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    The Sometime Bride
    The Sometime Bride
    The Sometime Bride
    Ebook525 pages8 hours

    The Sometime Bride

    By Blair Bancroft

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    Catherine Audley, the daughter of Britain's spymaster on the Iberian Peninsula, is far more sophisticated than most young women her age, which doesn't protect her from the machinations of her father, a husband of convenience, or the unrelenting demands of a long war. Over seven years of a first-hand, and highly personal, view of the Peninsular War, she matures into a woman who is finally able to go toe-to-toe with the enigmatic young man to whom she has given years of unquestioning devotion. Only to discover that love cannot compensate for betrayal of trust. Or can it?

    While masquerading as an ox-cart driver, the young Englishman known as Blas the Bastard meets Catherine Audley, and his life is changed forever. It is 1807 and France is about to invade Portugal. To protect Cat's father, his gaming establishment in Lisbon, and the British spy network on the Peninsula, Blas proposes a "paper" marriage between himself and young Catherine. She is fourteen; he, twenty-one—both too young for the responsibilities they must assume. Blas is arrogant, dashing, occasionally reckless, totally bound up in the demands of the war, and oblivious to the looming disastrous conflict with his sometime wife.

    When Cat finally discovers how badly Blas has deceived her, a monumental clash is inevitable. In no way does the triumph of allied troops in 1814 guarantee a happy ending for two people for whom the war was a personal disaster. Is she a sometime bride, "widow" of a man who never existed? Is she Blas's well-rewarded, but discarded mistress? Or is she a beloved wife whose only rival is her husband's determined expediency in a time of war?

    Author's Note: In addition to being a saga of young lovers caught up in a war, The Sometime Bride is the history of the Peninsular War, Britain's fight against Napoleon in Portugal and Spain. The story moves from France's invasion of Portugal and British troops driven into the sea at La Coruña to the return of British troops under General Sir Arthur Wellesley, the fortified lines at Torres Vedras, and the gradual push of French troops across Spain and back into France. Plus the chaotic times in Paris after Napoleon's surrender and the Emperor's triumph as he gathers up his old troops, only to be stopped in one of the most famous and bloody battles in history—Waterloo.

    Reviews:

    Reviewers Choice Award. "Sometimes a reviewer gets a book so powerful, it's hard to know where to begin to tell about it. The Sometime Bride is such a book. . . . Bride passes every criterion for a successful book that I was given as a reviewer. Ms Bancroft weaves a most unusual love story in among the threads of history that cover eight years. She gives a clear and concise overview of that terrible, yet glorious, age that held both Napoleon and Wellington, and she makes it fascinating by showing it to us through her characters' eyes. . . ."
    Jane Bowers, Romance Communications

    "The writing talent displayed by the author is wonderful . . . Ms. Bancroft's detail for historical events is phenomenal. . . ."
    April Redmon, Romantic Times

    Five Stars. "Set against the bloody Napoleonic wars, The Sometime Bride is ambitious, engrossing and absolutely wonderful."
    Rickey R. Mallory, Affaire de Coeur

    Five Stars. "The Sometime Bride by Blair Bancroft is a riveting and well-written story . . . The tension between the hero and heroine sizzles.
    Janet Lane Walters, Scribes World

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBlair Bancroft
    Release dateOct 29, 2011
    ISBN9780983807544
    The Sometime Bride
    Author

    Blair Bancroft

    Blair Bancroft recalls receiving odd looks from adults as she walked home from school at age seven, her lips moving as she told herself stories. And there was never a night she didn't entertain herself with her own bedtime stories. But it was only after a variety of other careers that she turned to serious writing. Blair has been a music teacher, professional singer, non-fiction editor, costume designer, and real estate agent. She has traveled from Bratsk, Siberia, to Machu Picchu, Peru, and made numerous visits to Europe, Britain, and Ireland. She is now attempting to incorporate all these varied experiences into her writing. Blair's first book, TARLETON'S WIFE, won RWA's Golden Heart and the Best Romance award from the Florida Writers' Association. Her romantic suspense novel, SHADOWED PARADISE, and her Young Adult Medieval, ROSES IN THE MIST, were finalists for an EPPIE, the "Oscar" of the e-book industry. Blair's Regency, THE INDIFFERENT EARL, was chosen as Best Regency by Romantic Times magazine and was a finalist for RWA's RITA award. Blair believes variety is the spice of life. Her recent books include Historical Romance, Romantic Suspense, Mystery, Thrillers, and Steampunk, all available at Smashwords. A long-time resident of Florida, Blair fondly recalls growing up in Connecticut, which still has a piece of her heart.

