“If only I could see Jerome’s face when he discovers that I’m gone. He assumes that I’ll be there waiting at his beck and call when he tires of his fat German wife.”

  Reggie gestured to one of the chairs by the fireplace. “Why don’t you warm yourself by the fire. And I have a plan that would allow you to witness Jerome’s torment.”

  Paulette lifted her pelisse and skirt and swept past him like a grand dame, taking her seat at the opera.

  Her eyes were lit in a predatory gleam brought on by spotting a potential prey. “This sounds intriguing.”

  “You could return to Paris with me as your newest admirer.” Reggie flashed the smile that always worked on women.

  “Return to Paris? I’d be imprisoned!”

  “No one knows of your trip to England. You’ve told everyone that you were traveling to Strasbourg to visit your family. What if you were to return from your trip with me as your new protector?”

  She leaned against the back of the cushioned chair to give herself a better view as her gaze focused on his groin. Her intrigues didn’t move him in the least, but the woman who had called him a “bacon-brained rattleplate” while a sodden feather hung over her eye had captured his attention.

  “I’m sure you’ll make an adequate lover.”

  Reggie wasn’t about to prove himself. He wasn’t conceited, but he did feel his skills were more than adequate.

  “I’ve been in the center of French power, close to the Emperor as Jerome’s mistress. How would it punish Jerome to see me with you? You’re a nobody. You know no one.”

  “My association with the infamous Paulette Martin would make me somebody. Your reputation is well-established. According to rumor, you have enough influence to bring a lowly butcher into style if you wished. You could introduce me to Paris society to make me your new darling.

  “You’d be seen to be enjoying your freedom—flaunting your new younger and more virile lover. You wouldn’t lose your friends and family. You wouldn’t have to start a new life. And we’d be seen everywhere Jerome and his bride-to-be would be. And every time he saw you, he’d know what he was missing, remembering the passion between you . . . thinking of me in his place, remembering that you’re a tigress in bed.”

  She scrutinized his face, absorbing each flick of his eyes and every word he uttered. Her lips curved into a smirk. “It’s a very tantalizing proposition. Is this something your superior Lord Rathbourne thought of?”

  The mention of Lord Rathbourne was jarring in their cat and mouse game. He smiled in an attempt to hide his shock. He wasn’t sure whether to ignore or deny.

  “I can see by your face that you’re surprised that I know who heads English Intelligence. I’ve been in Jerome and his brother’s world for over a year. Men forget about women being present when they’re discussing important matters. I’ve listened to Jerome and his brother’s conversations about many sensitive and secretive matters. It always works to a woman’s advantage that men underestimate women.”

  And there was the coy smug look again. Was she threatening Reggie?

  “I’ve learned from having many sisters never to underestimate women’s intelligence.”

  “Touché.” She chuckled. “At least you weren’t sent by Rathbourne for just your beauty.”

  Now it was his turn to laugh. “No one has ever accused me of being a beauty.”

  “You’ll be using me as your cover to spy for England. What am I to gain by placing myself in such a dangerous position? I could take a young and virile French lover.”

  “I’m sure that you’d have no difficulty in finding a new lover but think of the thrill in outwitting Jerome. I was informed that you were a woman who thrived on danger and intrigue. And that you wanted to be instrumental in crippling Napoleon’s schemes.”

  Reggie didn’t mention the money that Paulette had already been given by the English. “Of course, there will be financial compensation for this newest plan.”

  “It’s an interesting proposition with attractive possibilities. But I’ve my heart set on starting a new salon in London, to become the center of English culture.”

  Reggie hadn’t expected her to accept the first step in their negotiation. Paulette often used her wit and her body to bargain with powerful men. Ashworth had reassured him that if Reggie were unable to convince her to return to France, they would utilize her skills in London. But as his first assignment, he wanted to prove himself.

