Nothing But Deception. Allegra Gray

      The two ladies rose as quietly as possible, glancing around first to ensure no one saw them extracting themselves from the bushes. Their slippers made little noise as they hurried down the path Charity indicated.

      “There,” Bea whispered. Though greenery obscured the view, she could hear the low voices of men, speaking in French. Excitement rushed to her head. Their choice of language, their studied movements—just shy of furtive—all but confirmed she’d interpreted the note correctly. Or mostly so. It had been setting up a rendezvous. Just not a romantic one. She pulled Charity into a small enclave to wait once more.

      “My French is abominable,” Charity whispered. “I can’t make out anything they’re saying.”

      Bea held a finger to her lips, straining to hear. Her French was fine, but the men’s low voices made it difficult. Clearly they’d no desire to be overheard—or recognized—which made Bea more determined than ever.

      “Elle est en retard,” one of them murmured. She is late. Bea closed her eyes, focused only on translating.

      “Do you think she’ll come? She hasn’t been discovered, has she?”

      “It matters not. We cannot wait. The ship leaves tomorrow. Any reports must be on board.”

      The first man murmured something Bea couldn’t make out, and the second dropped his voice as well. She continued to strain her ears, making out a phrase or two whenever the intensity of the discussion rose. What she heard did nothing to settle her unease.

      As the conversation wore on, Bea could sense Charity’s frustration. Finally, the men dispersed, one disappearing into the overgrown paths while the other headed back toward the pavilions.

      Bea placed a hand on Charity’s sleeve, signaling she wanted to wait until both were out of sight before emerging themselves.

      “Bea,” Charity said hesitantly, once they were back on the main path, “I could be wrong here, and I hope I am, but did those men strike you as, well, sinister?”

      Charity’s French may have been terrible, but her intuition worked just fine. “In what way?” Bea asked, wanting to hear her friend’s thoughts before solidifying her own.

      “Here are two men, missing their third, a woman perhaps, who meet in secret, communicate in code when writing, and are, presumably, French. I could not follow their conversation, but I know it was not about pastries, or the superiority of French wines. I caught the term ‘Congress,’ and ‘Emperor,’ and I have read, and heard, enough of the news to know war is looming once more.”

      “Yes.” Bea pressed her lips together and gave a slow nod. The “Congress” the men had referred to was the Congress of Vienna—the group of ambassadors whose countries were dedicated to ending the second reign of Napoleon Bonaparte.

      “I share your concern,” Bea told her in a hushed voice, suddenly uncomfortable in her surroundings, “but let us wait until we return to my carriage to discuss it any further.” She had the feeling she and Charity had just wandered into an intrigue far more grave than she’d anticipated. She only hoped their presence in the gardens had gone unnoticed.

      Once they were safely enclosed in the carriage, Charity said, “I know you understood more of that than I did. Be honest with me. Were they spies?”

      Bea hesitated. “It is possible.”

      “One of them seemed familiar.” Charity frowned and shook her head. “The shorter one. But I can’t place where I’ve seen him.”

      “Do try and remember,” Bea urged.

      The younger woman thought, then shook her head again. “I can’t. What do you think we should do?” Charity tugged at a carefully arranged curl, worry evident in her tone.

      Bea closed her eyes, her thoughts muddled. In matters like this, she was as inexperienced as her companion. “I suppose we could approach the authorities. The Foreign Office, maybe? Or the War Office? But what would we tell them? Oh, Charity, I’m so very sorry to have dragged you into this.”

      “Don’t fret so,” Charity reassured her. “We’re both unharmed. We simply need to decide what action to take. Do you still have that note?”

      “Yes. At my house. I can show you.” She tapped on the window, then redirected the driver not to drop off Charity first.

      When they reached Bea’s house, she went once more to the desk, pulled the note from its drawer, and handed it to Charity, who stared at it, the tip of her tongue visible between her lips as she struggled with the translation.

      “I cannot believe you not only read this, but discovered a whole second meaning.”

      Bea took back the paper. It seemed heavier in her hand now than it had when she’d thought it merely a lovers’ clever game. But this was no ordinary missive…some mischief was afoot.

      Somehow, she had been the accidental recipient of a note written in French, and in code. And tonight had provided ample evidence that while French was often considered the language of romance, in this case, it was the language of war.

      News of Napoleon Bonaparte’s escape from exile, followed by his march to Paris, had flooded the papers for the past weeks. If there was even the remotest relationship between those events and the slip of paper she held, or the conversation she’d witnessed tonight, the implications were more than she could comprehend.

      Bea could pretend it had never happened, pretend she hadn’t been intelligent enough to discern anything beyond a discussion of gardening in the note. But that would make her both dishonest and disloyal.

      No. “We need to take this note to someone who will know what to do with it.”

      “Who?” Charity asked.

      A good question. Who could she trust?

      Philippe? She gave a half laugh. Simply because the letter was in French, she’d thought of him first. Or perhaps he was already at the forefront of her mind. Her body stirred at the mere memory of the last time they’d met, the way they’d kissed.

      But in truth, she did not know the charming French painter well enough to engage him in a political game of intrigue and subterfuge.

      “You mentioned the Foreign Office,” Charity prompted.

      “True. But how does one go about reporting such a matter? If it is what we think, we cannot simply arrive at their offices and reveal everything to the first person who opens the door.”

      “They might not take you seriously. But if you enlist the support of someone they respect…Bea, could you take the letter to Alex?”

      Of course. “Charity, that’s perfect.”

      Elizabeth’s husband would know what to do, and his title and connections gave him the power to take any necessary action. Relief flooded her. Bea may have stepped into the middle of an intrigue, but she had no desire to remain mired in it. One taste had been enough.

      One taste of the smooth French painter, however, had not been enough. Beatrice could not stop thinking about him.

      Their last parting had been awkward, true. Upon returning to Montgrave from the abandoned rose garden, the tension between Bea and Philippe had been palpable. Though if their “chaperone” had noticed it, she’d mercifully chosen not to mention it. Instead, the duchess had claimed a full recovery from her earlier ailment—no surprise to either Philippe or Bea—and filled the ride home with pleasant but meaningless prattle. She was thrilled to hear they’d chosen a site on Montgrave for the painting, and Bea was relieved to let her steer the conversation.

      Philippe had been characteristically enigmatic—answering questions about his work with enthusiasm, but leaving Bea to wonder if the same chaotic emotions she was feeling seethed under that charming façade. But perhaps he’d not been so affected.

      The only hint at his feelings came in the fact that he’d insisted