The Count de Veseul deciphered his letter with mixed emotions. He had proposed a plan to his superiors that was so brilliant and subtle that he would carry it out whether they approved it or not, just because of the pure, wicked pleasure he would find in the execution.
Only the imbeciles at the Horse Guards would have wasted Arthur Wellesley’s talents for so long, and only those same imbeciles would actually bring the Victor of Vimeiro up before a court of inquiry for a treaty that the general had not negotiated. The fools did not deserve Wellesley. In France he would have been a marshal by now.
Veseul admired Wellesley. He was perhaps the only soldier in Britain who might threaten the emperor, and that knowledge made it so much more pleasing to bring him down. Wellesley was vulnerable now, and it would be simple to manufacture evidence to taint his name. When Veseul was done, the best the general could hope for would be a lifetime rotting in Ireland, mediating potato wars.
It was gratifying that Veseul’s superiors were properly impressed with the count’s proposal, but their enthusiasm meant that he would have to return to London prematurely, the very next day, in fact. He had only a few hours left to seek out the elusive Lady St. Aubyn and take his pleasure of her.
He should have attempted Diana Lindsay the night before, but Lady Haycroft had come to his room and, what with one thing and another, the night had passed quickly. Her ladyship liked pain as few women did, and there was a special pleasure in that, though her willingness removed the joys of conquest.
This morning, when he was ripe to try an unwilling woman, the blasted viscountess had sent a message down that she was indisposed. More likely she was avoiding her stone-faced husband. Veseul knew she was not in her chamber because he had expertly picked the lock, only to find the room empty.
It would take time to locate her. He had planned a far more elegant campaign, spinning a delicate web that only she would see. Now he would have to move in haste. The crudeness would be unaesthetic. But not, however, without enjoyment.
* * *
Gervase looked up wearily when his cousin entered the estate office. He had been busying himself with routine matters that would be better handled by his steward, but it was a convenient excuse to remove himself from his guests, who were having a fine time and hardly noticed his absence.
Francis, however, was not so easily avoided. Choosing a chair right in front of the desk, he sat down. “Good day, Gervase. Do you have time to talk for a few moments?”
“If I don’t, will you leave?” Gervase asked dryly.
“No” was the cheerful reply.
His expression easing, Gervase settled back in his chair and prepared to hear what Francis had to say. He had never considered it before, but his cousin had a quality of calm acceptance that was like Diana’s. Sharply he changed the direction of his thoughts; he could not bear to think of his wife. “I’m glad you could come to Aubynwood. I haven’t been at my most social, and I appreciate the fact that you’ve been acting the host in my absence.”
“Quite all right.” Francis waved his hand casually. “I know you’ve had other things on your mind, such as having your wife and son here publicly for the first time.”
Gervase stiffened. “I do not wish to discuss my family.”
“Don’t give me that look, cousin. I mean to have my say, and the only way you can avoid hearing it is to run faster than I.” Francis’s tone was light but his blue eyes were intent. “I know and value both you and Diana. Since you are each looking quite miserable, I wanted to offer my services as a mediator. Sometimes another person helps. She’s very much in love with you, you know. You seem hardly indifferent yourself, so whatever the problem is, it should be soluble.”
Gervase pushed away from his desk, distancing himself from the words. Venom in his voice, he asked, “Did she tell you that over a pillow?”
“Good God, no! Surely you don’t think Diana and I are lovers?” Francis exclaimed.
Gervase felt his mouth twisting. He had not wanted to begin this conversation, had known instinctively that nothing good could come from it, yet now it could not be stopped. “It’s a logical assumption. I know that you visited her when I was away, on the most intimate of terms.”
“Good Lord, were you having Diana watched? Why on earth would you do that?”
“The woman’s a whore by profession, remember? I wanted to know how good her business was.” Even as he said the bitter words, Gervase hated himself, but his tongue would not stop.
“Don’t speak of your wife that way,” Francis snapped. “It does you no credit. Apart from a couple of visits to the sort of function any man can attend without comment, she has been living in London as quietly and respectably as any woman could. There is no impropriety in having male friends call.”
“Before you dig yourself any more holes, I should warn you that yesterday I saw you with her by the lake.”
His cousin’s narrowed eyes were colder than Gervase had ever seen them. “She was upset—because of you—and I offered her what comfort I could. As a friend. No more, certainly no less.”
“Do you expect me to believe that?”
Francis became absolutely still. “I will let no man call me a liar, Gervase, not even you.”
“I don’t blame you for being entranced by her,” Gervase said wearily. “What man wouldn’t be? She could tempt a monk from his vows simply by walking into a room. Just don’t lie to me.”
Francis slammed his hand down on the desk so hard that the pens jumped. “Damnation, Gervase, you are slandering both Diana and me! She is a gentle, loving, beautiful woman, and you don’t deserve her.” Then, his voice breaking, he added, “If I could love a woman, it would be her. But I swear before God there has been nothing the least bit improper between us. Or are you too blind with jealousy to believe me?”
Gervase stared at the younger man, pain shifting deep inside him. Francis was his closest friend. He was also notoriously truthful. Would his cousin really lie about this? Did Gervase himself really believe that Diana was a liar, or was his own bleak despair distorting his image of her? There was no evidence that she was disloyal, except for his own belief that any woman he cared about must be.
Setting his elbows on the desk, he massaged his temples, where anguished confusion stabbed deep into his brain. He had tried to avoid all thought of Diana, and in the face of Francis’s challenge he understood why. It was easier to believe in her anger than in her love. Easier to condemn her than to accept that she was as loving and true as he had believed, and that he was wholly unworthy of her.
