To Entice a Spy

By Diane Scott Lewis

Widowed Countess Eseld Trehearne seeks revenge for the brutal death of her female companion during a Paris riot. On her return to England, Eseld delves into espionage to defeat the French rebels.

Baron Robert Penhale, Eseld's childhood love, rejoins the Secret Services after his wife's death. He's determined to protect England from the revolution terrorizing France.

A ruthless French spy fights for the common man while disguised as an English aristocrat. He's intent on revenge against those who oppose him.

With the spy stalking them and Robert in fear for Eseld's life, the fate of the couple verges on disaster.

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Oct 11, 2021
• ISBN: 9781509238262

Diane Scott Lewis

Diane grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area. At nineteen, she joined the Navy. She has written and edited free-lance since high school. She married in Greece and raised two sons in Puerto Rico, California, Guam, and Virginia. She writes book reviews for the Historical Novels Review and works as an on-line historical editor. Diane served as president of the Riverside Writers, a chapter of the Virginia Writers Club, Inc, in 2007-2008. She has four published historical novels.She lives with her husband and dachshund in Clarion, PA. Check out her website at:

Book preview

"Tell Sir Francis that I can manage, if I had anything to manage. Why shouldn’t a woman be a part of ending the atrocities in France?"

I know you want to avenge Hester’s murder. And I realize you’re capable. We all want the monarchy restored, peace resumed.

Eseld’s mouth quivered, in anger or upset. But you want to treat me as less… You don’t need to shelter me.

His breath came rapidly. He was losing control. She looked up, eyes glistening, so inviting. Robert should step away; the heat that surged through him unbalanced him. He bent, his lips on hers, soft and enticing. She didn’t resist.

Praise for Diane Scott Lewis

"The author has the gift for creating characters that the reader quickly develops strong feelings for."

~N. N. Light, Vine Voice

~*~

Nicely drawn characters and accurate historical details make this a great read.

~History and Women, Beyond the Fall

~*~

A well-written story, produced by an author who knows the era. Details of espionage and intrigue keep those pages turning.

~Long and Short Reviews

To Entice a Spy

by

Diane Scott Lewis

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

To Entice a Spy

COPYRIGHT © 2021 by Diane Parkinson

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Rae Monet, Inc. Design

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2021

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-3825-5

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-3826-2

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

Dedicated to Lilly-Scout,

the new pup who fills my life with joy

Author’s Note

Robespierre’s execution and mention of the Truro Riots have been moved up, chronologically, for dramatic purposes.

Chapter One

Truro, England, 1794

Eseld Trehearne breathed slowly as she, with daughter Clorenda, entered their terraced house on Pydar Street. A place she hadn’t seen in five years. She fought a shiver. Would the house, once a haven, be full of ghosts from her past?

A new butler should have been hired. She kept her voice calm for her daughter’s sake and walked farther inside. The old butler wouldn’t greet them, as he’d been pensioned off. However, servants were not the phantoms she dreaded.

The familiar checkerboard-tiled front hall smelled musty. The turquoise trimmed cream panels looked faded; the decorated stucco ceiling, two ribbons entwined, was dingy. She glanced to the side. The furniture in the adjoining parlor was covered in white sheets as if dressed in shrouds. Regret coiled inside her.

"Oh, Maman, after the sea, the smell in here is faute. Foul. Clorenda wrinkled her small nose, her lips pinched. At fourteen, she’d matured in the midst of their frantic circumstances. We must open the windows. It’s so strange to be home…"

I know, dear. I wrote ahead with instructions; someone should be here. Eseld allowed her gaze to drift to the elegant staircase that rose in a gentle curve before them. Her beloved James would never again walk down these steps. She caressed the carved newel post and reminded herself to be thankful for the time they had together, their two beautiful children, and that she’d been left well provided for.

