Page 41 of Lord Carlisle's Enticing Lure
“That cannot be! Go away.”
He grasped both her hands. “No!”
“Clive, stop.” She shook back her hair, tormented that he might pay a price for caring for her. “I have plans. Friends. In the meantime, I work.”
“Your work,” he mused, his voice dropping to an ominous tone. “Whatever it is, you must tell me later.”
A lady approached along the walk.
Giselle bent closer to him. “Never, my dear man. You would be a target of my foes. I would never do that.” She straightened her spine and found cold words to repel him. “Thank you for the picnic. I did enjoy your company. Goodbye, Clive.”
*
Her repudiation roiledhim. How dare she think he would abandon her to Vaillancourt, toanyonewho would hurt her? She had good reason for this work she did, and he was damned if he’d let her do it alone. She did not want him near her? Well, she was mistaken if she thought he was so lacking in creativity.
He stopped momentarily and ran a hand through his hair.
Then he took a few long strides to catch up to her. He did notapproach. She did not stop. When she got to the hotel, she hiked her skirts and ran up the steps at a jog.
Once she disappeared safely inside, he stood on the corner collecting his thoughts. He’d arranged a man to follow her. Today at the picnic, he’d detected a man overly curious about their party’s actions. He prayed to God that was his man.
But I am not certain, and the only way to assure myself of her safety is to be by her side.
Become her lover again. Her guard, her protection. Show her how he cared so much that he would let no one harm her.
He’d ask Terese to take Bella with her to London tomorrow. An imposition, yes, but he was certain Terese would not only see the challenge here, but agree he had to act. Also, he’d write to Mr. and Mrs. Campbell, who staffed his cottage east of here. He’d ask them to stock the little house—and tell no one that they had heard from him.
Whatever your work, my darling, you’ll do it in the safety of my house and my arms.
Chapter Fourteen
Giselle stood backto examine the last stroke on the small houses of Hove. Those buildings to the west of the center of Brighton were only a few, the population of Hove perhaps two or three hundred. The Bath stone of the more muscular houses was a slightly creamier shade of that found in older buildings in the city center. The rest were of brick. They provided the picture of the shore so necessary to her work.
She removed the clip that pinned the stock to the back of her easel and took it to her window. Pulling back the lace curtain, she raised the thick paper to the sunlight. Yes, she approved of this one. Only another morning and she would finish this. Then she could begin the east side of town.
She frowned.
It was the part of Brighton she knew least. She had not walked there at all, but this afternoon she had reason. She was to meet Jacques Durand’s new man and tell him she’d have his final drawings to convey to Durand to take across the Channel.
She pushed down her questions about this morning and this new man employed by the one who had smuggled her across the sea. Durand, notorious and wanted by the British and French governments, did a service for the Crown. Running goods like cognac and schnapps, china and carpets through the tight shipping lines, Durandalso smuggled those who wished to escape the claws of Napoleon. She had sailed with him, terror struck and chilled to the bone, but rejoiced to land alive and well. Now she would send back tomorrow with his man the last of the drawings she’d been recruited to do. This set would complement those other, smaller versions that Lord Ramsey had managed to put into suspected French agents’ hands. Much like the set in Hastings that were to be purchased, so it was believed, by a French spy, this set for Durand would confirm the seascape, its elevation, and its surrounding buildings. Proud of all her work, she thrilled to hear the end was near.
The victory came with bittersweet regret. She had sacrificed for it greatly. Clive Davenport, her dashing lover, had not bothered her at all these past three days. He had followed her back to the hotel that day after she abruptly left the picnic. But he had not knocked on her door nor sent a message to her. He most likely had returned to London with his daughter, his sister, and Lord Langley. Better for it, too, he was, out of danger and done with the heartbreak she could not avoid causing him.
As for her own grinding loss of him, she shoved that ache down, down, down as deep as it would go. Soon she would deal with that…and surrender to that grief which she knew might well kill her.
After her work was completed in a few days and sent off with Durand’s man across the waters to Boulogne, she would go west to Cornwall. The image she held in her mind of wild winds and lightning crashing on a rugged shore spoke to her current belief that chaos reigned over a damaged world. Her brief affair with Clive had shown her vistas painted in rolling greens and scudding blues brilliant with a golden sun.
Gone now.
Dissolved in the mists of yesterday.
*
An hour later,she stood outside the blacksmith’s shop. Durand’s man was late.
For safety, she’d arrived in a hired hack. But as few walked the street, she took the liberty to do so herself. Strolling down the street, she noted the dimensions of the bakery and the bookstore next to it. The shops along this part of the eastern promenade were tiny compared to those in the Lanes near the pavilion. She would render them as they truly were.
She walked back to her meeting point. As she went, she reevaluated her original calculations of length of street, heights of buildings, and the depth of the beach from sea to seawall. Her method of calculation corresponded to her length of stride. She’d done it so often, her actions were automatic. She stood a moment and paced off in her mind the distance from the smithy to the shoreline.
