by Tamara Gill
“Baroness Mulbourne is the man’s fiancée. It’s not uncommon that he would be seeing her.”
“So late in the evening?” Comte Beaulieu scoffed.
“The man is in love,” the admiral announced. “Though yes, that was improper. Widows have other rules.”
“I see. Yet we have evidence to the contrary.”
“What evidence?”
“She attended the party in disguise. As a Swedish countess. Most suspicious.”
The admiral sighed heavily. “True love will make a woman do mad things.”
“What evidence do you have of their relationship?” Comte Beaulieu asked. “The relationship is definitely with this woman? Not another?”
Arthur frowned. The manner in which the comte had asked the question seemed strange, as if he suspected him of having an affair with someone else.
The admiral seemed unworried. “The marquess told me himself yesterday. You should have seen how his eyes sparkled. So smitten.”
Arthur’s chest clenched. This was not right.
He didn’t love Madeline.
He’d just—well, he’d just happened to describe her when he thought of his imaginary ideal woman.
Purely coincidental.
He could just have easily have made her brunette. He hadn’t even known Madeline was staying in Antibes.
But he couldn’t tell them that now.
Not when even the comte’s eyes were melting.
“Let me ask you one question,” the admiral said. “Did you find the stolen jewels on her?”
“My men were not successful. Mon dieu,” the comte said. “I’ve been a—what is it you English have? An idiot. I’ve been that. Since Lord Bancroft was working on the case, I naturally assumed that when he visited a woman who’d attended the ball in disguise, that his visit was connected to the missing jewels.” He stood up. “Guards! Guards!”
The men entered the room and gazed suspiciously at Arthur and Admiral Fitzroy.
“Please bring Lady Mulbourne up here at once. And treat her well.”
Chapter Fourteen
Footsteps sounded outside, and then a key turned in the lock.
Had Comte Beaulieu decided to have her interrogated now after all?
Several guards stormed into the room.
“Rise. Vite,” one guard barked.
Madeline stumbled to her feet.
Her heart hammered. Surely being rushed into another room couldn’t be a good sign. She was depending on the courts to give prominence to the despicable art thefts during the Napoleonic Wars.
But no judge or jury would see her now. Courts didn’t meet past midnight.
She trudged up winding stone steps.
Voices sounded from another room. She wasn’t certain if the comte joined by people would be an improvement or not.
The guard swung open the door.
Was he opening the door for her? It was not the act she associated with people working with prisoners.
She entered the room.
The comte was not alone.
Arthur was there. Admiral Fitzroy, a man she knew only from London circles, stood beside him.
Comte Beaulieu cleared his throat. “You should be pleased to learn that I have decided to free you.”
“You’re letting me go?” She must have misheard.
The man did not start to laugh, and he did not order his guards to drag her back to her cell.
Perhaps… Perhaps it was actually true.
She glanced at Arthur for confirmation.
The marquess gave her a crooked sort of smile. For some reason he didn’t seem to want to meet her gaze.
Had he done something to free her? She glanced around. If he had coerced Gabriella to confess on her behalf…
“What brings this change?” she asked carefully.
“We know the truth,” Comte Beaulieu. “Have no fear, baroness.”
“Indeed?” She croaked.
“But,” Comte Beaulieu gazed at her sternly. “I must admonish you on your behavior. It was abominable. Absolutely abominable.”
That sounded more like what she’d expected.
“But I’m free to go?”
“Ah, yes,” Comte Beaulieu said. “Though I expect you to rectify the deficiencies of your lifestyle.”
She blinked.
“Marriage,” Admiral Fitzroy said, “is vital. You know it, you were married before.”
“And we’ll make certain you marry again soon,” the comte said. “We can’t have men running to strange homes in the middle of the night.”
This time she truly did look at Arthur.
The man’s expression was pained.
What had he told them?
“The love this man shows you is clear,” Admiral Fitzroy said. “He dragged me out of my home in the middle of the night.”
The admiral did look bedraggled. She suspected that untied cravats were not a new part of the British uniform, no matter what sort of austerity budget they might be on.
She gazed back at Arthur. He had arranged for her to be free. Even after everything she’d done. The man was so kind. Joy coursed through her.
“Let them kiss,” the admiral said.
“Kiss?” Madeline squeaked.
“After the fright the marquess experienced, I’m sure he deserves one.”
“I really am fine,” Arthur said hastily. His cheeks were definitely redder than normal.
“You do not want to kiss?” Comte Beaulieu asked.
Arthur’s eyes widened.
Perhaps he’d heard the note of suspicion in Comte Beaulieu’s voice as well. She’d hoped she’d imagined it.
Arthur’s gaze hardened, and her heart sped. Would he confess the deception to them?
He stepped forward, and her heart thudded. In the next moment he clasped her into his arms. She was vaguely aware of broad shoulders and a firm chest, and that scent, that delightful masculine scent of cotton and pine needles.
