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  A WOMAN WITH A PAST

  “Have you found your compatriots welcoming even though your relatives have returned to France?”

  Her mouth twisted. “The grand émigrés in Soho will have nothing to do with a woman who was a whore in Turkey.”

  He winced. “Surely no one said such an appalling thing!”

  “The aristocratic ladies did. Their husbands tried to corner me in empty rooms,” she said tartly. “I decided I would be safer among my more humble countrymen here in St. Pancras.”

  He bit off a curse. “You deserve so much better than this, Suzanne!”

  She sighed. “If there is one thing I have learned, it’s that no one ‘deserves’ anything more than the right to struggle for survival. I’d rather be here altering gowns in a cold room than living in luxury in a Turkish harem and wondering which night might be my last, so I think I am doing well.” She raised her teacup in a mock toast. “Will you drink to my survival, Simon?”

  “I can do more than that,” he said, his gaze intense. “Marry me, Suzanne.”

  Books by Mary Jo Putney

  The Lost Lords series

  Loving a Lost Lord

  Never Less Than a Lady

  Nowhere Near Respectable

  No Longer a Gentleman

  Sometimes a Rogue

  Not Quite a Wife

  Not Always a Saint

  The Rogues Redeemed series

  Once a Soldier

  Once a Rebel

  Once a Scoundrel

  Once a Spy

  Other Titles

  Dearly Beloved

  The Bargain

  The Rake

  Mischief and Mistletoe

  The Last Chance Christmas Ball

  MARY JO PUTNEY

  ONCE A SPY

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  A WOMAN WITH A PAST

  Books by Mary Jo Putney

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Brussels

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Teaser chapter

  ZEBRA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2019 by Mary Jo Putney

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the Publisher and neither the Author nor the Publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Zebra and the Z logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  First Kensington Books Hardcover Printing: August 2019

  First Zebra Books Mass-Market Paperback Printing: October 2019

  ISBN: 978-1-4201-4810-7

  ISBN-13: 978-1-4201-4813-8 (eBook)

  ISBN-10: 1-4201-4813-3 (eBook)

  To Nic, major fan of my stories, professor

  of economics, and brother-in-law:

  Thanks for so much support and enthusiasm

  over the years!

  Chapter 1

  London, February 1815

  Even though Suzanne was working under the small window in her room to get the best light, it was now too dark to continue sewing. England was much farther north than where she’d been living, and in midwinter the days were short and often rainy or overcast. She might have to buy candles to finish these alterations by the end of the week.

  She set aside the gown and stood to stretch. Perhaps she should go for a short walk. The day was raw and her old cloak barely adequate, but she loved having the freedom to go outside whenever she wished.

  Solid steps sounded on the stairs outside her room and she recognized the dignified approach of her landlord, Mr. Potter. He knocked on the door and announced, “Madame Duval, there’s a fellow here who says he’s your cousin, Colonel Duval. He’s down in the sitting room. Do you have a cousin who is a colonel?”

  Suzanne opened her door, surprised. After the last tumultuous years, she had no idea what relatives might still be alive, or what they had been doing. “I might, but I’ll have to see him to be sure. I assume he looks respectable or you wouldn’t have allowed him in.”

  “He has the look of a soldier, not that being one would make him a saint,” her landlord said dourly. “I’ll go down with you in case you want me to send him away.”

  She nodded her thanks. Mr. Potter was very protective of the female tenants in his boardinghouse. It was one of the reasons she’d chosen to live here.

  She peeled off the fingerless gloves she wore to keep her hands warm while sewing, brushed a casual hand over her dark hair, and straightened her knit shawl over her shoulders, glad that her appearance was no longer a matter of life and death. Then she followed her landlord down the narrow stairs.

  When she opened the door to the small sitting room, the dim light revealed a man gazing out the window, his hands clasped behind his back as he studied the shabby neighborhood. Lean and powerful, he did indeed have the bearing of a soldier. His wavy dark hair was in need of cutting and he had a familiar grace as he turned at her entrance. His searching gaze met hers and he became very still.

  She froze, paralyzed with shock. Jean-Louis!

  But her husband was dead—she’d seen him murdered with her own eyes. Also, Jean-Louis had been twice her age when they married. This man was younger.

  When she saw his cool, light gray eyes, she remembered a young second cousin of her husband. Simon Duval had been a boy, only a couple of years older than she’d been as a very young bride, but he’d shared a strong family resemblance to her husband. The years had emphasized subtle differences in his features and she guessed that he was a shade taller and more broad-shouldered than Jean-Louis had been.

