There was no one
No one she could trust. No one who would help her.
No one at all.
Her vision blurred with tears. Blinking hard, she lifted her head to find that Lord Saxon had risen from his chair and come around the desk, silently.
He was standing right in front of her. But somehow his towering, burly presence didn’t seem threatening at all. It was almost as if he meant to…
No, it was not comfort he was offering and that was not concern she saw in his face. It was just another trick. He only wanted to keep her from leaving.
“I could have escaped before,” she reminded him, wiping at her eyes, unable to keep her voice from wavering. “But I brought Max here. You said yourself—I saved his life.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, “you did.”
From the expression in his eyes, it was clear he found something deeply significant about her actions.
“Isn’t that enough?” she whispered. “Can’t you just let me go?”
“I’m afraid not, mademoiselle.” He gently placed a hand at her back to escort her out. “Until Max regains consciousness and we can decide our next move, you’re staying.”
Marie stood at the window in the guest room, forehead pressed against the panes, one hand grasping a fistful of the curtain. A transparent reflection of her strained features stared back at her from the glass as the afternoon sun drenched the gardens at the back of the house.
The brilliant light shone over a riot of roses and lilies and irises in shades of red and purple and orange that made the courtyard seem to be afire. The D’Avenants didn’t have the sort of arranged, orderly display one would expect in an English garden.
Everything here seemed to be like that. Vivid and unrestrained and full of life. Not only the garden, but the vibrant yellow of the borrowed dress she wore. The baby she had heard crying now and then. Even the weather. The day was unseasonably warm and sunny.
To fit her mood, it should have been storming. A storm to hammer against the windows and convulse the skies with thunder.
Instead it remained a clear, perfect midsummer day.
Below, she could see the top of a man’s tricorne as a guard patrolled the rear of the house, moving back and forth with unflagging alertness.
That was the only guard she had seen. There was no one posted in the hallway. Her door was unlocked. She had been assured, repeatedly, that she was free to go about the house as she pleased.
But she had chosen to stay in here. All morning. Had insisted on being left alone.
Strangely enough, Lord Saxon had honored her wishes. She had expected an interrogation meant to wring the chemical formula from her.
Instead she had been offered a bath, clothes, food, a comfortable room, a measure of freedom, and an invitation to join the family for their midday meal. She had declined the latter. Which had only brought one of the cooks, Padmini—a chatty, boisterous Hindu girl who wore a harem outfit of peacock-colored silk—to the door with a tray.
So far, they were treating her just as Lord Saxon had said: as a guest. As if they meant her no harm. As if they intended to protect her.
But she would not be lulled into dropping her guard.
She had fallen for the D’Avenant charm once; it wouldn’t happen again.
She let the curtain fall and turned away from the window, desperate for something to distract her mind from thoughts of Max—and the feelings that went with them. While in his company, she had developed a disturbing tendency to impulsiveness, to acting without thinking…to spontaneous and unchecked emotion.
She wanted to feel like herself again.
But she had already paced every inch of the spacious guest room, from the huge hearth to the four-poster bed with its covers and canopy of gold brocade to the dressing table to the plush settee beside the window.
There was no place she could go to escape thoughts of her “husband”—every memory edged with anguish.
The heartless liar had carried off such a flawless deception! Planned every detail to make her fall in love with him. The feigned interest in books, in science. The romantic dinner in the moonlight. The thoughtful gifts. The revelations about his past “illness.” The smiles. The laughter.
Even the spectacles were probably fake.
It was as if he had reached into the most secret places in her heart to discover all the qualities she would most admire in a man, so he could cloak himself in the perfect disguise.
Ruffian angel, she had called him.
He wasn’t an angel at all. He was entirely a ruffian. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
A complete scoundrel!
She snatched up a pillow from the bed, not even sure what she meant to do with it, then threw it against the wall. It hit with a soft, unsatisfying whumph.
Lord Maximilian D’Avenant was a callous professional spy who was entirely too good at his job. How many times, she wondered, had he done it before? How many other missions had there been?
How many other unsuspecting women had he toyed with and discarded in the name of duty?
Shaking, she wrapped her arms around herself as another, more painful feeling crowded in on her fury. She turned to look at her reflection in the mirror over the dressing table.
Special and beautiful, he had called her.
She inhaled sharply. Once. Twice. Even with amnesia, how could she have believed those words? How could she have believed for a second that a man so handsome and charming could possibly be attracted to her?
She spun away, covering her face with her hands. She was such a fool. Plain, unsophisticated, country-bred Marie. She had made the mistake she had always dreaded—her mother’s mistake.
She had fallen for an unscrupulous man whose handsome smiles and promises of “love” and “forever” concealed a treacherous scheme. She had more than fallen—she had surrendered completely, willingly. Given him everything.
Given her heart, her body, her soul.
To a man who had probably been laughing at her gullibility the entire time.
She choked on a sob. She would not cry. He wasn’t worth her tears.
Dieu, she had always worried that her sister would be the one to fall prey to a heartless cad. Had worried that Véronique was too romantic, too impulsive.
Had worried…
Had.
