Chapter Fourteen
“ A garden party.” Valencia glanced out through the windowpane as the carriage swung though the stone pillars and started up the tree-lined drive. Though she tried to keep her voice neutral, Lynsley thought he detected a faint note of reproach.
“Levalier says the grounds of Malmaison are the finest in all of France,” he replied coolly, sensing that yet another day wasted in leisure pursuits was chafing at her patience.
“I was not being critical?—”
“Yes, you were. You think me an old woman, overcautious to a fault.” And damn him for a fool, he feared she might be right. A part of him worried that his concern for her safety was holding him back from doing his job.
A flush flared along the ridges of her cheekbones. “I am thinking nothing of the sort. However impressive your wide range of talents are, milord, they do not encompass mindreading.”
That was for sure. For a brief, fleeting time, he had been under the illusion that the wounds of the past had healed. But since crossing swords in the Bois de Bologne, sunlight flashing over their steel and sweat, she had retreated behind the shield of old hostilities. He wondered now whether it had been a mistake to shed his air of reserve. Up close, his flaws were likely all too visible. Instead of the magisterial Head Merlin, he had shown himself to be a mere man.
A man who had found the clash exhilarating. The challenging gleam in her eye, the heated rasp of her breath, the taut flex of her thighs. He shut his eyes, trying not to think of the rapidfire rise and fall of her shapely breasts.
An experienced agent knew how to turn a weakness into a strength, he reminded himself.
The air was crackling with tension. Another glib comment would provoke a fight. And Rochambert, being the ruthless predator that he was, would smell blood.
“Actually, having passed some time with a Gypsy tribe in the Balkans, I’ve learned a little something about the art of divination,” drawled Lynsley. He pressed his fingertips to his temples with a theatrical flourish. “I am sensing a stirring of anger.”
“No, I am merely annoyed by your pompous, presumptuous tone,” she countered. “If I were angry, you would be digging the tip of your elegant walking stick out from the depths of your arse.”
Lynsley waited for a moment before replying. “Excellent. Well played. That should set the tone nicely for what I have in mind.”
“You deliberately goaded me into a temper?” said Valencia through gritted teeth.
“No matter how good one is at acting, there is no substitute for the real thing. Right now, your dislike of me is apparent in a myriad of little ways.”
“Like what?”
“Like the sparks in your eyes and the rigid set of your shoulders,” he replied.
She muttered an oath and slouched back against the leather squabs. “And your mistrust of me is apparent in the cool contempt in your voice and the condescending curl of your smile.”
Though he was feeling anything but cool, Lynsley answered with icy politeness. “You are mistaking pragmatism for personal feelings.”
“And God knows, the high and mighty Lord Lynsley has none of those to speak of!”
“Dear me, we are beginning to sound like an old, married couple.”
Valencia shut her mouth with an audible snap of teeth.
It was far better to have her furious than held in check by the oddly muted mood of the past day. Anger he could understand, and defiance. But subdued silence was so unlike her.
Or maybe it wasn’t. A person could change beyond recognition in ten years.
Staring out at the stately elms, Lynsley caught his own blurred reflection in the glass. How did she see him? As a tyrannical teacher? A pompous prig? He had dared to show her a glimpse of his private self, and for a short time, he had sensed a new sort of bond growing between them.
But apparently, his instincts in regard to women were woefully rusty.
As for his own feelings . . .
They were irrelevant, he reminded himself.
He took a moment to master the tiny twitching of his jaw muscle before turning back to business. “Now, perhaps we might convene a council of war without any further explosions?”
Valencia gave a curt nod.
“Contrary to what you believe, I am as anxious as you are to accomplish our goal as quickly as possible,” began Lynsley. “But there are a number of reasons why we cannot rush our moves.”
“You are in command, sir. You need not explain yourself,” she said tersely.
“Ah, but I think I do,” he said. “There can be no misunderstandings, Valencia. No misgivings. All jests about mind reading aside, we must be on the same page.”
“I will follow orders to the letter. Sir.” Had her voice been forged out of iron, it couldn’t have been more rigid.
Heaving an inward sigh, Lynsley went on. “Before we can decide on a plan of action, we must be absolutely certain of success. You wonder why we cannot simply break into Rochambert’s mansion after a single surveillance? Because we cannot know where the explosive might be hidden. I can hazard a guess, but if I am wrong, it would destroy our chance of success.”
“I understand that,” she said softly.
He ignored her response. “Secondly, we must be sure that the formula has not been passed on to the Ministry of War. From what we know of Rochambert’s character, we can assume that he will want to take all the glory for capturing such a momentous prize. But we must be sure. And that will require a more intimate acquaintance with the man than we have now.”
“You need not lecture me like a raw recruit.”
