She gave a curtsy, and he bowed. “Excuse me.”
He would return to collect her at the beginning of the next set. That would allow her a few minutes to think of a strategy.
“Do not mention the codes,” Lady Ravensgate said in a hushed voice, though Collette had not asked for advice. “Lead him to the topic, but you should not give any indication you know anything about them.”
“Of course.” She had danced with dozens of men and initiated dozens of conversations she hoped would lead to the information she needed. Lady Ravensgate’s tutelage had been wholly ineffective thus far. She always told Collette not to mention the codes. Her only other piece of advice seemed to be—
“And do not mention your father.”
Collette nodded stiffly. That was the other. As though she needed to be told not to mention a known French assassin to a member of Britain’s Foreign Office. What might have been more helpful were suggestions for encouraging the man to speak of his service during the recent war with Napoleon. Few of the men she had danced with had wanted to discuss the war or their experiences in it. The few she had managed to pry war stories from did not know anything about how the British had cracked the French secret code. And they seemed to know even less about the code the British used to encrypt their own messages.
But she had learned enough to believe that Draven ranked high enough that he would have access to the codes Britain used to encrypt their missives. It had taken a month, but she would finally speak with the man who had what she needed.
She watched the dancers on the floor turn and walk, link arms and turn again. The ladies’ dresses belled as they moved, their gloved wrists sparkling in the light of the chandeliers. They laughed, a tinkling carefree sound that carried over the strains of violin and cello. Not so long ago, Collette had danced just as blithely. Paris in the time of Napoleon had been the center of French society, and her father had been invited to every fete, every soiree.
He hadn’t attended many—after all, he made people nervous—but when he was required to attend, he brought Collette as his escort. She couldn’t have known that, a few years later, she would be doing those same dances in an effort to save his life.
The dance ended and Collette admired the fair-skinned English beauties as they promenaded past her. She had olive-toned skin and dark hair, her figure too curvaceous for the current fashions. Then Draven was before her, hand extended. With a quick look at Lady Ravensgate—that snake in the grass—Collette took his hand and allowed herself to be led to the center of the dance floor. The orchestra began to play a quadrille, and she curtsied to the other dancers in their square. She and Draven danced first, passing the couple opposite as they made their way from one side of the square to the other and back again.
Finally, she and Draven stood while the waiting couples danced, and she knew this was her chance. Before she could speak, Draven nodded to her. “How do you like the dance?”
She’d been unprepared for the question, and the only English response she could think of was Hedgehog mating rituals are prolonged affairs in which the male and female circle one another. In truth, the dance did seem like a mating ritual of sorts, but unless she wanted to shock the man, she had to find another comparison.
More importantly, she did not have much time to steer the conversation in the direction she needed. She had not answered yet, and he looked at her curiously. Collette cleared her throat.
“The dance does not remind me of hedgehogs.”
His eyes widened.
Merde! Imbécile!
“Oh, that is not right,” she said quickly. “Sometimes my words are not correct. I meant…what is the word…soldiers? Yes? The dancers remind me of soldiers as they fight in battle.”
She blew out a breath. Draven was looking at her as though she were mad, and she did not blame him.
“You fought in the war, no?”
“I did, yes.”
“I live in the countryside with my parents, far from any battles.”
“That is most fortunate.” His gaze returned to the dancers.
“Did you lead soldiers into battle?” she asked. Most men puffed right up at the opportunity to discuss their own bravery.
“At times. But much of my work was done far from the battle lines.”
Just her luck—a modest man.
She knew it was dangerous to press further. A Frenchwoman in England should know better than to bring up the recent war between the two countries, but her father’s freedom was at stake. She could not give up yet.
“And what sort of work did you do behind the lines? I imagine you wrote letters and intercepted missives. Oh, but, sir, were you a spy?” Her voice sounded breathless, and it was not an affectation. She was breathless with nerves.
Draven flicked her a glance. “Nothing so exciting, mademoiselle. In fact, were I to tell you of my experiences, you would probably fall asleep. Ah, it is our turn again.” And they circled each other and then she met with him only briefly as they came together, separated, and parted again performing the various forms.
When he led her from the dance floor, escorting her back to Lady Ravensgate, she tried once again to engage him in conversation, but he deftly turned the topic back to the rainy weather they’d had. Lady Ravensgate must have seen the defeat on Collette’s face because as soon as they reached her, she began to chatter. “Lieutenant Colonel, do tell me your opinion on Caroline Lamb’s book. Is Glenarvon too scandalous for my dear cousin?”
Draven bowed stiffly. “I could not say, my lady, as I have not read it. If you will permit me, I see someone I must speak with.” And even before he’d been given leave, he was gone.
“I take it things did not go well,” Lady Ravensgate muttered.
“No.”
The lady sighed in disgust, and not for the first time Collette wondered whose side her “cousin” was on. She’d claimed to be an old friend of her father’s, but might she be more of a friend to Louis XVIII and the Bourbons who had imprisoned Collette’s father?
“Poor, poor Monsieur Fortier,” Lady Ravensgate said.
Collette turned to her, cheeks burning. “Do not bemoan him yet, madam. I will free my father. Mark my words. I will free him, even if it’s the last thing I do.”
She knew better than anyone that love demanded sacrifice.
*
Rafe Alexander Frederick Beaumont, youngest of the eight offspring of the Earl and Countess of Haddington, had often been called Rafe the Forgotten in his youth. He’d had such an easygoing, cheerful personality that he was easy to forget. He didn’t cry to be fed, didn’t fuss at naptime, and was content to be carried around until almost eighteen months of age when he finally took his first steps.
Once, the family went to a park for a picnic, and Rafe, having fallen asleep in the coach on the ride, was forgotten in the carriage for almost two hours. When the frantic nanny returned, she found the toddler happily babbling to himself and playing with his toes. When Rafe was three, he had gone with his older brothers and sisters on a walk at the family’s country estate. It wasn’t until bedtime, when the nanny came to tuck all the children in for the night, that the family realized Rafe was not in bed. He’d been found in the stables sleeping with a new litter of puppies.
In fact, no one could recall Rafe ever crying or fussing. Except once. And no one wanted to mention the day the countess had run off, leaving four-year-old Rafe alone and bereft.