The French Duchess

by Rue Allyn

  Getting her drunk might work . . . how proper a lady could she be given the mission she was on and her behavior with Malveux? The two had a scandalous history. If her past actions were any indication, she might be as French in her ideas of propriety as the scandalmongers would have her. Yes, drink could loosen her tongue, but the threat of greater scandal might serve as well. She seemed genuinely appalled when he’d threatened exposure earlier. So much so that she’d capitulated and given him these very frustrating documents. But she had not been frightened enough to hand over any missive from Malveux.

  And if there is no such message? What if Marielle is not a spy and her reason for traveling in France has nothing to do with the plot to assassinate Louis XVIII? If that is the case, then I’ve missed the real courier and must get word to my contact in Le Havre.

  He would have to abandon Marielle and return to Le Havre post haste. He wouldn’t mind being rid of the woman, but what of his promise to Jennings? His friend would understand that duty comes first. However, her grace’s innocence was far from certain. He must be sure of her guilt or innocence before taking any action. It was past time to confront her. He headed for the stairs.

  Richard penned a note to the contact in Le Havre and saw it posted. Next he went to release the lady from her temporary prison.

  A boy was tending the fire of the inn’s lobby.

  “How long have you been in this room?” Richard asked.

  “’Bout two hours, sir. I saw you an’ t’ lady arrive.”

  “Has anyone else gone above since then?”

  “Na sir. ‘Tis too early fer most folks to stop, and t’ other servants is all busy.”

  “Excellent.” Richard thanked the lad with a sou and proceeded to Marielle’s room.

  He knocked twice before unlocking the door and entering, only to halt within three steps. Her back to him, the Duchess of Stonegreave stood bare to the waist before the washstand. One arm was raised, and her opposite hand dabbed at the limb with a washrag. The scents of roses, soap, and woman filled the air. “Ah, um, so sorry.” The words clogged his throat. He should leave, but his feet would not obey.

  Her head turned. An entrancing flush rose to her face. Eyes wide, she gasped then found her voice. “I beg your pardon, Captain.”

  Her speech released his disobedient feet. “The fault is mine. Please join me in our private parlor at your earliest convenience.”

  He stepped into the hallway and closed the door before he could turn around and do more than stare. He should have had a maid escort the duchess. What had he been thinking? Nothing but confronting a clearly devious woman with the evidence of her perfidy. He couldn’t possibly have imagined she would be en déshabillé, could he?

  He very well could and had. It must stop. Now. He would not be ashamed of being male enough to find her form beautiful. He’d done nothing wrong—thoughtless, maybe, to open the door as he had. No, the only one guilty of wrongdoing was the Duchess of Stonegreave. He’d warned her their stop would be short, yet she took the time to attend to her toilet. The only possible comfort to be found in this exceedingly awkward situation was that she should be as unsettled as he was. He must keep her off balance until she told him everything. Nodding to himself, he settled into the wing chair before the parlor fire. Just how should he maintain the upper hand with a woman who was too enticing for her own good?

  Was she ruled by her passion? The display with Malveux indicated such was possible. Perhaps it was time to find out.

  • • •

  Night had fallen. Her breath hitched and gooseflesh covered her arms as he took her hand and escorted her to a chair near the hearth. His touch should not affect her when she disliked him so greatly and he posed a threat. Regardless, neither his person nor his threats should be allowed to unsettle her. While he took his own seat, she stiffened her resolve.

  “We know that your cousin is an agent for Napoleon and hopes to gain the emperor’s favor by assassinating Louis XVIII.”

  Marielle jerked in her chair. What was he talking about? She watched her hands twisting in her lap as if she had no control over them. So much for her resolve to remain unaffected.

  He tapped her documents against the booted foot he rested on his opposite knee. She restrained a sneer at his disrespectful posture. That was the least of her concerns.

  Was a plot afoot to assassinate the Bourbon monarch instead of Napoleon? Was betraying his family and adopted country René’s means of regaining the Trouvé title and estates? Impossible. René would never support Napoleon. But he might pretend in order to gain access to the Corsican Monster. It was a course she would consider if she were to involve herself in such madness. Had she not already used disguise, misdirection, and deception in pursuit of her immediate goals to save René and prevent renewed war?

  “Well?”

  She lifted her chin and filled her gaze with the imperious bravado that she’d learned to fake after the disastrous night of her father’s death.

  “Well, what?”

  “You might as well confess your involvement and cooperate with our investigation of your cousin’s activities. You could prevent yourself from landing beside your cousin in prison or under the hangman’s noose.”

  She curled a lip. “I’m not certain which I find more insulting. The suggestion that I would betray the country of my birth and my office as a duchess of the realm or that I would betray one of the few people who has remained my friend despite the ignorant opinions of society.”

  “I suggest nothing. Help your country capture the truly guilty parties, and you gain a modicum of absolution. You might even be allowed to retain your title, stripped of all authority, of course.”

  She forced a laugh.

  He quirked an eyebrow. “You find treason amusing?”

  She formed the slight smile that had been her armor against insults. “Hardly, Captain, but false threats, especially ones of such magnitude, deserve laughter or nothing. A null response is too open to interpretation, so what other course have I but to laugh?”

