Chapter Six
L ynsley peered out the windowpane as the coach rumbled over the cobblestones. The setting sun shimmered off the slow-moving current of the Seine, and in the distance, the soaring stone spires of Notre Dame cathedral shone pure as polished alabaster against the pale pink skies. The City of Light. There was an aura of enchantment about Paris. Like a supremely sensual woman, its sinuous streets, its pungent perfumes, its sultry sounds seduced the senses.
A promise of pleasure.
And pain.
As if he needed any reminder of the dangers. He must remain impervious to her charms.
A glance at Valencia showed her face pressed up against the glass, watching with undisguised enchantment as they approached the Pont Neuf. Her presence only added to the awareness that he was walking on a razor’s edge. The slightest slip would be deadly.
After the first flare of conflict, the rest of the journey from Normandy had passed without further fireworks. He and Valencia had been scrupulously polite to each other, but a subtle tension crackled beneath every exchange. Rather than allow it to distract him, he must find a way to turn it to his advantage.
A beautiful young wife, at odds with her older husband. Pierre Rochambert was a notorious womanizer and might very well find such a scenario tempting.
As for his own feelings about using Valencia as bait . . .
His personal emotions were irrelevant in light of the mission. Duty demanded dispassionate decisions. He, of all people, knew that was the cardinal rule of espionage.
Leaning back, Lynsley resumed reading over Tremaine’s documents.
“Anything else I should know?” asked Valencia.
“Not at the moment,” he replied, not looking up from the papers. “A elegant residence has been leased for us off rue St. Germaine. Perkins and Bailin will have us settled in by evening.”
In the port city of Caen, the rendezvous with the two agents sent from London had gone off without a hitch. His usual team of valet and lady’s maid was on assignment elsewhere, but given McAllister’s distinctive Scottish accent, the pair he had chosen was better suited for the job. Both were Americans by birth, and their knowledge of the country and its customs would be invaluable in maintaining the masquerade, especially for Valencia.
“Tomorrow I shall present my credentials to the Emperor’s Foreign Ministry,” continued Lynsley. “And then we shall make a show of strolling the boulevards and visiting the fashionable shops. You must order a number of gowns and accessories—a diplomat’s wife would be eager to appear dressed in the latest styles.”
“Shopping,” she muttered with considerably less enthusiasm than most females.
His lips twitched. “It’s quite crucial to our charade.”
“Of course.” She tugged at the fringe of her shawl. “Speaking of our charade, sir, how can you be sure that you won’t be recognized as an imposter by the other American diplomats?”
“The American delegation is currently away in the south of France, for talks on how to deal with the Barbary pirates.”
She looked surprised. “How is it that you always seem to know so much about all that goes on in the world?”
“It’s my business to be informed.”
She considered his reply for a moment. “Still, it’s more than likely that there are other Americans here in Paris who are acquainted with the real Tobias Tremaine.”
“Yes, you have a point,” agreed the marquess. “I have been thinking about that problem.”
He rubbed at his jaw. Growing out his side whiskers had already subtlely altered the shape of his face. And his hair was several shades lighter, thank to the potions and chemicals brought from London by his valet.
“I have some expertise in the art of disguise,” he went on. “But given all the other variables in this assignment, I’d rather not have to worry about assuming another man’s appearance every day.” Taking up the top document, Lynsley passed it to her.
Valencia read it over slowly. “How did you manage this without Whitehall’s resources at your fingertips?”
“My skills at forgery are fairly well honed,” he replied. “Bailin brought along the basic tools of the trade. I always like to be prepared.”
She took another look at the thick parchment. “So, we are now Mr. and Mrs. Thomas Daggett.”
“I am not overly fond of the name Tobias,” he murmured. “The actual Thomas Daggett is a wealthy merchant from the state of Connecticut who has handled some minor trade matters for the American government last year. I’ve created an additional document, which explains that a sudden illness prevented Tremaine from making the voyage. We won’t be here long enough for any inquiry to be made, should someone question the substitution.”
“Ah.” Her tone was neutral. “And what, pray tell, is the moniker I should go by?”
