You only love once, p.1
You Only Love Once, page 1
You Only Love Once
Caroline Linden
To John and Nancy,
For all they have given us:
A hunger to learn,
The joy of travel,
The ability to laugh at ourselves, and with each other.
In the house by the lake, and later by the sea
we have gotten a life lesson unmatched in watching
you each grow,
as does your love for each other.
Contents
Prologue
The soldiers came late in the day, grim and unwavering.
Chapter 1
Angelique Martand was not particularly proud to be a spy.
Chapter 2
Angelique was so surprised she spoke without thinking. “Why?”
Chapter 3
Nate returned to the ship in a thoughtful mood. Angelique…
Chapter 4
Angelique lifted her teacup to her face and breathed deeply.
Chapter 5
Nate had to admit Stafford kept his word on moving…
Chapter 6
Angelique ignored Lisette’s raised eyebrows and went back to work,…
Chapter 7
The house was settled by mid-morning the day after next.
Chapter 8
No answer had occurred to him when they went out…
Chapter 9
Nate had to admit, whatever resources she called upon, Angelique…
Chapter 10
The next night Angelique made plans to return to Vauxhall…
Chapter 11
The bad thing about being agreeable was that it sometimes…
Chapter 12
Nate said little on the carriage ride home. Angelique could…
Chapter 13
He left her room in the gray hour before dawn…
Chapter 14
It was as dark and silent as a tomb inside…
Chapter 15
In the bedroom she closed the door behind him, then…
Chapter 16
It was raining when she woke. The steady patter against…
Chapter 17
Nate spent the whole of that day regretting pushing her…
Chapter 18
When they reached the house in Varden Street, Angelique silently…
Chapter 19
They elected a bold strike instead of stealth. The next…
Chapter 20
Angelique climbed the stairs to the attic room as quietly…
Chapter 21
Why would Lord Selwyn want you dead?” Nate got right…
Chapter 22
She followed Nate down the stairs and into his bedchamber.
Chapter 23
Nate was not at all certain he liked having to…
Chapter 24
Jacob Dixon didn’t take it well that they would be…
Chapter 25
When Nate returned hours later, Angelique almost wilted in relief.
Chapter 26
I an sized up Jacob Dixon with a long glance.
Chapter 27
She rose at dawn. Nate stirred and rolled over as…
Chapter 28
The Earl Selwyn was a tall man, dark in hair…
Chapter 29
Nate strode down the street, his heart thundering. He clenched…
Chapter 30
So this is Scotland.”
About the Author
Other Books by Caroline Linden
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
Outside Paris, 1793
The soldiers came late in the day, grim and unwavering. Everyone had expected them, but their appearance, led by a cold-eyed Revolutionary who had once been a neighbor, was still shocking. The master of the house, the Comte d’Orvelon, went out to meet them while his wife frantically made the final arrangements.
“Quickly,” the comtesse whispered. Melanie, her trusted maid, was rubbing her hands in the ashes of last night’s fire. Soot already smudged her face beneath the turban of the Revolutionists, but now Melanie crouched beside a basket and brushed dirt onto the perfect ivory cheeks of the baby who sat within, trying to pull her tiny foot into her mouth and ignoring Melanie’s efforts to dirty her.
“My darling,” the comtesse said on a choked sob as she watched. “My baby…”
“I will guard her with my life,” Melanie promised, dusting off her hands on the plain linen apron she wore. No longer dressed in the comtesse’s cast-off silks, she wore a commoner’s dress, with dirt under her nails and the sash of the Revolution knotted across her chest. She looked like a common peasant—as she must, if this was to work. “No, Madame!” she cried softly as the comtesse reached for her infant daughter. “You mustn’t!”
But her mistress lifted the child, smearing dirt and ashes on her own face and dress. “I will not see her again for a long time,” she murmured, holding the child’s cheek to hers and stroking the baby-fine hair. “Perhaps never. Let me hold her just a moment…”
Melanie glanced at the kitchen door in a panic. Soldiers hadn’t made it into the garden yet, but they would. Jacques, the coachman, lurked just outside the door. He caught her eye and made an urgent gesture; they must hurry. She nodded to him and turned back to her mistress, but bit her lip nervously. It wasn’t in her to defy her lady, so fair and so generous and now in such danger. The baby giggled and grabbed at her mother’s hair, and a tear slid down the comtesse’s cheek. Melanie said nothing.
“Marie.” The comte had come into the deserted kitchen. He had aged ten years in the last two months, since he had been accused as an enemy of the Republic. White streaked his dark hair, and his skin had taken on a gray pallor like that of a shut-in. Once so urbane and handsome, now he was disheveled and worn. The Revolution had not been gentle. “Marie, they have come. I have told them we will go willingly, to allow more time—” He caught sight of Melanie and inhaled sharply. With three long steps he crossed the kitchen. “Why are you still here?” he hissed. “You should have been gone by now!”
