The Spymaster's Men: Persuasion Part 9

"Why don't you take her and join us? His lordship hasn't seen her yet, has he?"

Mrs. Murdock seemed to grasp the significance of what they were doing. She paled. "Only that one time, when he first arrived from London."

But he hadn't even looked at the baby then, Amelia thought. "He will fall in love with her," Amelia said, speaking her thoughts aloud.

Mrs. Murdock smiled and retrieved the baby. The group then went downstairs. Amelia led them toward the dining hall, her heart pounding. The moment everyone was settled, she would make her escape; she hardly needed another word with Grenville now.

The servant was outside the dining room, unmoving. Both doors remained open. John screamed, "Papa!" He released her hand and ran into the dining room. William let her go and followed.

Grenville had been seated at the far end of the table, reading a news journal. He stood up, incredulous. Then, as John barreled into him, she saw the smile break over his face. As he embraced his son, lifting him up and whirling him about in a sign of sheer joy, Amelia felt faint with relief.

He so loved the boys.

He set John down and hugged William, hard. When he released him and straightened, he was still smiling.

"I broke my horse," John told him.

"Miss Greystone wants to take us on a picnic," William said eagerly. "Can we go, Father?"

"Can we? Can we?" John cried, hopping up and down.

His hand on William's shoulder, Grenville turned and looked at her. Then his gaze moved behind her to Mrs. Murdock, who carried the baby. A chilling expression crossed his face.

Alarm began. He did not want to see his daughter.

He hadn't looked at her at the funeral.

But he quickly turned to both boys. "We will discuss the possibility of a picnic after you tell me all about your lessons." And as both boys tried to speak at once, explaining why they had not been doing their lessons, he glanced up at Amelia.

His face dark, he said, "I will see the child another time." And he moved, putting his back between them and his sons.

No action could have been as clear. They had been dismissed.

Amelia took Mrs. Murdock's arm in disbelief. As they stepped into the hallway, the governess looked at her, wide-eyed.

He would not look at his own child, she thought, torn between anger and sorrow. How could he be so callous, so cold?

"Oh, Miss Greystone," Mrs. Murdock whispered. "I know you despise gossip, but I fear that this time, the gossip is true."

Amelia stared at her, then quickly turned and closed the dining-room doors. A terrible thought had occurred to her. "He blames this poor baby for his wife's death," she managed to say.

"I do not think that is the case," Mrs. Murdock said unevenly.

"If you have another explanation, I should like to hear it!"

"The child isn't his."

CHAPTER FIVE.

SOMEONE WAS KNOCKING on the door.

He could not imagine who was there, in the middle of the night. The knocking became louder. It became insistent.

And suddenly he knew who was at his front door and he sat up. Terror consumed him.

"St. Just! Open up! We know who you are and what you have done!" a man shouted.

They had discovered his ident.i.ty, they knew he was playing both sides against one another, they meant to seize him, imprison him and return him to France!

The memories-of women begging for the lives of their children, grown men weeping, of Danton so courageously standing before the guillotine, addressing the crowd-whirled and rioted in his mind.

Thump. Aahhhh! Thump. Aahhhhh!

He was going to be sick. He could not stand that sound, followed by those cheers....

He looked down and saw the blood covering his body. Panic claimed him.

And then he realized he was gripping the cold iron bars of his cell. He had already been returned to France-he was back in that prison-that place of no escape!

Except the knocking was even louder now.

Simon gasped, sitting bolt upright. Bright sunlight blinded him and he blinked. He was sitting on a magnificent gold-and-white brocade sofa, in a gold library, and it was the arm of the couch he held, not iron bars. He was drenched in sweat, not blood. A liveried servant was at the door of the library, with his luncheon tray.

He was in his home at St. Just Hall, not in a prison in France.

He slumped against the back of the sofa, gasping for breath. Would these nightmares never cease? They were becoming worse and worse. Not a night went by that he did not dream of being seized, imprisoned and sent to the guillotine. He had begun to avoid going to bed-he had begun to sleep as few hours as possible-all in the desperate hope of avoiding these terribly vivid nightmares.

But he wasn't in Paris now. Warlock meant to send him back, and he would probably have to go, but until then he was safe-as safe as someone in his position could possibly be.

He closed his eyes, willing away the last remnants of terror and fear. And as he tried to regain his composure, so many jumbled-up pieces of his life a.s.sailed him. He saw his brother, Will, smiling at him as they stood on the beach, preparing to dive through the waves into the ocean; he recalled the stoic look on Elizabeth's face as he slipped her wedding ring onto her finger; he remembered holding William as a newborn infant, his heart swelling with love....

And then there was Amelia Greystone, looking at him with utter horror when he would not allow that governess to bring Elizabeth's b.a.s.t.a.r.d into the dining room.

He had never expected to see Amelia again. But she had come to the funeral-and he had recognized her immediately.

