Prologue
Boulogne, Normandy
September 10, 1804
“Bonsoir, Monsieur Vernon,” the French army lieutenant welcomed Evan, Lord Halsey, into the chateau’s foyer, and returned the fine vellum invitation to the event in Halsey’s hands.
Nonchalant, Halsey divested himself of hat and gloves to the footman, who scurried close behind the nervous lieutenant.
Clearly anxious about his role tonight, the boyish infantryman wore his blue uniform with perfection, right down to the bright brass buttons on his chest. He was young, his mouth wincing, his brow twitching, and Halsey knew him at once to be untried in battle–and here. He was at this duty, new and perhaps even foreign to the diplomacy required for the evening.
But the old chateau was more than up to snuff. A sixteenth-century home built to lavish Rococo specifications, the house was empty of its former, now-deceased aristocratic owners and requisitioned by the French Admiralty here in Boulogne. Bowing, the captain standing next to the lieutenant, was acting as butler. This man, suaver than his younger officer, extended an arm toward the room where the diplomatic gathering occurred this evening.
“Merci beaucoup,” Halsey said in his finest French. He’d been in Normandy only three weeks, all of it to reawaken his knowledge of the northern French coastline and the doings of Bonaparte’s forces on land and sea. Of course, he was also here to perfect his childhood use of the French language. For entrance to this distinguished group, Halsey relied on the tall, elegant man to his right, who tonight impersonated an Italian financier, but who was the gentleman from Tuscany with all the wiles of a Medici and the contacts of Scarlett Hawthorne’s espionage network back in the city of London.
“Come along, Monsieur Vernon.” Halsey’s Italian friend addressed him by his assumed name, that of a French financier of the Bourse who, unbeknownst to many, had quietly moved to Boston weeks ago. Armand Vernon had been well respected among those of his kind because he was one of the few who did not charge Bonaparte’s government exorbitant interest rates. Monsieur Vernon’s Florentine friend and confidant in this secret venture gave him a smile full of triumph at their mutual deception. He too spoke Parisian French without flaw.
The two of them had easily gotten past the gendarmes at the gate of the chateau and now through the first of the servants without mishap. That gave justification to their impersonations of a French banker and an Italian one, both doing business here this evening. The two acknowledged their success with a hard look at each other, then strode the long hall toward the reception.
Halsey rejoiced in their triumph. His associate had been but a referral to him three weeks ago. Now the man was fast becoming his friend. Tonight that dashing, black-haired fellow with the swarthy good looks of his famous Florentine cousins assumed the persona of Conte Diablo San Remo. However, the suave count was no aristo at all, but simply a man from a revolutionary family, Magnus Corsini. Once majordom to Kane, Lord Ashley, when that man lived in Paris during the period of the Amiens Treaty two years ago, the Italian headed the Continental network Ashley had built in the time he served here. Corsini, a man of many intrigues and abilities, had sent word to Halsey through their most notorious blockade runner, smuggler Jacques Durand, that he should come to Boulogne to see Bonaparte’s army and a small force of his navy. Word had it that Bonaparte, who had visited his troops here in August, would come again to boulogne so. Corsini had written a hasty note in code to Halsey in London, suggesting he arrive in France soon to witness the spectacle.
The two of them took the long hall toward the reception for the Admiral of Rochefort Arsenal in the sound of France, Admiral Charles-René Magon de Médine. The host was commander of the Boulogne army encampment of the “Ocean Coasts,” Marshal Anton de Gramont. Halsey wished to meet both men to say he had looked each in the eye. Knowing what his enemy looked like, he often thought, could build a bridge to understanding their character.
Halsey and his Italian colleague prided themselves on how well they were eluding the Frenchmen. Corsini had received an invitation to this reception yesterday afternoon from a French vice admiral by the name of DeMoray. This came to Corsini only after DeMoray and he met in the local café, quite, it seemed, by accident. DeMoray had recognized only with some difficulty his old school friend, but San Remo had encouraged DeMoray in that perception with enthusiastic embraces and robust kisses. That reacquaintance of old cums had secured Halsey and Corsini’s need to ingratiate themselves with the French Army and Navy command attending this party. Both men needed information about the military buildup here, and the naval armament along the Continental coast of the Atlantic.
“Let me introduce you to DeMoray,” Corsini said to Halsey as they entered the room where one hundred or more French officers drank, laughed, and shared their latest news and gossip. “You’ll like him.”
DeMoray seemed to be one of those military officers promoted more for his attention to his toilette than to his men. “I daresay I do already.”
