Chapter 31

Simon found Bella on the outskirts of the party before the waltz was played. She looked pale and withdrawn, but offered him a weak smile when he approached her. He kicked himself for neglecting her—the evening was not just about their wedding, however.

He also had a plan in motion this very night to catch Amelia at her traitorous business, and there had been people to speak to when he first arrived… namely the rather ill-looking Lord Tindall who currently hovered around the refreshment table with a nervous air.

"Did you think I had forgotten about you?" he asked Bella when he reached her. She was a vision, even pale as she now was. When he had seen her swathed in shimmering silver-blue silk back at the flat he had wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms and kiss her senseless. It had taken every bone in his body to remain aloof; to not pressure her into returning the burning passion he felt for her.

"I imagine you have many people here to occupy your attention," she said quietly.

"There is none that matters more than my bride," he answered truthfully.

In the carriage he had slipped up, complimenting her a little too openly. It was such an obvious blunder that she had felt the need to set things to rights by confronting him about his poorly-hidden feelings for her—or at least, that was what Simon supposed she was going to say. Before Amelia appeared as if out of thin air and interrupted everything.

"Will you honor me with a dance?" he asked her. "The next is a waltz. That seems to be a specialty of ours."

She smiled weakly. "The first we danced I did not even know it was you. You were behind a mask."

"And I had no idea it was you either." He took her hand and led her out onto the dance floor. "Until I saw you in the garden, of course."

"That seems a lifetime ago." She sounded sad.

The first strains of the dance began, and the couple fell into the familiar movements with ease. It had been some time since they had danced together, but it still felt to Simon as though she was the perfect partner—fashioned for him in a way no other woman would ever be.

"Does it seem like a lifetime ago?" he asked wistfully. "I'm not so sure." He raised a hand and she turned elegantly under it in step with the movements of the dance. "In many ways, though, a thousand things have happened since then. I feel as though I am still getting to know the girl who waltzed by herself in the garden moonlight."

She cocked her head to the side, a smile playing on her lips. "There you go again."

"What do you mean?"

"You can be so… difficult to read sometimes." She stepped away from him, and then back into a dip and a promenade. Her hand felt cool in his own.

"I do not want to be elusive with you," Simon said, although his mind teased—except when it comes to your love for her, she mustn't find out the truth about that. "Ask me anything."

She looked up at him, the candlelight all around them reflecting in her lovely blue eyes. She looked like something otherworldly—perhaps she had come back from Ireland a fairy instead of a woman. For a sparkling moment, she looked as though she really did mean to ask him something, but then she cast a glance behind him, and her gaze landed on some person of significance in Simon's periphery. Ice came over her expression again.

"I have nothing to ask you," she said quietly. "If you have anything to tell me, I hope that you will do so on your own time, and not when forced by my inquisitions."

Oh, I have nothing to tell you, Simon thought to himself. Only that I'm desperately in love with you, I have been for some time, and I want so much more for our marriage than polite friendship.

He couldn't help wondering how she would respond if he said all that was in his heart. He had no doubt that she would be kind and gracious. She was always kind and gracious. His bigger concern was that she would feel the need to pretend she shared his feelings when she did not.

When the dance ended, Simon caught the arranged signal from Lord Tindall and excused himself from Bella's side.

"I'll only be gone a moment," he said, glancing away from Bella. "I have something pressing I must attend to before the evening's festivities draw to a close."

Bella looked at Amelia. "Do you?"

"But if all is well, I shall be at your side within a half hour," he reassured her. He noticed a few young gentlemen hanging around for the moment when he would relinquish Bella at last. "I imagine you will have plenty of admirers in my absence."

He bowed, and walked across the room toward Lord Tindall. He made certain to pass very near Amelia, although keeping just enough pillars and people between them as to be less obvious. It did no good, when fishing, to use too obvious of a bait. Lord Tindall was playing his part well—if it was a part at all.

He looked every part the man who was pretending to be surreptitious and failing utterly. Simon could see beads of sweat on the man's brow, and as Lord Tindall ducked out onto the veranda, he kept glancing over his shoulder as though to be certain he wasn't being followed.

Simon waited a few beats, and then followed him out into the cool evening. He could sense Amelia following him, and as he closed the door behind him, he saw her in his periphery, quite close, coming to eavesdrop. Best make it easy for her, then. He left the door unlatched, with an inch or two for his little spy to peer through.

Then he walked to the far end of the veranda where Lord Tindall was standing. There was nowhere for Amelia to hide between the door and where they now took up residence, so while she had full view of their interaction, she would not be able to hear what they said.

"Are you doing well this evening, Lord Tindall?" Simon asked in a low tone.

"You know very well I am not," the other man snapped. "I am an administrative man, Georges. I am not made for all this back-alley business. I feel my heart is going to leap out of my chest."

"Yes, the adrenaline is the fun bit," Simon said, resisting the urge to smile. He could sense Amelia watching them, her eyes burning holes through them, and wanted to be sure all she saw was a pair of clandestine men with serious expressions. "Here is the letter," Simon said, pulling out a long, wide envelope and passing it to Lord Tindall.

The letter was abnormally large, but that was part of the plot. Simon needed to be sure Amelia saw the letter, even from her far vantage point. He also needed to be sure it was easily recognizable later.

"Pause a moment," he said, still holding onto the letter. He spoke in low tones, almost too low for Tindall to hear. "We must set the trap well." Then he released the letter, and watched the other man tuck it into his coat pocket. "Good. You've done well so far. Leave here immediately and go to the place I've arranged. I will follow, but I must at least make an effort to appear discreet."

Lord Tindall let out a sigh of exasperated air. "And after this?"