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    • 1/5
      Stopped reading the book half way. The most terrible book I have ever read.
    • 1/5
      explicit sex
    • 5/5
      According to the author: "This is the book where I inadvertently broke all the rules of romance. But when I read it again, more than 15 years after I wrote it and 11 years since its first publication, I discovered The Sometime Bride still qualified as the best book I ever wrote." It's also one of the best I've read this year! Ms. Bancroft was a new author to me and this book was a great place to start. The e-book is available for only $1.49 at Amazon)MY REVIEW:I was engaged in this story from page one with the vivid portrayal of the French invasion of Portugal portrayed through the eyes of the young female protagonist,Catherine "Catarina" Audley. The author's prose is elegant and impeccably incorporates the history of the Napoleonic Wars, the excitment of espionage, and a riveting romance with toe curling sexual tension. While both the h/h are strong and appealing, the hero of the story has the added cache of being cloaked in mystery. There are also a number of plots twists that keep the story moving briskly while Cat and Blas struggle against impossible odds. (Saying anything more would be plot spoiling). Suffice to say I was riveted to this truly beautiful love story with an emotional depth far beyond what I had expected.HIGHLY RECOMMENDED FOR LOVERS OF ROMANTIC HISTORICAL FICTION.

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    Book preview

    The Sometime Bride - Blair Bancroft

    Prologue

    The Pyrenees—Winter, 1813

    The rock-walled room was icy cold. Winter had come to the barren, windswept slopes of the high Pyrenees while the dying days of summer still cast warm golden sunlight on the Spanish plains below.

    The man bending over a small rude table occasionally put aside his quill pen to flex his stiffening fingers. His chiseled features, sculpted by a craftsman of imperfect skills, glowed amber in the flickering light of the one candle precariously perched beside an oversized piece of parchment whose edges flopped over the side of a rickety table. He swore, slapped the paper down as the insistent howling of the mountain wind rose in pitch, penetrating the stone sides of the shepherd’s hut to lift the corners of his precious drawing.

    Devil it! Blas anchored the paper with one large, skillful hand and shielded the nearly extinguished candle with the other. The gust blew itself out. The candle steadied and glowed into life. He tossed his overly long mane of black hair back off his face and frowned down at his work, his lips curling into a sneer at the ineptitude of his icy fingers. He’d been making maps for how long? Four years? Five? Six years since he had set out on a summer odyssey and traveled the length of enemy France from Calais to the Pyrenees. Then into Spain, and finally to the great port of Lisbon where he had planned to take ship for Greece.

    A ship that sailed without him.

    "It is late, querido. Come to bed." Strong feminine hands moved beneath the straight black hair that fell below his collar and began to knead his shoulders, providing exquisite relief to his tense muscles. Blas closed his eyes, laid down his pen. As he leaned into the sensual comfort of the woman behind him, she basked in the glow of his roughhewn features and wondered, as she often did, how she had been blessed with so powerful and generous a lover.

    He was lithe, quick, and strong. A very fine lover. And, oh, so clever. How many times had she laughed behind her hands when the proud angles of his face softened into jelly and his brilliant amber eyes grew dim as he sat stolidly on his mule and pretended not to understand a word of a French soldier’s so very bad Spanish. Oh yes, Don Blas was a man of many faces and many names, though he always called himself—with wide-eyed cheerfulness—Blas the Bastard. A joke, naturalamente. They all knew he was the Son of a Somebody—no one ever doubted it. An hidalgo from Somewhere. Which was why they called him Don Blas. He had long ago given up trying to stop them.

    Maria Josephina leaned forward and brushed her lips down his cheek, her long black hair mixing with his, falling across his sleeveless leather jacket into his lap. Definitely more provocation than even the most dedicated spy could stand. In a blur of movement Blas shoved the rickety table with the precious map to one side, caught the candle and the inkwell before they obliterated his past week’s work, and swept Maria into his lap. Cold forgotten, his mouth searched hers in a sudden furious attempt to blot out this miserable hovel in the midst of nowhere. Damn it, woman! he swore in frustration as his hand fought to find the bottom of her many layers of skirts.

    A knock on the slatted wood door went unheard. A second knock. The knotty boards abruptly swung back. Marcio Cardoso’s brown eyes flashed their disapproval.

    "Marcio?" It was not an attack of modesty—or even guilt—that froze Blas in his chair. There was only one reason for Marcio Cardoso to be here. His old friend had not made the hazardous five-hundred mile journey from Lisbon to the Pyrenees to bring him good news.

    Blas closed his eyes, rubbed his long fingers across his forehead. When he spoke, his voice was little more than a whisper. In the name of God, tell me what’s happened."

    P A R T I

    Chapter One

    Lisbon, Portugal—September 1807

    She had been naughty, and Dona Felipa—shriveled old prune that she was—had confined her to her room. At fourteen. When she was a lady grown!

    For shame that you scatter your things about, making so much work for poor Juana, the elderly governanta had scolded. A lady does not make unnecessary work for her servants.

    Pooh! Catarina retorted, Juana does not mind. Is that not why Papa pays her?

    So here she was in her room expected to do the work of her maid! It was not at all fair. Particularly on a fine September day when the heat of the summer was beginning to wane, and there were many fine places to go and people to see. With a moue of disgust, Catarina grabbed a petticoat from the floor, crumpled it into a ball and shoved it into a drawer, which she slammed shut with a satisfying thump.

    Hands on her hips, she surveyed her spacious room with a jaundiced eye. Not even the most sympathetic survey could find that the removal of one petticoat had made a noticeable improvement. She would be here forever! Certainly well beyond the time she had agreed to meet Marcio in the alley behind the Casa Audley. He was to take her to the harbor to see the vast array of ships assembling for the evacuation of the Portuguese royal court and all British citizens. Including herself.

