Closer To Sin

By Elizabeth Squire

Elizabeth Squire brings a fresh voice to historical romance in this tale of intrigue and passion.

Liliane Desailly travels to Napoleonic France after receiving a plea for help from her French cousin. She learns she is the key to fulfilling her grandfather's legacy, but to do so she must masquerade as a spy and courier secrets on behalf of the British Admiralty.

Sinclair Charlcroft is the British Admiralty's last hope. Napoleon's Grande Armée is poised to invade Britain, an English spy is missing and a traitor has infiltrated the Admiralty's intelligence network.

Pursued by Napoleon's agents, Liliane and Sinclair cannot reveal their true identities until they unlock the secrets of the legacy – and only then can they unlock the secrets in their hearts.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Apr 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781760370367

Elizabeth Squire

Elizabeth's love of writing romance couldn't be further from the life she had carved out for herself. Raised in outback and rural Australia, Elizabeth was determined to live a life vibrant with passion, travel, adventure and discovery. And so she invested a lot of years doing just that; she counts serving as a commissioned officer in the Royal Australian Navy, travelling by safari truck through Africa and back-packing through Eastern Europe with her young family as just a few of her achievements. But in the ensuing years, the urge to write intensified as story lines and dialogue continued to materialise from the recesses of her mind. She finally accepted that the voices in her head were really characters enmeshed in the tumultuous Georgian and Regency periods, vying for life on paper. After a nomadic lifestyle, Elizabeth has now settled into her own home and lives surrounded by the nation's treasures, her own hero and one true love, two beautiful daughters and two delinquent miniature long-hair dachshunds.

Book preview

Prologue

English Channel, February 1805

Liliane Desailly hugged her borrowed oilskins closer as icy wind peppered her face with sprays of salt water, leaving a dry, crusty film upon her skin. The fishing ketch began to bob and slosh about and she reluctantly acknowledged that the afternoon sun was now obscured by menacing black clouds. She cast her eye towards the horizon—at some stage in the past hour the hue of the water in the Channel had darkened to a deep grey.

Trying to ignore the sour taste flooding her mouth and the pounding of her heart, she watched Captain Joe direct his crew to shorten the mainsail, square away rigging and make preparations for the changing weather conditions. It was probably too late to pray they’d make landfall soon.

‘You’re lookin’ a mite peaked, there miss,’ Captain Joe called to her. ‘But don’t you worry none. T’is nothin’ but an early spring squall. Aye, there’ll be rain, but you just stay under that awning forward of the wheelhouse. Ye’ll be dry enough there. I’ll still be havin’ you in France well before sun-up. See if I don’t.’

Liliane cast him a dubious look; he wasn’t the one whose stomach felt like it was turning somersaults. Resolutely she wiped at the thin sheen of perspiration on her brow. Perhaps life on the high seas wasn’t for her, but then, a storm hadn’t been foreseen when she’d bribed Captain Joe to depart Folkestone on the morning’s tide.

Heeding the skipper’s instruction, she moved back under the awning and sunk down to sit upon the sea chest lashed to the bulkhead. At least it was a little drier here. Shuffling back further until she was comfortably propped up against the wheelhouse, Liliane burrowed a hand beneath her oilskins until she found the pocket built into her gown. She clasped hold of the small packet of crumpled letters—a half dozen thin pieces of paper, one for each of the past six months—each sounding more desperate than the last.

Mindful of the wind, she daren’t drag them out. Regardless, they were committed to memory. Solange’s words burnt through the parchment, none more so than the entreaty that she come to France with the utmost urgency. But tell no one. She shivered at those last words, bit back the metallic taste they evoked. But equally perplexing was Solange’s insistence that Liliane bring Papa’s watch with her. She lifted the heavy fob chain from about her neck, withdrawing the watch from where it lay between the sanctuary of her breasts. Slipping it from its waterproof pouch she reverently rubbed her thumb across the cover; she’d examined it countless times, the heavy gold was worn smooth with the passage of time but other than its value it was quite nondescript.

A lump caught in her throat as she remembered how Yvette had given it to him when she’d come to live with them. Liliane couldn’t remember a morning since that day, when Papa had still been alive, where he hadn’t sat at the breakfast table winding the mechanism and adjusting the time. The familiarity of its weight was now a comfort against the turmoil around her.

