Free A Lady's Revenge by Tracey Devlyn

never learned of his involvement. Could he be her friend while hiding such a hideous secret?
    For a little while. Enough time for Somerton to track down the Frenchman and secure Cora’s safety. After that…
    Cora would no doubt balk at the enforced rustication. As he made his way to the entrance hall, his mind sifted through various schemes on how to mitigate her displeasure.
    He rejected them all. She had never abandoned a fight before, and running off to the country would rub raw her natural instinct to meet Valère’s threat head-on.
    Releasing a resigned breath, he made up his mind to do whatever it took to keep her safe.
    Even if it required force.

Seven
    Valère set his empty wine glass down next to the floral abomination on the small, round table. Rather than an elegant arrangement of blood red roses, Alexander Grillon decorated his lobby with a disorderly assortment of sprays, leaves, and small flower buds. Valère’s vision wasn’t the only one of his senses assaulted by the bouquet. His nose was equally offended. Why would anyone choose the earthy scent of wildflowers over the exotic fragrance of a velvety rose, or, better yet, jasmine? One would think the former chef de cuisine to Lord Crewe would be gifted with a more refined taste.
    “Pardon me, sir.”
    His muscles tightened at the interruption, but he was careful not to reveal such emotion. Instead, he took a moment to retrieve the gold-rimmed spectacles from his pocket and slid them in place. Squinting through the thick layer of glass, he peered up at the tall blond waiter. “Yes?”
    “The quiet booth you requested is now open,” the waiter said. “Perhaps you would prefer to lounge there, sir?”
    “Yes, indeed, young man.” He analyzed his response, ensuring no hint of accent had escaped his control. Pleased with the result, he eased himself into a standing position, slowly straightening his back. He began a slow, arduous shuffle across the lobby of Grillon’s Hotel, his ivory-handled cane clicking across the tiled floor.
    Opened less than a year ago, the hotel still smelled of fresh mortar and new upholstery. The brass fixtures gleamed beneath the flickering lamplight, and every horizontal surface glowed with a scratch-free shine. Selecting Grillon’s proved the perfect choice for Valère’s business. Situated near Bond Street’s fashionable shopping district and St. James’s Street’s notorious row of gentlemen’s clubs, the hotel was a popular choice for London’s elite. All manner of on - dits could be overheard here, just by sitting quietly. He had gleaned more intelligence in a single afternoon than he would have gathered from Paris in a year’s time. Stupid English, they think they are safe on their little island.
    “Pardon, sir?”
    The waiter’s question caused a hitch in Valère’s step. Had he spoken his thoughts aloud? By the expectant look on the waiter’s face, he must assume so. An intolerable mistake. He must be vigilant while on the enemy’s territory. Mishaps like that could trap him on this miserable spit of land.
    As they approached their destination, he skimmed the half-shielded booth and his lip curled up. “Be so kind as to remove the table decoration,” Valère ordered as a means of distraction. “The flowers make me sneeze.” Not at all true. But such subterfuge was sometimes necessary to achieve his goal or ensure his comfort, two areas he deemed of the highest priority.
    “Apologies, sir.” The waiter picked up the arrangement and held it respectfully behind his back. “May I bring you another Burgundy?”
    Valère considered the late afternoon gloom and decided to indulge in another glass. “You may.”
    The waiter pushed back the concealing drape so Valère could maneuver himself up onto the bench. Once he settled in, the heavy, sapphire-colored material fell back in place, and he was alone. He should have felt a sense of peace or comfort at having escaped the bustle of Grillon’s. But he did