    But she would not go. Her Papa would not go, so neither would she.

    The evacuation momentarily thrust aside, Catarina stood quite still in the middle of the beautifully carpeted floor, her lower lip extended into a stubborn and unbecoming pout. If she refused to clean her room, she would go to bed without supper, and the litter of shawls, gloves, bonnets, and slippers would still be there to be picked up—by Catarina Audley—on the morrow. For Dona Felipa, although quite, quite ancient, had the memory of an elephant. But if she worked very hard and very fast, she might yet escape into the beauty of late afternoon in Lisbon. Then again, her act of compliance would be as good as admitting she had been wrong!

    Feeling the need to lash out at something—anything!—Catarina grabbed up the large feather duster Dona Felipa had pointedly placed on her dressing table and took a hearty, though useless, swing at a fly that had been buzzing its way around her room. Her hand froze as a sound penetrated her fit of petulance. Her head came up; long-lashed green eyes lit with interest. A fine tenor voice was bawling out a particularly bawdy ballad, and the sound was coming closer.

    Blithely dropping all thought of her dilemma, Catarina dashed onto the balcony overhanging the narrow cobbled street outside. A team of oxen with long curling horns was wending its way up the hill toward the Casa Audley, effectively blocking all other traffic. The ungreased wooden wheel joints sang a weird high-pitched descant above the rollicking rhythm of the carter’s song.

    The sturdy cart was loaded with wooden casks of wine destined for the cellars of the Casa Audley. The young man on the rough bench seat guided the team with seeming nonchalance, evidently more interested in entertaining himself and passersby with his rollicking song. Some of the song’s words Catarina didn’t recognize, but she understood the gasps and giggles from his female listeners, the broad smirks lighting the faces of the men. The carter was bawling out a bawdy ditty on the cobbled streets of Lisbon in broad daylight. Catarina’s green eyes gleamed with delight.

    He was a virile young man, the cart’s driver, his skin weathered to a warm amber by the summer sun. Unkempt black hair straggled onto his shoulders. His white shirt was confined by a roughly woven brown vest, leaving his full shirt sleeves free to billow in the breeze. The planes of his face were irregular but strong, his eyes set deep above a chiseled nose, his lips full and inviting. Heedless of her fourteen-year-old dignity, Catarina leaned over the balcony and stared in unashamed fascination.

    The carter emphasized the end of a verse with a flick of his whip. As he urged his oxen up the hill toward the house marked by a wooden plaque displaying a colorful British coat of arms, his eye was caught by a flash of white on a balcony. An apparition surely. A childlike nymph with glorious red-gold hair that cascaded well below the intricate wrought iron railing edging the balcony. A very un-Portuguese vision swallowed up in an oversize white apron and monstrous white mobcap. Clutched in her hand was a feather duster.

    In one swift movement the carter stood up and swept her a bow without missing a note of his song. Not a mean feat from the bed of an ox-cart bouncing over cobblestones on wooden wheels. They were almost on a level now, the young man still standing on the cart and the girl leaning so enticingly over the balcony railing. He blew her a kiss. She betrayed her youth and inexperience by blushing a fiery red. With a wave he passed on by, seeking the massive wooden doors that would allow him entrance to the inner courtyard of the Casa Audley.

    Catarina gazed after him until he disappeared from sight. Then, sulks forgotten, she tackled her room like a whirlwind. An ox-cart driver he might be, but see him again she must. When the last item had been hastily tossed into her wardrobe, she threw off the hated apron and mobcap and dashed toward the door to the courtyard gallery and freedom.

    She halted abruptly, one hand on the knob, took a deep breath and looked back at her room. A frown touched her lovely face, a hint of the pout returned. She marched across the room, picked up the apron and mobcap and tossed them onto the floor of the wardrobe with most of the other things she had picked up. Poor Juana! She would simply have to give her the yellow sprigged muslin Papa had ordered and which so ill became her . . .

    Catarina paused in the shadow of the upper gallery that extended around three sides of the enclosed courtyard of the Casa Audley. Walkways of patterned ceramic tiles added to the riotous colors of the garden, not least of which were the masses of bougainvillea vines in shades of purple, fuschia and glowing orange that encircled the columns supporting the gallery. In the center of the courtyard was a spot of peace where a fountain’s graceful movement cooled a group of white marble benches.

    Accustomed as she was to this small oasis of beauty, Catarina Audley saw only what she wanted to see. Yes, there he was. Unloading the casks into the yawning blackness of the cellar, aided by Marcio Cardoso and one of the brawny footmen who worked in the gaming rooms. The three young men handled the wine casks with seeming ease, keeping up a running banter in Portuguese and Spanish. Catarina thought them a very fine sight indeed, but the newcomer—the one speaking Spanish—provoked an attack of unaccustomed shyness . . . and other mysterious feelings for which she had no name. He was not handsome. But he was quite the most splendid sight she had ever seen.

