A License to Wed: Rebellious Brides (4 page)

She swallowed down her distaste. “You mentioned a proposition,” she prompted politely.

“I propose an exchange of sorts.” He took a hearty bite of buttered eggs. “I give you the girl and you secure the information I desire.”

She frowned, at first not comprehending his meaning. “The girl?” Her heart started to race. “Do you speak of Susanna? Have you found my daughter?”

He chewed on a small, flat sausage. “Yes.”

“Where is she?” She gripped his thick forearm, cautious joy kindling in her heart. “When can I see her?”

It had been four months since she’d learned the miraculous news that the child lived. She’d always believed Susanna had perished at birth, but Moineau
―
a longtime friend of her late husband’s—had come to her shortly after her release with news the girl had been stolen at birth. Elle didn’t know precisely what Moineau’s connections were, but the Frenchman was known to have an admirable network of informants at all levels of Paris society.

The revelation illuminated just how defective she was. Any decent mother would have intuited that her child was alive. She obviously lacked the most basic maternal instincts. Nothing else could explain why she’d failed Susanna so miserably, allowing her to spend her entire young life with strangers, people who might be mistreating her at this very moment.

She might not be much of a mother, but Elle was determined to put things to rights as much as she could. She’d cultivated a friendship with Duret, believing his vast resources as a powerful police ministry official could help find her daughter. And now it seemed her calculation had been a wise one.

“I do, in fact, know where the girl is.” His fork scraped against his plate. “But before you see her, you must deliver something of value to me.”

“Done.” She knew he’d never give her anything free of obligation. “You have only to name it.”

“I expect you to use your unique appeal to identify and seduce a foreign operative who is of high interest to the French republic.”

She blinked and sat back in her chair. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,” he said easily. “Very much so. We have information that the British have planted one of their best agents among us. We have long sought to unmask the elusive spymaster known as
Le Rasoir.
”

“The Razor?” She shook her head, incredulous. “A rather cryptic sobriquet, don’t you think?”

“An accurate one, regrettably. His operations are conducted with perfect precision. From our understanding,
Le Rasoir
has never lost a fellow agent on a mission, and no innocents have been sacrificed in his quest to accomplish his goals. Yet he is lethal when challenged and has bested many of our agents with nothing but his bare hands.”

“So he only murders fellow spies?” she said. “Such a paragon.”

“We’ve narrowed the suspect down to a gentleman who has recently come to Paris. You will entertain him with the purpose of unveiling him as
Le Rasoir.
” He sipped his coffee. “You are to become his mistress, earn his trust, learn what his current mission is, and report back to me.”

She couldn’t believe he was serious. “Even if I were to agree, how could I possibly know anything about unmasking a spy?”

He shrugged. “Tempt him into your bed without delay. The male of the species is most accommodating once their lust has been satisfied.”

“It’s a preposterous plan.” The words were cool, even as panic drummed in her chest. What would become of Susanna if she failed to do Duret’s bidding? “I know nothing of intrigue and, according to you, even your best men cannot find this Razor person you seek.”

“But you are not a man.” A smug expression settled over his face. “Men have a weakness for alluring women, and you are more enchanting than most.”

“I am not that alluring,” she said tartly.

“Do not underestimate your charms.” He took a big gulp of coffee. “Besides, an agent of the Crown will find it easier to share confidences with the daughter of one of England’s most revered statesmen.”

Dread shivered down her spine. They’d selected her to entrap the Razor due to her high-ranking family. But would a man known for his slyness relax his guard solely because of her conection to the upper reaches of power in England? Surely, her friendly acquaintance with Duret would put any English representative worth his salt on his guard.

“Even if I were to consider such a tawdry endeavor, how can I be assured you have found my daughter?” But as she asked, she knew he had. It fit with what Moineau had revealed—that her baby had been spirited away by someone at the highest levels of government.

“I did not exactly find her,” Duret said.

“I don’t take your meaning.”

“What I mean to say,
cheri,
is that I didn’t
find
her because I’ve had her all along.”

She inhaled her shock. “How is that possible?”

“As soon as you birthed the babe, she was delivered into the hands of one of my factors.”

