Bride For A Night. Rosemary Rogers

that a collector would pay a goodly sum to acquire. Which meant she should be dashing toward the nearest cottage to seek assistance.

      But as her gaze shifted toward the three men who filled the room, she hesitated.

      Jack did not look as if he were being held against his will. In fact, he appeared to be in charge of his companions as one of the men reached beneath his coat to toss a leather satchel at the vicar.

      Jack eagerly tugged open the satchel and pulled out a stack of papers.

      “These are the most recent maps?” he demanded, unfolding one of the papers and studying it with deep concentration.

      The larger of the two men gave a grunt of agreement. “They were copied directly by a clerk at the Home Office.”

      Talia stilled. Dear lord. She might know very little of politics, but she was well aware that the Home Office was headquarters to the various leaders who plotted war against Napoleon.

      Jack was nodding, his attention still on the map. “And this clerk is certain no one suspects that he duplicated them?”

      “Aye.” The stranger made a sound of annoyance. “Cost me a bloody fortune.”

      An icy sense of disbelief spread through Talia as she watched Jack shrug, vaguely recognizing this was not the kindly vicar she thought she knew.

      The glimpse of ruthless authority she had so readily dismissed earlier was in full evidence as he carefully spread the papers across the narrow table in the center of the room. And his French accent was far more pronounced.

      It was as if he had been playing in a masquerade, and now the true man beneath the disguise was exposed.

      “Do not fear, you will be well rewarded once I can be certain these are genuine,” Jack muttered.

      The smaller stranger leaned over the table with a frown on his ruddy face.

      “That ain’t France, is it?”

      “Very astute, Monsieur Henderson,” Jack drawled, his tone mocking. “It happens to be Portugal.”

      “And why would the Frenchies be wanting a map of Portugal?”

      A smile of satisfaction curved Jack’s lips. “Because this tells us precisely where and when Sir Arthur Wellesley intends to land his army. And the battle strategy that he hopes to employ.” He stroked a slender finger over the map. “Most informative.”

      Traitor…

      The word whispered through her mind as Talia pressed a hand to her mouth. It was all so unbelievable. More like a plot from one of the thrilling novels she kept hidden in the privacy of her bedchamber than reality.

      Who could ever suspect that the charming vicar in a remote village in Devonshire was attempting to destroy the British Empire?

      The larger of the men folded his arms over his chest as he glared at the various maps spread across the table.

      “Looks to me like a bumbling mess, but if you are satisfied, then so be it.”

      “I am.” Jack offered a dip of his head. “And the emperor thanks you for your service.”

      The man snorted. “I ain’t wantin’ the thanks of bloody Napoleon. I want me money, nothing else.”

      “Of course, I…”

      Jack came to an abrupt halt, then without warning his head turned toward the window, almost as if he sensed Talia’s presence. It was too late for Talia to duck away, and their shocked gazes locked before something that might have been regret flashed through his dark eyes.

      “Mon Dieu,” he breathed, shoving away from the table and heading toward the side door.

      Talia gave a small shriek as she gathered her skirts and darted toward the nearby path. There was no thought to where she was headed, only a terrified need to escape.

      Of course, it was a futile effort.

      Even if she were not hampered by her layers of skirts and petticoats, she was no match for an athletic gentleman in his prime.

      She was still in the churchyard when she felt strong arms circling her waist and hauling her squirming body against a hard chest. Then Jack leaned down his head to whisper directly in her ear.

      “I truly wish you had heeded my advice, ma petite.”

      CHAPTER SIX

      THE GENTLEMEN’S CLUB on St. James’s Street was filled with solid English furnishings and well-worn carpets that extended from the dining room to the discreet gaming rooms. On the white plaster walls were a series of oil paintings dedicated to the aristocracy’s love for hunting, and overhead a heavy chandelier glistened in the early sunlight. The entire building smelled of mahogany, leather and tobacco smoke.

      A familiar combination that usually soothed Gabriel.

      This morning, however, he was on edge as he sat at a table near the front window of the morning room reading the Times. He was annoyingly aware of the servants in black knee-breeches as they scurried to and fro and the numerous gentlemen who were enjoying hushed conversations behind him.

      He should have remained at the townhouse, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

      He had a perfectly lovely breakfast room that offered a view of his rose garden, rather than the narrow London street currently spread beneath him, and a cook eager to prepare whatever he desired. And of course, there was the decided benefit of being alone. The gawking gossips were currently studying him with an avid curiosity that made his teeth clench.

      Unfortunately, he had devoted the past month to avoiding society. Unless he wished others to suspect he was cowardly hiding from his supposed friends and acquaintances, he had no choice but to force himself to return to his previous routine.

      Which included an hour at his club, followed by a trip to his tailor and then on to Tattersall’s to have a look at the horses to be auctioned.

      Even if it meant he was to attract precisely the sort of sordid attention he detested.

      He tossed aside the unread paper and smoothed his hand down the simply tied cravat that he had matched with a pale blue jacket and ivory waistcoat, his brooding gaze trained on the tip of his glossy boot.

      Was it any wonder he was in a foul mood?

      And he knew entirely where to lay the blame.

      His aggravating wife.

      His jaw tightened. Dammit. He had sent her to Devonshire to ensure she understood that she would never again be allowed to manipulate him. He would be the master of their relationship, and she would learn to be an obedient wife or she would suffer the consequences.

      But after waiting day after day for a message from his suitably chastised bride, pleading to be allowed to return to London, he found his temper fraying at her stubborn lack of communication.

      What the devil was the matter with the chit?

      Surely she must be anxious to return to her precious society so she could flaunt her newfound position as the Countess of Ashcombe? For an ambitious female, being trapped in the country should be a fate worse than death.

      And yet, his housekeeper had written several letters revealing that Talia had swiftly become a favorite among both his staff and tenants. Indeed, Mrs. Donaldson had gushed with monotonous enthusiasm for the newest Countess of Ashcombe, assuring him that Talia had settled nicely at the estate and revealed no desire whatsoever to return to London.

      Or to her husband.

      So the question was—what game was his bride playing now?

      The more cynical side of him insisted that Talia was merely biding her time in an effort to lure him into complacency, and yet, he could not entirely believe such a simple explanation. His tenants might not be well educated, but they were keen judges of character. They would have