He crushed her against him, and she exhaled. Her bosom pressed against his chest, and she was very aware that only thin pieces of cloth and silk separated them. He didn’t seem to mind clasping her against his white shirt, even though she’d spent the past two hours or so in a damp and dingy prison cell. His nose didn’t wrinkle, and he didn’t grimace as he touched her torn and dirtied gown.
For a moment it seemed like his eyes softened, but that was probably for the benefit of Admiral Fitzroy and Comte Beaulieu.
One didn’t get sent by the government to work on certain jobs without some ability to act.
His head dipped toward her, and in the next moment she fluttered her lids shut. His lips parted hers. The sensation was heavenly, and energy soared through her.
She clasped hold of his back as he continued to kiss her. She had the horrible suspicion that she must be moaning right there in his arms, before the other men, before…him.
Finally he released her. She stepped back uncertainly, nearly stumbling, as her body fought to grow accustomed to other things in the world besides the feel of his lips, his tongue, against hers.
Comte Beaulieu laughed. “Are you certain you’re not French? Leave, you two.”
*
The kiss still sent fire flitting over his lips.
Arthur clasped hold of Madeline’s hand and nearly dragged her from the prison. A guard opened the heavy wooden door of the fort, and they traversed the narrow bridge. The salty scent of the sea and the squawks of seagulls had never been more welcome.
Torches flickered from the star-shaped fort, illuminating the thick, sharply angled walls that towered over them. Arthur’s heart continued to quicken, but he forced his strides to remain even, despite the rockiness of the steep parkland that bordered Fort Carré.
At any moment Comte Beaulieu and Admiral Fitzroy might abandon their romanticism for logic, and Arthur didn’t desire Madeline to be anywhere near their presence if they did so. He refused to permit her to be hauled back inside the fort.
T
hey needed to flee France.
They hurried down the jagged terrain, avoiding thick trees and passing horses tied to posts. Unfortunately stealing one of the guard’s horses likely would not endear either of them to Comte Beaulieu and would subject them to deserved scrutiny.
“Do you have a carriage at your cottage?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Good. Amble normally,” Arthur said, keeping his voice low. “But when we reach the harbor, let’s run to your cottage. Grab your companion and any possessions.”
“Very well.” Her voice wobbled with obvious strain, but she retained a steady pace.
Guards marched over the top of the fortress and shone bright torches. Their gruff voices carried in the still of the night.
Arthur’s heart quickened, as if already sprinting, but he forced himself to stride with every semblance of calm.
They reached the bottom of the woodland, and he surveyed the street. Dark water lapped against the dock, and boats, the night obscuring their exact forms and color, bobbed.
Thankfully no people were present, and when the fort disappeared from view, Arthur and Madeline stormed over the cobbled streets to her cottage.
They arrived at the cottage, and Miss Costantini peaked out. Her eyes widened when she spotted Madeline, and she flung the door open. “You’ve returned!”
They hurried into the cottage.
“We need to leave at once,” Madeline said. “Get the jewels.”
“Perhaps we should return them,” Arthur suggested.
“Nonsense,” Madeline said sharply.
Arthur remained silent. This was a time for haste, not argument. At any moment—his heart clenched, and he rushed outside to hitch the horses to the carriage.
Miss Costantini brought down the luggage immediately. Clearly Madeline and she had expected to leave that evening. They just hadn’t envisioned that Madeline would spend part of the night in Fort Carré.
He bundled the two women into the carriage and poked his head inside. “Where to? Le Havre? Calais?”
“Venice,” Madeline said.
Arthur nodded. He would be glad to see Percival again anyway, and Madeline and her companion had always intended Venice as a destination.
Except—Arthur had told the admiral that he was thinking of visiting Venice. If they traced the provenance of the jewels, they could guess their destination.
Blast.
“Is something wrong?” Madeline asked.
The woman was so quick to observe.
“It’s possible the admiral might suspect we headed there,” Arthur said.
Her face tensed. “Then we must reach Venice first.”
“You mustn't worry.” Arthur closed the door to the carriage and climbed onto the driver’s seat. The wind brushed against him, and he realized he was still dressed in evening clothes.
Likely they were torn from his amble through the woodland outside Fort Carré. When Brummel had advocated for ebony evening wear, he’d likely not considered the usefulness of the color for rescuing women from French prisons that even Bonaparte had failed to escape from.
What he was doing was mad. He hadn’t spent seven years working for the British government, frequenting Whitehall, to act like a common criminal. He still had time to change his mind. If she wanted to flee, she could drive herself.
The sound of a passing carriage drew him from his reverie, and Arthur quickly directed the horses onto the road and toward safety.
Chapter Fifteen
The tension in Arthur’s chest scarcely eased when they departed Antibes. The horses cantered over the steep slopes and sharp curves of the coastal route. The clomp of horses’ hooves seemed too slow, and he urged the horses to quicken their speed.
Danger prickled through him. The place would be swarming with former soldiers trained to despise the English.
Governmental ministers, something the country seemed filled with after Bonaparte’s various attempts at modernization, might also be prone to choosing this location to holiday.
Finally, Arthur spotted a coaching inn and pulled his horses into it. When he peeked into the carriage, the women were fast asleep.
