Chapter Five
“ Y our note said to expect you two days ago.” The door opened a crack. “I was beginning to think the plan had been called off.”
Lynsley shaded his eyes from the beam of the lantern. “A spot of bad weather slowed me down. Sorry to be late.”
The head of his network in Normandy motioned for the marquess to step inside the abandoned shepherd’s shelter. As Valencia materialized from the mists, his brow shot up. “I was under the impression you were coming alone.”
“Change of plans, Jalet. Due to the storm, I had to improvise,” replied Lynsley. “Any trouble on your end?”
“No, everything went smoothly on this end. Our men had no trouble in waylaying the American consul’s coach on a deserted stretch of road outside of Cherbourg,” said Jalet. “Mr. Tremaine and his wife are now our guests at an isolated farmhouse near here, though I daresay they are none too happy about the change in their travel plans.” His mouth twitched faintly. “The accommodations are not quite as luxurious as those of the Mansion de Magret in Paris.”
“I’m afraid they will have to accept our hospitality for a fortnight longer, before boarding a schooner for Jamaica, courtesy of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. By the time they return to Washington and register an official complaint, our mission will have served its purpose.”
Jalet looked curious, but knew better than to ask any questions. “I’ve a hay cart waiting in the lane to take you to our guests. From there, the traveling coach is ready to depart whenever you are ready. I assume you are anxious to make up for lost time.”
“Correct.” Lynsley slanted a sidelong look at Valencia, wondering if he was setting too grueling a pace for her. Her face was drawn, and the shadow smudged beneath her eyes looked drawn in with charcoal. Quite likely she hadn’t slept since hauling him back from the dead.
She was already moving for the opening in the stones. “What are we waiting for? Let’s go.”
He would have to keep an eye on her and watch that she did not push herself too hard. Quite likely she would hike to hell and back on her bad leg if she thought it would bring her a measure of redemption. She had no need to prove anything to him.
But to herself . . .
Lynsley set his mouth in a grim line and hoped he had not made a grave mistake. Not that she had allowed him any choice. The mission demanded that he risk whatever was necessary to have a chance at success.
“Right. We have lost time to make up for.”
A bumpy ride over the winding track brought them to a whitewashed stone house and adjoining barns, set amid several acres of hayfields and apple orchards. Surrounding on all sides by rolling forestland, it was indeed far off the beaten path and unlikely to attract prying eyes.
“A good choice,” remarked Valencia, as she removed her cloak and shook the straw from her hair. The sun had now risen above the trees, showing a wisp of smoke curling up from the chimney. “I do hope we are in time for breakfast. I’m famished.”
Jalet grinned in Gallic appreciation as he caught a first look at her face and figure. “I shall have our cook make up a hearty repast, mademoiselle. Fresh eggs, smoked ham, warm baguettes and our famous Normandy cider.”
Lynsley felt his own stomach growl. “By all means, let us dine first, and then we shall greet our American guests.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Tremaine are not early risers, sir,” said Jalet. “But I shall inform them that their presence is requested in the parlor.”
They made quick work of the excellent meal while Jalet went off to arrange the interview. Lynsley was glad to see that a touch of color had returned to Valencia’s cheeks as she finished the last bite of buttered baguette and pushed back her plate.
“What do you intend to tell the consul?” she asked.
“Oh, I shall be very diplomatic,” he replied. “I shall?—”
A stentorian shout penetrated through stone and solid oak, indicating that Mr. Tremaine was in a different frame of mind.
“It is an outrage that you demand we come downstairs us at the ungodly hour! Once again, I demand to speak to the person who has perpetrated this vile kidnapping!”
“Americans tend to be rather grouchy before they have had their morning coffee.” The marquess rose. “Ready?”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” she replied. “I am curious to see you in action, sir.”
“Let the despicable dastard show his face,” continued the American in a loud bellow. “I should like to know who dares attack a diplomat here in France on official government business.”
Lynsley threw open the parlor door. “That would be me.”
His appearance elicited a gasp from the consul’s wife, a rather horse-faced lady with auburn hair and pale skin. Seeing Valencia in trousers and brandishing a pistol, she went several shades whiter and fell silent.
