Adele Ashworth Read online

  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.

  Madeleine straightened and smoothed her skirt. The low rumble of a man’s voice from the entry hall pulled her wandering mind from the past as she looked to the clock over the mantel. Jonathan Drake had arrived, three minutes after ten, and she was ready to receive him.

  He entered as Marie-Camille opened the parlor door, and she was once again awed by his appearance. She’d only met him once, about a year ago, at a gala affair near Cannes, and at the time they were introduced she found herself giggling at the gross understatement of his looks by her superiors. They’d portrayed him as “A right average fellow. Dashing in a good light. Dark hair and all that.”

  But Jonathan Drake was beautiful, if one could use that word to describe a man. Not in an elegant sense, really, although he dressed impeccably. But rather in a rugged, overtly masculine manner.

  Until he smiled, as he did now. Then “beautiful” was most appropriate.

  “Madame DuMais.” He spoke first, taking her outstretched hand and lifting the back of it to his lips. “Again we meet. How lovely you look. As a breath of morning air.”

  Madeleine felt herself blushing, as she almost never did in the presence of anyone. But he had taken the time to glance subtly at her figure, which was exactly what she had hoped he’d do when she’d taken the time preparing herself. And how could he not? He was a man, after all, and she’d expected it. His reputation preceded him.

  “Monsieur Drake. A pleasure. Please be seated.” She gestured to the opposite chair, turned to Marie-Camille who waited patiently by the door, and ordered the coffee to be brought immediately.

  She focused her attention back on Drake who now sat comfortably across from her. He looked completely at ease in a morning suit of light dove gray which accented the color of his striking eyes. His white shirt and pale gray neckcloth were made of the finest silk, his midnight-black hair a bit tousled from the removal of his hat, which he’d undoubtedly left on the rack by the front door. He ran his fingers through the ends to smooth it back into place, and Madeleine couldn’t help but fix her gaze upon the movement as she spoke.

  “I assume your voyage was uneventful?” she asked, more politely than curiously.

  He quickly dropped his arm and shifted his large body in the chair, folding his hands in his lap. “I’m here in one piece.”

  Madeleine’s brows arched briefly, but since he offered nothing more she added only, “But certainly no worse for wear.”

  He nodded once at the remark, staring at her frankly, as Marie-Camille returned carrying an ivory, gold-inlaid china coffeepot atop a silver tray. Because the service had been set earlier, her maid did nothing but pour two cups full, set the pot on the table, and again discreetly take her leave, closing the door behind her.

  Madeleine helped herself to warm milk and sugar; he lifted his cup to his lips.

  “And how is everything at home?” she questioned nonchalantly, stirring her coffee with dainty fingers.

  He shrugged and took a sip. “Fine, I suppose. Except for the matter bringing me to southern France in the dead of summer.”

  Madeleine’s eyes wavered, and she lowered her lashes to stare at the brown liquid at her fingertips, gently tapping her spoon on the side of her cup, a bit dismayed that he would jump so quickly into the concern for their meeting. “I suppose you’ll want the details now,” she stated quietly.

  “At your discretion, madam,” he cordially replied.

  Madeleine raised her eyes back to his and took a sip of her coffee. He was watching her closely, and this was her opportunity to move forward.

  Very smoothly, indicative of her talents, she intimated, “I am hoping, Monsieur Drake, that we shall become more than acquaintances during your stay in France”—she placed her cup and saucer on the table—“so I would be most pleased if you would call me Madeleine.”

  She was perfectly aware that he might be confused by that subtle invitation, and indeed he appeared to be. He blinked quickly two or three times, then grinned quite charmingly as he placed his cup and saucer on the table as well and leaned back casually to regard her.

  “I’m honored, Madeleine,” he admitted eloquently. “And you should call me Jonathan. We’ll be working together, and I sup
pose formality could get tiresome.”

  She smiled beautifully, now nearly certain he was returning the interest but was just being as subtle as she. He was English and a bit more staid than the typical Frenchman. Perhaps she wasn’t losing her touch after all but simply needed to be more direct.

