“Enough,” the voice cried. “You’ve already torn one of my best gowns tonight, you lusty brute.”
“I’ll happily tear a dozen and replace them with a dozen more.”
Tyrone felt the fine hairs across the nape of his neck bristle end to end as he saw a tall, burly man step out onto the veranda, his hands dragging a reluctant but laughing Doris Riley into the evening air. Her laughter was briefly muffled beneath a wide-mouthed kiss, and there was the distinct sound of a seam parting as her companion squeezed and kneaded the voluptuous shape of her breasts.
Her groan was half appreciative, half seductively chastising as she twisted expertly out of his grasp. “You were the one who said you had to leave,” she reminded him through a pout. “And that was two hours ago. Won’t the colonel wonder what has become of you?”
The bulge in the man’s breeches was massive, testing the strength of his own seams as he apparently weighed the importance of whatever appointment he had been resigned to keep against the thin, transparent veil of Doris’s gown where it parted in the breeze, revealing the long slender legs and lush round hips beneath.
“What the hell,” he grinned. “The bastard isn’t even expecting me in Coventry until tomorrow night. Why should he have all the fun?”
Doris laughed and welcomed her eager lover back into her arms, squealing with delight as he scooped her up and carried her back inside, slamming the door behind them.
Tyrone waited, his palms cool and clammy, his pulse racing. The brief glimpse he’d had of the man’s face had been enough to stiffen his spine and set the muscles in his jaw into a square ridge.
It was Edgar Vincent. Real. Not just a ghostly illusion. And nothing—not even the memory of the fishmonger standing naked on a moonlit road—could evoke a smile now.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Renée stared, transfixed, at the candle flame. Vaporous blue at the heart, it expanded to tarnished yellow, then fiery orange before the scorched tip sent a thin, dark pencil of smoke curling upward. Made of tallow, it gave off the unpleasantly murky scent of unwashed sheep. Although the odor eventually permeated the air, curtains, fabric, and clothing, Mrs Pigeon would sooner have danced naked on shards of broken glass than squander the extra pennies it cost to burn candles made of beeswax.
Distracted from the game of chess she was playing with Antoine, Renée glanced, at the clock on the mantelpiece, certain it must be gone midnight. It was barely ten. The last time she had looked, the ornately scrolled minute hand had been standing straight up and down. Now, as she stared in disbelief, it was just creeping past the numeral one. She knew it was working; she could hear the faint ticka tocka ticka over the low hiss of the fire. She could also hear the wind rattling against a loose pane of glass, and the little snaps the tallow made when the flame encountered dampness in the wick. Every now and then she could even hear the faint gurgle and burp from Antoine’s stomach as it protested the remnants of the evening meal.
In the five and a half months she and Antoine had been in England, Renée had yet to eat a meal seasoned by a spice other than mustard. The cook at Harwood House rarely ventured beyond the extravagance of boiled meat and cabbage, mashed turnips, and some round green légume of unknown and unpalatable origin. Renée could weep when she thought back to the meals her mother used to design. The d’Anton household had once boasted six chefs, four pâtissiers, and a bevy of cooks’ apprentices all of whom conspired each night to provide meals of eight and nine full courses, each with different tastes and textures, some sweet, some light, some so rich and frothy the sauce alone made the mouth water.
Nothing, so far, in English cuisine made anything but her eyes water.
It did not help that the air in Antoine’s bedroom was tainted with the smell of a mustard poultice. The morning after Renée had found him shivering under the bed, he had wakened with a slight fever and a dry, raw cough. For the past two days he had been kept abed with plasters and hot bricks, and while the fever had met defeat against Finn’s battlefield regiment of broth and strong herbal teas, the cough was persisting and Renée was worried his lungs might fill with the rattling, hacking malady he had suffered as a child.
Antoine tapped a finger on the edge of the chessboard to draw her attention.
If you insist on leaving your queen unguarded, I will take her, make no mistake.
They were sitting in his bed with the game board between them and although he had been tolerant of her frequent distractions, there was a limit to how much he would endure. In this instance, she had only one move possible: to save her queen she had to sacrifice her knight. Even then, it was only a temporary reprieve, for the queen was still vulnerable to attack on three sides and the checkmate would come within the next two moves.
