‘She may balk at returning. After all, if she proves herself a spy, the gallows await.’
‘I can be … persuasive.’
Alastair chuckled. ‘I don’t want to know. When do you propose to leave?’
‘Tomorrow.’
‘But you have just got back! Mama expects you to stay at least a week and Max will want to see you.’
Will shook his head. ‘Your mama’s being kind and Max would only try to dissuade me. Better I don’t see him until … after. If he asks, tell him the army still has business for me on the Continent. Besides, you were right; it’s been more than a year. No sense waiting for memories to fade any more than they already have.’
‘Do keep me posted. It might take some time to ride to your rescue.’
‘Tonight, all I’ll need rescue from is too much brandy. Unlikely, as you’re being entirely too stingy with it.’
Laughing, Alastair retrieved the bottle and refilled their glasses. ‘Ransleigh Rogues for ever!’
‘Ransleigh Rogues,’ Will replied, clinking his glass with Alastair’s.
Chapter Two
Vienna, Austria—six weeks later
Elodie Lefevre shifted her chair into the beam of afternoon sunlight spilling through the window. Taking up her needlework again, she breathed in the soft scent of the late-blooming daffodils she’d planted last autumn in the tiny courtyard garden below. Nodding violas added their sweet fragrance as well.
She paused a moment, letting the calm and beauty seep into her soul, soothing the restless anxiety that lurked always just below the surface. By this evening, she would have this consignment of embroidery finished. Clara would come by with dinner, bringing a new load of embroidery and payment for completing the last.
Against all the odds, she had survived. Despite the constant imperative gnawing within her to get back to Paris, she must remain patient and continue working, hoarding her slowly increasing store of coins. Perhaps late this year, she would finally have enough saved to return … and search for Philippe.
A wave of longing gripped her as her mind caressed his beloved image—the black curls falling over his brow, the dark, ever-curious, intelligent eyes, the driving energy that propelled him. Was he still in Paris? How had he changed in the nearly eighteen months since she’d left?
Would he recognise her? She glanced at herself in the mirror opposite. She was thinner, of course, after her long recovery, but except for her crooked fingers, most of the injuries didn’t show. Her blue eyes were shadowed, perhaps, and long hours indoors had dulled the gold highlights the sun had once burnished in her soft brown hair, but otherwise, she thought she looked much the same.
Suddenly, something—a faint stir of the air, a flicker of light—seized her attention. Instantly alert, moving only her eyes, she discovered the source: a barely perceptible movement in the uppermost corner of the mirror, which reflected both her image and the adjacent window that also overlooked the courtyard.
Scarcely breathing, she shifted her head a tiny bit to the right. Yes, someone was there—a man, perched soundlessly on the narrow balcony beside the window, watching her, all but the top of his tawny head and his eyes hidden behind the wall and the vines crawling up it. Had she not chanced to look into the mirror at that precise instant, she would never have seen him move into position.
From the elevation of his head, he must be tall, and agile, to have scaled the wall so soundlessly. The minuscule amount of him she could see gave her no hint whether he was thin or powerfully built. Whether he was armed, and if so, with what.
Not that the knowledge would do her much good. All she had to defend herself was her sewing scissors; her small pistol was hidden in her reticule in the wardrobe and her knife, in the drawer of the bedside table.
But as seconds passed and he remained motionless, she let out the breath she’d been holding. The afternoon light was bright; he could clearly see she was alone. If he’d meant to attack her, surely he would have made a move by now.
Who was he, then? Not one of the men who’d been watching the apartment from the corner ever since Clara brought her here. No one had bothered her since the foiled attack; so small and damaged a fish as herself, she thought, was of little interest, especially after Napoleon’s exile at St Helena put an end once and for all to dreams of a French empire.
Elodie kept her gaze riveted on the mirror as several more seconds dragged on. Despite her near-certainty the stranger did not mean her any immediate harm, her nerves—and a rising anger—finally prompted her to speak.
‘Monsieur, if you are not going to shoot me, why not come inside and tell me what you want?’
The watching eyes widened with surprise, then in one fluid motion the stranger swung himself through the window to land lightly before her. With a flourish, he swept her a bow. ‘Madame Lefevre, I presume?’
Elodie caught her breath, overwhelmed by the sheer masculine power of the man now straightening to his full height. If he meant to harm her, she was in very bad trouble indeed.
He must be English. No other men moved with such arrogance, as if they owned the earth by right. He loomed over her, tall and whipcord-lean. There was no mistaking the hard strength of the arms and shoulders that had levered him so effortlessly up to the balcony and swung him practically into her lap.
His clothes were unremarkable: loose-fitting coat, trousers and scuffed boots that might have been worn by any tradesman or clerk toiling away in the vast city.
But his face—angular jaw, chiselled cheekbones, slightly crooked nose, sensual mouth and the arresting turquoise blue of his eyes—would capture the attention of any woman who chanced to look at him. Certainly it captured hers, so completely that she momentarily forgot the potential danger he posed.
He smiled at her scrutiny, which might have embarrassed her, had she not been suddenly jolted by a sense of déjà vu. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked, struggling to work out why he seemed so familiar. ‘Have we met?’
The smile faded and his eyes went cold. ‘No, madame. You don’t know me, but I believe you knew my kinsman all too well. Max Ransleigh.’
Max. His image flashed into her mind: same height and build, thick, wavy golden hair, crystal-blue eyes. An air of command tempered by a kindness and courtesy that had warmed her heart then—and made it twist again now with regret as she recalled him.
The afternoon sun touched this man’s tawny hair with tints of auburn; rather than clear blue, his eyes were the hue of the Mediterranean off St Tropez. But beyond that, the two men were remarkably similar. ‘You are Max’s brother?’
‘His cousin. Will Ransleigh.’
‘He is well, I trust? I was sorry to have done him … a disservice. I hoped, with Napoleon escaping from Elba so soon after the event in Vienna, that his position had not been too adversely affected.’
He raised one eyebrow, his expression sardonic. Her momentary bedazzlement abruptly vanished as her senses returned to full alert. This man did not mean her well.
‘I regret to inform you that your tender hopes were not realised. As you, the cousin of a diplomat, surely know, the “event” that embroiled him in the near-assassination of his commander ruined his career. He was recalled in disgrace and only the outbreak of war allowed him a chance to redeem himself on the field of battle.’
‘I understand the carnage was terrible at Waterloo.’
‘It was. But even his valour there was not enough to restore his career, which was destroyed by his association with you.’
‘I am sorry for it.’ And she was. But given the stakes, if she had