Chapter Four
I t was a dirty trick, admitted Valencia as she watched the whisper of candlelight play across Lynsley’s features. She had placed him in an impossible position—either way he turned, he was forced to compromise his rigid notions of honor. She had counted on the fact that duty to country would overshadow his personal ethics. But on seeing the conflict in his eyes before he looked away, she couldn’t help feeling a bit guilty.
All is fair in love and war. The old adage sprung to mind, yet strangely enough, it made her even more uncomfortable. Was it wise to step back into the fray? She had carved out a quiet niche for herself on this out of the way island. Why risk reopening old wounds?
It was a question she couldn’t really answer.
“Might I have a bite to eat while we talk?” The marquess massaged at his temples. His hair was longer now than in the past, and touched with silver at the temples. “I am going to need my strength if I am to be battling both you and Rochambert.”
“I won’t be a distraction, sir. You have my word.”
“Hmmph.” His grunt was impossible to interpret.
Valencia let it pass. “I’ve some cold mutton and cheese in the larder, along with a loaf of freshly baked bread.” She paused for a fraction. “Sorry, no strawberry tarts.”
His lips twitched.
“How is Mrs. Merlin?” she asked hesitantly.
“Her hair is a bit greyer, and her glasses a bit thicker, but the old bird is as sharp as ever,” he replied. “She can still shoot a hole through a shilling at twenty paces.”
“I am glad to hear it.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll be back in a moment with a tray.”
“No, I’ll come with you.” Lynsley rose, awkwardly wrapping the blanket around his middle. “Might I have my trousers back? Now that we have finished negotiations, there is no need to hold them hostage.”
“They have been reduced to rags, I’m afraid. However, I should be able to find something suitable in one of my trunks. Over the years I’ve accumulated an assortment of men’s clothing from the various shipwrecks and smugglers that have washed up on these shores.”
“But not a man to go with them?”
Valencia felt a flush come to her cheeks. “That isn’t really any of your business, sir.”
“On the contrary. It is my business to know the background of my soldiers. Whether you have a loved one waiting for you at home may affect your judgment when push comes to shove.”
He was right, of course. “Very well sir. The answer is no, I have no husband, no current lover.”
Lynsley nodded gravely.
“If there are no further questions, sir, I will go find you something to wear.” Valencia moved to the doorway and turned for her own rooms. “The kitchen is to the right, and at the end of the passageway.”
Damn the man , she fumed as she threw open the truck and began to rummage through the cast-off garments. Somehow, she always felt like a scruffy schoolgirl in his presence. Awkward and unsure, while he always appeared so calm and in command.
Of course the dratted man had an air of aristocratic authority about him. He was a privileged patrician, born to a life of wealth and rank. While she was an orphan, a lone child forced to grow up fast in the muck and violence of the stews of St. Giles.
She paused for a moment, recalling that fateful encounter. Their paths had crossed when she had tried to pick his pocket. She had nearly succeeded—she was one of the most skilled dippers in the area, despite her tender age—but at the last moment the marquess had caught her hand. She had fought like the very devil to free herself from his grip. Even then, she had been very good with a blade. Lynsley still bore the traces of her wrath on his knuckles. Yet rather than haul her off to the nearest magistrate, he offered her a place in a newly formed school with an odd-sounding name.
Mrs. Merlin’s Academy for Extraordinary Young Ladies . She hadn’t had any idea what an Academy was, but any place seemed better than the filth and poverty of the London slums. Besides, she had always had an adventurous streak. And the elegant gentleman had a nice smile and kindly blue eyes that seemed to see straight through to her soul.
Valencia bit her lip. She must have been ten or eleven at the time, though her true age was anyone’s guess. Now she had just turned one and thirty. A woman of the world. On countless occasions, she had proven herself to be resilient, resourceful and tougher than Toledo steel.
So why were her hands trembling as she smoothed the wrinkles from a pair of rough wool pants? Merlins were meant to be fearless. And she was said to have been the most fearless of them all.
“I have not lost my nerve,” she whispered to herself. She had failed once to prove her mettle. It wouldn’t happen again.
Grabbing up a thick knitted jumper and work shoes to go along with the trousers, Valencia slammed the trunk shut. From now on, she would keep any misgivings locked away.
It was time to fly.
The slate tiles were chill against his bare feet as he shuffled down the hallway. Lynsley shivered slightly, acutely aware that beneath the borrowed blanket and nightshirt he was wearing only his drawers. No wonder he felt so strangely vulnerable. So stripped of all his defenses.
