Velvet

Chapter 6

Jake sat on the bottom step of the stone flight leading up to the front door of Burley Manor. He was scratching with a stick in the gravel at his feet. A square box of a house with rectangular windows appeared beneath the point of the stick as he frowned over his artwork.

The mid-morning sun highlighted the almost white streaks in his blond head and his lower lip was caught between his teeth. He was a slight child who had not yet lost the round face and dimpled hands of babyhood.

At the sound of carriage wheels on the driveway, he looked up. His father's chaise bowled around the corner onto the gravel sweep before the house. Jake dropped the stick and slowly stood up, wiping his hands on the seat of his nankeen trousers. A wary look appeared in the round brown eyes, but he remained where he was, standing with his hands behind his back as the carriage came to a halt and the door swung open.

He watched as his father kicked free the footstep and jumped lightly to the ground. Then he held out a hand and to Jake's surprise a woman stepped out beside him.

His father often had visitors although Jake wasnever presented to them. They usually arrived at night and left at night, remaining closeted in the library with his father throughout their visit. He only ever met with his godfather, Miles Bennet. And he didn't come very often. Jake never remembered a lady arriving at Burley Manor before.

This one stood smiling in the sunshine, looking up at the graceful weathered facade of the Queen Anne house. She was hatless and her hair was pinned somewhat carelessly in a knot at the nape of her neck.

Then Nathaniel saw his son and tiny frown lines appeared on his brow, his mouth stiffening in the way that Jake knew so well. The child felt his stomach tighten. He always hoped for something different, although he didn't know how to put such a wish into words, but his father's response to him never changed.

"Jake." Nathaniel stepped toward the child, extending his hand in greeting. Solemnly, the little boy shook it. "Why aren't you at your lessons?" His father released the small hand, his frown deepening.

"It's Sunday, sir. I don't have lessons on Sunday." Jake's voice was a little tentative as he wondered if that had changed and no one had told him.

Nathaniel looked down at his son, remembering the Sundays of his own boyhood. During those wonderful hours of liberty, he would have been in the stables or down by the river fishing, or climbing the big beech tree at the entrance to the park, or…

Anything but sitting in unimaginative idleness on the steps of the house.

"How do you do, Jake?" The lady came toward him, smiling. "Have you been drawing pictures in the gravel? I used to love to do that." She bent to examine the scratchings. "I always put two chimneys on my houses, one in each corner. May I?" Laughing up at him, she reached for his discarded stick and deftly added a second chimney pot while Nathaniel stood staring and Jake's eyes grew ever rounder.

He thought she had to be the most beautiful woman with her smiling dark eyes and her hair glowing in the sunlight and her white white skin. He loved Primmy, his governess, with a fierce love and he tolerated the fussing attentions of Nurse because they made him feel warm and comfortable even when they were irritating, but he didn't think of those two as women. His father's companion was unlike any lady he'd ever seen. He thought of Mrs. Bailey, the housekeeper, but she was like Primmy and Nurse, really. Mrs. Addison, the vicar's wife, was more like this lady, and yet not at all like her. Mrs. Addison was stiff with bombazine and held her nose in the air and she had a sharp chin.

"Where are your manners, Jake?" His father spoke sharply. "Make your bow to the Comtesse de Beaucaire."

Blinking, Jake complied.

"Oh, you must call me Gabby," Gabrielle said, taking his hands in a warm clasp. "All my English friends do."

"Go up to the schoolroom, Jake," Nathaniel directed. "It may be Sunday, but I'm sure you have "our collect to learn."

"Or some other improving work," Gabrielle murmured as the child turned and mounted the steps with obvious reluctance.

"It is not appropriate for him to call you Gabby," Nathaniel said in a fierce undertone. "It shows marked lack of respect."

"Stuff!" Gabrielle declared as quietly as he, watching until the child was safely out of earshot. "What's he to call me that wouldn't he a dreadful mouthful for such a babe?"

"In the first place, he's no longer a baby. And in the second, 'madame' will do very well and is far from a mouthful."

