Big Finish Entry - "Heart of a Nightingale"

          John had only been at the party for ten minutes, and already he was bored. He was there as a favour to his widowed aunt, who was no doubt trying to play matchmaker. When would she learn that none of these society women could interest him?

          The cloying scent of perfume and the idle chatter of the other guests were getting to him, but it was too early in the evening to make a gracious exit. John decided to get some air on the balcony.

          Closing the French doors behind him, he quickly realized that he wasn't the only one who'd needed a refuge. Half-hidden in the shadows, a man and a woman were having what appeared to be an intimate moment. Not wanting to interrupt, John turned to head back into the party as discreetly as he could, but when the man suddenly grabbed the woman's arm, John stopped. Though he couldn't quite make out the man's words, John didn't like the look he was giving his petite companion, or the menacing tone of his voice. With a sigh at having to play the gentleman, John took a few steps towards the pair.

          "You have no right!" the woman was saying, obviously angry, and maybe even a little bit afraid. She shook off the man's hand, and spun on her heel. Her eyes immediately met John's-she had to realize he'd witnessed the exchange.

          But John was not prepared for what happened next. Composing herself, the woman strolled over to his side, put her arm through his, and said loudly enough so that the other man could hear, "Darling, I'm so glad you're here!"

          John swallowed his surprise and rose to the occasion, despite the sensation that his arm had gotten too close to a flame.  "But of course you must have known I'd come searching for you."  He looked in the direction of the hulking brute, not surprised to see the man's face was almost as puce as his red satin brocade jacket.  Both clashed hideously with his peach-coloured smalls.  Dreadful taste, simply dreadful.  "But will you introduce me to your... this ‘gentleman'?"

          The petite brunette shot a glance up at him, and then surprised him again.  "Of course, mon cher.  Allow me to present Sir Hugh Boggswell to you.  Sir Hugh, the Honourable John St. Vincent, Fifth Viscount Downlea."

          "Charmed."  John drew it out in a fashionable drawl, wondering how on earth the chit had recognized him.  He wondered whether she knew of his association with the Home Office as well, or had merely had him pointed out to her at the theatre or some such place.  She seemed familiar, and yet he knew they'd never met.

          Sir Hugh glared at him quite enough to put him in the grave, were mere looks fatal, and then transferred his stare back to the charming appendage John had recently acquired.  "We aren't finished, Lisette."  He shoved past the two of them and back into the throng of Lady Charleston's ballroom. 

          "Thank heaven you came out when you did."  Lisette disengaged herself from her rescuer and drew back in a swish of satin.

          "Yes, well you might thank heaven, as well as Lady Charleston, for inviting such an insipid crowd this evening."  Now that the lady no longer appeared to be in dire danger, he looked her over appreciatively.  "That, however, doesn't begin to answer the questions I'm sure you realize I must have.  You, for example.  Your accent as well as your charming looks would indicate an émigrée."

          "Very good, Lord Downlea."  Her rosy lips turned up into a smile that was echoed in her sparkling brown eyes. 

          "Ah, are we back to formality so soon?   I was ‘darling' just a moment ago."

          "Please don't mock me, milord." 

          "I assure you, nothing was farther from my mind."  Taking in the effects of her rose satin gown, which was still in the highly formal Court style rather than the Neoclassical garments that were beginning to come into vogue, he had to fight to keep his mind from wandering off altogether in another, more intimate direction.  Forcing himself back to the subject at hand, he wrenched his gaze from the broad expanse of creamy white skin above her bodice and looked into her eyes. 

          "So, Mademoiselle Lisette, have you a last name?"

          "T'is de Montvallet, sir."

            "What, not le Chevalier Louis-Richard de Montvallet's daughter?"

          "The same, milord."

          "Perhaps you'll wish to tell me, then, what de Montvallet's daughter is doing being threatened by the likes of that jackanapes who just left."

          "I shouldn't like that at all, I'm afraid."  She had the audacity to smile at him.

          John forced himself to remain calm and aloof, although he was feeling neither at the moment.  Much more, and he'd find himself wanting to strangle her.

          "Then enlighten me on how a young lady of Quality came to find herself without a chaperone on a dark balcony with a man to whom she is not related."

          It was hard to discern in the moonlight, but John thought Lisette blushed. 

          "Pray, milord, what use is a female of a certain age, whose sole intent is to enjoy herself at the party rather than keep an eye on her charge?"

          "Not much, I should imagine."  John bit back a smile.  Even in his ennui, he had not failed to notice the gaggle of gossiping geese aligned against the far wall, next to the refreshment table.  "Which one of the old battl--- I beg your pardon.  Which chaperone is yours?"

          "Amelie de Brabagne, who gets by on stories of her escape from the Terror."

          "Ah."  John had had the misfortune to meet and be cornered by Mme de Brabagne once at a cotillion given by his cousin Anne.  The Frenchwoman's ghoulish descriptions and avid enjoyment of the discomfort of her listeners had given him an instant dislike of her. 

