“God, man, are you really that dull?” countered Samuel Parr.
Bickford reared back in drunken indignity. “Dull, am I? Then what do you suggest?”
“Something a little more interesting,” answered Philip Montrose. His steel-gray gaze moved slowly around the tavern as though seeking inspiration. “Perhaps a way for the five of us to win our money back from Duvall.”
Nicholas’s dark gaze shot across the table and locked on Philip Montrose. Despite the surface cordiality, their dislike was mutual and intense.
“I have it,” declared Edward Fletcher, his florid cheeks flushed even redder from drink. “A seduction. Either Duvall has to seduce the next woman to enter the tavern or he forfeits the money he’s won from us this morning.”
“Not bad,” said Philip Montrose. He hesitated a moment, as though considering the idea carefully. “But in the past hour, I’ve seen nothing but barmaids and servant girls from the local inns enter this establishment. That’s hardly a wager worthy of the Lord of Scandal, is it? Rather like wagering on a wolf’s ability to devour a lamb.”
Nervous, uneasy laughter sounded among the men. Nicholas had, of course, heard himself referred to as the Lord of Scandal—particularly after Allyson’s untimely death—but never had a man been so bold as to call him that to his face. He waited a beat, letting the silence stretch between them, then replied in a silky-smooth voice, “Hardly sporting, indeed.”
Montrose arched one pale brow in response as a small smirk played about his lips. “I thought you might agree.”
“Then what’s the wager?” demanded Bickford.
Montrose tapped his empty wineglass with a fingernail, his lips pursed in thought. “Perhaps—” he began.
His words were cut short as the tavern door suddenly flew open and a group of wind-blown travelers staggered in. The small party consisted of three women and four men. Two of the men supported a third, who appeared able to walk only with their assistance. He was doubled over and groaning loudly, clutching his belly as he lurched forward. A bed in a back room was secured for the ailing man, followed by calls for a physician, soothing wine, and blankets.
The plight of the travelers quickly became apparent. The driver of their coach had taken ill on the route between Esterel and Cannes and was unable to continue. Because the tavern owner also served as the local agent for the coach company, the group besieged the man to supply them with another driver. But their pleas were met with little more than vague sympathy and an ultimate shrug of indifference. When the driver was well again, they would continue. Whether that took days or weeks was out of the tavern owner’s hands.
“Such a shame,” murmured Philip Montrose, shaking his head at the misfortune of the small band of travelers. Yet as he spoke, a distinct glimmer of satisfaction entered his eyes. “Although,” he continued slowly, “we might be able to remedy their situation.”
“Are you proposing we give them our rail tickets?” asked Lord Rigby, releasing a deep boom of laughter at the absurdity of the suggestion.
“Not precisely.” Montrose steepled his fingers, glancing from man to man around the table. Abruptly his steel-gray gaze locked on Nicholas. “I’m suggesting that we give them a driver.”
“I don’t follow you,” said Bickford.
Philip Montrose lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. “You wanted another wager and here it is. If Duvall agrees to assume the post of driver and to guide the coach and passengers into Monaco, he doubles his winnings. If, however, he fails to complete the journey, he forfeits his winnings and returns them to us. It’s that simple, gentlemen.”
The other men at the table shifted uncomfortably in the ensuing silence. “Rather brash, isn’t it, Montrose?” muttered Lord Rigby.
“I would say so,” concurred Samuel Parr, nervously clearing his throat.
Nicholas fought back a smile at their obvious discomfort. For a member of the peerage to seduce an innocent young servant girl was well within the bounds of acceptable behavior. But for a lord of the realm to lower himself enough to accept a task as menial and degrading as driving a coach, well, that was simply not done.
Putting that hypocrisy aside for the moment, Nicholas considered the wager. The money was of little consequence, but there were other elements to consider. First and foremost, Montrose was apparently as anxious to be rid of him as Nicholas was to be rid of the lot of them. Interesting, but probably inconsequential, he decided. He knew better than to let his innate dislike of the man color his judgment.
