A Code of Joy, page 2
“Depending on the weather crossing the channel, our asset will soon be arriving in Rye. You’re to travel there to meet with her. She has promised our man in Paris that she will provide names of French spies active in English society. She gave up one who is close to the court, but she has refused to share the complete list until she has arrived safely in England.”
Lord Rathbourne sat back in his chair and rubbed his chin. “You can appreciate how vital it is that we obtain the list since the name she has given us is credible and has been confirmed.”
“A French spy in our court?” Reggie was shocked. “How can that be possible?”
“We only know of one, but we have to assume there are more. He isn’t directly in court but a clerk to one of the king’s advisors. We feed him the information we want the French to intercept. Misdirection is one of our tools in this business.”
Ashworth stood and moved before the fireplace. The freezing blast from the newest winter front seeped through the leaded pane windows. The enormous room, with French doors and books lining each wall, was cold and drafty. As was the entire ancient seat. Based on her rheumatism, Aunt Euphemia was predicting snow next week for Christmas.
“Paulette Martin, a respected poet, is the woman you’ll be meeting in Rye. She’s been Jerome Bonaparte’s mistress for over a year. They met when Jerome returned from his assignment in Haiti. She is a dramatic and mercurial woman and has not taken well to being cast aside for the German bride that Napoleon has picked for his brother. Napoleon is using his family to boost his dynastic standing in Europe. Paulette’s sense of betrayal, and her close relationship with Jerome, gives us the perfect opportunity to bring her to our side.”
Ashworth blew cigar rings into the air. “Paulette is bloodthirsty and ready to exact her revenge on the Bonaparte brothers. The original plan was for her to come to England, using her as a conduit into the French spy network operating here. We’ve come up with an alternative that you must convince her will work. Our plan is to send her back to France with her new young and virile lover, exploiting her relationships to gain your entry into the upper echelons of French society. Having you undercover in Napoleon’s circle is an opportunity we can’t miss.”
Ashworth paced in front of the fire. Like Reggie, he was an active man who found sitting tedious.
“Paulette’s defection to England has been hurried since we didn’t want to miss our chance of using her emotional state to our best advantage. We conceded to her demands to get her on English soil. Her trip to England, if discovered, would raise more than a few questions with Napoleon and his henchmen, especially Fouché. We’d prefer not to use blackmail, but we will ensure her cooperation.”
“She’s coming to England believing she’ll find refuge here?”
“You must convince her that it’s in her best interest to return to France. She is a favorite of Josephine Bonaparte and moves in the inner circle. Of course, the plan has many risks, especially since she’s enraged and unpredictable . . . Not the best recipe for success. Espionage requires a detached and dispassionate approach.”
Reggie knew he couldn’t disguise his shock that his assignment was to become a woman’s lover. The purple-red color of the general’s face when he was in a rage flashed before Reggie. This assignment would prove to his father that the aristocrats leading the country were immoral and indecent and not gentlemen.
“Ash, you’ve made our brave soldier pale.”
Ashworth chuckled. “My God, man. You won’t actually be her lover. You’ll be acting the part, using the role to gather intelligence. Unless, of course, you find it useful to seduce her to gain her cooperation. But speaking from experience, mixing lust with an assignment is a bad choice. And Paulette Martin doesn’t sound like the type of woman you want to become entangled with.”
“Is the plan then for me to kill Napoleon once I’m accepted in the inner circle?”
Ashworth’s eyes bored into his. “Henrietta was correct about your willingness to take risks and make the tough choices.”
“I’ve never underestimated Talley’s talents.” Lord Rathbourne braced his elbows on his desk and looked directly at Reggie. “My wife would never forgive me for sending you on a suicide mission. You’re to be there only for information gathering. Nothing else, do you understand?”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You will have a contact in Paris that will take your reports. You will analyze and make recommendations. Nothing more.” Rathbourne’s dark eyes scrutinized him, making Reggie shift in his seat.