Gabrielle's nose wrinkled. "If he has my permission, I can't see why you should object. There's no disrespect in that."

"It's overly familiar." Nathaniel glared at her. "You said yourself it's what your friends call you. A six-year-old child doesn't come into that category."

"I sincerely hope he will," Gabrielle averred.

"If all your English friends call you Gabby and I do not, where does that place me?" Nathaniel switched the angle of the discussion to himself without knowing why. The issue of Jake was far from settled.

"Wherever you wish." Her eyelids drooped with a seductive indolence as she squinted against the sun, her eyebrows quirked, lips curved in mischievous invitation. "Lovers have a special position, one that transcends mere friendship."

"Transcends, perhaps," he said slowly, his eyes locked with hers. "But it can encompass it, presumably?"

"One would hope so," she replied. But not inthis case. Not with the man responsible for Guillaume's death.

The bleak thought came nowhere near her expression. The years of loving in the shadows with Guillaume had taught Gabrielle well how to conceal true feelings from a watchful world.

Now she shook her head, still smiling, and said, "Let's not quarrel about something as simple and unimportant as what Jake calls me while I'm here. If Gabby really makes you uncomfortable, then tell him to call me madame. I shan't like it, but…" She shrugged. "He's your son."

"Isuppose it isn't that important," Nathaniel, to his astonishment, heard himself saying. "You won't be seeing much of him in any case."

"Why not?"

"Because his place is in the schoolroom and the nursery. And as soon as I've found him a suitable tutor, then he'll be too occupied to hang around outside, playing silly games with sticks. Come inside now."

He cupped her elbow and ushered her up the steps to the open front door, where the housekeeper stood waiting to greet them.

Gabrielle kept her own counsel on this flat, uncompromising statement. It really wasn't her business, but Miles had not been exaggerating. Matters certainly seemed awry between Nathaniel and his small son.

Mrs. Bailey did her best to hide her shock and amazement when Lord Praed introduced his guest and announced that the countess would be paying an extended visit and should be accommodated in the Queen's Suite adjacent to his own.

Covertly, the housekeeper examined the French countess and, apart from the fact that she was hatless. could find nothing at fault in either appearance or demeanor. Lord Praed's guest was affable but composed, showing no sign of embarrassment and no lack of familiarity with a gentleman's establishment. She responded to the staff's greetings with a quiet ease. And for all the French name, she spoke the King's English without any trace of accent.

The presence of a lone female in a bachelor household could only have one construction, but Mrs. Bailey decided that any presumption of familiarity on the part of Lord Praed's staff would receive a more than frosty reception from the countess, who was undoubtedly a lady. His lordship, of course, would have the offender's guts for garters, she thought with private vulgarity.

"If your ladyship would follow me, I'll show you to your apartments." She offered a friendly but deferential smile. "Bartram will bring up your luggage."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bailey."

Gabrielle followed the housekeeper upstairs, reflecting with inner amusement that the meager belongings contained in the cloakbag would add fuel to the inevitable fire of speculation in the servants' hall. But Georgie would send on the rest of her belongings as soon as she received a message.

Nathaniel went into the library intending to look over the correspondence that had accumulated in his absence. He'd have to send for his bailiff shortly, also, and pick up the threads of the estate management again. And he'd need a report on Jake's progress from his governess. He'd have to tell Miss Primmer he wouldn't be needing her services once he'd employed a tutor. Was the boy doing any better with his riding lessons? He'd go down to the stables and talk with Milner about that as soon as he'd seen the bailiff.

"Mrs. Bailey said I'd find you here." Gabrielle's cheerful tones interrupted this reverie, and Nathaniel turned to the door, frowning.

"I beg your pardon," Gabrielle said, taken aback by the ferocity of his expression. "Should I not have come in without knocking? I didn't think it was a private room."

His whole house was private, Nathaniel thought with an irritation that he couldn't master. At least, since Helen's death it was. He wasn't used to people barging in on him unexpectedly, disturbing his thoughts. What on earth had possessed him to yield to Gabrielle de Beaucaire's outrageous impulses? He had a host of matters to deal with and couldn't possibly dance attendance on some woman who'd thrust herself unasked into his life.

