Chapter 25

Dawn found Vivienne and Julian huddled in an abandoned hunting lodge on the outskirts of Surrey, far from prying eyes. The stolen grey mare grazed outside, tethered to an old post. Inside the one-room cabin, Julian had managed to spark a small fire in the stone hearth. Its flickering glow cast dancing shadows on the rough timber walls and provided scant warmth against the chill of early morning.

Vivienne sat on a threadbare blanket spread over the dirt floor, her elegant ball gown now a torn and soot-stained mess. She had shed the ruined silk in favor of one of Julian's spare shirts from a knapsack he'd stashed here earlier, belting it at her waist. The garment hung past her knees like a loose tunic, its warmth and his scent comforting her frayed nerves.

Julian knelt beside her, gently wrapping a strip of cloth around a raw scrape on her forearm—one of many minor injuries from the frantic escape. His touch was tender, brow furrowed in concentration. Vivienne watched him in silence, overwhelmed by the events of the night. Only hours ago she had been dancing under chandeliers; now she was a fugitive crouched in a dusty hideaway.

"There," Julian murmured, tying off the bandage. He glanced up to meet her eyes. "How does that feel?"

Vivienne managed a small smile. "Better. Thank you."

He brushed a knuckle against her cheek. "Are you holding up?" The concern in his hazel eyes nearly undid her.

She swallowed the lump in her throat. "I don't know," she whispered honestly. "It all happened so fast. One moment I thought we succeeded in stopping him, the next...I'm branded a traitor." She lowered her gaze, staring at her mud-streaked slippers. "They despise me now, don't they? All of them—people I once considered friends... They think I'm a criminal or a fool."

Julian sat beside her and pulled her gently against him. "To hell with them," he said, not unkindly. "They don't know the truth. We do. Those who truly care for you will come to their senses."

Vivienne let out a bitter laugh. "Easy for you to say—you've never cared for their approval." Then she shook her head. "I'm sorry, that was ungrateful. I just... It hurts to be so misjudged."

Julian turned her face toward him, his roughened fingertips softly lifting her chin. "Listen to me. You are brave, and good, and far stronger than any of those peacocks in Whitehall. They will realize their error eventually. But right now, we can't worry about gossip. We have to focus on survival and setting this right."

She took a deep breath and nodded, leaning into the solace of his touch. He was right. Self-pity could come later—if at all. They still had a fight ahead.

"Tomorrow night will tell everything," she murmured. "If we can get evidence from that meeting… But our presence at the gala last night blew any cover we had." She closed her eyes, anguish twisting her features. "They'll hunt us, Julian."

Julian's arm tightened around her. "They already are. We need to keep moving carefully. For now, they likely think we're still in London." He spoke calmly, but Vivienne could feel the tension in his body. "No matter what, we must get proof of Rockford's treachery into the right hands."

Vivienne opened her eyes and stared into the low flames. "Rockford will surely destroy or hide anything incriminating now," she said softly. "Especially with Maynard gone. He'll tie up loose ends—perhaps he already has."

Julian's jaw set grimly. "He'll try. But he doesn't know exactly what we heard at the docks. We might have an edge."

Vivienne's mind churned. She remembered the list of names and times scribbled in the letter from Greene—the rendezvous they'd just witnessed. "There might be other conspirators we can turn. That Frenchman, for one."

"Likely already fled," Julian muttered.

Silence fell. Outside, birds began chirping tentative morning songs. Vivienne realized how exhausted she was—physically and emotionally. She leaned her head against Julian's shoulder.

After a moment she spoke again, voice trembling, "Julian, we're outcasts now. Even if we clear our names… can we ever truly return to that life? After what we've done?"

He turned slightly to face her. In the orange glow, she saw fierce devotion on his face. "I don't give a damn about 'returning' to society," he said roughly. "I care only that you are safe and free. If that means a new life elsewhere, so be it."

Vivienne met his gaze. "A new life…with me, you mean?"

He cupped her cheek tenderly. "With you, if you'll have me." A ghost of a smile touched his lips. "Though perhaps I should officially ask when we're not hiding in a shack and branded traitors."

Despite everything, Vivienne gave a soft laugh that turned into a sob. "You fool," she whispered affectionately, burying her face in his chest. "Of course I'll have you."

They held each other tightly as the fire crackled.

After a time, Julian said quietly, "We should rest a little. By afternoon we must think what's next."

Vivienne nodded against him. They shifted to lie down on the blanket before the hearth, Julian wrapping the coat they had as a pillow under her head. He lay beside her, and she nestled into the crook of his arm.

For a few minutes, neither spoke. Vivienne listened to the steady beat of his heart against her ear, letting it calm the storm within her.

"Julian," she murmured drowsily, "Do you think Charlotte will be alright? She looked…she looked so horrified." The memory of her friend's stunned face stung worse than any physical bruise.

He pressed a kiss to her hair. "Lady Charlotte struck me as a true friend. She'll come 'round. She may even help quietly, if she can."

Vivienne closed her eyes, tears slipping out. "I hope so," she whispered. "It broke my heart to see her turn away."

Julian stroked her hair. "It's temporary. Once the truth is out, you'll have your friends back." He hesitated, then added softly, "And if not...you'll have me. Always."

Vivienne tightened her arm around his middle. "Always," she echoed, voice thick with emotion.

Within minutes, exhaustion claimed them.

…

They awoke to the sun already high, its rays sneaking through the gaps in the log walls. Vivienne sat up with a jolt, momentarily disoriented. Then the memory of last night came rushing back and her chest tightened.