There was no need to worry about her anymore.
Véronique.
A soft cry came from deep in Marie’s chest, a desolate sound of denial and grief. She sank to the floor, tears sliding down her cheeks.
Véronique had been only eighteen. Filled with so much joy, so much life.
So much hope.
All gone. Marie slumped over, suddenly wracked with sobs that made her whole being hurt. Gone. She would never again hear Véronique’s laughter as she scolded.
I swear by all the saints! You have to get out of this room once in a while, Marie Nicole LeBon….
Her girlish plans for the future.
We shall have gowns and jewels and parties. And such huge dowries that every nobleman in the north of France shall come courting us…
Her giggling descriptions of her handsome beaux.
I’m in love, in love, in love with the Viscount LaMartine….
So many dreams.
For tomorrows that would never be.
And it was Marie’s fault.
She braced one hand against the floor, sobbing so hard she couldn’t catch her breath. It was her invention that had cost Véronique’s life. Her chemical that had brought the danger to their doorstep.
Forgive me. Mon Dieu, Véronique, forgive me!
All the strength seemed to flow out of her. Marie collapsed onto her side. Véronique was dead. It had happened weeks ago. And Max had known all along and kept it from her. Lied to her about it.
Crumpled on the floor, her cheek against the carpet, she lay there and cried until it felt like the world was nothing but pain and despair and would never be anything more.
That was Marie’s first thought as her lashes slowly lifted: the room was completely dark. There was no moonlight. And she had not lit the lamps. A tremor went through her, a memory of the asylum. But she closed her eyes again, still lying on the floor, exhausted. Spent. She should get up and go to bed. But she was too drained to move.
And what did it matter? Who would care?
She remained where she was and wished for blessed unconsciousness to claim her again.
Then she heard a knock at the door.
She didn’t know who it could be at this hour. Didn’t respond, didn’t even open her eyes.
The knock came again.
Leave me alone. Can’t you all just leave me alone?
“Mademoiselle LeBon?”
It was a feminine voice, softly accented. It sounded like Padmini.
Marie lifted her head to call out, to tell the cook to go away, but her throat was so raw from crying that she couldn’t manage more than a dry whisper. Pushing her tangled hair out of her eyes, she sat up, her body aching, her left arm tingly and almost numb from the way she had lain on it.
The whisper came again. “Mademoiselle LeBon? Are you awake?”
Marie rose to her feet shakily, resenting that she had been forced to be conscious, to feel.
She crossed to the door and opened it. “Padmini, I…”
It wasn’t Padmini. Marie blinked in the light that illuminated the corridor.
It was the beautiful dark-haired woman from the portrait she had seen downstairs. The princess. Wearing a blue dressing robe that matched her sapphire eyes—and holding a baby cuddled against her, her right hand patting its back, the infant’s blond head nestled on her shoulder.
Marie tried to speak but couldn’t utter a word.
The princess smiled tentatively. “I’m Saxon’s wife, Ashiana,” she whispered, her light accent much like Padmini’s. “I know you said that you wanted to be alone, but I was up feeding the baby, and I…it sounded earlier as if you might be awake as well.” Her eyes held a warmth that might have been sympathy.
Marie wasn’t sure whether it was genuine. But somehow she didn’t care anymore whether the family’s solicitous attitude was a deception. She didn’t even feel upset that someone had overheard her crying.
All her fury and indignation had flowed out with her tears, leaving nothing behind but bleak emptiness where her heart had once been.
“I-I don’t…” Marie whispered, her throat painful and her voice hoarse. “I’m not…”
“I’ll go if you like. But sometimes…it helps to talk,” the princess persisted gently. “And there are some things I don’t think my husband told you, facts I believe you have a right to know.”
Facts, Marie wondered numbly, what facts?
Despite her exhaustion and dazed senses—perhaps because of them—the scientist in her took over. And the scientist in her chided that she could not draw a conclusion without first examining all the evidence.
At the moment, the idea of listening to what the princess had to say was more appealing than being left alone with painful memories and emotions over which she had no control.
She opened the door. “Please come in, Lady Ashiana.”
With a friendly smile, the princess stepped into the darkened room, still patting the baby’s back. “Actually, I’m not called Lady Ashiana—”
“I’m sorry, Princess Ashiana.” Marie lit the lamps over the hearth before she shut the door.
Her visitor laughed and waved a hand. “Oh, no. No one here calls me that. My formal title is Lady Saxon. The English have all sorts of complicated rules about what members of the nobility are supposed to call one another. Rather annoying, don’t you think? Especially that a woman should be called only by her husband’s name, as if she were some sort of app…appen…”
“Appendage?”
“Yes, thank you. I still have trouble with English now and then.” She helped Marie light the lamp on the bedside table, holding the glass chimney while Marie lit the wick. “As for my title, mademoiselle, I reserve the right to forgo any rule I find silly. Which tends to include a great many English rules. Please, call me Ashiana.”
Marie hesitated, still wary of establishing friendly relations with any D’Avenants. But now that she had let the princess in, there was no point in being difficult. “All right.” She sank into a golden silk brocade wing chair near the bed. “And I’m Marie.”