Another large wave crashed across the bow and foam sprayed over her. She shivered as she absently laid the watch in her lap and adjusted her scarf so it was tucked more securely into her oilskins. As she did so, a vague noise pulled her attention beyond the stern of boat. What was that? Peering out from the canvas awning that was doing so little to keep her dry, she made out a mass of odd shapes and dark shadows. In the distance, carried on the crest of the wind, a bell could be heard.

Before her, the deck of the fishing smack became frantic with activity. ‘Look lively lads,’ Captain Joe was ordering in a harsh voice. ‘Cast the fishing nets, look busy now. And no talking, we don’t know if ‘ems Frenchies or some of ours. And I don’t intend to find out.’

Looking to Liliane he called, ‘Just you stay down. We’re about to land ourselves in the middle of a naval patrol. Let’s hope they’re Georgie’s ships o’ the line. Might be Frenchies though. We’re a way off o’ our fishin’ grounds, but sometimes th’ herring run this far.’ Captain Joe moved on to give further directions to his crew.

What did he just say? Liliane struggled to decipher his words. A naval patrol? Oh dear Lord, not now. A tremor of fear snaked down her spine. She’d come too far to be caught now. Surely the ship’s captain wouldn’t be interested in an inconsequential little fishing boat. Particularly on a night like this.

At least there was little likelihood that it was a French patrol; particularly as Cornwallis controlled the Channel. Well, that was the case last week when she’d spent an enlightening dinner hour listening to her uncle and his guests debate the Admiral’s tactics to engage in a close blockade of the English Channel.

She now shivered at the memory. Alarming reports continued to circulate that Napoleon’s Grande Armée was preparing to invade England. Cornwallis’s success in confining Napoleon’s fleet to harbour was paramount to Britain’s freedom. It would also ensure she arrived safely in France tomorrow morning.

‘Brace yourselves lads—’ Captain Joe’s warning cut through the whistle of the wind. Liliane looked up. Oh good grief. A wall of foaming green water loomed before them. Her throat constricted, and she grasped hold of the awning and held tight as the wave broke over the bow of the ketch. The whole boat lifted under the force of the onslaught and turned broadside to the next wave.

Behind her, Liliane could hear Captain Joe yelling instructions to the helmsman, entreating him to straighten the rudder and set the boat about. Liliane heard herself whimper. So much for bravery.

She closed her eyes, only to snap them open again, dizzy and disorientated, the whole world tilting on its axis as the boat righted its course and slid drunkenly down the side of the next wave. The momentum pitched Liliane against the side of the awning, dislodging her from her seat upon the sea trunk.

As she hit the deck, a heavy thunk followed by a metallic slide penetrated her dazed senses. She lurched forward, clawing the deck fruitlessly. Her throat constricted as with ever increasing horror she watched her father’s timepiece slide under the canvas and away from view.

Papa’s watch.

Disbelief gave way to panic. She couldn’t lose Papa’s watch. Tightly clutching her oversized oilskins, she pushed her windswept hair back from her eyes and left the dubious protection of the shelter. A look back towards the quarterdeck assured her Captain Joe was otherwise engaged.

She lunged for the port-side rail and propelled herself toward it. ‘Eeew, sea foam,’ she cursed as she skidded, her arms flailing. The revolting stuff was everywhere. She regained her balance, wiped the spray from her face and looked about.

Oh, thank the fates. The fob-watch lay against the gunwale, caught in the drainage channel. It was not lost to her, yet.

Another large wave smacked against the side. Water surged forward and engulfed her in an icy torrent, robbing her of breath and dissolving her precarious hold on the barrier. With little regard for her plight, the surge of water dislodged the watch and catapulted it further towards the bow.

The boat listed to the right and Liliane flailed desperately for the railing, the world racing past as they again careened haphazardly into the trough of another wave.

The violent movement pitched her to her backside and sent her sliding along the deck, unable to grasp at anything to arrest her forward trajectory. Images of being swept into the churning ocean assailed her until she came to a jarring halt against a hatch on the forward deck. Pain radiated up her spine with blinding fury, knocking the frozen air from her lungs.

Gingerly she reached a shaky hand for the railing and pulled herself to her knees. ‘Oh, heavens above,’ she whimpered as her hip threatened to buckle in protest.