  Realizing she wasn’t breathing, she inhaled slowly. “Well met, Simon. Or should I call you Monsieur le Comte?”

  “So it really is you, my cousin Suzanne,” her visitor said with soft amazement. “The name is not uncommon and Hawkins didn’t say you were the Comtesse de Chambron. But though you are a countess, I am no coun
t. Merely a distant cousin by marriage who is very glad to see that you are alive.”

  He spoke English with no hint of French accent and she remembered that his mother had been English. “Though I no longer think myself a countess, you might be the Comte de Chambron if enough members of my husband’s family have died.” Which was true, but even more true was that the world where French courtly titles mattered seemed very far away. She extended her hand. “Mr. Potter announced you as a colonel. Which army? British, French royalist, or French imperial?”

  “So many possibilities! The British army, though I’m going to sell out now that the emperor has abdicated.” He smiled a little as he took her hand and bent over it, a gesture wholly French. “I’m glad to see you well and more beautiful than ever. I’d heard you were dead.”

  His hand was warm and strong and competent. She released it with reluctance. “You flatter like a Frenchman, Simon,” she replied, returning his smile. “I am no longer a dewy young bride and I was very nearly dead several times over. But yes, I have survived.”

  Her landlord cleared his throat and she realized that he’d been monitoring this meeting from the doorway. “Madame Duval, I imagine you and the colonel have much to discuss, so I’ll bring you some tea.”

  “That would be lovely, Mr. Potter.” After he left, she knelt on the hearth and added a small scoop of coals to the embers of the fire. “Indeed, we have much to catch up on, cousin. It’s been a dozen years or more.”

  Simon had been one of many guests at her wedding to the Comte de Chambron. She’d been only fifteen, dazzled by suave Jean-Louis and thrilled to be making such a grand marriage. Since Simon had been near her age, they’d developed a teasing friendship in the days before the wedding, but that had been a lifetime ago.

  She settled in the chair to the right of the fireplace. “How did you find me?”

  “Captain Gabriel Hawkins.” Simon took the seat opposite her. “He and I shared an alarming adventure in Portugal some years back. By chance we ran into each other and, as we exchanged news, I learned that he’d just returned from a voyage to Constantinople and you were a passenger.”

  She stiffened. “Did he tell you my circumstances?”

  Voice gentle, Simon said, “He said you were in the harem of a powerful and deeply corrupt Turkish official, and that your aid was invaluable in rescuing two English women, including the young lady who is now his wife.”

  Those were the bare facts. She hoped that Hawkins had said no more than that. “And in return, he rescued me and brought me here.”

  “Hawkins said he offered to take you to France, but that you chose to join émigré relatives who were in the French community in Soho.” His perceptive gaze was evaluating her and the clean but worn sitting room. She could guess his thoughts. In London, Soho was the French quarter where the wealthy émigrés lived. The poor ones struggled to make a living in this rundown neighborhood in the St. Pancras parish.

  Answering his unasked question, she said, “After Napoleon abdicated, those cousins returned to France to reclaim their property. I was not surprised to find them gone. But no matter. I prefer to make my own way in England rather than return to France. There is nothing for me there.”

  His gaze flicked around the worn sitting room again. “Forgive me for asking, but how are you managing?”

  “I sew well and I’ve been doing piecework. Soon I should be able to find a permanent position.” She smiled wryly. “But I do wish I’d been able to bring the jewels I had when I was a favorite in the harem! I’d have been able to buy my own shop.”

  “Money makes everything easier,” he agreed, his brow furrowed. “I’m fortunate that my mother came from a successful English merchant family and her fortune remained on this side of the Channel.”

  “Very prudent of your mother and her family.” She cocked her head to one side. “Are you here only to look up a distant family connection? Perhaps you are bored now that you’ve sold out of the army?”

  “Not bored, though I am rather at loose ends,” he admitted. “But as soon as Hawkins mentioned you, I wanted to see if you were the right Suzanne Duval, and if so, to learn how you are faring.”

  Mr. Potter returned, a tea tray in hand. The tray was dented pewter and there was a chip in the spout of the teapot, but her landlord presented the refreshments with the air of a duke’s butler. There was also a dish of shortbread.

  “Thank you, Mr. Potter!” Suzanne said warmly. “You and your wife have outdone yourselves.”

  “The pleasure is ours, my lady.” He inclined his head and withdrew from the room.

  “My lady?” Simon asked as she poured tea for them. “He knows that you’re an aristocrat?”

