Nothing But Deception. Allegra Gray

The travel-worn messenger slouched in his chair.

      “C’est impossible.”

      “They are very determined, monsieur.”

      “Indeed.”

      “The French are gathering as well. Since the Fifth and Seventh Regiments returned their loyalty to Bonaparte, several thousand more have joined him, including Marshal Ney.”

      This, Richard already knew. The enthusiasm of the French army was encouraging. Their numbers were not.

      “Merci,” Richard said. “The information is timely, and useful. I cannot say when, or if, you will be contacted again. We will not meet here again.” He slipped the man a purse, and watched him dissolve into the night.

      Six hundred thousand men. Emperor Napoleon had no hope of countering a force so great. Even a fraction of that would prove difficult. How much support did he have within his own army? Would the remaining regiments join his cause, and how hard would they fight? They were battle-hardened, yes, but weary of political unrest. How far would they go for him?

      Richard stood, pulled his hat brim even lower, and began walking. He’d exited his carriage several blocks away, then instructed his driver to wait. Though he did his best to hire loyal servants, it was prudent in some cases to prevent anyone from knowing exactly where, and with whom, he’d met.

      Though the evening was brisk, he kept his pace measured, using the time to think.

      Napoleon could do so much—had already done so much—for France. Far more than the weak-willed Bourbons.

      If his army could not count on brute strength, they would need to gain an advantage by other means. Years of watching the self-appointed Emperor in military campaigns had taught Richard that the best advantage came from knowing your enemy. An army of tens could defeat one of thousands, if the smaller force had the advantage of knowing where, when, and how the enemy planned to strike.

      If Richard could provide that kind of information to the French—and if the French were successful in using it—then his own value to the Emperor would increase immeasurably. And his reward…ah, his reward, if nothing else, would be the knowledge that he, Richard, had made it happen. That he was valued, even priceless. The thought made him giddy.

      Of course, it would not be easy. There was no time to slowly blend in, to cultivate new, trusting relationships that could be harvested for gain. He would have to use whoever was already in place.

      He was not a spy by trade, preferring to leave the cloak-and-dagger operations to those who didn’t mind risking discomfort, capture, and even their lives. But he’d spent years building a political network, one populated by men of questionable loyalties and even more questionable morals. No, Richard was not a spy. But he knew spies.

      Chapter 2

      England

       April 1815

      “This is the place, monsieur.”

      Philippe stared up at No. 6 Charles Street. “It looks abandoned.” The home stood on an enviable lot on a street that was clearly home to some of England’s nobility, but the windows were all darkened, with no discernable signs of life.

      The hack driver scratched his head. “Lord Henry Owen, you said?”

      “Yes.”

      “I been driving in this town for many a year, monsieur, and if I may venture to say, I don’t believe Lord Owen spends a great deal of his time in London.”

      Philippe didn’t know whether to feel angry or disappointed. After all, he hadn’t written ahead to announce his visit. Given the way Lord Owen had dispatched his mother, along with any parental duties, he hadn’t known whether his visit would be well received.

      Truth be told, he wasn’t entirely certain of anything about this mad scheme. It was unthinkable that he would ignore his mother’s wish. But what had she hoped to accomplish by sending him here? For that matter, what sort of man was Lord Owen that he avoided London at the height of the Season?

      “A recluse?” Philippe asked.

      The driver shrugged uncomfortably. “Not my place to say, monsieur.”

      “Of course. My apologies.” He shouldn’t have been surprised. From the moment he’d first spied a Gaudet on display in the home of one of his mother’s Parisian friends, he’d been enthralled. Tracking down the artist’s other works had quickly become an obsession, but the artist himself had remained elusive. If Gaudet and Owen were indeed one and the same, the man clearly had an aversion to Society.

      But stranger, and more painful, was the realization that if Owen were actually his father, then his mother, the person with whom Philippe had always been closest, with whom he’d shared everything…she had kept from him the nature of his very birth, let alone a past with a man she must once have loved—leaving Philippe to wonder if he’d ever really known her at all.

      “Will ye be wantin’ me to take ye elsewhere, now?”

      The driver’s question pulled Philippe back to the present.

      “Yes.” Philippe gave him the address of the hotel where he was staying, then climbed back into the coach. As long as he had to come to England, he’d planned to make the trip worthwhile, to build his artistic reputation here as he had at home and in Italy. Painting was his passion, and he thrived on the communities of fellow artists and patrons inspired by love of art. The work itself involved many solitary hours, but Philippe, unlike the artist who’d first inspired him, was far from a recluse.

      Arriving at the hotel, Philippe paid the driver and went to his room to dress for dinner. A respectable establishment, the hotel afforded him greater privacy than staying with any of his London acquaintances. The only downside was the lighting and lack of space. Should he decide to begin a new painting, he’d be hard-pressed to set up a studio at the inn.

      Ah, well. The point was moot.

      As yet, nothing about dreary London had inspired him to pick up a brush.

      Lady Beatrice Pullington smiled as her longtime friend, Elizabeth Bainbridge, entered the comfortable “family” salon of Bea’s London town house. “You’re looking exceptionally well. It’s a wonder Alex doesn’t insist on escorting you everywhere,” she teased.

      Elizabeth, the newly married Duchess of Beaufort, laughed. “He does. He only makes an exception for you.” She settled herself further into the comfortable chaise.

      “What a relief. Having him glower at me would certainly put a damper on our gossip sessions.” Bea poured a cup of tea and passed it to Elizabeth.

      “Come now,” Elizabeth scoffed, a twitch of her lips betraying her merriment. “He hasn’t glowered in months.”

      “Of course not. He’s too enamored of you,” Bea told her sincerely. She might be envious of her friend’s newfound happiness, but that didn’t mean she would see a single ounce of it stripped away, especially knowing all Elizabeth and Alex had endured before learning to love and trust one another. They hadn’t had an easy time of it.

      A happy flush spread over her friend’s complexion. “Actually, Bea, I’ve come to ask a favor.”

      “Anything.”

      “You’ve heard of the painter, Jean Philippe Durand? There is to be a salon tonight held in his honor. The artiste himself is supposed to be present.”

      “Yes, I’d heard.”

      “I promised Charity I would act as her chaperone to the event. She has declared herself madly in love with the Frenchman.”

      It was Bea’s turn to laugh. Charity was Elizabeth’s younger sister, a beautiful blonde who, at eighteen, retained much of the impishness that had marked her childhood. In the midst of her first Season, she had suitors lined up for miles—not that any of them held her attention