Second, accepting the wager would mean parting from the group until they were reunited in Monaco. As the journey would take less than a day, and his traveling companions appeared intent on acquainting themselves with as many taverns as they could along the way, he doubted it would do any harm. Separating now was infinitely preferable to enduring another endless afternoon neck high in drunken wagers, maudlin reminiscences, and soggy toasts to health and good fortune.
He paused, surveying one last time the men with whom he traveled. Was the killer he sought among this group of elegant sycophants? Perhaps yes, perhaps no—it was simply too early to tell. The sooner he arrived in Monaco, the sooner he could settle the business that brought him there. With that in mind, Nicholas pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “you have a wager.”
Katya Alexander shifted from foot to foot, her heart racing as she stood inside the crowded tavern. She clutched her faded carpetbag tightly against her chest, struggling to rein in her mounting sense of alarm. She had to reach Monaco by tonight, she simply had to. If she didn’t… well, she wouldn’t think about that yet. She hadn’t traveled all the way from London only to give up now.
But despite her mental reassurances, the conversation between the tavern owner and her fellow passengers sounded bleak indeed. No, there was no other driver available. No, the owner couldn’t leave the tavern and drive the coach himself. No, he couldn’t think of a local tradesman who might want to finish the route. Perhaps in a few days, he suggested, the driver would be well again. In the meantime they could all stay and enjoy the beauty of Cannes.
On another occasion the offer might tempt her, but not right now. Not when she had to reach Monaco by nightfall or she would lose everything. Everything. Think, Katya, think! she commanded herself. Taking a deep, calming breath, she considered her options.
There was the train, of course, but since she hadn’t been able to afford the steep price of a rail ticket when she had left the port of Toulon, she could afford it even less now that she had already paid the regular coach fare. She could always try to rent a small buggy, although the thought of negotiating the rugged Corniche on her own left her feeing distinctly queasy. Her mind raced. A fishing boat perhaps? Or a farmer driving a wagonload of produce north to market?
“Pardon me, but do I understand that you’re in need of a driver?”
Katya spun around at the sound of the smooth male voice behind her. Her gaze flew to a tall man of perhaps thirty. He spoke in fluid French but his accent, subtle though it was, sounded decidedly British. His clothing marked him an Englishman as well, suggesting a recent visit to an exclusive London haberdasher. He wore his dark brown hair a bit longer than was currently considered fashionable; it cascaded in thick waves just past the collar of his shirt. But it was his eyes that truly captured her attention. They were black, luminous, piercing—by far the most compelling aspect of the man.
All things considered, he did not seem the type who would charitably come to the aid of a group of stranded travelers. Nevertheless, at least he seemed interested in their plight, which was more than she could say about the tavern owner.
“How much?” she inquired in English, boldly addressing the stranger directly.
As though aware of her presence for the first time, the man turned to face her. His gaze was neither lewd nor intimidating, yet something about the way he looked at her sent a blistering shock through her system. The kiss of fate, her mother would have calle
d it. That brief, infinitesimal moment when fate allows us a glimpse into the future, showing us what will be. But the thought of her fate being somehow entwined with this mysterious Englishman’s struck Katya as patently absurd.
Dismissing the notion entirely, she collected her thoughts and returned her attention to the subject at hand. “How much will you charge to take us to Monaco?” she repeated.
The question seemed to catch him off-guard. He fumbled for a moment, as though searching for a suitable amount, then replied, “Twenty-five francs a person.”
“I’ll pay ten.”
The Englishman arched one dark brow in a look of mild surprise, then with a careless shrug of his broad shoulders said simply, “Agreed.”
He must need the money more desperately than she had imagined to consent so readily to the lower fare. Katya felt a momentary twinge of guilt for depriving him of his income, but she quickly brushed the feeling aside. After all, she reasoned, she was in no position to be generous.
The negotiations complete, she dug into her carpetbag and removed the money. She held the notes out to him, then abruptly pulled her hand back as a thought occurred to her. “I don’t suppose you have any references as to your good character?” she demanded, eyeing him distrustfully.