Lynsley didn’t blame the lady for looking afraid for her life. With his three day stubble, matted hair and coarse clothing, he no doubt resembled a cutthroat pirate.
Her husband, however, refused to be intimidated. “Release us at once, you rogue! I am a representative of the American government, and President Madison will be most displeased to hear of this incident.”
“If I were you, I would endeavor to speak a touch more civilly to my captors.” Lynsley smiled, but made a show of drawing the pistol from his waistband and checking the priming. “You are hardly in a position to be making threats.”
“D-d-do moderate your voice, Tobias,” stammered his wife. “I-I am sure this man will be willing to discuss the matter reasonably.”
“Hmmph!” Tremaine scowled. “I suppose you want a ransom?”
“Not at all, sir,” said Lynsley.
“Then what?”
“Why don’t you take off your coat, sir,” replied Lynsley politely. “You are looking a trifle warm.”
The American looked about to retort when his wife whispered, “Please, do as he says, Tobias.”
“Allow me to take it for you.” Lynsley held out his hand. “Quality fabric,” he remarked, rubbing the superfine wool between his fingers. “And excellent tailoring.” He set down his pistol and stripped off his knitted jumper. Slipping the garment over his ragged linen shirt, he smoothed at the lapels. “The sleeves are a touch short, but that can be mended.”
Dagget sputtered in outrage. “You mean to take my coat , sirrah?”
“And your hat.” Lynsley took up the elegant high crown beaver from the sideboard and tipped it low over one eye. “And the rest of your wardrobe as well. However, I shall be a gentleman and leave you your wife.”
The lady gave a little shriek.
“By god, you are no gentleman!” shouted Tremaine.
“Actually, he is,” said Valencia. “The Marquess of Carabas,” she added with a straight face, using the name of the make-believe hero in the fable ‘Puss In Boots.’”
The consul’s wife squinted in confusion through her lorgnette. “The man does not look like a titled?—”
“The man’s only title is that of a scurrilous thief!” Tremaine shook his fist. “I will see you hung for this, you scoundrel!”
“The only cravat I will be wearing is one of your freshly starched lengths of linen. Good day, Mr. Tremaine.” Lynsley inclined a courtly bow. “And you, madam. I regret to inform you that a good deal of your clothing will also be leaving with us. Your belongings will be returned . . . eventually. In the meantime, enjoy your stay in rural France. I do apologize that you will miss Paris. Perhaps next time.”
Retreating with a jaunty salute, he closed the door on a string of invectives. “A bit hot under the collar, isn’t he?”
Valencia regarded him with an odd stare.
“Come, while I gather up Mr. Tremaine’s credentials and clothing you must also pick out a wardrobe.” Turning for the stairs, he ran a hand over his bristly chin. “The coach and horses won’t be ready to leave for an hour or two, so in the meantime, I’ve ordered hot water to be brought up to both bedchambers. I don’t know about you, but for me, a bath would be most welcome.”
“Aye,” replied Valencia dryly as she fell in step behind him. “Perhaps when the layers of dirt and salt are washed away, Mrs. Tremaine would recognize the true nobility of your lordly person.”
“I devoutly hope not.” Lynsley wrinkled his nose. “Do I smell as bad as I look?”
“Worse.” She choked down a laugh as they hurried down the corridor. “That was really rather naughty of you ,sir.”
He grinned. “I daresay it was.”
This whimsical side of the solemn and serious Lord Lynsley was a real revelation. “You are truly finding all of this fun,” she said, slanting a sidelong look at his stubbled profile.
“Guilty as charged.” He did not look at all repentant.
“You’ve barely escaped death by drowning, you’ve nearly instigated another war with our former colonies, and you’ll be shot as spy if you make one slip in Paris.” She shook her head. “Most men would not find that remotely amusing.”
“One man’s poison is another man’s pleasure,” he answered with a faint smile.
Why did the marquess do what he did?
Valencia had often puzzled over the question. Not for money, that was for sure. His family fortune was said to be one of the largest in all of England. He could well afford to live a leisured life of pampered indulgence. Any whim, any desire satisfied at the snap of his fingers.