“Oui, Monsieur,” she murmured, barely remembering not to curtsey to her master. “We are going.”
His eyes darted anxiously around, snagging for a moment on Jacques, who again made a gesture to hurry. “Marie, they must go,” he said in despair. “You must send them now, or the chance will be lost.”
The comtesse sniffled, and dragged her sleeve across her eyes. The part of Melanie that had served her loyally and efficiently cringed at the sight, but she said nothing and put out her arms for the child.
The mother bowed her head over the baby’s, whispering something into the tiny ear. Melanie looked away, only to catch sight of the anguish that contorted the comte’s face for just a moment. Without a word he laid his hand on his daughter’s dusky curls. Two fingers bore the pale stripes of rings that had been worn for years, and were now discarded. Confiscated. Stolen, she thought bitterly. For a moment the parents huddled together over their only child, saying good-bye to her even as the Committee’s soldiers waited outside to take them to prison. Fierce hatred burned in Melanie’s heart, banishing her tears as she took the little girl into her own arms.
“Here.” Madame pressed a small linen bag into her hand with a soft clink. It contained a king’s ransom in precious stones, carefully pried from their settings. “Use them carefully, Melanie. They must take you all the way to London. Do you remember the name?”
“Oui, Madame.”
“Say it!” Madame had made her memorize everything, refusing to commit a single word to paper.
“Lady Simone Carlisle, Grosvenor Square, London,” Melanie whispered in a rush. Jacques stuck his head through the door and said her name. “We will wait there for word from you.”
“God willing,” Lady d’Orvelon murmured. They all knew there was a strong chance word would never come from her or her husband. He had been accused of treason, and judges were sentencing traitors left and right to the guillotine. The comte had tried to send his wife away, but her pregnancy and childbirth had been hard; she had not recovered enough to travel, and now it was too late. They still clung to hope; the comte had renounced his title, ceded most of his lands, wore the Revolutionary cockade. That might sway the judges, but the comte had known from the moment he and his wife were accused that they might die.
But their child…The girl cooed and tugged at Melanie’s sash, and she held the baby tighter. Jacques had promised to get them safely to the coast, no more. He had his own family to protect. Madame and the comte were trusting her to spirit their only child to safety, to England, to Madame’s cousin Lady Car lisle. If God were just, the parents and child would be soon reunited, but if not…“Madame,” she tried to say, but her voice broke.
“God go with you,” murmured the comte.
The comtesse shook herself. “Go,” she said quietly. “Go with Jacques. We will do all we can to keep them from following.” With visible effort she straightened her shoulders and placed her hand on her husband’s arm. “Tell her we love her.”
“Oui, Madame, every day,” Melanie whispered as Jacques, out of patience at last, strode across the kitchen and pulled her by the arm toward the door. Melanie caught one last glimpse of her mistress watching them go, head held regally high despite the tears on her cheeks, before they were in the garden, darting along the row of overgrown hemlocks toward the stables where Jacques had left the pack of supplies they would need for the long walk to the coast.
The lit tle girl struggled in her arms, jabbering in excitement. She wanted to get down and toddle along the path, as she had just learned how to do. Melanie held her closer and murmured lullabies in her ear as Jacques swung the provisions onto his shoulder. The stables were deserted, as was the house. Most of the servants had long since run off, and Melanie’s greatest fear was that one of them would be with the soldiers, to see them and identify her and Jacques as loyal servants and the child as Madame’s. Melanie didn’t know what those cruel Revolutionaries would do to a baby, but she didn’t trust them any more than Madame did. Lying, stealing, murdering opportunists, that’s all they were. Already Madame’s sister and her husband had been sent to the guillotine, and several relatives of Monsieur as well. Melanie said a desperate prayer in her mind that Madame would be spared, for the sake of her daughter if nothing else.
They hurried through the gardens, once elegant and now neglected and shabby, past the statuary and the stagnant ponds, past the little grave that had been dug to give proof to the lie that Madame’s baby had died. Jacques urged her on. “We should have gone hours ago,” he told her. “Do not look back.”
Melanie didn’t. If by some chance she should catch sight of her mistress being led away, she might cry out and startle the baby. The child was already fussy, kicking her legs and screwing up her little face to cry. Melanie shifted the baby’s weight in her arms and pressed her cheek to the silky mop of curls. She was not a nursemaid, and hadn’t much experience with children. If Madame’s other babies had survived, perhaps they would have lived distantly in the nursery as proper sons and daughters of a man like Monsieur le Comte. But after so many miscarriages and stillbirths, Madame had kept this beloved child with her, almost every hour of the day. Melanie had grown accustomed to the baby crawling around the floor as she tended Madame. Now it was a blessing, because it made the little girl familiar enough to go quietly with her. Perhaps she wouldn’t even have to give the baby laudanum to make her quiet.
