by Rue Allyn
“ . . . so you see, I must proceed to Fontainebleau and beg René to come home.”
Richard jerked his head up. What was she at now? If she had told him the truth, she should be relieved to have her family’s reputation assured. What wasn’t she telling him?
“I see nothing of the kind.”
“You would have me defy Malveux and have my family live in shame.”
“I will prevent that.”
She sniffed. “How could you possibly do so? Even should you succeed in protecting my aunt, what of my cousin? How will you stop Malveux’s plan to use René as a tool in whatever action is plotted for April twelfth?”
“I cannot fathom why your cousin is at Fontainebleau if Malveux plans to assassinate Louis XVIII. Nonetheless, I will proceed to Fontainebleau with all possible speed. Once there, I’ll take your cousin in hand. I shall make it impossible for Madame Cochinat to manipulate or coerce him.”
Marielle’s shoulders slumped. “But can you protect him from himself?”
Richard frowned. “What is that supposed to mean? What aren’t you telling me?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
She nodded. “Won’t. You care nothing for René or my family’s reputation.”
“I care enough to assure you that your family will be protected from Malveux’s retribution.”
“Despite your assurances, you will forgive me if I doubt your ability to succeed. I’ve seen Malveux in action. Besides, there is more at stake than you can possibly imagine.”
“I can imagine an awful lot.”
“Not this.”
“Try me.”
She bit her lip and shook her head.
“Marielle.” He took her hand and found it trembling. “You’ve confided so much in me already. What could possibly be worse than Malveux plotting to kill Louis XVIII and use the family of an English duchess to do it?”
“There may be a plot to murder the French king, but Malveux is not part of it.”
“How can you say that?”
“Because Malveux wants me or my cousin to kill Napoleon. Malveux will murder my family if I do not cooperate. That is his only threat. I made up the rest.”
Richard dropped her hand and jerked backward. The lies she confessed were no surprise. Napoleon as a target instead of Louis XVIII, however . . .
“Nonsense.”
“It’s true. René left England with the intention of seeking revenge for the lost Trouvé lands by murdering Bonaparte. I followed in order to stop René before he could plunge Europe back into war. Somehow, Malveux discovered my intent, and since he believes Napoleon will be more useful as a martyr, he wants René to succeed. I was to deliver that message to Madame Cochinat, who will provide the means for either René or myself to assassinate Bonaparte.”
Richard stared. The plot against the Bourbons was true. The sources for that information were too reliable. How would Napoleon’s death fit? Malveux was certainly ambitious enough to plot Napoleon’s murder, and timing that in concert with Louis XVIII’s death would be a masterstroke. In the ensuing confusion, a coup d’état to bring Malveux to power would be easy.
“All the more reason to get you out of France.”
She shook her head again. “René is a very stubborn man, and I am one of the few people he will listen to. He certainly will not listen to a stranger, and one he would probably see as a threat to his plans.”
“I could have you placed under lock and key.”
“You could. But I’ve escaped locks before.”
“But this time you would be under guard of men who know what you are capable of, not a silly, impressionable maid. Nor would you have the means to bribe your guards as you did that girl at the Bull and Hare.”
“Are you certain? I am resourceful and, in your eyes, quite capable of perverting any man I choose.”
She had him there. He had personal experience of her ability to muddle a man’s thoughts with a kiss. What would she do to obtain her freedom if left alone with hired guards?
He glared at her. “You are a most troublesome woman.” Nonetheless, an idea sprang unbidden—she might be of use to him in a way that would prove the truth of all she said as well as allow him to watch her every move. It was dangerous, but success would be worth any risk.
She smiled sweetly at him. “Thank you. I take causing you trouble as high praise indeed.”
“Regardless, I will have your key for tonight.”
“No.”
“I can take it from you.”
“Won’t touching me cause you to hate yourself in the morning?”
“Not as much as having you escape again.” He could see the gears spinning as she considered her options.
“Oh, very well.” She shrugged and removed the key from her pocket.
He took it and escorted her to her bedchamber. He bowed when she entered, then locked her in. He stood for a moment, contemplating the key and what other machinations she might fall back on. No, he could not rely solely on a single lock to keep her in place. He would have to guard her door himself. He settled on the floor and prepared for a very long and uncomfortable night.
• • •
Richard woke gritty-eyed, aching, and tired. He, like other soldiers, had learned to sleep anywhere, but that skill did not mean the sleep was restful or restorative.
Before he slept he had refined his plans. What he would propose was outrageous, but it was the only means he could think of to control her movements and ensure she would get her just desserts.
As soon as he heard her moving about the next morning, he knocked on her door.
“Yes?”
She hadn’t invited him in. Of course, he did not regret it. A sleep-tousled woman could be a powerful temptation.
“I am unlocking your door and expect you to join me for breakfast in five minutes, otherwise I will come and fetch you myself.”
“All right.”
No woman he knew could get herself presentably dressed in so short a time. What was she up to? Did she want him to come for her?