Ahead she spied the watch lying in a pool of water. Hesitantly she balanced herself on her hands and knees, and slowly crawled her way further towards the ship’s prow. Each movement sent blades of pain lancing down her side. Digging her nails into the wooden deck she pressed forward until the watch was mere inches from her. Grasping the precious timepiece, she turned it over in her hands, examining it carefully.

‘I’m so sorry, Papa,’ she whispered under her breath.

She blinked back the tears burning behind her eyes and slid the watch back into its pouch. Her hand trembled as she looped the fob about her neck and returned the timepiece to the valley between her breasts; with any luck a good watchmaker would be able to restore it to working order.

The toll of a bell, closer now, punctuated the sound of large canvas sails moving with the force of the wind. Liliane stilled and held her breath, listening intently to the intermittent creak of ropes and pulleys straining to hold their weight. Underlying everything was the steady whoosh of water giving way to a ship’s wake.

Without warning, the rain eased to a fine mist and the clouds broke to allow the thin light of the setting sun to filter through. Afforded a better view of the rolling ocean Liliane sat up and looked towards the sound of the bell. Oh good Lord! The outlines of three large ships loomed before her. Menacing was the only word she could think to describe them.

A flare arched across the dismal skies to signal that the nearest vessel, a second-rate ship-of-the-line, was altering course to close in on them. A shout from its crow’s nest pierced the gloom. In response, dark shapes began rapidly bobbing backwards and forwards across the deck. Liliane’s jaw clenched tight, her teeth cutting into her bottom lip. British it may be, but the tiny fishing smack was not going to be permitted to proceed unchallenged.

She shivered as more water sprayed over the boat’s prow, loosening her grip on the handrail—but if she were to move now, she would surely be seen.

Apprehension rapidly turned to icy alarm and raced down her spine. The deck of the giant ship came alive as orders were bellowed and men raced to furl the giant sails. The man-o-war slowed while its companions, like sentinels prowling the darkened ocean, continued on their course.

After what seemed an eternity, the great ship drew abreast—an imposing menace that obscured the setting sun and cast a deep shadow upon them. Liliane looked up, and froze. A lion couchant graced the scroll bearing the Royal arms. Heaven help her.

She had attended this ship’s commissioning not four years earlier and her uncle had taken her on board for a tour shortly afterwards. But worse still, it was this very ship’s captain who had been in attendance during last week’s dinner. He’d drawn her into an informative discussion on the Royal Navy’s forward projection of sea power before adjourning to the library with her uncle and Sir Avery. So this is what he had meant.

She bit hard on her bottom lip to calm her racing thoughts. She had listened politely at the time, but she’d imagined English warships prowling great open oceans, not menacing tiny fishing smacks in the middle of the Channel. Yet now, towering three decks above them, the ninety-eight gun ship-of-the-line was projecting its power upon them and threatened to destroy her carefully made plans. She’d just become the very subject of those same tactical manoeuvres Captain Rotheram had so carefully explained to her.

Liliane swiped her clammy hands through her hair, dragging it back from her face. The great ship was a mere twenty yards from them, and now Marines, silhouetted by the setting sun, were preparing to line the upper deck. Their blood red uniforms, a startling contrast to the backdrop of white sails, were nothing when compared with the fearsomeness of their bayoneted rifles. Shivers rippled through her body. Desperate not to be seen, she sunk lower to the deck.

A splash towards the ship’s stern alerted her to the unmistakable sound of a longboat hitting the water and the knot in her stomach grew tighter. She angled her head towards the movement and listened avidly to the harsh words and coarse language of the sailors as they pulled on the oars and propelled the launch towards them.

From across the distance a clipped voice hailed them in English. ‘I am Captain Edward Rotheram of His Majesty’s Ship Dreadnought. You are operating in contravention of Admiral Cornwallis’s blockade of these waters. State your business and prepare to be boarded.’ Switching to French he sought clarification. ‘Parlez vous Anglais?’

Captain Joe scrambled portside and hastily responded. ‘Hold up there, Guv. Yeah, I parlay On-glay. Captain Joe Ewer, skipper of the Lady Boadicea. We’re out o’ Folkestone, chasin’ the herring. There be a good run on tonight now this ‘ere storm’s about passed us over.’

Liliane crouched lower. Lady Boadicea. How providential, a warrior queen. Perhaps there was hope for her yet.