Bloody hell. Had he made yet another mistake with her? She had suffered enough on account of his miscalculations. He had no right to draw her back into danger. Duty? It was too easy an excuse. The real reason was far more complex, but damn if he could explain it, even to himself.
Taking up the flint and steel, Lynsley struck a spark to the lone taper by the pantry and watched a flame flicker into life. He ought to have doused her demand on the spot. Instead he had been oddly indecisive—something quite out of character for him.
But then, he hadn’t been himself lately.
Grimacing, Lynsley opened the larder. There was no going back—the deal was done. He would just have to make the best of it.
And try to make sure that neither of them got burned to a crisp.
“You have a nice nest,” said Lynsley as she entered the kitchen. He had stirred the coals to life in the stove and set a kettle on the hob.
“It has none of the elegant amenities of your mansion on Grosvenor Square, milord.” Even to her own ears, the reply sounded waspish. “And as you see, the service is sadly lacking.”
The marquess smiled and continued to cut the meat into neat slices. “It is my sister who lives in the family townhouse. I prefer smaller quarters in a less visible part of Town.”
“You have a sister?”
His brow quirked. “I am human. Or like Jove, did you think I had stepped fully formed from Zeus’s forehead?”
“I—I never thought . . . that is, I hadn’t ever imagined you with family,” she stammered. To cover her confusion, she quickly asked, “What of you, sir—are you married?”
“No,” he answered softly.
“Why not?” she pressed. “As an exalted member of the nobility, aren’t you expected to set up a nursery and sire an heir?”
He deflected the question with a shrug. “I have a younger brother who has three lively boys. I should not be ashamed to pass on the title to one of them.”
“Surely there is a cher ami tucked away in a snug little house on the outskirts of Mayfair.” Valencia knew she was being impertinent, but didn’t care.
Lynsley smiled. “My work is a hard enough mistress.”
The curl of his mouth sent a strange little shiver skating along her spine.
His face was leaner than it has been ten years ago, and a crinkling of fine lines was etched around his eyes. There was, however, the same piercing intensity to their ice blue color. Cool and clear as faceted gemstones.
Oddly enough it was now a rush of heat prickling along her flesh.
His features had a chiseled austerity, a sculpted strength—long, straight nose, prominent cheekbones, squared chin. It was the sinuous shape of his lips that softened the planes and kept him from looking too forbidding. Whether he knew it or not, the Marquess of Lynsley had a sinfully attractive smile.
“Indeed,” she finally replied, relieved to hear that her voice was not as fluttery as her insides. Embarrassed that he might have caught her staring, she slapped the clothing down on the work table. “These ought to be a decent fit. You can change in the pantry while I finish laying out the bread and cheese.”
He handed over the knife. “Thank you. I shall not be unhappy to shed this nightshirt. It itches like the devil.”
“No doubt you are used to wearing only the finest silk to bed.”
“Actually, I sleep in the nude.”
Valencia felt her face flame. “Touché, sir.”
His fingertips grazed lightly against her wrist. “I would rather we were not always at daggers drawn. God knows you have reason to be angry with me, but if we are to work together, you must try to set it aside for the duration of the mission.”
“Yes, sir,” she said.
“That was not an order, Valencia. It was a . . . suggestion.” He turned for the pantry. “I hope you will take it to heart.”
Bloody hell. She took a savage swipe at the loaf of bread. The marquess must now think she was an aging shrew as well as a woebegone warrior. She gave a small sniff, but the sting of salt on her lashes was like a slap in the face. Merlins didn’t cry, she chastised herself. If she was going to succumb to self-pity here in her own cottage, she might as well surrender her wings here and now.
Duty. Discipline. She had not yet forgotten the lessons drummed into her at the Academy. The marquess would find no further fault with her attitude.
“If that cheddar was Rochambert, he would have died a thousand deaths.” Lynsley looked almost boyish, dressed in simple fisherman’s clothes with his tousled brown hair curling around his ears. In the candlelight, the burnished gold highlights far outshone the strands of silver.
His body was still lean and lithe, she had noted earlier. And though he had developed a deliberate slouch over the years to disguise his true height and the breadth of his shoulders, she found it hard to believe that most people accepted his cover as a deskbound bureaucrat, a titled toff who did nothing more strenuous than push pens around on his blotter.
“I look forward to slicing his liver into foie gras,” she said lightly. “And serving it with a sauce of champagne and champignons.”
“You are making my mouth water.” He sat down on the stool next to her and dug into plate of the cold mutton and mint jelly. “It seems you have added cooking to your arsenal of skills. That is rosemary flavoring the roasted meat, is it not?”
“I learned out of necessity,” she answered, feeling absurdly pleased by the simple praise. “I have an herb garden out back, and a small orchard of apples and pears.”