“Ours is a complicated relationship?—”
A wry laugh suddenly interrupted him. “ That is putting it mildly,” said Valencia, a small smile tugging at her lips. The movement, however tiny, seemed to break the tension between them. “I apologize for my earlier outburst. I—I suppose my nerves are a bit strained.”
“Understandably so,” he replied. “It can’t be easy to flirt with that spawn of Satan.”
Her lashes flickered in the dappled shadows. “Merlins aren’t meant to have it easy. I would make love to the Devil Himself if that is what the job requires.”
The idea of Valencia in bed with Rochambert sent a stab through his gut. Come hell or high water, he would see that it never came to that. “Right now, you need not sacrifice more than a smile or two. Just lead him on a little, and then we shall see where to go from there.”
“I trust you had a pleasant drive.” Levalier smiled as one of his footmen opened the carriage door and offered Valencia a hand down.
“Quite,” she replied. “Thomas and I find everything about France so very interesting.” She paused a fraction. “Though I fear we don’t always agree on our impressions.”
“Monsieur Daggett does seem rather serious,” murmured the minister. “Does he never relax and enjoy the pleasures that life has to offer?”
Valencia stiffened her hand on his sleeve. “I suppose that would depend on how you define ‘pleasure’, monsieur. A rapid promotion to a position of power would no doubt bring a paroxysm of pleasure to my husband.”
Levalier’s brows gave a knowing waggle, indicating he hadn’t missed the sarcasm in her voice. He reached out and plucked a lush bloom from one of the ornamental urns. “Americans must lean to stop and smell the roses,” he said, offering her the flower with a wink. “Rush, rush, rush. They are always so impatient. And for what?”
“A good question, monsieur.” She wondered whether Lynsley had been right in remarking that her body language spoke loudly about the state of her emotions. Levalier’s speculative look seemed to say he had no trouble in reading the telltale signs of marital discord.
Though the flare of anger had died down, a lingering heat still burned her cheeks. She might be an open book, but Lynsley’s moods were impossible to decipher. The man was an enigma. His mind a cipher, coded in some lordly logic that only he could unlock.
Out of the corner of her eye, Valencia saw the marquess veer off to join the group of men standing by the stone pergola. Levalier was more chivalrous in taking his leave, pressing a kiss to her gloved hand before leaving her to mingle with the ladies.
She listened with only half an ear to their twitterings about fashion and the latest tidbits of gossip. Her gaze kept returning to Lynsley. Like a moth to a flame. Though today, he had been ice rather than fire. It was strange—she imagined that most people would not think of him as a man of extremes. Indeed, his aura of unshakeable calm was rather intimidating.
And intriguing. At least to women. Valencia saw she was not the only lady whose gaze was surreptitiously following Lynsley. His charcoal coat and dove grey trousers stood out in stark contrast to the flamboyant finery of the Frenchmen. In profile, he looked harder, harsher.
Madame Noilly whispered something to her friend and both ladies tittered.
Did most ladies do nothing but scheme and speculate about sex? She bit back a scowl and watched Lynsley exchange words with Rochambert.
“Come, you must allow me to show you through the hothouse, Madame Daggett.” Mersault materialized by her side. “It was built by Thibaut and Vignon and is one of the largest outside Kew Gardens. The length is over 150 feet.”
Valencia eyed the immense glass structure. “Very impressive.”
“It houses a superb collection of dahlias, amaryllis and mimosa, along with tropical fruits like tangerines.” He opened the door, and drew her inside. “Along with Josephine’s prized collection of roses.”
The warm air was redolent with the scent of damp earth.
“And of course, there are prize specimens from all over the world. Much of the specimens from Baudin’s expedition to Australia are here, much to the chagrin of our Museum of Natural History. But then, a husband must indulge his wife, and Napoleon was very good about allowing her to pursue her passion for botanicals.”
“I have heard that he even allowed her to order plants from Lee & Kennedy, one of England’s largest plant dealers.”
“True. The English navy permitted her specimens to pass through the blockade, as a courtesy.”
Valencia looked around at the profusion of lush blooms. “It is heartening to see that beauty can still bloom during times of war.”
Mersault paused before a large bronze statue, it head crowned with vines of deep green foliage. “Josephine said Rousseau was her inspiration for gardening. But as we have seen over the last decade, nature in its primitive state can be both beautiful and wild.”
“Man is not really noble savage?” she remarked, curious to hear his thoughts.
“I think very few people are motivated by noble sentiments, madame. What about you?”
“I would have to agree.”
Further comment was forestalled by the approach of Madame Levalier and her friends. “Has Andre shown you the spectacular variety of roses yet?” asked Madame Noilly.
“We had not yet progressed that far,” replied Valencia.
“Men! When it comes to certain things, they have no notion of what a lady really wants.”
The next half hour passed in polite admiration of the various species. Cuisse de nymphe emue, Beaute touchante, Belle Hebe, Rire niais —Valencia was relieved when a servant finally appeared to summon them to the midday meal.