“For what purpose?” Disbelief rippled through her. All these months—all these
years
—Duret had been the one holding her daughter? “Why would you steal my child from me?”

“I surmised the granddaughter of the great Marquess of Aldridge could one day be of great use to us, a valuable bargaining chip to extract a favor from a nobleman who is privy to all of England’s secrets.” His eyes gleamed. “Aldridge’s devotion to his family is well known. As a loving grandfather, he could be expected to bend to Napoléon’s will in exchange for his granddaughter’s freedom.”

She exhaled as the meaning of his words sank in. “You thought to use my child to make my father a traitor to his own country.”

“Exactament.”
He motioned for his man to bring him more coffee. “However, there has been a slight change in plans. Instead of the grandfather, the child’s mother will help orchestrate
Le Rasoir
’s demise.”

She forced air into her frozen lungs, watching blindly as Jean Paul came forward to refill his master’s cup. The Razor was obviously an asset to England, and she was being asked to facilitate his ruin. “You expect me to whore myself and conspire against my country in exchange for my child?”

“Yes indeed.” He wiped the plate with his toast, soaking up the last bits of juice. “You take my meaning perfectly.”

“Where has my daughter been all this time?” Her heart ached at the thought of the little girl she’d never met left to the mercy of strangers. “What have you done with her?”

He tossed the final remnant of toast into his mouth and licked his fingers. “She is with a genteel family in the country, where she has been well looked after.”

As the shock wore off, fury and outrage began to take root. She clasped her hands together in her lap, resisting the urge to launch herself at him and gouge his eyes out. “And if I refuse?”

“Do you know how much pretty little virgins sell for in the House of Venus?”

She shot him a horrified look. Duret was capable of this, and worse.

“More even than your admirer paid for the pleasure of your company last evening.” He pushed the now-empty plate away from him and reclined back in his chair with his coffee. “Your little Susanna is how old now? Almost six,
n’est-ce pas
? Reports are that she is a very pretty and precocious child. The price for her innocence would be very high indeed.”

“Surely even you aren’t capable of doing something so awful.”

“I wouldn’t even think of it.” He sipped from his hot drink. “But for some men, such a thing is to their taste, and there are establishments that are known to cater to their desires.”

She thought of the vile bawd’s house frequented by Duret. The idea that children could be one of the peculiar sexual tastes Sophie had referred to prompted bile to rise through her stomach and into her throat. She reached for her water glass with trembling hands and brought it to her lips, swallowing the cool liquid slowly to settle her nausea.

“Your daughter’s future is entirely in your hands now.” He quieted for a moment, concentrating as he tugged hard on each of his fingers, methodically cracking his knuckles one at a time, the popping sounds punctuating the silence. “Should you fail in your duty to France, you would be the one subjecting the child to so dire a fate.”

Rage pulsed in her veins, and the impulse to cause him grievous injury gripped her. She ran a light finger over the innocent-looking knife she’d used to spread jam on her toast, tracing the handle’s ornate rococo style pattern. The polished silver was cool to the touch, the shiny blades almost pristine, except for the traces of jam and crumbs. She wondered how far she would have to ram it into his eye to reach his brain. Was it even possible? “So my choice is either to become a whore or allow you to make one of my child.”

“
Exactement
.”

She tried to think rationally. The idea of spying against England, the home she loved, was unthinkable. But she was a mother before all else—if a woman who’d never held her child in her arms could be considered a true mother. Her throat constricted, and the familiar blanket of guilt and self-loathing for having failed her daughter settled over her. Duret might pretend to be giving her an option, but Elle had no choice in the matter.

She turned to him. “Who is this gentleman you wish for me to seduce secrets from? How would I make myself known to him without arousing suspicion?”

He chuckled. “That is the beauty of it, my dear. You already know him quite well.”

A sense of foreboding shivered up her spine. “I do?”

“
Absolument!
It is Monsieur Naismith, and you will do whatever is required to learn his secrets. All for the greater glory of France.”

“Will Naismith?”
It was so absurd, laughter burst from her chest. “A secret agent?”

His salt-and-pepper brows lifted. “Your mission amuses you?”

“It’s your supposition that Mr. Naismith could be a spy that I find entertaining.”

