Rogues Like It Hot

by Tamara Gill

  “Wonderful.” Relief emanated through Madeline.

  We are going to be fine.

  She clutched the bracelet in her hand.

  Fierce knocks sounded on the door, and Gabriella and Madeline stilled.

  She moved slowly, but the floorboards creaked beneath her feet.

  Gabriella sent her a horrified expression, and any hope she had diminished further.

  “Perhaps you can hide,” Gabriella whispered.

  Madeline considered locations. Under the bed? In a wardrobe? Could she sneak out one of the upstairs windows?

  But each one seemed either too obvious or too exposed. Venturing out of the cottage from a window that faced the street seemed ineffective as an escape goal.

  The banging continued. “Lady Mulbourne! Lady Mulbourne!”

  Heavens.

  It was Arthur.

  He must have followed her. The man must be an expert at trailing people.

  “I’ll answer it.” Madeline hurried to the door and swung it open.

  “Lady Mulbourne,” Arthur said icily and stepped inside. He frowned when he saw Gabriella, but he still bowed. “Miss Costa. Or perhaps I should say…Miss Costantini.”

  Heavens.

  “You could have gotten yourself killed!” Arthur’s voice shook, and he glowered at Madeline. “Or me, for that matter.”

  Madeline inhaled. Tension soared within her, as if transforming every part of her into brittle rock. “Someone was following me—”

  “I was following you,” Arthur said impatiently.

  Banging sounded on the door.

  Again

  “Dio mio,” Gabriella murmured.

  Madeline’s chest tightened and she glanced at Arthur. “What have you done? You led them here!”

  Arthur’s face was white. “I didn’t intend to do so. I swear.”

  “It’s my fault,” Gabriella said. “I’ll tell them I did it. I’m so sorry.”

  “Nonsense,” Madeline said firmly. “That is so very sweet of you. But they saw me at the ball, and not you. Please, please don’t say anything. I could not bear anything to happen to you. Just…hide the bracelet,” Madeline told her companion.

  Gabriella’s face was stricken, but she disappeared with it.

  Madeline rose.

  It was over. It was all over.

  She’d been so hopeful she could arrive in Venice with all five jewel pieces.

  And now the Costantini family would be left without a single one.

  Tears prickled her eyes, but she held her head high. It had been a risk. She’d always known it.

  Arthur swallowed hard, and his worry seemed to sweep over her. “I’ll do everything I can.”

  Madeline closed her eyes. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  This was real. She was going to go to prison.

  Chapter Twelve

  Guilt soared through Arthur.

  Perhaps she’d stolen, but she’d had her reasons.

  Arthur should never have been dragged into this to begin with. If Admiral Fitzroy hadn’t been determined to matchmake him with his niece, he would never have been here and Madeline would have gotten away.

  He refused to allow her to go to prison. Not for a crime that would never have needed to happen if the French had not ransacked and destroyed entire cities.

  Madeline opened the door and Comte Beaulieu marched in. A swarm of muscular Frenchmen entered after him. A few carried muskets, and Arthur’s heart sank. He couldn’t take all these men on. If they wanted to drag Madeline away—

  His heart clenched.

  His heart shouldn’t ache, he reminded himself.

  After all—she was a thief.

  She had stolen the jewels unapologetically.

  She’d even thrown a vase at him.

  But he understood why she’d done all of it.

  “I am charged with arresting Baroness Madeline Mulbourne for theft,” Comte Beaulieu declared in a loud voice. He glanced at Madeline. “Your landlord informed us that you are not in fact Lady Isberg. Please step forward.”

  She did so.

  “Where is the bracelet?” the comte asked.

  She raised her chin. “I do not know what you’re speaking about.”

  “Nonsense.” The comte glared at her. “My wife was wearing a bracelet with false diamonds and sapphires on it. You were standing near her. And you entered the ball under a false name.”

  “That certainly does not mean I stole it.”