A stocky woman of middle years rushed toward them, straightening her mobcap. M’lady, I’m to welcome you home. I’m Mrs. Udey. I was hired by your man of business. I only arrived this morning, an’ beg your pardon the house isn’t aired out proper. She gave a quick curtsy. Your previous housekeeper, she were ill an’ not able to return to the position.

The poor, dear woman. Eseld’s shoulders sagged for an instant—so many losses. And she’d received only sporadic personal news while in France. I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Udey. It is good to be home.

As am I, Mrs. Udey—pleased to meet you. Clorenda stared about, then under a table. I thought we’d see our old dog, but of course he was given to your friend when we left. I trust he enjoys the country estate.

I’m certain he does, dear. Eseld removed her gloves and waved them. She must find her daughter a puppy. Mrs. Udey, yes, please air out the rooms immediately. She was happy to be caught up in the distracting minutiae of domestic issues. Her body ached from the coach ride from Plymouth after the rough Channel crossing.

With England at war with France, she’d had to pay extra for a covert boat ride. Her daughter handled it well and was relieved to desert a country ravaged in chaos. A place where people of their rank faced the guillotine. Eseld swallowed and tried not to touch her throat.

Girls! Mrs. Udey flapped her apron like an angry chicken as two maids hurried in. Open them windows, an’ sweep rosemary along the floors. Get to it. Should’ve been done already.

The housekeeper turned her round face once more to Eseld, eyes crinkled. Again, I’m that sorry. But the bedchambers have been made ready for you an’ Miss Clorenda, m’lady. She smiled and gestured toward the stairs. Please, go on up and get settled. I’ll bring you tea.

Thank you. Eseld started to climb the stairs, her linen skirt sweeping across her knees and shins.

Will I have a lady’s maid again? Clorenda, on her heels, tugged her gray redingote close. I think I’ll miss my rabbits more than a servant.

Eseld smiled. You do adore your animals. Yes, you should have a lady’s maid. Propriety mattered here, and an earl’s daughter should preserve a good reputation. Unlike in France, where they’d hidden their status. I hope you will be as happy here as we once were.

We must try. When will we visit Jamie, or he us?

Soon. He’ll have the summer off from his first year at Cambridge. Eseld filled with pride at her son’s accomplishments. He’d been at Eton when she left… How she missed him. A professor friend of her husband’s had taken the boy under his wing. Her heart fluttered with love and uncertainty. Jamie had wanted to stay in England at the time. He said he hated France and the French, before their excesses; but would he resent her now?

Eseld hesitated at the closed door to her bedroom. This would be the most difficult part, though she’d long since shed her widow’s weeds and risen above deep mourning. However, she’d returned to Cornwall with a precarious purpose.

Shall I go in with you? Clorenda asked, her hand on her mother’s arm.

No, I’ll be fine. Go and see if your room is to your liking. Eseld kissed her daughter’s cheek and waited until Clorenda entered her own room.

Eseld opened her door. This chamber smelled clean, a hint of lavender. The four-poster bed had lilac-colored curtains; the scarlet ones had been removed. The change gave the room a sunnier feel. The walnut clothes press and chest of drawers were scented in linseed oil. She crossed to the window.

Sweeping aside the curtains, she gazed out at the garden. The area looked unkempt, tangled with weeds. She’d have to remedy that. May was the perfect month to plant.

With a tap on the windowsill, she turned and faced the bed where she’d shared nineteen years of affection with her husband. The bed linens and counterpane were all fresh and new, in more shades of lilac and silky violet on cream satin that complemented the tied back bed curtains.

She approached, gripped the bedpost, and sighed. Had she been a total fool to rush to her stepmother in France after James’ death, instead of facing a life alone here? She’d often thought so. Especially after the trades people attacked the Bastille in Paris a few months later, July 1789. Men’s heads on pikes. The king and queen beheaded last year. And then the horrid murder of her—

I had no idea Paris was still in such turmoil. Eseld jerked off her coat and threw it on the bed. She had arrangements to make to fulfill the promise she’d made, a mission she was determined to complete. She’d prove her mettle to herself and that dandy of a duc in the village of Versailles. A man that sneered at a woman being sent on such an assignment. Was he humoring her?

