“Yes, milord colonel,” Tamsyn murmured with a demure smile, allowing her body to rest against him again.
Julian wondered why he wanted to laugh. It struck him as the impulse of a bedlamite in present circumstances, but there was something about her mischief that invited-no, challenged-him to a response. It was almost as if she were saying she wasn't fooled by his attitude, that she knew he was enjoying their unorthodox proximity as much as she was if he'd only allow himself to acknowledge it.
They left his horse in the stable yard at the rear of Wellington's headquarters and entered by the outside stairs again. “He's waiting for you, Colonel.” Sanderson hastened to open the door onto the commander in chiefs sanctum.
“Oh, good. You're both here.” Wellington stood up from his desk, his expression curt. “I'm sorry for this, Julian, but La Violette insists that you must be part of these negotiations.”
“So I assumed, sir.” Julian regarded Tamsyn with ill disguised resentment. “Very well, you've got what you wanted, now let's get on with it. I've more important things to do with my time this morning than humoring the mercenary spawn of a bloody brigand.”
Wellington hid his astonishment at this brutal speech.
A man didn't speak like that to a mere acquaintance, let alone a stranger.
Tamsyn, however, seemed unconcerned. “Yes, I understand you're both busy, but the timing of this business was not of my choice, I'll have you remember, milord colonel. I came here under your escort.”
“Having delayed us by two days,” he snapped.
“Now, what do you want, girl?”
Tamsyn shrugged and sat down uninvited on a chair before the desk, crossing her legs, her hands clasped lightly in her lap. “Very well, to points. I will give you the information you desire, my lord, except that about the partisan armories. The condition of their weapons is not mine to reveal. They will tell you what they wish you to know. I'll also draw for you a detailed map of the mountain passes El Baron used between Spain and France. Some of them are very narrow and treacherous, but I daresay you'll discover that for yourself. They're not, to my knowledge, known to the French.”
“Good… good,” Wellington said, rubbing his hands. “This is all very good… very useful.” He glanced at St. Simon. “Don't you agree, Julian?”
“Oh, yes,” Julian agreed. “Very useful.” He stood against the door, his arms folded, his eyes brightly sardonic as they rested on Tamsyn. “And what do you want of us, brigand?”
“Yes, Violette. Your price?”
Tamsyn paused before answering, her eyes on her lap, her fingers playing cat's cradle; then she looked up and met the colonel's eye before switching her gaze to Wellington. “My price, sir, is the colonel… Lord St. Simon.”
The silence in the room was as deep and impenetrable as the grave. The two men stared at Violette, who sat back in her chair, a picture of relaxation, no sign of the ferment in her head. It was a stroke of such boldness, she was actually amazed at herself for conceiving the plan, let alone executing it.
“This is some lunatic raving,” Julian declared, breaking the silence, his voice harsh as a scouring pad. “Either that or you're making game of His Majesty's army, girl, and that will cost you dear!” He crossed to her chair and leaned over her, bracing his hands on the chair back on either side of her head. She was impaled on the bright-blue ferocity of his eyes as he said very slowly and distinctly, “Cease this idle foolishness, or I'll have you thrown in irons in the stockade.”
“Hear me out,” she said simply, not flinching, although it cost her some effort.
“Let her speak, Julian.”
“Speak!” The colonel whirled toward his commander, his eyes stark in his white face, his mouth a thin slash in a clenched jaw. “The girl's either moon mad or she's making game of us. Must I remind you, sir, that men are going to die tonight and this… this distempered chit is playing us for fools.”
“No, I'm not,” Tamsyn said swiftly. “I do assure you I'm not. Only hear me out.”
“Go on,” Wellington instructed, holding up a hand to silence the younger man's seething tirade. “But keep to the point. I warn you, if this is some kind of game, then I'll send you back to Cornichet gift wrapped and with my compliments.”
The threats were flowing thick, fast, and most unpleasantly. Tamsyn swallowed the little nut of fear in her throat, reminding herself that the stakes were very high, and began to explain the plan that would require the cooperation of Lord St. Simon.
“I explained that my mother was English. Her family came from Cornwall… your home county, Colonel.”
Julian's expression was dark. “What has that to do with me?”
“Well, I thought you could help me rediscover my mother's family,” she said simply. “My mother wouldn't tell me their name. She… she had not been happy with them, and when she met my father, she chose to cut herself off completely from that part of her life and heritage.”
Reaching behind her neck, she unfastened the locket and held it out to Wellington. “This is a picture of her. With my father. The locket is a family heirloom, and I thought perhaps with this and the portrait I might be able to locate them. My mother implied that they were quite a prominent family.”
Wellington examined it and then handed it to Julian, who looked at it without really taking it in, his mind running over Cornwall's powerful families. The St. Simons and the Penhallans were the greatest landowners with the most political influence. Tregarthan, the St. Simon estate, and the Penhallan estate of Lanjerrick took up half the county. His lip curled unconsciously at the thought of the Penhallans. The viscount pursued his political ambition with utter ruthlessness, but his character was a shining example of moral rectitude compared with his nephews, the loathsome twins.
He dropped the locket onto a side table, and the delicate filigree chain chimed as it fell. “There's no heraldic device on this… no insignia to identify it.”
“But there's her picture inside,” Tamsyn stressed.
“Look inside.”
Wellington picked it up again, snapping it open. The woman was undoubtedly Tamsyn's mother; the likeness was striking: the same locket hung around her neck, and she was smiling, radiating perfect happiness. He handed it to St. Simon, who read the signature on the back of the woman's portrait. She'd signed herself simply Cecile, in a flowery hand, full of energy. The date was a mere three years ago.
He glanced at Tamsyn, who sat quietly, waiting. He examined the man's portrait, struck by the elegant features of this notorious robber baron. Black eyes like a hawk's regarded him with a quizzical air from the delicate frame. Tamsyn had her father's mouth and that particularly resolute set of the jaw; her mother's eyes and coloring.
“So?” He handed back the locket. “Even if we believe your mother was English, what is that to do with anything?”
“Why, everything,” she said. They listened while she explained that her parents had been killed six months earlier, that her own men had either been killed in Cornichet's ambush or had disbanded; that, with the exception of Gabriel, she was alone in the world.
The pathos of her story was somehow accentuated by the scarcity of detail. She said nothing as to how her parents had met their deaths, merely stated the fact. Her appeal when she made it was to Wellington. St. Simon still bore the look of a man seething and impatient, definitely not one to respond sympathetically to a sad tale, but she thought she might be able to tug the commander’s heartstrings.
“I would like to discover my mother's family,” she said, twisting her hands in her lap, offering the duke a tremulous smile. “I have no one in the world to care for me or to give me a home. I thought if I could find them, they might take me under their wing. Only I see some difficulties.”