    Catarina had grown up in this sprawling house in Lisbon, surrounded by servants, never thinking to question her father’s way of life. Though she had no recollection of purse-pinching, she understood Thomas Audley had had to make his own way in the world and accepted her father for what he was. An expatriate Englishman who, six nights a week with elegance and discretion, opened the public rooms of his home to an international clientele of gamesters. At fourteen, Catarina was far more accustomed to conversing with a wide variety of people, mostly male, than English misses many years her senior.

    But now she clung to the shadows, her back against the rough stucco wall, and could not move. Nervously, she finger-combed her hair, smoothed her skirt, bit her lip. The iron stairs leading down to the courtyard were only a few feet away, but descend them she could not. The carter’s elegant bow had been a mockery. He thought her a child. At best, a servant. And when he discovered she was the daughter of the house? Catarina muttered a few words she had learned while eavesdropping on the gaming rooms. It wasn’t fair. To be only fourteen when she wished to dazzle him with her sophistication and experience. No, it was not fair at all!

    Thomas Audley sat at his broad mahogany desk, one elbow propped on a sheaf of papers, chin in his hand, studying a closely written document. As he read, he occasionally ran a hand through his sandy brown hair, which at thirty-eight years of age showed not a hint of gray. A well-favored and modestly wealthy man, he had surprised most of his acquaintances by showing no inclination to remarry in the four years since the untimely death of his wife in her third attempt to give him a son. Though all who knew him agreed he had never expressed a wish for a male heir, many thought him inclined to give his only child, a female, too much freedom by far. Thinks she’s a boy, she does, was so often heard on Dona Felipa’s lips that the words had become a household joke. Not that it wasn’t true. For all that, however, even at fourteen, Catarina Audley was one of the most beautiful women in Lisbon.

    A knock sounded at the heavy wooden door to his study. Thomas hastily turned the documents on his desk face down before bidding the person outside to enter. Throughout his fifteen years in Portugal many strangers had found their way into Thomas Audley’s study—soldiers, priests, noblemen, merchants, farmers, fishermen, tavern keepers, students—but somehow, almost at once, he knew this one was special.

    As the young man, dressed in rough workman’s clothes, asked for a moment of Senhor Tomás’s time in perfect Castilian Spanish, there was something about the flash of intelligence in the glowing tawny eyes, the arrogant hint of you’ll be sorry if you don’t, damn your eyes! Thomas decided his papers could wait. He eyed the young man, little more than a boy, with keen interest.

    The arrogant, and musical, carter endured Thomas Audley’s inspection with studied indifference. Never before had anyone dared look at him in such a fashion, as if to read not just his mind but his soul as well. It was a disconcerting experience, but he’d be damned if he’d let it show. Audley would discover he had a surprise or two up his sleeve, torn and dirty though it was.

    In the next room—once the domain of Thomas’s wife Elspeth and now the room from which her daughter directed the Audley household—a small figure tiptoed across the rug. She opened a closet door on the side next to Thomas Audley’s study and slipped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind her. Catarina had long ago learned she could eavesdrop on her father’s fascinating variety of visitors, and never had she been more eager to do so. With great caution she settled down on the floor of the closet and put her ear to the wall.

    I’ve spent the last three months traveling across France, Spain, and Portugal, the young man was saying in the cultured English of London’s upper crust. A friend in the Foreign Office suggested that if I should survive long enough to make it to Lisbon, I should look you up. He thought you might wish to talk with me.

    And damn my eyes, indeed, thought Thomas Audley, making a heroic effort not to blink at the incongruity of the accent of a British nobleman flowing from the mouth of an ox-cart driver. He opened his lips to tell the boy to thank his friend for steering a customer to the Casa Audley, then thought better of it. Every instinct said this boy truly had friends in high places, and if he had just crossed France, Spain, and Portugal—almost literally one step ahead of the French army—then there was no one Thomas Audley would rather talk to. Your friend’s name? he enquired blandly.

    The young man, his nonchalant pose still intact despite Thomas Audley’s penetrating regard, gave his informant’s name. There was a moment of silence as Thomas privately acknowledged the boy was very likely telling the truth. I thought to make the grand tour, Sir, the erstwhile carter drawled, obviously striving for the ultimate in nonchalance. Seemed a pity not to do as my father did.

    Young pup! Thomas had to look down to hide his twitching lips. Came over with the free traders, I suppose? he drawled with matching nonchalance.

    "Yes, Sir. Then worked my way through France. Had to pretend to be a bit simple, to explain why I wasn’t part of the Grande Armée. Also helped to explain my halting French. Not that I can’t speak it, you understand, he added hastily, betraying his youth. It’s just that my French is too good for the role I was playing."

    As the young man warmed to his subject, he came down off his high horse, revealing further glimpses of the eager boy beneath. Intrigued, Thomas waved him to a seat. An hour later Thomas leaned back and regarded the young man with something akin to awe. The boy had not only traveled across two hostile countries but had gone out of his way to observe army encampments and file every scrap of fact and rumor into an amazingly retentive memory. Detailed questioning on certain points brought out a remarkable ability to sketch what he had seen. Also vague references to a French mother and a Spanish grandmother, which would account for his dark coloring and his fluency in both languages.

    Are you planning to continue your grand tour? Thomas asked with feigned disinterest.