  “Yet my good colleague ran after you. A guard saw him chasing you. He alerted me, and we were able to verify that the bracelet had been replaced.”

  “A coincidence,” Madeline said.

  “I doubt the courts will take your view.” The comte held up a pair of handcuffs. “My men will search this cottage for the bracelet. You will come with me.”

  “Very well.” Madeline stepped forward.

  The woman was amazing. Her jaw remained steady. Her fingers didn’t tremble, and her knees were in full function: she did not swoon. Tears did not run down her cheeks, and her breath did not come through in short gasps.

  Arthur would not have blamed her if she’d done any of these things. All of them, in fact, would be perfectly understandable, and it would not have lessened his view of her.

  Her bravery in the face of French forces impressed him, as did her utter self-sacrifice. Not that he would tell her that. He didn’t like to see her risk her life in that manner.

  Still, she would never have gotten into this business if her companion had not compelled her to do so. Madeline could turn on her companion now, confident that her higher position would make her more easily forgiven when there was another person to blame.

  But she was silent.

  “I must commend you for your work.” Comte Beaulieu addressed Arthur. “It was truly most admirable. We are quite thankful for your services.”

  Arthur cringed at every laudatory phrase. “I’m afraid you have the wrong person.”

  Comte Beaulieu narrowed his eyes. “Why are you with her if not to arrest her?”

  “I—I was wondering if she might know anything.”

  “Ah, gossip. The female gift. But I don’t believe you,” Comte Beaulieu said.

  “No?”

  “A man like you would not waste time on acquiring gossip. Not about thefts. What art thief would possibly mention it to someone?” The Frenchman laughed.

  “There is no motive for Lady Mulbourne to steal.”

  “The bracelet is priceless,” the comte said. “That is sufficient motive. Or are their others you suspect I will find?” His eyes sparkled.

  “N-no,” Arthur said. “I did not say that.”

  “Then please, do not waste more of our time,” Comte Beaulieu said. “If we were to believe you were in fact collaborating with a criminal—that your motive for visiting her home was anything less than honorable—”

  “No,” Madeline exclaimed. “Lord Bancroft had nothing to do with this.”

  “Be quiet,” Arthur said. “Do not incriminate yourself.”

  “Giving advice to a thief?” Comte Beaulieu shook his head. His eyes still glimmered, as if the occasion of ruining somebody’s life brought him the utmost joy.

  “Lead me away,” Madeline said, her voice solemn.

  Comte Bealieu tossed handcuffs to one of his men. “Cuff her.”

  Gabriella’s eyes filled with tears, and Arthur watched helplessly as they dragged Madeline away.

  Madeline.

  The woman he’d once loved more than anyone.

  The woman who’d decided to marry another man instead of him, and whom he had been too eager to view unfavorably.

  His chest ached, and when the door slammed behind Comte Beaulieu and his men, when they’d truly removed Madeline from him forever, he would not have been surprised if he’d found that a bullet had shot him, instead of just having heard the sound of the door.

  “It’s my fault,” Gabriella wailed. “I should confess. If you te
ll I threatened her to put her up to it—”

  Arthur turned. “No. You will not do that. I will not have Madeline’s wishes ignored.”

  “But—” Her lips trembled, and tears fell more quickly over her face.

  “I’ll think of something.” He forced his voice to be firm.

  I have to.

  *

  The inspector thrust Madeline into a tiny black carriage. She stumbled inside, her balance impeded by the handcuffs.

  One of the Frenchmen yanked her onto a seat. They crowded into the carriage around her. Cold air swept in through the windows. No glass halted its path.

  “Enjoy the fresh air,” the inspector declared. “This is the last you’ll have of it for a very long time.”

  Madeline was silent.

  “English,” one of the Frenchman said. “The worst race of them all.”

  “We’ll make you an example,” another declared.

  Comte Beaulieu smiled. “No need to worry men. We’ll accomplish that.” He directed his attention to Madeline. “Where did you hide the bracelet?”

