Another excerpt from An Unpitied Sacrifice.
Valeria and three of her sisters-in-law were leaving the modiste when it happened. A couple entered the door just as they reached it, and the three of them stepped out of the way, Valeria a little behind the other three.
Mia stiffened as the newly arrived woman stopped and smirked at her. “Mrs Jules Redepenning. How delightful. And how is my dear Jules?”
“Another Redepenning?” said the woman’s male companion. “Do present me, dear Lady Carrington.”
His voice! Not just the French accent, but the tone, the timbre. They were familiar and hated—but she must be imagining things. It could not be Antoine. Not here. Not in a dressmaker’s shop on London. Ella’s bonnet was in the way of Valeria’s view of the speaker, but a slight lean allowed her to catch a glimpse of his hair, the shape of his jaw, his sneer. Her past roared in her ears, and her mind, her sight, her hearing—everything shut down.
Slowly, the roaring ebbed and the rest of the world returned. Harry, first. She became aware that he was holding her hand in both of his, and then she could see him, sitting next to her, his blue eyes full of concern.
They were in an elegant room with a dozen small round tables, each with several chairs, and a pretty woman in an apron and cap was just placing a tray with a teapot and cups on the table where they sat. Susan, Ella and Mia occupied the other seats at the table, and all of them were looking anxiously at Valeria.
She had no idea where they were, how they got there, and how Harry came to be with them. Antoine! He had been at the modiste’s! Valeria gripped Harry’s hand. It could not be true. Was she going mad?
“You shall feel better after a cup of tea,” Susan decreed, and proceeded to pour one.
“What happened?” Mia asked. “Are you able to talk about it?”
Valeria shook her head. How could she explain? Her mind shied away from even thinking about it, even as her common sense reiterated that the man she had seen could not have been Antoine. She had left him grievously wounded. He was almost certainly dead, and even if he had somehow survived, what would he be doing in London?
The reminder of how she had triumphed in the end gave her strength. “That woman,” she said. “Lady Carrington, was it?”
“Baroness Carrington,” said Mia. “A wicked woman whose crimes have been forgiven by the government, for reasons of State. But not by me.”
“Mia gave her the cut direct,” said Susan, her voice a purr of satisfaction. “Then I noticed you seemed about to faint, and I helped you to follow Mia out of the shop. We met Harry on the footpath outside, and came here to Fournier’s Tea Shop to allow you time to recover. Now sip your tea, dear one, and explain what Lydia Carrington has done to you.”
“Not her. The man with her. Who was he?”
The ladies looked at one another and shook their heads, but Harry said, “You mean Delacroix?”
The roaring returned, but Valeria pushed it back. Someone had whimpered. It was, Valeria realised, herself. Harry had his arm around her shoulders and was saying, “Take a deep breath, darling. That’s it. Now breathe out. And again.”
“Who is this Delacroix?” Susan asked.
“He is something at the French embassy. An aide to the ambassador. A agent for the French government, I imagine. Or at least our own people think so, I imagine, since Lady Carrington is taking him around town, and she works for our side.”
“Lady Carrington is a spy?” Mia asked. “But she was working for the French when she…”
“Never mind that now,” Ella interjected. “Harry, should we send for the carriage and take Valeria home?”
“I shall just drink my tea,” Valeria said. “You do not need to be concerned about me.”
“Lady Carrington does not go into Society,” said Susan. “And if we encounter this Delacroix person at a ball or dinner, we shall not accept an introduction, Valeria. What else do you know about him, Harry?”
“Nothing much. Just that he and Lady Carrington must have been discussing the Redepennings, because when Lady Carrington introduced us, she said… let me think. ‘Colonel Redepenning is the one of whom we have spoken.’ That was it, as nearly as I can remember.”
Valeria was not going to pass out again. Delacroix was here. He was her enemy, and Harry’s because of her. They would have to fight it, and they would. She would tell Harry, and perhaps she could even disclose a little to Harry’s sisters. Yes. They needed to be forewarned.
She took the last sip of her tea, and Susan slipped a little cake, ornately iced with sugar paste, onto her plate. Valeria bit into it and realised it was exactly what she craved. “You know I was captured by the French,” she said to her sisters-in-law. “The captain of the patrol that captured me was Antoine Delacroix.”
Harry pursed his lips, frowning thoughtfully. “This man is Pierre Delacroix. From his interest in me, we must suppose he is a brother or cousin.”
Not Antoine, then. It was a relief, and yet, in a peculiar sort of a way, a disappointment. She had long regretted leaving the man alive, for the possibility that he still breathed in the same world as her nagged at her like a rotten tooth. “He may be looking for revenge,” Valeria said. “That is, if he knows what I did to his brother.”
Susan raised her eyebrows. “Valeria, darling, what did you do to his brother?”
Harry answered for her, growling, “Left him alive, which was more mercy than he deserved. We have to assume, I think, that he lived long enough to tell his brother. Did the fiend know my name?”
“Yes. It was he who took my marriage certificate and burned it. He laughed, Harry. He said that the rules of war did not apply to a Spanish guerrilos, nor to an English fool who married one.” Lost in memory, she had forgotten everyone except Harry, and was surprised when Susan passed her another cup of tea.
“With your permission, beloved,” said Harry, “I shall warn the whole family to be on the watch against Delacroix. Yes, and the Carrington female, too.”