“You won’t like it if I have to come get you.”
“I concur.” The door opened, and she stepped out, completely coiffed and dressed in her governess attire.
He stared.
“Do I have dirt on my chin?”
“No.” He straightened and held out his arm for her. “Not at all. I expected widow’s weeds, however.”
She took his arm. “Oh la, black is such a drab color. And I am, after all, not a widow.”
No, she was not. She had never married Jennings and so had not the privilege of outward mourning.
They ate in silence in the private parlor while he studied her. How much of her incredible tale of conspiracy and blackmail could he believe? She sat staring out the window. Nothing in her face or demeanor indicated distress or worry. Instead of wringing her hands as she had previously, she was remarkably still.
Not until they pushed their plates away and she sipped her coffee did he broach the plan that had occupied his nocturnal thoughts.
“If I permit you to accompany me to Fontainebleau, have I your word you will not attempt escape but follow my every order?”
“You ask that as if I could do otherwise. I must get to Fontainebleau before René does anything rash. As of this moment, you offer my best means to achieve that goal, regardless of your mistrust or what I may think of you.”
“You doubt I would treat you honorably?”
“You accuse me of great crimes on little evidence. My experience since your last visit to Stonegreave is fraught with distrust, suspicion, and coercion. Certainly, I have little cause to credit you with any more honor than you give me.”
Was he really such a bastard? Impossible. She was simply attempting to turn the tables on him. Ignoring the jab was the only sensible course.
“Your opinions of me hardly matter. However, if you are to act as my wife, you will have to pretend to more tender fe
elings, at least in front of others.”
“Your wife! Why in the world would I attempt such a ruse?”
“You have no maid or chaperone. Would you like to act the part of mistress, which is the only other role for a woman traveling alone in the company of a man?”
“Why not a sister or cousin?” She straightened as she protested, then shrank back against the chair.
He resisted the impulse to soothe her distress. “Because I do not trust you enough to let you stray as far as a sister or cousin might reasonably go from me. In addition, the English army still has men on the continent. The chances are good we’ll encounter one or more of them. If even one person we meet knows I have no sisters or female cousins, our entire plan fails. Also, even a sister or cousin would have a maid, and hiring a servant is too great a risk given our task to prevent Napoleon’s assassination. Wife or mistress are the only options. You may choose either role that pleases you, or you may return to London under guard to await your fate.”
Her expression of dignified horror might have been amusing had the situation not been so grave.
“I doubt I could perform either role adequately. However, you will certainly fail to stop René without me. Since waiting in London is not an option, I agree to pretend to be your wife. Perhaps we could argue and appear to be at outs with each other.”
Richard rubbed his chin. That plan would certainly keep her at a safe distance. But it might also grant her too much latitude to carry out her own agenda. No, to counter any possibility that she worked for Malveux, she must be kept close.
“Napoleon is said to have a soft spot for lovers and a fascination for English citizens. We must get close enough to the Corsican to be able to stop your brother. Our best course is to give Bonaparte two of the things he likes best: English newlyweds so in love that they cannot bear to be separated. As for your ability to carry off the pretense, you have proven yourself adept, if less than expert, at disguise. I’m certain if you stick close to me, you’ll easily carry off the deception.”
She shrugged. “Time will tell whether we succeed or not. But I suggest we attend to the details of our ruse.”
“Such as?”
“My luggage—I do not have with me the accoutrements one would expect of a bride. That, combined with our lack of personal servants, will raise eyebrows, even among the French.”
“You have a point. We shall add an elopement to our story.”
“And chose France rather than Gretna Green because everyone who might wish to interfere would think us bound for Scotland?”
“Precisely.”
“And where in France are we supposed to have married? Anyone with a modicum of sense would ask. I’ve never traveled in France, so I cannot give any details that a bride would be sure to know, like the curate’s name or what the church looked like.”
“A civil ceremony is permitted in France and could solve such questions.”
“I disagree. Civil or church, a bride would remember where she wed and who was present.”
“Very well. We were so eager to marry, the captain of the ship officiated. We were married at sea by special license. The license is in the luggage. The luggage is with the servants, whom we outpaced in our eagerness to have privacy.”
“And we arrive at Fontainebleau seeking shelter until our luggage and servants can catch up to us.”
“If all goes according to plan and you are able to convince your cousin to come with us, we should be well on our way back to Le Havre before servants and luggage fail to arrive.”
She sighed. “Hopefully. How long before you wish to set out?”
“As soon as I can have the horses put to and arrange provisions with the innkeeper. No longer than an hour.”
“I’ll be ready.”
He watched her leave. If she was as innocent as she claimed, she might even be an asset at Fontainebleau. If guilty, she could land him in prison right beside her. Add to that conundrum the peculiar attraction he’d developed over the past few days, and disaster was only one misstep away. It was a four-day journey to Fontainebleau in a well-sprung carriage and with good weather. If she could enchant him as she had Jennings, Richard would be in serious trouble spending that many days of enforced intimacy with a woman more beautiful than any woman had a right to be. As a new husband, he could hardly ride outside the carriage, or he’d hire a horse and spend the days in the saddle.