Behind her, Captain Joe was speculating upon the warship’s mission as he urged his crew to prepare to embark the Dreadnought’s boarding party. ‘That ship be off to somewheres, mark my words. I bets she’s makin’ ‘er way to hunt down old Boney his self.’

Liliane twisted around as her cramped muscles began to tremble in protest to her crouched position. Helpless, she watched as Captain Joe dropped the boat’s mainsail. The deck of the ketch was suddenly left open and exposed.

Her thoughts flew in every direction, only the wheelhouse stood between her and detection. Wildly eyeing her surrounds, she remembered the pile of nets in the forward hold just a few feet to her right. Of course!

A quick look towards the marines confirmed that they had not yet assumed their positions along the ship’s railing. Before she could consider the matter any further she scrambled across the short distance to the stowage hold. Her hip screamed in protest, sending shards of pain splintering down her side. She narrowed her vision to the pile of nets before her and shut all else from her mind until, reaching the hold, she quickly clambered over the side and lowered herself into it.

Gingerly she eased herself under the nets, determinedly trying to ignore the ribbons of dried seaweed and fish scales, and the way the pungent scent assaulted her nose. The hold was only waist deep, but with the nets to conceal her it would be enough to protect her from prying eyes.

She fought the need to stand and see what was happening, when mere yards from where she crouched, the longboat drew alongside and crashed violently against the ketch. The fishing boat shuddered at the impact and then a flurry of footsteps could be heard scampering across the deck as sailors hastened to secure the lines in preparation for receiving the boarding party.

Confident that she wouldn’t be seen, Liliane peeked out over the rim of the hold. The longboat had been secured aft of the ketch. She half expected to see the deck of the fishing boat swarmed with marines. Instead, after several ungainly attempts, two Midshipmen, incongruous in their cocked hats, white pantaloons and gilt edged Hessians, succeeded in boarding the Lady Boadicea. The youngest couldn’t have been more than a boy of fifteen.

Once they had suffered an effusive greeting from Captain Joe, one of the boys began to idly wander about the stern of the fishing smack, giving a cursory glance to the activities of the fishermen. Liliane watched him intently. Her breath hitched tighter with each step he took. She was safe in the hold, but the minute he stepped past the wheelhouse, she would surely be discovered.

The Midshipman drew level with the main mast when Captain Joe, seeing his direction, beckoned him over. After a moment’s hesitation and another cursory glance towards the ketch’s prow, the young officer shrugged his shoulders and hastened back to the skipper’s side. With a look of ennui worthy of any Ton ballroom, the boy joined his shipmate in examining Lady Boadicea’s log books.

They probably board fishing boats all the time, Liliane realised. To them, the Lady Boadicea would be unexceptional. She sunk down and pulled the nets over her head and exhaled a bottomless sigh. That had been close. She would thank Captain Joe later for his timely intervention.

Liliane fidgeted impatiently in the cramped hold, anxious for the boarding party to leave, when the sound of heavy boots drew her eyes upward. Damn, one of the Midshipmen must have decided to inspect the hold after all. She peered up through the heavy nets searching for the source of the noise and her senses collided.

Oh, my.

Standing above her, arms folded across his body, he stood silhouetted against the bleakness of the twilight while wind whipped dark hair about the shadowed planes of his face. His body was swathed in a multi-caped greatcoat, unbuttoned and billowing about him. He must have come over on the longboat, yet she hadn’t seen him come aboard. He was obviously not one of the ship’s company, yet his very stance embodied the power of the ship and the dark ocean around him.

Fearing she would be seen, Liliane sat motionless. The man’s features were indiscernible; still, she felt his strength radiating towards her, drawing her in, enveloping her. But it was the low timbre of his voice that held her attention, sent frissons of awareness sparking through her.

Snippets of his conversation washed across the short distance that separated them. He spoke in the short clipped vowels distinctive to the men of her class, his speech carrying with it a depth of unquestionable authority. But his words, carried to her on the wind, drowned her in a deluge of dread. Whoever he was, this man could destroy her.

