Page 80 of To Love A Spy
Despite his outward air of cocksure swagger, Marco was a trusted member of the Merlins. The headmistress did not hesitate in giving a terse explanation of the mission.
“Let us hope that things are now going as planned,” she added. “The trip got off to a stormy start.”
“How so?” asked Marco.
“The marquess’s sloop went down in a gale while crossing the Channel,” she replied. “But by some miracle he survived and washed up ashore on the isle of Sark. From there, he somehow managed passage to Normandy. Last word I had, he had made it to Paris.”
“How the devil does he plan to get close to Rochambert?” demanded Marco.
“By masquerading as an American consul for commerce.” Her mouth curled up slightly at the corners. “The real envoy is apparently enjoying a prolonged stay in countryside of Normandy, courtesy of the marquess’s network of operatives in that area.”
“Any trouble so far?”
Mrs. Merlin lifted her shoulders in response. “As you know, communication is very dangerous from the heart of the enemy capital. His last message said only that he had arrived without incident, and we are not to expect further word.”
Marco shifted his sword from hand to hand. “I suppose we must be satisfied with that.”
Mrs. Merlin sighed. “I am no more happy about it than you are, Marco. However, we really have no choice but to trust that Lord Lynsley has not lost his edge.”
“Si,” he muttered.
But there was a mutinous gleam in his eye as he turned to put away his weapons.
Valencia dropped her gaze from the looking glass and fussed with the folds of her dress, pleating the textured silk to knife-edged precision. Perhaps she should have chosen the emerald jouquille instead . . .
With a silent oath, she quickly untangled her fingers from the sash. Hell, she mustn’t act like a nervous schoolgirl, about to face a difficult test. Lynsley was no longer her superior, he was her?—
No.She must not think of him as that either. They were compatriots, allies in a formidable mission that demanded every ounce of their expertise. What had happened last night was perhaps inevitable when a man and a woman were thrown together in a powderkeg situation. Two strong-willed individuals rubbing together were bound to set off sparks.
Her mouth quirked. They were certainly old enough to act maturely about the matter. The marquess was not about to get down on bended knee and offer to do the honorable thing. Their profession had no conventional rules.
No future, save for surviving the moment.
That she had been in love with him for half of her life was a passion that had no place in their world. It must be locked back in the deepest recesses of her heart, so as not to interfere with the assignment. She must not make it difficult for Lynsley to order her into danger.
Her own schedule for the day presented little threat, mused Valencia as she entered the breakfast room. She was slated to attend an afternoon tea given by Madame Levalier, where the only weapons were likely to be teaspoons and butter knives. The boredom would be sharp, she thought wryly, but it was important to go through the motions of being a proper diplomatic wife.
“Bonjour, madame.” One of the footmen offered a folded note along with her morning coffee. “Monsieur left this for you.”
“Thank you,” she replied.Tactful Thomas.Allowing the initial awkwardness to dissipate over the day was precisely the sort of thing he would think of.
Swallowing a sigh, Valencia opened the paper. She rather envied the fact that he could release any pent-up tension in the spins and sweat of his early morning exercises. For an instant, she was tempted to order a horse saddled and join him in the secluded spot, clearing the lingering languor from her limbs with the clash of steel.
But the crackle of foolscap quickly chased any such madcap desires from her head as she read over the note.
Bloody hell.What the devil was he up to?
Lynsley checked through the document folder once more, then tied the strings tight. That should whet Rochambert’s appetite, he thought grimly.Enough so to turn his jaws away from Valencia?
Not for long. But even before last night, he had determined that it was time to make a move. They could not continue this charade indefinitely.
He finished his coffee and angled his chair for a better view of the boulevard. Would Rochambert take the bait? The Frenchman might have spent the night at the brothel, or still be languishing in some other den of sin. In which case, he would have to find time later in the day to slip away from his ministry meetings.
“Voila.” The street urchin darted around the café tables and came to a halt in front of Lynsley. “I have your answer, monsieur. The man will see you.”
“Merci.” The marquess placed a coin in the boy’s grimy palm. Taking up his walking stick and case, he then paid his bill and proceeded up the street at a leisurely pace.
Would gaining access to Rochambert’s private quarters help in the hunt for his objective? It was hard to say, but he had decided the change in tactics was worth the try. The prospect of winning more kudos from Napoleon might be as strong a lure for the Frenchman as the lust for Valencia’s body.
