly. “There is definitely something to be said for a democracy.”
“Tsar Paul was assassinated, was he not?” She took a moment to recall her Academy history lessons. “Which handed the throne to Alexander, who was greatly favored over his father by the country’s liberals and reformers.”
Lynsley did not look up from his document. “So rumor has it.”
“By whom?” she pressed.
“I believe it was said that his own Palace Guards smothered him with a pillow. But then, he had a tendency to fall into fits of apoplexy, so he may well have died of natural causes. The Russians tend to wax melodramatic about a great many things.”
Sensing that the chances of getting a straight answer were virtually nil, Valencia refrained from further questions about the Russian ruler’s untimely demise. Still, now that he had broached the subject, she was curious tohear about his other travels.
“What other exotic places have you visited?”
Lynsley scratched at his chin. “I’ve rather lost count. India, for one. Along with China and Japan.
“Japan is closed to all foreigners. On pain of death.”
“So it is.” He proceeded to give a detailed description of the cherry blossoms in springtime at the foot of Mount Fuji.
“You make it sound very beautiful,” she murmured.
“It is a sacred place in their culture, one celebrated for centuries in poetry and painting. At dawn, with silence and mist shrouding the snow–capped peak, one can’t help but feel a profound sense of peace.”
This spiritual side added yet another complexity to Lynsley’s character. Lud, the man had more facets than a fine cut gemstone. Intricate planes, crafted so subtly that many were invisible to the naked eye.
“Which likely didn’t last long,” she said after a moment. “Somehow I doubt you were there to admire the scenery.”
As always, he artfully dodged the question of his clandestine activities.
“In contrast, the holy shrines of Jerusalem are surrounded by a cacophony of sounds and smells. Mullahs call followers of Islam to prayer, Jews kneel before their Wailing Wall and church bells summon the Christians to Mass. The smoke from sizzling meats swirls with the scent of Eastern spices . . .”
Valencia set her book aside and inched forward in her seat. Such faraway places were only names or engravings on a printed page until now. Lynsley filled in the stark black and white with great, glorious brushstrokes of color.
“Constantinople,” she murmured, mentioning the city that had always captured her imagination. “Have you been there?”
Lynsley didn’t seem to mind this line of questioning. His face relaxed as he regaled her with descriptions of his exotic travels, from the Empire of the Turks to the jungle of the Mogul princes to the lacquered splendor of the Forbidden City, the legendary seat of the Chinese rulers. Perhaps the armchair journeys took his mind off the pressures of the current mission.
Whatever the reason, it was utterly fascinating. She could live to be a hundred and never grow bored of hearing about the world beyond her own sphere of war and death. It was little wonder that his descriptions of saffron silks and mulberry saris seemed so threaded with color and texture. Her life was cloaked in unrelenting black and white, its only softness the occasional shade of grey.
Sighing, Valencia drew her knees to her chest. Coals crackled, and the candles burned with a fire-gold light, kindling a mood that was cozy.
Comfortable.
It was all an illusion, of course, created out of deceptions and lies. Yet she did feel comfortable with Lynsley, something she would have dismissed as impossible just a few short weeks ago.
So the mission had accomplished something meaningful, though Whitehall would not see it that way. The gentlemen who made the life-and-death decisions did not give a damn about the human side of any assignment. They would gladly sacrifice her heart or her head—along with any other part of her anatomy—if it served their purpose.
Lynsley was different. Through the fringe of her lashes, she watched the play of light on his face. The austere chiseling of his long, lean features cut a sharp contrast to the subtle shadings of nuance in his eyes and his smile. Flint and flesh . Even at his most stern and solemn, the marquess never lost his essential humanity. He looked like a man capable of feeling pain and regret. Of feeling loss and longing.
Of feeling love?
Her heart gave a tiny hitch. Had Lynsley ever been in love?
“The beauty of Constantinople is seductive.” His sigh stirred Valencia from her reveries. “I should have liked to spend more time exploring its treasures, but our group moved on to the deserts of Palestine . . .”
She forced herself to pick up the thread of his narrative.
“Where I unwittingly offended a Bedouin sheik by eating with my left hand at his welcoming feast—the ultimate insult in Arabic culture,” he went on. “The head of the British Mission offered him my head on a platter, but apparently the sheik preferred goat, rather than pig.”