His heart lurched. For he recalled Amelia looking at him when he had been poised to kiss her, the other day when he had been so foxed, her eyes filled with both desire and fear.

She was afraid of the attraction they still had for one another.

His head ached terribly now. He flung one arm across his forehead. Could he really blame her? The attraction he felt for her seemed, impossibly, more furious than ever. And that frightened him, as well. "Johnson, set the tray upon my desk, thank you very much."

He did not look at the servant as he obeyed. He knew his thoughts were becoming dangerous. But he could not turn them off.

Instead, he recalled Amelia standing on the threshold of the dining room with his sons, holding each of their hands.

He would never forget the sight of her with his two sons. And d.a.m.n it, he did not want to-it was a small pleasure in his h.e.l.lish life.

She had come to Elizabeth's funeral, she had helped his children in their time of grief and she had even attempted to rescue him. But then, that was Amelia Greystone-she had always been the most compa.s.sionate woman he knew.

When it came to meddling, no one surpa.s.sed Amelia. But she interfered out of concern. How could he tell her not to intervene, especially when it came to the boys? But her meddling could be dangerous-very dangerous-and she did not have a clue.

Sebastian Warlock was her uncle. He was also Simon's British spymaster. Simon had been involved in Warlock's war games for almost two years, so he knew Sebastian. The spymaster would never allow his niece near the truth, Simon was certain.

However, Amelia was astute. And then there were her brothers. He did not know either one well, but he did know that Lucas was very involved in the war, and he also knew that, from time to time, Jack aided the emigres fleeing France. Still, he doubted her brothers would ever endanger her by revealing any of their activities to her. And he was relieved.

He wasn't certain he liked such a reaction on his part, just as he wasn't certain how he should feel about his raging desire for her.

Simon leaned back against the pillows on the sofa, ignoring his luncheon-he had no appet.i.te. He was torn. He knew he must not think about her, yet he was helpless not to. It was as if she had returned to his life with a vengeance.

She always saw the good in everyone-even him-when no one else did. Even after what he had done to her, even after leaving her the way that he had, she believed in him. And she wanted to comfort him now.

He stared out at the gray, barren moors. He wished life had dealt them both a different hand, but it had not. By the time Will had been laid in his coffin, he had known their relationship was over. The moment Will had been flung from his horse, breaking his neck, their relationship had ended. For in that single devastating instant, he had become the earl's heir. And he hadn't thought twice about leaving Cornwall without a word.

But even then, he hadn't realized that his duties were a small price to pay in the larger scheme of things. He hadn't known that, one day, he would be nothing but a p.a.w.n in the midst of war and revolution, his neck hanging in the balance, his sons' lives at stake.

And in that moment, as he contemplated the danger he had put his children in, he knew he must forget about Amelia Greystone. He was well aware that he wished to make love to her, the way he hadn't been able to ten years ago. He was aware that his pa.s.sion was far stronger now than before. But he wouldn't toy with her, and not because he had hurt her once and he wasn't selfish enough to do so again. His life was far too dangerous. She must never become seriously involved with him.

He stood and walked over to his desk. It was time to forget about Amelia. If she called again, he would make certain he did not receive her. He supposed he could allow her to see the children. His sons adored her already.

Elizabeth was already on her way to London to be laid to rest in the family mausoleum there. Her death had been a brief respite from the war and his role in it. But the truth was, Jourdan had to make an appearance in town very soon.

The night he had left Paris, Lafleur had been clear. If Simon did not prove his loyalty to the Enrage and the rest of le Comite, they would hunt him down like a rabid dog.

He had to return to London and begin digging for intelligence immediately. He needed the kind of information that would appease his French masters, but not jeopardize the Allied war effort.

And he had yet to speak with Warlock. When he had left Paris, he had gone directly to Le Havre, finding a smuggler to take him to Dover, then hired a coach to take him the rest of the way to St. Just. There had been no opportunity to meet with and brief Warlock in a pa.s.sing tavern.

He did not know what Warlock knew about his past months in Paris, or how much he would reveal to him. But he would not underestimate Sebastian. Warlock probably knew he had been imprisoned for ninety-six days. He would want to know how he had gotten out of prison. If he claimed he had escaped, Warlock would demand to know how he had managed such a feat. If he said he had been freed, Warlock would become immediately suspicious. He was going to have to tread very carefully with the man who had enticed him into this web of intrigue.

And Warlock would also expect Simon to return to his place in the Commune, in order to relay more intelligence to the British-just as Lafleur wanted information now, before the Allied invasion of Flanders.

He picked up a gla.s.s of wine, suddenly furious-no, enraged. There was no control. In that moment, he wanted to break apart every furnishing in the room. If Amelia returned, daring to meddle in his life, there would be consequences to pay! She would not be safe from him. He would prove to her and to himself that he was a selfish b.a.s.t.a.r.d and seduce her the moment she walked through his door....