  “You are a greater fool than I imagined. The testimony of those in Le Havre who witnessed your tender meeting with Malveux—a known Bonapartist spy—is sufficient to condemn you. Any action but complete confession and cooperation will only cast your fate in stone.”

  “If spying were the purpose of my encounter with Malveux, your claim might be true. And since your ‘witnesses’ could not have overheard our conversation, any testimony as to my purpose would be pure conjecture.” Looking down her nose at him, she gathered her skirts, stood, and walked to the door. “You have no evidence, or you would know my actions are beyond reproach. Your threats are completely without merit and must be regarded with the contempt they deserve. I’ll thank you to mind your own business and leave me be from this point forward, or I shall have to demand your dishonorable discharge from the king’s army for harassment and insult to a noble of the king’s court.”

  Richard was at the door before she could turn the knob, his hand pressed against the panel, keeping the portal shut. His big body crowded her, and she shrank against the wood, retreating as unsuccessfully from his intimidating presence as she’d attempted to retreat from Malveux earlier in the day,

  Fury blazed in the glare he laid on her. “I am minding my business and the crown’s. You may attempt to have me dishonorably discharged, but you will find the army disinterested in the claims of a suspected traitor. Don’t be a fool, your grace. Confess. Let me help you.” He leaned closer with every word until she could not avoid his gaze and the icy emotion there.

  “How dare you,” she sneered. “You cannot possibly help me. The suggestion is as ridiculous as the idea that I might confess to treason when I am guilty of nothing but trying to protect my family and my nation.” Doubt might have flashed within his hard expression, but it was gone too soon for her to be certain.

  Anger drew her up, bringing her nose to nose with him. His breath fanned her ear. His coat buttons brushed her chest with each
panicked rise and fall. She had to get away. She lifted her hand to strike him.

  He grasped her wrist and pinned it above her head against the door.

  Disaster descended with the stroke of his lips over hers. Sensational and soft. A tender temptation to surrender. It was glorious. She wanted more. She could not possibly want more. She attempted to pull back but found nowhere to go.

  He lifted away in the same breath. Had he sensed her confusion? A finger’s breadth of air remained between their mouths. His hips still rested against hers. His legs still tangled in her skirts.

  His gaze locked with hers. “My God.”

  My God, indeed. What had he been thinking to kiss her? What had she been thinking to allow it even for the briefest moment?

  “I beg your pardon.” He breathed the words.

  A shiver coursed through her.

  He stepped back, releasing her, and giving her a modicum of space.

  Awkwardness filled the silence stretching between them.

  “Since you refuse to cooperate, I have no choice but to remove you to London and turn you over to the proper authorities.”

  “No!”

  He raised a brow. “No?”

  If she were taken to London, she would not be able to stop René, even if she could convince the authorities of her innocence. “I must get to Fontainebleau. The fate of Europe depends upon it.”

  It was his turn to curl a lip. “I disagree. The fate of Europe hangs on your failure to deliver whatever message Malveux might have given you.”

  She stared at him for a long time. In that much he was correct. She could not comply with Malveux’s orders. But what choice did she have? Her cooperation with Malveux imperiled all Europe.

  “Accept my help or suffer the consequences. You have little choice, your grace.” Echoing her thoughts, Richard reached for her.

  She evaded his grasp by taking her skirts in hand and stepping toward the chairs so recently and disastrously left.

  She crossed the room and sat. Desperation slumped her shoulders. Had he been the Richard of her childhood, or even seven years ago—before her engagement to Jennings—she might have trusted him. Might have gone to him with her troubles. But both of them had changed for the worse, and every instinct warned of disaster should she yield to his demands. Perhaps it would be best to tell him the truth, but as little as possible.

  He followed, resuming his seat across from her.

  She bowed her head and searched for the right words. “I very much doubt you can help in any way. And while I do not trust you in the slightest, you are right. I have no choice save to confess.”

  Chapter Six

  Richard blinked. He’d gotten what he wanted. He should be overjoyed that she’d decided to confess. Instead, he wished he hadn’t had to threaten her to gain her cooperation. At least he hadn’t needed to resort to drink. What a pity she had not trusted him from the first. But she’d had no reason to. He might even have suspected her motives if she’d confessed with little or no pressure.

  She chewed on her bottom lip, taking her time. But he waited. He knew better than to put her back up by pushing too hard at the wrong moment and possibly losing all the ground gained.

  “I am not a spy. At least not intentionally. Nor is my cousin René, who left before Napoleon’s surrender with the hope of petitioning the emperor to return the Trouvé lands. Nor was my encounter with Malveux anything I desired. It was as unexpected as it was unwelcome.”

  Richard sighed. Pigs would fly if she ever told the truth, yet one tiny piglet of a thought tried mightily to take flight. Was her claim of innocence true? He shoved the feeling aside—it was an aberration brought about by her defeated posture and that very ill-considered and uncharacteristically impulsive kiss.

  “So you still deny the truth.”

  She lifted her head. “No. I am telling you the truth. Why won’t you see that?”