"Oh, dear," Gabrielle said with instant comprehension. "You're regretting inviting me."

"I didn't invite you," he snapped. "You invited yourself."

"But you agreed." She closed the door softly behind her and came toward him. "Perhaps I should remind you why you agreed. We were rather rushed this morning. That inn was not exactly conducive to a leisurely waking, was it?"

Smiling, she touched his mouth with a fingertip. "I wish I knew what it was about you I find irresistible, Lord Praed, because you really are the most ill-tempered man. And when you frown like this, you're not even attractive. You just look hard and surly."

Nathaniel caught her wrist, his fingers circling the fragile bones, feeling the steady throb of her pulse. "You're a believer in home truths, I take it, madame."

"On occasion a person needs to hear the plain unvarnished truth," she said, only half teasing.

"Mmm. Well, I can administer it too. You're a shamelessly manipulative baggage, Gabrielle de Beaucaire, and I don't know what devil has possessed me since I met you."

She put her head on one side, observing with due consideration, "Lust, I think it's called."

Nathaniel gave in. His mouth curved beneath her caressing finger. Somehow, Gabrielle managed to circumvent his usual responses. She seemed to have no fear of his limits… indeed, seemed to want to find them. For both of them, he thought reading the message in the charcoal eyes. She was not a woman who would be satisfied with ordinary experiences. She always wanting to climb the next peak, test the waters of the next river, jump the highest fence.

A dangerous woman-trouble ran in her veins. But she was the most exciting woman he'd ever met, and he could no more resist her than he could have held back an avalanche with his fingertip.

Catching both her wrists in one hand, he clipped her hands behind her back as he jerked her hard against his body. She laughed beneath his mouth, her breath mingling with his, her teeth nipping his lower lip. The sensual sting sent the blood racing through his veins, pounding in his head, filling him with lascivious greed. Releasing her wrists, he gripped her buttocks, pressing her against his rising flesh, pushing one knee between her legs in a rough gesture of intemperate hunger.

"Dear God," he whispered, drawing a ragged breath as he raised his head but kept his hard grip on her lower body. "You make me feel like a sailor who's not seen a woman in a twelve-month!"

"And you make me feel like a whore on the waterfront," she responded with her exultant little chuckle. "All body and no mind… all desire and no thought."

There was a knock at the door. His hands fell from her as he spun away. Gabrielle turned to the bookshelves as Nathaniel bade the knocker enter.

"Oh, Lord Praed, I was wondering if you'd wish Jake to join you in the library this evening after his supper?"

Nathaniel cleared his throat and surveyed Miss Primmer with what he hoped was his customary impassive expression. "I usually do, ma'am, when I'm at home," he said indifferently.

"I beg your pardon. I wasn't sure whether… as you had a visitor…" The governess stammered to a halt, her face fiery as she struggled to avoid looking at Gabrielle, who remained with her back to the room, studiously examining the books in the shelves.

"The Comtesse de Beaucaire will not object to Jake's presence for half an hour before dinner," Nathaniel said.

"No, indeed not." Gabrielle judged it time to turn to acknowledge the arrival. "I wouldn't dream of interfering in his usual routine. Children rely on them so, don't they?" She smiled at the governess, who immediately forgot the scandalous implications of the countess's presence as retailed by the housekeeper.

"Well, yes, they do, countess," she agreed with a tentative answering smile. "And Jake finds change very unsettling."

"I think, Miss Primmer, in that case, that he should be exposed to more variety in his life," Nathaniel observed. "He needs to learn to adapt more readily. When he goes to school-"

"Yes, of course, my lord. But he is still very young." Miss Primmer glanced at Gabrielle as if hoping for an ally. She was a woman of middle years, thin and faded with timid pale eyes and the demeanor of one who has long been accustomed to snubs and for whom tiny mortifications were a way of life.