He did not appear to crave personal prestige or power either. By all accounts she had heard, Lynsley shunned attention, going out of his way to see that credit for his successes went to others.
She frowned. It was one thing for her, a penniless orphan, to accept such risks. She had learned at an early age that violence and deceit was a sordid reality of life. The Academy had given her a chance to fight against tyranny and injustice. Lynsley, on the other hand, had surely been shielded from any hardship by virtue of his wealth and rank.
The Marquess of Mystery , she thought wryly. Whatever his reasons, he kept them very private.
On entering Mrs. Tremaine’s bedchamber, Valencia quickly nudged such musings aside. The present challenge must take precedence over speculation on the marquess’s motivations.
From the adjoining room, she heard Lynsley directing Jalet’s men to begin packing up one of the trunks. The marquess was fortunate in that he and the consul were close to the same size and build. It was going to be trickier for her. Tremaine’s wife was shorter and stouter—and quite a bit more well-endowed in the chest.
Valencia made a face as she surveyed the dresses hanging in the painted armoire. “I may have to stick to trousers,” she muttered to herself, fingering the frothings of silk and lace. Her willowy figure—slim as a rapier, and just as flat—seemed better suited to boy’s garments than fancy ballgowns, she admitted with just a touch of regret.
Turning around, she found Lynsley regarding her with an oddly inscrutable look. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a purely pragmatic glance at the wardrobe. He moved to her side and quickly sorted through the garments.
Calling to Jalet, he asked, “Is there a local girl you can trust who is skilled with a needle and thread? It would be helpful if she could serve as a lady’s maid for part of the trip. I have sent word to London for one of my own people, but she and my valet won’t be meeting us until Caen.”
“As it happens, the owners of this place have a daughter who will be perfect for the job,” replied his agent. “I shall send her up directly and she can alter one of the traveling dresses while mademoiselle bathes.”
“She may have to be a magician,” quipped Valencia.
The marquess was already inspecting a seagreen gown of watered silk. “The hem of this one can be let down, and the bodice can be pinched in at the seams—a good two inches on either side should do the trick.”
She flushed slightly to think he had been measuring her chest against the American lady’s buxom bosom.
And quite accurately, she admitted.
“You appear to have a great deal of experience in sizing up women,” she muttered as Jalet headed for the stairs.
“In our line of work, one must have a sharp eye for detail,” he responded blandly.
She couldn’t argue with that. Tossing her cloak and pistol on the dressing table, she loosened the top fastening of her shirt. “I trust that scrutiny does not require you to remain here while I bathe.”
Lynsley let the sarcasm go over his head. He draped the dress over his arm with a small nod. “I’ll have the girl get to work on this. The hot water is here now. You need not rush. It will take some time for her to finish.”
Once she was alone, Valencia stripped off her salt-stiff garments and sunk into the suds with a sigh of relief. Steam curled up from the copper tub, redolent with the fragrance of the lavender soap. The warmth was soothing against her weary limbs. But beneath the soft caress, she was aware of a more uncomfortable heat.
Damn the man. Water sloshed over the sides as she tipped a pitcher of water over her head. Lynsley still aroused a tempest of conflicting emotions within her. Hot and cold, fire and ice. She had thought herself finally free of emotional extremes. Age had tempered her disillusionment, rubbed the rough edges off her doubts and her anger.
Or so she had thought.
Holding her breath, she sunk beneath the surface. No, she would not let him bring out the worst in her. Whatever her other faults, she would not allow him to think she had lost every last vestige of professionalism. Hell, she was still a Merlin in spirit if not in name.
And a Merlin did not snap like an ill-tempered shrew.
Especially as the marquess had meant nothing personal by his comment on her bosom. He had merely been expressing a practical observation. Valencia’s mouth quirked wryly as she rinsed the last of the soap from her hair. The marquess might just as well have been looking at melons or oranges.
A dispassionate devotion to duty.
She must match his discipline.
A long soak steeped some of the tension from her muscles. Feeling somewhat better for no longer reeking of dead crabs and rotting seaweed, she stepped from the tub and slowly toweled the water from her skin. Discipline , she repeated to herself, avoiding a glance at the jagged scar cutting across her thigh. She was here to settle an old score with Rochambert, not carp at Lynsley.
