Page 27 of Lord Ashley's Beautiful Alibi
Why had she given so much of herself away? She never did that. It was dangerous to do that in these perilous waters. With Amber gone to heaven-knew-where, how could Gus herself succumb to the lure of a man she knew to be a spy? An assassin?
She found him alluring—against her own desire to remain celibate. Against logic to take him when there were so many handsome men here for the asking. So many ugly men here available at the crook of her little finger. She could so easily get a rich man with friends, a poor man with brains, or a political beast with charmingly vile skills. She did not need to attract the Englishman. The suave fellow with the glossy hell-black hair that drew her fingers to stroke him. Her lips to sip him. Her tongue to explore him and find…what?
That the Earl of Ashley was no better, perhaps worse, than those parading before her. That he was not interested in her as a person but as anentreeto those in power here. That like others, including Vaillancourt, he desired only to use her. To seduce her to working for him. Or waiting for him in his bed.
Well, too bad—she needed no lover. Wanted none of the complications. The late-night visits. The impromptu rendezvous and heartache. The money, the guilt. The illegitimate child or the deadly diseases. She definitely did not want the British man. The dashing creature who kissed like a satyr. The diplomat in sheep’s clothing. The friend, foe, murderer.
She drained her glass, her gaze straying to him as he laughed with one of Josephine’s ladies. The woman flirted with him, and he feigned interest with politesse and a furrowed brow.
Jealousy pricked her.
Just as a spark of inspiration flooded her with excitement.
Could she use him?
When she smiled at him, he did not fake anything. He was lured, drawn to her. And though she was as pulled by him to naughtiness, she would not reciprocate in kind, but ask for something different.
If only she were adventurous. If she were as confident of her skills to evade as her friend Amber was. If she could live the charade and pretend she knew little and wished only for the drama, the escapade of life.
What would it hurt to try?
She covered her surprise at her extraordinary thoughts with a sweep of those in the room. They were avid gossips. Looking for the simple explanations of every glance, every sigh. Of women, most thought everything was possible. Especially if they opened their legs and gave satisfactions.
On the contrary, Gus had no simple explanations for what she had chosen to do. Two years into this and she was happy she had to report to only one. Her identity was secure. No one suspected her of any dubious act. No one had asked her to explain a thing. Only to deliver.
At that moment, in the corner of her eye, she perceived that Vaillancourt studied her—and she ignored him with a quick turn toward a friend.
In her view was Ashley, who now sat across the room, in deep conversation with Madame Tallien. He was in her path. Delicious, devastating, persistent. Here in the very function that she might use to her own purposes.
Ifshe trusted him.
Ifshe could deny herself the lure of him.
That conundrum had her turning toward the window to the gardens. Might Ashley be useful to help her find Amber?If he wanted relationships with vintners, silk weavers, and dyers, she could lead him to them. She could introduce him to farmers. Though she knew many estate owners who grew barley, potatoes, sugar beets, and wheat, not all of those crops could be sent along the Seine west to Britain. The potatoes could be shipped most easily without spoilage. Less easily could the barely and wheat be sent. For those estates north of Paris where dairy products were the major produce, he could not want the milk and cheeses. Rich and flavorful as they were, they would spoil before they got to any port along the Channel.
Yes, she could help him. Not simply as one who would introduce him, but as his friend. His dear friend who traveled with him. It would be a mutually beneficial agreement between them. She would argue that she built a business of her own to complement his. A network of suppliers of goods for the British Isles. She could argue she needed to make money for the service she rendered him. In the land of shopkeepers, everyone knew the value of making money from an enterprise. A woman could do that.Shoulddo that.
Ashley would be her colleague. Though, as her traveling companion, he would also be her camouflage and her security against undue advances from men.
She would ponder it. Sketch her chart of positives and negatives.
She smiled to herself.
Proud of her novel solution, she headed for a group of her aunt’s friends who sat together in the far corner. They had been here for a few hours, and their consumption of wine and cognac showed. Their slurred words and relaxed bodies told stories quite a few in this room would love to hear so that they could use the knowledge against them.
She stopped. Such tales would anger her.
“Don’t bother with them, Mademoiselle Bolton. Come talk with me.”
The thin baritone voice of Vaillancourt climbed up her spine. She set her teeth, unwilling to let him see her revulsion.
“Monsieur Vaillancourt.” She did the gracious thing and gave him a small curtsy. “How are you today?”
“Tres bien, mademoiselle.Allow me to fill your hand with… What is it you adore?”
Slick viper. Not you.“White wine.”
With the arch of a thin brow, he beckoned a footman. “I have not seen you lately. I missed you. Word has it you were ill.”
