Love’s Betrayal (45 page)

Heat flooded Georgette's face. “No! I mean, well, yes, but not in the way you imply. He came into the garden one night, and I ran down to tell him he must leave.”

“And did you or did you not warn this man, a spy and traitor known as the Frog, that we Loyalists had laid a trap for him?” Pringle's voice rang through the room. “Hardly an ‘unwitting' treachery.”

Georgette's gaze skittered across the other accusing faces to focus upon her husband's dark eyes. They seemed empty, devoid of expression, as if he were a stranger she had never met and would never know. “Jean-Maurice, you must believe that I have never been unfaithful to you! This man had been kind to me; I could not allow him to be captured without warning him of the plot.”

Mr. LaTournay looked at Pringle. “How do you know these things?”

Pringle snapped his fingers at a footman. “Bring in the woman called Biddy.”

“Biddy!” Georgette breathed the name aloud.

The tiny woman entered, wide-eyed and apologetic. “Missy Georgette, I never would have told if not for the way that Frog has hurt our soldiers. Please forgive me for spying on you, missy!”

“Tell these people what you told me, Biddy,” Pringle demanded. “How did Mrs. LaTournay react when you brought her the notes from this Frog spy?”

“Forgive me, missy—but she smiled so bright it seemed like the stars lit in her eyes. I said to myself that the lady must be in love to react so. And the dog, he represented that lover to her, no doubt in my mind. When that Frog first brought the puppy, she showed herself at the window in her chemise. Shocked, I was, and thinking she must have known this cloaked man before.”

“No! I never did.” Georgette gasped for breath, feeling smothered.

Mr. LaTournay slid back his chair and rose. “You deliberately aided a Whig spy? You entertained another man at night? That dog you treasure was a gift from this Frog?” Never before had he addressed Georgette in such lifeless tones. “And you accuse me of keeping secrets.”

Turning to his stunned host and hostess, he said, “Please excuse me. I must have time to think. I shall take a room in a nearby town.” After a bow to the room in general, he made a quick exit.

Georgette felt her heart shatter into jagged shards.

Then said Jesus unto the twelve, Will ye also go away?

J
OHN
6:67

H
ow can I do this thing?” Georgette pleaded. “I am no siren to lure a man to his capture or death!” She pushed the paper aside and turned away from the writing desk. Scattered about the parlor, the Grenvilles and the Talbots watched the proceedings in condemning silence. Georgette felt new sympathy for martyrs of the Inquisition.

“You care more about this traitorous spy than about your husband,” Pringle accused. “I warned LaTournay, but he refused to listen.”

“Love for my husband does not mean I will sign the death warrant of another man. Do you think me a heartless monster?”

“Yes, in fact, I do.” Pringle grinned. “Write the note, woman, before I find it expedient to take more forceful measures.” He slapped his gloves against his thigh.

“Mr. Pringle, you would not strike Gigi,” Marianne said, her voice shaking.

“I would strike a woman only if provoked. My patience wears thin.” His smile did not reach his gleaming blue eyes. “This woman deserves only contempt and harsh treatment until she makes restitution for her breach of faith. I shall keep constant watch upon her while she remains in this house.”

“Mr. LaTournay demands this of me?” Georgette picked up the quill and studied its point. “That I play false to a friend?”

“He expects this and much more before he will again welcome you into his home and affections. A man once betrayed will not easily be fooled again.”

Thoughts rambled through Georgette's mind as she toyed with the goose quill. Recently Jean-Maurice had been pondering God's forgiveness; she knew because she had seen him deep in study of scripture when he believed himself observed by no one. Had her apparent perfidy soured his perception of Jesus Christ? Had her weakness for romance destroyed her husband's hope for salvation?

She did not want or need any lover besides Jean-Maurice. Even so, her heart quailed at the prospect of bringing harm to her secret friend. Would the Frog come to her if summoned? Perhaps he would be out of town. Perhaps he had found another love and would scorn an invitation from a married woman. He might have forgotten her by now. Georgette could only hope.