    A question of great importance. In the closet Catarina pressed her ear even tighter to the wall.

    I had thought to go on to Greece, Sir, but it appears that things may be more lively around here.

    Indeed. Thomas, fingers drumming restlessly on his desk, decided to throw caution to the winds. This boy was almost too good to be true. And far too talented to be allowed to slip away. Since you already seem to know what I do here, I see no point in denying I could use you. Portugal is trying to remain neutral, but Boney is demanding the ports be closed to British trade. He may very well send an army to force the issue . . . possibly the one you say Junot is putting together. We may all have to run for it before the year is out.

    Thomas paused, shrewd eyes veiled by half-lowered lids. Perhaps you should continue your tour after all.

    The young man’s reply came without a moment’s pause. I’ll take my chances here, Sir.

    He was so young . . . so sure of himself, Thomas thought. No doubt the quintessential sprig of a noble British house, too full of nous to be satisfied by the life of a London rakehell. Not even wine, women, gaming, and duels were enough to keep this one occupied. I suppose you have some knowledge of gaming? Thomas inquired with only the barest hint of irony.

    For the first time the young Englishman smiled. I’ve been on the town for three years, Sir. I’m considered rather good at cards.

    I thought you might be. Thomas maintained a commendable calm in the face of rising excitement. It was possible he had found someone capable of learning all he could teach him. Are we agreed then? I’ll find you a position here at the Casa. Anything else I ask you to do will be decided as we go along. Agreement was instantaneous, the young man’s eyes lighting with enthusiasm. You’d best give me a name so I’ll know what to call you, Thomas added.

    An arrested expression crossed the young Englishman’s face. I call myself Blas, Sir. Just Blas. I’m afraid my real name’s a bit of a problem. It’s my only condition, sir—that no one ever ask me my name or where I come from. You see—he paused, momentarily betraying a strong discomfort—my father doesn’t know I’m here. And if he should find out . . . well, he’s not above having me brought back by force.

    Shall I be taken up for kidnapping? Thomas asked, arching an inquiring brow.

    I’ve reached my majority, Sir. The only one in danger is myself. The two men measured each other in silence. Thomas Audley would have agreed to a pact with the devil himself to keep the boy in Portugal. A curt nod of his head sealed the bargain.

    Shall I choose a Portuguese name? Blas inquired.

    Spanish, I should think, Thomas returned after a moment’s consideration. We’ll discuss it in the morning. It’s time I set up the faro bank. You’ve met Marcio Cardoso? Good. Tell him you are to have food and a bed.

    As Thomas Audley rose from his desk, Blas jumped to his feet. He thrust out his hand. The older man allowed some warmth to color his voice as he said, Welcome to my house, young Blas.

    Blas. Catarina savored the name. Blas. Very much pleased with the outcome of the conversation, she wiggled her way out of the closet, straightened her hair and clothing and walked lightly across the room. Her timing was poor. As she opened the door, a whirlwind grabbed her, propelling her back into the room. The door was slammed firmly shut behind her.

    What are you doing here? Blas demanded, amber eyes ablaze. His grip on her arm was so tight tears sprang to her eyes. In all her fourteen years Catarina had never had cause to fear physical violence. Nearly speechless, she stared at the grim face hovering over her.

    No! She would not let him intimidate her! She stopped struggling, straightened to her full height, only to find he still towered over her by at least six inches. I am Catherine Audley, she informed him with supreme dignity. In English. My father owns the Casa Audley. I have been in charge of his household since I was ten. This is my workroom where I prepare menus, keep the accounts, consult with the housekeeper. It is you who are the intruder here, not I.

    Daughters of the house don’t wield feather dusters, he countered with considerable truculence. In truth, the girl’s precise, upper class English, only faintly overlaid with the musical cadence of the Iberian peninsula, had already warned him she was likely telling the truth.

    "They do if they have a Dona Felipa for a governanta, said Catarina with some bitterness. Shall I ring for someone to tell you exactly who I am?"

    She winced, and Blas realized he was still holding her in a grip of iron. I’m sorry, he apologized, releasing her, but if you hadn’t been listening to every word between your father and myself, you would scarcely have spoken to me in English, now would you?

    Fairly caught, Catarina scowled up at him. My father’s business is a dangerous one, but it is not a secret from me. So listening is only a very little dishonest, you understand?

    It’s damned dangerous! the young man snapped. Knowing too much always is. You’re to stop it this instant!

    And who are you to tell me what to do? In spite of her fear that her father might hear them, Catarina’s voice rose alarmingly.

    I’m . . . The young Englishman’s voice trailed away as he realized he was nameless, a nobody, his power and authority far less than that of the very young female confronting him. For the moment, he conceded, making a deliberate effort to shock her, I’m Blas the Bastard, the Spanish ox-cart driver. And you are correct, I have absolutely no right to question your conduct.

    Now that his temper had cooled, Blas examined Thomas Audley’s daughter with the appreciation of a connoisseur. He found women delightful. A welcome and necessary part of his life. But this one was beyond delightful. Young as she was, she took his breath away.