Corsini–or rather San Remo–nodded. He and “Vernon” had discussed exactly what they would do here this evening. Understanding that acquiring useful numbers about the increase in troops and sailors might be too much to hope for, Halsey had told Corsini he wished to assess the confidence of both army and navy officer corps. In London, word was that the French Grand Army had assembled a contingent of twenty thousand on the Boulogne shores facing the English southern coast. Numbers like that meant to frighten the British. But with the establishment of much of the French fleet there too, the French wished to show how well they protected their own shore, and that they had the power to invade English Channel coastal towns.
Halsey and Corsini had prepared extensively for this exposure to the high command. Not only had they rehearsed their false backgrounds as French and Italian financiers officed in Bordeaux, they had quizzed each other to perfect their biographies. They had also spent more than a week dressed as peasants, walking the shores near Boulogne and south to the rolling dunes d’Écault. There upon the sands they had gauged the strategic positioning of the growing French army. They were alarmed by the French plan to add twice as many soldiers to the Boulogne encampment.
Since his arrival here, Halsey was now better informed, but he was also more worried. He needed all of this firsthand, eyes-on research because he advised the British Prime Minister William Pitt on war plans. He’s come here to put solid evidence to his advice. He would not give anything less to Pitt than the raw truth, with as many details as he could discover. That was why he’d risked his life weeks ago climbing aboard Jacques Durand’s sturdy sloop to storm through the blockade and brave the Channel storms to land in Cherbourg and masquerade as a French banker up from Bordeaux.
* * *
By ten o’clock, the milling crowd had stuffed themselves on fine cuisine and drunk enough good French spirits that they laughed far too loudly and spoke with indiscretion. That was just what Halsey had hoped for!
In the past half-hour, Halsey had learned a few useful facts. The first was that the current commander of the French army, Gramont, had been assigned here because he was expert at inspiring morale. The second was that the French army planned to expand their operations in Boulogne. By Halsey’s estimated after watching them drilling on the plain, their total strength at the moment stood not at the rumored twenty thousand, but at twelve thousand. However, Bonaparte–so boasted one army captain with more epaulettes than brains–wanted double or triple that. The first consul, who aspired to be crowned emperor soon, had enough charisma that he easily recruited new soldiers from the peasantry with promises of easy victories.
Not a happy fact to learn. Halsey swallowed his wine with his fears and summoned his acting skills. The prime minister would want to improve defenses at Dover, Hastings, and perhaps Brighton, too.
However, the most useful bit of news he’d overheard was that the French shipwrights in Rochefort designing new vessels had been chastised by Vice Admiral DeMoray for failure to draw a useful amphibious landing mechanism for a fleet capable of invading British coasts.
Wonderful. Halsey rejoiced, but he knew that, if they were struggling to design one, they might be struggling to build one, too.
I can hope.
But as the night wore on and the army captain who served as butler announced that supper would soon be served, the conversations drifted to less intriguing subjects.
At the end of the long black-and-white marble-tiled hall filled with medieval armor, the delightful notes of a fortepiano drifted toward the guests. The piece was gay, a lively bit that clearly lifted the mood among the guests. Many even hummed along with the pianist.
Whoever he is, he’s excellent.
Halsey–whose third youngest sister, Jessica, commandeered a piano with immense skill–smiled at the refreshing sounds.
“What soldier can play like that?” he asked San Remo-Corsini when he strode up to him.
Handing Halsey a tall crystal flute with bubbling white wine, his friend rolled his eyes. “No officer of any ilk, my friend. That is the talent of a vice admiral’s lady.”
“Who? I must meet her.” Halsey had a discerning eye for the ladies. At thirty-four, he was a bachelor, single–and happy of it, too. No time did he have for a woman, specifically a wife, in his busy life. He was an adoring son to his widowed mother and doting older brother to his five younger sisters. That was enough for him to handle at the moment. He often found a lady who caught his eye–and he acted on the attraction if she were a widow or a lady unattached.
But he’s lately discovered few ladies could keep him attracted. One night in bed, perhaps three if she were educated and witty, but that was all he gave. One day, he’d told himself and his inquiring mother and curious sisters, he would find a lady he could adore for years after. So far, he had not found such a prize, and his family had to be happy with that. He had no need to marry on whim or for land or money. Therefore, he would marry because he liked the lady and found her interesting enough to tie her to him for decades to come. And what of love, asked his womenfolk? He told them he believed in it for others. But since he hadn’t felt it in his own life, he did not think it existed. Meanwhile, he did like women. Their humor, their coquettish ways, even their fashions, made him smile. He wondered if he needed a lady who was so serious he had to make her smile.
