Conveniently Wed to a Spy, page 1
“I don’t want you to ask me to be your wife because you think you owe it to me—out of some kind of obligation.”
“If you think that, then you really do not know me.”
With her hat removed, the breeze blew Delphine’s hair across her face and she reached up and absently drew it back, combing her fingers through it and sweeping it behind her ears, unconscious of how seductive the gesture was to Laurence. He stood absolutely still, watching her with a look that was possessive. As she looked at him, something in his expression made Delphine flush and catch her breath, and she dropped her arm self-consciously. The moment was intimate, warm and vibrantly alive. His vitality at such close quarters alarmed her, but she did not move away.
“No,” she uttered quietly as she held his gaze with her own. “I don’t know you, Laurence—not really.”
“We can soon remedy that.” Taking her hand, he drew her close. Lowering his head, he skimmed his lips over hers. “Delphine, I would like to kiss you.”
Author Note
Conveniently Wed to a Spy is set in 1793. I have always been fascinated by the French Revolution. It was a turbulent time in France’s history that saw the execution of King Louis XVI and Queen Marie Antoinette, which gave rise to the Republic and, later, Napoleon Bonaparte.
I wanted to write a story that touched on the Revolution while concentrating on the conflict between my two main characters.
Love is a world away from Delphine’s life when she is given an assignment to assist in the escape of an English spy from the infamous Conciergerie prison in Paris. It’s a rocky road they travel as they make their way out of France—but then, the road to true love is never easy.
HELEN DICKSON
Conveniently Wed to a Spy
Helen Dickson was born and still lives in South Yorkshire, UK, with her retired farm manager husband. Having moved out of the busy farmhouse where she raised their two sons, she now has more time to indulge in her favorite pastimes. She enjoys being outdoors, traveling, reading and music. An incurable romantic, she writes for pleasure. It was a love of history that drove her to writing historical fiction.
Books by Helen Dickson
Harlequin Historical
The Devil Claims a Wife
The Master of Stonegrave Hall
Mishap Marriage
A Traitor’s Touch
Caught in Scandal’s Storm
Lucy Lane and the Lieutenant
Lord Lansbury’s Christmas Wedding
Royalist on the Run
The Foundling Bride
Carrying the Gentleman’s Secret
A Vow for an Heiress
The Governess’s Scandalous Marriage
Reunited at the King’s Court
Wedded for His Secret Child
Resisting Her Enemy Lord
A Viscount to Save Her Reputation
Enthralled by Her Enemy’s Kiss
To Catch a Runaway Bride
Conveniently Wed to a Spy
Castonbury Park
The Housemaid’s Scandalous Secret
Visit the Author Profile page
at Harlequin.com for more titles.
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Epilogue
Excerpt from The Knight’s Tempting Ally by Ella Matthews
Chapter One
Paris—1793
Moving swiftly through the darkness, the wagon carrying Delphine and Jacques, her accomplice, made its way along the narrow, winding alleyways of Paris towards the Conciergerie on the riverside. The surrounding streets were relatively empty just now, but come tomorrow the tumbrils would roll along these same streets carrying their terror-filled passengers to their deaths in the Place de la Révolution.
Dark clouds had been gathering all day. There had been a stillness in the air for the past hour—the calm before the storm. It was the kind of eerie stillness, of quietness, that made one imagine that anything could happen. There was a rumbling in the distance and forked lightning shot across the sky. Several drops of rain fell. Delphine pulled her hood further over her head as the clouds burst. By the time they crossed the river the rain was hitting the ground with such force it bounced up again, which could prove to be a blessing by keeping the citizens of Paris indoors.
Since her arrival in Paris, the stress of the situation pressed down upon Delphine. It was not the place to be in this brutal time of upheaval and turmoil, brought about by the people who were living with intolerable taxes and starvation. Since the Bastille had been pulled down by the mob in eighty-nine, it was as if France was caught in the jaws of a relentless and terrible machine which seemed impossible to stop. The things she had seen in the city since the revolution had begun had brought her to the conclusion that the overthrow of the established order was not a thing to be undertaken lightly.
She recognised that she had precious little time for working out strategies and that she must keep her wits about her. In theory what she had to do was so simple—to collect an English spy from the Conciergerie, take him to the safe house and leave for the coastal town of Granville to the west the following day. This would be easy to accomplish were it not for the National Guard patrolling the streets on the lookout for suspicious-looking citizens and those on the well-guarded gates leading out of the city through which commoners and taxable goods must pass.
Halting close to the prison walls, without a word, for they both knew what they had to do, Delphine climbed down from the cart and made her way to the entrance, confident in the knowledge that should things go awry Jacques, forever watchful, would spring to her aid. Her rain-soaked cloak hung in heavy woollen folds. She breathed in the damp air. How she had dreaded coming here.