  “You honestly expect me to believe that Malveux is not and never was your lover, that he has no hold over you and your affections.”

  A strangled laugh emerged from her throat. “Of course I expect you to believe me. Rumors and scandal mask the truth. I have never been Malveux’s willing companion in anything.”

  “Come now, you must see that he is using your affection to manipulate you.” He leaned forward, pouring all the sympathy he could muster—and it wasn’t much—into his posture and his words.

  She reared back, snarling. “You continue to insult me by imagining I would have anything to do with the man who killed my father. Had I the means, I would have murdered that monster the instant I saw him on the quay.”

  Her vehemence almost convinced Richard. But the embrace she’d shared with the Frenchman—that embrace spoke of outrageous intimacy. No woman would allow such if she were innocent. Perhaps it was she who attempted to manipulate Malveux with sex.

  “So you always passionately embrace men you wish to assassinate?” She certainly seemed to enjoy kissing him moments ago.

  She blushed. “It wasn’t what it appeared.”

  He lifted both his brows. “Really, what was it then?”

  “Malveux said he would arrange for more scandal to be attached to my family in general and to me in particular. He showed me letters written in an unknown hand that claimed my father had cheated at cards, that I had sold myself to cover the debts. Malveux said he has more such letters besmirching the reputations of everyone in my family. He claimed he could even produce a child who would be revealed as my illegitimate offspring. I could not bear to put my family through that, so I did as he told me. I’ve been trying to figure out how to stop him ever since.”

  She hadn’t kissed the man! rejoiced the small aberration that refused to remain banished. But coerced or not, she had suffered Malveux’s touch without visible protest. Yes, she claimed his threats kept her from defying him. Letters could be manufactured, as she described. Producing a child and reliable witnesses connecting the child to her was more difficult but not impossible. After all, the man did kill her father, albeit in a duel. She could easily believe Malveux capable of smearing her family name.

  Nonetheless, Richard did not believe her. The explanation was too pat, delivered in a halting monotone, as if she were making it up as she went.

  “Leaving aside the question of why you cooperated with him, what happened next?”

  “We walked along the quay for a few moments, and he told me he needed me to carry a message to Fontainebleau and deliver it to Madame Leonis Cochinat.”

  That was a name he’d not encountered since the Spanish campaign. She had been among the camp followers, claiming to be a refugee, but she’d been cast out when she caused too much trouble between the men. He refused to dwell on his part in her ouster. Obviously, she’d switched sides. More likely she’d been spying on the British all along. But why have a message delivered to her? Why not directly to Napoleon? The lady was not known to be one of the Corsican Monster’s inner circle.

  “What was the message?”

  “I don’t know.” Marielle reached into her reticule and retrieved a square of paper with an anonymous seal. “He gave me this. I am still debating whether to open it before delivering it.”

  So she did carry a message from Malveux. But she had volunteered the information. That tiny sense of relief tried to take flight once more. He knocked it aside. Now was no time to be sentimental or hopeful. He needed evidence that would prove Marielle true or false.

  “Give it to me.” He held out his hand.

  She hesitated, studying him for long moments, then complied.

  He pried off the seal, opened the letter, and read silently. The message revealed everything and, if one did not know the background, nothing about the plot to assassinate Louis XVIII. He would have to push Marielle very hard to discover exactly how much she knew.

  “Nothing in the seal or the contents of this missive indicates it came from Malveux. Why should I believe your claim?”

  “How many spies do you
imagine I conspire with?” Her voice roughened, and her lips curled downward.

  “As many as you need to achieve your goals.”

  “And you think assassinating Louis XVIII is my goal? What could I possibly gain from that? What could Malveux, or Napoleon, or any other enemy of England give to an English duchess to make her betray her country and commit such a crime? For a supposedly intelligent man, you are incredibly obtuse.”

  “Other than eliminating threats to your already tarnished reputation?” He raised a brow. “Why don’t you tell me what it is you have to gain from cooperating with Malveux in any way.”

  He thrust the letter at her.

  “April twelfth, he will be unguarded and alone from midnight to dawn. Set the stage. Use Trouvé,” she read aloud.

  “Do you know what it means?” April twelfth was the original starting date for Louis XVIII to begin his return to France. Trouvé could only refer to Marielle’s cousin, who inherited the title and might hope to earn back the family lands. That might have been enough to lure the young man into Malveux’s plots. But Trouvé was in France, far from where Louis XVIII would depart.

  She shook her head. “No, other than to surmise that something will happen on that date and time, and that someone should prepare for the event by making use of my cousin.”

  “Yes, that much is obvious.” But what was not so obvious about the message? No matter how he turned the information in his mind, it failed to reveal anything more useful. Nor had Marielle’s response shown her to be more deeply involved than she claimed. Was she only Malveux’s instrument, coerced to cooperate by blackmail, or was there more, something deeper even than the plot against Louis XVIII? Until he could be sure, Richard could not leave Marielle Stonegreave to her own devices. He must send word back to Bruskingly. The Bourbon travel dates and route could be changed and men dispatched to observe events surrounding Louis at the appointed date and time. Other agents must be dispatched throughout France on the chance that Her Grace was less involved than he believed.