The French Duchess

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by Rue Allyn


  “You are M.”

  He grinned. “I see you read my note to René.”

  Spies in my household? For so many years? Which of my trusted employees betrayed the duchy? Which would be willing to play assassin? She’d worry about that later. Just now she had to find a way to escape Malveux and whatever demands he might have, while keeping her family safe. “You used him.”

  “Certainement. He and you—your entire family, with so many émigré connections—are eminently useful. I’ve waited years to build on the foundation laid when we first met. It would have been sooner had your so bothersome papa not interfered.”

  “Why us? Other prominent families have émigré connections.”

  “But none with such great influence or who have an even greater interest in avoiding scandal.”

  A knot formed in her stomach. She’d been right; he had demands. However, she could not avoid or, better yet, counter them until she knew what he wanted. “Say what you want, then leave me be.”

  “I simply want you to ensure that your cousin succeeds.”

  She could not have heard him correctly. “You want me to let my cousin assassinate Napoleon?”

  “I see you understand me. But just to be certain there is no mistake, the emperor must die and the fatal hand must be your cousin’s or yours.” Malveux shrugged, withdrew his arm from hers, and circled her waist again, drawing her close to his side. “It is no matter to me which of you does the deed as long as it is done within the fortnight.”

  She pulled against his arm, but he did not release her. “Why? What could you possibly gain from Bonaparte’s death? And why René or me?”

  “Most obviously because you and your cousin are available, and I have the means to gain your cooperation. As for Napoleon, he is better a martyr to English greed and envy than an inconsequential master of whatever crude place the allies choose as his prison.”

  She had no idea what plans the allies might have for Bonaparte, but one conclusion was inescapable. “You want his power for yourself.”

  Malveux placed his mouth close to her ear, running his hand up and down her back. To an observer they must look like lovers trysting. “I want what is best for France. To that end, you will do as I order. Take this letter to Madame Leonis Cochinat. You remember her. She was the only person who offered friendship after you so disgraced your family.”

  He released Marielle but continued to stand close as he extracted a square of paper from his coat and placed it in her reticule.

  Madame Cochinat had been a visitor to Stonegreave, breaking the lonely isolation of being cut socially, and listened sympathetically to a young woman’s grief. She was a spy as well? “You plotted this with her? From the moment you met me?”

  “You underestimate me. You and your family were chosen for this task long before you and I met. Now be a good girl and do what you are told.” He bent and gave her cheek a kiss then lifted her hand and brushed his lips across her knuckles.

  Her stomach churned. Marielle pulled herself to her full height. “That note will disappear before I ever reach Fontainebleau. I will never stoop to murder, nor will I allow my cousin to be manipulated into committing a crime that will plunge Europe back into war, causing endless suffering and countless lives. The murder of Napoleon would be tantamount to the murder of tens of thousands of soldiers and civilians. I won’t do it. I will do all in my power to prevent it.”

  He nodded, retaining his hold on her fingers. “So be it, ma chère. Less than two weeks from today, either Napoleon lies dead or your aunt suffers a very scandalous demise. The choice is yours.” He kissed her knuckles once more then turned her palm upward and let his lips linger there.

  Her skin crawled.

  He straightened, that demonic gleam still in his eyes. “I bid you safe journey, your grace. Remember, I have spies everywhere.”

  Did he, or was that a ploy designed to keep her in line? She could not worry about watchers or she would spend all her time fretting when she needed to act.

  She watched him as he walked away down the dock and into town. She needed to be certain that he was completely gone. Sadly, even with Malveux out of sight, her sick stomach remained.

  “Madame, would you please come with us?”

  She turned to find two uniformed customs agents had approached as she stared into space.

  “Is something wrong, gentlemen?”

  “I do not believe so,” said the taller agent. “Unless you are not Madame Bowen?” The man stepped forward and bowed. “Your coachman is eager to avoid the coming storm and get under way. Concerned over your delay, he asked our commander for assistance locating you.”

  “Thank you. I will apologize to the driver, but the delay was unavoidable.”

  She lowered her head as if in sorrow.

  “Very understandable,” murmured the agent. “Par ici, s’il-vous plâit.” The tall agent gestured toward the carriage.

  Mari moved forward, and the agents took positions on either side as they strolled toward the carriage. Had Malveux arranged it all—encounter, agents, carriage—so she would be unable to slip away and proceed on her own? If she could, should she return home to save her aunt or find her way to Fontainebleau and René? There really was no question, but she could at least send a warning to Tante Vivienne. She would do so at the first opportunity.

  “The ship’s captain said you required a carriage and four for a journey to Paris. We have arranged that, as well as a basket of croissants, fruit, and cheese with the funds you gave him,” the shorter agent interrupted her thoughts.

  The taller agent handed her up into the coach, and they both waved as the carriage started off. She waved back before lowering her gaze to her skirts. She smoothed them as she sighed. She’d avoided Campion through no effort of her own, but Malveux was a much more serious threat. Were she to choose, she would have preferred her annoying Captain to Malveux’s slimy evil. And neither one could or would help her save René from himself.