“Whatever you like. The real Mrs. Daggett is named Elizabeth, but a man may call his wife by a pet name.”
“Then let us stick as close to the truth as possible,” she said. “I shall introduce myself as Valencia, saying I prefer to go by my middle name, as it is more interesting than plain Elizabeth.”
She traced a finger over the thick wax seals and ribbons affixed to the document. His special mixtures of solvent and glue had allowed him to transfer the originals to the forgery without leaving a trace of the tampering.
“My grandmother was Spanish,” she continued, embellishing the explanation. “She lived on the Caribbean island of Hispanola when she met my grandfather, a rich American ship captain. A touch of Latin blood will explain my fiery temperament.”
“Excellent,” said Lynsley. “To play a role effectively, one must create a convincing persona.”
A tinge of color ridged her cheekbones. “I haven’t forgotten my basic training, sir. The art of deception is one of the first lessons we learn at the Academy.”
Damn. She seemed determined to read criticism into every word or gesture he made. “Then I need not remind you that from here on in, you must call me Thomas, not sir.”
She allowed a tight smile. “Ah, but as a much younger bride, I am still rather in awe of you, and your august government position.”
“Touché.” Lynsley gave a wry chuckle. “Shall I assume a cane and a senile shuffle?”
A flash of humor lit in her eyes. “The spectacles are enough of a concession to age. By the by, are they real?”
“No, my sight is still sharp enough without magnifying lenses,” he replied, looking over the top of the gold wire frames. “At the risk of ruffling your feathers again, querida , let me remind you to keep your own eyes open at all times. So far, we haven’t really been tested. That is about to change.”
“Is all in order, madam?”
Valencia swept another look around the bedchamber, taking in the sumptuous furnishings and decorative objets d‘art . Despite their revolutionary fervor, Parisians still loved their decadent pleasures, she observed with a sardonic smile. The opulent damask draperies, the gilt-trimmed furniture, the carved canopied bed—all of it would have been right at home in the splendor of the Sun King’s palace.
“Yes. Thank you, Perkins,” she replied. “Though I fear my meager wardrobe looks rather lost in that armoire.” Indeed, the painted piece looked bigger than her cottage, and the handful of gowns purloined from Mrs. Daggett hung like woeful waifs in its shadows.
How fitting , thought Valencia, seeing as she was an urchin invading a world of pomp and privilege.
“That will soon be rectified, madam,” replied her maid. “Mr. Daggett says we are to make a shopping expedition on the morrow, and begin ordering a more fitting array of items for a diplomat’s wife. Evening gowns, day dresses, bonnets, fans, gloves . . .”
A sigh slipped from Valencia’s lips, along with a low oath, as the maid continued rattling off the list of essentials. Damn. One would think they were equipping a bloody army, rather than one lone foot soldier.
It had been a long time since she had studied the fashions of the beau monde . Her knowledge of styles was sadly out of date. The one saving grace was that an American was expected to have no fashion sense.
Perhaps she could ask Lynsley.
After all, the marquess moved within the highest circle of Society in London. No doubt his prodigious knowledge included keeping au courant with the latest looks for ladies.
She fingered the ruffled bodice of her borrowed carriage dress. Indeed, the odds were, he was intimately familiar with every little thing that a wealthy lady wore. He was rich, he was titled, he was handsome. Gentlemen of his rank had their pick of unhappy wives to dally with, along with their expensive mistresses . . .
Valencia shut the armoire door with a tad more force than was necessary. Lynsley’s love life was none of her concern.
“How the devil am I to decide whether mutton sleeves or bouffant sleeves are currently in vogue?” she added under her breath.
Perkins cleared her throat with a discreet cough. “If I may make a suggestion, madam.”
“You need not stand on ceremony with me when we are in private,” she replied. “I prefer plain speaking.”
“Very good, madam.” The maid certainly appeared a no-nonsense woman. She was a rail-thin and middle-aged, with angular features that would never be called pretty. Her mouse brown hair was scraped back in a tight bun, its unremarkable color reflected in the taupe and grey shades of her dress.
