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 children sent to the guillotine, because their fathers were disloyal to La Patrie. Last fall, an assassin had tried to murder Bedford, right outside his own house. In January, an attempt had been made on the War Secretary, as he was getting into his carriage outside of the Parliament. There were émigrés in Britain now who were in hiding, fearing for their lives. Why should he think his sons safe?
Everyone knew that London was filled with agents and spies, and soon it would have another one.
The reach of the Terror was vast. The vengeful serpent was inside Great Britain now.
Simon downed half the whiskey. He did not know how long he could play this double-edged game without losing his own head. Lafleur wanted information about the Allied war effort as swiftly as possible—before the anticipated invasion of Flanders. And that meant he would have to return to London immediately, as he would not learn any valuable state secrets in Cornwall.
But he was a patriot. He had to be very careful not to give away any information that was truly important for the Allied war effort. And at the very same time, Warlock wanted him to uncover what French secrets he could. He might even want Simon to return to Paris. It was a tightrope, indeed. But in the end, he would do what he had to do—because he was determined to protect his sons. He would give up the state for them; he would die for them if need be.
The baby cried again.
And he simply snapped. He threw the glass at the wall, where it shattered. Damn Elizabeth, for leaving him with her bastard! And then he covered his face with his hands.
And he began to cry. He wept for his sons, because they had loved their mother and they needed her still. He wept for Danton and all of his relations who had been victims of le Razor. He wept for those he did not know—rebels and royalists, nobles and priests, old men, women and children...the rich and the poor, for these days, it was guilt by suspicion or just association, and the poor wound up without their heads as well, when they were as innocent as his sons.... And he supposed he even cried for that damned bastard child, because she had nothing and no one at all—just like him.
And then he laughed through his tears. The bastard had Amelia Greystone.
Why had she come to the service, damn it! Why had she barged into his home? Why hadn’t she changed at all? Damn her! So much had changed. He had changed. He didn’t even recognize himself anymore!
He cursed Amelia again and again, because he lived in darkness and fear, and he knew that there was no way out and that the light she offered was an illusion.
* * *
“AMELIA, DEAR, WHY are you packing up my clothing?”
Two days had passed since the funeral. Amelia had never been as preoccupied. As she prepared to close up the house, her mind kept straying from the tasks at hand. Frankly, she had been worrying about Grenville’s children ever since the funeral. She was going to have to call upon them and make certain that all was well.
She smiled at Momma, who was lucid now. They were standing in the center of her small, bare bedchamber, a single window looking out over the muddy front lawns. “We are going to spend the spring in town,” she said cheerfully. But she wasn’t truly cheerful. She realized she was reluctant to leave Cornwall now. She would not be able to offer comfort to those children if she were miles and miles away.
Garrett’s heavy footfall sounded in the corridor outside of Momma’s bedchamber. Amelia paused as the heavyset manservant appeared on the threshold of the room. “You have a caller, Miss Greystone. It is Mrs. Murdock, from St. Just Hall.”
Amelia’s heart lurched. “Momma, wait here! Is anything wrong?” she cried, already dashing past the Scot and racing down the hall.
“She seems rather distressed,” Garrett called after her. He did not follow her as he knew his duty well; Momma was almost never left alone.
The gray-haired governess was pacing in the great hall, back and forth past the two red-velvet chairs that faced the vast stone hearth. A huge tapestry was hanging on an adjacent wall, over a long, narrow wooden bench with carved legs. The floors were stone, and covered with old rugs. But a new, very beautiful, gleaming piano was in one corner of the room, surrounded by six equally new chairs with gilded legs and gold seats. The instrument and the chairs were a gift from the dowager Countess of Bedford, recently given to Julianne.
Mrs. Murdock did not have anyone with her.
Amelia realized she had secretly hoped that the governess had brought the baby. She dearly wished to see and hold her again. But her disappointment was foolish. The child hardly needed to drive through the chilly Cornish countryside.
“Good day, Mrs. Murdock. This is such a pleasant surprise,” she began, when she wished to demand if anything was amiss.
Mrs. Murdock hurried toward her as Amelia left the stairs, and tears quickly arose. “Oh, Miss Greystone, I am at a loss, we all are!” she cried. She seized Amelia’s hands.
“What has happened?” Amelia said with dread.
“St. Just Hall is in a state,” she declared, her second chin wobbling. “We cannot get on!”
Amelia put her arm around her and realized she was trembling, she was that agitated. “Come, sit down and tell me what is wrong,” she said soothingly.
“The baby cries day in and day out. She is hardly nursing now! The boys have decided to do as they please—they are running wild! They will not attend the classroom, they defy Signor Barelli, they are running about the grounds, as ill-mannered as street urchins. Yesterday Lord William took a hack out—by himself—and he was gone for hours and hours! And we could not find John—as it turned out, he had gone into the attics and hid!” She started to cry. “If they did not need me so, I would leave such a horrid place.”
She hadn’t said a word about Grenville. “The boys are surely grieving. They are good boys, I saw that, they will soon stop misbehaving.” Amelia meant her every word.