Dipping her quill into the ink, she penned a short plea for aid. “I do not know how it will be delivered,” she remarked after sealing it with a few drops of bayberry candle wax. “One can hardly address a missive to a frog.”

“Leave that to me.” Pringle snatched the note from her hand. “You should not have sealed it until I read it.” He broke the seal and scanned her note, nodding in approval. “The very thing. Seal it again. I shall send a courier to town this night. Within two days we shall have this Frog in hand, I swear it!”

Later, despite a fire on the hearth and Trixie's application of a warming pan between her sheets, Georgette felt chilled to the bone. She wept alone in the four-poster bed. Inarticulate prayers poured from her heart, a longing for forgiveness and a return to love. “I shall confess all, if he will but grant me opportunity. Dear Lord, only You can bring good out of this terrible evil. Please protect the Frog, and please bring my husband back to me.”

An icy draft awakened her during the night. Blinking away sleep, she rolled over, pulled aside the bed curtains, and stared at the window, visible as a pale smudge in the darkness of her chamber. As coals flared weakly on the hearth, Georgette beheld white draperies sweeping into the room like grasping ghostly arms. Someone or something had opened the window.

She sat up. “Who is there?” The window clicked shut, and frigid silence returned.

Georgette thought her heart might batter its way through her ribs. Dread and cold brought on a wave of nausea. Her limbs trembled uncontrollably, and her teeth chattered.

A black shadow tossed a faggot into the coals. A flame burst forth to lick at the bundle of dry sticks. The sight of a swirling cloak and gleaming boots brought Georgette intense relief—her midnight visitor was human, not goblin. “Frog?” she whispered.

“
Bon nuit, ma petite grenouille.
Pleased am I that you do not scream at sight of me.” He approached the bed as silently as he had entered the room, speaking just above a whisper.

Georgette clutched her coverlet beneath her chin. “How …? Why are you here? You cannot already have received the note. If you are found in my chamber, your life will be forfeit and mine forever ruined.”

He pushed the bed curtain fully open. “I come on an errand of mercy, ma belle.” Backlit by the crackling fire, he made an impressive figure. “I cannot leave you in ignorance even one more hour, though it cost me everything. I come to confess.” He knelt beside the bed and caught her hand. Rough leather gloves abraded her fingers as she twisted them in his grasp. His other hand reached to cup the back of her head.

“No!” She panicked. “You must leave! This is not right.”

He shifted upward to sit on the edge of the bed frame. “Hush, ma épouse chérie, trust me. This is very right.” He hauled her into his lap and cradled her close. A frosty beard brushed her cheek, and melting snow dampened her nightshift. He smelled of wet horse, fresh air, and coffee. His cool lips pressed against hers, warming rapidly at her response. Understanding broke over Georgette like an avalanche, and she clutched her husband's broad shoulders in a fever of excitement. He kissed her cheeks, her neck, murmuring endearments in French.

She touched his beloved features. “Jean-Maurice, you still love me? I do not understand—you—are you the Frog?”

“Always I shall love you, Georgette. This Frog and I are one and the same, although I did not choose the name.” His cold nose pressed into her neck. “You betrayed me with myself, beguiling woman that you are.”

She struggled in protest. “I never betrayed you! Recall how I sent you away.” She paused, frowning. “Why did you deceive me so? Jean-Maurice, I have been in agony this day, thinking you no longer cared for me!”

He groaned softly. “That is why I have risked all to come this night. Tomorrow, if you love your husband, you must play the actress and feign a broken heart.”

“But you are a traitor to England?” Georgette began to apprehend the implications of his deception.

A quiet knock at the chamber door stunned them both to silence. “Georgette?”

Georgette flung herself at the door and opened it a tiny crack, jamming her foot at its base to keep it from opening wider. “Yes, Mother?”

