The Duke Is Mine
Page 60

Olivia considered that for a moment, then she shrugged. “We are at war. We have been at war for some time. We’re still at war. I need to get to Rupert. I’m sure that any French soldiers I meet will understand.”
Her sister groaned. “You haven’t been reading the newspapers, have you?”
“Would it surprise you to hear that the answer is no?” The footmen had left, and the bath was ready. Olivia tore off her wrapper again. “If your sensibilities are going to be offended by my state of undress, Georgie, you had better leave now.”
“You have nothing I don’t have,” her sister said, dropping onto a stool to the side of the bath.
“I just have more of it,” Olivia murmured, poking a toe into the steaming water.
“You cannot take such a quixotic trip across the Channel,” Georgiana insisted. “You haven’t the faintest idea of the peril.”
“I can live with the uncertainty,” Olivia said. “Norah, will you please wash my hair as quickly as humanly possible?”
“Yes, miss,” Nora said, tackling Olivia’s hair as if it were a bundle of laundry.
“Since you do know all the danger and you read the newspapers, Georgie, you’d better tell me everything I absolutely have to know.”
Her sister started to protest, but Olivia held up her hand. “You’ve known me longer than anyone else in the world. Do you really imagine that I would leave Rupert to die in some hut on the coast of France? Alone? I may not have wanted to marry him, but I am fond of him. In an odd way, I truly respect him.”
There was a moment of silence, but for Norah’s splashing.
“He is not your fiancé anymore,” Georgiana said. But her voice betrayed the fact that she knew she couldn’t win.
Olivia shook her head. “Stop.”
“Then I am going with you.”
“No, you certainly are not. Just how perilous is it to land on the French shore, anyway?” Olivia soaped an arm while she waited for an answer.
“According to the newspapers, French soldiers are constantly patrolling the beaches, looking for an invasion force and also for smugglers. You could be captured.”
“Why on earth would they want to capture me?”
Her sister stared at her. “Do I really need to spell out what soldiers are capable of doing to women, Olivia?”
“Ravished by a Frenchman,” Olivia said lightly. “There are those who pay for the privilege.”
Georgiana gasped. “How can you respond with—with a vulgarity to such a terrible prospect?”
“I do not mean to belittle the terribleness of such an event, Georgie. But if I have learned anything during my betrothal to Rupert, it is that dwelling on the worst possibilities is not helpful. Therefore, I choose to picture any French soldier I might encounter as seductive and gallant.” She spoke the last word using the French pronunciation, and considered. “Perhaps with a mustache that curls at the edges.”
“I will never understand you! Just how gallant will those soldiers be if they believe you to be a spy?”
“A spy? Me? I look nothing like a spy.”
“Who knows what a spy looks like? I have a definite understanding that there are women engaged in that business. I wonder if you’re even allowed to ransom spies the way you can officers.”
“Thank goodness you read the paper so assiduously,” Olivia said. “Perhaps you can find out the answer to that question before my need becomes pressing.” She stood up, letting the water sluice from her. “Norah, I’m sure you’ve gathered that I will need a small travelling bag.”
“I will accompany you to France, miss,” Norah said stoutly. “You will need someone to dress you, even in a French prison.”
Olivia’s smile included her maid and sister. “Neither of you is coming with me.”
“You cannot go alone!” Georgiana protested. Then: “Oh.”
“Exactly.”
“You must send the duke a note now if you intend to leave immediately,” Georgiana said. “Asking him to accompany you.” She moved toward the little writing desk in the corner.
“I am quite certain that the duke is already preparing for the journey,” Olivia said calmly. “Thank you, Norah, that is a perfect choice for travelling. Doubtless all the best spies wear dark plum.”
“It will blend with the night,” the little maid said, her voice squeaking with excitement.
Georgiana shook her head. “How do you know that His Grace is prepared? May I remind you, Olivia, that you met Sconce all of four days ago?”
Olivia grinned at her. “That man longs to serve the nation; if being a spy will allow him to, he’ll be a spy. He positively writhed with jealousy at the idea of Rupert’s going to war. He’ll accompany me.”
“And what will the dowager say to that?”
Norah shivered. “They do say below-stairs that the duke generally does whatever Her Grace demands.”
“She will not be happy,” Georgiana persisted.
“I would venture to say that unhappy doesn’t approach her feelings on the subject,” Olivia said, considering the matter. “But there’s this to be said about it: If Quin stays in England because of his mother’s objections, then he is not a man whom I wish to marry.”
“A test?” Georgiana asked, her tone rather dubious.
Olivia nodded. “Do you remember that old story of the lady who was decreed to be a real princess because a pea had been hidden under her mattress? Well, this is my version. No prince is real if he obeys his mother.”
“Rather than his fiancée?” Georgiana asked.
“Rather than the spirit of adventure!”
Twenty-five
The Matter of a Parental Blessing
Quin was in his gunroom, assessing the rather extraordinary number of weapons collected by his forebears. In the end, after careful consideration of what lay ahead, he chose a pair of small but deadly Italian pocket pistols.
“I trust these have been oiled recently?” he asked Cleese.
“Absolutely, Your Grace.”
Quin handed Cleese the pistols and watched absentmindedly as the butler wrapped them tenderly in a fold of flannel and replaced them in a specially made case emblazoned with the Sconce coat of arms.
One duke upstairs, dead to the world.
The heir to that dukedom on a beach in France, dead—or very nearly so.
He felt as though he were living in a novel, the kind with an improbable plot and histrionic characters. At any moment a piece of armor or something equally preposterous would fall from the sky.
“We’ll take a boat from Dover,” he told Cleese, watching him pack bags of powder and shot in the case. “Send a footman ahead to engage the best captain and vessel available. We’ll anchor offshore and take a rowboat with muffled oars under cover of dark. With any luck, the marquess will be on English soil by tomorrow night.”
“I trust that will be the case,” Cleese said, looking as unconvinced as Quin felt.
The door popped open. “There you are!”
Quin looked up, and felt a surge of emotion so strong that he was dizzy. Olivia was dressed for travel. In the crisis, he had forgotten how beautiful she was: those green eyes, the color of sea glass, the mouth that was made for kissing. “Are you nearly ready?” she asked.