Adele Ashworth by Stolen Charms

twenty years with a company of them, and she had learned well.
    Several times during the following three years, Madeleine had uncovered secrets which she in turn had forwarded to Sir Riley Liddle at home—nothing ruinous or even scandalous, but little things to help the British cause in Europe. And always did she begin these pieces of information with the salutation, “Warm regards from the Frenchwoman.” She never heard anything in return but she knew her investigatory discoveries were being heeded, as information she passed along began to be used, even in subtle ways. That was all the satisfaction she needed for a while, until they grew accustomed to her doing what Englishmen did as a matter of course, and she knew they would in time.
    Finally, after fixing herself within the French elite, weaving her way through the upper social arena with charm and sagacity, she had been given the priceless opportunity of earning respect from her English superiors. In July 1843, she stumbled upon the news that two very high-profile French political prisoners were to be transferred without delay directly from trial to dreary Newgate, and a plan was in the works to free them while in transit, with force if need be.
    Indeed, on the day of that move, due to the quickness of a Frenchwoman’s wit, a small uprising was avoided, as a few stunned, self-serving, heavily armed Frenchmen were apprehended without incident. When she heard the news of victory, Madeleine knew she was in.
    Four days later, on August 2, 1843, Madeleine Bilodeau, former line dancer and the daughter of an actress (which many felt was even worse), became a spy for the British government. She was contacted quite informally during a morning stroll up the avenue De Friedland near her Paris home, and within twenty-four hours she had been whisked to Marseilles, with all her worldly possessions in tow, to become Madeleine DuMais, wealthy widow of the mythical Georges DuMais, a world-renowned trader of fine teas, lost at sea. They’d set her up at the breathtaking southern port, in her beautiful city dwelling, so she might be of service to the Crown regarding the ever-growing menace of trade smuggling. During the last four years she’d become socially adored and accepted in all local circles for exactly what she appeared to be, serving her adopted country well, with a sort of glamorous honor attached to her name by those who mattered in England.
    Madeleine straightened and smoothed her skirt. The low rumble of a man’s voice from the entry hall pulled her wandering mind from the past as she looked to the clock over the mantel. Jonathan Drake had arrived, three minutes after ten, and she was ready to receive him.
    He entered as Marie-Camille opened the parlor door, and she was once again awed by his appearance. She’d only met him once, about a year ago, at a gala affair near Cannes, and at the time they were introduced she found herself giggling at the gross understatement of his looks by her superiors. They’d portrayed him as “A right average fellow. Dashing in a good light. Dark hair and all that.”
    But Jonathan Drake was beautiful, if one could use that word to describe a man. Not in an elegant sense, really, although he dressed impeccably. But rather in a rugged, overtly masculine manner.
    Until he smiled, as he did now. Then “beautiful” was most appropriate.
    “Madame DuMais.” He spoke first, taking her outstretched hand and lifting the back of it to his lips. “Again we meet. How lovely you look. As a breath of morning air.”
    Madeleine felt herself blushing, as she almost never did in the presence of anyone. But he had taken the time to glance subtly at her figure, which was exactly what she had hoped he’d do when she’d taken the time preparing herself. And how could he not? He was a man, after all, and she’d expected it. His reputation preceded him.
    “Monsieur Drake. A pleasure. Please be seated.” She gestured to the opposite chair, turned to