  Malveux wanted René to succeed at all costs, and Richard Campion had become a hard, judgmental, arrogant man. Look how the captain had executed Jennings’s dying words. She could not rely on such a man, so she could not trust him. She must find a way out of Malveux’s trap on her own.

  Chapter Five

  As soon as the coach started off, Marielle extracted the sealed square of paper from her reticule. She opened the curtain, prepared to hurl the missive from the carriage but hesitated. She should read the message first. And simply tossing it to the side of the road would be poor strategy. Anyone could pass by and pick it up.

  She stared at the wax seal; no impression identified the source. No direction was written on the outside. The note was completely devoid of any potential identifying information. Perhaps it would be best to deliver the note as Malveux ordered. That would lull any suspicions Madame Cochinat could hold that Mari might intend to ruin the murder plot. The result could be a bit more freedom from observation and a slim chance to succeed in what was a very risky endeavor.

  She returned the message to her reticule. Could she save René and be back in England before Malveux’s deadline in two weeks? Possibly. But would she get to Stonegreave Priory in time to prevent her aunt’s death? If he was using carrier pigeons, Malveux would learn of any attempt to circumvent his plans, then order Tante Vivienne’s murder before Marielle could stop it.

  She needed help, a great deal of help. She was trapped between Malveux, whom she could trust completely to carry out every threat, and Richard Campion, whom she could not trust at all. Smoothing her skirt once more, she stared out the window at the passing scenery and did her best to devise a plan to counter, even destroy, Malveux—once she had saved René.

  When the coach pulled into the yard of a busy inn, she descended to the ground asked the driver to wait while she took the air. She paced off, stretching muscles cramped from hours in the carriage. In less than fifteen minutes, she was back in the carriage, waiting for the driver to signal the team to star
t. She lifted her veil and raised her hands to unpin her hat. At that moment, the door of the carriage swung open. A lean male form in an impeccably tailored topcoat and hat entered.

  The coach jolted into motion as he seated himself.

  “Sir, you are . . . ”

  “Good afternoon, your grace. Did you find the crossing pleasant?” He removed the hat that had obscured his face and smiled that detestable smile.

  Her hands froze, and she inhaled sharply. The scent of lemons, leather, and a more earthy aroma sent her heart racing. It was just the surprise of seeing him—there was nothing startling about lemons and leather.

  She managed not to sneer at his greeting but continued as if nothing untoward had happened. Heavens, she was heartily tired of men interfering in her life and creating countless complications.

  “Why yes, Captain. I had a very comfortable crossing. And you?” She refused to address him as Richard. Richard had been her friend. This man was not. She watched him carefully, looking for the smallest reaction that might tell her his purpose.

  “Pleasant enough.” Those narrowed blue and charcoal eyes studied her in return. “Although I would much have preferred to remain in England where I could escort you home.”

  Home was not an option, but she could not tell him that. She shrugged. “You need not continue to Paris on my account.”

  “Oh, but I do. I need to know why you are traveling not to Paris but—according to the driver of this coach I hired for you—Fontainebleau before I can decide precisely what action to take.”

  “You hired? But . . . ” Her eyes flew wide, then she shuttered her expression. “But of course you did. You set a very neat trap for me.”

  “Outflanking an opponent is nothing new to me. Are you aware that Napoleon Bonaparte is at Fontainebleau awaiting his fate?” Campion said as he studied his fingernails. “You must be. What other place would a woman with known Bonapartist connections travel to in France?”

  Known Bonapartist connections? The man is mad. How to respond? “As I said during our dinner together, I feel no obligation to explain my actions to you.” She looked out the window with feigned indifference.

  “Yet you lied, claiming to be in Brighton for the waters.” He shrugged. “Regardless of what you feel, you will explain, or I may be forced to escort you not to Stonegreave but to prison, where you will await trial for treason. You have between now and the next change of horses to decide.” With that he folded his arms across his chest, leaned his head against the squabs, and closed his eyes as if completely disinterested in her response.

  He could not have said anything more frightening. Oh, not because of prison. She’d been born and raised in a prison of sorts, and Malveux had threatened much worse. But either way, a sensational scandal would result. After saving Europe from more war and keeping her family alive, avoiding scandal was her highest priority. Given her less-than-stellar reputation, she might manage it. At the first rumor of scandal, the ton would tar, feather, and burn her at the metaphorical stake. Society might be so happy to destroy her that her relatives and the Duchy would escape unscathed.

  She had every reason to mistrust Richard Campion, yet he demanded much and threatened worse. At their initial meeting, he’d made clear his disdain for the woman he believed betrayed Jennings and caused her fiancé’s death.

  Yet here she was, compelled to dance to Campion’s tune and Malveux’s, or see her family murdered and all of Europe engulfed in conflict. Bonaparte deserved every foul consequence the allies could throw at him for the pain and suffering he’d caused throughout the continent. However, even she knew that assassinating the man would martyr him and foment violence much worse than what the deposed emperor had caused. René had to be stopped. It was up to her to stop him, and the only potential assistance sat across from her in the form of a man determined to see her fail. Would he be so determined if he knew her real reason for her journey? Surely, despite their differences, he would share her interest in preserving peace.

