The Making of a Duchess (18 page)

   He stared at her, completely confused. "What are

you
talking
about?"

"Treason." She spat the word, contempt in her eyes.

   "What are you talking about?" he repeated, shouting now.

   "I can't tell—"

   He shook her, causing her spectacles to tumble down to the floor and her hair to fall back over her shoulders. "Tell me now, or so help me God—"

   "Fine!" she cried. "I'm Sarah Smith. I'm a governess."

   He did not know what he had expected her to say, but that was not it. He almost released her. "Why are you pretending to be Mademoiselle Serafina?"

   "Not by my choice, I assure you. I had to do it, or they said they'd throw me out on the streets."

   "Who are
they
?" He squeezed her arms. "Tell me."

   "The Foreign Office. They know about you."

   "Know what? That I'm French?"

   "That you're a—"

   "Traitor." Realization glimmered even as he asked the last question. Those trips to France had not gone unnoticed. The English government thought he was a traitor, and they had sent a woman to spy on him.

   And not a very good spy either, if tonight was any indication.

   "You said you were a governess. Why are you spying for the Foreign Office?"

   "I had no choice. The Widow was assigned this mission—"

   "Who?"

   "I don't know her real name. She's a spy and wounded. They had no one else to send. Sir Northrop

said I had to go."

   "Sir Northrop? Your helper at the ball tonight? The protector of your honor?"

   "He's my employer. I'm governess to his children, Anne and Edmund." He was beginning to see her predicament, but he would not allow his sympathies to be touched. "But now I suppose he'll make good on his threat and throw me out on the street."

   "You'll be lucky if all I do is throw you out on the street, you little vixen. You lied to me."

   "I
had
to," she shouted back. "And I'm not sorry. I hope they catch you and throw you in Newgate!"

   He released her arms and pushed away from her. "I'm no traitor."

   "How do I know that?"

   "I'm not the liar here. You are."

   "Everything I've told you tonight is the truth."

   "How can I believe you? Maybe this story about Sarah Smith is just another falsehood. After all, you had no scruples when seducing me at the Vichou ball. Perhaps you even orchestrated our engagement."

   She looked away, and he swore. "You
did
orchestrate it."

   "No." She shook her head. "Sir Northrop did that. I had no idea."

   He crossed his arms again. "Really? No idea."

   "Well, I knew he wanted me to become engaged to you, but I didn't think he'd go that far."

   Julien shook his head, his thoughts in a muddle. Everything was jumbling about in his head, new questions popping up before he could ask the last ones.

   "Alright." He raked a hand through his hair,

crossed the room, and closed the library door. "Let's take this step by step."

   "I've already said too much. I think I should go to my room and begin packing."

   "And go where?" He crossed to his bottle stand and poured three fingers of brandy into one of the cut crystal glasses there, swallowed it down, and poured three more. "Want one?" he said without looking at her.

   "No. My head is pounding." She sounded so miserable that he poured her one anyway.

   "Here." He handed it to her. "Drink this. You sound like you need it."

   She took a small sip and made a face. If he had not been so angry, he would have smiled. He sat in his desk chair and pulled the key out of his secret drawer. Holding it up for her to see, he palmed it.

   Her behavior at the ball made more sense to him now. She had wanted the key. That was why she ran her hands over him during the dance, why she lured him away from the ball, why she kissed him. He fought not to show his disgust. All of the passion she had shown during their kiss had been a pretense for stealing his key. Was anything about this woman, this Sarah, not a lie?

   "Can we talk about this tomorrow when you're"— she swallowed—"dressed?"

   He glanced down and remembered he'd simply thrown a robe on over his nakedness. It was belted closed, but the vee in front revealed his bare chest. He pulled the material closed. "You're not going anywhere until I have the answers I want."

   She sighed and sat on the couch to his right.

She balanced her brandy on her knee but did not drink any more. He clenched his jaw, working to control his anger. "You took this key while I was kissing you."

   "No. It was when we were… interrupted. I took the coat and extracted the key then."

   "When we were interrupted," he repeated. "You mean, when I was forced to propose to you. Again."

   She nodded.

   "It occurs to me, madam, that you had no need to orchestrate a second proposal from me. You already had one, and you turned me down."

   "I know. That's because I didn't know I was supposed to accept."

   "What?"

   "I was given this assignment at the last minute." She took another small sip of brandy, made a face. "I didn't know everything I was supposed to do."

   "And what exactly are you supposed to do?"

   "Find evidence to prove you're a traitor, turn it over, and turn you in."

   Julien leaned back, heard the first nail hammered into his coffin.

When he leaned back, his robe gaped open again, and Sarah had to take another gulp of the brandy. It burned when it went down, but her throat was parched. Was he wearing
anything
under that robe?

   She had a feeling he wasn't.

   If he had been more fully dressed, she might have resisted telling him so much, but his bare legs and bare

chest flustered her.

   She sighed. Who was she fooling? She was a horrible spy. He had merely scowled, and she had told him all.

   Not that he wouldn't have figured it out anyway. She was well and truly caught. He was no fool.

   She did not know what to do now. She supposed she would have to go back to Sir Northrop and confess that she had botched this whole operation. She could tell him about the letter she had been copying, but that didn't really prove Valère was a traitor. In fact, it seemed to give him a legitimate reason for returning to France.

   She sipped her brandy again. Agh! Awful stuff.

   She glanced at Valère. Perhaps all was not lost… Perhaps she could prove Valère innocent.
Was
he innocent?