  Slowly, suggestively, she leaned toward him, her blue eyes sparkling with unspoken thoughts. “I’d be delighted, Jonathan. In fact, I was hoping that perhaps we could find the time for . . . relaxation together. When the work is finished, of course.” She ran her fingers sensuously up and down her hair as it coiled over her right breast in a thick, shiny plait. “I’m sure you’d enjoy the companionship of a woman who knows . . . the area well, and how to entertain a man to the fullness of his time. I’m equally certain I’d enjoy your charms.”

  He stared at her openly for a second or two. Then as rapidly as he dropped his gaze to her breasts, he shifted his body in his chair again, uncomfortably, and looked to the window.

  Madeleine had really expected him to respond positively at once. He was a man who liked the ladies, and she knew, as any astute woman would, that he found her particularly attractive. But now, as she sat back again to regard his silent form, it began to dawn on her that, although he might have briefly admired her beauty, his mind had been elsewhere since he’d walked in the room. He seemed . . . preoccupied?

  Finally he turned his attention back to her and smiled, decisively, eyes focused as he brought his hands together, elbows on the armrests, fingertips touching lightly in a triangle in front of his thoughtful face.

  “My dear Madeleine,” he began with purpose. “Had I received such a generous invitation from so beautiful a woman only weeks ago, I would have found myself accepting the pleasure of your charming company without reservation.” He cleared his throat and lowered his eyes to study the thick, inlaid carpet. “Several things have taken place during the last few days, however, that would make such an acceptance . . . awkward.”

  “Really,” she muttered, completely surprised, not knowing if she should feel dejected or flattered. Never in her life had she been turned down quite so graciously.

  He inhaled deeply and raised his gaze to hers once more. “I am not in France alone.”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh. . . .”

  He threw a quick glance to the window again, impatiently it seemed, and Madeleine wondered for a moment if the lady was standing outside. And it had to be a woman, she decided. The Black Knight always worked alone; Jonathan Drake never traveled with anyone. She also knew no man in his prime would turn down such an obvious offer of female affections if his only complication was that he traveled with another man.

  Sighing with acceptance, Madeleine reached for her cup, bringing it gently to her lips. “You must trust her implicitly.”

  For the first time since his arrival, he looked startled by her words.

  She smiled shrewdly. “Does she know who you are?”

  He hesitated. “Not exactly.”

  “Mmm . . .” She paused for another sip. “Why you’re here?”

  He pursed his lips and shook his head. “No.”

  “I see.”

  He exhaled loudly and tapped his fingers together.

  Madeleine forcefully had to keep herself from laughing. “Perhaps I’ll get to meet her,” she suggested with honest interest.

  He smirked. “I’m deathly afraid you will.”

  She did laugh at that, placing her cup back on the table. “Then I’m looking forward to it.”

  With elegant bearing, she stood and walked across the room to a small, mahogany cabinet next to the window. “I suppose, since she alone holds your attention, Jonathan, we should get down to business.” She opened a glass door and pulled several sheets of paper from inside a music box sitting within.

  “The jewels are being kept in the study safe of Henri Lemire, count of Arles.” She turned and sauntered back to him, staring at her notes. “At his seaside estate about twelve miles west of the city. He has four children—three boys and one girl, his oldest—and a simple-minded but lovely second wife of three years who is half his age.”

  Jonathan reached for his coffee cup, drained the contents in two swallows, then stood as she moved up beside him. He looked down at her face, his dark hair shining in the wavy sunlight, his eyes brilliant and alert, his skin clean and smelling lightly of musk. She exhaled with dismay. Such a shame not to be able to enjoy him.

  Handing him the papers, she continued with the present issue. “I’ve come to know him and his family the best I could over the last few weeks. He’s forty-eight, intelligent, has long-time connections, but he’s been known to make mistakes. He’s well-respected and generally liked by his contemporaries, loves his children—especially his daughter. He dotes on his wife but is quite content to keep her in her place as he attends other issues which he deems more important, including, if rumor has it, an occasional mistress. He’s a Legitimist to the extreme, though he doesn’t flaunt it. He despises Louis Philippe; feels the king’s a weakling underneath, a man who can’t control the people. He wants Henri back on the throne for obvious reasons, but I haven’t been able to ascertain to what measures he’ll go for it, if he’s planning any action soon or at all.”

