“After the executions, Ethan went mad,” Alex continued, “risking his life to smuggle the condemned out of the country and setting up safe houses and a network of contacts. He was blinded by the danger until Wentworth saved him. Wentworth convinced Ethan he could have a greater impact if he joined the Foreign Office. Ethan agreed, and no one except Grenville and Wentworth knew of Ethan’s involvement.”
“But I’ve heard rumors that Ethan was helping England with the situation in France,” Lucia said. She felt Alex nod.
“There are rumors, but I doubt you or anyone else guessed the extent of Ethan’s involvement in the war effort. He and Wentworth not only gathered information on the French political situation, they were instrumental in helping dozens of innocent people escape the guillotine. By the time Bonaparte came to power, Wentworth was too old to continue as before. Ethan needed someone he could trust.”
“And who better than his brother.”
“Exactly.”
It was all coming together now, and Lucia couldn’t believe she had never suspected Alex of working for the Foreign Office before. It was just—he didn’t seem the patriotic type. Didn’t seem the kind of man to care about kin and country. Or anything. “And, of course, you agreed,” she said.
“There was my sister’s death to avenge.”
“And I suppose the danger, the excitement, the risk, and the chance to be a hero played no part in that decision?”
“Someone has to be a hero, sweetheart. Couldn’t let Ethan take all the glory.”
She could almost hear him smiling.
“I assumed the name of Christophe Homais—remember that because you’ll have to use it in France. I obtained lodgings, a false background and identity, and I instituted myself among Bonaparte’s outer circle. It took years to establish my position. To gain their trust. Eventually I was able to begin procuring information. If it was something I thought relevant, I sent it by Ethan or Camille to Wentworth or the secretary.”
Lucia shook her head, still unable to comprehend, but it made perfect sense. All the time Alex spent in Europe. His reluctance to talk about his business there. She couldn’t believe it—wouldn’t until he said it directly.
“Are you telling me that—am I supposed to believe that you’re a spy?” When she said it aloud it sounded absolutely ridiculous.
“I prefer to be called an intelligence specialist. But the short answer is, yes.”
Lucia blinked. He was a spy. Alex was a spy. “And—and these men have discovered your identity and are taking you to France for trial?” she stammered.
“Something like that.”
“But that’s treason!” She jumped to her knees and cursed at the pain of the needles racing up her sleeping legs. “In England the penalty for treason is quartering. My father told me about it. It’s barbaric. Alex, what are we going to do?”
“You fail to grasp one crucial point.” His voice was calm, almost amused.
“What’s that?”
“They have to get me to Paris first, and I have no intention of allowing that to happen.”
“But how can you—”
“You’re not the only one who can devise plans. I already have one, so you can stop your plotting. In fact I think I’d prefer it if, from now on, you wouldn’t even think the word plan.”
Lucia huffed. Why was it that no one had any faith in her plans? Hero or not, he obviously didn’t know everything or they wouldn’t be tied up, in the dark, and on a ship bound for France.
“May I ask the details of this wonderful plan?”
She heard him chuckle. “They’ll have to take us off the ship when we dock in order to transport us to Paris. We’ll escape then. Most likely we’ll put ashore in Calais, and I have contacts there.”
Well, it was more than she had, but still . . . “Forgive me, but this all sounds a bit general. How do you intend to escape once off the ship?”
“Details, Lucia. I’ll make that part up when I come to it.”
“Make that part—this doesn’t sound very promising.”
“Lucia, trust me. We will escape.”
“How can you be so sure?”