“My what?”
“Your good character, sir. Something to assure us that you are a man of honor and integrity.”
A sardonic smile touched his lips, as though he found the very idea mildly entertaining. “Even if I had such references—and I can assure you they don’t exist—I doubt very much I would carry them around in my pocket, waiting to show them off to every stranger I met in a roadside tavern.”
“Then how are we to know you truly intend to see us to Monaco, rather than just rob us of our possessions and abandon us on a seaside cliff?”
“Do I look the part of a notorious highwayman?” he challenged.
Katya’s eyes once again swept over his meticulously tailored attire. Aware that he was waiting for her reply, she tilted her chin, forcing herself to meet his cool, mocking gaze. “The quality of a man’s clothing is hardly an accurate measure of the quality of his character.”
“Aptly put. I suppose that means you’ll just have to trust me, won’t you?” He studied her for a moment longer, then lifted his shoulders in a bored shrug, as though their discussion had grown tedious. “Or you can wait here for the next coach. The choice is yours.”
Unfortunately, she was in no position to wait. Her appointment with Monsieur Remy was scheduled for eight o’clock that evening, and she couldn’t afford to miss it. She had little choice at the moment but to hand over her money and hope for the best.
“You’ll take the coach all the way to Monaco?” she pressed, holding out two five-franc notes.
He inclined his head with a graceful nod. “All the way to Monaco.”
“Fine.” Remembering one more thing, she snatched the money back once again as he reached for it. “By tonight?”
The hint of a smile she had seen earlier now blossomed into a full-blown, cocky grin. The sudden splash of pearly white teeth, contrasted against the bronzed glow of his skin and the ebony fire in his eyes gave him a startling, almost luminous air of sensuality. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, studying her for a long moment in amused, and rather patronizing silence.
“Is this some sort of a game you’re playing, Miss…?”
“Alexander,” she supplied briskly. She knew she looked the part of an unraveled fool, but she infinitely preferred a teaspoon of caution to a cupful of reckless remorse. “I do not mean to play games, sir. I merely wish to assure that we will arrive safely in Monaco by this evening, that is all. I have urgent business to attend.”
“I see.”
His dark eyes swept over her once again, this time moving in a slow, open appraisal. His gaze traveled from the unadorned straw hat on her head to the reading spectacles perched on the end of her nose, then on to the few wayward ebony curls that had sprung free from the tight bun in which she had captured them that morning. His undisguised assessment continued as he took in the dark gray, high-collared and loose-fitting traveling ensemble and low-heeled, practical boots, and it finished with the scuffed and well-worn carpetbag she clutched in her hand.
He seemed to come to some conclusion, for the light that had filled his eyes only moments earlier abruptly dimmed. “In that case,” he suggested flatly, “I suggest we delay no further.” He took her money and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket. Then he turned away without another word, seeing to the needs of the other passengers.
His abrupt dismissal left Katya wishing she had selected a more becoming gown when she had dressed that morning. Or that she had at least bothered to remove her spectacles. Irritated by her preposterous reaction, she abruptly dismissed the matter of her appearance. What she wore was entirely sensible, given the dirt and debris she encountered while traveling the dry, dusty roads that lined the Cote d’Azur. Beyond that, she was still in mourning for her parents. The fact that her attire apparently didn’t meet the lofty standards of their newly acquired coachman was hardly a matter of concern.
Fortunately the tavern owner had no objection to the Englishman serving in their driver’s stead. Not knowing what else to do with herself, Katya listened as the stranger extracted his fee from the other passengers and then took direction as to the proper handling of the stage: the route he should follow, the stops he was required to make, and where he should deposit the horses and coach once they reached Monte Carlo. The business was finalized in short order and the group was ushered out of the dimly ht tavern and back into the stuffy confines of their coach.