          "So, I give you great thanks for rescuing me from Sir Hugh, but I must be going now."

          "So soon?"

          Oddly enough, his boredom had disappeared. 

          Lisette nodded as she tried to pass him to the balcony doors.  John stopped her, taking her hand and bowing over it, pressing his lips to the soft, well-tended skin a moment longer than was necessary, unable to quench the burning of his lips as he stood straight again.

          "Goodbye, Lord Downlea."  Her voice trembled a little.

          "No."  He smiled.  "A bientôt."

          Lisette made her escape from Lord Downlea, hastening to collect Amelie and make their goodbyes to Lady Charleston.  As the landaulet clattered over the cobblestones on the way back to the house her parents had rented for the Season, Lisette couldn't help but think Lord Downlea's appearance at that precise moment had been providential.  Amelie kept up a magpie chatter until she apparently noticed the conversation was one-sided.

          "You are quiet, chérie."

          "It is the headache."  And it was, only not the sort of headache that lavender water would cure.  Of all the people to have rescued her from Sir Hugh, that it should be Lord Downlea was the most ironic.  As long as he had not known her name, she had been safe.  Now, not only her life, but the lives of everyone in the alliance were in jeopardy.

          The next morning at the Home Office, John found himself once again thinking of the young émigrée he'd inadvertently rescued.  When his secretary, Philip Walker, brought in the latest intelligence report, John stopped him before he could leave.

          "What do you know of a Sir Hugh Boggswell?"

          Walker paused, closed his eyes for a moment, as he always did when searching his phenomenal memory, and then looked back at John.  "Squire, lives in the marsh country of Sussex.  He's suspected of being hand-in-glove with the smugglers, but, as he's a district magistrate, nothing has been done about it."

          "And le Chevalier le Montvallet?"

          "Escaped with his family as the Terror was just beginning, and purchased lands which march with Sir Hugh's.  The on-dit is that a match is expected between the two families.  Sir Hugh has been hanging out for a wife, and de Montvallet has an eligible daughter."

          "Ah."  The mild exclamation was the only indication he gave of his surprise.  So that explained why Mademoiselle de Montvallet had been out on the balcony.  "Thank you.  Is there anything new from the Nightingale?"

          "It's on your desk."  Walker left him to peruse the report, closing the door after him.

          John picked up the papers.  Once again, their eyes and ears in the émigré community had brought invaluable information to his attention.  If it were to be believed (and it had always been trustworthy before), Napoleon planned to invade England, and was building up the French Navy.

          Wasting no time, he left his office and went to seek an audience with the Prime Minister.             

          Mr. Pitt admitted him at once, and received the information with a look of resignation.  "It is much as I suspected.  Napoleon knows that as long as England remains free, he will have no peace."  The worry lines in his face made him look older than his forty-five years.

          "I wish I had better news for you."

          "At least we know now how to proceed."  Pitt essayed a smile.  "I suppose we have le Rossignol to thank for this."

          "Yes, our Nightingale sings as well as ever."  Even as he said it, John thought of the émigré community in general and one Mademoiselle Lisette de Montvallet in particular.

          A few nights later, John entered the ballroom of Lord and Lady Edgemere's London townhouse.  The masquerade to which he had been invited was already in full swing.  In keeping with his own understated style, his mask and cloak were of black satin, but the room was filled with a swirling rainbow of colour as dancers moved through the measured steps of a quadrille as a lively tune from a string quartet spilled out of the gallery above.

          Word had come through the Nightingale that the leak in the Home Office would be here tonight, and, if they were lucky, the spy who had been selling the information to the French.  The man had eluded them since they first became aware of his activities, near the beginning of Napoleon's accession to the throne.  John had his own suspicions about the leak and who he might be.  Two men in particular at the Home Office filled the bill of potential spy.  Sir Winthrop Montague was a gamester, and often played deep.  William Smith seemed to live above his means, but always had plenty of the ready.  John was curious to see which, if either, of them the traitor might be.

          As he stood watching the dancers, the set finished, and they broke up into small groups.  Standing on the edge of the room near a wall, he overheard snatches of conversation as the next set began to form.  As he studied the order of dances, wondering whether he ought to ask any of the ladies to dance or if he'd be better used in observation, his hostess, Lady Edgemere, approached him.

          "Is that you, Downlea?  Never say it is not."

          John smiled.  "I though the purpose of a masquerade was to leave everyone's identity a guessing game until the unmasking." 

          Lady Edgemere's eyes twinkled behind her sapphire silk mask.  "Ah, but half the fun is when I know I'm right.  Are you going to ask me to dance?"

          John bowed, suppressing his irritation at this piece of high-handedness.  He took the lady's gloved hand and led her into the contredanse. 

          As the line of dancers moved from one end of the room to the other, John found himself staring into the same twinkling brown eyes that had been haunting him since his aunt's party.  So, Mlle de Montvallet was here, was she?  He hadn't expected that, for some reason.  He permitted himself to smile at her, and was rewarded with an answering flash of recognition.  She was wearing the new style this evening, judging by the natural shape under her domino.  He checked his thoughts.  If he were to catch the traitor, he could not let his attraction to her distract him.