“I’m pleased to meet you, Marie. And this is my daughter Jacinda.” Ashiana lightly nuzzled the baby’s cheek. “Who has finally decided to rest her lovely voice after keeping her mother busy all day.”
Marie almost smiled, looking at the angelic infant, who had one chubby fist wrapped securely around a lock of her mother’s long, silky hair. She couldn’t tell how old the baby was. She had never been very good with babies and children.
Ashiana, though, looked both confident and happy in her motherly role. Marie thought it unusual that a lady would feed her own infant, especially at night. Most members of the aristocracy—on both sides of the Channel—left such work to nursemaids.
But as she was rapidly learning, the people in this family didn’t live by others’ rules.
Ashiana crossed to the settee beside the window and curled up with the baby still snuggled on her shoulder. “I hope you’ve found the room comfortable? This chamber has always been a favorite of mine.” She glanced around with a wistful smile. “The furnishings are different now, but this is where I stayed when I first came to London.”
“The room is…very nice, thank you.” Marie couldn’t help thinking that Ashiana was much better suited to the rich surroundings than she was. Even after a long day of tending a restless baby, the princess had an elegant beauty that made Marie feel all the more plain. Ashiana’s features were striking, her eyes a startling blue, and she had a perfect figure and flawless fair skin. She was about the same age as Marie, but that appeared to be all they had in common.
Marie lowered her gaze, her heart thudding with a painful realization: this was the kind of woman a man like Lord Maximilian D’Avenant would find attractive.
“Ashiana, I…I thought you were from India, but despite your accent, you…” She glanced up. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t—”
“It’s all right. Yes, I look European.” Ashiana nodded, still smiling. “My father was a Portuguese merchant captain and my mother was English. I lost them when I was very young, in India, and I was adopted by my father’s friend, a Maharaja…which is how I came to be a princess.” She smiled down at her daughter. “Jacinda is named in honor of my English mother.”
“Oh, I’m…I’m so sorry to hear that you lost your parents so young.” Perhaps the two of them had more in common than Marie had suspected.
Perhaps she shouldn’t be so quick to jump to conclusions about people.
“Thank you, Marie.” Ashiana kept rubbing little Jacinda’s back. “Are the clothes all right? I wasn’t sure whether we were near the same size, but the gown seems to fit you well. A bit long, perhaps, but that color is lovely on you.”
Surprised, Marie ran a hand over the silk of her yellow gown. She hadn’t realized the clothes given to her belonged to Lord Saxon’s own wife. “I…yes…thank you. It was very generous of you to—”
The baby interrupted with a baby-sized belch.
Ashiana laughed. “Oh, my. It appears my Jacinda has inherited her mother’s refined social manners.” She kissed her daughter’s cheek, murmuring something soft in Hindi. “I’m sorry, Marie—you were saying?”
Marie couldn’t fight a smile this time. “Um…only that it was kind of you to loan me your own gowns.”
Unexpectedly kind, she thought. And she couldn’t accuse Lord Saxon of using the gesture as any kind of ploy, because he hadn’t told her.
Nor could she accuse the baby of taking part in some nefarious D’Avenant conspiracy to win her over and learn her secrets.
“Koi bat nahin. In the language
of my homeland, that means ‘It is nothing,’” Ashiana explained with a smile. “Where I come from, it’s customary for the principal lady of the household to greet guests and see to their comfort. And since Paige—the Duchess of Silverton, Saxon’s mother—isn’t here, it’s my duty and my pleasure to welcome you to our home. Paige has been away visiting a dear friend who’s ill, but she’ll be returning at the end of the week for what Julian calls his ‘unveiling.’”
“Julian?”
“Saxon’s brother.” Ashiana nudged her slippers off and tucked her bare feet under her. “There are four men in the family, four brothers. The oldest is Dalton, who inherited the title Duke of Silverton when their father died twelve years ago. The Duke is estranged from the family and living abroad, I’m afraid. He seems to care little for his responsibilities or his family. I have never quite understood.” She shook her head sadly. “But the other three brothers are very close. In fact, though they may never say it, they love one another deeply. Saxon is two years younger than the Duke, Julian is a year younger than Saxon, and then there’s the youngest…” She seemed to be watching Marie closely. “Max, who’s four years younger than Julian.”
Marie stared down at her own bare toes, remembering what Max had told her about his childhood: he had said that he had three older brothers. That as boys they used to spend their days exploring the outdoors and fishing. That his “illness” had prevented him from going to sea as they had.
An uncomfortable tingle danced down her neck. She found it unsettling to think that he might have been telling her the truth about some things.
Why tell her the truth on one subject and lie about so many others? Why tell her the truth about anything at all?
“Marie, I mentioned that there are some facts I don’t think you understand. About Max. About your chemical and how it was used.”
Marie looked up. “I know how it was used, Ashiana. If what he told me was true, the French navy used it as a weapon. They used it to destroy…”
The sentence hung unfinished for a stunned second as she realized what Ashiana was trying to tell her.
A Scoundrels Kiss Page 29