Eseld sat slowly on the bed, fingers twisted together. She might be embarking on a path of revenge that could lead to disaster.

****

Robert Penhale straightened his cravat, again. His valet, Grigg, smirked behind him, his narrow face reflected in the looking glass.

I know you think you can do a better job. Robert grimaced and silently agreed. I dislike these soirees, so my effort may be lacking.

Them crushes can be a bore, I’m sure. Grigg moved closer, bushy eyebrows lowered.

Duty calls me to go to the illustrious Lady Boscawen’s Spring ball, as you’re aware. Robert cocked his head and released the material. The Boscawens owned most of Truro; they were wealthy landowners and MPs for Cornwall.

I heard Countess Trehearne’s returned from that froggie country, sir. Grigg reached over and untied the hopeless knot in the cravat. She might be there.

Robert’s interest was piqued, though he’d heard the same. Eseld… His youthful sweetheart. She was widowed five years past, but would it matter? They’d been through so much in their diverging lives. And he was not in the market for a woman.

A beauty, I remember, Grigg said when he finished.

Indeed. One with a mind of her own. We were so young. It’s no wonder our parents discouraged our attachment. Then when Robert was at Oxford, her father wanted her to marry Earl Trehearne, a decent sort. The earl was quite smitten with her. Eseld had returned Trehearne’s affection. Robert had seen their devotion in Truro’s small society. He’d had to bury his infatuation.

Grigg brushed the shoulders of the frock coat, while Robert straightened the lapels of a plain black, single-breasted garment with large buttons. He frowned at his dour persona.

His main reason for attending the ball was to meet with his superior, Sir Francis Teague. Matters in France had turned grisly since last year, the slaughter of both aristocrats and commoners.

England’s secret services had burgeoned in the wake of such turmoil, becoming a more permanent and organized system, controlled by the government—a system he could make a difference in.

Robert hadn’t been active in the spying business lately. His wife’s lingering illness had absorbed his time. A marriage of convenience, they’d gotten on quite well, but love never developed. Lucy had lost three children in six years, all at birth. Then he’d stopped trying. She was so frail, he didn’t wish for her to suffer anymore.

His heart dipped into regret. She was a nice, shy girl who’d brought two mines into his father’s coffers. He missed her sweet disposition and comforting manner. If only they’d been able to have a child—and she hadn’t got sick.

Lucy and Eseld had been friendly, though Robert was only a baron. Eseld never had airs about her elevated position. He fought a smile. It would be good to see her again. Leaving volatile France was a wise decision on her part.

Grigg handed him his cocked hat. Enjoy yourself, sir.

Robert fitted the hat over his dark brown hair. He tossed his valet a few shillings. You go on and find a loud tavern for the evening.

Aye, sir. Grigg grinned and pocketed the coins.

And I promise not to enjoy a moment at the Assembly Rooms. Robert waited for Grigg to drape his cape across his shoulders. It was strictly business, no matter how many fawning debutants and their avaricious mothers might be in attendance, anxious for a widower with money and position.

****

Pierre, though he didn’t go by that name in public, bowed over the hand of Lady Boscawen in the Truro Assembly Rooms. His English perfect, no one suspected he was French, which at this time could be hazardous. Unless you were one of those entitled, often titled and penniless, émigrés who’d swarmed into England once the revolution had started, it was a terrible risk.

Bewigged popinjays they were, living off English charity, believing they would soon return and continue their idle lives in France. Their oppressive taxes had ruined those beneath them.

Pierre smiled grimly to himself. The beheadings that continued in Paris should make them quake in their high-heeled shoes.

Oh, my dear, you are quite the raconteur. Lady Boscawen, a cow of a woman with a double chin, scrutinized him. Had she ever been pretty? He doubted it.

