"No, I can't. I'm a governess, not a spy."
Sir Northrop crossed his arms, and the look in his eyes was dangerous. "I am well aware of your station, Miss Smith, but you have all of the qualities necessary to complete this task. I have watched you the last few days."
Sarah stiffened, feeling uncomfortable.
"I have noted your extensive patience with the children. You must have covered the same geography lesson with Edmund ten different times, and yet you never showed even a hint of exasperation."
Sarah swallowed. So he
had
noted Edmund's poor comprehension of geography. "But, sir, it's my job to be patient with children—"
"Few have that sort of patience, or your quickness of mind. When Anne tried to skirt her writing exercise last week because she was hungry, you persuaded her to write about the food she was craving. She showed me the composition that evening, and the descriptions were impressive."
"Sir, we are speaking of dealings with children. Surely, I do not have the skills needed to spy on a French duc!"
"You are fluent in French, and we do not expect you to act alone. We will give you guidance and preparation. You have been approved."
"Approved?" Sarah looked from Sir Northrop back to the injured woman. "By whom?" There was silence, and Sarah hissed in a breath. "Are you telling me the King has asked for my assistance?" Her hands were shaking now, and she tried to still them in the folds of her gown.
"Not by name." Sir Northrop paused as though considering how much to tell her. "As you know, I was knighted by the King for service to England. What you may not know is that I still render assistance to His Majesty. I work for the Foreign Office, training and overseeing some of our best operatives."
Sarah gawked at him. Sir Northrop—her employer, the man in whose home she resided—oversaw the country's spies?
"This"—he gestured to the woman lying on the chaise longue—"is the operative we had planned to use, but—let's call her The Widow—The Widow was injured in the line of duty. We need someone to take her place. In three days."
The Widow? What kind of name was that? A code name obviously, and one Sarah wanted nothing to do with.
"You're our only hope, Miss Smith," The Widow said. "There are no other operatives free at this time."
"But why me?" Sarah took a step back. "Surely there are many patient, quick-witted women about."
Sir Northrop nodded. "True, but all have a history here in London. You do not. No one in the upper circles of the
ton
will know you are not who we say you are."
"The
ton
?" Sarah felt the panic creep in. The
ton
was the collective name for England's high society— the wealthy, titled, and fabulously stylish. "I don't know anything about the
ton
. I'm just a governess," she repeated. Perhaps if she said it enough, the truth would sink in.
"Nonsense. You live with the
ton
, work for them. You are preparing Sir Northrop's children to live in the world of the
ton
. You know more than you think," The Widow said. "What you don't know, you'll figure out. More importantly, you have the look we need. The duc has been given a general description of me—brown hair, brown eyes, taller than average. You fit that description."
Sarah shook her head. "B-but I don't look anything like you. You're—" She gestured to the woman's bosom, unable to find the words.
"The duc has never met me, so that shouldn't be a problem."
Sarah opened her mouth then closed it again. Every protest she made was met with a counterargument. It seemed futile to point out that she had never met a duke in her life. Why, even Sir Northrop made her nervous, and he was only a knight. And now they expected her to go gallivanting about the
ton
as though she associated with the aristocracy every day?
They wanted her to spy.
On. A. Duc.
Did they know she did not have the stomach for telling lies? How could she lie to this duc? She would be sick all over the man as soon as she said her name.
Oh, and what name was she to give? The Widow?
She shook her head. No, she could not do it. Sir Northrop was watching her, frowning.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I have to decline. I-I'm just a governess. I must return to my charges."
***
Julien Harcourt, chevalier, duc de Valère,
pair de
France
, pushed away the glass of brandy his friend Rigby offered him. "I'm done."
Done with the brandy and done with his club. He glanced about the smoky sitting room filled with men seated in leather chairs, papers in one hand, brandy in the other. The hum of voices was incessant, and beyond, in the gaming room, he could hear the cries of victory and groans of defeat.
Rigby raised a brow. "It's French brandy. Some entrepreneurial smuggler risked life and limb so we
could pay a pretty penny to drink it."
"Penny?" Stover said, interrupting. "That bottle cost more than a penny."
"You finish it, then," Julien offered. "I'm going home to bed."
Rigby and Stover exchanged glances. "Big day tomorrow, eh?" Rigby said. The taller of Julien's two friends, he had auburn hair, fair skin, and still looked eighteen. As the nephew of a marquis who had more money than King George—or King Midas, for that matter—Laurence Rigby had enough blunt to buy a thousand bottles of smuggled French brandy.
Julien rose, and Stover rose with him. Marcus Stover was older and more serious. More frugal, too. His blond brows creased with concern. "You didn't finish telling us about the letter."
"Or the lovely Mademoiselle Serafina."
Julien ignored Rigby's comment. The letter was still on his mind. It was the reason he had come out to his club tonight. The reason he was still here at—he checked his pocket watch—three in the morning.
"Oh, what'd you go and do that for?" Rigby complained. "Don't tell me what time it is. If I don't know, I can truthfully tell my father that the time got away from me."
"You need to get your own flat," Stover in formed him.
"Or move in with Valère here," Rigby said, waggling his eyebrows. "His mama doesn't care how late he stays out."
"She'll care tonight," Julien said, deciding he might as well take his seat again. There was no point in going home yet. He would not be able to sleep. The letter was still on his mind.
"She wants you looking your best for the Mademoiselle Serafina."
"Stubble it," Stover ordered Rigby. "Tell us about the letter."
