At the height of Blakeney’s career, the League had boasted some nineteen or twenty members. History was inexact as to the figure. That, alone, could result in problems. What might happen if he did not recruit into the League someone the real Blakeney would have recruited? What would occur if he recruited someone who had not, originally, been in the League at all? Due to the inertia of the timeflow, he had a certain flexibility; otherwise it would not have been possible to effect adjustments. However, given this particular scenario, there were plenty of possibilities for things to go wrong. It was not the first time Delaney had found himself working in a period that suffered from inadequate prior documentation. He hadn’t liked it then and he did not much like it now. He liked being saddled with Lady Blakeney even less.
Unless Fitzroy contacted him with further information, he could rely on Ffoulkes and Dewhurst to advise him on whom to recruit into the League. But Lady Blakeney could pose a formidable problem in more ways than one. She was intelligent and sharp and, although the place of a woman in the 18th century denied her a role in much of the pursuits of her husband, he would have to act in such a manner that her curiosity would not be aroused. To this end, he could utilize the recent rift between Sir Percy Blakeney and his wife, building upon it so that he would become the sort of husband whose wife found him tiresome and unattractive. That would not be very difficult to accomplish. Marguerite was quite attractive and already had a reputation as a well-known actress and hostess. It would be a simple matter to introduce her into London society, taking a back seat as the fashionably dull and foolish fop while Marguerite had the spotlight to herself. She would quickly become the center of attention in any gathering and in no time at all she would acquire her own circle of friends and admirers, who would keep her busy while he spirited aristos out of France.
Yet, there was the very real problem of his own reaction to Marguerite. From the very first moment he set eyes upon her, Finn found himself irresistibly attracted to the woman. To remain aloof and unconcerned with her would not be easy. When it came to matters of the flesh, discipline had never been Delaney’s strong suit. As he sat alone at a corner table in the inn, nursing his wine, he contemplated the possibility of bedding her that night.
After all, he was her husband. She might welcome a sudden thaw in their relationship and the situation was quite conducive to it. They had just been through a harrowing experience together, the sort of thing that raises the adrenaline and leads people to seek pleasant release in sexual activity. One night, when matters of the preceding day led them to rediscover the joys they knew when first they wed, one night, what harm could it do? The next day, he could resume the status quo, acting embarrassed, awkward, perhaps a little angered at having given in to the pressures of the moment. Things like that happened all the time.
But, no. It would not be wise. She already bore resentment toward her husband, whose ardor had so considerably cooled and whose devotion had become little more than a matter of form. To start something now, only to end it just as abruptly, as necessity dictated, would only make matters that much worse. He needed Marguerite to be bored with Blakeney, not furious with him. He would have to put his lust aside, something that never had been easy and would be that much more difficult, due to the fact that he would have to share a
bed with her.
“Damn,” Finn mumbled softly, to himself, “I should have thought to take separate rooms for us.”
“Sir?” said a soft voice at his side. He turned to see a young serving girl who stood hesitantly by the table, smiling awkwardly.
“Yes, what is it?”
“The lady bid me tell you that she is quite exhausted from the journey and will not sup tonight. She begs you to excuse her and to take your meal at your leisure, if you will. She is content to simply rest for tomorrow’s journey.”
Well, that settles that, thought Finn. She’ll be fast asleep when I come up. Now if I can only keep my hands off her in the middle of the night…
He thanked the girl and had her bring him a supper of cold meat, bread, and fruit. He drank more wine and began to feel relaxed for the first time that day. He purchased a clay pipe for a few pennies from the innkeeper, who overcharged him, seeing that he was wealthy, and he settled back in his chair with the long churchwarden filled with Turkish Latakia. He smoked slowly, enjoying the strong black tobacco and sipping the inn’s somewhat plebeian Bordeaux, which was nevertheless quite satisfying after the bumpy, dusty journey. He bought a few more clays and some tobacco to take along with him the following day, so that he could relax and smoke while they crossed the Channel, then he made his way upstairs.
Marguerite was in bed, with the covers drawn up over her. She had left a candle burning for him and the single light bathed the room in a soft and cozy glow. He saw that Marguerite had laid his sleeping gown out for him, along with his night-cap, both of which he appraised with slight annoyance. He did not like to be encumbered while he slept. Still, the character seemed to call for it and he resigned himself to nightclothes. He only hoped that there would be no bedbugs to keep him company.