  She tapped the paper lightly with a professionally manicured nail. “I’ve included a short report on Comte d’Arles, what history of the family I could find, and a map of the grounds and house, which is fairly accurate. I’ve been inside twice. You’ll also find an invitation to a ball in celebration of his daughter’s eighteenth birthday next week. I don’t think he’ll attempt to sell the emeralds before then. I don’t think he’s ready. And,” she said, dropping her voice, “there is a rumor she may wear them for the occasion.”

  He looked up sharply. “Really?”

  “Just a rumor,” she said again, “but something to consider.”

  “Indeed.”

  She watched him carefully flip through the information.

  “Your assumed identity is relatively simple,” she went on. “Jonathan Drake, cultured Englishman who buys French property for wealthy European aristocrats. Comte d’Arles has a lovely twenty-two-room home outside of Paris he’s attempting to sell. You’ll find information on that as well.”

  “He needs money?” Jonathan asked speculatively, brows furrowed.

  Madeleine toyed absentmindedly with the lace on her collar. “I don’t think so. More likely his new wife intends to spend her days lounging on the Mediterranean shore. She adores it here.”

  “Mmm.” He waited, thinking. “And how did I get an invitation?”

  “Through me. We’ve met briefly once or twice in past years. You found a buyer for my late husband’s estate in St. Raphael, if you’ll recall.”

  “Ahh, yes.” He folded the papers and placed them in his coat pocket. “Do I need another invitation if my traveling companion accompanies me as my wife?”

  Madeleine was slightly taken aback. She crossed her arms over her breasts and looked at him askance. “No. Actually it might be better if you did bring a wife.” She shook her head in growing awareness of his plan. “If you intend to use her without her knowing who you are, she must be exceptionally appealing to look at—or engaging—for you to risk it. I suppose you’re counting on those assets for distraction?”

  He grinned in answer.

  “Is she clever?”

  “Enough to be trouble.”

  Madeleine bit her bottom lip gently. “If she’s that clever she’s bound to discover your secrets eventually, Jonathan.”

  It was a warning laced with amusement.

  Chuckling, he confided, “I’m looking forward to it with pleasure you cannot comprehend.” He grasped her fingers with his palm, ready to take his leave. “Will you be at the party?”

  “Yes, of course,” she answered softly.

  “Then you can tell me what you think when you meet her.” Raising her hand to his lips, he kissed the back of it, his eyes never leaving hers. “I have bee
n most charmed, Madeleine.”

  Again, for the second time in ages, she felt color warm her cheeks.

  “Until the ball, Madame DuMais.”

  With that he released her and strode toward the door. She followed him through the entryway as he stopped to retrieve his hat from the rack, then stepped out behind him onto the white latticed porch now bathed in bright sunshine.

  Suddenly he stopped and turned back to her, his expression contemplative.

  “All the invitations I’ve received this morning have been considered thoroughly,” he disclosed in a low voice. “And of course not taken lightly. I am very flattered. I only regret that I cannot accept them all.”

  She beamed, reached for his hand, and tenderly squeezed it. “Secrets between friends, Jonathan.”

  Smiling, he nodded just once, then walked down the brick path and across the crowded street.

  Chapter 5

  Natalie sat in the cramped hotel room, on a rickety chair of faded apricot velvet, drumming her fingers on the armrest with impatience. It had been three hours since she’d returned, in a flurry because she was a little bit afraid he’d noticed her following him, and she wanted to appear indifferent and bored instead of curious and, yes, though averse to admit it, even irritated by what she’d seen. Waiting for him, she’d been alternating between pacing the floor and sitting in the chair, fanning herself to keep from melting in the stifling heat, listening to midday traffic outside the open window as she stared at the door.

  Until now her trip had been routine, although she couldn’t find words to describe her first impression of Marseilles. Enchanting, busy, unique—they all fit. She’d been to France three or four times in recent years, but never to the south of it, and in many ways this southern port city, with its quiet charm and strange mixture of bustling boulevards and vacant, narrow-stepped streets, was completely different from any place she’d ever seen.

  Upon arrival, Jonathan had taken them to a small hotel not far from the harbor, and Natalie had followed him obediently, saying nothing as her crestfallen gaze fell upon their assigned room, hoping they wouldn’t be staying in it long. It was old and worn, and the hotel itself entertained the oddest assortment of people, though she knew part of her assessment was because of her lifelong shelter from a world outside of piano lessons, gown fittings, soirees, and lectures from her mother.