Adele Ashworth (8 page)

“What of the Black Knight?” she questioned suspiciously. “Do you still plan to introduce us?”

He shrugged. “I intend to, although everything will be on my terms, on my time line, as we agreed before we left England.”

They stared at each other, his expression decidedly blank and unreadable, hers weighing the challenge, calculating possible results of decisions already made, decisions made without thought of what lay ahead between them.

Then finally, with a cunning smirk gently twisting her lips, Natalie turned with resolve and removed her cloak, tossing it over the silk screen. “You may stay, Jonathan, but no more kissing.”

“Husbands and wives kiss,” he countered blandly. “I’m afraid we might have to from time to time.”

She knew he’d come back with that. But he had no idea who he was dealing with. “Husbands and wives rarely kiss in public. And since we won’t be doing it in private, I see no reason to do it at all.”

She faced him again defiantly, elegantly poised, arms dropped to her sides, with full comprehension that he would have to settle for some of her terms as well if she were going to engage in this silly little performance of his. With fortitude, she insisted, “You must also give me your word that you will be nothing but a gentleman should we find ourselves in an intimate position.”

He blinked, looking for a moment as if she’d startled him with that statement, as if he couldn’t believe she’d said it. She could see him wrestle with a rebuttal of playful arrogance, or perhaps just the desire to laugh. But then his expression clouded, becoming one of serious contemplation.

He leaned back against the door again, watching her, his eyes roving over every feature of her face, her throat and chest and breasts. Cautiously, brows furrowed, he said, “Where you are concerned, Natalie, I’ve painstakingly been a gentleman since the evening we met years ago.” He waited. “Do you remember it like I do?”

Her entire body stilled; color drained from her face. Within seconds the atmosphere became charged, the air thick and crackling with intensity as he continued to regard her provocatively from across the small and suddenly overheated room. Instinctively she grasped her elbows with her palms, feeling hopelessly exposed but unable to look away.

He smiled softly, knowingly. “The evening you innocently asked me to meet you in a moonlit garden for a talk of dreams and I mistook it for an invitation, kissing you until you became breathless.” He lowered his voice to a rough whisper, his eyes burning through hers. “I like kissing you, Natalie. Very much. It was good then. It’s even better now.”

She clutched her sleeves with trembling hands, inhaling deeply to keep from reeling at the intimacy, from the grave, meaningful way the words flowed from his mouth. He was giving her an opening, wanting her to talk about that night. But she couldn’t. Not now. Probably not ever.

“Then I can do nothing but trust you,” she murmured, mouth dry, eyes still locked with his.

After a long, lingering silence his face went slack. “I suppose that’s a start.”

He was bothered by her reply, she could tell, or perhaps just confounded by her lack of desire to discuss what took place between them all those years ago. But the topic was too familiar, too humiliating, and she had to get away from it.

With a deep inhale for strength, running her fingers through her mass of hair, she attempted to brighten the mood. “You’ll have to sleep in the chair, Jonathan. The bed is small, and I, too, prefer the left side.”

Light flickered from the lamp on the table, tossing waving shadows along the dark walls. He hadn’t yet moved his gaze from her face, and she was becoming overly nervous about that. He started, as if ready to walk to her, then he evidently changed his mind as his lips turned up to form a lazy grin.

With complete ease, he reached up with one hand and resumed the task of unbuttoning his shirt, looking away at last as he took two steps to the bed, knelt beside it, and pulled what appeared to be his trunk from beneath it.

“I am sleeping in this bed, Natalie,” he announced decisively. “And if you prefer the left side, and I prefer the left side, I will have no choice but to sleep on top of you, which, I might add, will be difficult with absolutely no kissing allowed.”

She blushed furiously, unable to imagine him on top of her for anything. Disgusted with herself for the reaction he was sure to notice, she turned and walked behind the screen.

“Then
I’m
sleeping in the chair.”

I
t had to be well after midnight when he felt her crawl in beside him. He knew it would happen eventually; it was just too cold in the room.