Not even in the deepest depths of despair had she ever thought he had deliberately meant to hurt her.
That she had been fallible, fragile was her fault, not his. So why was it so bloody hard to forgive and forget the past?
“ Pardon , mademoiselle , but I have finished the alterations on your gown.” A tentative voice sounded from the other side of the bathing screen. “Would you care to try it on now, in case there are any last-minute changes to make?”
Time to slip into her battledress, like a knight donning armor. Time to make herself impervious to pain.
“Yes, thank you.”
The rest of the hour passed in a flurry of activity. With Marie-Claire’s help, Valencia sorted through the rest of Mrs. Tremaine’s staggering assortment of clothing and chose a small trunkful of essentials. Lynsley had looked in just long enough to say that once they arrived in Paris, a more fitting selection of styles and colors could be ordered.
Whether he approved of the seagreen silk was impossible to discern—he did not seem to notice her change from trousers to skirts.
After seeing the luggage and temporary servants safely stowed in the baggage coach, Lynsley handed Valencia into the consul’s private barouche. Freshly shaved and attired in the American’s expensive clothes, he certainly looked like a distinguished diplomat, right down to the gold rimmed spectacles, which accentuated the patrician line of his nose.
“Bon voyage,” called Jalet as he signaled the coachman to spring the horses. “And bonne chance .”
Valencia slumped against squabs, gingerly drawing the soft wool lap robe over her knees. She hadn’t realized how exhausted she was until now. Since fishing the marquess out of the sea, she hadn’t had more than a few hours of sleep . . .
“Is you leg hurting you?” asked Lynsley quietly as he took the seat opposite her.
She gave a small shrug. “It sometimes acts up after a bout of prolonged exercise, but it’s nothing to be concerned about. It won’t slow me down, if that’s what you mean.”
He shifted to the oposite seat, then suddenly reached down and took her foot in his hands.
“Sir!” she squeaked as he slid off her slipper and began to massage her toes.
“From now on, you must call me Thomas.” His fingers moved lightly against her flesh, kneading her sole with long, lithe strokes. “After all, we are supposed to be an old married couple.”
She closed her eyes and leaned back. Lud, it was a heavenly sensation. Heat prickled along the length of her leg as he deepened his efforts. Slowly but surely, the throbbing pain in her thigh melted away under the sensual play of pressure. His well-tended hands were strong and capable. Hard and soft. Strangely enough, it did not feel like a contradiction.
Just a moment longer, she promised herself. Then she would tell him to stop.
A frisson of guilt tickled at her conscience—a whisper of warning that she should not be finding his touch so seductive. She shouldn’t allow such intimacy. The masquerade was just that—a sham, and she had best not get too comfortable with it.
“Mmmm.” Somehow her intended command came out as a drowsy purr. She gave a feline stretch and snuggled a bit deeper into the soft leather. Another turn of the carriage wheels, that was all. Then she would rouse from her naughty indulgence . . .
Valencia awoke some time later to find her head on Lynsley’s chest and his coat wrapped around her shoulders.
“Oh!” Flustered, she tried to pull away.
“I don’t bite,” murmured the marquess, keeping her snugged in the crook of his arm. “Or do I still have a whiff of dead flounder and fluke clinging to my person?”
She drew a breath for a tart reply, only to find herself distracted by the subtle spice of bay rum melded with a distinctly masculine scent, impossible to describe—save to say it was Him .
“Mr. Tremaine’s cologne is actually quite pleasant,” she managed to reply. “No hint of fish or rotting cabbage. Apparently the Americans are not quite the primitive savages our newspapers describe.”
Lynsley chuckled, his breath stirring the strands of hair by her ear. “Civility does not make for front page copy. The public wants to read about murder, scandal and disasters. Not necessarily in that order.”
Her lips twitched. The marquess possessed just the dry sort of humor she liked. “I’m afraid I can’t argue with you on that.”
“That would be a first,” he murmured.
“I did give you a hard time during my school days, didn’t I,” she mused. “Though to be truthful, all of us girls were frightened of you . . .”