  “He was just being polite, though you might have changed that.” She sipped her tea, then offered him the shortbread. “Have a piece. Mrs. Potter is a wonderful baker.”

  He followed her advice and murmured appreciatively after he bit into it. “She is, and she doesn’t stint on the butter.” He finished his tea in a long swallow and set the cup down with a clink. “I wonder if I might find old friends or relations in the émigré community. Have you found your compatriots welcoming even though your relatives have returned to France?”

  Her mouth twisted. “The grand émigrés in Soho will have nothing to do with a woman who was a whore in Turkey.”

  He winced. “Surely no one said such an appalling thing!”

  “The aristocratic ladies did. Their husbands tried to corner me in empty rooms,” she said tartly. “I decided I would be safer among my more humble countrymen here in St. Pancras.”

  He bit off a curse. “You deserve so much better than this, Suzanne!”

  She sighed. “If there is one thing I have learned, it’s that no one ‘deserves’ anything more than the right to struggle for survival. I’d rather be here altering gowns in a cold room than living in luxury in a Turkish harem and wondering which night might be my last, so I think I am doing well.” She raised her teacup in a mock toast. “Will you drink to my survival, Simon?”

  “I can do more than that,” he said, his gaze intense. “Marry me, Suzanne.”

  Chapter 2

  Suzanne set down her teacup so quickly that the tea sloshed out. “Good heavens, Simon! You look so sane, but clearly I misjudged.”

  He smiled, enjoying the musical lilt of her French accent, the grace of her petite, perfectly proportioned figure, the shine of her rich, tobacco brown hair. “I am as astonished by my proposal as you are. Yet it feels right.”

  “Why?” She tilted her head, her startling green eyes curious and amused. “Why ask, and why does it feel right?”

  This was a question he needed to answer for himself as well as her. “I have spent years of my life working for the demise of Napoleon,” he said slowly. “He and his regime cost me much of my family and the girl I loved. Now he is gone, for good, I hope. What does a soldier do when the wars are over?”

  “What do any of us who survived do?” she asked softly.

  It was the question that had haunted him for months, and gradually he was finding answers. “Cultivate the ways of peace. I’ll open my long-neglected house. Put away my uniform. Plant a garden. Take a wife.” He studied Suzanne’s lovely face. In many ways she was a stranger, but on some deep level, familiar. “You have survived great losses and tumult in your life, so perhaps you want the same things?”

  She set her teacup down and rose to drift across the room. Ending at the window, she gazed absently at the street outside. “You and I met a dozen years ago during the Peace of Amiens. The naive and optimistic girl that I was then thought the wars were over and we could look forward to bright futures. Then the world dissolved once more into violence and chaos. Perhaps your proposal stems from a desire to recapture those days of peace and optimism? But they are gone forever.”

  “That time has passed,” he admitted, “but weren’t we friends even though we didn’t know each other for long? I enjoyed your intelligence and warmth and envied
my cousin his choice of bride. You seemed to enjoy my company as well. Isn’t that worth building on?”

  “That is a frail, distant connection,” she said as she turned from the window to look at him. “We are strangers to each other now.”

  “Are we?” He caught her gaze. “Much has happened to us both, but do you feel as if you are a different person from that young bride? I may be battered and weary, but I feel that at heart, I’m the same man I was when we met.”

  “I suppose I am also the same deep down.” Her expression tightened and he saw pain in her eyes. “But I don’t know if I’ll ever be suited to marriage again.”

  When she fell silent, he asked tentatively, “Are you willing to say why?”

  At first he thought she’d refuse, but then she sighed. “Years in a harem where my survival depended on being a whore and pretending to enjoy it have damaged me, perhaps beyond repair. I’m not sure if I’ll ever know desire again. The way I feel now, the answer is probably no.”

  He winced internally as he recognized how much pain lay under her flat, honest words. Yet he felt a surprising kinship with her. “My circumstances were nothing like yours, but I do understand the death of desire.” For a brief, piercing moment he remembered the intoxicating mutual madness he’d known with his fiancée, Alette. “For me, desire is not much more than a memory, buried with all the other bright memories. Yet I can imagine a satisfactory marriage without physical intimacy. Can you?”

  She looked startled, then thoughtful. “For myself, yes, I can imagine it. But you’re a man in the prime of life, and in my experience, men are more physically passionate. What if desire returns for you and not for me? I should be a great inconvenience to you then.”

  It was an important question. He thought before replying, “You would still be my wife and my friend. I would do nothing to humiliate you. What if the reverse is true and you recover desire and I don’t?”