Jonathan didn’t move for fear of making her jump out of bed again. He preferred sleeping in the nude, but with everything else he was forcing her to accept, he could never go that far. So, lying there in worn but binding trousers, he hadn’t really been able to sleep anyway. And neither could she as he’d listened to her attempts to get comfortable for nearly two hours before she’d finally slipped between the sheets in defeat.

She curled up behind him, shivering, encased to her chin, fingers, and ankles in a full nightgown of unembellished white cotton, trying to steal his covers, and certainly stealing his warmth. He nearly winced when he felt her feet, now frigid blocks of ice, slithering in between his legs. But as he drifted toward oblivion at last he had to smile at the comforting action, oddly trusting and so very sweet.

Chapter 4

M
adeleine DuMais was born beautiful. Not in the classic sense, really, for her looks certainly weren’t refined, but exotically so. She possessed a quality of bearing unseen in the lower, even middle classes, but perhaps that was because she lived outside one station or the next, if that were possible. Her breeding was mixed, and she knew it; she took advantage of it.

Standing in front of the mirror in her bedroom, a blazing morning sun filtering through parted chintz curtains, she buffed a final touch of color into her cheeks and lips, then rubbed a bit of kohl above her lids and smoothed her chestnut hair back from her broad forehead.

She knew she was exceptionally appealing to look at from head to foot. Indeed, it often proved amusing when men tripped over themselves in her presence, but oddly she wasn’t self-centered about her physical qualities. She was proud of them, and over the years they had served her well.

Smiling in satisfaction, Madeleine glided her palms down the front of her silk morning gown, canary yellow with only a touch of pale lace, tightened at the waist and flowing in a thick cascade over whalebone to swish becomingly at the floor when she walked. She took pride in her curves, in her substantial bosom, and a waist that showed no sign of childbirth and hopefully never would. She wanted Jonathan Drake to notice her as well, for he would be arriving at her home in precisely ten minutes for their meeting. And he would be punctual. The English always were when it came to their own national security.

Pleased with her appearance, she turned and left her bedroom, descending the stairs with grace, and entering her parlor where she would await the arrival of the Englishman. The warm atmosphere of the room always lifted her, as it was so enriched by fine mahogany furniture, padded generously and covered with wine-colored satin. The curtains of the same color were divided considerably so the entire room could embrace the sun, which reflected in a hazy glow off delicately flowered wallpaper. Marie-Camille, Madeleine’s only maid, had left a coffee service for two on the small, rounded table between two chairs in front of the now-cold fireplace, and the coffee itself would be brought in steaming when he arrived. Madeleine took a seat closest to the door and waited.

From her French mother, a woman of the stage but only mildly talented at best, Madeleine had inherited her unusual beauty, her exquisite figure, her heart-shaped face, and ice-blue eyes. But from her father, a captain in the British Royal Navy, she’d acquired everything else—her smarts, her common sense, her humor, and passion for goodness. He had wanted to marry her mother, but alas, Eleanora Bilodeau, self-centered and common, wouldn’t have him, had left him heartbroken, and didn’t particularly care for his child, the beautiful daughter she dragged from city to city, from one smoke-filled and stinking theater to the next, not because she felt the obligation, but because Madeleine waited on her like a slave.

For nearly twelve years she begged to be allowed to go to England, to be with her father’s very stable family, but her mother had denied her this dream with increasing scorn. Madeleine had only seen him four or five times in her life, but those precious moments had been filled with joy. He had truly loved his illegitimate daughter. Then, in the summer of 1833, she found a note from her English family stuffed into the side pocket of her mother’s wardrobe informing them both in a very solemn tone that her father had died of cholera the previous year on duty somewhere in the West Indies. It was that very black day, as her mother paraded across a stage in Cologne, half-clothed and with not an ounce of dignity, that Madeleine’s devotion to her homeland died. In her eyes alone, which was all that mattered, she was no longer French.