“How will Paulette and I enter France?”
“Smuggled, the same way Paulette was brought to England. Our man in Rye will make contact with you once you’ve established Paulette’s cooperation. Her pretext with her Parisian friends is that she is visiting her family in Strasbourg to recover from the affair. She has often retreated there in the past. With your Prussian/Germanic roots and your mastery of German and French, you’ll pose as someone she met while visiting her family. She will return to Paris triumphant with her new acquisition. You.”
Reggie didn’t know how to respond to his being touted as the woman’s new lover. This wasn’t exactly what he had envisioned as his “dangerous assignment.”
“You will make contact with Paulette at the Mermaid Inn. You’ll recognize her flamboyant style. She will likely be wearing outrageous clothing. Your code will be, ‘I hope your departure was uneventful and your travel was easy.’ She’ll respond with, ‘My travel was unremarkable.’”
Reggie nodded.
“You’ll act as strangers meeting at the inn. You must not approach until you’re positive that you’re not being watched. Once you’ve established the connection, you’ll share the revised plans and convince her to return to Paris.”
“How will I get her to cooperate if she doesn’t want to return to France?”
Lord Rathbourne laughed—an unusual response from his serious superior.
“The same way you do with our wives. Charm, my man!”
Chapter Two
Miss Joie Louise James tightened the ribbons on her bonnet to thwart the high winds from blowing her favorite hat straight off. She trudged ahead of her maid and footman, dodging the potholes and muddy puddles. After the last few days, she was surprised by nothing, including the sudden deluge from a cloudburst that sent icy rain down her collar. Nothing in her life was proceeding as planned.
Unfair and unjust circumstances had forced her to leave London and her friends at Christmastime. With her head down, she pressed on toward the shining lights of the town. After all that had recently befallen her, she’d barely blinked when the carriage axle snapped in the midst of the winter storm. Disaster appeared to be following her . . .
How could this time of love and peace be filled with spite, gossip, and bounders who made it a game to ruin the reputations of innocent women? She had looked so forward to the little season—the chance to meet new people, to develop friendships and the possibility of a tendre for an eligible gentleman. How could she know that Lord Ayer was less than eligible—in fact, was a scoundrel?
Her French maid trailed behind, reciting all of Joie’s failings. She refused to allow Esme’s criticism, or her damp pelisse chafing her neck, to sour her mood. Esme, whom she’d inherited after her mother’s death, acted more like a mother than a maid. The wiry older woman didn’t hold back her feelings that all of this was Joie’s fault.
“All,” meaning the carriage’s broken axle, Joie’s supposed fall from grace, her father’s immediate insistence that Joie and Esme be sent to the small village of Lydd. Joie would be in the care of his maiden sister, who adhered to the same rigid rules as her older brother. If Esme started again on Joie’s curiosity and gullibility as character flaws, Joie would scream. Who valued being cynical and untrusting?
Joie slowed her steps as the road narrowed into an uneven cobbled walkway. The inn was not far, and she wanted to run toward the beacon of light and escape the unrelenting rain. She kept her steps slow and steady since she didn’t want to add falling on the slippery bricks to the growing list of calamities.
“The inn looks very jolly.” The glow of candlelight shone through the misty fog. She refused to allow the awful circumstances to ruin Christmas. It was her favorite time of year, where everyone was in good cheer, possibly even her malcontent aunt. And then, Joie realized that she had been given a reprieve from spending the entire holiday with her aunt—a reprieve from Aunt Eleanor’s stern countenance and her constant demands.
The storm had delayed their arrival in Lydd, a dismal town that sat on the Romney Marsh. The storm had also postponed her father’s punishment that she suffer her Aunt Eleanor’s company until the season resumed in London. Her father hadn’t become such a curmudgeon until his wife had died five years ago. He’d gradually changed, growing intolerant—as he shouldn’t be as a man of the cloth—of anyone’s fall from grace, especially his daughter’s.