His brows shot up in surprise.
“Of disappointing you, that is,” she quickly added. “We knew how much you believed in us, and we never wanted to let you down. Even though the Academy is sequestered from the outside world, it was well-known that people thought you were crazy to put your trust in a band of rag-tag orphans from the London stews.
Lynsley made a wry face. “That is putting it politely.”
Valencia smiled, then suddenly felt compelled to ask, “Why did you do it, sir? Found the Academy, I mean.”
When he didn’t answer right away, she thought he meant to ignore the question. But after a stretch of silence, he responded.
“Sometimes one has to step outside the boundaries of conformity to achieve real change.” Though his expression remained impassive, his voice seemed to warm to the subject. “I read a book on Hasan-I-Sabah, a Muslim caliph who raised a secret society of warriors at his mountain citadels. His men were known for their deadly skills and fanatic loyalty. The caliph used them only in times of dire danger to his rule, and legend had it they never failed on a mission. The very name Hashishim —or Assassins—was enough to strike terror in the heart of the Master’s enemy.”
He paused. “It got me to thinking . . .”
“For a staid aristocrat, you have some very revolutionary ideas. It’s a wonder they didn’t march you off to Bedlam.”
“More than one Minister was sorely tempted to have me committed,” he replied with a wry smile. “But in the end, I convinced the government to give us an old estate that was being used as cavalry pastures. I pay all the operating expenses out of my own pocket, and Mrs. Merlin oversees the day-to-day administration.”
“No wonder part of our basic training stressed that we should never be afraid of taking a bold initiative if we were sure we were right. Even if it meant risking a few demerits.”
Lynsley smiled. “You were never afraid of challenging me, that’s for sure.”
Recalling some of her youthful transgressions, Valencia couldn’t help but grimace. “I was a rebellious little hellion at times, wasn’t I? Considering how often I provoked a clash of wills, I’m surprised you didn’t drum me out of the service.”
He considered her words for a moment before answering, “You had a hair-trigger temper and a certain streak of stubbornness. But they were far overshadowed by your indomitable courage and code of honor. You held yourself to a higher standard that I ever did.” Shadows fell across his face as the carriage wheels bumped over the rutted road. The scudding shapes clouded his eyes, concealing all but a flicker of brooding introspection.
Was he, too, second-guessing those past decisions? she wondered.
“I always believed that in the moment of truth, you would do the right thing,” he finished.
Right. Or wrong. There was no room for error. In their world, life came down to split-second decisions.
“Sorry to have let you down, ” she snapped.
So much for her recent resolve to remain even-tempered. The reminder, however oblique, of her shortcoming was like setting a match to tinder.
The old anger flared to flames inside her.
“God knows, it isn’t often that the Almighty Lord Lynsley makes an error in judgment,” she added.
His arm tightened around her. “You didn’t let me down, Valencia,” he replied, ignoring her sarcasm. “If anything, it is the other way around.”
Her eyes widened in surprise.
“I should have anticipated that an agent as experienced as Rochambert would have doubled back to make sure that his man was not being followed,” he said softly. “I should have sent in reinforcements.”
“ I should have been more alert. I was careless and overconfident. I let down my guard.”
“Valencia . . .”
She finally freed herself from his arms and slid across the seat. “Please, I thought we had agreed not rehash the past. We have enough to worry about in our future.” Smoothing at her skirts, she was horrified to see her hands were trembling. Fisting the folds of the blanket, she yanked it over her legs, hoping to cover her weakness with a flurry of fury.
“Damn it, I don’t need you to remind me that my last mission ended in a woeful dereliction of duty. It will not happen again.”
She had forgotten how breathtakingly blue his eyes looked in a certain shade of light. Like slivers of aquamarine, reflecting a myriad of subtle facets—pure, polished, perfect.
And piercing as razored steel.
Lynsley held her gaze for an instant longer before reaching over for the extra blanket folded on the seat. “It looks like we are in for a spot of rain. You may need this to ward off the chill.”
“Thank you,” she muttered, uncomfortably aware of how ungracious she sounded. “Now, if you don’t mind, I am going to try to get some sleep. We have a long road ahead of us.”