When she was sixteen she gained her first employment as a line dancer in a hot, crowded hall, where civilized men by day would become sweaty, drunken, lustful animals by night, offering crude remarks as they tossed coins on stage in the hopeful exchange of favors. It was the only income she could maintain by using her natural assets, but not once in four years of dancing did she allow herself to be purchased sexually. Above all else she’d kept her self-respect intact, as her father had always done and expected of her, refusing to fall into personal disgrace like her mother.

At the age of twenty, with plenty of money saved and a gratification she hadn’t felt before or since, Madeleine very calmly announced her plans to leave her previous existence as servant girl to her now fat and opium-addicted mother, and turned her back on France forever. The actress had been at first shocked, then enraged, shouting obscenities at her daughter as she walked out on her, shoulders erect and chin held high. That had been eight years ago, and Madeleine hadn’t seen her since, nor did she even care whether the woman was alive.

She went to England first, presenting herself to her middle-class, socially refined family who accepted her unconditionally, albeit with quiet reservation, but she didn’t expect any more. She was, after all, half French and the illegitimate daughter of an actress. Still, they had treated her with a respect she had never known, and she had relished it, although by that age she knew she would never live the life of an English lady. She had learned their language well enough over time but she could never lose her thick French accent. She could never be one of them. That dream had died with maturity. But with it came the inner discovery that perhaps she could offer something far more valuable to English society, to her English heritage. Her skills could be used to help the people she loved and to the disadvantage of a people she had come to loathe.

So, at the age of twenty-one, she waltzed with grace into the British Home Office and presented herself as she was. She wanted to become an informant. Naturally, as she now recalled with humor, the men in charge had laughed her out of the building. “Good God! But you’re French, and a—a woman!” they had blurted in shocked unison. But she would not be discouraged. What better guise could there be?

More determined than ever, and after trying for their attention twice more and getting no response but civility at best, Madeleine changed her approach. She packed her few personal possessions and returned to Paris, mere infiltrating government circles on her own by use of her wit, beauty, and her growing skill as an actress—a far better one, she realized, than the woman who bore her. She had, after all, lived her first twenty years with a company of them, and she had learned well.

Several times during the following three years, Madeleine had uncovered secrets which she in turn had forwarded to Sir Riley Liddle at home—nothing ruinous or even scandalous, but little things to help the British cause in Europe. And always did she begin these pieces of information with the salutation, “Warm regards from the Frenchwoman.” She never heard anything in return but she knew her investigatory discoveries were being heeded, as information she passed along began to be used, even in subtle ways. That was all the satisfaction she needed for a while, until they grew accustomed to her doing what Englishmen did as a matter of course, and she knew they would in time.

Finally, after fixing herself within the French elite, weaving her way through the upper social arena with charm and sagacity, she had been given the priceless opportunity of earning respect from her English superiors. In July 1843, she stumbled upon the news that two very high-profile French political prisoners were to be transferred without delay directly from trial to dreary Newgate, and a plan was in the works to free them while in transit, with force if need be.

Indeed, on the day of that move, due to the quickness of a Frenchwoman’s wit, a small uprising was avoided, as a few stunned, self-serving, heavily armed Frenchmen were apprehended without incident. When she heard the news of victory, Madeleine knew she was in.

Four days later, on August 2, 1843, Madeleine Bilodeau, former line dancer and the daughter of an actress (which many felt was even worse), became a spy for the British government. She was contacted quite informally during a morning stroll up the avenue De Friedland near her Paris home, and within twenty-four hours she had been whisked to Marseilles, with all her worldly possessions in tow, to become Madeleine DuMais, wealthy widow of the mythical Georges DuMais, a world-renowned trader of fine teas, lost at sea. They’d set her up at the breathtaking southern port, in her beautiful city dwelling, so she might be of service to the Crown regarding the ever-growing menace of trade smuggling. During the last four years she’d become socially adored and accepted in all local circles for exactly what she appeared to be, serving her adopted country well, with a sort of glamorous honor attached to her name by those who mattered in England.