  Reggie stood. It was important to know when to end the arbitration to your advantage. “We’ll discuss this tomorrow after you’ve rested from your journey. You must decide which intrigues you the most—tormenting Jerome in a personal manner or from afar in London. The choice, of course, is yours. Though do keep in mind that French women dabbling in society can be seen as a bit . . . outré at this time.”

  “You’ve given me a great deal to think about.”

  He bowed his head and moved toward the door. “I’ll arrange for the bath and dinner. If you need anything, I’m in the next room.”

  As Reggie began to open the door, Paulette stood and moved quickly toward him.

  “You need to learn how to sweeten the deal. If you want me to consider returning to Paris with you, I will need to be impressed. And I’m not easily impressed.”

  She gave the titillating laugh that already grated on his nerves.

  She pulled his head down and kissed him. She took control, moving her lips aggressively against his before thrusting her tongue into his mouth.

  Her arms tightened around his neck, keeping him in place to continue plundering as she pressed against him. She whispered against his lips, “If we are to be lovers, then I need to decide on your merits.”

  Reggie didn’t respond, debating on how to handle this newest negotiation technique when he heard a gasp and then rapid French. He twisted to see Esme, with her mouth open, a dress over her arm, standing in the middle of the hall.

  “Excuse me . . . “

  Reggie saw red, his temper igniting. Esme standing close to Paulette’s door was no accident. His fury mounted as he realized that Esme had been listening at the door and most likely overheard the discussion. He wanted to wring the lily-white neck of Miss Joie James for endangering his mission and placing herself in danger.

  “I was returning my mistress’s dress from the kitchen where I had been pressing it.”

  Paulette laughed, amusement lacing her voice. “We’ve shocked the old woman.”

  Esme fumbled with the door until it was opened by Joie, who must have been standing inside by how quickly she opened the door. Joie’s glance swept over them, noting every detail of how closely pressed Paulette’s body was to his and the way her arms were wrapped around his neck.

  Reggie didn’t try to disengage himself from Paulette despite the hurt he read in Joie’s eyes. He hated that Joie had to be injured this way, but the woman had no business continuing to spy on him. Self-derision festered underneath his anger that he had mismanaged this assignment to resemble a Molière love triangle comedy. Not exactly the manner in which Lord Rathbourne expected him to handle a clandestine mission.

  Joie’s chin thrust out as she spoke in French. “Pardon me for the intrusion.” And she slammed the door shut.

  “She’s pretty enough in her own fashion. If you like women with a lot of flesh.”

  Reggie pulled away from Paulette’s steely grip. He needed this comedy of errors to end now. He spoke in a loud voice, making sure that Joie would hear every word. “She’s a mere girl who is stranded because her coach broke down. She means nothing to me.”

  Paulette lifted her darkened eyebrows. “I saw the way you were looking at her when you came into the lobby. You looked besotted.”

  “Besotted”—he recoiled as if he had been struck. Paulette needed to be convinced that he had no interest in Joie.

  “Mademoiselle, you confuse gentlemanly kindness with romance. I was kind to her as I would expect any gentleman would be to one of my sisters if she were stranded.”

  “You didn’t act as if you thought of her as a sister.”

  “You’re mistaken,” he said forcefully. “I have no interest in innocent girls. I like grown women who know what they want.”

  And took Paulette’s mouth, demonstrating that he was more than an adequate lover.

  Chapter Seven

  Joie paced the room, unable to sit after the scene she had witnessed. She was a mix of seething emotions with the sight of Paulette’s arm around Mr. Thompson’s neck, and her body crushed against his. His hurtful declaration that he had no interest in innocent girls boomed in an incessant clang in her ears.

  The “innocent” label barely stung since she had been sheltered as any young woman of her status. But being called “girl” was an assault on her sensibilities. When she was near Mr. Thompson, she was an awakened woman who knew her heart’s desires. Her feelings for him weren’t girlish in the least.

  “Mr. Thompson didn’t resist when she kissed him. I’ve never been more mistaken about a man’s character. Allowing that woman to plaster herself against him with the door open and straight across from your room. He acted like such a solicitous gentleman, procuring a private dining room, escorting us to our room, accompanying you through town.”