    Long waves of red gold hair framed a heart-shaped face of classic beauty. Sparks shot from large green eyes set under long lashes so dark he rather thought she must have been into the paint pot. Her nose, a bit larger than one might expect in a face of such porcelain fragility, merely added character to the perfection of her face. Women matured early in Spain and Portugal, and this one seemed to be caught in the flow of the world around her, teetering on the brink between the child on the balcony and the dignified daughter of the house. He wouldn’t mind being around when she fell into womanhood. That alone might be worth his long hazardous journey from England to Portugal by way of France and Spain.

    Blas gifted her with the slow, easy, infinitely enigmatic smile which had been intriguing women since he was little older than she. He was offering a truce. But not without having the last word. It was, after all, necessary to his twenty-one-year-old self-esteem. The French could be here any time now, young Catherine, and knowing anything at all about Thomas Audley and his business could mean your death. We must all learn to be more cautious.

    With the tip of his fingers he touched her chin, running his thumb lightly over her lips. Keep that lovely mouth shut, child. And your ears away from knotholes. It would be a shame to lose so much beauty while still in bud.

    Reduced to speechless idiocy by sensations far beyond her realm of experience, Catarina darted around him and ran for the door, leaving Blas with a very thoughtful look on his angular bronzed face.

    In the course of the next five days not even the youngest stable boy was left unaware that the little senhorita was enamored with the young Spaniard who spent so much time talking to Senhor Tomás. It was understood, naturalamente, that he was not truly Spanish, for the Senhor would never hire one of the enemy to work at the Casa. So he must be one of the fine English gentlemen who would save them from the Corsican monster.

    A proper match for their young mistress, all agreed. At fourteen she was of an age to be married. It was not good to leave such succulent fruit too long on the vine. Sin hovered over the Casa Audley. Such temptation was too much for a man to bear. And the English cavalheiro did not appear to be a saint. To be sure, he had not greased the wheels of his cart—had they not all heard the squeal as he approached? But the devil was strong in this one, and possibly the screaming of the wheels had not been enough to frighten the demons away. Heads shook from the kitchen to the stables. Senhor Tomás would have to have a care with this one.

    Catarina, blissfully oblivious to the avid interest of her father’s staff, had managed to contrive a half dozen accidental meetings with her hero. She had even been allowed to participate in the choosing of a proper name for her father’s new protégé. Yet for all her effort, her conversations with Blas had been cool and stilted, his manner faintly condescending. A stranger might have taken him for a candidate for holy orders. For Thomas Audley had indeed taken a care, revealing with a notable lack of subtlety his daughter’s precise age and her exalted position in the household. A position which placed her far above an anonymous spy, no matter how bright and talented he might be. As a result, Catarina’s temperament had deteriorated from besotted to hurt to vast indignation. As her anger increased, Blas—who was far from accustomed to being warned off—grew colder. It might be said his attempt to please Thomas Audley had resulted in a fit of the sullens.

    None of which, fortunately, were apparent the night he made his debut in the gaming rooms.

    Catarina was waiting for him, tucked up in her favorite hidey-hole. Red velvet draperies enclosed a minstrel’s gallery which overlooked the largest of the Casa’s gaming rooms. An affectation from another age, the gallery had been included for sentiment’s sake when the house was rebuilt, as was most of Lisbon, after the disastrous earthquake of 1755.

    By the time Caterina was ten, her surreptitious use of the minstrel’s gallery had become an open secret. If Thomas Audley had been a more conventional father, that might have been the end of it. But he was heard to say that anything his Cat might learn from her perch in the small gallery could only be of use to a female attempting to survive in a wicked male world. So leave her alone. Soon enough she would be called upon to take her place in the gamble of life. She might as well know what to expect.

    For the last two years Catarina had been allowed to play hostess, upon occasion, in the gaming rooms. But now, this night, when she so wanted to be present, Papa had told her to stay away. Hovering over the poor boy would make him nervous. Nervous, indeed! Cat fumed. Blas had the hide of an ox and ice water in his veins.

    The Casa Audley was a quadrangle occupying a full square block in one of Lisbon’s better neighborhoods. Its two-story stucco walls, punctuated by balconies on the street side, rose directly from the narrow sidewalks. On the inside, the casa’s rooms were built around a central courtyard, with a staircase to the upper story at each of the four corners. A covered walkway at ground level and a roofed gallery above provided access to each room. At the rear of the quadrangle were the stables and storage areas, with rooms for the male servants above.

    The Casa’s entrance hall, tiled in an intricate pattern of Moorish azulejos in turquoise, white, and black, provided a striking welcome to the Casa Audley. Its walls were hung with pictorial Moorish rugs, and a small two-tiered marble fountain, elaborately decorated with sea creatures, greeted visitors with a continuous tinkling of soothing sound. The gaming rooms, three on each side of the entrance hall, were as finely decorated. Indeed, many of the locals—Portuguese, Spanish, and English—considered the Casa Audley more of a gentile club than a gaming establishment.

