Once an Innocent (33 page)

At last, Naomi blinked. Balls of light slid across the backs of her eyelids. “Yes,” she confirmed in a hollow voice.

There was a long silence in the drawing room. Naomi let her eyes rehydrate and tried not to think about what was coming next.

A gentle hand touched her elbow. Naomi’s eyelids fluttered open to see Isabelle crouching at her side, golden wisps framing a face etched with concern. “You can tell us anything, dear,” Isabelle said. “We love you and only want to help you however we can.”

Naomi flinched away from the compassion dripping from Isabelle’s words. Usually, her sister-in-law’s soft heart was one of the things Naomi loved best about her. But she couldn’t stand it right now. Not when she felt as raw as a flayed corpse.

Lily appeared in front of Naomi, her arms crossed beneath her breasts. The firelight behind her licked her hair with flashes of bronze, like a slightly tarnished halo. “Am I correct in assuming he does not return your regard?”

In her mind, she saw the look in his eyes when he’d asked her to marry him. She heard him say he loved her. She’d believed it all. But that letter … “I’m sorry, Lily, I’m not sure how to answer you.”

Lily pursed her lips. “I don’t mean to be crass, but — Well, yes, I suppose I do mean to be crass. Were you intimate with Lord Freese?”

Naomi felt something. Finally. A spark of defiance shot through her, hot and bright. She met Lily’s sardonic expression with a fierce one of her own. “That’s none of your business, Lily Bachman,” she seethed.

Lily smirked. “Good for you, dear,” she drawled. “He’ll come around any moment now.”

Isabelle gasped. “I swear, Lily, the things that come out of your mouth! Can you not guard your tongue for five minutes?”

Shaking her head, Lily cocked her hip and draped a hand against her collarbone. “I really cannot,” she said, totally unrepentant. “My unguarded tongue has brought me more good fortune than misery, so I feel no incentive to curtail myself. Besides,” she said, her brows shifting sinuously above chocolate eyes, “my lord husband has a great fondness for my tongue.”

Naomi chuckled. It was the first time she’d laughed since The Incident. The sound felt wrong in her throat and came out a little too guttural.

Isabelle rolled her eyes at Lily. Turning back to Naomi, she squeezed her hands. “Naomi, if you’ve been with Lord Freese, then you must marry him.”

Naomi’s chin jutted out mulishly. “I’ve confirmed nothing.”

“You haven’t denied it, either,” Isabelle gently pointed out. “We don’t judge you; we’re only trying to help. Dearest, is there any chance you might be … increasing?”

The question slammed into Naomi and left her lips curiously numb. With child? Her? “My courses haven’t come yet, but they’re just a few days late. I’ve been under such strain since … It’s natural for things to be a little out of sorts at a time like this.”

Isabelle and Lily exchanged a worried glance.

• • •

The Right Honorable Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh was becoming a right honorable pain in Jordan’s arse. Once again, the Foreign Secretary was not to be found in his office. With his scheduled departure date for the Vienna Congress fast approaching, Jordan knew the man had buckets of official work to do, but Jordan hadn’t been able to see him in a week.

He pulled on his black calfskin gloves and turned his greatcoat collar up against the fine mist as he walked down the bustling London street, all the while fuming over the treatment he’d received — or not — from his superior.

For so long, he’d wanted to be relieved of his assignment, but he’d never imagined it would end as it had. The young duke had been entrusted to Jordan’s care at the tender age of eleven, a slender boy with wide, trusting eyes and the plump, rosy cheeks of a porcelain figurine. He’d provided the boy with his own, small household to tend his apartment. Uncle Randell, without the benefit of knowing Henri’s true identity, had happily taken him under his wing. Had the arrangement held a few years longer, Jordan had even planned to bring Henri (in the guise of Enrique, of course) to London for a closely supervised introduction to society. He knew Henri had been lonely, but his safety had had to come first. No matter keeping a young nobleman in a gilded cage was hell for all involved, it was Jordan’s duty.

The fatal error, of course, had been allowing Henri’s tutor to accompany him to Lintern Abbey. Jordan had argued for a clean break from anyone who knew him, but Castlereagh had insisted that keeping his own tutor would allow Henri an easier transition into his new life. It might have worked out, had Bertrand not been a secret supporter of a regicidal faction dedicated to reinstalling a miniature Corsican as Emperor of France. But he had been.