  Esme’s outrage on Joie’s behalf was a balm to her befuddled feelings. Esme might criticize Joie privately, but she was loyal and would fight for her mistress.

  “Tell me again what you heard.”

  Joie struggled to make sense of tonight’s incident since nothing about Mr. Thompson’s decision to protect Paulette rang true, especially the kiss.

  “I couldn’t hear that much since the door was closed and my heart was pounding like a kettle drum.” Esme grabbed her heart dramatically. “The Bonapartes, Fouché, and spying were all spoken of. Mr. Thompson is an English spy. Fouché will send his violent police agents after Mr. Thompson to kill him if he goes to France.”

  Joie swallowed the panic rising in her throat. If Mr. Thompson were discovered in France, he would be killed. Esme didn’t exaggerate the danger. He had tried to warn her off, but she hadn’t listened. How mutton-headed of her to care so much after knowing him for such a brief acquaintance, but she did care with her full heart.

  The door swung open, crashing against the wall. Mr. Thompson, his face the color of the Christmas ribbons and his eyes churning with emotion like the changing tide of the Channel, marched toward her. Compared to her father, he was much more impressive in a rage.

  Joie stepped away from his ferocious look and the tension projecting from his body. Mad at herself for revealing her momentary fear, she lifted her chin and prepared to defend her actions. Except she didn’t have a defense. And as silly as it seemed, she couldn’t accept that he didn’t feel the same way about her.

  His brow was furrowed, and the tic in his jaw was pronounced. “I told you to leave me alone, so instead, you sent your maid . . . As if that made it acceptable.”

  Joie signaled for Esme to retreat. She didn’t want her beloved maid to be in the line of fire.

  Esme shook her head. Having escaped France’s Reign of Terror, the maid was made of sterner stuff than an irate Mr. Thompson.

  “It’s all right, Esme. This is between Mr. Thompson and me.”

  Esme nodded and retreated to the curtained alcove where Joie knew the maid would listen to every word.

  “You’re leaving for France?” She hoped in the deepest part of her being that he would reassure her that he really wasn’t trading his safety for England’s. But she knew it was the truth or she wouldn’t be hurting so badly.

  “So, you don’t deny that you had Esme listening.”

  “I don’t trust Paulette. There is something unsettling about her.” It was difficult to meet his glare, but Joie had become immune to men’s fits from experiencing her father’s regular browbeating. “The eyes are the door to a person’s soul. And her eyes are cold and flinty.”

  “Whether Paulette is trustworthy or not is none of your business,” he spoke slowly through his clenched teeth.

  “Men are so foolish when it comes to beautiful women. I’ve seen it over and over again. The widow in our parish . . .”

  “Stop with this nonsense. Listen carefully, for I shall not repeat this again. You are to stay away.”

  “But you can’t trust Paulette to do what’s best for you or for England. She reminds me of our second footman, a very dashing man who charmed everyone while he stole from the household.”

  The way he rolled his eyes upward should be a warning that an explosion was most likely. But she couldn’t give up. She cared too much.

  “None of your business.” His large hands fisted at his sides. “If there is any infraction, any sneaking, listening . . .”

  “Infraction? You sound like a jailer. You’re not the law.”

  He exhaled loudly to demonstrate his frustration. “If you interfere in any manner, I will send a courier to your father. I will inform him that you’ve embroiled yourself again in a scandal.”

  His cold words were a brutal kick to her stomach. She almost doubled over with pain. But she couldn’t allow him to see how deeply he hurt her.

  “You wouldn’t dare.” She could barely breathe from the betrayal. He had been the only one who understood about Lord Ayer.

  “I would, and I will if you don’t desist immediately.” This wasn’t the man with a boyish smile and kind eyes whom she had spent the afternoon with. There was now nothing amiable or charming about him. He was a domineering tyrant like her father.

