Page 118 of While You Were Spying

“Then how—”

“When I found them together, I lost control. I did want to kill Leigh, but the pistol was his. I can’t blame him for drawing it. I was intent on murder. We struggled, and the gun went off. He shot himself in the leg.”

Francesca’s jaw dropped. “Why haven’t you ever said anything about this before? Do you know what everyone says?” She put her hand on the lapel of his coat, but he didn’t turn to her.

“I know, and I don’t care.” He flexed his fingers, easing the strain. “I might have corrected the misconceptions if I’d been here when the rumors began, but I left for France that night. I wanted away from London, away from Victoria. I went to my family in France, my older sister, Emily, and her husband.” He paused. “Only the year was 1792, and I ran right into the Revolution.”

Her hand tightened on his coat. “Oh my God.”

“I was too late to save them. I arrived in time to discover they’d been taken to prison—La Force. I did all I could to free them. I bribed the inspector, the warden, the guards. I acquired false papers, arranged passage across the Channel. Two weeks later, I stood in the Place de la Revolution and watched the crowds cheer as Madam Guillotine did her work.”

“Ethan.” Her voice was filled with an anguish that mirrored the pain he still felt. She moved closer to him, and he almost allowed himself to savor the comfort she offered. Almost.

But nothing could extinguish the memory or assuage the guilt. Nothing but his current work for the Foreign Office.

“The cheers were deafening.” He made himself go on, hardening his heart. “First Emily’s husband, Luc, the Comte du Aubain. A good man who had never known any other way of life. He was an intellectual. Quiet. Loved to read.”

Francesca took his hand, but he didn’t dare turn from the view of the park.

“Emily was my older sister and much like you. She was kind, compassionate, loved life. They executed her next. I was glad of that. At least she didn’t see the murder of her daughter.”

Francesca’s hand gripped his almost painfully. “They had a daughter?”

“Renée. She was two. The crowds cheered loudest when Renée’s white-blond head poked through Saint Guillotine’s window to Hell.”

For years he’d tried to shut the image out of his mind—the glint of the silver blade in the sun, the drops of crimson falling onto the flaxen hair of his niece and running down her neck as she gazed, terrified but silent, into the jeering crowds. And then she was gone. His beautiful, brave niece. Little Renée, whom he’d held in his arms when she’d been barely larger than his hand. And he’d done nothing to stop it.

“I didn’t stop it,” he said. “I let it happen.”

“What could you have done?”

He shook his head. It was a question he’d asked himself dozens of times over a dozen glasses of brandy or sherry and finally gin. Over the bodies of a dozen nameless women he thought would staunch the pain, but only left him feeling empty. “Anything but stand there and allow it to happen.”

“Is that why you joined the Foreign Office? To avenge the death of your family?”

He glanced at her. Did she always see the good in him? Would she always? “That was part of it,” he answered. “But truthfully, it’s an escape from Society, the endless gossip and speculation.”

She began to say something else, but he put his finger over her lips, leaned down, and kissed her gently. “Don’t make me into something I’m not, Francesca. I’m not a hero.” He arched a brow. “I’m bad, remember?”

She smiled.

“And my depravity will surely worsen now.” He glanced at the clock on the mantel, checking the time.

She laughed. “Why is that?”

“Because now that I’m to be an old married man, I suppose I’ll have to retire. Nothing to do but practice my wicked ways.”

She didn’t return his grin. “I haven’t agreed this wedding yet.”

“But you will.”

She let out a puff of air. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

He gave her a cocky grin. “No, just sure of you.” He kissed her lightly again, resisting the urge to linger. “Your father’s waiting for me, and I don’t know how long it will take to get the license. I may not see you again until tomorrow.” He moved toward the door.

“Ethan.” Something about her voice made him pause. “You never answered me. Why?”

He debated giving her a flippant answer. After all, he had no real fear that she wouldn’t acquiesce to the wedding tomorrow. He didn’t need to tell her the truth.

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