And so Jordan had spent a harrowing three days transporting the boy he’d watched grow from a child to a young man to London, under armed guard.

Jordan had failed. He’d successfully brought down the ring of Bonapartists, but doing so had uncovered his abject failure to see what had been happening under his own roof. Naomi was right. Jordan should have given Henri more time. He should have been more involved. Had he been, he might have realized Bertrand had been leading his pupil down the primrose path to high treason.

Given the strain this had put on Jordan, he’d hoped for more from the Foreign Secretary than a sniff and a nod at his report. A pat on the back and a distracted, “I’ll be in touch,” had sent Jordan on his way. Fitzhugh Ditman had been asked to stay behind, Jordan recalled with a twinge of rancor. He didn’t doubt but that Fitz was packing his bags for another plum assignment on distant shores, while Jordan was left hanging in the breeze.

Even as he traversed Pall Mall on his way to St. James’s Street, the normal, teeming morass of Londoners made the corner of Jordan’s eye twitch. He couldn’t get images out of his mind of foreign combatants on his own estate. French and English blood mingled on Yorkshire soil. Anyone could be an enemy. That man on the corner hawking pies might have baked a coded missive into one of the crusts, to be handed off to another seemingly innocuous individual. Any whore might be collecting state secrets between the sheets.

St. James’s Street was a little less chaotic, and he drew a deep breath. The cool brick and stone façades of elegant shops and clubs bespoke an orderliness his life lacked. He stopped beneath the coffee-mill sign outside Berry Bros. and Rudd. Just how long could he continue like this, floating from party to party, making merry with people he could never let get too close, waiting on the whim of a man who seemed to take sadistic pleasure in making Jordan dance to his tune?

Everything was better at home
, he found himself thinking. There had been enemy agents crawling around his property. He’d shot his own man. Others had died. It had been the most intense few weeks of his life and, oddly, the happiest.

Because of Naomi.

Sucking in a sharp breath of cold, damp air, Jordan hurried on to his club. The faster he was there, the sooner he could find someone to lose a few hours with in drink, conversation, and cards. The sooner he was losing time, the more hastily he could dull the ache throbbing in his chest. It hadn’t relented, not once, since he’d penned that letter. But sometimes he could dampen his awareness of it.

“Good afternoon, Lord Freese,” welcomed the doorman at White’s.

The knot in his chest eased a tiny bit. It wouldn’t be long now. In a matter of moments, he’d be imbibing or gaming. He wouldn’t have so much room in his head to think about all the ways he’d failed her or how being away from her left him feeling empty and somehow more trapped than any carriage ever had. He could, perhaps for an hour or so, set aside the guilt he felt for taking her innocence, as well as his pounding need for her sweet body. Every night, he relived their all-consuming encounters and dreamed of making slow, erotic love to his woman, of tasting every inch of her creamy skin and holding her in his arms while they slept. Every morning, he woke up hard and wanting and lonely.

A greeting called out from old Lord Bantam prompted Jordan to peel back his lips in a semblance of a smile. The wizened Tory firebrand was nearly swallowed by the soft cushions of his armchair. Though seated, he somehow managed to look down his impressive scythe of a nose at Jordan while he waggled the end of his walking stick. “There’s no deference for your elders anymore. Snarl at me all you like, young man, but I’ll go to sleep knowing I’ve put forth an honest effort for king and country this day. While I was advising the prime minister on matters of taxation this morning, you likely did nothing more strenuous than extend your leg for your tailor’s consideration.”

Jordan gritted his teeth in annoyance. Bantam’s haughty disapproval of anyone he suspected of harboring sentiments of reform was renowned. He could have given the man a lecture on all Jordan had done in service to the crown in the last month, but everything he did for the Foreign Office was held in strict confidence. Besides, he thought, his consternation melting to grudging appreciation, Bantam had distracted Jordan from his woes, if only for a moment.

“Right you are, my lord,” he said with a nod. “Although I must protest that my exertions were more strenuous than you imagine. Not only did I extend my leg, I pointed my toe, as well.”

He spotted a group forming up for what looked to be a game of hazard. Jordan took his leave of the aged Tory. Plucking a glass of whiskey from a silver tray, he wove through chairs and tables, intent on losing time — if not too much money.

“Freese.” It was a voice that knew it need not rise in volume to carry the tone of authority.