Here tonight, he had surveyed the few ladies in attendance. Only three women graced the reception All were senior officers’ wives. He had been at his finest when he met each of them. Women talked, and often of matters that they shouldn’t. In the past hour, he’d learned that one was lively and very good at social conversation. Another was shy and failed to easily navigate any polite conversation. The third was a little bird, flitting about the groups of men with lust in her flashing blue eyes.
Halsey thought a moment, He’d been told that Corsini’s so-called friend, DeMoray, had brought his wife here? He’d not met her yet. “Is she DeMoray’s wife?”
“No.” Corsini leaned near to confide in him. “His special friend.”
Ah. His mistress. Halsey nodded. Mistresses were intriguing ladies who knew how to skirt a topic or give you all the details without the flick of an eyelash. “I’d like to meet her.”
“She only recently graced us with her presence.” Corsini took a sip of his champagne. “It is said neither she nor her lover wish to have her near other men. Vice Admiral Jean Rossard is very careful with her.”
“Ha! Does she have a pox?” Halsey joked.
“Far from it. She is lovely beyond belief. Plays the piano as if she were Beethoven and keeps to her protector alone. For that, the gossips say, her man is very grateful.”
“Now I am interested.” Halsey raised his glass in the direction of the fortepiano. “At the least, let’s go take a look and verify how pretty she is.”
However, the crowd did not give way easily. The push Corsini and he had to make was so vigorous, it was almost rude. Even at that, they were four deep facing the lady. All around them murmured. Some gasped.
Just then, the pianist missed a note.
Someone near to Halsey said the lady never missed.
Suddenly she took up the musica again.
But a murmur went through the guests, then dropped to utter silence.
“What’s wrong?” Halsey asked Corsini, because he could see no problem.
His friend inserted himself between two naval captains and craned his neck. Halsey followed.
Corsini turned around, his large black eyes locked on Halsey’s. “Not good.”
“San Remo?” Halsey tried to catch Corsini as he injected himself into another tight know of curious guests.
Corsini returned to Halsey’s side. “Vaillancourt,” Corsini whispered, and took his arm to position them both with a clearer view of the pianist. There, at the far end of the instruments, stood a man whom Halsey had not yet met here tonight. The fellow stared at the lady.
The man’s name surprised him. The deputy of French security chief Joseph Fouché was here? Halsey’s heart picked up pace. In his previous sojourns to France to gain intelligence, he’s never glimpsed Vaillancourt. Heard of him, certainly. Often. He even knew his description. Handsome. Darkly charming–and a devil. Fouché’s henchman. But here? Not Paris. Why?
Halsey had to see the man more clearly. But he was blocked, so he turned to his friend. “Why has the pianist stopped?”
Corsini froze, his gaze going dead. “Vaillancourt.”
Then the sea of people parted and Halsey could take two steps closer. At the piano, behind the bench, a tall, dark-haired man bent toward the pianist. Vaillancourt looked pleasant enough as he addressed the lady who had played so beautifully.
To Halsey, she was in profile. Her gentle forehead, elegant, straight nose, and plush lips all recommended her. But then, so much more did as well. A lithe creature with glorious, full breasts, she wore a burnt-orange-and-gold gown of silken tissue. The transparent fabric clung to her large, round nipples and tiny waist, then down over her hips and long, lean legs. On her head, she wore a huge gold-and-black turban, beneath which she had swept up her hair. Only a few tendrils of honey-blonde tresses fell about her sharply cleft cheek.
Vaillancourt extended his hand to her. If he were attempting to appear chivalrous gentleman either for the crowd or for her, he succeeded. Save for his mouth. That was a cruel slash of determination.
“Come,” Vaillancourt commanded the lovely lady. Halsey could read the man’s stern lips. “We will talk now,” he told her.
She stared at him, breathing deeply so that her breasts heaved with the effort. Then, mid-melody, she rose. The air, previously swaying to the effervescence she drew from the keys, turned heavy.
Dread followed in Halsey’s heart as Vaillancourt grabbed the lady’s upper arm, nails biting into her delicate skin. Halsey grimaced as the man led her away. Down the hall toward the private quarters at the end, Vaillancourt escorted her as serenely as if he were her beau or her husband.
But something in the set of her shoulders and the small steps of her long legs told Halsey that she did not wish to go. Not now. Not with him. Never with him.
Halsey knew the man was an amoral bully who arrested women, men and children without warrant or even cause. He’d made his reputation on his ruthlessness. Rumor had it that he’s shown his weakness for one woman, the lady now married to an Englishman who guarded her day and night with his own hired men. Since that night when he had disgraced himself in front of his colleagues, Vaillancourt had shown himself to be valiant–and combative to any who countered him.
