She shook her head. “I am no traitor.”
“Come.” Tightening his grip, Jacques steered her across the floor of the gallery to the arched windows that overlooked the inner courtyard. A reluctant smile curved her lips at the sight of a dozen children ranging in age from five to fifteen darting among the ruins of the statues and fountains, chasing a stray dog. “Do you see them, Talia?” Jacques demanded, his voice low and compelling. “They are not English or French, they are children. And all they know is that war has destroyed their homes and their families. Just think of the difference you could make in their lives.”
Talia could not deny a tug of regret.
Her days in Devonshire had proved she possessed a talent for helping those in need, whether it was making certain a sickly tenant received meals from her kitchen or organizing the village to build a new school for the local children.
How much could she accomplish for those poor orphans?
She heaved a sigh. “You do not fight fair.”
“I fight to win.”
She thrust away his unexpectedly tempting offer and turned to meet his watchful gaze.
“Am I to be held here forever?”
He deliberately lifted his brow, glancing toward the beautiful Rubens’s paintings displayed in gilt frames and the dangling chandeliers made from priceless Venetian glass.
“You disapprove of your lodgings?”
She thinned her lips, battling against his considerable charm.
“I simply wish to know what you intend for my future.”
He reached to straighten the lace at her bosom. “Be at ease, Talia. Once the information I acquired has been used to defeat Wellesley, I will personally escort you back to Devonshire.” He paused. “A
lthough I have hopes that I will have convinced you to remain with me by that time.”
She was far from comforted by his promise. “How can you speak so casually of what you have done? Do you not realize that hundreds, perhaps thousands, of British soldiers might die because of your treachery?”
“And hundreds, perhaps thousands, of French soldiers will be saved,” he readily countered. “It is war, ma petite.”
“A war started by your crazed emperor who will not be satisfied until he has conquered the world.” Her scowl shifted toward the marble bust of Napoleon that had been placed on a teak-wood pedestal. “How can you give your loyalty to such a man?”
CHAPTER SEVEN
“I COULD ASK the same of you,” Jacques countered, his jaw clenched. “How can you give your loyalty to a mad king and his imbecile son who devotes more attention to the gloss on his boots than to his people starving in the gutters?”
She lowered her eyes, unable to deny his condemnation. Not that she was prepared to admit the truth. Not to the man who was willing to betray those who had come to trust him, including herself.
“We shall never agree.”
“You think not?” He waited until she lifted her head to meet his somber gaze. “We are not so different, you know.”
She stilled. “What do you mean?”
He paused, as if not entirely certain he wished to explain himself. Then, with a tiny shrug, he turned his gaze toward the children still darting about the courtyard.
“My father was an artist who caught the attention of King Louis,” he revealed in a soft, rigidly controlled voice. “He was commissioned to complete several sculptures for the Tuileries gardens.”
She studied his profile, sensing his long-buried pain. “He must be very talented.”
“He was.”
“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “He has passed?”
“When I was just a boy.” A wistful smile curled his lips. “Thankfully, I managed to salvage a few of his pieces.”