He’d no one to blame but himself. The entire newlywed scheme was his idea. Surely there’d been some other reasonable option. Damned if he could determine what.
• • •
She had to give Richard credit for arranging a well-sprung carriage and fast horses. They’d traveled for four long days with surprising comfort and efficiency. Nonetheless, she was grateful when, in the late afternoon of April ninth, the equipage turned in at the gates of Fontainebleau.
The silence had been unbearable, but with so little trust between them, how could she unburden herself of the fears and worries she carried like stones? She’d made a few attempts at casual conversation and gotten monosyllabic responses. At least on the return journey she would have René to talk to. If they succeeded in preventing him from killing Bonaparte.
Soon she’d be able to escape Richard’s carefully indifferent presence for a few minutes, but first she would have to put on the performance of a lifetime as his enamored new bride. What a difference from those days shortly after her engagement when she had to pretend she did not mind that Jennings put going to war before his love for her. At that time she’d been certain her pretense was motivated by a love that wanted to grant Jennings’s every wish. What a fool she’d been. Had she refused her approval of her fiancé going to war, she’d not be in this situation. Malveux might have chosen some other family to manipulate. She would have the children and husband that now she would likely never have. She would not be compelled to endure the company of a man whose blind prejudice repelled her while his capacity for kindness attracted her.
If only one could reverse time.
Richard exited the carriage then turned to assist her. However, instead of offering his hand, he reached for her, clasping her about the waist and lifting her toward him. She slid against him as he lowered her. Such public intimacy between husband and wife was not improper. However, they weren’t truly wed, yet every nerve in her body came alive at his touch. Embarrassed beyond measure at her reaction to a man she practically loathed, she could not suppress the heat that rose to her cheeks. Hopefully, any observers would put her high color down to a wife’s shyness with a new husband. Her feet touched the ground, but her legs would not support her.
“Careful, darling. Hold on to me until you regain your balance.”
The endearment snapped her head up. The emotion she saw in his eyes echoed the tenderness of his tone. He was born for the stage. A second look showed that deep behind the outward affection lurked a challenge.
She would not let him best her.
Thinking of the pleasure she would have when she could tell this insufferable man exactly what she thought of him, she tilted her lips in a smile, raised herself on the toes of legs that only moments ago lacked strength, and planted a kiss dead center on his mouth. She let her lips linger and caress. But she didn’t enjoy any part of the act. Not the firm resilience or surprising softness of his mouth. Definitely not his tightening arms around her that brought their bodies into dangerous, delicious contact. And absolutely not the seductive stroke of his tongue prompting her to open to him.
Somewhere in the background, a sound rasped.
Then she was standing, just barely, on shaky legs once more, her mouth embarrassingly open, and her fingers clutching at air where muscled shoulders had been.
“I beg pardon, monsieur, madame,” a red-faced footman blurted then coughed. “If you’ll follow me.” The man gave orders to the coachman regarding the disposal of what little luggage they had with them and stabling the horses.
A smug grin on his face, Richard offere
d her his arm.
She glared at him behind the retreating footman’s back. Unable to refuse without creating a scene, she linked her arm with Richard. He had nothing to be happy about. Had he forgotten the seriousness of their purpose here? She would remind him, of that and to keep his demonstrations of pretended affection to those appropriate for public display. Kisses, especially incendiary, will-sapping kisses, were definitely beyond the line. Never mind that she had initiated the contact. He had offered the dare—silent though it was—and must bear the blame if she chose to accept the challenge.
They were led to a charming reception room. The footman excused himself to find someone called le Grand Maréchal du Palais.
“You go too far,” she hissed when they were finally alone.
“But, darling, you know I cannot resist you.”
“You are determined to embarrass me.”
“I intended nothing of the sort.” He sat on a settee framed in gilded scrollwork. His gaze held a warning, and his voice lowered so she could barely hear him. “If you find pleasure in our pretense, you must blame yourself. My only purpose is to show the affection expected of a newlywed husband. If you wish something more, please inform me.”
She opened her mouth to blister his ears with the truth but saw him tilt his head toward the room’s door left barely ajar.
She nearly strangled on her swallowed ire. “You know I could never ask for more. You provide too much already, my dear.”
“Come sit with me.” He patted the space beside him on the settee.
She wished she did not have to. She needed relief from the continuous tension of being with him, not more time spent closer. Nonetheless she went, fidgeting with her skirts then sitting as far from him as possible and still maintaining the illusion she loved him.
When she finally stilled, he eased an arm around her waist and dragged her nearer. He bent his head, placing his mouth to her ear, and whispered, “You must do a better job of pretending a passion for me or this entire venture will fail. We must be invited to stay if we are to have any chance of success. Stirring the least suspicion could be disastrous.”