Sipping his coffee, he regarded her with the glassy stare that belied his irritation. “Granted, there is much we still don’t know, however—”

“I would say there is a great deal you have no knowledge of if you think Will Naismith, of all people, is a spy.” She laughed again, even though doing so would further aggravate his distemper. She couldn’t help herself; the very idea was too ridiculous.

When Will had visited them in Dorset long ago on school breaks, his nose had always been buried in one book or another, and her brother, Cosmo, had endlessly teased his scholarly friend for his complete lack of interest in athletic pursuits; he’d practically had to drag Will away from his studies to go riding or carousing. “The gentleman you speak of is a scholar who pursues one useless old coin after another.”

“Naismith is a clerk at the Home Office in London. While in Paris, he spends a great deal of time with Lucian Verney, who is attached to the embassy here.”

“Mr. Verney?” She recalled the dignified, dark-haired gentleman who’d been with Will and Monsieur D’Aubigne last night. “You suspect him as well?”

“Given their situations, both men would have access to important information. Perhaps there is an official connection between Verney and
Le Rasoir
. It is for you to discover.”

Elle had no idea what Verney did at the embassy, but she’d met many clerks in her time, primarily through her father’s work in the House of Lords. Most of them were lackluster types best suited to taking copious notes and following orders. “Mr. Naismith is just a clerk. I cannot imagine a clerk having access to important information. Especially not Will. The very idea is laughable.”

“Enough!” Duret’s fleshy palm slammed down hard on the wooden tabletop, which shuddered under the assault. “Do you accept my conditions?”

“Yes.” What else could she do? Susanna needed her, and she wouldn’t abandon her daughter again. Besides,
Le Rasoir
sounded like a man who could fend for himself. It was laughable to suggest she posed any sort of viable threat to an elusive English spy. “However, I won’t agree to be made a whore. I shall befriend Mr. Naismith and endeavor to obtain the information you seek.” Hopefully, that would be enough. She needed to bide her time until Moineau resurfaced with news of Susanna’s exact whereabouts.

“Just remember that failure is not an option.” Duret leaned forward, his beady gaze sending a blast of cold air straight to her bones. “If you must lift your skirts and spread your legs to save your daughter from doing the same, I expect you to reveal the true spymaster, and I expect you to make quick work of it.”

“Nothing,” said Lucian Verney. “Silent as the grave.”

Will, Lucian, and Henri strolled through Luxembourg Gardens, which had once been home to a French king’s widow. Of all the palaces in Paris, few compared to Luxembourg in magnificence. With its dome and pavilions, the ornate palace designed in the Florentine style provided a spectacular backdrop as they ambled past neatly laid-out trees, vases, and statues.

“What of the servants?” Will asked. Those who lived below stairs were normally excellent sources of information about the masters who resided above.

“Madame Laurent’s servants are remarkably loyal,” Lucian said. “Not a word from them about her comings and goings.” Will surveyed the area, scanning the path ahead, which was lined with orange trees that infused the air with a citrusy scent. He couldn’t shake the sense of being watched, but he saw nothing amiss, just other Parisians enjoying the garden’s delights.

“Madame Laurent?” Henri asked, a burning cheroot dangling between his fingers. “You have an interest in her comings and goings?”

“She is a close associate of Duret’s,” Will said mildly, looking over his shoulder. He couldn’t shake the sensation they were being followed. “As such, she is of interest.”

Skepticism hummed from Henri’s throat, although he nodded and exhaled, engulfing himself in a fog of smoke.
“Bien sûr.”

They turned onto a path that led to a fruit garden. There were several varieties of pear and apple trees, the crisp-sweet scent taking Will back to the orchard at Langtry where a precocious twelve-year-old Elle had fallen out of a tree and first declared her intention to marry him.

Ignoring the lingering ache in his gut, he waved away the silvery plume of smoke Henri exhaled in his direction. “Do be kind enough to blow in the opposite direction. What a filthy habit.”

“It gives me pleasure.” Henri’s moist lips sucked on the cheroot. “Not, perhaps, in the same way Madame Laurent gives you pleasure, but a man must take his enjoyment where he can.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Will forced himself not to stiffen. “Lady Elinor is a long-ago acquaintance and nothing more. My interest in her is solely professional in nature.”