No match for her employer, Gabrielle summed up readily, recognizing the signs of Nathaniel's rising impatience. Miss Primmer seemed to also, and began to back toward the door.

"I beg your pardon for disturbing you, sir. I'll bring Jake to the library at half past five."

"There's no need for you to accompany him," Nathaniel said in bored tones. "He's quite capable of finding his own way to the library."

Miss Primmer stood in agonized indecision, clearly wanting to say something but unable to summon up the courage.

"Is there something else, ma'am?" Nathaniel demanded.

"No, my lord." The governess backed out of the room, closing the door softly.

"The sooner she goes, the better," Nathaniel observed. "She seems to think Jake will shrivel up if she's not there to protect him."

"Protect him from what?"

"God knows. Ghoulies and ghosties and long leggety beasties, and things that go bump in the night," Nathaniel said, shrugging. "The child s a milksop. He'll be eaten alive at Harrow if he doesn't toughen up."

"But he won't be going to school for a few years," Gabrielle pointed out.

"Two years isn't that long."

"No," she agreed. It took a minute of stern reflection to remind herself that she had neither rights nor interest in Nathaniel Praed's personal concerns. But something had most effectively doused the surging passion of a few minutes earlier.

"Would you like to see around the house?" Nathaniel asked abruptly.

"I'd love to, if you can spare the time," she said politely.

"I have an hour before I must meet with the bailiff." He held the door for her. "You'll be able to amuse yourself, I imagine?"

"Very easily." She stepped past him into the hall. "I wish to send for the rest of my clothes, so must write to Georgie."

"If you bring me the letter when it's written, I'll frank it for you," he offered with hostly courtesy.

"You're too kind, Lord Praed," Gabrielle murmured, offering a sweet mocking smile and then stopped on the stair, her eye caught by the painting hanging at eye level across the hall from her.

"What a beautiful woman." The portrait was of a young woman whose liquid-brown eyes, so full of sweetness and emotion, gazed out of the canvas with a vibrancy that seemed to bring the painting to life. Her fair hair curled in sunny ringlets on smooth bare white shoulders, and she held one hand to her throat in a gesture that was as appealing as her gaze.

"It's by Henry Raeburn," Nathaniel said shortly. "He painted it in Scotland. I have a house there." He put a hand on her waist, urging her up the stairs.

"It's Helen, of course," Gabrielle said, ignoring the encouraging hand. "Jake has her eyes and her hair."

"That's hardly unusual." There was an edge to his voice now, and the pressure on her waist increased. "Let's get on. I don't have very long."

Deciding she would spend some quiet private time at her leisure with the portrait, Gabrielle acceded and they continued up the stairs to the Long Gallery, where hung portraits of earlier Lord Praeds and their wives and children.

Gabrielle walked the length of the room, examining each picture. The men struck her as a forbidding lot, all with the same lean, ascetic features as the present incumbent. She stopped before the image of Gilbert, sixth Lord Praed.

"He doesn't look much fun," she observed. "I wouldn't want to be answerable to him. He looks like a firm proponent of the spare-the-rod-and-spoil-the-child principle."

"He was," Nathaniel agreed. "He had a powerful right arm and didn't scruple to use it… not that it did me any harm," he added.

Gabrielle glanced at him, wondering how true that was. Harsh parents could produce harsh parents.

"Were you afraid of him?"

Nathaniel laughed shortly. "Yes, terrified."

"And that didn't do you any harm?"

"A little healthy fear builds character," he responded, shrugging.

But what kind of character does it build? Gabrielle kept the question to herself, reminding herself yet again that she wasn't interested in understanding the twists and turns of the spymaster's personality.

"Do your agents tell you that Napoleon has demanded that Talleyrand join him in Warsaw?" she inquired casually.

"Yes." It was a curt affirmative.

"Do they also tell you that Talleyrand intends to try to persuade Napoleon to support the Polish patriots?" She paused at another portrait, apparently giving it her undivided attention.