In short, a figure easy to overlook, which was no doubt by design. Valencia didn’t miss the alertness in the woman’s hazel eyes.
“As part of my job, I am expected to keep up with all the latest fashion trends,” went on Perkins. “I shall be happy to offer advice, but there is an even easier way to conquer the problem.”
Valencia raised a questioning brow.
“We need only learn who is the most exclusive modiste in town, and then ask her to outfit you for making the rounds of the haute monde ,” explained the maid. With her shop’s reputation at stake, the woman will personally oversee every stitch of the way, from the choice of fabric and style, right down to the last ribbon and flounce.”
“An excellent plan of attack, Perkins.” Valencia gave herself a mental kick for not thinking of it herself. “Thank you.”
“Yes, madam.” The maid allowed a faint smile to soften the set of her mouth. It was gone in an instant, replaced by a rigid correctness. “Shall I help you unlace your gown?”
“No. I shall manage on my own tonight.”
“Very good, madam.” Bobbing a curtsy, Perkins let herself out of the room.
Valencia took a seat at the dressing table and began to brush out her hair. The exchange had been a disquieting reminder that her Academy skills had grown dull from disuse, especially those having to do with playing the part of a grand lady. She sighed, and the sudden flare of the candlelight caught the flicker of doubt on her face.
Did she still have the mettle to be a Merlin?
Averting her gaze from the looking glass, she tugged the bristles through her hair. In the past, no challenge had been too daunting . . .
Her chin rose, her spine stiffened as her fingers touched the tiny tattoo above her breast. “I can still rise to the occasion,” she whispered.
Crossing the carpet, Valencia undressed and slipped into the silk wrapper that Perkins had laid out on the bed. Though tired from the long day of travel, she found herself too restless to turn down the coverlet just yet. Instead, she drifted around the large room, pausing to inspect the Limoges figurines on the sidetable and the ormolu clock on the mantel.
Her steps slowed as she came to the paneled door that connected her set of rooms to Lynsley’s suite. Pressing her palms to the polished oak, she went very still. For a moment there was naught but the sound of her own breathing, and then she heard a whisper of movement.
Listening hard, Valencia could just make out the light tread of bare feet on the Aubusson carpet.
So, like her, the marquess had not yet retired for the night.
Was he also naked beneath a robe of thin silk? Perhaps he was headed toward the hearth, intent on enjoying a last glass of port before seeking his bed. Earlier in the day, she had caught a glimpse of an upholstered armchair in his room, perfect for stretching his legs out toward the fire . . .
Her cheeks began to burn.
Don’t go there , Valencia warned herself. What strange flight of fancy had her thoughts straying to such intimate images of Lord Lynsley at leisure?
For God’s sake, the man was a paragon of propriety—he probably slept in his starched shirt and faultlessly folded cravat.
And yet, his quip from her cottage kept echoing in the back of her mind.
I sleep in the nude.
The words were teasing. Tantalizing. She squeezed her eyes shut, but could not keep an enticing image from taking shape. She had seen enough of his body to know that the chiseled contours of his chest were all muscle, and the sleek stretch of his shoulders tapered to a lean waist and . . .
A nice arse.
Bloody hell . Valencia was tempted to pound her forehead against the door until something cracked—preferably her own rebellious imagination, rather than the oak. Maybe a few solid smacks would knock some sense through her skull. To entertain such erotic thoughts, even for an instant, was the kiss of death. There was only one reason she had come to Paris, and it was not to fantasize about Lynsley’s lordly charms.
She backed away, cursing her own weakness of the flesh. It had been a long time—apparently far too long a time—since she had enjoyed any intimacies with a man. The enforced closeness with a virile specimen of the opposite sex was stirring the strangest desires.
But a Merlin must always be disciplined and dispassionate. Come morning, she would martial her wayward longings and keep her thoughts in line.
The next morning, after an early morning stroll through the narrow streets of their quartier, Lynsley attired himself in Mr. Tremaine’s most elegant set of clothing and came down to breakfast.