Chapter One

France, February 1805

Liliane sat opposite her cousin Solange, gingerly sipping a mug of honey mead. Around them the air was thick with smoke, layered with the pungent smell of onions, hops and sweat. The local village inn was loud with the lunchtime patronage of local farmers and fishermen whose conversations were punctuated with raucous laughter and ribald jokes. One of the men nudged his companion and gestured towards her. She fidgeted self-consciously and tucked her blue woollen shawl more securely across her shoulders. Goodness, they behaved like they’d never seen a woman in here before.

A hush momentarily descended upon the room. Solange leaned towards her and whispered. ‘Be ready, ma petite. He’s here.’

Liliane glanced over her shoulder. As her gaze swept the room she was arrested by the sight of a figure silhouetted in the doorway.

Heavens above. She momentarily closed her eyes, his image imprinting upon her brain. Now this man was definitely no fisherman. Even in the crowded noisy tavern his presence was imposing. Mesmerised, she studied him further. His body was encased in a white linen shirt and buff breeches, while ink black hair fell across his brow, drawing her attention to hooded eyes and a firmly set jaw. He stepped into the room and casually looked around the tavern, running his hand through his hair to push it back from his face. Her fingers tingled, and she lifted her own hand to her hair, twisting the sable strands between her fingers, wondering if his hair would feel as soft and silken.

Liliane froze. Oh Lord, he was watching her. The loose tendrils that tangled about her fingers singed as though she had been caught running her hands through his hair. The air around her seemed to ripple and she felt, rather than saw, the moment he decided to move. Holding her gaze, he moved from the doorway and light flooded back into the room. Her breath caught in her throat. It was incongruous that a man of his height could move with such surety and grace, almost a menacing prowl. Although one thing was certain, there was absolutely nothing dandified about him. As he made his way through the tavern his commanding posture induced the inn’s patrons to step aside in deference.

He drew closer and she jerked back around to face Solange. How mortifying to have been caught staring at him. She flicked a look of uncertainty towards her cousin. Surely he wasn’t the man they were here to meet? This man didn’t accord with the image she’d painted in her mind. She wasn’t sure what she’d been expecting—perhaps someone older, less imposing. Someone safe. Not someone whose very presence drew the attention of every person in the room. And certainly not someone who, with a single glance, could induce her to forget precisely why she was on the wrong side of the Channel, drinking mead and speaking in French, instead of shopping on Bond Street.

Solange reached across the oak table and enfolded Liliane’s hand between her own. ‘Remember, this is simply the initial meeting. You just need to let him believe you are Liliane Beaumont, and that you’re my younger cousin – well, that last is true enough,’ she smiled wryly. ‘Leave the rest to me. I’ll convince him that you’re suitably qualified to accompany him on this mission.’

Liliane nodded. ‘And no one has heard of me because I’ve been living with relatives until recently.’ With her uncle and guardian, Nathaniel Manning, the Duke of Martinbury, if one was to be precise. But if that information were to come to light she would be arrested as a British spy.

Solange nodded her head. ‘Precisely. Your actions will restore the honour of our family. Our grandpère would be proud of you.’

Liliane pushed a stray curl back from her eyes and swallowed the lump in her throat. Solange’s confidence in her was warming. To think, until a week ago they’d only ever communicated by way of letter.

A shadow fell over the table and she looked up. And blinked. This was the man she was about to entrust her very life to. Except he didn’t look particularly happy to see her sitting here. Perhaps she had been too precipitous in agreeing to Solange’s plan.

Her mouth dried and she was seized by a sudden urge to flee: the man intended to sit next to her. Liliane hastily shuffled over but he took up most of the space, crowding her into the corner, his shoulder and thigh pressing intimately against her.

The unfamiliar contact was startling. And yet she wasn’t afraid; the strength he exuded was compelling, and very distracting. She didn’t dare move. His leg, against the softness of her hip, was an unrelenting band of iron; one that pulsated with vitality and warmth and made her very aware of the differences in their bodies. She pulled her woollen shawl tighter about her and picked up her glass of mead to relieve the sudden dryness in her mouth. Not that it did anything to assuage the searing heat that had raced through her and scalded every sense she possessed.

‘Mademoiselles,’ he greeted. ‘I believe you’re expecting me?’ Looking to the barmaid, the man winked and gestured for a mug of ale.

Bemused, Liliane watch the woman transform from sullen wench to blushing flirt in less time than it took to flick her skirt. Good grief, there was obviously an art to getting prompt service in this tavern.

‘I assume you’re Monsieur St Claire?’ queried Solange.