At the top of the hill, though, she couldn’t help herself. Orvelon had been her home since she was a small child, where she had followed in her mother’s footsteps as a maid in the chateau. From this distance it was still beautiful, the pale stone gleaming in the clear light of the day, but to Melanie it now looked like a mausoleum. In a way, it was. All Melanie’s notions of French superiority and decency lay entombed in that elegant mansion, which would no doubt soon belong to one of Robespierre’s friends. Monsieur le Comte was a good man, a kind master and husband, a philosopher who actually believed in many of the Revolution’s goals. The only thing he opposed was the guillotine. Madame was a beloved mistress, compassionate and generous to all, an educated woman and the very model of a proper lady. Melanie could remember a time, not so many years ago, when the comte’s kinship to the King was a source of pride. Now it made him an enemy of the state, regardless of what kind of man he was. That was not liberty, fraternity, or equality.
“I hate them,” she whispered to the tiny girl in her arms. As small as ants in the distance, the soldiers who had come to lead the comte and comtesse away milled about the chateau, their weapons gleaming dully in the sun. A thin whisper of their coarse laughter drifted across the neglected landscape. The baby’s dark eyes peered solemnly up at her, and Melanie made a silent vow. If the worst happened, and the comtesse never reached England, Melanie would devote herself to Madame’s child. She would teach Madame’s daughter everything—useful things as well as lovely, ladylike things. She would raise her to be strong and fearless and capable of defending herself. This child would never be left sitting helplessly in her home when men turned on her. “Those Revolutionary dogs,” she murmured to the child, turning away to follow Jacques. “I despise them, and you must, too.”
Chapter 1
London, 1820
Angelique Martand was not particularly proud to be a spy. It was a distasteful job, often dirty and dangerous, and at times it left such a mark on her soul that she feared the stain would never wash away. But it was also a necessary job, and someone must do it, for the good of the entire country. The fact that Angelique was exceptionally good at it merely made for a convenient—and enriching—coincidence.
Still, the envelope on her breakfast tray that fine late summer morning was not particularly welcome. She knew what it meant, that plain envelope addressed in a nondescript hand. Her employer, John Stafford, chief clerk of Bow Street Magistrates Court and Home Office spymaster, had a new assignment for her. That didn’t bother her. What bothered her was the prospect of refusing it.
She considered ignoring it, pretending the post had gone astray and she had never received it. She explored this idea while she breakfasted, letting the envelope lie where the maid had left it on the tray. She did answer these summonses of her own volition, after all, and no one could make her answer this one. The man who had sent it would never dare approach her more directly than this, and if she did not respond, he would have to find someone else. Someone who did not mind being lied to and sent off dangerously ignorant of the true import of her assignment. Someone who did not mind risking her life to conceal a petty bureaucrat’s thieving ways, or the disgrace of a well-respected lord plotting to kill the King, or the embarrassment of a high-ranking army officer at the hands of a blackmailer. Someone, in short, who didn’t mind being used by those in power to protect themselves.
Still…
Angelique pursed her lips and let her eyes wander about her bedchamber. It was a lovely room in a lovely house, if she did say so herself, simple but elegant, and it was all hers—thanks to Stafford. Whatever offenses he had done her, the man paid her very well. If only she hadn’t caught him lying to her. If only she hadn’t been unpleasantly surprised and unsettled by it. Cursing silently, she opened the envelope and read the single line inside: Half past eleven, this morning.
She flung off the coverlet and got out of bed. “Lisette,” she called. “The green striped walking dress today.”
Her maid bustled into the room a moment later, the green dress over her arm. “Oui, Madame. Shall I send for a carriage?”
Angelique walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. The fresh morning breeze blew her nightdress flat against her belly, and she raised her arms over her head, savoring the feel of the fine lawn against her skin. She hadn’t worked for over two months, and had become used to lazy days spent on pursuits of her own whim. That must be part of the reason she was so reluctant to go into the city and see Stafford. “I suppose,” she said, answering Lisette’s query.
“You are not anxious to see him?” Lisette clucked under her breath and answered her own question. “Of course not. Who would be pleased to wait on the devil?”
Angelique smiled. “Pleased? No. Satisfied?” She paused. “Perhaps.”
The maid raised her brows but said nothing. Lisette was more than a mere maid; unlike the other servants, she knew precisely what her mistress was. She even accompanied Angelique on many assignments, helping with disguises, cooking when necessary, binding wounds, and even spying a bit herself among other servants. She was invaluable, both as a lady’s maid and as a spy’s servant.
Angelique washed, then sat before the dressing table. Lisette picked up the brush and began pulling it through her hair. Angelique gazed into the mirror and watched the maid arrange her long dark hair into a fashionable twist. She smiled wryly at the dark humor of dressing like a lady when she was anything but; why, Stafford might be planning to send her out posing as a whore this time. Then she stopped smiling, and leaned closer to the mirror, ignoring Lisette’s exclamation as a thick lock of hair fell out of place. Gently she touched the skin at the corners of her eyes and between her brows. The faint lines there didn’t go away, and when she frowned, they grew deeper and more pronounced.
