She sat on the small stool before the fortepiano. Rubbing her hands together, then flexing her fingers, she readied herself to play.
Her regal golden hair curling about her cheeks and shoulders, she fixed a gaze on him in an expression he wished to remember to his dying breath. “For you, my darling. One skill I have to give. One joy I have to offer.”
She set her fingers to the long black keys and began a simple tune, a child’s nursery tune he recalled from his own days in his own nursery with his nanny singing the song. Finishing, Inès took a breath and composed herself.
Then she began a charming piece he loved. His mother, too. His sisters.
Who did not like Beethoven?
Evan closed his eyes, afloat in the melody his wife created.My God.His wife was a talented pianist, a woman of precision and training, experience and dedication. She was a mistress of the complex sonata, a woman who made the piano her instrument of delight.
He sat forward and stared at her. In profile, she was a woman in wild deshabille, her hair untamed, her body bare beneath a froth of simple cloth. A lady well loved. Satisfied. Rendering a gift to him he had no idea she could grant him.
His mouth fell open. She was perfection…and she was the lady whom he had seen and not forgotten for months, for more than a year, actually.
His wife was the lady of Boulogne.
He clamped shut his eyes, cleared his brain. Thought. Recalled. Oh, yes. It was true. He opened his eyes.
She was the pianist whom others claimed was the mistress of the French Vice Admiral Jean Rossard.
But no. No! She was not. Not that man’s mistress. Not officially. Not physically. He knew she wasn’t. He had seen the proof upon his person and hers and their bedsheets.
She played on.
He sat back, stunned, open mouthed, confused, and unable to make any sense of what he now knew.
His wife had served Scarlett Hawthorne well. Once—for Gus or Amber—perhaps for others, she’d been a runner. Once she’d planned events. Helped others. But then she was placed or sent to or somehow arrived in Boulogne. She became friends with those in the French Admiralty. So friendly that many knew her only as Rossard’s mistress.
Why had she done that? What service had she performed for Scarlett?For all of us?How had she accomplished it? Was she safe from French agents here?
No! How could she be?Giselle had had five thousand Louis in ransom placed on her head by Vaillancourt. Would his sweet wife have the same?
He went stiff with his fear. Did the French here know who she was? What she had done?
He did not know. He might not ever learn. He could not ask her because she would have to breach her own code of conduct. But he could prevent her from harm. He—like Carlisle protecting Giselle—would hire his own guards. They would be experienced and discreet.
She was in Britain. Brought here by Scarlett. One who came here to avoid capture. One who was once a valued agent, sending information valuable to British success to her own runners and her own control agent.
Now she was here. His wife. His beloved wife. His own. To have and to hold. To cherish and to show her that life was worth living. That she could have more than she ever thought.
That her work—her good and faithful work—was done.
She ended the piece, spun on her stool, and cocked her head at him. “You enjoyed it,” she whispered. “I am so happy. I have so little to give you, my darling, and I—”
He shot from his chair and went to his knees before her. “You give me the only thing I want in this world. You give me you. All of you.”
She threaded her fingers into his hair. “As you give your all to me and make me whole.”
May it please God I can ensure you will stay here, healthy and happy.
#
December 5, 1805
Richmond upon Thames, England
Her horse was a beautiful roan mare and Evan’s a black stallion of sleek proportions. Their ride along a subsidiary creek of the Thames was their first. It being the sixth day of their honeymoon—and with no snowfall to deter them—Evan had finally agreed to let Durham’s grooms saddle two horses so they could go riding.