“I see.” Cynicism lined Henri’s craggy face. “And what is it you would like to know?”

“I merely wish to observe her.” To determine how involved she was with Duret. “She could be an asset.”

“Ah.” Henri exhaled circles of smoke into the air. “The plot grows more intriguing by the moment.”

“What kind of asset?” Lucian asked.

Henri smirked. “An asset between the bedclothes, no doubt. First, Madame Laurent entrances Duret and now our cold fish of a friend has fallen victim to her considerable charms.”

“Watch your tongue, Henri.” He said the words coolly, but the warning was clear. “You’re speaking of a lady.”

Henri chuckled, undeterred. “Up until now, I thought the only women who could raise your temperature were the dead ones found on cold metal coins.”

“The only febrile thing here is your imagination, D’Aubigne.” He tilted his head back, allowing his gaze to float upward over the treetops in a practiced show of disinterest. “Madame Laurent has Duret’s ear. If she is not working for the French, then she might prove useful to us.”

Henri tossed his cheroot away. “This evening you will find Madame Laurent at Frascati’s.”

Lucian exhaled his shock. “Surely not!”

Will’s curious gaze bounced between the two men. “What is Frascati’s?”

“It’s a gaming hell,” Lucian exclaimed in a huff of outrage. “No lady of character would frequent such an establishment.”

“Nonsense. Frascati’s is most respectable for those seeking an evening of pleasure.” Henri adopted the tone of a kindly uncle explaining the ways of the world to an innocent. “It is the only establishment of its kind that ladies can enter freely without fear of a stain on their reputation.”

“How can you be certain that she will be in attendance?” Will asked.

Henri shrugged and plucked a golden apple from a low-hanging branch. “Madame Laurent and her set attend every Tuesday evening. I have my methods of learning such things.”

Will didn’t doubt it. Henri’s vast resources were the reason the Crown compensated him so handsomely for information. “Do we need an invitation?”

Henri buffed the apple with the striped blue waistcoat straining across the generous prow of his belly. “Everyone is welcome, provided they pay the entrance fee of three livres.”

“Well, that’s it, then,” Will said. “This evening we try our hand at roulette.”

“Our sojourn should prove most amusing.” Henri bit into the apple with a loud crunch, chewing the crisp flesh with obvious appreciation. “Especially with such succulent fruit there as temptation.”

A few minutes earlier, Elle was walking through Luxembourg Gardens contemplating the impossible task Duret had set for her.

She couldn’t imagine erudite Will as a lethally competent spymaster. Although the gentleman she’d fallen in love with as a girl did have a quiet strength to him, she couldn’t envision Will killing anyone, especially not with his bare hands. The very idea was preposterous.

She turned to her lady’s maid, who trailed a few paces behind her. “Sophie, have you been able to learn anything of interest about Mr. Verney?”

“
Mais oui.
He’s a proper cull.” The girl’s speech was an odd mix of common English tinged with a lilting French accent. “Likes to ride, fence, and box.” Sophie, who had lived in London for many years with her aristocratic French mistress, had come to her on the recommendation of Moineau.

“So he’s a Corinthian,” Elle mused, having noted previously that Mr. Verney filled out his coat nicely. Perhaps Verney was
Le Rasoir.
It would make sense for a highly trained spy to be in superior physical condition. Even if Verney weren’t her target, it wouldn’t hurt to become better acquainted with the embassy official to see what she could learn from him. “Anything further?”

“He likes machinery.”

“Does he?” Elle marveled at the girl’s resourcefulness. “What kind of machinery?”

“Automatons and the like. He’s visited some exhibition at the Louvre every day it’s been open.”

Elle perked up. “The Exhibition of the Products of Industry?”

“Oui.”
Sophie plucked a leaf from an overhanging branch as they passed it. “I suppose that’s the one.”

There’d been much talk in Paris drawing rooms about the exhibition at the Louvre, where hundreds of inventors, artists, and craftsmen gathered for a few days to exhibit their crafts. A jury would award medals to the most outstanding exhibitors at the conclusion of the event. Elle hadn’t been particularly interested in attending, especially not with her focus almost exclusively centered on finding her child.