   He was swirling his brandy glass, looking morose. "Is Armand your brother?" she asked.

   His gaze snapped to her face, his look dangerous. She had better be careful here.

   "Are you looking for more information to build the case against me?"

   "No. I'm trying to help you."

   "Why help a traitor?"

   "
Are
you a traitor?"

   He set the glass down. "I thought that was a given."

   "It is—was. I don't know what to think anymore. You don't behave like a traitor. And the papers you have locked up, none of them are about state secrets. They're letters about family."

   "Perhaps it's a code I use.
Armand
could stand for

munitions or troop levels."

   "I don't think so. I think he's your brother, and he's still in France, and you want desperately to get him out."

   He kept his gaze locked on hers. "You're not such a bad spy after all, Miss Smith."

   She felt strangely pleased by the compliment.

   "And if that were true—that my brother needs my help—
would
you help me?"

   She swallowed and looked down. "I don't know."

   "I see. Why don't you think about it and tell me tomorrow." He rose and cinched his robe again. "I think it's best if we go to bed." He walked to the door of the library, and not knowing what else to do, she followed.

   "But shouldn't we discuss our situation more? Sir Northrop will want to know what my progress has been. I'll have to tell him I've been compromised."

   One hand on the door, he glanced at her. "You don't have to tell him anything. Yet."

   "But—"

   "That's your choice, Miss Smith. Short of locking you up, what can I do? My fate is in your hands."

   "But—"

   He reached out and grasped her shoulders. "Go to bed before I do or say something I'll regret."

   His hand was warm and strong on her. She nodded and tried to pull away. Strangely enough, she wanted him to kiss her again. Of course, he would never do it. Not now that he knew the truth, but she wanted him anyway.

   "We'll talk again tomorrow," he said then

released her.

   She swayed, feeling the absence of his touch keenly. "When? Where?" she asked.

   "I haven't decided yet. Damn it." He grasped her arm, and she could feel the fury racing through him. "You want to speak with me? How about your bath?"

   She gasped. "Your Grace!"

   "Too private?" He caressed her cheek, but his touch was not gentle. "You had no qualms about breaching my privacy."

   She tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat as his finger slid over her skin and down to her mouth.

   "Perhaps I'll come to you in your room, when you're in bed. What do you sleep in, Sarah?"

   She swallowed. His touch was robbing her of thought. "Nothing."

   His eyes went dark.

   "No! That's not what I meant. I have a-a night rail."

   He smiled. "White? With ruffles here?" He touched her neck, and she shivered. His hand dipped lower. "And laces here?" He brushed the tops of her breasts, and she jumped back. "Perhaps I'll strip it away. Leave you as few secrets as you've left me."

   "Your Grace—"

   "Go to bed, little governess. Now. Before I change my mind and—"

   She didn't wait for him to finish.

Sarah did not sleep. Valère's promises—or were they threats?—swirled about in her mind until she was feverish with worry and, though she would never admit it, desire. Every time she closed her eyes, she imagined him standing beside her bed, wearing only his robe. She imagined that robe falling open to reveal his bronze chest…

   And then she would sit up and force herself to think of geography or Latin verbs. Reverend Collier would have had much to say to her if he knew her thoughts and behavior this past day. She decided it would be best if she went to church Sunday. As that was the next day, she would go that very morning. The duchesse had not mentioned attending services, which meant it was not something she regularly did. Hopefully, Sir Northrop would not be waiting for her in one of the pews.

   "You want to go where?" the duchesse asked the next morning at breakfast.

   Sarah, who upon entering the dining room and seeing Valère at the sideboard was too nervous to eat, sipped a weak cup of tea instead.

   "Church. Is there one nearby?" She tried to keep her eyes on the duchesse, but she caught Valère's look anyway. He was smiling at her, one brow cocked in a knowing expression. She looked away.

   "Oh, dear," the duchesse said. "I suppose that living in Italy all this time, you may not be aware that the English despise our kind. The best we can do is to ask a priest to come to the house."

   Sarah stared at the duchesse for a long, confused moment then blinked in understanding. Of course! The Valères were Catholic, as was Serafina. There were laws against Catholics, and Sarah could not think of any Catholic churches. She supposed there might be some underground, but she hardly wanted to force the duchesse to sneak into Mass. Not to mention, she had been raised Anglican at the Academy.

   "Julien, could you send one of the servants for the priest?" the duchesse was saying.

   "No, wait—" Having a priest in the house would not accomplish her purposes: escaping Valère. "I don't mind attending an Anglican church."

   "Really?" the duchesse raised a brow.

   Sarah spread her hands. "I doubt God has any objections."

   The duchesse looked as though she did not agree, but she said, "In that case, I suppose St. George's in Hanover Square is the closest. I wonder what time services begin?" She glanced at Valère, who had taken a seat across from Sarah and was cutting a piece of ham.

   Sarah had already dressed—hastily, as she feared Valère would interrupt her at any moment—and was ready to depart. "I don't want to disrupt your plans for the day, Duch—Rowena." She peeked at Valère. What would he think of her using his mother's Christian name, now that he knew she was no daughter of a comte but a plain governess?

   He did not look up from the ham.

   "If I could just borrow the coach—or better yet, if you would have a footman fetch a hackney for me—then—"

   Rowena set her tea cup on the table with a rattle. "I will do no such thing. A hackney, indeed. You will be my daughter before long, and no child of mine will ride in a hackney."