You are too kind, lovely lady. He squeezed her plump, gloved hand. I do hope you will honor me with a waltz later.

The waltz, how scandalous. I won’t have it performed; men and women in too close contact. She waved her fan, stirring the fake curls on her low forehead. Her rouged lips pouted. "It is not done here in England."

Then it is my loss. In Austria and other places I’ve traveled, the waltz is more in favor. Pierre sighed, his hand over his heart. To ingratiate himself with the local society was paramount to his mission. He eyed the older woman before him in her silver silk dress over hoops, giving her width she didn’t need. A country dance, perhaps?

These Englishwomen flaunted themselves in expensive frippery, much like the decadent aristos of the French court. Merde, thanks to the fervor of Lady Liberty, his faction, and others, had destroyed that monstrosity. The former king and queen were now sans their heads.

Oh, sir, I am flattered, but that sort of dance has become, shall I say, too lively for me. She batted her lashes, but it seemed forced, as if she took his measure. The ridiculous pink furbelow around her generous waist swayed as she studied him. Are you in town in search of a bride?

Perhaps, if I find the right woman. His handsome visage had always served him well. His masquerade as a prominent man of means had been so far successful. He’d charm these foolish females, bed a few, and ferret out any nemeses. I’m devastated you’re not free to wed, my lady.

Oh, palaver. You would not be able to handle me. She smiled slyly, her fan fluttering. Reminds me, I must find my wandering husband.

Pierre bowed and moved away from her. He hid a grimace at being stuck in this backwater, instead of perusing the more interesting intrigues of London.

He snatched a glass of Canary from a tray, caught himself, and gave an indulgent nod to the servant. No need to draw negative attention by being rude. He sipped the sweet wine. His father had been a winemaker, one who’d managed to send Pierre to respected schools where he’d excelled in both deportment, and deception.

But the increased taxes that allowed the Austrian Whore, Marie Antionette, to flaunt her wealth had kept his family from prospering no matter their hard work. His cherished parents were worn out with little to show for it.

The angry rumbling that started in ’88 had exploded in ’89. That oppressive prison torn down, the warden’s head on a pike. The people had had enough!

Pierre smiled. He would see to it that England’s sympathy for the royals and aristocrats—and the war they declared after Louise XVI went to the guillotine—would never smother the rights of the common man.

His jaw rigid, he gazed about the room at the chattering people. Music played, skirts twirled in a rainbow of pastels, stocking-clad ankles danced amid the fragrance of perfume and sweat. Some of the women wore the high-waisted Grecian style popular in France. Others clung to the older styles.

The men sported plain though expensive clothing, which Pierre preferred, even in his guise as an aristocrat. Wigs were on their way out; however, many gentlemen still powdered their hair.

His fingers tightened on the glass. An anti-revolutionary society operated in this town, interrupting his machinations—searching to uncover him. In addition, the powerful Duc de Brodeur had operatives here in Truro. Pierre needed the particulars to obliterate them and obtain—with his partner—the funds to support the revolution.

Chapter Two

A swift knock sounded on the bedchamber door. Eseld startled out of her reverie. Clorenda entered, her pretty face bright. You should see my room. It’s decorated in a beautiful dark rose. I remember the babyish pink with flounces everywhere when I was a child… She frowned, stepping close. "Oh, Maman, you’re sad to be home?"

Eseld sat at her escritoire opening drawers, feeling lost. She’d found James’ gold pocket watch and fingered the smooth metal, surprised no one had stolen it. Yet she shouldn’t be idle. She replaced the watch, stood, and mentally shook herself.

"I’m all right, my dearest. And please, I’m just plain mama now. No French if we can avoid it." Eseld hugged her, then trailed fingers through her child’s lush, strawberry-blonde hair. Eseld’s hair was dark red, a very unfashionable color. Many women dyed their red hair brown,