Moving very quietly, so as not to waken Marguerite, Finn slowly undressed. When he had taken off his last item of clothing, he heard a rustling in the bed behind him and, thinking that he might have made some sound that had disturbed his “wife,” he froze for a moment.
“Are you then well fed and rested, Percy?” Marguerite said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Finn turned and saw that she had pulled aside the covers and was lying naked in the bed, in a deliberately and blatantly seductive pose. Her hair was fanned out on the pillow and it glinted like red gold in the candlelight. Her soft skin was without a blemish and her perfectly shaped breasts rose and fell slightly as she breathed through parted lips.
Moving quickly, Delaney blew out the candle so that she would not see what he was unable to conceal, then he made a quick grab for the nightgown. He barely stifled a moan of frustration.
“Forgive me, my dear, I did not mean to wake you,” he said, adding an audible yawn. “Lord, it’s a wonder you’re not sleeping like the dead after today’s exertions. Myself, I am quite done in. It was all that I could do to make it up the stairs.”
He heard a heavy sigh in the darkness. “Come to bed and sleep, then,” Marguerite said, flatly. “You wanted to leave early in the morning and you need your rest.”
Finn bit his lower lip and felt his way to the bed, then got in beside her and turned on his left side, so that he faced away from her. He yawned once more, for effect.
“Gad, what a day!” he said. “I feel like I could sleep for a hundred years.”
There was no good night, from her side of the bed.
“Well, good night, then,” Finn said. He waited a few minutes, then faked the sounds of snoring. Several minutes later, he heard Marguerite get out of bed and slip into her night-gown, then gently get back into bed. Soon, she was asleep. Finn, on the other hand, knew that he would be lucky if he got any sleep at all. And he knew that in the morning, he would hate himself.
3
They arrived at Calais the following evening, having stopped several times to change horses en route. It had been a long, hard drive. Finn was sore and covered with road dust. Marguerite had been shaken up inside the coach, but she issued not one word of complaint. They drove directly to the port and as he looked out into the bay, Finn could see a graceful fifty-foot schooner with a long and slender bowsprit riding at anchor, its twin masts barely visible in the dusk. They left the coach at an inn and hired a small boat to take them out to the Day Dream.
It was brisk out on the water and Marguerite shivered in her inadequate cloak as she clutched it around her, but she didn’t say a word. Finn had to admire her. She had been shot in the head, had some minor field surgery performed on her, though she didn’t know it, been drugged, bounced around inside a coach on bumpy, rut-filled country roads for some one hundred and fifty miles, which they had covered in an astonishing two days, exhausting several teams of horses in the process, and now she was being violently rocked up and down as the small boat pulled out toward the Day Dream in the choppy waters of the Channel. The cold wind sliced through her fashionably light hooded cloak as though it wasn’t even there and, with the exception of a slight shaking of the shoulders and a barely noticeable tremor of the lower lip, Marguerite remained calm and poised, as though she were out for a row upon a placid country lake.
The boat pulled up to the yacht and one of the crewmen dropped a rope ladder over the side. As the boatman hung onto the bottom of the ladder, trying to keep the rowboat steady in the swells, Finn helped Marguerite up the ladder, staying close behind her and holding on tight in case she should lose her grip and fall. She climbed a bit uncertainly, unaccustomed to having the world rolling all round her, but she hung on tenaciously and in moments, a crewman was giving her a hand on board. She thanked the young man, who smiled awkwardly in her presence, and turned back to look at Finn with a slightly shaky smile.
“Which way to my room, Percy? Oh, yes, it’s called a cabin on a boat, is it not?”
“Allow me, my lady,” said a tall, sandy-haired young man of about twenty-six or seven, who came up to them and offered her his arm. He flashed a dazzling smile at her. “Lord Antony Dewhurst, at your service, ma’am. You must be terribly fatigued after your journey. I’ve taken the liberty of having your cabin prepared and your bunk turned down. There’s fresh water for washing and Stevens here will bring you supper and a rum toddy momentarily. I think that you will find the bracing sea air quite conducive to deep and restful sleep. We shall be sailing on the morning tide.”
“You’re most kind, Lord Dewhurst.”