As he strode along the bank he fought to defeat the images, to banish emotion, to rediscover the cold pragmatism of the spymaster. He'd unmasked a double agent. Gabrielle de Beaucaire was a French spy as intent on betraying Nathaniel Praed's country as he was on betraying hers. He must see just that simple fact. There was only one issue: What was he to do with her?
He could hand her over to the people who knew how to extract information. They would wring every last scrap of knowledge from her and then they would hang her. Spying was unprotected by the civilized laws governing the treatment of prisoners of war. Gabrielle knew that. She knew what she risked in this venture.
Or… or he could use her as she had tried to use him.
There would be little personal satisfaction in condemning her to the dungeons and instruments of the interrogators and the hangman's rope. It would relieve none of his own wounds and would do nothing to salvage his shattered pride. But to turn the tables… to outwit Talleyrand and Fouche with their own tool! Now, that was a plan that carried the deepest satisfaction. He would spin his own web. Gabrielle would carry false information to her masters in Paris, and that information would entrap the French network.
The evening mist rolled in over the river and Nathaniel paused under a willow tree. He bent to pick up a smooth round stone and sent it skimming over the wind-ruffled water. His features were etched in granite, his eyes hard and flat as he stared sightlessly across to the mud-furrowed fields along the opposite bank. Somehow, he would have to behave with Gabrielle as if nothing had changed. In fact, he must deepen their intimacy, allow her to feel that he had relaxed completely with her. When he told her he had changed his mind and was prepared to bring her into the service, she must believe her seduction had succeeded.
As it so nearly had. By God, she'd made a fool of him with her charcoal eyes and the rich curves of her body and the uninhibited glories of her sexuality.
Enough! He spoke the word aloud, a fierce and desperate attempt to halt the swiftly spiraling fury and self-disgust that threatened to engulf him again.
Slowly, cold pragmatism overcame futile passion. He shivered under the blast of bitter wind racing across the tidal marshes from the sea. It seemed to penetrate his skin, lodging deep in the marrow of his bones, an icy shaft stabbing his heart.
It was time to go back, to face what had to be faced. He returned to the house, arriving just as the curricle drew up before the house. He stood in the hall and waited for them to enter.
His son's eyes were shining and he had a smear of something sticky around his mouth. He was talking to Bartram, who'd opened the door for them, and instantly included the hovering Mrs. Bailey in a convoluted account of his excursion. His eyes darted toward his father, and he offered a timid smile as if to include him in the telling.
"I had two pink ices and Gabby bought some new gloves, and there were these puppies in a basket that some little girl was trying to sell, an' some men got into a fight on the quay an' Gabby said we'd better keep out of the way because they were rough sailors…"
Gabrielle was smiling down at him as she drew off her gloves. She cast a glance toward Nathaniel, her eyes warm as she invited him to share in Jake's delight.
She was using his son. Bitter bile filled his mouth and his fingers flexed. He could feel the slender column of her throat between his hands, the pulse beating in frantic fear as his fingers tightened… squeezed…
Again he fought the crimson tide of passion until his head was a cold, clear space.
"That'll do, Jake," he said curtly. "It's almost your suppertime. It's to be hoped you can eat something after stuffing yourself with ices all afternoon. Go up to the schoolroom."
Jake's face fell and the bubbling words died on his lips, the light faded from his eyes. Without another word he ran to the stairs and scampered up them.
Gabrielle frowned slightly and Mrs. Bailey with a murmur of excuse returned to the kitchen.
"That was a little harsh, wasn't it?" Gabrielle said quietly, going ahead of Nathaniel into the library. "He wasn't doing any harm."
"You kept him out far too late, and I certainly don't want him witnessing sailors' brawls on the quay. I'd have thought you'd have had more sense."
"I'm sorry," she said simply. The Nathaniel of the breakfast table raillery seemed to have disappeared. She couldn't imagine throwing a roll at the man who stood before her now, but then, she was becoming accustomed to his changes of mood. It was hard for little Jake, though. One minute his father unbent toward him and the next reverted to his old manner. However, she knew enough about Nathaniel now to realize that she'd achieve nothing by pursuing the issue at this point.
"I'll go and dress for dinner."
Nathaniel pulled himself up sharply. He offered a conciliatory smile. "Sorry, I didn't mean to snap. I was a little worried because you were out so long. Would you like a glass of sherry before you go upstairs?"
"Thank you." Gabrielle took the glass with a smile that she felt could have been more animated. Nathaniel's greeting had certainly doused the pleasantness of her afternoon with Jake, and there was a strange atmosphere in the house. Rather empty and bleak, but that was probably because Georgie's vibrant presence had departed.
The anticlimax of their visitors' departure seemed the only logical explanation for the slight constraint throughout the evening. Gabrielle tried to shake off the tendrils of depression that clung to them both, but Nathaniel was abstracted and failed to respond to her various sallies.
"Is something troubling you?" she asked as they got up from the dinner table.
"I have a problem with one of my agents in Toulouse," he said. "It's distracting me, I'm afraid."
"Oh," she said casually. "Not a problem you'd care to share, I presume."
"No," he said. "At least not at:he moment."
Gabrielle raised an eyebrow at this. Could she be making headway at last? She'd originally given herself two weeks to persuade him to change his mind, but was beginning to accept that the way things were going, she was going to need more time before the English spymaster threw in the towel and accepted her in his network.
"Well, I'll leave you to your cogitations," she said. "I should reply to my godfather's letter." She turned to the stairs and then paused, one hand on the newel post. "Anything you'd like me to tell him?"
Treacherous whore! "Not at the moment," he repeated, smiling. "I'll frank the letter for you when it's written." And read it too, with the aid of the code, once I've broken it.
Gabrielle composed her response to Talleyrand with great care. Hidden within the chatty, innocuous text was a brief factual account of her activities so far; what she had learned from the spymaster's diary; and her belief that if she persevered, he would eventually accept her in the network.
She sanded the paper, folded it, and sealed the envelope with a wafer before taking it downstairs and leaving it on the hall table for Nathaniel to frank before the carrier collected the mail.
Five minutes after she'd returned upstairs, Nathaniel came out of the library, picked up the envelope, and dropped it in his pocket. He would decipher its real message in the privacy of his bedchamber later.
Gabrielle stood for a minute in her boudoir, looking out the uncurtained window into the night. Rain lashed against the panes, dreary English rain that crept into one's bones. She drew the curtains tightly, then threw another log on the fire. Hugging her breasts with her crossed arms, she stared into the fire. For the first time in this crusade of vengeance, serpents of doubt raised their heads and hissed softly in her mind and in her heart.