    If the two strong, brightly uniformed young Portuguese at the door recognized the young Spanish dandy who sounded the knocker, they gave no indication. He was, however, admitted without demur. The Spaniard paused just inside the impeccably decorated room to the left of the hall and surveyed it with a look compounded of mild curiosity and a soupçon of disdain. He, Don Alexis Perez de Leon, had seen better establishments in Madrid and Barcelona . . . and possibly Paris. In actuality, he was wishing that quizzing glasses were in fashion in this part of the world.

    Not too arrogant, Thomas Audley had warned. At the moment Spain is the enemy and we don’t need hot words. Be gracious. Blend. You are charming . . . only reasonably intelligent. Don’t win too much money. No clever remarks, no peeking down the wrong bosoms. Wait ‘til I tell you which ones are fair game. With such instructions, what fun could a young man have? Obviously, spying was not as glamorous as he had hoped.

    Catarina widened the gap in the red velvet draperies and stared, awed by the transformation. Almost every trace of the scurrilous singer of bawdy ballads was gone. Blas’s strangely pale face was surrounded by gently waving short black curls which gleamed in the light of the multi-faceted chandeliers. Folds of white lace fell from his neck nearly to his waist and were framed by a short black velvet jacket decorated down the front edges with a row of modest-sized mother-of-pearl buttons. Lace ruffles flowed from the cuffs of his shirt, falling gracefully over his fingers. His tight-fitting black velvet breeches were also decorated with shining pearl buttons down the sides. His broad satin waistband was black, as were his knee-high silk leggings. On his left hand gleamed two ornate gold rings. A diamond winked from among the lacy layers of his jabot.

    And it was not just the clothes, Cat realized. Everything about her hero had changed. He seemed smaller. Lithe and graceful. A man who had never thought of doing something so menial as hefting a cask of wine. The bold carter who had bowed to her from the ox cart had been replaced by a pleasant, somewhat supercilious hidalgo of Spain who might possibly be regarding his Portuguese neighbors as some sort of backward poor relations. Then again, the Portuguese fidalgos and the many foreigners present were all the society there was, so it behooved him to make the best of it. An infinitesimal shrug of his shoulders, and Blas moved into the crowded room, watching the play at the various tables, nodding occasionally to those who caught his eye. How he conveyed so much without saying a word Catarina could not imagine, but he had done it. She pushed the drapery a bit farther out, peeked at her father who was holding the faro bank at a table on her right. Thomas was blandly returning his eyes to his card box, but Catarina was quite sure she caught a quirk of satisfaction on his lips.

    Blas passed through the largest gaming room, which was devoted to faro tables and two of the new roulette wheels, imported from France. He listened politely to the click of dice in a room where hazard was featured, paused to observe the action at the vingt-et-un tables, an ancient game not much seen in London’s clubs. The smallest of the six gaming rooms was set up for intimate games of piquet with a few tables occupied by elderly Portuguese gentlemen playing the card games of their youth.

    Deciding to indulge in what he knew best, Blas returned to the faro salon and joined the group at a table where the major domo of the Casa Audley, Lucio Cardoso, presided over a less expensive bank than Thomas Audley’s. Although Blas was loathe to admit it, he felt more comfortable initiating his masquerade under the aegis of Marcio’s father than under the eagle eye of his mentor, Thomas.

    Catherine’s arm grew stiff from holding her peephole open, but she never took her eyes off Blas. When he finally scooped up his winnings and stepped out into the courtyard, she hurriedly vacated the tiny gallery, flying down the wrought iron stairs into the courtyard. He was seated on one of the curved marble benches by the softly tinkling fountain, smoking a pungent cigarillo, patently enjoying the quiet courtyard and the cool night air.

    Curling tongs? Catarina challenged, poised before him, a picture of demure innocence as she clutched her shawl high around her neck.

    Flaunting her innocence was how Blas saw it. "Boa noite, senhorita Audley, he replied without a hint of expression, adding somewhat succinctly, Natural. I have to use oil to keep it straight."

    And your face?

    Lemon juice and a dusting of powder.

    She nodded her approval. He was a worthy addition to her father’s stable of spies. And strangely handsome with the irregular planes of his face softened by moonlight and the faint red glow of his cigarillo. The mist from the fountain blended with the smell of earth still warm from the afternoon sun and the courtyard flowers whose blooms lingered through the gentle Lisboan autumn.

    Catarina was too young to know any other word for what she felt but love. He was strong and brilliant, gifted beyond any other she had ever known. She could no more have left him sitting there alone than she could have drowned herself in the Tagus. Still clutching her shawl high under her chin, all trace of the proud daughter of the house swept away by shy awakening, she lowered herself onto a scant few inches of marble at the far end of the bench.

    With some vehemence Blas threw his cigarillo onto the tiled walkway and ground it under his heel. Hell and the devil! Why must the most beautiful woman in Portugal be fourteen years old? And his employer’s daughter, to boot. Since coming to Lisbon, he could have had a different woman each night. Had had . . . almost. So why in the name of all that was holy did he have to want this one? This was not the kind of chit a man played with. Definitely not. Even sitting with her in the moonlight was compromising. No need to touch. In the strict culture of the Iberian peninsula his unchaperoneed presence was enough to see the knot tied. His choice, if caught? Parson’s mousetrap or pistols at dawn.