Nathaniel had not heard this. The inner workings of the mind of Napoleon's Minister for Foreign Affairs were as much a closed book to him as to everyone. However, it didn't suit him to admit that at this point. Gabrielle, although she didn't know it, was on trial.

"So what?" he said dismissively.

"Well, I should have thought it of some interest. Talleyrand's convinced Napoleon is simply interested in milking Poland of her wealth and her military resources while leading them on to believe he'll do something concrete for their independence."

"I should have thought that was obvious to anyone watching the way Napoleon conducts himself."

Gabrielle frowned at this snub. She had various little nuggets of information provided by Talleyrand to feed Nathaniel in order to gain his confidence, but if he was as indifferent to them as he appeared, she would have her work cut out for her.

"And I suppose it's also obvious why Talleyrand, unlike his emperor, is in favor of a strong, independent Poland?" She was still examining the portrait of Nathaniel's mother-a haughty-looking woman who seemed a perfect match for the intimidating Gilbert.

Nathaniel looked at her averted back. She held herself very straight, he noticed, her shoulders back, her head high. Her stance was as uncompromising as the rest of her, he reflected. "I can guess," he said. "Tell me your version."

She turned, laughing. "That's an underhand trick, sir. But I'm not about to fall for it. I have every intention of winning our wager."

He raised a skeptical eyebrow and said derisively, "Only fools are overconfident."

Gabrielle lowered her eyelids, hiding the burning anger in her eyes. They would soon see which of them was the fool.

She shrugged easily. "We'll see." Deliberately she dropped the topic of Talleyrand and Poland, walking over to the long windows looking out across the rolling lawns toward a river running between smooth banks. "What's the river?"

"The Beaulieu River. It flows into the Solent. If you like to sail, there's a boathouse." He came up behind her, lightly encircling her neck with his hands, massaging the soft skin beneath her chin with his fingers. He didn't seem to be able to keep his hands off her. The fragrance of her skin and hair seemed to seep into his pores and he dropped his head, burying his nose and mouth in her hair.

"I don't know how to sail." She bent her head beneath the pressure of his, her voice languorous as she slipped into the trance of arousal.

"I didn't think there was anything you didn't know how to do." His thumbs moved to trace the shape of her ears, his palms flattening against the curve of her cheeks.

"You don't know very much about me," she murmured, rubbing her face against his palms like a cat responding to a caress. How could he do this to her, reduce her to molten lava with the slightest touch? The depths of her bitterness toward him, the power of her need for revenge, were feathers in a gale compared to this physical reaction.

Fleetingly she saw Guillaume's face, the passionate black eyes, the wide, humorous mouth, the pointed chin. Fleetingly her skin remembered the feel of his hands on her body-the assured touch of a lover who knew the deepest recesses of her soul.

Sorrow washed through her as vivid, fresh, and piercing now as in the very early days of her loss. And she was breathless with the pain.

Nathaniel felt the change in her, felt her pain in his own body, transmitted through the warm, living skin beneath his fingers.

"What is it?" he whispered into her hair. "You're hurting, I can feel it."

"Just a memory," she said with an effort, moving away from his hands with a little shudder of revulsion that she couldn't suppress. She couldn't share this pain with this man. "I think that concludes the tour, don't you?"

He stood frowning at her, feeling that shudder of rejection, hearing the brusque dismissal. Where had it come from? Was she hiding something?

"Yes, I must go," he said. "I sent for my bailiff an hour ago. I'll leave you to amuse yourself. If you wish to write your letter in the library, you'll find paper and pen and ink in the secretaire."

"Thank you. I'll stay up here for a little longer, though."

"As you wish." He offered a small bow in farewell and then strode from the gallery.

Gabrielle stood looking out the window until the pain had subsided and the grief was once more locked away in its corner of her soul, safe from invasion.

Then she turned and went briskly downstairs, pausing for a few minutes to examine Helen Praed's portrait more closely. Miles had said Nathaniel had adored her. It wasn't hard to see why-the goodness and sweetness seemed to shine out of her eyes. She was all soft curves, no harsh abrasions, none of the angles and sharpnesses that Gabrielle knew in herself.