"It will be done. You can go back to your life before all this."

That seemed to be encouragement enough. Tindall turned and walked slowly away from the veranda, likely giving Amelia time to step back from her peephole and busy herself elsewhere. Simon was not at all surprised to see her chatting amiably with a young gentleman directly outside the door when he emerged as well. She had probably pulled the poor lad aside on a whim in an attempt to look busy.

He walked to the cloak check to retrieve his coat and hat after making a quick pass of the room in search of his bride. Bella was nowhere to be seen on the dance floor—he would not have time to bid her goodbye. It was no matter. When all this was settled, Simon intended to fill her in on the entire story so that she could rest easy at last in the knowledge that her tormentor was behind bars. For now, he had to—

He turned, nearly crashing into Amelia. She was wrapped in her own velvet cloak, a hat pinned rakishly off to one side of her head. Simon found himself glad that he hadn't had time to put his own coat and hat on before she appeared—she would not know that he intended to follow her into the night.

"Going so soon?" he asked, trying to keep his voice light and pleasant.

She raised an eyebrow. "Why, will you miss me?"

He could not carry the charade that far. "There is only one woman who occupies my thoughts this evening, my lady."

"I suppose you want me to think that lady is your wife," Amelia said, letting the last word slip as though it was a profanity. "But I see through your little ruse. I know when a man wants me." She raised a hand and let her fingers slide down his lapel.

"Perhaps, with some men," Simon said stiffly. "But I'll have you remember that you were wrong about me before."

He turned and took a few steps away from her, partly to encourage her to leave in pursuit of Tindall, partly to keep him from saying something more indicting that would ruin the ruse he'd put together for this evening.

She rolled her eyes and marched out the front door. Simon let out his breath in a quiet gasp of relief, dressed quickly in his coat and hat, and followed her into the night.

***

Sanctimonious little man. Amelia had wanted to slap Simon when he rebuffed her yet again, but she did not have the time to get her revenge in the moment. She had business to attend to. Simon Lyndon and his pious little wife would have to wait. Revenge was a dish best served cold, anyway—isn't that what everyone said?

She walked briskly, relieved to see Tindall's scrawny, bent form just ahead of her on the sidewalk. He was a slow walker. He was slow in everything he did. She had learned as much while seducing him. It had been too easy—no fun in it—and then the fool had given her free reign of the house when she claimed she wanted a moment to "clear her head" after their charming little tête-à-tête.

That was the price of Lloyd Wickham's life, it seemed. She smiled at the thought. Wickham had crossed paths with her once or twice before—never knowing her true alliances, of course—and had always struck her as arrogant and self-righteous, much like Simon.

Tindall walked for another ten minutes, turning into a less fashionable part of town and then breaking right down an alleyway. It was dark, but Amelia could still see the other man's bent form pause at an unmarked door and slip the large envelope he'd received from Simon underneath the mat.

It was hidden from view. No one would know to look at that drop spot. No one except Amelia.

She waited until Tindall hunched away down the alley and out of sight before she walked up to the door and, looking left and right, knelt to pull the envelope out. It was larger than she'd realized, and she looked around for a place to tuck it. Men had their coats—she barely had a reticule worthy of a tube of smelling salts.

She had settled on simply holding it out of sight beneath her cloak when she heard a familiar deep voice near at hand.

"I'm sorry the letter was not smaller, Lady O'Mara. I imagine that would have made it easier to steal it."

She cried out despite herself. She hated to seem weak, but the voice had frightened her. She whirled to find Simon—Simon, of all people—standing just behind her. Lord Tindall was at his side… and a swarm of men dressed in the disgusting uniform of the English army.

She sputtered, trying to think of a way out of this. "I'm so glad you found me, Mr. Lyndon. I was—"

"There is no need to make up a lie, Lady O'Mara." Simon's voice was even and quiet. "You do not know these men—" he nodded towards two gentlemen in black who stood out against the uniformed officers like an ink stain, "—but they have been looking for you for some time. When we learned of your treachery, we realized we would need proof. You have handed us that proof this very evening. You have my gratitude."

Amelia felt her face flush with fury. "You rat."

"Come, now. You are accusing me of a crime you yourself have committed daily within the sparkling lights of the London social scene," Simon said firmly. "We know about Wickham. We know about the boy. Don't you feel any remorse?"

Amelia hesitated a moment, all her wiles escaping her. She could see that she had been caught with no recourse or escape. For once in her life, she did not retreat into her house of lies. Instead, she crossed her arms and jutted out her chin, all the fury she'd held for the English boiling over.

"Remorse?" she snapped. "Anything I can do to set your rotten country back a few steps in this conflict is worth doing. I always resented being half-English. The French part of me is the only part that has ever done anything worthwhile in the world."

"The French part of you, as you call it, led to the death of a nine-year-old boy," Simon said. Amelia could see that he found this sad, but plumbing the depths of her own heart she could not pretend to possess such an emotion.

"He was a spy for the English. His age does not matter to me. I hope you all die, one after another." She spit out the words as if they were the poison from a viper. "You especially, Simon Lyndon."

Simon nodded and stepped back, gesturing for two soldiers to come forward and take Amelia into custody. She tried to pull away, but they held her firm and fast. "I wondered if you regretted anything you had done, Lady O'Mara," Simon said in farewell, "but I can see that you do not. You will be handed over to the Crown for questioning and sentencing."

Amelia watched him turn on his heel and stride away down the dark alley, his cohorts at his side. The last thought she had before the soldiers took her away was a simmering fury that he had bested her in the end. I've lost both his love and this war, she thought angrily. She wasn't sure what bothered her more.