He nodded in response. ‘And you’re Solange Beaumont?’ Without looking, he indicated towards Liliane. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone else. Who is your companion?’

‘This is my cousin Liliane Beaumont.’ Solange paused, as a single raised eyebrow conveyed his displeasure. Recovering, she cleared her throat. ‘I’ve been unwell this winter and it would be best if Liliane were to accompany you in my stead. She—’

With a gesture of his hand, he interrupted her. The barmaid returned and placed a mug of ale before him, stooping low to exhibit her generously endowed bosom. Liliane leaned against the wall and watched him take his time to admire the girl’s display with a smile of appreciation before he slid a coin across the table in payment for the beverage.

Liliane cast a glance around the taproom. So it wasn’t just her; he’d attracted the attention of every woman in the room. Across the tavern two other barmaids were huddled together giggling and darting appreciative glances towards him. With a smile like that, he probably commanded this sort of attention everywhere he went. She straightened her posture and edged further away from him. How lowering to think he’d probably dismissed her as just another simpering miss. She watched the serving girl accept her dismissal with good grace and saunter back to the bar. Oh for goodness sake, the man would make a crone blush.

Monsieur St Clair took a long draught of his ale and returned his attention to Solange. ‘Continue please. I believe you were explaining to me how this young woman is suitably qualified to accompany me on what is likely to be a highly dangerous mission.’

This conversation was not going as Solange had predicted. Liliane pinched her lips together. ‘Monsieur,’ she intervened. ‘Firstly, my age is not your concern. But suffice to say, I’m no young miss fresh from the school room. Secondly, I’m more than aware there’s an element of danger involved in this mission—and I accept that risk. My cousin has taught me well and I intend to be nothing but an asset to you.’

Liliane’s heart pounded against her breast, but she wasn’t about to be dismissed so easily. She sat back and waited for him to acknowledge her.

Instead, he addressed his answer to Solange. ‘I believe, Mademoiselle Beaumont, I’ll decide who is and who isn’t an asset to me. I dislike having my plans dictated to me.’ He paused and took a sip of his ale. ‘Now, mon fleur,’ he turned to Liliane, ‘what makes you so certain you can assist me?’

Liliane twisted around to face him and found herself pinned under the scrutiny of indecipherable brown eyes. A heated flush spread slowly across her chest and crept up her neck as his gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. She clenched her hands together and met him eye to eye. There was no way she was going to let him see the web of uncertainty threatening to consume her. If she was going to pull off this charade, she needed to meet him on equal terms. And that didn’t include allowing him to seduce her to within an inch of her senses. She held her breath and resisted the urge to lick her lips until, with a twitch of his mouth, he looked back up and met her gaze again.

She squared her shoulders. It was a pity his temperament wasn’t as pleasing as his looks. ‘Monsieur, I’m not your flower, my name is Liliane. Regardless, you need not have any fears about my suitability.’ Lifting her hand she ticked off her accomplishments. ‘I have a complete understanding of the role expected of me. Also,’ she lowered her voice to ensure she wouldn’t be heard beyond their table, ‘I’m in possession of information that will guarantee us access to a highly placed official that, to date, has been beyond your reach. And I’m fluent in English. You do understand English, Monsieur?’

‘Yes, although I would caution you not to advertise that fact mon fleur. We don’t wish to draw any undue attention to ourselves.’

‘I’m not so naive, sir.’

‘No? Yet you wish to endanger yourself and travel through a war-torn country with a gentleman with whom you are unacquainted. Are you not concerned for your virtue, Mademoiselle?’

He was challenging her morals? The cheek of the man. She had come of age learning to deflect the sly innuendo and improper advances of the tom cats and opportunists who prowled the ballrooms of Mayfair. He would need to try harder than that if he wanted to intimidate her. She met his glare and smiled. ‘I think you’ll find my virtue beyond reproach. Perhaps you’re more concerned with your own lack of gentlemanly qualities?’ she challenged.

‘Sweetheart,’ he drawled, ‘you have a sharp tongue.’ Leaning closer he lowered his voice. ‘And let me assure you, you will find no fault with—’

Solange interjected with a cough. ‘Monsieur St Clair, may I speak with you privately for a moment?’

