Never a Gentleman

FOREVER

NEWYORK    BOSTON

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Always a Temptress

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It’s been too long since I’ve done this.
To Rick, because without you, it wouldn’t mean anything.
Let’s go to Machu Picchu next, okay?

I’d like to thank everyone who encouraged me on this road to the past: the Divas, of course. Members of the Convocation, members
of my long-suffering family, who put up with a lot in the name of deadlines. My family at Rotrosen, especially Andrea Cirillo,
and my family at Grand Central. Thank you, Amy, for always making me think harder, and Beth, for your support and friendship.
To my copy editor, Isabel Stein, who cleans up my continuity glitches and makes sure each character has only one name; to
the art department, especially Clare Brown, for my luscious covers; and everyone in sales, marketing, and PR, especially Samantha
Kelly and Anna Balasi.

I would also like to thank everyone who helped make my research trip to India a reality, from my lovely Rick to everyone at
Larsen & Toubro for their hospitality, especially Mr. and Mrs. A. P. Misra, R. S. Kapur, and Sangeeta, who was not only a
wonderful hostess, but managed to create a western sari for me. Thanks to our friends Saurabh and Ghitika Kant, and to Rick’s
brother, Manmohan Chowla;
and Ruchi and Chintoo Mohanty, who welcomed us like family to their wedding. Thanks to Michele and to Travel and Leisure Elite,
and to Bhankaj, driver extraordinaire, who went out of his way to actually find Lohagarh Fort in Bharatpur when I asked. And
thanks to all the wonderful hosts who welcomed us into their inns and B & Bs (and who are listed on the Travel for Fun page
of my Web site,
www.eileendreyer.com
), and taught us so much about their country. I will never forget my visit, and hope I can return soon.

Thanks to the real Barbara Schroeder, who donated money to the Brenda Novak Auction for Diabetes Research to have a character
named after her. Good choice. You’ll be seeing her again. To the generous friends on the Beau Monde loop, Ninc, Teabuds, MoRWA,
and all the friends I’ve made on Facebook. Knowing you’re there makes it feel less as if I’m sitting all alone in my office
wringing words out of a soggy brain.

Paris, September 1815

T
he room stank of whiskey, sweat, and despair. Tucked away on the top floor of an aging hotel on the rue de Seine in Paris,
the suite still bore remnants of its past glory. The torn wallpaper was gold-flocked. The tatty furniture betrayed elegant
lines, and the windows, too grimy to see through, stretched up ten feet. Age and time had worn away the elegance. The current
inhabitant had destroyed the rest. His half-eaten food and liquor bottles littered every surface. Dirty clothing lay piled
on the floor. A table had been shattered against the door, and red wine dripped down the wall.

Bertie Evenham, the one responsible for the mess, balanced on the balls of his feet, as if listening for the sound of pursuit.
An unprepossessing blond, he had fine aristocratic features, wide blue eyes, and a hawkish nose he hadn’t yet grown into.
His hair was greasy and unkempt, his linen
soiled, and his hands shaking. His eyes darted impatiently between his guest and the door.

Across from him, Diccan Hilliard lounged in a faded blue brocade armchair, legs crossed, his quizzing glass spinning from
his left hand. It was all Diccan could do to hold still. He hated confessions, and Bertie seemed compelled to make one. It
wouldn’t do to seem anxious to leave, though. Bertie had vital information to impart. He also had a gun pointed at Diccan’s
head.

“But why should I believe you, old chap?” Diccan asked the pallid, unwashed boy. “You must admit it sounds a bit fantastic.
A gang of British nobles trying to overthrow their own throne.”

Bertie scrubbed at his face with his free hand. “Don’t you understand? You’re in danger.
England
is in danger.”

“So you’ve said.” Leaning back, Diccan shot his cuffs. “Why not inform the Embassy here?”

Bertie’s laugh was sharp. “Because I’m sure some of them are members.”

Diccan nodded. “Of this group of yours that calls itself the British Lions. But you’ve also just told me that you helped Napoleon
return to France. That’s treason, old son. You’re asking me to believe a man who betrayed his country.”

If possible, the boy looked even more desperate. “Don’t you think I know it? But they were blackmailing me. They’re going
to blackmail you, too, damn it. Why won’t you believe me?”

“Maybe if you tell me what it was about you they thought worthy of blackmail.”

The gun began to wobble in the boy’s hand. Diccan couldn’t help but notice that it was a finely crafted Manton dueling pistol.
It wouldn’t take much for the lad to make a
mistake. He was too unstable. Too desperate. Sweat was dripping down his temples.

Bertie actually turned his face away, and Diccan couldn’t help feeling sorry for him, no matter what he’d done. “You don’t
understand,” the boy whispered. “You can’t. You’re not…
unnatural.
”

Ah.

Diccan kept his voice gentle. “Tristram Gordon.”

Evenham’s face crumpled. “You know?”

“That you and Lady Gracechurch’s cousin were lovers? Yes. You’re right, though. Most don’t.”