He had never felt as desperate. It crossed his mind that in her arms, the world and the war would cease to exist. In her arms, there would be pleasure, light, laughter and love....

Simon suddenly flung the gla.s.s at the wall. It shattered.

Trembling, he sat down, staring at the covered plates on his luncheon tray. His temper was becoming worse, too.

He took several deep breaths, but Amelia's image remained, as did those of his sons. And he cradled his forehead in his hands.

He had to return to London. And he had a terrible decision to make. Would it be safer to leave the boys in Cornwall? Or should he take them with him to town?

He knew immediately that they had to be close; that he would live in constant panic if he left them in Cornwall, fearing for their safety with his every waking breath. If his subterfuge were uncovered, they would be in dire danger.

He pushed the tray back and leaned back in his chair. He was about to return to London. His activities would be dangerous. He would come and go at all hours-and especially in the dark hours of the night. Obviously he needed to hire a housekeeper, but it would have to be someone with great intelligence, with strength of character and common sense. It would have to be someone he could trust.

Signor Barelli had no spine. The governess, whose name he could not recall, had been Elizabeth's hire. Every time he had glimpsed her, she had been in tears. Clearly, she was a hysterical woman.

Elizabeth had run his household and, more importantly, overseen the boys' upbringing, and she had done it well. The old housekeeper, who had pa.s.sed away some months ago, had deferred to Lady Grenville. Elizabeth had been far more than a beautiful countess; she had been a housekeeper and a mother.

And instantly, he recalled Amelia standing on the threshold of the dining room, the boys on each side of her, holding hands.

Amelia, who was alone at Greystone Manor, caring for her addled mother and claiming she was content.

AMELIA FINISHED DUSTING the piano that the dowager Countess of Bedford had purchased for her sister. She straightened and eyed the instrument, which gleamed. Because the great hall was barely furnished-two crimson chairs were placed before the huge stone hearth, and there was a bench along one stone wall-they had placed six cheerful red-damask chairs around the piano. Before Julianne had eloped with Bedford, she would play for hours at a time, and their neighbors had often come to sit and listen. The Comte D'Archand, an emigre, had begun the habit of bringing his violin and joining Julianne. Amelia recalled the hall being filled with music and conversation, warmth and laughter.

Just then, Amelia felt so very alone. As it had been for months on end, the manor was stunningly silent.

She was not going to recall being in Grenville's presence-or his arms.

She dusted the top of the grand piano again. Momma was upstairs, sleeping. Garrett was outside, walking the property with the herd dogs. Lucas had left for London days ago, and she did not know where Jack was. Hopefully, he was on the high seas, outracing His Majesty's Royal Navy.

Momma wasn't good company, unfortunately. Neither was the taciturn Scot. In a way, the house might as well have been entirely empty.

She wished Nadine D'Archand were in the parish. She had become good friends with the Comte's eldest daughter during the winter, but Nadine had gone back to town with her family. The Frenchwoman was not fond of the country. Amelia suspected she was also involved in the war effort. She was rabidly anti-Jacobin, and always current on the latest revolutionary developments.

Grenville's image tugged at her, strongly. So did an image of his beautiful infant daughter. It would be so easy to surrender to her thoughts. In fact, the pair was just about all she could think of!

Very grimly, she began dusting the closest windowsill, never mind that she had already done so. She did not know how to reconcile father and daughter, but she was determined to do just that. Grenville had many faults, obviously, but he was a good father-and a loving one. Every time she saw him with his sons, she was impressed. For how long would he turn his back on his daughter? She had spent a sleepless night, trying to decide how she might bring Grenville to his senses.

As for Mrs. Murdock's absurd ramblings, she would not entertain them. That kind of gossip was sordid, indeed, and she did not believe it for a moment! Of course the babe was his!

She had cleaned the entire house thoroughly. She doubted there was a speck of dust or particle of dirt anywhere. The kitchens were so clean that they did not look as if they had been used. Momma's bags were packed. Her own belongings would take less than an hour to prepare for travel, as she was a simple woman with few possessions.

"Amelia."

She froze at the sound of Grenville's voice. Incredulous, certain she had hallucinated, she turned.

She hadn't imagined him. The Earl of St. Just stood on the threshold of the great room, clad in a copper velvet coat, beige breeches and paler stockings. He wore his hair naturally, but pulled back, under a bicorne hat. His brows lifted as he looked at her. She was in her oldest housedress and an ap.r.o.n, holding a feather duster.

She flushed. "You simply walked in?"

"I knocked three times. I even called out. No one heard me." His gaze had narrowed. "Why are you cleaning the house?"

"I hardly have a staff of maids to do so for me," she said tartly. But her heart was racing wildly. Why on earth was Grenville calling?

"That is unacceptable," he said flatly, looking past her at the great room. "Nothing has changed, I see, except that you have let your staff go."

A decade ago, there had been a maid to clean the house. She was rigid. "I prefer not to discuss the matter of whether or not I have any help in my home."