  “But the roads are impassable.”

  “Jordy reassures me that, by morning, the roads will be open. Go to your aunt’s and celebrate Christmas and forget everything about your stay in Rye.”

  “But . . . “

  “There are no ‘buts’ . . . Goodbye, Miss James.” He turned and strode out without closing the door. Joie watched his retreat until she realized that Paulette’s door was partially open.

  The woman had been listening to every painful and embarrassing moment, and most likely Joie’s criticism of her. It didn’t matter what Paulette thought of her since Mr. Thompson didn’t value Joie’s opinion. If the roads were open tomorrow, Joie would be departing for Lydd. And Mr. Thompson and Paulette would be on their way to France.

  * * *

  Joie kicked off the blanket wrapped around her legs. Despite her struggles, she couldn’t find a comfortable position. She closed her eyes and slowed her breathing, but her mind spun like a whirling dervish. The thought that Mr. Thompson was lost to her made her hurt worse than any illness. She shivered hot and cold with despair.

  She couldn’t accept that their last moments together had been contentious. She didn’t want him to leave England angry at her—his last image of her as a snooping busybody.

  In the morning, she would knock on his door and apologize. She’d tell him that she only wanted the best for him and that she’d pray for his well-being.

  She would walk away with the dignity befitting an archbishop’s daughter. She wouldn’t burden him by confessing that she would think of him daily, that she’d never forget him, and that she would spend her life wondering . . . Maybe they would meet years later in London? The lonely hours, days, and months stretched ahead. The longing of never knowing his fate.

  It was useless. She’d never get any sleep with her brain swirling, lost in a labyrinth of her thoughts. She pushed the blankets aside and stood. The cold floor on her bare feet jolted her fully awake as did the painful realization that she didn’t even know his full name.

  She wrapped her shawl around her shoulders, then crossed the room to stoke the fire and light the candles on the hearth. Esme’s loud snores and the fire engulfing the logs were the only night sounds.

  The bone-deep ache in her chest was the same as when her mother died. Shockingly, she grieved for a man she’d spent mere hours with. Hearts didn’t measure time. Hearts needed no words. Hearts embraced love and goodness. And Mr. Thompson was a good man, sacrificing his future happiness for his country. She couldn’t admire him more, and she would tell him in the morning.

  Joie jumped with the subtle but distinct noise of a hall door opening and then the sound of muffled voices. Her breath wedged in her throat when she heard a man’s voice. Mr. Thompson was leaving for France tonight, not affording her a chance to say goodbye.

  She hurried to the door, careful not to make any sound in her rush to hear his voice one last time. She pressed her ear to the door.

  “The trap is set.” A man, not Mr. Thompson, with a Meridional accent of southern France, spoke in hushed tones.

  “He is a big man and will not succumb easily,” Paulette said.

  Joie covered her mouth to prevent the loud gasp.

  “You needn’t worry. He won’t see me when I hit him.”

  Paulette laughed in a high-pitched grating way. “It will be quite amusing to see the conceited Englishman tied and begging for mercy. What time does the boat sail?”

  Panic fired through Joie. Her heartbeat hit her chest in painful strokes, and her breath came out in choppy gulps.

  Afraid to move, Joie stood frozen, listening for their voices to recede as they moved down the hallway. And she heard the fading sounds of their footsteps on the wooden stairs.

  Once she heard them descend, she rushed to Mr. Thompson’s door. She knocked loudly. Uncaring of whoever she awakened.

  When he didn’t respond, she pounded louder. “Mr. Thompson. Please wake up. I must speak to you, something of great importance.”

  Still no answer.

  She twisted the knob and opened the door to a room of shadows from the blazing fire. He must have left in a hurry as he hadn’t banked the fire.

  “Mr. Thompson. This is important.” Her voice quivered in alarm as she inched her way into the middle of the room.

  The bed was empty and freshly made. Mr. Thompson hadn’t slept in his bed this evening. His portmanteau was open on a side table.

 

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