“Her husband murdered him!”

“Not murder,” Diccan suggested quietly. “A duel. I know. I was there.”

The boy began to shake harder. “So was I. And I couldn’t even go to him….”

Diccan didn’t like tearing wings off flies or torturing children. Evenham couldn’t be more than twenty-five. “What do you
want me to do, Bertie?”

“Warn the government. Make them believe that these people are dangerous. These people really think they can do better.” He
shrugged and sat abruptly on a straightback chair, as if he had used the last of his energy. “We have a mad king and a profligate
heir,” he said, sounding like a recitation. “Riots from the lower class and threats to power from the middle class. Unemployment,
crime, failed crops, rising prices. They believe that they can cure it all by taking power back into noble hands.”

“What about the king?”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know. They aren’t stupid enough to share that kind of information with someone who’s been coerced.”
He shrugged. “Besides, the way the
Lions are organized, only a few people know all. Five or six, maybe. Each of those has a specific area of responsibility,
and recruits and organizes individually, so no one can betray the whole group. Even those who believe in the cause only know
who their immediate superiors are.”

“So you don’t know who your group is headed by?”

He shook his head, rubbing now at his eyes. The gun, sadly, was still leveled on Diccan. “I know who controlled me. I’ve told
you their names. They funneled gold and men to Napoleon. The Lions believed that if he won on the Continent, the Lions would
control the British government.”

“How do you know
I’m
in danger?”

“I overheard them. They think you might be susceptible. And that you have contacts they want.”

Diccan shook his head, wondering whether someone might have peeked beneath his facade. “Honored they think I live such an
interesting life. Can’t think why. The most interesting people I meet are chefs and fishmongers. They do know that my most
challenging diplomatic task is organizing parties, don’t they?”

“I don’t know. They’ll succeed, though. If they can’t blackmail you, they’ll use threats. If threats don’t work, you’ll suffer
a fatal accident so you can’t expose them. When they came after me, they told me that even if I slipped from their net, they
could drag me back by hurting my mother or sisters.”

Diccan gave a bark of amusement. “I would buy a ticket to watch them face off with my mother. She’d eviscerate them without
bending a nail.”

He did not, however, speak of his sisters. Deciding that he had to take control of the situation, he made a move, as if to
get to his feet. Immediately Bertie jumped up, gripping the gun more tightly.

“I will shoot you. If you won’t help, I’ll kill you. Don’t you see?” There were tears in the boy’s eyes. “I’ve risked everything.”

Yes, Diccan knew. He had. The boy hadn’t just put himself at risk from the Lions. His love for another man was a hanging offense.

“And there isn’t anything else you can tell me?” Diccan asked. “I mean, I appreciate your concern for me, but I’m not sure
that’s enough to interest Whitehall.”

“Well then, what about this? The Lions are looking for something they’ve lost. I don’t know what, only that they’ll hand it
off as a signal to set a plan into motion. When they find it, they will act.”

“Act how?”

“They’re going to assassinate Wellington.”

Diccan felt the air leave his lungs. “Yes,” he mused, “I imagine that would get the government’s attention.”

“The group that aided Napoleon has already been reassigned. They are to assist the Surgeon.”

Diccan all but stopped breathing. “The assassin?” Images of the Surgeon’s work flashed before his eyes; bleeding, raw wounds
draining life. Fish-white bodies. “But he’s in Newgate.”

Bertie shook his head so hard droplets of grease flew. “Not for long.”

Diccan’s instinctive reaction was to argue. Nobody got out of Newgate Prison. But if the Lions were as well-placed as Bertie
said, nothing was impossible.

“All right.” This time he gained his feet without challenge. “You have my word, Bertie. I’ll ride
ventre terre
to London to warn them. We’ll stop this long before it involves Wellington.”

The boy laughed. “Don’t be so sure. They won’t stop. If you get one of them, another will step in to take his place. You really
don’t know how committed they are. You don’t know how well-placed.”

If Diccan hadn’t already been investigating this very plot, he would have scoffed at Bertie’s charge. But a few traitors had
already been unearthed, and they had indeed been well-placed.

“Thank you, Bertie,” he said, hoping the boy knew how sincere he was. “You have done your country, and me, a great service.
If you ever need assistance, find me.”

It was as if Bertie had held up on will alone, and Diccan’s concession had stolen it. The boy literally sagged, tears streaking
his gaunt cheeks. The gun drooped in his hand. Diccan thought to make a try for it, but he believed Bertie had lost any reason
to hurt him.

“Thank you,” the boy said, free hand over his eye. “You’re kind.”

Diccan knew he was nothing of the sort. He nodded all the same and turned for his gloves. “Then if you don’t need anything
else from me, I believe I’ll be off.”

Bertie nodded. He took a breath. “No. Nothing more. I’ve done what I needed to.”

Diccan was still pulling on his gloves when he saw Bertie raise the gun again. Instinct kicked in and he dove to the side.
He was just about to hit the floor when he realized that Bertie had no intention of hurting him. He meant to hurt himself.