“I can’t quite imagine you ever making a social faux pas,” said Valencia. She tried to picture him as a callow young junior envoy, awkward and unsure, and did not succeed.
“Good Lord, more times than I care to count. Books and lectures can only teach so much. In the field, one tends to learn by trial and error.”
“True.” She thought back for a moment on some of her earliest assignments. “The same applied for our physical training. It’s all very well to master a spinning back flip off of the Academy’s practice wall, but if one doesn’t factor in the seaweed and slime of a harbor breakwater, it throws the timing off. My first job was in Lyme Regis, and I was lucky to escape without breaking my neck. It took twenty stitches to close the gash in my scalp, but live and learn. I never made that mistake again.”
A smile crept to her lips as she recalled her roommate’s brush with death. “But that was nothing compared to Savannah’s gaffe in bed with the Polish double agent in Cracow. Language class had not taught her the local dialect for intimate moments, and he soon saw through her charade. Fortunately she was more skilled with a stiletto than with her tongue.”
Lynsley made a face. “Lord, if I had known any of this, my hair would no doubt be entirely grey.”
Valencia laughed. “It wasn’t really all that bad. We’re well-schooled. When push comes to shove, we know how to improvise.”
His mouth curved upward, but the corners were pinched and his gaze grew clouded.
Damn. This interlude was offering a rare glimpse of the man behind the stone sphinx mask. She did not want him to retreat into himself just yet.
“Like the time Geneva was sent to recover the jewels stolen from Lord Butterfield’s home by his French mistress.” Valencia continued her musing. “She came back with not only the earl’s heirlooms, but with the diamond medallion reported missing by the Prussian ambassador. You allowed her to keep it, saying that like a Royal Navy captain, the Merlins ought to keep the prizes captured in battle.”
“Her skills helped avert an embarrassing incident for the Prime Minister.” Lynsley’s expression lightened somewhat at the mention of the past mission. Unlike many, it had been highlighted by a number of humorous scenes. “I saw no reason to return it von Furtzen. I doubt he was the rightful owner, and besides, it looked much better on Geneva than on him.”
Valencia exaggerated a sigh. “We were all green with envy. I had never seen anything like it. A clear, colorless stone, and yet it seemed to glow with a magical fire.
“In Greek, the diamond is called adamas —unconquerable force—since it defies flames and never becomes heated,” mused the marquess. “The ancient philosopher, Pliny the Elder, believed it to be the most precious of all human possessions, fit only for kings. He thought the sole source was some mysterious mine in the middle of India.”
Valencia leaned forward in her chair, intrigued by the change that came over his face when he spoke of such things. Telling stories seemed to lighten his mood. And he did it well, like so many things. His deep voice was rich and melodious, bringing the words come alive.
“Pliny wasn’t far off the mark,” he continued. “India had been mining the stones for centuries, and they were indeed reserved only for royalty. A few inferior specimens trickled out to the Romans, who wore them as talismans to ward off evil. But it wasn’t until the 1600s that a Parisian dealer in precious stones named Jean-Baptiste Tavernier became the first European to visit the fortified city of Golconda.”
“You make it sound . . . romantic,” she said.
“Tavernier did bring back a number of fabulous gems, including one from the Mogul Emperor, Aurangzeb, specially purchased for Louis XIV. Its rare size and color—a cool, smoky blue—made it the stuff of legend. From the Sun King, it passed to Marie Antoinette.”
“Even I have heard of that stone. Wasn’t it rumored to have been lost during the Revolution?” She propped her chin in her hand. “I wonder what became of it.”
“I believe it is currently in the possession of the Prince Regent,” murmured Lynsley.
“ Prinny has it?” she exclaimed. “Good lord, how did he contrive to get his hands on it? And how do you know about the affair?”
His lips twitched for an instant. “State secret, I’m afraid.”
She realized her mouth was hanging open and shut it with a snap. “You are certainly privy to a wealth of interesting information.”
“Much of it merely serendipitous,” he said with a self-deprecating smile. “I tend to collect all sorts of odd nuggets during my travels. For example, when I was in Toledo, I discovered that the European and Arab philosophers of the Middle Ages had come up with their own fanciful theory as to where diamonds came from.”
