Persuasion

Lafleur’s gaze was unwavering.

He did not bother to point out that the gains to be made if he did as he said—move within the highest echelons of Tory London and return to la République with classified information—far outweighed the risk that he might vanish from France never to return.

“I cannot make this kind of decision by myself,” Lafleur finally said. “I will bring you before le Comité, Jourdan, and if you convince them of your worth, you will be spared.”

He did not move.

Lafleur left.

And Simon Grenville collapsed upon the pallet on the floor.

CHAPTER ONE

Greystone Manor, Cornwall

April 4, 1794

GRENVILLE’S WIFE WAS DEAD.

Amelia Greystone stared at her brother, not even seeing him, a stack of plates in her hands.

“Did you hear what I said?” Lucas asked, his gray eyes filled with concern. “Lady Grenville died last night giving birth to an infant daughter.”

His wife was dead.

Amelia was paralyzed. There was news every day about the war or the violence in France—all of it awful, all of it shocking. But she had not expected this.

How could Lady Grenville be dead? She was so elegant, so beautiful—and too young to die!

Amelia could barely think. Lady Grenville had never set foot in St. Just Hall since their marriage ten years ago, and neither had her husband. Then she had appeared in January at the earl’s ancestral home with her household and two sons—and a child obviously on the way. St. Just had not been with her.

Cornwall was a godforsaken place in general, but even worse in January. The region was frigidly cold and inhospitable in the midst of winter, when gale winds blew, and vicious storms swept the coast.

Who would come to the farthest end of the country in winter to give birth to a child? Her appearance had been so terribly strange.

Amelia had been as surprised as everyone else in the parish to hear that the countess was in residence, and when she had received an invitation to tea, she hadn’t even considered refusing. She had been very curious to meet Elizabeth Grenville, and not just because they were neighbors. She had wondered what the Countess of St. Just was like.

And she had been exactly what Amelia was expecting—blonde and beautiful, gracious, elegant and so very genteel. She had been perfect for the dark, brooding earl. Elizabeth Grenville was everything that Amelia Greystone was not.

And because Amelia had buried the past so long ago—a decade ago, in fact—she hadn’t once made the comparison. But now, as she stood there reeling in shock, she wondered suddenly if she had wished to inspect and interview the woman Grenville had decided to marry—the woman he had chosen instead of her.

Amelia trembled, holding the plates tightly to her chest. If she wasn’t careful, she would remember the past! She refused to believe that she had really wished to meet Lady Grenville in order to decide what she was like. She was horrified by the comprehension.

She had liked Elizabeth Grenville. And her own affair with Grenville had ended a decade ago.

She had dismissed it from her mind then. She did not want to go back in time now.

But suddenly she felt as if she were sixteen years old, young and beautiful, naive and trusting, and oh so vulnerable. It was as if she were in Simon Grenville’s powerful arms, awaiting his declaration of love and his marriage proposal.

She was stricken, but it was too late. A floodgate in her mind had opened. The heady images flashed—they were on the ground on a picnic blanket, they were in the maze behind the hall, they were in his carriage. He was kissing her wildly and she was kissing him back, and they were both in the throes of a very dangerous, mindless passion...

She inhaled, shaken by the sudden, jarring memory of that long-ago summer. He hadn’t ever been sincere. He hadn’t ever been courting her. She was sensible enough to know that now. Yet she had expected an offer of marriage from him and the betrayal had been devastating.

Why would Lady Grenville’s terrible death cause her to remember a time in her life when she had been so young and so foolish? She hadn’t given that summer a single thought in years, not even when she had been in Lady Grenville’s salon, sipping tea and discussing the war.

But Grenville was a widower now....

Lucas seized the pile of plates she was holding, jerking her back to reality. She simply stared at him, horrified by her last thought and afraid of what it might mean.

“Amelia?” he asked with concern.

She mustn’t think about the past. She did not know why those foolish memories had arisen, but she was a woman of twenty-six years now. That flirtation had to be forgotten. She hadn’t wanted to ever recall that encounter—or any other like it—again. That was why she had dismissed the affair from her mind all those years ago, when he had left Cornwall without a word, upon the heels of the tragic accident that had killed his brother.

It all had to be forgotten.

And it was forgotten! There had been heartache, of course, and grief, but she had moved on with her life. She had turned all of her attention to Momma, who was addled, her brothers and sister and the estate. She had genuinely managed to forget about him and their affair for an entire decade. She was a busy woman, with strained circumstances and onerous responsibilities. He had moved on, as well. He had married and had children.

And there were no regrets. Her family had needed her. It had been her duty to take care of them all, ever since she was a child, when Papa had abandoned them. But then the revolution had come, the war had begun, and everything had changed.

“You were about to drop the plates!” Lucas exclaimed. “Are you ill? You have turned as white as a sheet!”

She shivered. She certainly felt ill. But she was not going to allow the past, which was dead and buried, to affect her now. “This is terrible, a tragedy.”

His golden hair pulled casually back in a queue, Lucas studied her. He had only just walked in the door, having come from London—or so he claimed. He was tall and dashing in his emerald-velvet coat, his fawn breeches and stockings, as he spoke, “Come now, Amelia, why are you upset?”

She managed a tight smile. Why was she upset? This wasn’t about Grenville. A young, beautiful mother had died, leaving behind three small children. “She died giving birth to a third child, Lucas. And there are two small boys. I met her in February. She was as beautiful, as gracious, as elegant as everyone claimed.” It had been obvious from the moment she had walked into the salon why Grenville had chosen her. He was dark and powerful, she was fair and lighthearted. They had made the perfect aristocratic couple. “I was very impressed with her kindness and her hospitality. She was clever, too. We had an amusing conversation. This is a shame.”

“It is a shame. I am very sorry for those children and for St. Just.”

Amelia felt some of her composure returning. And while Grenville’s dark image seemed to haunt her now, her common sense returned. Lady Grenville was dead, leaving behind three small children. Her neighbors needed her condolences now, and possibly her help.

“Those poor boys—that poor infant! I feel so terribly for them!”

“It will be a rough patch,” Lucas agreed. He gave her an odd look. “One never gets accustomed to the young dying.”

She knew he was thinking about the war; she knew all about his wartime activities. But she kept thinking about those poor children now—which felt better, safer, than thinking about Grenville. She took the plates from Lucas and began setting the table grimly. She was so saddened for the children. Grenville was probably grieving, as well, but she did not want to consider him or his feelings, even if he was her neighbor.

She put the last plate down on the rather ancient dining-room table and stared at the highly polished, scarred wood. So much time had gone by. Once, she had been in love, but she certainly didn’t love Grenville now. Surely she could do what was right.

In fact, she hadn’t seen Simon Grenville in ten years. She probably wouldn’t even recognize him now. He was probably overweight. His hair might be graying. He would not be a dashing young rake, capable of making her heart race with a single, heavy look.

And he would hardly recognize her. She was still slender—too slender, in fact—and petite, but her looks had faded as all looks were prone to do. Although older gentlemen still glanced at her occasionally, she was hardly as pretty as she had once been.

She felt some small relief. That terrible attraction which had once raged would not burn now. And she would not be intimidated by him, as she had once been. After all, she was older and wiser now, too. She might be an impoverished gentlewoman, but what she lacked in means she made up for in character. Life had made her a strong and resolute woman.

So when she did see Grenville, she must offer her condolences, just as she would to any neighbor suffering from such a tragedy.

Amelia felt slightly better. There was some small relief. That silly memory had been just that—silly.