The Wallflowers To Wives Collection. Bronwyn Scott

conquered. Crossed.’ She drew an idle design on his chest. ‘You, Jonathon, are my Rubicon.’

      ‘And you are mine,’ he murmured, feeling sleep come to claim him. There would be no going back. Tonight changed everything. What came next wouldn’t be easy but he wouldn’t have it any other way.

      * * *

      ‘Come with me.’ His words were soft in the darkness as he shook her awake. Claire burrowed under the cocoon of blankets in sleepy resistance.

      ‘Where?’ The night which had seemed so luxuriously long was fleeing by the moment, pushed away by the encroaching cold light of dawn. If she opened her eyes, she could see it through the crack in the curtains. If she listened carefully enough, she could hear it in the faint cries of the milkmaids in the streets. She didn’t want to do either. She wanted to hold on to the night, hold on to him and the idea that last night changed everything, made everything possible when in reality it changed nothing. She would remember that once she woke up.

      ‘To meet the informant. He’s downstairs.’ His fingers plucked at the blankets, urging her out of bed, urging haste.

      Her sleepy brain was starting to wake up and register certain facts. Jonathon was already dressed. He’d already been downstairs. He had come back for her, waited, even though she could see tension in the tightness of his mouth, of his smile as he mustered the patience for her to dress. This was important to him and, because he’d asked her to share in it, it was important to her as well. Today, he was relying on her strength. She offered him a confident smile as she stepped from behind the dressing screen and took his hand. ‘Whatever happens downstairs, we’ll see it through together.’

      The private parlour was set up for breakfast with a platter of eggs and sausages and basket of rolls along with a pot of coffee. Delicious though it smelled, Claire doubted anyone would be eating. Jonathon went through the motions of filling a plate he wouldn’t likely touch. ‘Best not to let the man think we’re nervous.’ He nodded towards the platters, indicating she should make a plate, too.

      ‘I don’t know why I’m anxious. We’ve had our hopes up before. This isn’t the first claim.’ Jonathon buttered his toast and she recognised his need to talk, his need to keep busy.

      She brought her plate to the table and sat. ‘Tell me about it.’

      ‘Well, the first time was four months after Waterloo. We received a ransom note. I was too weak to travel to France and check the validity of the claim. Owen Danvers checked for us and it turned out to be a fraud. The second time, however—’ He broke off, his eyes moving over her shoulder to a point by the door. He rose hastily, brushing the toast crumbs from his hands. ‘He’s here, Claire.’

      The man in question was wiry in build, with dark hair and strong Gallic features in his sallow face. ‘Je regrette, monsieur,’ he began in heavy French, clasping Jonathon’s hand as he explained how the tide had not allowed the ship to dock, how they’d had to be rowed in from quite a distance. ‘I would have been here before dawn, otherwise.’

      The man had no English. Claire glanced at Jonathon. His features were tight with concentration as he made his response.

      ‘Il n’y a rien.’ He gestured to a chair at the table, continuing in French. ‘Please, come and sit. Eat. There are fresh rolls. You must be tired.’ The man shuffled forward, eyes darting towards her. He was as suspicious, perhaps as anxious, as Jonathon was.

      ‘This is my wife, Claire.’ Jonathon hadn’t even hesitated over the declaration. Claire felt herself flush. The man seemed to relax. Perhaps it was a good sign that he, too, was nervous.

      The man sat and buttered a roll. ‘I have travelled a long way,’ he began, his dark eyes narrow and assessing as they watched Jonathon.

      Jonathon nodded, his own features hard. ‘Owen Danvers tells me you have news that is worth the journey.’ This was the diplomat, the negotiator coming out—the man who could create polite, veiled messages. Even more impressive was watching him do it in French. This was one more side of Jonathon she’d yet to see in action.

      Jonathon reached inside his coat pocket and pulled out a money clip. He slid the money on to the table between them, an indication of what the journey was worth. A reminder, too, that the man was being paid well. No favours were being done here, this was business.

      The man eyed the money clip. ‘Danvers promised me more than that.’

      ‘He did,’ Jonathon agreed easily. ‘There will be more when we hear what you have to say. Neither Danvers nor I am paying for lies.’ Claire’s gaze slid between the two men.

      The man held up his hands in assent. ‘I deal only in truths. I will tell you what I know,’ he said in affronted French, accompanied by a sneer at the insult. ‘There was a wounded man who was taken in and nursed at one of the farms on the Lys River. He was there for some time, I’m told—’

      ‘Attendez!’ Jonathon interrupted, the sharpness of his tone taking Claire by surprise. ‘You were told? Your information is not first-hand?’

      ‘Non, monsieur. I am the messenger only.’

      ‘Why should I believe you?’

      The man’s gaze held Jonathon’s. ‘Because I have this, monsieur.’ He took a small object from his coat pocket and pushed it across the table. Claire strained to see the item.

      ‘Thomas’s ring.’ Jonathon reached for it, visibly paling as he held up the thick gold circle set with an emerald. ‘It was from our grandfather,’ he explained, his eyes touching hers. But his shock was fleeting. He was terse when he turned his attentions back to the informant. ‘Rings fall off, are lost in the mud, sometimes for years. Rings are also stolen, perhaps pried off the hands of unconscious soldiers. This is proof that someone, somewhere, encountered Thomas, nothing more.’

      The informant was undeterred. He reached inside his pocket. ‘There is also this.’ He placed a polished seashell on the table, a trinket of no value and yet Claire would have sworn she heard a moan escape Jonathon. He took the shell in gentle fingers, treating it like the most delicate of objects.

      ‘No one would bother to steal a seashell,’ the Frenchman said softly. ‘Vous comprenez?’

      Claire swallowed hard against the lump in her throat. The shell meant Jonathon could no longer argue the items were stolen and merely passed along. A seashell had no value except to the person who possessed it.

      ‘Our family went to the seashore one summer,’ he said softly to her in French, perhaps for the informant’s benefit. ‘We stayed with an old friend of my father’s. Thomas and I played on the beach every day. We were only eight or nine and he cried the day we had to leave. He loved the ocean so much.’ Jonathon paused, his throat working fiercely against the emotion of memory. She wanted to go to him and wrap him in her arms, but he would not want to be made vulnerable in front of this stranger who held so much power in these moments.

      ‘My father threatened to thrash him if he didn’t stop his crying. I slipped him this seashell when Father wasn’t looking. I’d found it on the beach our last morning there and I’d polished it up. I told him it was lucky. He carried it everywhere with him.’ Even to war. Even to death. Claire knew what he was thinking and it broke her heart. She would spare him this pain if she could.

      The informant smiled kindly, the first friendly expression Claire had seen him give. ‘It is a good story, monsieur. You and your brother were close.’

      Jonathon gathered his self-control. ‘How did you or your master come by these things?’

      ‘My master owned the farm where this man was nursed. They became friends during his convalescence. The man...’

      ‘Not the man,’ Jonathon corrected. ‘Thomas. The man has a name.’

      ‘Très bien. Thomas recovered from his wounds, which was no small accomplishment. He’d been shot several times. He was suffering from fever when his horse wandered on to our farm.