“Just toast and coffee,” he informed the servant standing by the sideboard.
The American government had arranged for the mansion to come staffed with local servants. A cook, two footmen and three maids, according to his valet. Bailin could be counted on to keep a close eye on household. Still, they would all have to be discreet in their discussions. Despite the fact that France and America were allies, the Parisian authorities had likely planted an informant to listen for any interesting information.
On second thought, he would have Bailin see to hiring a new staff. They, too, would likely be bribed, but not for a while.
As he sat down, he noted that Valencia’s place was untouched. The trip had been tiring and the afternoon was going to be a whirlwind of activity, what with dress fittings and numerous stops to choose a stylish array of accessories. It was good that she was catching up on her sleep.
As for his own slumber, he had passed a fitful night. Strange dreams, and the prickling sensation of being watched. But that was only natural. Nerves were always stretched taut at the start of a mission. Their arrival in Paris meant that the real challenge was just beginning.
Signaling to the footman, Lynsley called for his valet. “Bailin,” he said loudly. “Have the carriage brought around. I mean to present myself to the Minister of American Affairs and Commerce this morning. Leave word for my wife that I shall return in time for her shopping excursion.”
“Very good, sir.” The valet held out an ebony walking stick and high crown beaver hat. “Shall I arrange a visit to a tailor for you as well, sir, in order to replace the trunk of clothing lost during the voyage.”
“Yes,” he replied. That should explain their lack of luggage to curious eyes. “I shall need more than what I possess right now to make the proper impression on our hosts.”
It was only a short ride from his residence to the French Ministry. Lynsley stepped smartly from this carriage and marched up the steps, ignoring the shouts of the startled guards. Americans were, after all, were known to be unintimidated by pomp and protocol.
“Monsieur! S’il vous plait . . .”
Deciding that the man who emerged from the front office looked important enough to notice, Lynsley came to a halt. “Daggett,” he announced brusquely, waving his credentials in front of the fellow’s nose. “Representing President Madison. I assume you are expecting me. Indeed, I would have been here days ago, but the roads in Normandy are even worse than the cart tracks of Connecticut. Are they always that bad?”
“Er, yes, monsieur. That is, no, monsieur.” Flustered, the man eyed the packet of papers as if it were a rattlesnake.
“Well, don’t just stand there, sir. Inform Mr. Levalier that I am here, and ready to begin our talks.
“Er . . .”
Lynsley repeated the request in execrable French.
“No need to shout, Monsieur Daggett. I understand English.”
“Then what is the problem?” demanded Lynsley.
“Monsieur Levalier is presently in a meeting with a minister from the Palais de Justice. If you would care to wait in my office, I shall tell his
secretary—”
“I don’t care for it at all,” he interrupted. “But I suppose I shall have to cool my heels for the present.” Lynsley allowed himself to be ushered into a small, wood-paneled room and promptly assumed the chair behind the desk. “Now, run along. I haven’t got all day.”
“ Oui , monsieur,” muttered the man as he shut the door with a snap.
Lynsley allowed a twitch of his lips. Mr. Daggett was fast on his way to earning a reputation for boorish behavior. A fact that suited his purposes nicely. No one would wonder that his lovely young wife found Frenchmen considerably more charming.
His smile quickly thinned to a grim line. If only he could find a way to avoid involving Valencia in this dangerous deception. But no amount of pacing the previous night had led him to an alternative plan. Rochambert had a weakness for beautiful women. And so, duty demanded that he exploit the advantage—no matter his own personal feelings on the matter.
Loath though he was to admit it, Valencia was going to be a powerful weapon against the Frenchman. Her sultry looks, her shapely body gave him an edge in the deadly game of cat and mouse. She would serve as a distraction.
Drawing a deep breath, he forced his jaw to unclench. A distraction. Such things did not usually concern him. Over the years, he had learned how to discipline both mind and body to the rigorous demands of his job. The sense of single-minded purpose had become second nature.
Until now.
Strangely enough, this mission had stirred a more primal passion. One that might be far more dangerous than gunpowder or steel.