  The carriage began to slow then turned. Captain Campion looked out the window. “We have arrived at our next stop. I intend to stretch my legs then have tea while the horses are put to. You may join me or not, but you have until the coachman takes up his reins once more to confess all.”

  He reached for the door.

  “How can I trust you?”

  He blinked. “I might ask the same of you, but you have little choice whether you trust me or not. The consequence of lying would be the same as silence, so I have every reason to believe that you will tell me the truth. I, on the other hand, have a number of options open to me, all of them dependent on what you tell me.”

  He exited the coach and turned to assist her.

  She took his hand and lowered herself to the ground.

  Shifting his grip to her elbow he began walking, forcing her to accompany him.

  “I understand you carry some documents,” he said. “You will give them to me now.”

  She pursed her lips. He’d asked for more than one document, so he could not possibly know of the note from Malveux. The note would remain in her reticule, but she would give him everything else.

  “I have nothing but my travel papers, and they can be of no interest to you.”

  He stared at her for a moment before inclining his head and extending his hand. “Let me see them. I will decide for myself how interesting they might be.”

  Her brow furrowed. Was he hinting that he knew of René’s plans? “You cannot possibly think dry, formal documents could contain any information of note.”

  “I may not know the precise details of what you carry, but I assure you, I know enough to accuse you of treason if you do not hand over those papers instantly,”

  She sucked in a breath. Accuse not convict? Perhaps he knew less than he implied. Threats were a very good tactic, and he was a consummate soldier. But were his threats as real as Malveux’s or as empty as the wind? Did it matter? Accusations could hurt as easily as truth. She knew that from experience. In addition, he’d mentioned treason again. This time he was much more direct than the last. If he knew so much, he must imagine she traveled to help René in his madness.

  “You have it all wrong.”

  “Then give me the documents.” He extended his free hand. “What harm if you are innocent?”

  She doubted that very much, but what choice did she have? “They are in my traveling case. I will give them to you and then I would like to rest while you read them. I’ve no desire to embarrass you with my presence when you discover how mistaken you are.”

  He smirked, turning with her to head back to the carriage, presumably to order her traveling case taken to the inn. “I will arrange a room where you can rest as soon as I have the papers.”

  • • •

  With her papers in hand, Richard obtained the key from the innkeeper and escorted Marielle to her room then locked the door behind her.

  “You need not lock me in,” she protested from the other side of the door.

  “For your safety as well as my peace of mind, I deem it necessary to keep you under lock and key.”

  “Very well,” her voice came soft and weary through the wood. “But I promise I shan’t attempt escape.”

  Had he finally quelled her? What a shame. Why? Could he regret that she finally showed a modicum of sense? He should be overjoyed to have gained this much cooperation. He made no reply. What could he say that would not belittle her or reveal more than he wished? Sighing, he turned and made for the private parlor and the brandy he’d ordered. Settling into a chair, he sipped the liquor as he searched the documents for evidence of the Duchess of Stonegreave’s treason.

  An hour later he stared into the fire, even more puzzled than before. Marielle Stonegreave, the witch, had been telling the truth, at least as far as her traveling documents were concerned. The papers were utterly boring. If a code existed within them, it was beyond his ability to decipher, and he was no novice.

  Then, too, there had
been that encounter with Malveux on the docks. From where he’d hidden, Richard saw them walking as close as lovers. The intimacy so publicly displayed infuriated him still. Which was neither here nor there—what was important about that display was that she could have passed a note to Malveux, or he to her, and used their bodies to block the exchange. Since the travel documents had proven useless, a search of her belongings was necessary, perhaps even a search of her person.

  One problem: how to accomplish that without setting hands on her. The thought of touching her skin, revealing those lithe curves, watching her eyes darken with passion . . . where had that come from? Lust, pure lust, and nothing else. He shifted in the chair, attempting to ease the erection that sprang to life with the image of his hands on Marielle Stonegreave en déshabillé.

  Seduction might gain her secrets faster than confrontation, whispered the rush of desire.

  Perhaps, but the very idea was ridiculous. She despised him almost as much as he loathed her. He could not possibly search her person, especially if she had this effect on him. Putting hands on her for any reason would be tantamount to abuse. He was not about to start abusing women, noble or not, deserving or not. Duty could not demand that he prostitute her, or himself; could it? There had to be another way. Damned if he knew what it was.

  Perhaps he could coerce or trick her into telling him the contents of any message Malveux might have passed to her. There had to be a message. Why else the meeting on the quay?

  The only other explanation fisted Richard’s hand. He wanted badly to hit something. If the woman wishes to act the trollop, it is of no import. Focus on the immediate problem. What is the message she carries?

  Even if she did carry information from Malveux to his agents at Fontainebleau, those messages must be coded. Would her Grace of Stonegreave know that code? Most likely not. The correspondents on either end of the message would know, but giving the messenger information he or she did not need was simply foolish. All the same, the depth of her involvement in the plot against the Bourbon monarchy was unknown. If she was high enough up the ranks of Malveux’s spies, she might know not only the code but the exact plan in detail. He had to question her further and had the remainder of the hour to contemplate the best method. Threats of prison had not seemed to affect her much.

 

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