          Lisette moved on in the figure of the dance and John had to force himself to concentrate on finishing the steps. 

          The evening wore on, and as the clock approached midnight, when the unmasking would take place, John saw a man head out into the garden.  Gliding after him, sticking to the shadows around the corners of the ballroom, John made his exit.  Taking refuge under an oak, John watched as yet another man followed the first.  They made their way toward a rose arbour, speaking in low undertones.  John followed, hearing snatches of words.

          "---Boney---Home Office---"

          "Mr. Pitt has already---heard Downlea speak of---making plans to foil the plot.  Let them know---"

          John saw movement and a dark domino.  A woman.  If she continued toward the rose arbour--- John bore down on her swiftly and silently, coming up behind her and clapping a hand over her mouth as his other arm went round her waist. 

          John kept his voice to a murmur.  "Hush, Miss.  I'll not harm you."

          She stopped her struggling and went very still. 

          "I need to hear what those men are saying." 

          She said something against his hand.  Startled, he moved it.

          Her voice was lower than his, so soft he could scarcely hear her.  "So do I."

          A soft wind caressed the trees.  John felt a jolt of awareness, suddenly certain the woman he held captive was Lisette de Montvallet. 

          Silently they moved closer to the two men. 

          "Never mind that.  You'll get the word to France?" 

          John recognized the voice.  So it was Smith.  He was scarcely surprised.  The man was always underfoot at the Home Office. 

          "Nothing easier."  The other voice belonged to Sir Hugh. 

          A parcel changed hands.  "It feels lighter than last time."

          "If it happens that your information is useful, you'll get a bonus.  Don't be so greedy."

          Lisette's foot brushed against a pebble near the path, and it rolled a few inches.

          "What's that?"  Smith turned round.

          John pulled Lisette into his arms and lowered his lips to hers. 

          Sir Hugh snorted.  "Just an assignation." 

          John heard the men go past them not five feet away, but his mind was torn between wanting to follow them and the need to prolong this embrace.  Lisette, startled at first, had melted into his arms, twining her own around his neck.  Her kiss was sweet but inexperienced, and even that made him wish for more.  Sir Hugh wanted to marry Lisette?  Not if John could help it!

          The moment Sir Hugh and William Smith had gone back indoors, Lisette pulled away.  What had she been thinking to let him kiss her like that!  She knew one thing: it must never be allowed to happen again.

          "They have gone.  I must follow them." 

          John caught her hand.  "No.  Now that we know their identity, it will be up to Mr. Pitt whether to have them both arrested and tried for treason, or to leave them in place to send false information to France."

          Lisette looked up at him, his face carved from marble in the light of half a moon.  Never had he looked so handsome, or so dangerous.

          "Milord---"

          "There is nothing else to be done.  Your safety is more important."

          "But---"

          John placed a finger to her tingling lips.  "No, not another word.  If not for your own sake, then for the sake of the Royalist émigrés and Great Britain."

          He knew.  How he knew, Lisette could not imagine, but he knew.  God help her.  God help them all.

          As if he could read her despair, John pulled her back into his arms and looked down at her with a smile.  "Did you expect me to betray the woman I've been half in love with for months?"

          Lisette gasped. 

          "Tell me if I'm mistaken, petit Rossignol." 

          A denial born of long habit sprang to her lips. 

          "Ah, Lisette..."  He reached gentle fingers to her mask and untied the strings.  "I'm not wrong, am I?"

          Averting her eyes, she tried in vain to pull away.  His hold on her was too strong, and not just the arm he had around her waist.  The hold on her heart was even stronger. 

          "We always met in secret, in shadow, but when you took my arm on the balcony, my heart knew even before my mind did that we had met before.  I was half jealous whenever your message went to someone else besides me.  I knew it was unreasoning, that I shouldn't love you without knowing anything more than your nomme de guerre..."

          Could it be? 

          As the clock struck midnight, Downlea removed his own mask as he'd removed hers.

          "Tell me that you don't feel the same way, and we will go back to being polite acquaintances."

          He was half in love with her.  Only half.

          "Half in love is not enough, milord."

          Downlea smiled again.  "But that was only before I met you as yourself, without a disguise.  Since then, I haven't been able to get you out of my thoughts.  I've fallen totally in love with you, Lisette de Montvallet."

          "Vraiment?"        

          "Yes, truly.  Now, do I have your permission to pay you my addresses?"

          "But I'm only an émigrée, milord."  Lisette didn't know whether her heart were singing or breaking.

          "Do you care for me, Lisette?  Even a little?"

          "Oh, if you only knew!" 

          "Then you have no objections to my visiting your father?"

          "None."

          He pressed his lips to hers again, and then she knew.  The heart of the Nightingale was singing.

"Never say you will pray about a thing; pray about it." Oswald Chambers
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