“She has a point, Julian.”
Julian met his commander's steady gaze, reading the immutable message. He swung round toward the figure on the windowsill. Tamsyn was examining her fingernails with an air of absorption.
“Damn you, Violette!” he hissed. “Damn you for a tricky, conniving witch!”
Clearly this was not a good moment to ask for a small loan. Tamsyn raised her eyes and offered a tentative
smile. “I won't be a nuisance, milord colonel, I promise you. I'll be a most obedient pupil and a credit to your tutoring. “
Julian's expression registered total disbelief, and Wellington gave vent to his neighing laugh.
“She has you there, Julian. Sewn up tight as a Christmas goose.”
Julian walked over to Tamsyn. He leaned over her, his hands braced on the window on either side of her head, and said softly so that only she could hear, “You just might have bitten off more than you can chew, Violette. I'm going to have you jumping through hoops until you don't know whether you're in this week or the next. So be warned.”
Tamsyn touched her tongue to her lips and her eyes narrowed. “I think I can handle anything you throw at me, milord colonel.”
Their eyes locked. There was antagonism and challenge, but there was a perverse excitement too at the war game they were about to play.
Then Julian straightened and spoke at an ordinary pitch, but his voice was completely devoid of expression. “So we've agreed to your price, Violette. It's time to fulfil your side of the bargain.”
“Certainly,” she said.
Wellington called for Sanderson to take notes, and they began. St. Simon sat in a chair by the hearth, listening intently to the brigand's answers, listening for any evasion, any hint that she might be fooling them. They had only her word for the truth of the information she was providing, but he found that he trusted her to be good to that word. She was as slippery as an eel, but he thought that if she said she was playing fair, then she was.
Why he should have this faith in her, he didn't know. It was a long and exhaustive session. At the end Tamsyn drew an elaborate map indicating the passes through the Guadarrama heights, then stretched, arching her back against her hands. “I think that's everything I agreed to.”
“Yes,” Wellington said with a pleased nod. “Most satisfactory. Thank you.”
“I won't say it was a pleasure,” Tamsyn said frankly. “Oh, don't give me that!” Julian scoffed. “You've got precisely what you wanted for your information.”
“True.” And the means now to be revenged upon the Penhallans. “Do we begin our journey as soon as Gabriel arrives?”
“The sooner the better,” he said harshly. “And I want this in writing, too.” He gestured to Sanderson, still sitting at the table. “The contract is for six months, beginning this day, April seventh, 1812. It will conclude on October seventh. Whether you've achieved what you wish or no. Is that understood?”
“Perfectly.”
Sanderson wrote busily, sanded the sheet, and pushed it across the table for Tamsyn's signature.
“How very formal,” she murmured, affixing her signature to the document. “Anyone would think you didn't trust me, milord colonel.”
“Anyone would think I had reason to trust you,” he retorted, striding to the door.
“Oh,” Tamsyn ran after him as he marched down the stairs. “Since our contract is to begin today, even though we haven't started our journey, I feel sure I can ask you a favor. Could you make me a small loan? Just until Gabriel returns.”
He stopped at the street door and stared at her in-credulously. “You want me to lend you money on top of everything?”
“Just to buy some clothes. These I have on are falling apart. I'll repay you as soon as Gabriel returns.”
He regarded her in frowning silence for a moment; then slowly he nodded. “Very well. Since, as you say, our contract is to begin today, then I agree, you certainly stand in sore need of different clothes. I know just the place. Colonel Delacourt's wife was telling me all about it.” Briskly, he set off up the street without looking to see if she was accompanying him.
Tamsyn hesitated. There'd been a look in his eye that made her a little uneasy, a glint of amusement that didn't strike her as particularly friendly. Then, with a shrug, she set off after him, running to catch up.
“There's no need for you to accompany me, milord colonel.”
“Don't call me that.”
“Why not?” she asked with an innocent smile.
“I don't care for the tone.”
“Ahh. Then what should I call you?”
“Colonel will do fine. Lord St. Simon, if you prefer.”
Tamsyn pulled a wry face. “That seems very formal for a six-months liaison.”
“We are not having a liaison.” He kept his voice even.
“Oh.” Tamsyn followed as he turned down a narrow side street. “Why don't I call you Julian?”
“My friends call me that, and I see no reason for you to do so.” He pushed open a door into the cool, dim interior of a milliner's shop, setting a bell jangling. “In here.”
Tamsyn paused on the threshold. “I suppose I can buy underclothes here. There really isn't any need for you to come in with me, my lord colonel.”
The colonel didn't reply, merely planted a hand in the small of her back and pushed her ahead of him into the shop.
A woman came out from the back. She wore a gown of dark bombazine with a crisp white muslin apron and a black lace mantilla draped over her shoulders. One quick glance took in her visitor's rank, and she smiled with a hint of obsequiousness, greeting him in Spanish. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I be of service?” She cast a cursory look at the colonel's companion, seeing a somewhat undersize lad in the dimness.
“My companion here needs to be reclothed from the skin out,” St. Simon said briskly, pushing Tamsyn into the ray of light falling through the window. “I think it would be simplest if she removes all her clothes and we start from there.”
“Hey, just a minute,” Tamsyn said. “I need a new pair of drawers, a new shirt, of lawn or silk, and a pair of stockings. Since I'm sure the senhora doesn't sell britches, I'll find them elsewhere.”
The colonel ignored her, saying calmly to the astonished senhora, “She needs drawers, a chemise, petticoats, silk stockings, and a gown… something simple, I think. Muslin or cambric.”
“What are you talking about?” Tamsyn protested, switching to English. “I cannot possibly wear women's clothes here.”
“And why not? Countess other women appear to,” the colonel demanded dryly.
“Because it's different… I'm different,” she said.
“I can't imagine what you're thinking of.”
“When did you last wear petticoats?” he inquired, untroubled by her rising annoyance.
“I never have,” she said dismissively. “Neither did Cecile… or at least she did occasionally,” she added. “But I think that was all part of their love play. Skirts were quite impractical for the way we lived.”
“Well, they're not impractical for the game you've chosen to play,” Julian stated. “In fact they're indispensable. Permit me to remind you that at your instigation I hold the reins in that game; therefore, you'll accept my ruling. As of today you adopt women's clothes.”
“But… but we are to ride to Lisbon presumably, to take ship. How can I do that in women's clothes?”
“The way other women do,” he said. “Unless you'd rather travel in a spring wagon.”