Christian Seaton: Duke Of Danger. Кэрол Мортимер

Christian, and several of his friends, had only days ago prevented news of the date and destination of Napoleon’s second incarceration from being revealed, when it was believed that a second attempt would have been made to effect the Corsican’s escape.

      Nowhere in Christian’s information on Helene Rousseau had there ever been mention of her having a niece.

      The same young and beautiful woman whom Christian had been admiring for this past hour or more...

      A young and beautiful woman who wore black because she was in mourning for her dead father, the French spy André Rousseau? As far as Christian was aware, Helene Rousseau had no other siblings.

      His eyes narrowed on the Frenchwoman. Also dressed in black out of respect for her dead brother? ‘I apologise if I have caused you any offence, madame.’ He gave a courtly bow as he stood up. ‘I assure you I meant none.’

      Helene Rousseau was a woman of about forty, tall and voluptuous where her niece was tiny and slender, and the older woman had only a touch of red in her blonde hair; surely Christian could be forgiven for not having previously made the connection between an aunt and niece who were so different in appearance?

      Especially as there had never been any information of André Rousseau having a daughter.

      Hard blue eyes looked up at him scornfully as the female owner of the tavern continued to hold the small pistol at a level with his broad chest. ‘A man such as you would not be in such a lowly tavern as this one, monsieur, if you were not looking to corrupt one of my girls.’

      Christian raised a blond brow. ‘Surely it is for those “girls” to decide for themselves as to whether or not they would see my attentions as corruption...or pleasure?’

      ‘Not if your choice is to be Lisette.’ Helene Rousseau looked at him with all the challenging hauteur of a duchess.

      Christian bit back his impatience with this woman’s temerity, knowing it would not serve his purpose to antagonise her further; his intention this evening, to be taken for just another gentleman bent on pleasure, had instead incurred this woman’s notice as well as her wrath. Both of them he would rather have avoided at this stage of his mission. ‘I have given my apology if I have caused you any offence—’

      ‘I believe Claude wishes your presence in the kitchen, Helene,’ a huskily soft voice interrupted them.

      A huskily soft voice that, Christian discovered when his gaze moved to Helene Rousseau’s side, belonged to none other than the beautiful Lisette herself...

      * * *

      Lisette had noticed the handsome gentleman with the lavender-coloured eyes the moment he entered the tavern earlier this evening; indeed, he was the sort of gentleman of whom any woman would take note.

      He was exceedingly tall, with tousled overlong blond hair. The perfect fit of his black superfine coat over broad and muscled shoulders must surely be the work of the best tailors in Paris. As were the pantaloons tailored to his long and muscled legs. His black Hessians were so highly polished Lisette was sure she would be able to see her face in them if she cared to look.

      But it was the hard masculine beauty of the man’s face which drew the eye; a smooth, high brow, sharply etched cheekbones, his nose long and aristocratic, and a sensual and decadent mouth that was not too thin and yet not too full either, above a surprisingly hard and uncompromising jaw.

      The man’s most arresting feature by far was his eyes—Lisette did not believe she had ever seen eyes of such an unusual shade of lavender before—fringed by thick and curling lashes.

      Eyes which she had sensed watching her this past hour, even as she went about the business of serving the many and increasingly inebriated customers...

      The tavern was unusually crowded this evening, which was the only reason Helene had asked for Lisette’s help; usually the older woman did not allow her anywhere near the men who patronised this bawdy tavern.

      Lisette had not initially noticed Helene approaching or speaking with the lavender-eyed gentleman; it was only when she could no longer feel the intensity of his gaze upon her that she had glanced across the room and seen the two in conversation. Even across the width of the tavern Lisette had been able to sense the tension of that conversation, her eyes widening in alarm as the gentleman moved and she saw that Helene held a pistol in her hand, and that pistol was pointed at the gentleman’s chest.

      Quite what that gentleman had done to warrant such attention Lisette had no idea. As far as she was aware, he had not behaved in a rowdy or licentious manner, but remained quietly seated at his table without engaging with any of the tavern’s other customers. Nor had he been overfamiliar with Brigitte on the occasions she had served him with one of the tavern’s better wines.

      ‘I am Christian Beaumont, the Comte de Saint-Cloud, at your service, mademoiselle.’ That gentleman now gave her a polite bow.

      Just as if Helene were not still pointing a gun at the broad elegance of his chest!

      ‘Lisette Duprée.’ She gave an abrupt curtsy, unable, now that she was standing so close to the gentleman, to look away from the intensity of that beautiful lavender gaze.

      Christian repressed his smile of satisfaction at Helene Rousseau herself having effectively made the formal introductions possible. A formality that would allow him to more easily approach and speak to the lovely Lisette in future.

      His gaze narrowed as he turned to look at the older woman. ‘Please do not let us delay you any further when you are so obviously needed in the kitchen, madame.’

      Helene Rousseau’s mouth tightened even as she deftly stowed the pistol away in the folds of her gown. ‘You will remember all that I have said to you tonight, my lord.’ It was a warning, not a question.

      Christian had every intention of remembering each and every word this woman spoke to him. Of dissecting it. Analysing it. In readiness for the report he would eventually take back with him to England.

      And if it should transpire that Helene Rousseau was indeed behind the recent kidnapping of an innocent child, and the abduction and ill treatment of an equally innocent young lady, in order to try to blackmail information from the English government in the former, and repress information in the latter, then he feared there could be only one outcome to Helene Rousseau’s future.

      An outcome that would result in the lovely Lisette being in mourning for both her aunt and her father.

      ‘I assure you, madame, my memory is impeccable,’ Christian answered Helene Rousseau softly.

      The older woman gave him a long and warning stare before turning to Lisette, the hardness of her features softening slightly as she looked at the younger woman. ‘You must not linger here, Lisette, when there are customers needing to be served.’

      ‘As you say, Helene.’ Lisette’s dark auburn lashes were lowered demurely as her aunt gave Christian one last warning glance before departing with a swish of her skirts. In the direction of the kitchen, it was to be hoped.

      Christian found it curious that the younger woman addressed the older one by her first name rather than as her tante. Adding to the mystery of this relationship, that no amount of watching and spying on both André Rousseau before the man’s death, and Helene Rousseau in the months since, had managed to discover, let alone explain.

      ‘Would you care to sit down and join me, mademoiselle?’ Christian held back one of the chairs at his table.

      Lisette eyed him curiously. ‘I am at work, Comte, not leisure.’ And she would not have frequented a tavern such as this one even if she were.

      Until just a few months ago, Lisette had lived all of her nineteen years in the French countryside, far away from any city, let alone Paris. It had been a shock for her to suddenly find herself living in such a place as this tavern, after the death of the couple she had believed to be her parents.

      Believed to be her