But as Halsey watched the man all but drag the lady away, he suddenly had the urge to intervene to protect the beautiful woman from a man who had no good intentions. To rush toward the pair and snag her from him. To put her on his own arm and walk her away to a garden of safety–anywhere, but far from the man who harmed and charmed, then deceived many.
Halsey took a step forward.
But you cannot. He halted. His mind rebelled.
He was here as a Frenchman, a good citizen of the French state. Here to do business with the military and the navy. Besides, countrymen did not debate the authority of the deputy of police. Not ever. Not unless one wished to be the focus of Vaillancourt’s wrath.
“Another drink?” Corsini asked, his gaze on the couple as they disappeared through the wooden door that closed with a heavy thud.
Halsey would have to forget her, forget what he saw. “Oui, a large cognac will do.”
“D’accord.”
Minutes later, supper was called. The guests filed back toward the formal dining room at the public end of the chateau. Vaillancourt did not reappear. Nor did the young woman he had so summarily escorted away. Halsey itched to run through the chateau, find the two, and take the lady far from here.
Hours later, in their carriage back to Corsini’s rented chateau in Cherbourg, Halsey needed to know more about Vaillancourt and the lady he had taken.
Corsini inhaled, a frown on his face. “You do not know the depths to which Vaillancourt will stoop to drive home his power.”
“Tell me.” Halsey had some idea, but needed details. One did not fight without knowledge of one’s opponent.
“He was a leader of the Croix Rouge Quartier, radicals who committed the worst abuses during the Terror. We know he is a particular bastard when it comes to intimidating women. He stalked Amber, Lady Ramsey, with a ruthless intent. She now lives in England with her husband.”
Halsey grew more fearful about what had happened to the pianist. “I have met her.” Was she the woman about who many whispered?
“He demanded she become his mistress.”
“I had no idea of that.”
“Hmm. Well, it is said she is the only woman he has ever loved. If anyone can believe a man like that loves anyone.”
“How did she escape him?” Halsey needed to know if the lovely pianist stood a chance of it.
“Viscount Ramsey, ever protective of her, carried her out of Vaillancourt’s house one night when she thought she had been poisoned by hm. Ramsey spirited her away from Vaillancourt and Paris, then home to England with the help of Jacques Durand.”
“Our famous smuggler,” Halsey said with a laugh, but his sight was filled with the image of the lady who had been led away by that fiend.
“Vaillancourt runs all the agents her in France for Fouché. All too well, I will tell you.”
Halsey suspected that the grand minister would have a henchman to do his dirty work. “And now he sends double agents to Southern England by the droves.” It’s my job to catch them.
Halsey had caught one such spy two months ago. One more last winter. He believed there had to be more in England collecting information, sending it home. Corsini had been kind to ork with him here. He was Scarlett Hawthorne’s man, always had been, and Halsey had no one his equal in Paris or anywhere in France. From this operation together, Halsey wished they might form a bond and an agreement, if not now then in the future, to work together.
He gazed at the Italian, hope in his heart. “Do you have any evidence to help you catch them all?”
“Some. We know that the famous actress Charmaine Massé, who ran to England during the Terror, was his agent in London. She died of syphilis. Her younger sister, Vivienne, who is now Lady Appleby, Tate Cantrell’s wife, was the one to reveal to us her sister’s actions. Charmaine has written a list, which she gave to Viv.”
Alarm mixed with delight spread through Halsey. “How reliable do you believe that list to be?”
“We test it. Go after those we suspect. One name turned out to be accurate. The others? We will learn.”
Halsey envied the extent of Corsini’s network. “I begin to think it would be best if I blend my agents with those you run here and in England.”
“For that you need the approval and cooperation of Scarlett Hawthorne,” Corsini admitted with a sigh. “She does indeed run a ring of agents here on the Continent.”
“You lead them?” Halsey asked pointedly.
Corsini brushed his trouser leg. “I run the French ring, appointed by Lord Ashley and his wife. The Ramseys, too. But hundreds more exist all over the Continent.”
“And the young woman Vaillancourt took away this evening?” The image of the blonde beauty rising to the man’s command boiled Halsey’s blood. “Is she yours?”
“Our protocol is that an agent knows only to whom they report and from whom they receive. So I simply cannot answer you. But I will say this–she does not have to be a suspected agent to warrant Vaillancourt’s interest. She could be anyone. Or simply a young lady whose looks appeal to him. I do not know.” Corsini shrugged.
“Still,” Halsey said as he winced and stared out at the star-studded sky, “that is the infamous Vaillancourt. I am afraid for her.”
“As am I. Tomorrow when I visit DeMoray, I will ask him if the lady had returned to her protector.”
