“But surely you have someone awaiting you in New York,” he pressed.
He did not miss the tremble in her hand as she lifted her wine glass to her lips for a lengthy sip. “There is no one.”
He could not allow the pronouncement to go unquestioned.
“No family?” Felix asked.
In truth, for as famed as she was, with hundreds of articles written about her, her likeness everywhere, there was almost no information to be had concerning Rose Beaumont herself. Endless accolades about her performances, gossip about her lovers, descriptions of her dresses, her hair. But her origins were murky. Some stories suggested she had been born in Paris, others in the French countryside.
“No family,” she said quietly.
But there was a tenseness in her voice that was unmistakable.
“No lover?” he prodded, reasoning such a query, though invasive and unspeakably rude, may be the sort of question a man determined to make her his mistress would pose.
In truth, he wanted to gauge her reaction. It was possible she had thrown Drummond McKenna over. Or he could have done the same, given her impending travels. The time apart was long. But he found it difficult to believe McKenna would relinquish the opportunity to have yet another person he could control within London. Yet another soldier hiding in plain sight.
Felix needed to uncover the truth of the matter, and with all haste. Because if she was no longer McKenna’s mistress, that meant using her as a weapon against McKenna may not prove as potent a lure as he had originally supposed.
“There is no one,” she repeated, her gaze steady upon him.
He wondered then if he could believe her. It was entirely possible she was lying to protect McKenna. Perhaps even that she suspected Felix or his connection to the Home Office. This development was something he would need to take to the Special League. The League leaders would relay the information to their double agents in America, who could determine the veracity of her claims.
Together, they would retool their plans for McKenna’s ultimate capture, however they must. Too much was at stake.
“That news bodes well for me,” he said then, his gaze melding with hers.
She smiled at him sadly. “There is a reason I do not have a lover. I do not have one, and neither will I take one.”
That was certainly a lie.
She had one, and he was a cold-hearted bastard who orchestrated bomb explosions on the railway. Who sent his villains to do his bidding, laying dynamite everywhere innocent civilians could be hurt or killed.
He reminded himself of who Rose Beaumont was, and how she had come to be here. What manner of man she allowed to share her bed. And his heart hardened. “Yet you are here, Mademoiselle Beaumont. One cannot help but wonder why, if you are so set against taking a lover.”
She finished the last bite of her tartlet, and damn him, but even the way she consumed her dessert was seductive. An art form. “Your Grace all but coerced me into settling upon this dinner, if you will recall.”
“How different our memories are.” He paused, studying her. “I extended an invitation, and you accepted. Because you find my manly sensibilities irresistible, no doubt.”
She bit her lower lip to stifle her smile. “On the contrary, I accepted because you were insistent, and I grew weary of arguing with you.”
He had noted she was not a woman given to lightness. Her mien was often grave, and there were shadows in her extraordinary eyes. She wore sadness like a cloak, wrapped all about her.
The ridiculous urge to hear her laughter surged inside him. To win her smiles. To ease the weight she seemed to hold heavy on her shoulders.
He banished the unwanted desire. For he was not meant to like her. Indeed, he was not meant to think of her as a person at all. She was a means of aiding his quest to bring Drummond McKenna and all those within his web to justice. Perhaps herself included. He did not dare trust her.
“I shall consider myself fortunate you were weary, then,” he said, before deciding to change the subject. There was a table between him and his quarry, and while they had shared an enjoyable repast, he had still managed to wrangle precious little information from her. “Would you care to withdraw to the salon, Mademoiselle?”
Her eyes widened, and he did not think he imagined the flare of awareness within them. The understanding an audience alone with him, unattended by servants producing an endless barrage of courses, was forthcoming. That it would be the prelude to something more.
“While I thank you for the invitation, the hour grows late,” she said. “I have a morning rehearsal, and I should probably be on my way.”
He could not let her go so easily. His days with her were limited, and he needed to pounce upon the information only she possessed while he could. He knew how to goad her into getting what he wanted.
“I understand,” he told her. “You are afraid.”
“I am not afraid.” Her shoulders stiffened, her spine going straight, chin tipping up in defiance.
