Page 64 of When Dashing Met Danger

“I can’t tell you particulars.”

“Tell me something,” she said, pulling at the rope. “I’m itching with curiosity now.”

He chuckled. “It won’t impress you. Mostly I gather information about troop movements, ship building, invasion plans. I pass it through a contact to a London operative. Usually Dewhurst, although I can’t be sure. He takes it to Wentworth, and from there to the secretary or the prime minister.”

He was right. She’d hoped for something more exciting.

“I told you,” he said over her silence. “For the most part it’s dull, much like life in London. Balls, dinner parties, the theater. Once or twice in a year something of real importance crosses my path. That doesn’t mean there isn’t any danger.”

She nodded, though he couldn’t see, and continued to fumble with the knots of his bindings.

“Anyone can betray you. The French discontents like our friend Camille give me valuable information.”

Lucia winced, remembering her behavior toward the woman. Camille had probably done more to help Lucia’s country than Lucia would do in her lifetime.

“But contacts also increase the risk of identification,” Alex said.

“Is that what happened? Why you’re not in France now?”

“Yes. I took a risk, wanted to bring the information to Pitt personally, but I was nearly apprehended. I escaped, but my informant, Henri, was caught. I didn’t know if my identity had been discovered.” He paused. “Now it’s certain. That bastard De´charne´ tortured Henri, forced him to reveal my name, probably Camille’s as well. Hopefully, Dewhurst will think to warn her before she returns to France.”

The ship lurched, but the rolling in Lucia’s stomach had nothing to do with the choppy water. The thought of Alex hurt, of that horrible De´charne´ torturing him, was more than she could bear to contemplate. She yanked on a knot with renewed vigor. “Who is this De´charne´?” she asked through teeth clenched with effort.

“An actor, believe it or not. During the Revolution, he gained power in the tribunals, and now he wants to hold on to it. My capture will solidify his place in Bonaparte’s inner circle.”

Another knot came loose, and Alex wiggled his wrists. Lucia sat back, rubbing her raw fingers, thankful for a moment’s respite.

“The question is,” Alex said, and she could hear him working his bindings. “How badly am I compromised? Wentworth’s network would have alerted us if Bonaparte’s men knew who I was, so De´charne´ must be keeping it quiet.”

The ship pitched again, and Lucia gripped Alex’s arm to steady herself. “Who is Wentworth? Do I know him?”

Alex chuckled. “He doesn’t move in your circle, Lucia. He’s a quiet man, gives any credit he deserves for his work in the Foreign Office to the secretary. But he is a hero in every sense of the word. He’s saved England more than once from possible invasion.” He paused. “There’s no one I respect or admire more.”

She could hear the admiration in his voice, and behind it something else—pain?

“There, I have it!”

Lucia started when Alex jumped up. She heard the rope from his bindings drop to the floor, and then he was moving around the room.

“What are you doing?”

“Searching. Maybe there’s something we can use.” There wasn’t. For what seemed hours, Alex blindly explored every corner, but the cabin was virtually empty. Finally Alex slid down beside her, pressing his back against the wall and, to her surprise, gathering her close to him.

Lucia snuggled gratefully into his warmth. She was exhausted but too anxious to sleep. Alex seemed to sense that she needed a distraction, something to take her mind away from worries about her brother and De´charne´. He took her hands in his and kissed her bruised fingers. And then he began to talk.

They’d never really talked before. Alex was always stoic and silent when in company, and she too garrulous. But she was silent now, listening to the sound of his voice—low and resonant—in his chest. He talked of trivial things: his plans to improve Grayson Park, a problem with a servant, his favorite tree to climb as a boy. And when Lucia finally drifted into sleep, she dreamed of a dark-haired, gray-eyed boy scaling a tree to rescue a kitten.

When she awoke, she told him stories about growing up, how Francesca had never gotten into any trouble, and how John got away with everything.

When Alex laughed after the first few tales, she was encouraged and told him more. She’d never heard him laugh so much, and she wished she could see his face.

“You should laugh more often,” she said at the conclusion of a story that ended with her father banishing her, yet again, to her room for life.

“Why is that?”

“Because you sound like a different person when you laugh, young and innocent.”

“I’ll avoid it at all costs from now on.”

---