As Lord Pettigrew escorted them to the second floor, he and the duke discussed the triumphant return of Napoleon. “He will be in Paris by tomorrow, I have it on the best authority. It’s difficult to accept that the French are welcoming him back with open arms. It will soon be all over England. It’s time that Englishmen everywhere realize the danger this man poses to all free countries.”
She stumbled.
Napoleon will soon be in the Tuileries, where he belongs. It was happening, just as Houchard and Edgerton had predicted. Somehow, she had nourished hope that the French would have nothing to do with Napoleon, that the French army would hastily escort him back to Elba. Houchard would have had no further use for her or her father then. “Evangeline?”
“It’s the heat, your grace,” she said, her voice dull as the light that tried to shine in through the dirty windows overhead. “I’m all right.”
“Excuse me? The heat, you say?” He was staring down at her, his eyes narrowed, seeing too much.
“I will excuse you,” she said only.
She became aware that Lord Pettigrew was apologizing for the clutter that filled his large office. There were maps everywhere and piles of papers stacked atop every surface. At the back of the office stood a huge mahogany desk, and two men were leaning over it, looking at some maps.
“Gentlemen,” Lord Pettigrew said, “be so kind as to await me in the antechamber. I will be but another minute or two.”
They both eyed Evangeline with a mixture of admiration, impatience, and condescension, gathered up several papers, and left the inner office.
She ignored them and walked nonchalantly toward the windows at the back of the office. She made a point of remarking on the view of the Thames through the uncurtained glass. She supposed that Lord Pettigrew replied in a suitable phrase, but she wasn’t attending either him or the duke. She was looking from beneath her lashes at the second shelf of the bookcase on the far side of the room. It looked little used. It was there, between the third and fourth bound volumes, that John Edgerton had instructed her to leave the envelope. She stood at the window, responding to Lord Pettigrew when it was appropriate, all the while wondering how she would ever get the wretched envelope into the bookcase.
“Have you seen your fill?” the duke asked at last.
She turned and smiled brightly, and extended her hand to Lord Pettigrew. “Yes, indeed. Thank you so much, Drew, for your kindness. I know that you are quite busy. I don’t wish to take any more of your valuable time.”
Evangeline walked slowly to the wide doorway, and let her glove slip unnoticed to the wooden floor. When they reached the outer office, she said, shaking her head at herself, “Oh, dear, I dropped my glove. Just a moment, I shall fetch it.”
Before Lord Pettigrew could assign one of his clerks to the task, Evangeline had whisked back into his office. With trembling fingers she quickly pulled the small envelope from her reticule and slipped it between the thick books. She returned in not above three seconds, waving the glove in her hand.
“I’m so sorry. It was so forgetful of me, so stupid really. But all is well now. And I’ve seen where all you masterful gentlemen spend your days to protect England.” She would have continued her nonsensical speech had not the duke looked at her as if ready to clap his hand over her mouth.
Back inside the carriage, Evangeline spent many minutes settling herself, folding the blanket over her legs, settling her gloved hands in her lap, staring out the window.
“That was truly a remarkable experience,” he said, staring hard at her, but she didn’t look at him.
“Goodness, yes. So very exciting. I fulfilled a childhood dream, seeing—”
“Be quiet, Evangeline.” He continued studying her profile, wondering, always wondering what was in her mind. He said, “I look forward to the day when I will finally come to understand you.” She said nothing at all.
“I suppose you would like to visit the Commons?” She looked at him, controlled again. “No,” she said, sounding like a twit, “what I would prefer is a drive to Richmond. I want to see this famous maze of yours.”
Chapter 28
Evangeline sat in the cushioned window seat in Edmund’s nursery, looking at the fog-laden park across the square. She’d been in London for nearly a week now, perhaps the longest week of her life. Whenever a visitor was announced, she knew it would be Edgerton with more orders for her. He hadn’t come yet, but she knew he wouldn’t let her go now. What had been in the envelope she’d left in Lord Pettigrew’s bookshelf?
Edgerton and Houchard had been right. The papers were full of Bonaparte’s triumphant return to Paris, the French army at his side. Wellington and Napoleon were on everyone’s lips, as was the talk of war, another bloody war. She studied the paper every morning in her bedchamber when the duke had finished with it, given to her by Grayson, looking for any information at all about conditions in Paris. She felt suspended in time, waiting anxiously for something to happen, yet fearing what was likely to come to pass.
At least she had Edmund. He was kneeling by the fireplace, rearranging his toy soldiers, half of them French, the other half English. He was exhorting one of the majors to mind his troops. She smiled. She appreciated Edmund more than she could ever tell him. She could imagine the look on his face if she did say something of the sort to him, perhaps hug him for longer than a little boy deemed necessary. She spent all her time with him. At first he’d been wary, but then, when he realized that she wouldn’t stuff too much learning down his throat, he laughed and hooted and claimed he wouldn’t try to capture her and shoot her for at least another week. She’d been profoundly grateful, clasping her hands over her chest and thanking him endlessly. He’d snorted, then to her surprise, he’d hugged her before running off to do something else that amused him. He had become her boy, and she never wanted to give him up. No, she wouldn’t think about it. She couldn’t bear to think about what would happen in the future, in a future where she was branded a traitor—that or dead.
But Edmund would have a future. She’d do anything at all to ensure that future for him. He was growing more like his father with each passing day. When he wasn’t with her, he was with the duke, who took him riding, took him to Tattersall’s to look at horses, even took him once to Gentleman Jackson’s boxing salon. She knew about everything they did because Edmund gave her a thorough recital every night when she tucked him in.
He was like his father in another important way. He never bored her. Edmund didn’t realize it, would probably have been appalled if he did, but the truth was, he was her only comfort. Just yesterday he’d confided that he liked her better than Phillip Mercerault, a singular honor. Maybe he liked her even better than Rohan Carrington, something, he’d assured her, that he didn’t say lightly.
Edmund said now, “It won’t be long, Eve. Just you wait. Wellington will kill him dead. He’ll ride his horse right up to him and stick his sword in Napoleon’s gullet. Then you can be happy again.” Oh, dear.
Evangeline rose unsteadily from the window seat and came down to her knees beside Edmund on the thick carpet. She couldn’t let him come to such conclusions, despite the fact that they were alarmingly accurate. “What do you mean, Edmund?”
But Edmund’s attention, for the moment, was back on his English battalion. He straightened a good dozen bayonets. He turned a major to face all his men, now in a perfectly straight line. He finally raised his eyes to her face. “Papa said I wasn’t to tease you.” Oh, dear. Was she so obvious? But she hadn’t even seen Edmund’s papa. At least she’d seen him only rarely.
She said, “But I like it when you tease me. Where is your gun? I believe I’m ready to execute a grand escape, and surely some brave boy will have to c