This was the Madeline he’d expected: slight and dainty, beautiful even in her sleep. This was the Madeline the ton praised, holding her as a paragon to newer debutantes.
The woman he’d met last night…she’d been a complete surprise. The Crown could have used someone like her during the war. Her fierce courage and sense of justice had astounded him.
Bonaparte’s ambitions had been boundless. He’d sailed across the Mediterranean, as if anyone could possibly think Egypt near France.
He’d stolen the best artifacts of that country, parading them across Europe. He wasn’t surprised that Madeline had been upset. Most women, though, did not take a problem into their own hands. Most women would have chatted about the unfortunateness of the art thefts when they tired of chatting about the weather.
Her action had been the sort of thing he might have done, and he smiled.
Madeline was like no other woman.
No, he would not let her go to a prison. No matter how much it seemed in certain moments that she might be entirely deserving.
Arthur knew his duty, and that duty was to protect her.
Even if that meant marrying her himself.
He cleared his throat, and Miss Costantini blinked up at him.
“We can sleep for a few hours here,” Arthur said.
She nodded solemnly. “Would you like me to wake her, my lord?”
Arthur shook his head. “You need not worry.”
Madeline must be frightened, rightfully so. He didn’t want to rouse her.
He reached over the stairs and swept Madeline into his arms. At some point she must have removed the pins from her hair, and her golden locks dangled over his arms. Madeline’s long dark lashes swooped downward. Her mouth was parted slightly, and he adjusted his arms to better cradle her head.
Miss Costantini followed them from the coach and toward the ivy-covered inn. The innkeeper smirked, perhaps amused by the sight of Arthur carrying one woman, with another one walking beside him, but thankfully he did not remark on it.
“Do you desire accommodation?” the innkeeper asked.
Arthur nodded. “Please. Two rooms.”
“We have only one available.”
Arthur hesitated. Perhaps they might find a more spacious inn elsewhere. But he didn’t want to disturb Madeline, and it would take a while for the horses to be changed. He had no desire to linger in France.
“That will do,” he said.
Fortunately the Côte d’Azur was not known for any stringent moral requirements, and the innkeeper led them to a room.
He noted the faded furniture inside and the large bed in the center of the room. He looked around for a sofa or armchair, but there wasn’t one. Why should there be?
“We’ll need other blankets,” he said.
“Of course.” The innkeeper gave a quick bow and returned soon. Miss Costantini helped him make another bed on the floor, and he settled down on it.
“Are you certain?” she asked.
“Naturally.” He lay down. The thin fabric only lessened the feel of the floorboards slightly, and the faint pitter-patter in the room made him think that they were not the only beings in residence.
“You have helped us so much,” Miss Costantini said gravely. “I will forever be grateful.”
“I didn’t do it for your family,” he said.
“No,” she smiled. “You did it for Lady Mulbourne.”
She gave him another knowing smile.*
Sun streamed in through windows, and Madeline shifted under her blanket.
She blinked. It was troublesome that she didn’t recognize either the windows or the blanket.
“You’re awake. Good,” Arthur said. “Let’s get going. I don’t want any harm to happen to my fiancée.”
Fiancée?
Madeline scrambled up, tho
ugh the untightened rope mesh beneath the mattress made her ascent less elegant than normal.
“Are you fine?” Arthur’s eyes softened.
Prison. She’d been in prison.
Everything from last night came tumbling back.
But marriage—surely that had been a ploy to free her from imprisonment?
“About yesterday—”
“Please don’t worry,” Arthur said. “We’ll be out of France by the end of the day. I’ve written Percival and asked that Fiona and he to meet us in Venice for the wedding.”
Wedding?
“You sent the letter?” Madeline croaked.
“Yes.” Arthur nodded. “Now, we have another day’s journey to depart France. I’ll feel much better when we cross the border.”
Gabriella and Madeline followed him hastily down the stairs, and Arthur purchased some bread and cheese to take with them in the carriage.
They really needed to discuss this marriage.
Surely once they reached the border there would be no need.
But there was no time. Arthur leaped onto the coach driver’s seat, and Gabriella and she piled into the darkened coach.
“Actual cheese,” Gabriella murmured. She closed her eyes and bit into a crunchy baguette. “So delicious.”
Madeline smiled. “They do have cheese in England.”
“Not like this,” Gabriella said. “And to think—soon we’ll be in Italy.”
Madeline laughed. It was difficult to ponder the pleasures of Italy, great as they may be, when also pondering Arthur’s words.
He meant to marry her.
Gabriella spread some cheese on another piece of the baguette and handed it to her. “Please.”
Madeline shook her head. “I’m not very hungry.”
“Ah,” Gabriella sighed. “I suppose you’re waiting to partake in Italian cheese. Quite sensible of you. It is rather superior.”
She opened the curtains to the carriage, and Madeline stared at the azure ocean. Below them boats, filled with merriment makers, bobbed over the waves. White sails flitted in the distance. It seemed difficult to imagine that the sea had until recently been the domain of warring navies.
“Soon the scenery will improve,” Gabriella announced. “Once we cross into Italy.”