Had the Nathaniel Helen had loved been very different from the man he now was? He must always have had the sternness, she thought. The forbidding side of his nature. From what she'd seen of his ancestors, it seemed to be a trait of the Praeds. He was an impatient man. But perhaps he had held back that part of himself around Helen.

He wouldn't need to be so careful with Gabrielle. She was as hard as he was-hardened, she amended. Hardened in the fire of revolution, of terror, of the loss of so many she loved. But it was a superficial toughness. Guillaume had known that. Nathaniel Praed would never discover it. He would never get close enough to do so.

In the library she began a methodical search of the room, looking for some indication of where the spymaster might keep his papers and his secrets. There was no point passing up any opportunity for gleaning information.

Her initial search turned up nothing promising beyond a locked drawer in the desk. But it was a shallow drawer and Gabrielle couldn't see how it could contain much more than a sheet or two of paper. Sliding the blade of a paper knife between the top of the drawer and the desk, she felt for the hinge of the lock with deft expertise.

The sound of the doorknob turning sent her spinning away from the desk. The paper knife fell to the carpet, and she dropped to her knees to pick it up, breathing regularly, noticing with satisfaction that her hands were completely steady.

"Gabrielle?" It was Nathaniel's voice. "What on earth are you doing on the floor?"

"I dropped the paper knife." She stood up, casually laying the knife on the blotter, and smiled easily.

"Oh." He looked at her in clear puzzlement. "Why would you need the paper knife? I thought you were writing to your cousin."

"I am, but I couldn't find the ink. I was looking on the desk and knocked the knife off.''

She watched his expression closely, looking for a flash of suspicion or doubt, but Natianiel appeared to accept her explanation.

"The ink's in the secretaire with the paper and pen, isn't it?" He went to the mahogany secretaire and dropped the desk leaf, reaching into one of the pigeonholes. "Here it is."

"Oh, thank you. I forgot where you said I'd find everything." She hurried over to the secretaire. "I'll get on with the letter now."

"Mrs. Bailey's laid a nuncheon in the oval parlor," he said. "I came to see if you were hungry."

"Oh, yes… yes, I am. Famished." She caught up a loosened lock of hair and twisted it into the pins at the nape of her neck. "It seems ages since breakfast."

"It is," he stated. "We left the inn at six o'clock this morning, and it's now past noon."

"Then that explains it. Have you concluded your business with the bailiff?"

"For the moment." He went to one of the bookcases and pulled out several volumes. "Perhaps you'd like to ride this afternoon. I can't offer you the excitement of the hunt today, but there's some hard riding to be done in the New Forest."

"That would be lovely," she responded coolly, her eyes riveted on what had been revealed behind the books Nathaniel dropped carelessly onto a side table.

Nathaniel's long fingers were manipulating the locks of a gray metal safe. His back was to her, so she couldn't see exactly what he did, but the door swung open. She stepped closer, looking over his shoulder. There were papers and an assortment of boxes and pouches inside.

He drew out a sheaf of papers and riffled through them rapidly before replacing them and closing the door again. Then he manipulated the lock once more and there was a click. He put the books back into the shelves and turned to Gabrielle.

"Is that where you keep your secrets?" she asked directly, her voice lightly teasing. She had to make some comment; to ignore it would be most peculiar.

"That's right," he agreed with cheerful nonchalance. "The spymaster's tools of his trade. Let's go in to nuncheon."

He had to be very certain of the impregnability of his safe, Gabrielle reflected, following him out of the library. He'd made no attempt to hide its whereabouts from her, although it was clearly kept hidden from casual observers. But then, why would he assume she'd have any special interest in his secrets? Or that she was in the least untrustworthy? She'd offered her services to the English government and had convinced Simon and Lord Portland of the genuineness of the offer. The spymaster's only objection to her was her sex. So why should he see a need to hide anything but the safe's contents from her?

He didn't know, of course, that his houseguest was an expert at safe-breaking. What Guillaume hadn't taught her, Fouche's policemen had.