This task wasn’t like the others, when she had secreted families out of France to escape the terror. This time she had been given the task of having a man smuggled out of the Conciergerie, the most infamous prison in Paris, where anyone who was considered an enemy of the Republic was incarcerated. In these days of terror, the Conciergerie was filled with aristocrats awaiting trial. Her superior, Sir Godfrey Bucklow, had told her the prisoner was well connected and popular at the English court and an intelligence agent. Apart from that she knew nothing about him—nor did she wish to. It was better that way. The less they knew about each other the better.
With a shudder and bent on her purpose, she entered the grim building, the occasional lantern lighting her way. A guard with a bushy black beard and wearing a red cap and the tricolour was slumped in a corner. On seeing Delphine he got up. He was a man who outwardly lived and breathed the revolution, but was not averse to taking a purse of gold coins in exchange for a prisoner. Everything would be in place to move the prisoner—the network controlled from London would have seen to that.
‘Who goes there?’
‘Are you Gaspard Ducat?’
‘I am.’
‘You are expecting me,’ she said in a low voice, speaking perfect French. ‘I have come for the Englishman.’
Without a word, after glancing around to make sure they were alone, the guard nodded her forward. The stench coming from inside the Conciergerie was indescribable and Delphine almost retched. With knowledge of the full horror of this place her heartbeat quickened.
‘Wait here. You have payment?’
‘Yes—when I see the Englishman.’
He looked at her hard. Satisfied that she was the person he had been told to expect, he turned and disappeared into the gloom.
Delphine kept to the shadows. How the guard would explain the disappearance of the Englishman wasn’t her concern, but she had no doubt that before morning his disappearance would have been noted and a hue and cry would ensue. She had half accomplished her part of the task. It was carrying out the rest of it that worried her. They had to get to the safe house. Fortunately it wasn’t far.
After what seemed to Delphine an eternity, the guard returned, a man following close behind. He was not as wretched as Delphine had expected. He was tall, his clothes having seen better days, and through a rent in his shirt beneath his green frock coat his lean, muscled body showed. Above his dark tan boots, his skin-tight breeches were pale grey. His dark hair had not been combed and hung loose about his shoulders.
What struck her immediately was that there was nothing weak about this man. Even in this miserable state he was quite magnificent. Robbed of the trappings of the gentry, the man showed through. As she held his gaze she marvelled at what fascinating eyes he had. They were a brilliant green, or were they the turquoise blue of the Cornish sea in summertime? They stared out of a face pale from long incarceration. They focused on her.
‘God’s teeth!’ he breathed. ‘A woman.’
‘As you see,’ Delphine replied in clipped tones.
Her clear voice had an imperious ring that made the Englishman’s eyebrows arch. His mouth broke out into a lopsided grin. His thick lashes and black brows framed dancing eyes, defiant, despite
‘Good evening to you, little lady.’
Taken by surprise by his ill-timed gallantry, her eyes widened. ‘Good evening,’ she replied coolly, in no mood to engage in polite banter.
Gaspard Ducat shook his head, making a tsking sound. ‘A woman trying to smuggle prisoners out of Paris! Will wonders never cease?’
The Englishman grinned at Delphine, a flicker of amused respect glinting in his eyes. ‘A wonder indeed. I thought the very same thing. Have we met?’
‘No, we have not,’ she assured him, irritated by what appeared to be his inability to grasp the seriousness of the situation and his seeming lack of urgency.
‘No, I am certain of it now, for having once made your acquaintance that would be something I should never forget. But that you should do this for a stranger is gratifying and quite remarkable. Are you French?’
‘Half-French. I trust you will not hold that against me. Now please hurry. This is not a tea party. There’s no time to be lost, so keep quiet,’ she ordered sharply, having no wish to indulge further in this conversation with this Englishman. The order shot out, but the smile did not fade from that fascinating face.
‘I am yours to command,’ he said, making the mockery of a bow.
He had a deep voice, warm and encompassing. There was laughter in it and at any other time it would make her laugh, too, but this was not the time.
Producing a purse heavy with gold coin from beneath her cloak, Delphine handed it to the guard. Opening it, he peered inside, removing one of the coins. It gleamed in the fitful light of the lantern and raised a satisfied smile on his lips.
‘The guard will be changing shortly,’ he growled. ‘You will be missed and they will come after you so go, be away with you.’
‘Come along,’ Delphine said to the Englishman. ‘We have to leave here.’ She was conscious of him walking close behind her, his tall frame coiling and snapping with energy. Reaching the cart, she lifted a cloak from the back. ‘Here, cover yourself and get in the back. I wouldn’t like you to catch a chill after we’ve gone to all this trouble to get you out of the Conciergerie.’ She looked at him, thinking his eyes danced for a moment, but the elusive lopsided grin did not reappear.
