when he would ask her to marry him—when, not if he would do so. She had no doubt that his intentions were honorable. She knew he loved her as she loved him.
Simon had been courting her for six weeks. Then one day, the stableman hurried to the manor and announced that William Grenville was dead. He had been found on the cliffs, his neck broken, obviously having fallen from his horse. The family was in mourning.
Amelia had been stunned. She had met Will several times, and he had been everything the earl’s heir should be—noble, upright, handsome, charming. And Simon adored him, she knew that, as well. He spoke of him often, and so highly.
She had rushed to St. Just Hall to tell Simon in person how sorry she was. But the family was not receiving; she had written a hasty note and left it with a servant.
He did not reply. A few days later there was more stunning news—the family had left Cornwall. And Simon had left with them.
He did not write.
And he did not return.
Amelia realized she was standing by the open window, her feet bare, in just a nightgown. Somehow, a tear had arisen and was slipping down her cheek. She shivered.
He hadn’t ever truly loved her. His behavior that summer was entirely reprehensible. She wiped the tear away. Impossibly, she felt raw and bruised. Was she still hurt, after all these years?
And in that moment, she recalled her father. He had been a rake and a rogue, she knew that now, although she had not known it when she was a child. Amelia had adored her handsome, dashing father, and he had loved Amelia. He had said so, time and again. He had taken her with him when he made his rounds of the tenant farms, and lavishly praised her for every small accomplishment. And then one day, he was gone. He had left her mother and his children for the gaming halls and fallen women of Amsterdam and Paris.
Amelia had been seven years old when Papa had left them. She had been certain he would come back. It had taken her years to realize that he wasn’t ever returning.
But she had known almost immediately that Simon was never coming back. He had left without a word, he hadn’t really loved her.
Papa’s betrayal had bewildered her. Simon’s betrayal was crushing.
A year later, he had married the Lambert heiress. She had not been surprised....
Amelia stared out to sea. From where she stood, she could see the night-clad, shimmering waters of the Atlantic Ocean. Only a very naive, very young, very innocent girl would have ever believed, even for a moment, that St. Just’s son, heir or not, would ever be genuinely interested in her. She could blame him for pursuing her and nearly seducing her, but she had only herself to blame for the folly of falling in love, and then having her heart broken.
Well, there was good news. She wasn’t a trusting young girl anymore. She knew better. Grenville was not for her. He might arouse her and attract her, but it was not to be. He was grieving now; he had lost his wife. She was his neighbor, nothing more. If she could help his children, she was happy to do so. She even wished to help him, for the past was forgiven. But there would not be anything personal between them.
She had learned her lesson a very long time ago.
Amelia did not feel better. There was simply too much tension within her—and too many unanswered questions.
* * *
THEY WERE COMING FOR HIM.
He heard the soft, steady footfalls and he was terrified. He clutched the bars of his cell, certain that there would be no escape this time. He had been caught. He was on the list of the damned. He was going to the guillotine....
And ghastly images flashed, of the innocents he had seen kneeling before the guillotine, some in hysterics, others silent and stoic, and then of his friend, just days ago, who had told the crowd as he marched up those bloody stairs, “Don’t forget to show my head to the people!” The bloodthirsty crowd had cheered but he had wanted to weep, except he did not dare, as Lafleur was with him, watching him closely for a sign of weakness....
He cried out, because Will was there, going up those soaking wet steps. He screamed.
The huge iron blade came down. Blood rained, filling his vision, as the child wailed.
Simon Grenville sat bolt upright, panting and covered with sweat. He was on the sofa in the sitting room of his private apartments, not standing with the roaring crowd at La Place de la Révolution—a place Will had never been!
Simon groaned, his temples hammering, as the child wailed even louder. He realized his face was covered with tears and he used his sleeve to wipe his cheeks. Then he rushed to the chamber pot to vomit helplessly, mostly the scotch whiskey he’d been drinking since the funeral yesterday.
When would the nightmares stop? He had been incarcerated for three months and six days; he had been released in time to attend Danton’s trial, as he had prepared to leave Paris for London. In the last year, Georges Danton had become a moderate and a voice of reason, but that had only incited Robespierre, and it had, in the end, ensured his bloody death.
He did not want to recall standing helplessly in the crowd, pretending to applaud the execution, when he was so sickened he could barely prevent himself from retching.
Afterward, the Jacobin had bought him a glass of wine at a nearby inn, telling him how pleased he was that “Henri Jourdan” was departing for London. The timing could not be better, he said. The Allied line ran west to east from Ypres to Valenciennes and then to the Meuse River, Namur and Trier. The French were expecting an invasion of Belgium, soon. And Lafleur had slipped a list into his hand. “These are your London contacts.”
Simon had gone back to his flat for the very last time—only to find one of Warlock’s couriers there. For one moment, he had thought he had been uncovered, but instead, he had been told that his wife was dead....
Simon stood unsteadily—he was still very foxed. And that suited him very well. He walked over to a handsome sideboard and poured another scotch. The baby kept crying and he cursed.
He had enough problems without that damned child. He hated that bastard, but not as much as he hated himself.
But he had escaped the guillotine. How many French political prisoners could claim that?
He thought of his relations in Lyons, none of whom he’d ever met, all of whom were now deceased, a part of the vengeance wreaked upon Lyons when le Comité had ordered the rebel city destroyed. His cousin, the true Henri Jourdan, was among the dead.
He was acutely aware he was on a tightrope.
One misstep and he would fall, either into the clutches of his French masters or those of Warlock.
The Earl of St. Just was well-known. When he met with his Jacobin contacts, he would have to be very careful that no one would recognize him. He would have to manage some sort of disguise—a growth of beard, his natural hair, impoverished clothes. Perhaps he could even use chalk or lime to add a false scar to his face.
His stomach churned anew. If Lafleur ever learned he was Simon Grenville, not Henri Jourdan, he would be in imminent danger—and so would his sons.
He had no delusions about the lengths to which the radicals would go. He had seen