A candle's flame lighted her mother's features. She blinked in evident surprise at Georgette's vigorous response. “Are you well? I heard movement; our chamber is beneath yours. Would you like me to sit with you tonight?”

“I want to be left alone,” Georgette answered in her best petulant tone. “My life is ruined, and I wish to see no one. Go away.” She closed the door.

“Very well, dearest. Despite all you have done, I love you.”

Georgette leaned her forehead against the door. “I love you, too, Mummy.” She assuaged her guilt by determining to be extra kind to her mother in the morning.

Turning, she scanned the room. Had she dreamed Jean-Maurice's appearance? Shivering, she hurried to climb back into bed and nearly screamed when her hand touched flesh. “Surprise,” a deep voice said.

“Your boots,” she whispered, imagining spurs shredding the linen sheets.

“Maman taught me never to wear shoes in bed. Come join me.” When he rolled to his back and reached for her, she realized that he lay crosswise on the bed with his feet hanging off the far side.

“Can you stay awhile?” She climbed in beside him, wrapped her arms around his body, and rested her head upon his buckskin-fringed shirtfront. He embraced her gently.

“
Quel dommage!
How I wish it could be so.” His beard tickled her forehead as he spoke.

“Mr. Pringle said he would have me watched,” Georgette whispered. “Are you certain no one saw you enter my window? How did you climb up here? The roof is steep and high!”

“The Frog is part squirrel, and the trees are close.” He caressed her back. “Pringle is unaware that Grenville's slaves are friendly with my servant Pierre Dimieux. They watched me enter and they keep guard.”

“Pierre—Yvonne's son.” Georgette remembered the handsome young hostler.

“And Noel's son. My closest friend since childhood, my faithful bodyguard, and the finest woodsman I know. Georgette, I request you to play the brokenhearted woman tomorrow and display strong feeling for the Frog. My mission depends upon you. Do you trust me?” He caught her face between his hands.

Although doubts crowded into her thoughts, Georgette nodded. “I shall do whatever you say, Jean-Maurice. But I am no actress. How can I do this?”

“Imagine how you would behave if this Frog were your lover and you had betrayed him to his doom.” Jean-Maurice sat up, cradled her in his arms, and kissed her. “Pray for guidance and pray for me, ma petite grenouille.”

“Always. I love you.” She reached to touch his back as he scooted off the far side of the bed. Despite the boots, his tread on the floorboards was nearly inaudible. He lifted the window sash and slipped outside with startling suddenness. Georgette rushed to the window and peered through the frosted glass, but he might have taken flight for all the evidence of him visible below.

The following day seemed an eternity. Georgette helped her mother untangle yarns and knitted part of a sock. Her mind kept wandering, and she unraveled at least three socks' worth of work before ending up with less than one finished product. Her father still had not addressed her, and she feared he never would. Her mother chatted nervously, avoiding the subject that weighed heaviest on all minds.

During the noon meal, her father leveled his leaden gaze and his fork at Georgette. “If not for your stupidity, LaTournay would have purchased passage to England for your mother and me by now. You had better make this right. Do not expect us to take you in if LaTournay throws you out.”

Georgette stared in disbelief at this new evidence of her father's disregard for the feelings of others. The Grenvilles attempted to brush over the awkward moment, but Georgette saw her mother's hands shaking as she buttered her bread. Georgette wished she could offer her mother sanctuary at Haven Farm. Her appreciation for Mr. LaTournay's kindness increased with each passing day.

As Georgette entered the drawing room shortly before dinner, a maid brought her a note:
“Come to the apple orchard at midnight.”
A drawing that must be intended as a frog served as signature.

A hand reached from behind Georgette and snatched the paper out of her fingers. Pringle scanned it. “Ah, he is drawn as a moth to the flame.” He scrutinized Georgette. “I never understood why LaTournay fell for you, although you do have your … assets.” He lifted a brow. “This Frog must share LaTournay's weakness.”