  “I never stole anything,” she lied.

  She refused to confess to anything. Hopefully Gabriella would be able to take the jewels back to Venice with her.

  The inspector grinned. “I think my men will enjoy making you talk. Won’t you, boys?”

  His men echoed a series of ouis, and Madeline’s stomach sank, the task made easier by the stench of ale and unwashed linens.

  Perhaps Parisians had a tendency to douse themselves with strong perfume but these men did not attempt to do anything to lessen the effects of heat and an evident inclination to dirty their attire.

  Finally the carriage landed. Madeline was almost relieved, until she remembered her destination—prison—was only going to be more uncomfortable.

  They pushed Madeline from the carriage, laughing when she fell. She must appear ridiculous in her silk gown, and mud caked the hem of the dress.

  Fort Carré loomed before her, and her stomach clenched. Bonaparte had been imprisoned here. Even he, with his legion of supporters, had never been able to escape.

  “March more quickly,” the inspector said.

  Or at least—she thought he said that. These men mumbled when they spoke, and their accents were coarse—nothing like the polished French she’d learned from her French governesses as a child.

  Comte Beaulieu ushered her into the fortress and past several cells. The single candle on his torch cast an eerie glow, the illumination less comforting than total darkness.

  If there were no light, Madeline could imagine that spiders and cockroaches did not perch over the surfaces.

  Now she saw them scurrying about her.

  Finally Comte Beaulieu stopped before a cell. He placed a thick key into the lock.

  “Your new home, baroness,” he said.

  “Are you not worried that the English embassy will not approve of this accommodation? That they will find me innocent?”

  He laughed. “You are quite amusing. The English government helped put you here. My men will find pleasure in interrogating you fully—very fully—in the morning.”

  He pushed her inside, and she steadied herself against the wall. He unlocked her handcuffs, yanking her to the side.

  Then he exited the cell, the key turned in the lock, and everything was silent.

  This was fine, she tried to tell herself.

  There would have to be a trial. Then people would learn what had happened to the jewels. She was only giving exposure to the cause.

  She tried to cling onto the belief, but the hope seemed feeble. She settled onto the floor. There was no need to keep tears from welling in her eyes, and no need to keep them from sliding down her face. There was no one to see her, no one at all.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Every second was urgent, and Arthur did not wait long before formulating a plan. He didn’t trust those men with Madeline at all.

  He needed help.

  There was one person he knew here. One person who might help ascertain that Madeline was treated fairly.

  Admiral Fitzroy.

  The man had coordinated many teams who’d gone against the French. Likely the man could break her out of the prison.

  But Arthur didn’t desire that.

  If Admiral Fitzroy looked into the history of the jewels and confirmed the French had happened upon the jewels in a criminal manner, perhaps Madeline’s sentence might be lightened. Gabriella would testify that Madeline had intended to steal the jewels and return them to the people they’d been taken from. She would be able to provide the documents from the solicitors proving the jewels should belong to the Costantini family.

  “Wait here,” he told Gabriella.

  He rushed outside. Admiral Fitzroy was staying at a villa nearby, and Arthur ran over the cobbled streets. The street was empty. Everything was dark. He could hear the waves crash onto the shore before him and he ran toward the sound. Admiral Fitzroy’s villa was on the ocean.

  A few stars sparkled above him, but the moon was only a thin sliver, and appeared only on occasion. Clouds must be obscuring the heavens, even though this region was famed for its good weather.

  He forced himself to lengthen his strides. His feet pounded against the pavement, and his breath tightened in his chest.

  A Frenchman shouted at him through a house window to be quiet, but he maintained his pace.

  Finally he arrived at Admiral Fitzroy’s. During the day the canary colored villa might look cheerful, but now it appeared foreboding. Arthur’s feet crunched over the gravel road, and he hammered on the door until the butler arrived.

  The man’s hair was tousled, and he glowered at Arthur.