    Abruptly, Blas stood, sketching a bow while making a supreme effort not to look at the pale heart-shaped face looking up at him so appealingly. Nor at the great green eyes shining with adoration in the moonlight. For God’s sake, go to bed! he growled. And what a singularly inappropriate remark, you dolt! With a show of stern indifference Blas the Bastard scowled as Catarina took herself off across the courtyard and climbed the outside staircase to the gallery above. She walked with immense dignity, a queen on her way to the guillotine.

    When Catarina reached the door to her room, desire triumphed over dignity. She turned and looked down toward the fountain. He was still standing there, bathed in moonlight, like the statue of some ancient Greek God. Heart pounding, she bolted into her room, slamming the door behind her.

    The next day Catarina shut herself up in her room and read Romeo and Juliet from cover to cover. Since Thomas Audley would not allow a copy of Thomas Bowlder’s A Family Shakespeare to disgrace his house, Catarina read the play as William Shakespeare wrote it, blushing mightily over passages which had quite escaped her when she first read it at the age of twelve. If only Dona Felipa were more like Juliette’s nurse! Then again, for all its grand romance, the silly twits managed things rather badly. Blas would never have made such a mull of it.

    Chapter Two

    Catarina glared at her image in the mirror. Untying the drawstring on the front of her peasant-style blouse, she tugged at the gauzy fabric until the neckline drooped far enough to reveal an expanse of budding young bosom. Cat cocked her head to one side. No . . . perhaps not, she conceded. It was highly likely Blas would only laugh. And, deus me livre, if her father should see her! Reluctantly Cat tightened the strings until the neckline was only a scant two inches lower than approved by Dona Felipa.

    She lifted the hem of her full black skirt, smiling in satisfaction at the many layers of brightly colored petticoats beneath. Sucking in her breath, Catarina tightened her gold satin sash another half inch before draping a black shawl, colorfully embroidered with flowers of gold, red and purple, around her shoulders. One more look in the mirror. She rubbed her lips together to enhance their color, angled her head to make sure her long dangling earrings were not tangled. With a satisfied shake of the bracelets on her arm, Cat left her room, descending the gallery staircase to the courtyard where Blas was waiting.

    With him was Marcio Cardoso, who had obviously been imparting some last minute man-to-man instructions. Until Blas arrived at the Casa Audley, Cat considered Marcio her ideal of young manhood. Though only of medium height, his figure was lithe and graceful. A mass of dark curls topped a face handsome enough to turn female heads wherever he went. His deep brown eyes had soulful depths. Or so Cat thought. Now . . . now she tended to think rugged imperfection far more appealing. Obviously, she was growing up, Cat decided, with smug satisfaction as her feet touched the final stair.

    As she approached the two young men, Lucio Cardoso came out of the house. Solemnly, he handed her a wicker basket whose bulging contents were covered with a red and white checked cloth.

    The major domo of the House of Audley then directed his attention to Blas. You will be careful, Lucio Cardoso commanded the young man who was so obviously unaccustomed to taking orders. Catarina has done this many times, so do not fail to do exactly as she says. No, you will not protest this! She is experienced, you are not. We are allowing you to take Marcio’s place because you have done well in the other tasks we have given you. So tonight you are to be entrusted with the most precious possession of Senhor Tomás—his Catarina and the contents of this basket. Now off with you. Do as she tells you. And nothing else!

    Inside his study Thomas Audley let the drapery fall back in place. Sitting down heavily at his desk, he breathed a deep sigh,. With his country’s secrets he would trust the enigmatic young Englishman without a qualm. With Catarina he was not so sure.

    The gaming rooms of the Casa Audley were just beginning to fill with customers when Blas, dressed in the peasant’s clothes he had worn the day he arrived, and Catarina slipped out a small door set into the massive wooden gates at the rear of the house. The gates through which Blas, a month earlier, had driven his ox-cart with the eerily squeaking wheels. As they entered the dark narrow street, Catarina pulled the shawl up over her head, draping it into a cowl that hid her face from view.

    Blast it, girl, Blas protested, "this isn’t the harim. Or is this the approved ensemble for baby spies? If so, let me assure you it’s a tad obvious!"

    You think you know everything! Cat hissed, quivering with youthful indignation. "Portuguese women are almost as sheltered as the women of the harim. Inside the Casa I am allowed freedom because I am the daughter of a mad inglês and only to be pitied because I was not brought up in the proper manner. But in the streets I must be modest. I must also carry the basket, for it is not expected a man would so lower himself."

    Shouldn’t you walk three paces behind me? Blas inquired sweetly. Catarina made a rude noise. So tell me how long you’ve been making these trips, he inquired. After all, it was his responsibility to maintain some sort of polite conversation with Thomas Audley’s only child, was it not? No matter what the provocation.

    Catarina slowed her pace, glanced around at the nearly deserted street. (For most Lisboans the evening was as yet too young for socializing.) Since I was ten, she replied, confident they would not be heard. "After my mother died, father arranged for me to meet other English children once or twice a week, usually at different homes, occasionally at the Embassy. It seemed perfectly natural for him to ask me to deliver letters when my governanta took me there. Cat broke her train of thought to add: Of course we did not tell Dona

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