Hair pulled back in a tight chignon and covered by a lace mob cap that managed to age her by a few decades, she was attired in the sort of respectable, drab brown that wasn’t likely to draw the curious, stray eye. She flashed him a quick cut of her gaze before disappearing through the exterior door that was open to let in cooling night air.
Her meaning was clear. He was to follow.
Which meant tearing himself away from Isabel, for if he was going to succeed in protecting her from Montfort, he must hear what Hortense had to say. The woman wouldn’t be here if she hadn’t uncovered vital information.
To protect Isabel, first, he would have to betray her. “On further consideration, the Duchess’s tonic could serve as a preventative, my love.”
My love.The endearment rolled off his tongue with disconcerting ease.
Isabel’s eyebrows drew together in distress, and her eyes flashed hot at his treachery. Her mouth opened to deliver what was sure to be a vociferous rebuttal, but before she could counter him, the Duchess took her by the hand. “Come with me, Isabel. We shall have you fixed up presently. You know what that Benjamin Franklin had to say.An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure.”
As the Duchess led her away, Isabel cut Percy one last glance over her shoulder that was one part betrayal and two parts pleading, with a dash of pique thrown in. She wouldn’t be forgiving him anytime soon.
Later, he could make it up to her in a way she quite deliciously enjoyed . . .
He shook off the idea. Hadn’t he vowed to avoid any such future encounters? Yet, when he was with her, he had trouble remembering precisely why.
Outside, he spotted Hortense some distance away near the path that led to the riverbank. The instant she saw him, she disappeared down the trail. He didn’t see her again until he reached the village’s five-hundred-year-old stone bridge.
She stepped into the moonlight, and turquoise eyes shone up at him from beneath her ridiculous mob cap. It simply wasn’t a Hortense item to wear. “Well, Bretagne, you wanted Montfort’s attention. Now you most certainly have it,” she said by way of greeting.
“What have you learned?” he countered, ready as she to get this conversation underway.
“Answer me a question first. Are you a Whig or a Tory?”
“Neither. Can’t tolerate politicians. To the one, they suffer from an overinflated sense of their value in the world.”
Hortense nodded. Most involved in espionage echoed this view. Once politicians got involved in an operation, a spy’s work increased tenfold, if it wasn’t blown entirely to bits.
“You’ve heard the Tories recently secured their position in the general election?” she asked.
“No surprise there. The Whigs are a right mess.”
“Well, one powerful Tory got it into his head that one couldn’t be too sure.”
“And?”
“Andstarted running an operation in various hells and brothels about London.”
“What sort of operation?” A lightning quick rush of anticipation preceding a revelation flashed through Percy’s veins. How many years had he lived for this feeling?
“Of creatingsituationswhere lords might feel compelled to vote a certain way, if saidsituationswere kept quiet. You know the sort. Ones involving gaming debts. Pious lords with young girls,virginseven. The sort of situation the Savior of St. Giles recently stumbled into.”
Of course.“A political blackmail scheme.”
“And I suppose you know who’s behind it?”
“Montfort.”
Even in the near dark, Hortense’s jaw gave a reflexive clench and release. “You know his line, the one that justifies all his actions.”
“For the good of England.”
“He’s stopped influencing governments on the Continent and now has started in at home.”
“Using old spy games to destroy the opposition.”
“But now Montfort has a new game afoot. A bigger fish on the hook.”
