Seduction

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER FIFTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SIXTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN (#litres_trial_promo)

DEAR READER (#litres_trial_promo)

PROLOGUE

July 1, 1793—near Brest, France

“IS HE ALIVE?”

The voice surprised him. It sounded far away. And even as he heard the Englishman, pain stabbed through his back and shoulders, like nails being driven into his body, as if he were being crucified. The pain was so horrific he could not speak, but he cursed silently. What had happened?

He was on fire now. Even worse, he wondered if he was suffocating. He could hardly breathe. A terrible weight seemed to be pushing him down. And he was in absolute darkness....

But his mind was beginning to function. The man who had just spoken was English, but that was impossible. Where was he? What the hell had happened?

And the images began, rolling through his mind’s eye with shocking speed, accompanied by horrific sounds—the bloodcurdling screams of the wounded and the dying amidst the racket of muskets and the boom of cannons, the river running red with the French blood of peasants, priests, nobles and soldiers....

He moaned. He could not quite recall how he had been wounded, and he was afraid he might be dying. What had happened to him?

Someone spoke, and the voice was familiar. “He is barely alive, Lucas. He has lost a great deal of blood and has been unconscious since midnight. My surgeon does not know if he will live.”

“What happened?” A second Englishman was speaking.

“We suffered a terrible defeat at Nantes, messieurs, a rout by the French under General Biron, but Dominic was not wounded in the battle. He was ambushed outside my apartments last night by an assassin.”

And then he realized that his lifelong friend, Michel Jacquelyn, was speaking. Someone had tried to murder him—because someone had known he was a spy.

“Christ,” the second Englishman said.

Dominic managed to open his eyes, a vast, prolonged effort of will. He lay on the beach on a pallet, under blankets—the surf beat the shore and the night above glinted with stars. Three men stood over him, in coats, breeches and boots. His vision was blurred, but he could distinguish them somewhat. Michel was short and dark, his clothes bloodstained, his hair pulled back in a queue. The Englishmen were tall and golden, their shoulder-length hair whipping in the wind. Everyone was heavily armed with pistols and daggers. Now, he heard the creaking of wood masts, the flap of canvas, the pounding of wind-whipped waves. And then he could no longer keep his eyes open. Exhausted, they closed.

He was going to faint, damn it....

“Were you followed?” Lucas asked sharply.

“Non, but le gendarmerie are everywhere, mes amis. We must make haste. The French blockade the coast—you will have to be careful to avoid their ships.”

The other Englishman spoke, and he sounded cheerful. “Have no fear. No one can outrun the navy—or the revenue men—like me. Captain Jack Greystone, monsieur, at your service on this highly interesting night. And I believe you already know my brother, Lucas.”

“I do. You must get him to London, messieurs,” Michel said. “Immédiatement.”

“He won’t make it to London,” Jack returned. “Not alive, anyway.”

“We’ll take him to Greystone,” Lucas said flatly. “It’s close—and safe. And if he’s fortunate, he will live to fight another day.”

“Bien. Keep him well—we at La Vendée need him back. God speed you all.”

CHAPTER ONE

July 2, 1793—Penzance, Cornwall

SHE WAS VERY LATE.

Julianne Greystone practically leapt from the curricle, having parked it before the milliner’s shop. The Society’s meeting was next door, in the public room of the White Hart Inn, but every space in front was taken up already. The inn always did a brisk business in the afternoon. She rechecked the curricle’s brake, patted the old mare in the traces and quickly tied her to the post.

She hated being late. It wasn’t her nature to dally. Julianne took life very seriously, unlike the other ladies she knew.

Those women enjoyed fashion and shopping, teas and social calls, dances and dinner parties, but they did not live in the same circumstances as she did. Julianne could not recall a time in her life when there had been days of leisure and frivolity; her father had abandoned the family before her third birthday, not that their straits hadn’t already been dire. Father had been a younger son, without means, as well as a wastrel. She had grown up doing the kind of chores around the manor that her peers reserved for their servants. Cooking, washing dishes, carrying in firewood, ironing her brothers’ shirts, feeding their two horses, mucking stalls.... There was always a chore awaiting her. There was always something left to do. There was simply not enough time in any given day, and she found tardiness inexcusable.