With a sense of hope and determination, Joie realized she and Esme would have to stay in Rye at least for tonight—and possibly two or three nights, depending on the storm and the time needed to repair her carriage. Instead of listening to her aunt’s doleful sermons, she’d be mingling with strangers. Excitement thrummed through her.
For the next few days, she would be on her own, away from her father delivering homilies over her head, or from being at the beck and call of her exacting aunt. Instead, she was in the ancient town of Rye, known for danger and mystery as the center of French smuggling. She might catch glimpses of the smugglers who brought brandy and lace from France for English consumption.
The Mermaid Inn was carved into the wood sign making a thwacking sound each time a gust of wind sent it crashing against the building. The ivy-covered brick inn was two stories with paned windows shining with candlelight.
Frigid water dripped from her aubergine-and-green bonnet onto her face and neck. And from the way that the olive-green plumes stuck to her forehead, her beloved bonnet must be ruined.
She and Esme had spent hours deciding on the exact shade of green for the ribbons, plumes, and berries. At least Esme didn’t find fault with Joie’s flair for fashion or love of dramatic colors. Joie had inherited her fashion style from her half-French mère.
Fredrick, her footman, darted ahead to open the door to the inn. Pine boughs hung by red ribbons from the overhead wood beams. A fire blazed in the gigantic brick fireplace, which was also covered in greens and pine. And the scent of cedar, pine, and cinnamon wafted in the air.
Stepping into the bright and cozy inn, she smiled broadly, eager to embark on an adventure. She had never stayed in an inn among strangers. She was ready to find holiday merriment among fellow travelers. Chairs were positioned around the fireplace where Joie would enjoy sitting and watching the guests’ comings and goings.
After giving Esme her portmanteau, Joie crossed the room to dry in front of the fire. Fredrick would arrange for her and Esme’s rooms and a private dining room. Her father would have conniptions at just the idea that she was residing at an inn. On their three-day journey, she had only stayed in the homes of distant relatives. He would never countenance her dining in a public room. But he could not interfere at this point.
A massive man with sandy brown hair, dressed in riding breeches and tall black Hessian boots, approached the fireplace where Joie stood with her hands raised to the fire to warm herself. How had she not noticed him in the crowd of people lingering to avoid the rain? He stood a foot taller than everyone and exuded arrogant confidence, unlike the rest of the weary and sodden travelers.
From the way that his thick hair was slicked back and damp, he had also been caught in the storm. She expected when his hair was dry that it would be closer to blond, for the firelight caught glimmers of gold. His brows and eyelashes were dark, framing sea-blue eyes.
He hesitated before he took a position next to her. Not too close. She couldn’t help but notice how the powerful muscles in his thighs flexed when he braced his foot on the fireplace’s andirons. He must spend a great deal of time on horseback.
As expected of a lady, she didn’t acknowledge him but lowered her eyes after delivering a small smile. She didn’t know the etiquette rules when stranded in a storm or during an unplanned stay in an inn. It seemed remarkably unfriendly not to greet strangers.
Despite the warmth of the fire, her clothes were soaked through. She started to remove the pins from her bonnet. Surely, no one, including the high sticklers of society, could fault her for removing her wet bonnet and pelisse to dry herself. Not even her aunt would wish her to contract consumption.
“You’ve just arrived?” His deep, rumbly voice sent silky shivers along her skin despite her shock at him speaking in French with a remarkably good accent. He didn’t look particularly French. He was too big, too muscular. She’d guess his ancestors were part of the invading Vikings or of a Nordic or Germanic heritage.
She twisted to look up at him through the soggy plumes of her bonnet. Trapped in his probing gaze, she stopped in the midst of untying the knotted ribbons. Flecks of silver like night stars shimmered in his blue eyes. His intense scrutiny pierced into her soul. She couldn’t tear away from the connection as the arc of heat and promise flamed between them. His quiet, commanding presence was both reassuring and frightening.