“Mmmm.” He topped a slice of cheese with a dollop of her spiced chutney.
“Would you care for a glass of cognac?”
“Don’t tell me you also make wine?” he murmured.
“I assure you, this is far superior to any homemade brew, sir.” Valencia fetched a bottle from her stillroom and poured him a measure.
“This would put the cellars at White’s to blush,” he said after a small sip, “Smuggled?”
“Of course.” She nibbled at a morsel of bread. “Are you going to have me arrested?”
“No. I am going to have you refill my glass.”
Taking up her knife, Valencia pretended to eat while watching him out of the corner of her eye. There was an odd sort of domesticity to the scene. Against all reason, the marquess did not seem out of place in her tiny kitchen. The kettle was whistling softly on the stove, the lamp cast a mellow glow over the pine table. Anyone looking in through the mullioned window would take them for an old married couple . . .
“Ought we not be having a council of war, milord?” she demanded abruptly.
The spell was broken. He finished the last bite of mutton, then leaned back and sighed. “Yes, let us get down to business. First of all, we need transport to France.”
“I take it you have a rendezvous point in mind.”
He nodded. “St. Pierre Eglise.”
“Leave that to me,” said Valencia. “It will be easy to arrange. Then what?”
“The head of our operations in Normandy sent word that an American envoy from Washington is visiting relatives in Valognes before going on to Paris for talks on trade between the two countries.” Lynsley tugged at his cuff. “I do hope Tobias Tremaine and I are of the same size, as I will have to borrow his clothing as well as his persona.”
“Does Mr. Tremaine have a wife?” she inquired.
“I am not sure. This was rather a spur of the moment decision, so I am somewhat lacking in background information. It will, of course, be easy enough to find out.”
“You did not used to take such risks, milord.”
“In this case, I was given little choice.”
Valencia studied the grain of the tabletop for a moment. “And from there it is on to Paris?”
“Precisely.”
“What are we after?” She lifted her gaze “Aside from Pierre Rochambert’s head on a platter.”
“Put aside your emotions, Valencia. Our mission is far more important than taking revenge on one of the Emperor’s assassins. If you cannot accept that, tell me now and I will find my way back to London.”
“I understand, sir. My attempt at humor was ill-advised.”
Lynsley’s expression softened a touch. “I am merely asking you to understand that I am deadly serious about our ultimate goal. Nothing must interfere with our ability to think and act dispassionately. A great many lives may be saved if we do our job correctly.” He allowed a quirk of his lips. “As for humor, it is always an invaluable weapon in keeping things in perspective.”
Repressing a smile, she nodded. It struck her as slightly ironic that the inscrutable Lord Lynsley was lecturing her on humor. She could recall several instances in the distant past when her overexuberant spirits during Academy field maneuvers had earned her serious demerits. In fact, it was the marquess himself who had meted out a month of mucking the stables as punishment for placing a stink bomb in the artillery master’s gun box.
In the past, she had been carefree to a fault. Unlike now.
“Our goal?” she murmured, shaking off such reveries.
“To steal a coded scientific formula, along with a sample of the chemical concoction. We have recently learned that the French have gotten their hands on an ancient manuscript that spells out the makings of an explosive new substance—a potent weapon of destruction that ignites a fire resistant to water.”
Valencia’s eyes widened. “Good Lord, “ she whispered. “But that means our Navy would be?—”
“Helpless in the face of such a threat.” finished Lynsley. “Indeed. So now you understand why I could not say no when Bathurst asked me to handle the mission.”
What she also understood was how difficult and dangerous a mission this was going to be. He had yet to spell out the specifics but she had no illusions that gaining access to such a vital document was going to be easy.
Not with Pierre Rochambert standing guard over it.
That Lynsley had chosen to undertake the task himself, rather than send one of the woman warriors under his command made her regret her earlier sarcasm. Not that his action surprised her. Valencia swallowed hard. Deep down, she had always sensed he was a man of great compassion, as well as a man of honor and integrity.
“Having second thoughts?” he inquired softly. “I would not blame you in the least if you wish to reconsider.”
“On the contrary, I am even more determined to see this through.” She shot a glance at the clock atop her cupboard. “There are still several hours until the tide turns. Get some more rest, sir. I will go arrange our transportation.”
“Perhaps I should go with you?—“
“Not necessary,” she said brusquely. “In fact. I would rather handle the initial negotiations by myself.”
He lifted a brow. “You have contacts with the, er, right sort of people to sail to France without asking any questions.”