The vehicle rocked and swayed as the Englishman climbed to his open-air perch above their cabin; then it jerked forward as the horses established a steady rhythm. Relieved that the stranger could apparently handle the team, Katya turned her attention to the other occupants of the coach. Her seat-mates included a rather portly businessman from Marseilles who stank of fish and began snoring almost as soon as the vehicle was in motion, a pair of young lovers who sat scandalously close to one another and whispered back and forth in fervent Italian, and an elderly couple from England, Lord and Lady Stanton, with whom Katya had recently made an acquaintance.
“Heavens, Miss Alexander, you needn’t balance that heavy bag on your lap all the way to Monaco,” Lady Stanton protested as Katya settled her carpetbag on her knees. “We may be a bit crowded in here, but surely we can make a bit more room.”
“That’s quite all right, I don’t mind.”
“Nonsense.” Lady Stanton tapped her husband authoritatively on the arm. “Do help her with her bag, my dear.”
Katya hesitated briefly, then released her bag to the smiling, elderly lord, who placed it on the floor beside his wife’s bag.
“There now, isn’t that better?” Lady Stanton inquired pleasantly.
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I should think so.” Lady Stanton sniffed approvingly. “Now that we’re all comfortable, my dear, do allow me the liberty of making a few suggestions for your trip.” The older woman abruptly launched into a long-winded but well-meaning lecture, directing Katya to all the glorious sights awaiting her within the any principality of Monaco.
Katya listened politely, nodding from tune to time as she feigned interest in what the other woman said. The information offered, however, was of little use to her. She was twenty-three years old, alone, and nearly penniless. She could ill afford to waste either time or money on idle pleasure-seeking.
As Lady Stanton rambled on, Katya’s thoughts turned inward. For what seemed like the hundredth time since she had left London, she questioned the wisdom of this trip, particularly now that her meeting with Monsieur Remy was so close at hand. What if he should deny her request? She had foolishly refused to even consider the possibility months ago, but now she could think of almost nothing else. What would become of her if Monsieur Remy said no? The question echoed through her mind w
ith the haunting finality of a funeral bell.
At last the coach rumbled to a stop, jarring her out of her depressing reverie. She heard the springs creak and groan above her as their newly acquired driver climbed down from his seat. He opened the door with a flourish and let down the passenger stair. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “Nice.”
Katya stepped out of the stuffy dimness of the stage. Brilliant Mediterranean sunshine flooded the courtyard, providing a welcome relief from her dismal thoughts. Once her eyes had adjusted to the light, she couldn’t help but gaze around in open admiration, instantly charmed at what she saw.
Directly to her west was the Baie des Anges, the Bay of Angels, a sparkling azure port filled with an assortment of pleasure boats and fishing vessels. On the rocky beach below them fishermen barked out their prices, selling that morning’s catch. Their calls competed with the bustling shouts coming from the marketplace, which consisted of a thriving series of stalls and intricate alleyways. A fountain bubbled in the center of the square, providing the music of softly gurgling water to the scene around her. To her east was an area that looked primarily residential. Tall pink buildings with red tile roofs were stacked tightly together and connected by a maze of laundry lines. A soft breeze carried a myriad of rich scents: fresh soap, rich coffee, sizzling meat, the salty tang of the sea, and the sweet fragrance of lemon blossom.
As her fellow passengers disembarked and headed toward a café, Katya hesitated, loathe to be again confined inside on such a beautiful day.
“Are you coming, Miss Alexander?”
She turned to find the Englishman waiting for her. Shaking her head, she replied instead, “I believe I prefer to stretch my legs a bit first.”
“Don’t get lost. We’ll be ready to depart again in thirty minutes.”
Irritated by his autocratic tone, particularly now that he was in her employ, she turned without a word and strode purposefully toward the marketplace. Her appetite was stimulated by the open air and the tantalizing aromas wafting around her, and she stopped at a boulangerie to choose one of the shop’s luscious offerings. Finally she selected a crusty slice of thick, freshly baked bread that had been liberally sprinkled with olive oil, basil, and oregano, then piled high with chunks of ruby ripe tomato, shiny black olives, grilled eggplant, and rich cubes of pungent goat cheese.
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