As she mulled over Sophie’s information, she spied her prey walking with two men by a marble fountain in the distance. “Goodness, there he is now. How fortuitous.”

Sophie squinted into the distance. “There who is?”

“Mr. Verney. There, just beyond that fountain.” He was with two men. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized one of his companions was Will, easily identifiable by his slender form and dark copper hair glinting in the sun. She pointed in their direction. “Do you see those three gentlemen?”

“Which one is he? Puff guts or the ginger top?” Sophie asked as she came to stand next to her mistress. “Please tell me he’s the tall cove with the dark hair.
Il est magnifique,
a right rum duke. It would be no hardship to join giblets with that one.”

“Hush.” She pinched the girl. “I’m not bedding anyone.” She was beginning to regret confiding Duret’s scandalous proposition to her maid.

“Ouch!” Clearly affronted, Sophie rubbed her arm. “A true lady does not lay a hand on those who are in service to her.”

“And a proper lady’s maid does not speak of her mistress bedding strange gentlemen.” French republican sentiment was clearly rubbing off on the girl. No proper English servant would dare address her mistress with the insolence Sophie routinely exhibited. Elle gestured toward the three men. “Now make yourself useful. Follow them and see if you can hear what they’re talking about.”

With a quick nod of her head, Sophie faded into the trees. The girl might be impertinent and completely improper, but she was also smart, discreet, and enterprising, qualities Elle intended to use to her advantage. Anything to save Susanna.

With her maid dispatched to do a bit of surveillance, Elle allowed her mind to wander back to her daughter and to imagine the moment they would be together again. What did little Susanna look like? Did she favor her father? Her heart contracted at the thought of Susanna with her father’s eyes. Was she quiet and reserved like him, or lively and amusing, more like her mother?

The familiar doubts filtered in, crowding out the happy musings. Susanna might resent Elle for abandoning her with strangers. She might blame her for believing the liars who’d stolen her and then claimed the babe had died in childbirth. Elle certainly despised herself for it.

She made her way toward the fruit garden, one of her favorite spots in all of Paris, mostly because it reminded her of the orchard at Langtry. She reached into her reticule and pulled out her Cleopatra coin. Turning it over in her hand, sadness tugged in her chest; she’d once declared her intention to marry Will in that grove.

It had happened the summer they’d first met. She’d been twelve, and he’d come down from Cambridge with Cosmo to spend the school break with him. From the very beginning, she’d been smitten with his studious manner and kind demeanor. Her mind heavy with thoughts of Will, Susanna, and a longing for home, Elle walked straight into a broad-chested gentleman who seemed to appear from nowhere. “Oh, I do beg your pardon,” she began.

“Madame Laurent!” the gentleman exclaimed.

When she realized who it was, she batted her eyelashes and slipped the coin back into her reticule. “Why, Mr. Verney,” she said, thrilled that fortune had smiled upon her. “What a lovely surprise to see you again.”

He flushed and avoided looking her in the eye. “And you, my lady.” She wondered if he was this uncomfortable around all women, or if it was something in particular about her that made him uneasy.

“I’m so relieved to have encountered you.” She took his arm, even though he had not offered it.

He looked down at where they touched with obvious surprise. “Oh?”

“My silly maid has wandered off somewhere, and I should not like to be unescorted in a public garden.”

“Yes, that would be most inappropriate,” he said primly.

She bit back a smile at the man’s stiff manner. “I have had my eye on you.”

She felt his arm tense. “And why is that,” he returned politely, “if I may be so bold as to ask?”

“You seem to be a most agreeable young man, and I do so miss the company of proper English gentlemen.”

He preened a little at her nod to superior English comportment. “Paris is quite pleasant, but I find that I too yearn for home.”

She assessed him as they ambled among the trees. He was one or two years older than she, tall and well built, with dark hair and even features. Most would judge him handsome, albeit in a placid sort of way. She found it hard to imagine Lucian Verney’s proper, unassuming exterior masking the dangerously clever
Le Rasoir
but, given his position at the embassy, he could certainly be in league with the elusive spy.