“My decision regarding Lord Ashcombe has nothing to do with Talia,” he said in harsh denial.
Her brows rose in disbelief. “Non?”
“Non. I am doing what is best for France.” He frowned with impatience. “Even you must admit that having the Earl of Ashcombe as my spy rather than a mere younger brother is preferable.”
She stubbornly refused to admit the truth of his words. “You were not so eager to be rid of the current earl until you were bewitched by his beautiful bride.”
He muttered a curse, the temptation to press Sophia back onto the mattress and drown his troubled heart in the pleasure of her soft, satin skin nearly overwhelming.
What would it matter if he pushed aside his unpleasant duties for a few hours and indulged himself in the sensuous delight Sophia offered?
Then, with an effort, he pulled back, hoping the space would return his fading sanity even if his body was hard and restless with unfulfilled need.
“Harry was a suitable partner until our tidy arrangement was exposed. Now the government will be even more vigilant and it will take more than a bribe in the proper hand to receive the information we need.” He shook his head in disgust. It was infuriating to have lost his contact in the Home Office. The information he had been receiving might very well have made the difference in winning or losing the war. “Besides, it was too risky to attempt to kill Lord Ashcombe while he was in England. A nobleman of his wealth and status is forever surrounded by servants and sycophants.” He shrugged. “Now, however, there is no one to protect him.”
A strange expression fluttered over her lovely face. Something that might have been regret. But why?
She did not know the Earl of Ashcombe well enough to mourn his death. Could it be she feared what the toll would be on Jacques’s soul for commanding the death of an aristocrat?
“What of his brother?” she asked.
“As always, Monsieur Richardson’s only concern is for his own selfish needs,” Jacques muttered in disgust. “I truly believe he would barter his mother if he thought it necessary.”
“And Lord Rothwell?”
Jacques did not allow himself to hesitate. “He will share his companion’s unfortunate fate.”
“But not Lady Ashcombe,” she pressed.
His brows snapped together at her ridiculous question. Did she truly believe he had become the sort of man who would slay a vulnerable maiden?
“There is no need for her death.”
“Of course not.” There was a long, uncomfortable silence before she tilted her chin and regarded him sternly. “Do you intend to make her your wife?”
He shifted in sudden discomfort. Mon Dieu. Surely a man was not expected to discuss his future wife with his current mistress?
It was…unsavory.
“Is that not rather presumptuous?” he hedged. “I have not yet made her a widow.”
“But that is your wish?”
“Who can say?” With a burst of impatience he paced across the floor, uncertain when his life had become so complicated. He almost wished he could turn back the clock to when he was still the idealistic young man who had first returned to France, determined to dedicate his life to his country. “It is enough to concentrate on each day as it unfolds, is it not?”
A wistful smile curved her full lips. “That was what I once told myself.”
Jacques ignored the sensation, perilously close to guilt, that tugged at his heart.
“And now?”
“Now, I must consider my future.” Her gaze shifted toward the bag lying open on the bed. “I am no longer a young maiden, after all.”
“What do you intend to do?”
“For now I shall return to Paris.”
“Will you resume your career on the stage?”