Liliane registered the tone in Solange’s voice but kept her attention steadily trained on the man beside her, her gaze locked with his whiskey brown eyes. She wasn’t going to back down to him. He wasn’t the one who’d thrown society’s strictures to the wind by being here, and he wasn’t the one who could redeem her family’s honour. She bit the inside of her lip. But he was the one who could put an end to her ambitions if he refused to take her. She lifted her chin and dared him to challenge her further as a peel of raucous laughter burst from the corner of the room and washed over them.

He raised an eyebrow in response to her challenge and shrugged insolently. Solange coughed again, breaking the tension and forcing her to turn back to her cousin.

Liliane smiled reassuringly. ‘It’s okay, Solange. I’m sure Monsieur St Clair is simply concerned for my safety.’

‘Your safety, be damned,’ he growled. ‘This is highly irregular, and one of us needs to remember that we are not playing games here. Need I remind you both that there are protocols in place for good reason.’

Solange opened her mouth to protest, but before she could begin, he silenced her with a piercing glare. ‘Mademoiselle Beaumont, I dislike being manipulated. I don’t know what your intent is, but it’s clear that your cousin, while beautiful and quick witted, is in no way prepared to undertake this kind of job. Just what are you hoping to achieve from trading places?’

‘Monsieur St Clair, I implore you not to be so impertinent,’ reprimanded Solange. She cast a quick look at Liliane. ‘I think it’s time to indoctrinate Liliane into the business. Napoleon has increased his activity along the coast,’ she leaned closer, ‘and there’s also talk of an invasion by Austria. I can’t do this alone anymore. But,’ she sought to placate him, ‘be assured, my cousin is more than capable of taking my place.’

Liliane held still as she observed the battle of wills between Solange and Monsieur St Clair. This meeting had not gone the way she’d expected. Somehow she’d expected him to simply fall in with their plans and be grateful for their assistance. She replayed his words through her head; he thought she was beautiful and quick witted. She couldn’t take any credit for her beauty, but at least he didn’t think her a simpleton. And she would need every ounce of her wits in the coming week.

The enormity of what she was attempting to undertake weighted itself deep in her gut. The responsibility was daunting, but if she succeeded, she could return to England satisfied she’d done all in her power to complete her grandfather’s work. And she will have had a small role to play in alleviating the risk of Napoleon invading England.

Apparently Solange sensed Monsieur St Clair was not going to comment further and she started to stand. ‘Do I take it you’ll not be requiring our services in this instance?’

Monsieur St Clair cursed under his breath. Liliane wasn’t sure exactly what he’d said, but she’d lay money on him having just bedamned them to the devil and back. He clasped his fingers under his chin and looked down at the table in contemplation for several moments before raking a hand back through his hair. His features softened and he looked back to Solange.

‘Sit down, Mademoiselle Beaumont,’ he conceded. ‘You know full well the urgency I face in conveying the information I carry to the appropriate officials. If I wasn’t dependent on your contacts and the entrée they can provide me to government circles, I would never let you get away with this behaviour. As it is, my superiors will be apprised of this anomaly.’

Solange didn’t sit down, but nodded coolly.

Monsieur St Clair picked up his ale and drained the glass. The barmaid started towards him, but he waved her away with a quick shake of his head. Turning to Liliane he studied her for several moments. ‘I plan to leave before dawn tomorrow. Do you think you’ll be ready by then?’

Good Lord, the man was imperious.

Liliane looked questioningly to Solange who was now standing beside the table. ‘She’ll be ready, Monsieur. Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have some matters to attend to.’

He stood to allow Liliane to slide across the bench and join her cousin. ‘Very good, I’ll meet you at your cottage before sunrise. Have a small valise packed, and be prepared to spend long hours on the road.’ With an abrupt nod he bid them farewell.

***

Liliane walked into the parlour at the front of Solange’s cottage and tossed her cloak and gloves across the back of a chair before dropping down onto the chintz-covered settee. She let her gaze roam around the room—the parlour was spotless and comfortable, even though it was sparsely furnished. Her eyes rested on the faded square above the fireplace where a painting must have once hung. There were similar empty spaces in the dining room and the bedrooms. Surely Solange hadn’t sold them just to get by? After all, there was a well-tended vegetable garden and a chicken coop outside the back door. Liliane frowned. She and Solange had certainly had very different upbringings, but what on earth had compelled Solange to sell the few reminders she had of the life