Throwing the cloak around his shoulders, he hoisted his lean, rangy body up into the back of the cart with an agility Delphine could only wonder at, making himself comfortable on the hay-covered boards. With a need for haste, she climbed up beside Jacques and they left the Conciergerie. Back through the streets they went, eventually disappearing into the network of alleyways in the poor quarter of Paris. A particular stench arose from the gutters to assail her nostrils and touch like icy fingers upon her deepest fears. It was the stench of poverty, the foul, unacceptable smell of humanity at its lowest.
Delphine prayed they would not attract the attention of the National Guard or a suspicious citizen on the lookout for anyone who opposed the Republic. The rain continued to fall, the horse plodding instinctively over the greasy cobbles, slippery with mud and refuse. Turning her head, she looked at the Englishman lying on his back, his face upturned to the rain, as though he welcomed the feel of the cold wetness on his skin. A bolt of lightning flashed, lighting up his features. He was handsome, she thought, his face lean and angular because of the lack of proper nourishment.
She stared at him, utterly taken aback by his open, easy manner when they were in the utmost danger—and worse, by her instant awareness of the powerful masculinity that radiated from him despite his sorry state. She recognised authority when she saw it. Everything about this illustrious Englishman bespoke power, control and command. His devil-may-care attitude had immediately set her teeth on edge. They were to be together for several days and there was no escaping the fact that he posed a threat to her equilibrium. Despite knowing nothing whatsoever about him, she was already beginning to dismiss him as an arrogant member of the English nobility, possibly a rake, who was used to kicking his heels in some of London’s most fashionable houses before seeking an exciting diversion from his humdrum life and deciding to play the spy.
* * *
From the back of the wagon Lord Laurence Alexander Beaumont, Fourth Baron Beaumont, opened his eyes and looked up into the dark sky. The feeling of freedom was overwhelming. Emotions were churning within his chest, but he couldn’t relax, not until he was out of Paris for good. Being incarcerated for so long and the feeling of impotence that went with it had, at times, become overwhelming if he started to fantasise about getting out.
He pulled himself up to take stock of his whereabouts. His features were quiet and intent. A sense of purpose and hope filled his heart and mind and was etched in every line of his body. An aura of authority and power seemed to surround him and he possessed a haughty reserve that, despite his earlier easy manner, now set him apart from his young saviour. There was something about his eyes, shadowed with some deep-felt emotion and a mocking cynicism, as though he found the whole world a dubious place to be.
As an agent of the English government, having been caught out in a plot to save King Louis XVI of France, who had gone to the guillotine in January of that year, he had been arrested and condemned by the tribunal. Fully comprehending that nothing could possibly save him from the guillotine but a miracle, he had remained incarcerated inside the Conciergerie to await the day of his execution, where torture and deprivation had almost driven him to the brink of madness.
He had struggled to retain his grip on sanity, sustaining himself by focusing his mind on escaping his tormentors and returning to his own fireside. Throughout the long months of imprisonment, in all his turbulent thoughts, in all the heated workings of his heart and mind, he had stood against resignation and mercifully his hold on life had remained strong. He was impatient to plant his feet on England’s soil once more.
* * *
The tavern where they were to spend the night was tucked away in a rundown area of Paris that was rife with all manner of low life roaming the streets and back alleyways that were dark and evil smelling. An iron lamp above the door cast a dim patch of light on to the greasy cobblestones below. Getting down, Jacques took the horse’s bridle.
‘I’ll spend the night in the stable with the horse. I’ll be away first thing.’
A man in his forties and a native of Guernsey, Jacques, who lived with his wife in St Peter Port, was the owner of a fishing boat. The plight of those trying to flee France’s tyranny had touched his heart. It was on this basis that he had offered his services to Sir Godfrey Bucklow, who was a native of Cornwall and worked for the British Intelligence Service. Jacques was a man of few words and during the two years Delphine had worked with him, a peculiar kind of friendship had developed between them. He had family in Paris and was concerned for their safety. It was already arranged that they would part company and she would complete the assignment without him.
‘Thank you, Jacques. I’ll see you before you go. I intend to make an early start with the Englishman. The gates out of Paris will be thronging with people. I’ll see you have some supper sent out.’
‘Good Lord!’ muttered the Englishman, casting a wary eye over the inn’s unappealing façade. ‘What is this place?’
‘Safe—at least I pray that is so tonight. It is not frequented by respectable clientele. A den of thieves is how I would describe it—although since we have nothing of substance to attract them then we should be left alone.’
Shoving open the door to the tavern, Delphine cast a sharp eye round the murky interior. It was a single public room, small and low ceilinged, the walls yellowed with tobacco smoke. Close to a soot-blackened hearth a couple of dubious characters sat huddled at a table, smoking pipes. They eyed the newcomers with suspicion before resuming their conversation. The Englishman’s initial show of gallantry had disappeared as he looked around with a wary, brooding gaze, filling the tavern with his presence. The landlord gave them a hard stare before nodding a half-familiar gesture to Delphine.
