Surrender. Brenda Joyce
more tightly across her chest as their gazes met.
He walked past the sofa, which remained between them, and picked up his glass of wine. “I would prefer that no one here is aware of my presence tonight, other than yourself.”
“Everyone in this house is utterly trustworthy,” she managed, standing on the other side of the couch.
“I prefer to choose when to take risks—and which risks to take. And I rarely trust anyone—and never strangers.” His smile was cool. There was that odd, derisive, inflection again. “It shall be our little secret, Countess.”
“Of course I will do as you ask. And I am very sorry if my asking about you, so openly, has caused you any alarm.”
He took a sip of the red wine he was drinking. “I am accustomed to evading the authorities. You are not. What will you say to them when they come knocking at your door?”
She stared, dismayed, as she had not considered this possibility.
“You will tell them that you haven’t seen me, Lady D’Orsay,” he said softly.
“Should I expect a visit from the authorities?”
“I think so. They will advise you to contact them the moment you have seen me. And those are games best left to those who wish to play in very high stakes.” He paced past the sofa. “Do you want me to light a fire? You are shivering, still.”
She was trying to absorb what he had said, and she faced him, distracted. She wasn’t shivering, she thought, she was trembling. “You have obviously just come in out of the rain, so, yes, I imagine you would enjoy a fire. And I would, too.”
He shrugged off his damp wool coat. “I assume you do not mind? As the attire is so casual tonight?”
Was she blushing yet again? Was he mocking her again? Somehow she walked to him and took the jacket. The wool was very fine, and she suspected the coat had Italian origins. “Hopefully this will dry before you leave,” she said, although the rain was pounding the house again.
He eyed her, then removed a tinderbox from his waistcoat, knelt and started a fire. The kindling quickly took. He poked the logs with the iron poker until the wood was burning. Standing, he closed the grate.
Evelyn stepped beside him, holding his coat up in front of the warm fire. He glanced down at her. As they were standing so closely now, she saw a somewhat intent gleam in his eyes. It seemed suggestive and it felt seductive—like a raw male appraisal.
“Would you care for a glass of wine?” he asked, softly. “I so dislike drinking alone. That Bordeaux is excellent. And I hope you do not mind, I helped myself.”
His tone had become soft, raising goose bumps on her skin. “Of course I do not mind. It is the least I can offer you. But, no, thank you. I cannot imbibe on an empty stomach,” she said truthfully.
He turned and moved one of the salon’s two chairs to the front of the fire. Then he took the coat from her and hung it on the back of the chair. “I remain curious about your desire to speak with me. I have not been able to imagine what the Countess D’Orsay wishes of me.” His stride unhurried, he walked to the bar cart and retrieved his glass of wine.
She watched him, knowing she must not be distracted by his tone, his proximity, not when she had to make her case. “I have a proposition, Mr. Greystone.”
He stared over the rim of his glass. “A proposition… I am even more intrigued.”
Had he just looked through her robe and nightgown? Evelyn walked over to the sofa and sat down, still unnerved. She reminded herself that the cotton was far too tightly woven for him to be able to look through it, but she felt as if he had just taken a quick glance at her naked body.
“Countess?”
“It has come to my attention, Mr. Greystone, that you are probably the best free trader in Cornwall.”
His dark brows lifted. “Actually, I am the best smuggler in all of Great Britain—and I have the accounts to prove it.”
She smiled a little; she found his arrogance attractive, his confidence reassuring. “Some might be put off by your bravado, Mr. Greystone, but bravado is exactly what I require now.”
“I am now entirely intrigued,” he said.
She met his probing gray gaze and wondered if he was intrigued with her, as a woman. “I wish to hire a smuggler, and not just any smuggler, but someone who is skilled and courageous, to retrieve family heirlooms from my husband’s château in France.”
He set his glass down and said slowly, “Did I just hear you correctly?”
“My husband died recently, and those heirlooms are terribly important to me and my daughter.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” he said, without seeming to mean it. Then, he said, “That is quite the task.”
“Yes, I imagine it is, but that is why I have been seeking to locate you, Mr. Greystone, as surely you are the man capable of accomplishing such a mission.”
He stared for a long time, and she was becoming accustomed to being unable to discern even a hint of his thoughts or emotions. “Crossing the Channel is dangerous. Traveling within France now is madness, as it remains in the midst of a bloody revolution, Countess. You are asking me to risk my life for your family heirlooms.”
“Those heirlooms were left to me and my daughter by my recently deceased husband, and it was his greatest wish that I retrieve them,” she said firmly. When his expression did not change, she added, “I must recover them, and your reputation is outstanding!”
“I am certain they are important to you. I am certain your husband wished for you to have them. However, my services are quite expensive.”
She wasn’t sure what his stare meant—but he had said the exact same thing to her four years ago. Intending to offer him a share of the gold once it was in her possession, she said carefully, “The heirlooms are valuable, sir.” She did not think it wise to tell him that Henri had left her a chest of gold.
“Of course they are.... This isn’t about nostalgia, or sentiment, obviously.” He nodded at the barely furnished room.
“We have fallen into very strained circumstances, sir. I am desperate and I am determined.”
“And I am neither desperate nor determined. I prefer to preserve my life, and would only risk it for a great cause.” His gaze was piercing. “One with just compensation.”
“This is a great cause!” she gasped.
“That is a matter of opinion.” He was final.
He was going to refuse her? “I have hardly finished making my case,” she said swiftly.
“But haven’t you? My services are very costly. I do not mean to be rude, but it is obvious that you cannot afford them. I would need a great incentive to risk my life for you.” His stare locked with hers. “You are hardly the only impoverished widow in Cornwall. You will surely find a way into a better fortune.”
She wet her lips, shaken by the realization that their discussion would soon be over—and she would not have achieved his help. “But those heirlooms are very valuable, and I am prepared to offer you a very fair share,” she said quickly.
“A share?” He laughed. “I am always paid in advance, Countess. And how would you do that?” His smile vanished. His stare hardened. It slipped down her robe and nightgown. Then he turned away, his expression grim. His head down, he began to pace, wine in hand.
She trembled, watching him. She must focus now. When they had fled France, she had paid him with rubies—in advance. Now, she had very little jewelry left. She could not imagine using her last pieces now.
“Clearly, you are in some financial straits,” he said, finally looking at her. “Unfortunately, it is a common practice to take payment