Perhaps Mrs. Merlin had been right to warn him about allowing an assignment to become too personal. It was, after all, one of the first tenets they drummed into their students. Emotion was the greatest enemy of all.
“Monsieur Daggett.”
Sharpening his scowl, Lynsley looked up.
“Monsieur Levalier will see you now.” Apparently the first administrator had had quite enough of the obnoxious American, for it was a young clerk who stood nervously in the doorway. “Please follow me.”
“Hmmph. It’s about time.”
Backing up quickly, the clerk led the way down the marbled corridor and up a flight of stairs.
“Ah, Monsieur Daggett.” Levalier rose from his massive desk and came forward to greet him. “Pardon, pardon for making you wait, sir. Allow me to offer you some refreshments. The perhaps you would care to present yourself to our Foreign Office and receive an official greetings.”
Lynsley gave a brusque bow. “I prefer not to stand on ceremony, sir. I’ve already been delayed in my travels. If you don’t mind, I should rather get down to business.”
“But of course.” Levalier gestured for him to have a seat. Everything about the minister was soft—his fleshy hands, his silky voice, his pomaded curls, his superfine coat. Everything save for his razored smile.
Lynsley reminded himself not to underestimate the man. Napoleon was known for choosing men based on their ability, not their birth.
“Seeing as all looks to be in perfect order, there is no reason to waste your time in formalities,” went on Levalier. He refolded the Lynsley’s documents without a second glance. “I shall have my secretary take care of all the perfunctory paperwork.”
“Excellent,” replied Lynsley. “President Madison is anxious to reach an accord on the trade of goods between our two countries.”
“As is the Emperor, Monsieur Dagget.,” said the minister.
“Speaking of which, how goes his Eastern campaign? I heard rumblings in Caen that the Imperial army was in full retreat from Russia. Is it true that he is headed back to Paris?”
Levalier’s smile turned a tad pinched. “War often requires a shift in strategy. Our Emperor is a master tactician. I assure you, there is nothing to worry about.”
“I devoutly hope not. But can’t you do something about the Peninsula? The British are becoming a cursed nuisance, especially that pesky fellow, Wellesley.”
“Marmont will deal with Wellesley,” said the minister tightly. “One sometimes suffers small setbacks in the course of a campaign.” He paused. “Has your capital recovered from the British invasion? We heard that the redcoat forces torched much of the city, including your White House.”
“Bloody British,” muttered Lynsley. “The sooner this interminable war is over, the better.”
“Indeed, indeed.” Levalier recovered his composure. “It soon will be.”
Deciding that he had been irritating enough for the moment, Lynsley polished his spectacles on his sleeve and then took several sheets of paper from his coat pocket. “I have made a short list of the topics my government would like to discuss?—“
Levalier interrupted him with a low laugh. “My dear Monsieur Daggett, much as I admire your work ethic, it will be at least a few days before we can begin our discussions.”
“Why the delay?” he grumbled.
“I must arrange the schedule with my other colleagues, and that will take time.” He gave a Gallic shrug. “What is your hurry? You are in Paris, non ? Why not enjoy all of the sumptuous splendors that our city offers.”
“Hmmph,” Lynsley pulled a face. “My wife will no doubt be delighted to do as you say. She talks of nothing but French fashion and fripperies.”
“We Parisians are renowned for our sense of style.”
“And my wife is renowned for her ability to spend money like a drunken sailor.” He flicked a mote of dust from his sleeve. “I suppose that is the price one pays for marrying a bewitching beauty. Still, it is not always easy to keep her amused.”
As he had hoped, Levalier looked intrigued by the mention of an attractive lady. “Well, we must see to it that your wife—and you—are not bored during your stay here. There is a party tonight at Monsieur Dubouffet’s mansion off rue de Rivoli. The crème de la crème of Paris will be there. I hope you will join us.”
“Thank you. I daresay we shall,” said Lynsley after a brief hesitation.
“I look forward to meeting Madame Daggett. She sounds like a lady who can bring a man to his knees.”
“That she can,” murmured the marquess. “That she can.”