What female could resist t hat teaser? “Yes?” she demanded.
His brow waggled. “I thought you didn’t care much for jewels?”
“I am always interested in expanding my field of knowledge,” she said primly.
“Ah. A purely pedagogical reason. Very well, then, I shall proceed.” His gaze once again gleamed with a teasing glitter. “Over the centuries, versions of the same tale have appeared in many writings, from the Eastern yarns of Sinbad the Sailor to the travels of Marco Polo. They all revolved around a mythical Valley of the Diamond, a forbidding place high in the mountains of India, where only the bravest adventurer would dare to venture. Pile upon pile of precious stones were said to lie on the valley’s floor. However, they were guarded by giant serpents with heads and fangs so fearsome that any human looking on them would die of fright.”
Valencia found herself shivering in spite of the glowing fire.
“So the only way to capture the treasure was to kill a sheep or cow, skin the carcass, and throw it into the chasms. The diamonds would then stick in the raw flesh?—“
“How ghastly,” she exclaimed.
Lynsley paused. “Shall I stop?”
“No, no, I’m dying to hear the rest.”
He chuckled. “As you wish. The eagles who lived in the mountains would swoop down and bring the meat back to their eyrie. The diamond hunters would try to fight off the birds long enough to pick out the gems. However all was not lost if they failed in that skirmish.”
“I shudder to ask.”
“For the truly intrepid . . .” He paused for dramatic effect. “There was always a chance to sneak up to the nest the next morning and go through the dung.”
“Fie, you are making this up!” she exclaimed.
“I swear, I am not.” Merriment swirled up from depths of his eyes. From there, it slowly spread across his face. “Even I would be hard-pressed to invent such a tale.”
A strange sensation fluttered inside her ribcage. It made her feel a bit giddy to see him smile in such a way at her. It was as intimate as a caress, and suddenly the tickle was spreading the length of her limbs. He was a very attractive man, especially when he allowed his whimsical side to show. The ladies of London were said to be ruthless in their pursuit of eligible men. How was it that they had allowed him to stay single?
Perhaps they were blind as bats.
“Hah!” Valencia forced her eyes away from the whiskey gold strands of hair curling around his collar. “I am certain that you could charm the scales off of those serpents if need be.”
There was a whisper of silence and a sidelong peek showed his gaze lingering for an instant on her face, her body.
Their banter tonight might almost pass as flirtation.
Her breath caught in her throat. She knew that many men thought her beautiful. She had received more than her share of compliments over the years—along with proposals, respectable and otherwise. But as she saw herself in an entirely different light, their admiration had never meant much to her.
But all of a sudden, she cared very much whether Lynsley thought her attractive.
Alluring.
Just this once, she wanted him to see her as a woman, not just one of his warriors.
Don’t be a fool . The irony of such girlish dreams was piercing as sharpened steel. No doubt he saw her as a useful weapon in the fight against England’s enemies, but the ability to lie, deceive, and murder did not paint a very pretty picture for a man to admire.
For gentlemen like Lynsley, the ideal female was a sweet, sheltered miss. A pattern card of polished manners and unsullied virtue.
An Innocent. Which she was decidedly not.
Valencia swallowed hard. Lord, she had lost her innocence long before meeting the marquess. The squalid streets, the grasping pimps, the hardscrabble struggle for food every day. For an orphan, life in the slums of London did not allow for much of a childhood. She couldn’t remember a day when she had ever been free of the wary watchfulness needed to survive.
A stab of sadness cut to her core. She very rarely thought about what life might have been . . .
The soft clink of crystal drew her eyes up. Through the swirl of the amber spirits, Lynsley was watching her with a quizzical look of concern.
“Is something wrong?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. “No, nothing at all. I was simply reminded of something from long ago.”
His expression remained solemn, serious.
Valencia quickly made light of the matter. “But my past experiences do not make for anything nearly asentertaining as your stories. Indeed, most are rather forgettable.”
“Yes, enough of reminiscing,” murmured the marquess as he went back to his reading.
Despite the blazing coals, the room seemed a bit colder.
Right, she reminded herself. It was best never to lose sight of the fact that this was all about business. She found her place in the book of maps and resumed her study of the Paris streets.
Lynsley finished his cognac in a matter of minutes. “I think I will retire.” He rose. “Good night.”