A smile spread over her face. “Lord Lynsley, as I own the only tavern in Maseline Harbor, I know every vessel and every sailor on this island, including those who would sail up the River Styx if the price was right. You will have your boat, sir. But it may cost you dear.”
His lips twitched. “May I start a tab? I assure you, I am good for the blunt.”
“Whitehall can also bloody well pay my expenses for hiring someone to run the place while I am away.”
“Agreed,” replied the marquess.
“I’ll be back shortly. Be ready to shove off.”
Valencia returned within the hour, having found her friend both willing and sober.
“It’s all arranged,” she murmured to Lynsley, who was stretched out on her sofa.
One eye opened in an instant, its clear, calm blue color caught in the flicker of moonlight. She doubted he been sleeping, though he looked remarkably refreshed for a man who had been fished from the violent seas only a day before.
“Excellent,” he murmured. “When do we shove off?”
“Now,” she replied. “There’s no time to waste. We have to meet our man in one of the south coves. It’s a half mile walk from here.”
He rose, wincing slightly.
“Will you manage?”
“A little stiffness is all—the ravages of old age.” he replied with a wry smile. “It will wear off in a trice.”
“I’ll just be a moment.” Ducking into her bedchamber, Valencia changed into a dark shirt and trousers.
Lynsley eyed the outfit as she reappeared and threw a black cloak over her shoulders. “Kept the old uniform?” he murmured.
“It comes in handy at times,” she said. Heading for the kitchen, she quickly filled a small canvas bag with food and drink. “Follow me.”
Beneath a dappling of pale moonlight they threaded through the woods behind her cottage, and found the narrow path skirting the cliffs. Valencia was grateful that Lynsley seemed content to travel in silence.
Everything had happened so quickly—she had yet to sort out her conflicting emotions. A part of her warned that she was a fool to be stepping back into the past. She had cobbled together a comfortable life for herself. Why risk losing all she had worked for?
And yet, a part of her was bubbling with excitement at the prospect of heading into battle.
The way became steeper, and she gave up trying to make sense of her decision. She would not think of the past or the future. Only the present.
“Watch this section of rocks, sir. The footing is treacherous.” Her own limp forced her to slow as she traversed the loose scree.
Behind her, the marquess moved with a cat-like stealth. Whatever his official duties, he clearly didn’t spend all his time behind a desk, she mused.
As they came closer to the small crescent beach, she signaled for him to stop and then scanned the surrounding rocks. Spotting a dark shape deep in the mizzled shadows of the cliffs, Valencia hurried down the last few steps. Despite his fondness for French brandy, Jack Durfee could always be counted on in a pinch.
Pebbles crunched underfoot as the fisherman and part-time smuggler stepped out from the shelter of the outcropping. In the scudding light, he looked to be cut from a solid block of granite, though like the stones, there were a few rough edges.
His voice for a start, which sounded like the jangling of rusty anchor chains.
Valencia answered his greeting, then gestured at Lynsley. “This is my friend, Tom.”
“In a spot ‘o trouble, are ye now, Tommy?” Jack gave a throaty chuckle. “Don’t worry mon. If anyone can steer ye clear o’ the revenue men and Home Fleet, it’s me.”
Lynsley did not bat an eye as a beefy hand clapped him on the shoulder. Returning the man’s grin, the marquess answered in the guttural slang of the Southwark slums.
Lud, thought Valencia. If the highborn heiresses of Mayfair could see him now—the polished, poised Lord Lynsley trading off-color quips with a fisherman who smelled of spirits and dead mackerel. No doubt they would all fall into a dead faint.
“I got wot ye asked for, Miss Val.” Jack passed over a small burlap sack. “It will cost something extra, though.”
She nodded. A quick glance inside showed the two naval pistols were the latest models.
“I threw in the power and bullets at no extra charge.”
“Thank you. I hope you did not run into any difficulty with Captain Taft and his men,” she said.
“Heh, heh, heh.” Jack’s laugh grew louder. “The crew is four sheets to the wind in yer tavern. The captain gave them a night’s liberty as reward fer catching O’Hanlon and his men.”
“Then maybe I shall be able to afford your exorbitant price,” she replied dryly.
“We all heard it’s you who deserve the credit,” he added.
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Jack. The account has likely become much exaggerated.” Valencia turned to the dingy floating in the surf. “Come on, we don’t want to miss the tide.”
“Right-o, Madam Val.”
She heard the rasp of another chuckle rise above the splashing water.
“She’s ain’t yer usual female, eh, Tommy?” went on her friend. “Tis a rare one could make the men of these waters take orders, but not many ‘o us would dare disobey.”
“Aye,” murmured Lynsley. “She is definitely a force to be reckoned with.”