Jordan stuttered to a halt and whipped around. There sat Castlereagh, sipping a brandy and looking through the broadsheets, as casual as you please.

“Robert!” Jordan exclaimed. “I’ve just come from your office, where I learned that you were, yet again, away.”

The Foreign Secretary’s eyes sparked with amusement, but Jordan dared not laugh. “Here I am,” he said, spreading his hands wide, “waiting for you, in fact.”

A groan rolled up Jordan’s throat. “Really, Castlereagh, this is beyond enough. You know I’ve been trying to see you. Why the devil didn’t you just meet me at your office?”

There was something of the mischievous boy about Lord Castlereagh. His lips pouted just a bit, and his clipped hair tended toward a cowlick — albeit a steel-gray cowlick. “Try as I might, I cannot induce Whitehall to serve a decent beefsteak. Have a seat.”

Jordan took the indicated chair adjoining Castlereagh’s and dove straight to the salient points. “What’s become of Henri?”

Castlereagh took a sip of his brandy and rolled it around his mouth. “The treasonous little duke has been shipped to his royal cousin, who shall decide his fate. Given his tender age, I suspect Louis will show mercy, although he’d be perfectly within his rights to have the lad hanged and quartered.”

Jordan flinched inwardly at the picture those words painted. “He was just a youth without any companions but my uncle and his tutor. Exiled from home and reeled in with promises of power. It would be hard for any boy his age to resist.”

The Foreign Secretary nodded. “I suspect that will be the king’s view of events, as well. He knows his own hold on the throne is precarious. Can you imagine the public outcry if he had his young nephew executed? No, the boy will live to grow older and, hopefully, a little wiser.” Castlereagh shifted in his seat. “Now, then. I suppose you know what this meeting is about.”

Massaging the bridge of his nose, Jordan heard himself saying, “I don’t suppose you’re releasing me from service?”

Castlereagh chuckled. “You shan’t be drummed out today. I’m pleased with how you handled the situation up north. Brought the bastards down with time to spare.” His lips carved a cold smile. “But you’re totally exposed now. You’re spoiled for domestic work and probably anything on the Continent. I’d have to ship you across an ocean for fieldwork, which isn’t beyond the realm of possibility. The last four years have been hard for you. I know you want to get into the field again.”

Jordan gaped at his superior. “My lord — ”

“Oh, one thing,” the Foreign Secretary interjected. “Before you cast off for South America or Asia or wherever we decide to send you, I’d like you to accompany me to Vienna.” When the man smiled this time, it touched his eyes. “The Congress should hear from you. This most recent incident will give them an idea of what Bonaparte is still capable of, and help steer the Allies’ course.”

Vienna. Not as a page and not even to collect intelligence, but as part of the official British delegation. And field work abroad. To travel again, to immerse himself in a new culture … It was everything he wanted.

Almost.

Castlereagh clapped him on the shoulder. “You’ll want to see about packing. We leave in three days.”

For one crazed moment, Jordan considered going for Naomi. If she’d still have him, he’d marry her at once. She could accompany him to Vienna and then … And then …

Foreign fieldwork was for loners, like Fitzhugh Ditman. Like Jordan. A wife couldn’t travel with a Foreign Office agent. She’d be a distraction at best. At worst … He remembered the sight of Naomi with a knife pressed to her throat, the paralyzing fear in his gut. There was no way he could expose her to that kind of risk. Never again.

With grim resolve, he stood and shook the Secretary’s hand. “Thank you for the opportunity, my lord. I shall make my preparations at once.”

Stepping into the Helmsdale nursery was like walking into a dollhouse, Naomi thought wistfully. All the furniture was scaled down in size to accommodate the diminutive stature of a young child. A dining table rested on short legs but was as finely crafted as the one downstairs in the dining room. Six Grecian-style chairs with squab cushions surrounded the table. She envisioned a sweet-faced girl hosting tea with her playmates. Or a full complement of Lockwood siblings squabbling over breakfast.

“The child isn’t born yet, and he’s already spoilt.” Naomi’s mother, the dowager duchess, stepped into the room and cast a gimlet eye at her surroundings. She sniffed in disapproval at small, plush chairs and ottomans arranged in a sitting area, but Naomi caught the softening of lines around her eyes and mouth. Caro was looking forward to finally becoming a grandmother. “I certainly never would have reduced myself to utilizing a chair of such absurd dimensions.”