  “I need to speak with Admiral Fitzroy,” Arthur said.

  “You may call on him in the morning,” the butler replied.

  “It’s urgent.”

  “Admiral Fitzroy did not inform me he would be receiving any urgent requests.”

  “He didn’t know he would have one. It’s an emergency.” Frustration rushed through Arthur, and he raked his hand through his hair.

  “If you leave your calling card…” the butler said.

  Arthur scowled. He was going to speak with the admiral, even if he had to drag the man out of bed himself.

  He pushed past the servant and rushed into the corridor.

  “Admiral Fitzroy.” Arthur’s voice thundered, and the butler hushed him.

  “I must insist, sir.”

  “So must I.”

  Arthur spotted the stairs and started up them. The butler tackled him, and in the next moment they were sprawled on the landing.

  “What on earth is this racket?” Admiral Fitzroy’s voice boomed.

  The sound should have struck fear to Arthur’s heart, but he only felt profoundly grateful.

  “You’re awake,” he exclaimed. “I need your help.”

  “Obviously,” the admiral muttered. “You can return to your bedroom. I’ll deal with this man myself.”

  “Are you certain?” The butler looked worried. “Should I rouse the other servants?”

  “I suspect they’re already awake.” The admiral scowled. “No need to. This man works for me. He’s a marquess and should know better.”

  The butler blinked and left the room.

  “Now, Bancroft,” the admiral bellowed. “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “There’s been a frightful miscarriage of justice,” Arthur said. “Lady Madeline Mulbourne has been arrested for stealing the jewels.”

  “Oh?” The admiral frowned.

  “Comte Beaulieu dragged her to the prison himself.”

  “Indeed?”

  “We must make sure that she is treated well.”

  “And why was she arrested?” the admiral asked.

  “The jewels were taken, and when I went to see her—”

  “Lady Mulbourne is that pretty blonde widow, isn’t she?”

  “Er—yes.” Arthur considered h
er pretty. Beautiful. But he didn’t like the thought of anyone else remarking on it.

  He felt an absurd protective urge when it came to Madeline. One that left him entirely without reason.

  “Blue eyes, hmm?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good god,” the admiral said. “She’s it.”

  Arthur blinked. He wasn’t certain what “it” meant, but the admiral was rushing down the stairs. That had to be a good sign.

  “I’ll come with you at once. Colbert,” he shouted. “See that the carriage ready. We’re going to the prison. We have a woman to rescue!”

  This was good.

  Definitely good.

  Clearly his words had worked. It showed a definite favorability toward the aristocracy that he didn’t like, but he wasn’t going to protest.

  He was only glad that the admiral hadn’t asked if the baroness had indeed stolen the jewels.

  “I didn’t think you had it in you,” the admiral exclaimed. “I feel foolish for thrusting my niece at you.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “She did find you quite appealing, but I’ve always approved of the baroness.”

  “Well.” Arthur wasn’t going to contradict that.

  The carriage sped through the town. Finally they came to the prison.

  “That Comte Beaulieu,” the admiral muttered. “Far too hasty. Has no concept of romance.”

  Arthur blinked. Surely the admiral didn’t think—

  The coach halted, and the admiral rushed out.

  “No need to fear, Bancroft. We’ll get her out.”

  The admiral banged on Fort Carré with equal vigor to Arthur’s similar ministrations on the door of the admiral’s villa.

  A guard opened it, and the admiral shouted some things in French.

  “We demand to speak with Comte Beaulieu,” the admiral said.

  The prison guard looked suspicious, but after the admiral had announced his title, the guard shrugged and led them through a dim corridor.

  “You’re in luck,” the man growled. “He’s still here.”

  The admiral nodded and pushed inside the door.

  Comte Beaulieu sat at his desk.

  “You have arrested the wrong woman,” the admiral declared. “I demand you release this British citizen at once.”

  “I assure you I have not. In fact, the marquess led us directly to her.”