“I hope your departure was uneventful. And travel was easy.”
For a moment, she was lost to everything but the vibrant bond she felt with this complete stranger. Her sudden affinity to this man must be because of the resemblance of his soothing voice to her French uncle, her mère’s older brother.
She returned his stare, grinning like an idiot until his words finally registered. Was the man batty or blind? Or both? Hadn’t he noticed her miserably drenched state and the way her fabulous bonnet drooped? He’d said something about her departure. Did he know of the scandal and her unplanned flight from London?
“My departure?” She answered in English.
He kept staring at her, his look unnerving.
“Uneventful?” Her voice pitched higher.
She edged away from him. What game was he playing? He must know about Lord Ayer luring her into the conservatory. With her recent luck, the stranger was probably friends with that scoundrel. Did men of his ilk recognize women who would make easy prey? Did he think she’d be taken in by his enticing voice if he spoke in French? She’d bet her last farthing that he was as British as she was.
“I’m sure for any bacon-brained rattleplate, the journey might be described as uneventful or even unremarkable.” She turned from him, muttering under her breath. She hoped she’d set him straight about what she thought of him and his attempts at seduction. Only minutes before that, she had felt comforted by the welcoming atmosphere of the inn.
Despite his stare penetrating into her back, she refused to move away from the fire until their rooms were procured. The big bore didn’t need the heat. He obviously had positioned himself to be next to her, assuming that she’d be impressed with his strong angular face or his eyes that were the color of shimmering water. Did she unwittingly send a message that proclaimed that she was fair game to all sundry rakes?
Joie unbuttoned her pelisse, needing to rid herself of the soggy material that now seeped into her gown and onto her skin. She couldn’t free herself from the fashionably tight sleeves that imprisoned her arms.
Esme rushed over to assist Joie when she witnessed Joie’s struggle to remove the heavy pelisse. In a loud and outraged voice, Esme recounted the rudeness of the proprietor, who had laughed when Esme requested a private dining room, as fitting the daughter of a bishop.
Esme tugged on the sleeves, freeing Joie. Shivers skated along Joie’s skin in the drafty room. It was now clear that she shouldn’t have removed her pelisse since her wet gown clung to her curves most improperly.
“Excuse me, Madame, but I couldn’t help overhearing that you were unable to procure a private dining room for your mistress. I’m happy for you to use the dining room that I reserved on my earlier arrival.”
Of course, the stranger had a private dining room and spoke in his seductive French voice to Esme.
Joie whipped around, giving her best glare to the stranger. The one that usually dismissed the people trying to take advantage of her father. “As you know, it wouldn’t be at all appropriate for us to join you. I’m sure we can make do with trays in our room.”
She had learned a valuable lesson from Lord Ayer about men’s machinations.
“I was offering the room for your dining.”
Esme elbowed Joie and whispered, knowing very well that she could be overheard, “Your manners are horrific. What would your mama say of your treatment of a French man?”
Joie almost snorted aloud. Did everyone have vision problems today? He wasn’t French.
And then, smiling coyly at the stranger, Esme said, “Our travel has been quite difficult, and I’m sure my miss doesn’t mean to be ungrateful. Thank you for your generous offer.”
Joie awaited Esme delivering a stomp on her foot to remind Joie of her manners.
“Yes, of course, thank you. But I feel we must decline.” Joie stared at the stranger, who had the most unsettling manner of looking at her. It was not the look a gentleman should give a lady.
But of course, he didn’t think she was a lady. He had heard about the conservatory.
“I doubt the proprietor has the staff to prepare trays for all the guests. The inn is small and not prepared for the onslaught of stranded travelers.”
“We missed luncheon. We can’t miss dinner too.” Esme gave her best reproving look as she delivered her sharp elbow to Joie’s ribs.
The stranger’s full molded lips curved into a smirk. “I wouldn’t want such lovely ladies to go without dinner. I’ve procured the room for six p.m.”