Of course, it was an hour’s drive from her home on Sennen Cove to the city. Her older sister, Amelia, had taken the coach that day. Every Wednesday, come hell or high water, Amelia took Momma calling on their neighbors—never mind that Momma did not recognize anyone anymore. Momma wasn’t well. She rarely had her wits about her, and sometimes failed to recognize her own daughters, but she loved to visit. No one was as adept at frivolity and gaiety as Momma. Momma often thought herself a debutante, surrounded by her merry girlfriends and chivalrous suitors. Julianne thought she knew what it had been like for her mother to grow up in a home filled with every luxury, where she was waited upon hand and foot, in a time before the Americans had sought their independence, a time of only occasional war—a time without fear, rancor and revolution. It had been a time of absolute splendor and indifferent and lavish ostentation, a time of blatant self-indulgence, a time when no one bothered to consider the misery of the common man next door.

Poor Momma. She had begun to fade away from them shortly after Father had left them for the gambling halls and loose women of London, Antwerp and Paris. But Julianne wasn’t sure that a broken heart had caused Momma to lose her mind. She sometimes thought it far more simple and mundane: Momma simply could not manage in the dark, threatening circumstances of the modern world.

But their physician said it was important to keep her out and about. Everyone in the family agreed. So Julianne had been left with the curricle and their twenty-year-old mare. An hour’s drive had become two.

She had never been more impatient. She lived for the monthly meetings in Penzance. She and her friend, Tom Treyton, who was as radical as she, had founded the society last year, after King Louis XVI had been deposed, and France had been declared a republic. They had both supported the French revolution from the moment it had become clear that great changes were afoot in that country, all in favor of easing the plight of the peasantry and middle class, but neither one had ever dreamed that the ancien régime would eventually fall.

Every week there was another twist and turn in France’s crusade for freedom for the common man. Just last month, the Jacobin leaders in the National Assembly had staged a coup, arresting many of their opposition. A new constitution had resulted, giving every single man the vote! It was almost too good to be true. Recently the Committee of Public Safety had been established, and she was eager to learn what reforms it might soon bring about. And then there were the wars on the Continent. The new French Republic meant to bring liberty to all of Europe. France had declared war on the Hapsburg Empire in April of ’92. But not everyone shared Julianne’s and Tom’s radical views and enthusiasm for France’s new regime. Last February, Britain had joined Austria and Prussia and entered the war against France.

“Miss Greystone.”

Julianne had been about to wave over the livery boy from across the street and ask him to water her mare. At the sound of the strident voice, she tensed and slowly turned.

Richard Colmes scowled at her. “You cannot park here.”

She knew exactly why he meant to confront her. Julianne brushed a tendril of strawberry-blond hair away from her face. Very politely, she said, “It is a public street, Mr. Colmes. Oh, and good afternoon. How is Mrs. Colmes?”

The milliner was a short, pudgy man with gray whiskers. His wig was not powdered, but it was fine, indeed, and otherwise, his presence was impeccable, from his pale stockings and patent leather shoes to his embroidered coat. “I will not condone your society, Miss Greystone.”

She wanted to bristle but she smiled sweetly instead. “It is hardly my society,” she began.

“You founded it. You radicals are plotting the downfall of this great country!” he exclaimed. “You are all Jacobins, and you meet to exchange your terrible plots right next door. You should be ashamed of yourself, Miss Greystone!”

There was no point in smiling now. “This is a free country, sir, and we are all entitled to our views. And we can certainly meet next door, if John Fowey allows us to do so.” Fowey was the innkeeper.

“Fowey is every bit as mad as you!” he cried. “We are at war, Miss Greystone, and you and your kind support the enemy. If they cross the Channel, you will no doubt welcome the French army with open arms!”

She held her head high. “You are simplifying a very complex issue, sir. I support the rights of every man—even the vagabonds who come to this town begging for a decent meal. Yes, I happen to support the revolution in France—but so do a great many of our countrymen! I am keeping company with Thomas Paine, Charles Fox, Lords Byron and Shelley, to name just a few of the distinguished minds who recognize that the changes in France are for the universal good of mankind. I am a radical, sir, but—”

He cut her off. “You are a traitor, Miss Greystone, and if you do not move your curricle, I will do so for you.” He turned and stalked into his shop, slamming the door behind him. The glass pane rattled, the bells jingled.

She trembled, feeling sick inside her stomach. She had been about to tell the milliner just how much she loved her country. One could be a patriot and still support the new constitutional republic in France. One could be a patriot and still advocate for political reform and social change, both abroad and here at home.