Julian was already awake, watching her with concerned eyes. "How do you feel?" he asked gently.

Vivienne flexed her bruised limbs. "Sore, but I'll live." Her left shoulder and arm ached from where the guard had gripped her, but nothing serious.

Julian nodded. "We should get moving soon. I've been thinking." He stood and paced a short stretch of the cabin. "We need more evidence or an ally high up. Perhaps we can reach someone in the government who suspects Rockford."

Vivienne bit her lip. "Sir Henry Addington, the Home Secretary, is known for being just. If we could get a message to him with what we know..."

Julian frowned. "Tricky. We'd be arrested on approach. But maybe an anonymous tip or a letter?"

"Letters can be intercepted," Vivienne said darkly. "We need something rock solid to make them hesitate hurting us. Colonel Maynard's diary or correspondence..."

She trailed off, looking at Julian as the same idea struck them both.

Colonel Maynard's townhouse.

He had an office and study likely full of papers. If not already confiscated, there could be incriminating documents.

Julian crossed his arms. "After last night, I'm sure Rockford will try to sanitize Maynard's belongings. Possibly by claiming them for 'investigation' or sending his men."

Vivienne stood, determination straightening her spine. "Then we must get there first or at the same time. Tonight."

Julian gave a grim smile. "We break into the house, find proof, and slip away." He raised a brow. "Sound familiar?"

She allowed a small smirk. How many secret missions had they executed thus? Many, but never with stakes so personal. "It seems we excel at improvised burglary."

He stepped close and gently rested his forehead against hers. "This will be our last, with any luck. Once we expose Rockford, we can stop running."

Vivienne closed her eyes at the thought. "Let's get it done, then."

By dusk they had ridden back toward London under cover of wooded lanes and disused tracks. They left the mare tethered in a copse outside the city and continued on foot into the quieter streets of Mayfair, cloaked by the lengthening shadows.

Clad in plain, dark garments they'd fetched from a safe cache (old clothes Julian stored for missions), they looked like a pair of ordinary laborers or servants.

Grosvenor Square lay silent except for the distant clip-clop of a carriage on the far side. Colonel Maynard's townhouse stood dark, a black ribbon tied to its door knocker signifying a death in the family.

They crept around to the mews behind. Only a single lamp glowed in an upstairs servant's window. If authorities had sealed the house, they had done so discreetly or not at all yet.

Cautiously, they approached the servants' entrance. Julian produced a set of picks from his boot. Moments later, the lock yielded with a soft click.

They slipped inside the dim rear hall. The scent of extinguished fireplaces and dust greeted them. A grandfather clock ticked somewhere in the distance.

Silently, they moved to the study—the likely treasure trove of Colonel Maynard's secrets. The door was ajar. Easing it open, Vivienne's breath caught.

The room was in disarray. Drawers pulled out, cabinets open, papers scattered. Someone had been here, likely searching for incriminating evidence themselves.

Julian cursed under his breath, closing the door behind them. "Rockford's men."

Vivienne's heart sank. They might be too late. Still, they quickly began rifling through what remained.

In the desk, beneath strewn quills and drying inkwells, Vivienne's fingers brushed something taped under a drawer's false bottom. Carefully, she pried it loose—a small leather-bound diary.

"Julian," she breathed, holding it up.

He joined her by the moonlit window alcove, quickly flipping through the pages. Many entries, dates, shorthand notes... Then his face hardened. "He names 'Nightshade' and 'L.H.' multiple times. This is it—the evidence."

Vivienne scanned an entry: "Feb 14 — Meeting with N. (L.H.) re: state secrets exchange. Orders to proceed with plan at gala." Relief and triumph burst in her chest.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed in the front hall. They froze.

Light glowed under the study door. A man's voice: "Quick now, His Grace wants every scrap."

Lucien's steward or thug.

Julian reacted instantly. "Out the window," he whispered.

Vivienne had already quietly unlatched the tall French window and slipped onto the balcony above the garden. Julian climbed out after, closing the window just as the study door swung open inside.

Clutching the diary, they edged along the first-floor ledge and dropped into the hedge below. Fortunately, the intruders inside were making enough noise rummaging that their landing went unheard.

Within moments, Vivienne and Julian melted into the darkness of a back alley, evidence in hand. Behind them, raised voices shouted in confusion—no doubt the steward discovering the diary gone.

They ran until their lungs burned, finally slowing in a quiet lane behind a shuttered milliner's. Leaning against the wall, they looked at one another and, despite everything, cracked exhilarated smiles.

They had the proof.

But as Vivienne opened her mouth to speak, a dozen mounted soldiers armed with muskets rounded the corner, surrounding them. At their head was the Duke of Wellington himself, stern and resolute.

"Drop any weapons and hand over that book," he ordered, voice brooking no argument.

Julian and Vivienne exchanged a shocked glance. How—?

Then behind Wellington, emerging with wrists bound but alive, came Julian's courier friend Turner—eyes apologetic.

It hit Vivienne like a punch: the evidence had been delivered, and Wellington was here to secure them as witnesses, not criminals.

Relief crashed through her. They relinquished the diary as soldiers closed in. Julian squeezed her hand as they were seized, whispering, "We did it, love."

Vivienne clutched his fingers. Indeed, the game was over at last. Lucien Hawke's treachery lay exposed under Wellington's unwavering gaze.

Yet as they were led away to safety and the Duke of Rockford's arrest, a question lingered in her mind: where was Lucien now? The answer would come soon enough in a confrontation none of them could have foreseen… leaving fates and futures teetering on a knife's edge.