As the day was unseasonably warm, the luncheon was served outdoors in a large pavilion. A trestle table, set with gaily striped linens and potted flowers, was a colorful counterpoint to the bare trees and dormant hedges outside the canvas tenting. A hint of summertime sweetness wafted up from the hothouse fruits piled high around the silver centerpiece, a magnificent Louis XIV epergne.
Valencia sat between two young officers who took turns paying her florid compliments.
“You must try some of the wine,” said Captain Hillaire. “Our Loire region is famous for its delightful whites.”
She accepted a glass and sipped slowly. It was delicious, as was the food. The laughter all around grew louder as dish after dish of rich delicacies were passed, and the servants kept refilling her glass. Careful , she warned herself. It was important to keep her wits about her. A sidelong glance showed that Lynsley’s wine glass sat untouched.
If the others noticed his sober demeanor, no one allowed it to dampen the spirits of the party. The mood was quite gay and relaxed when finally they all rose from the table.
“We must take a walk to see the folly overlooking the lake,” announced Levalier. “It was designed in the classical Greek style, and boasts several exquisite columns from an Athenian temple.”
“Is it not too difficult for the ladies?” asked Captain Gillemot after surveying the winding footpath.
“ Mais, non !” exclaimed Madame Noilly. “I think we would all welcome a bit of exercise after such a repast.”
“An excellent suggestion. Let’s be off.” Resuming his conversation with Levalier, Lynsley set off at a brisk match along the graveled path, forcing the minister to match his stride.
“Madame?” Noilly offered Valencia his arm.
“Thank you.
The path turned steeper and the footing grew a bit rougher, forcing Valencia and her escort to fall a few steps behind the rest of the group.
Glancing back, Lynsley barked a rebuke. “Do try to keep up, my dear. I am sure you do not wish to slow the group down.”
“You go on,” she said, releasing Noilly. “I shall continue at my own pace.”
“But—”
“You may do as the lady says. I am in no hurry to stare at a pile of moldering marble.” Rochambert took her arm.
“But as a connoisseur of art, aren’t you curious to see such classical Greek treasures?” asked Valencia
“Not when I have a flesh and blood Venus so close at hand.”
She stepped around an outcropping of granite, purposely brushing up against his leg “Do you always flirt so shamelessly with women?”
“I see no shame in showing an appreciation for beauty.”
“How can a lady argue with that?” replied Valencia.
The bend twisted sharply, following the contour of the hill as its side steepened and angled away into rocky ravine. Loose stones made the path uneven, and she felt her leg twitch as she started up through the turn.
Up ahead, the path flattened out. Another few steps . . .
But suddenly her half boots were slipping out from under her. Valencia flung herself back, trying to regain her balance.
“Madame!” Rochambert reached out, a fraction too late. She lost her footing and tumbled over the ledge.
Briars tore at her skirts as she bounced over the rough stones. Luckily, the ground leveled for a short stretch of grassy verge, and she was able to grab at the turf and arrest her fall. When finally she rolled to a stop, pain lanced through her bad leg, which was twisted under her weight.
“Madame!”
She tried to catch her breath and answer, but her bruised ribs protested even so slight a move.
Captain Gillemot was already scrambling down to where she lay. Lynsley followed but far more slowly.
“Mon Dieu, are you alright?” The officer knelt down and began chafing her hand. “Don’t try to move. We can fashion a litter?—”
“Don’t be absurd.” Lynsley cut him off with a curt laugh. “I’m sure she is fine. Just a little shaken up, isn’t that right, my dear?” He reached out and lifted her none too gently to her feet. “Come, and walk it off.”
She bit back a cry of pain. “Yes, of course.”
The captain looked appalled.
“Now that the initial shock has worn off, I am quite fine,” she assured him. Her face must have belied her words, for he shot the marquess a scathing look.
Both men helped her back up to path, where the rest of the group was milling in a state of shock.
“My poor dear!” exclaimed Madame Levalier.
“Let us go back immediately—” began her husband.
“We wouldn’t hear of it—would we, Valencia?” objected Lynsley. “There is no need to ruin the excursion for everyone.”
“No, of course not,” she said tightly, not meeting Lynsley’s gaze. Pain was shooting through her thigh. “It was clumsy of me. I will be just fine in a moment.”
He turned and started off again.
She followed, dragging her step.
“Do try to keep up,” he called from the crest of the rise.
The others were clearly disturbed by his unfeeling words. The ladies were now eying him with censorious looks, and from the men rose a few rumbled rebukes.
As if oblivious to the air of tension, Lynsley wheeled around and marched off.
Valencia forced a smile and waved the captain on as she passed a bench. “You go on with the others. I shall rest here and wait for your return, if you don’t mind.”