He handed Julien the brandy, and this time Julien accepted it. He took a long swallow, lowered his voice, and said, "I'm going back to France."
"Are you jingle-brained?" Rigby exclaimed. "There's a war on."
Julien gave him a look, and Rigby sat back. "Alright. I'll stubble it."
Julien turned back to Stover. "I received a letter from someone who alleges he was a servant for my family. In the letter, he claims to know the whereabouts of my brother Armand."
"Where?" Stover asked.
"He won't say in the letter."
Stover looked thoughtful. "It could be a trap. Get you back in France then capture you."
"Are there windmills in your head?" Rigby sat forward. "Of course it's a trap."
Julien turned on him. "And what if it's not? What if my brother is trapped in France right now, rotting in some jail, while I lounge here, sipping brandy?" He slammed the glass down, garnering looks from several men at the gaming tables.
Rigby gave them a wave, and they turned back to their faro. "Calm down, Valère. We're just trying to warn you what this ill-fated venture could cost you."
"I don't count costs," he said through a clenched
jaw. "If my brother is alive, he needs me. There's no price on that."
"Have you considered that your brothers are most likely dead?" Stover asked.
"There are no records of their deaths."
"What records would there be?" Stover spoke carefully. "You said yourself your mother believes the boys perished in the fire."
Yes, but Julien wanted proof. He had obtained proof of his father's death. After the duc de Valère fought the peasants, giving his wife a chance to escape, he had been captured and transported to Paris and guillotined as the crowds cheered.
But of his younger brothers, the twins Sébastien and Armand, no account existed. Julien had gone back to France in secret and investigated, but he had gotten nowhere. And then yesterday he received the letter. It was signed by Gilbert Pierpont, their former butler. He wrote that he had information about Armand but couldn't give the information in the letter; it was too dangerous. He wanted Monsieur le Duc to come to Paris—into the lion's den.
"I have to be sure."
Rigby shook his head. "You're going to get yourself killed playing the hero."
"I'm not a hero. I'm just doing my duty."
Ne
quittez pas. Never give up.
That had been his father's creed, and Julien had adopted it.
"Well, let me give you another duty. There's a tavern over in Chelsea with the prettiest barmaid—"
"I don't care about some woman."
"That's obvious," Rigby muttered. "Work, work,
work."
Julien sighed. It was true. He worked far too much, but he hadn't had the security of a father's fortune like Rigby and Stover. He and his mother had to start over after fleeing France.
"He's not going to meet a barmaid on the same day his fiancée arrives," Stover said.
Julien winced. "Don't call her that."
Stover held up his hands. "You and I and the rest of the
ton
know your mother hopes you'll ask the chit to marry you."
"I'm the one to bend a knee." He rose. "And I'll make that decision."
"You'll do it." Rigby sighed. "Duty and all that."
"Try it sometime."
Rigby frowned. "What's that mean?"
"How long has your family been trying to match you with Miss Wimple? She's rich, has land adjoining yours, and blushes every time you speak to her."
"She has horse teeth." Rigby wrinkled his nose.
Stover laughed. "And you have big ears."
Rigby's hands flew to his ears. "Do not!"
With a laugh and a shake of his head, Julien strode away.
He did not go straight home. He walked until he tired his brain enough that he thought it would finally allow sleep. Three hours later, he stood in front of his town house in Berkeley Square. The sun was just breaking through the clouds, penetrating the thick fog that shrouded the night and engendered damp and cold even this late in May. He hated the English damp. It made his foot throb, the pain like a persistent
adversary after all these years.
He stood in front of the house, leaning against the door, watching the last of the carriages rattling along the road. He supposed the occupants were returning from some lord or lady's ball. Had his mother gone? Was he supposed to have attended?
Behind him, the door opened and Luc, his valet, stuck his head out. "Monsieur le Duc, do you intend to stand out here all night?" he asked, voice thick with his French accent.
Julien turned to squint at Luc. "What are you doing up?"
"Eh!
Mon Dieu!
Look at that cravat." Luc gestured desperately at the vestibule. "Come inside,
s'il vous
plaît
. Are you certain you are part French? No Frenchman would treat his accoutrements in this fashion." He lifted the wilted cravat with two fingers. "
Au secours!
It is ruined, no?"
Ruined
was an exaggeration. The cravat was undone and had a small stain on it, but Julien wasn't going to argue the point. Once inside, he dropped into a pink and white striped satin Sheraton chair, waving away his valet. "I'll buy another."
Luc frowned then bent to remove the neck cloth. "That is what you always say."
"This time he means it."
Julien looked up and saw his mother standing at the top of the steps. Rowena, dowager duchesse de Valère, descended, the train of her yellow morning gown trailing over the steps after her. She was a beautiful woman. Not quite five and forty, her hair was still black, her figure still trim, and her smile
still sad.
Once when he and Stover were too far in their cups, Stover had described her as ethereal. Julien could see that now. The grief that accompanied losing two sons and a husband had not robbed her of her beauty, but it had transformed that beauty into something fragile and poignant.
She seemed so delicate now, not the same woman who had scaled a chateau and fought off angry peasants with a pitchfork.
She reached the marble landing and held out a hand. "I missed you at the ball."
So he
had
been expected to attend. "I was with Rigby and Stover."
"Ah."
"Monsieur Bruyere, leave us, please."
"Oui, Duchesse."
The valet bowed deeply, and taking the wilted cravat with him, retreated.