Renée sighed but just as she leaned forward to reach for the poor, doomed knight, a trick of the candlelight changed the ebony armor, shield, and lance it carried to a multi-collared greatcoat and tricorn. Her fingers recoiled without touching it and, despite the fire blazing in the hearth behind them, she felt a chill ripple across her skin.
What had seemed like such a brilliant, clever scheme two days ago now seemed ludicrous and foolhardy in the extreme. What had seemed daring and bold and romantic was just plain suicidal. Hire a highwayman to steal the Dragon’s Blood suite? Double-cross Roth and expect to get away unscathed?
It was madness. Madness to assume she had the courage to carry off the charade, and madness to put her faith in a shadowy villain who, regardless of if he was as handsome as Lucifer and twice as cunning, offered no guarantees she and Antoine would be left any better off than they were now, nor any assurances they would not be a good deal worse.
What did she know about him? Starlight was a thief and a murderer and had not troubled himself to deny either charge.
Two brief encounters hardly qualified her as an expert on his character and a single incident of reckless bravado—lifting her hair and offering him her throat to throttle—scarcely proved she was his equal in nerve or courage. The fact that he spoke well-mannered English instead of broken cockney and offered his hand in a gentleman’s agreement did not signify anything other than a refined sense of humor and an ability to imitate his betters. How did she know he would not set a trap of his own to outwit Roth and double-cross her in the process? What did he care if she was forced to marry a man against her will or choice?
It was not without some grave misgivings that she had earnestly begun to believe her early impressions of the intrepid Captain Starlight had been tainted by the moonlight and shadows. Since then she’d had two long days and nights to rethink her position, weigh her chances, recognize her limits. She’d had Finn’s reprobation to contend with too. The doughty old valet had turned scarlet when she had told him about her late night visitor. He had been all in favor of packing up what little they had and leaving then and there, taking their chances with a fast coach and an open road. They had eluded Robespierre’s bloodhounds, he had declared, surely they could evade Roth and his damp-behind-the-ears Volunteers.
Any further debate they might have had was rendered moot when Antoine woke up with his fever.
“You can hardly keep your eyes open anyway,” Renée said to her brother, forfeiting the game of chess with a dismissive sweep of her hand. “I am surprised Finn has not come to chase me away.”
He has gone to fetch more broth, Antoine mouthed through a wrinkling of his nose. Perhaps he could not find enough bat wings and chicken toes to boil in the pot.
Renée smiled. “It is making you feel better, is it not?”
The only answer was another crinkle in the nose and, as if on cue, the door to the bedchamber opened. Finn entered carrying a tray laden with a small bowl of steaming liquid and a fresh poultice.
At the potent influx of mustard vapor, Antoine rolled his eyes imploringly in his sister’s direction, searching for a reprieve.
Can you not tell him I am much better now?
She shook her head. “In this, we must bow to Fi
nn’s knowledge. He has been treating your coughs and runny noses since you were in baby linens and I would not dare risk his wrath to interfere.”
I am not coughing, and my nose is perfectly dry. Look.
He angled his face toward her, but Renée only smiled. “Perhaps tomorrow I will save you from the bat wings, mon coeur. Tonight you still belong to Finn.”
She stood and gathered up the scattered chess pieces. Even though Antoine flung himself back against the pillows in abject despair, he did not look all that sorry to see the game ended. His eyes were heavy, the lids drooping with weariness.
When Finn had finished laying the fresh plaster on Antoine’s chest, Renée leaned over the side of the bed and kissed him tenderly on the cheek.
“Goodnight. Sleep well. Know that I love you with all my heart. If you need anything at all …” She left the sentence unfinished, for she knew Finn would not leave his side until he was asleep.
Escorting her as far as the hallway, Finn was quick to assure her. “I shall also leave the adjoining door open tonight, although I cannot say it is beneficial to my own state of repose. The young master snores almost as loudly as that Pigeon woman, but I shall endeavour to persevere.”
Renée smiled her thanks, and shared a wink with Antoine, for they both knew Finn should not have invited comparisons on whose snoring was the loudest.
“Goodnight, then.”
“Goodnight mad’moiselle. If you need anything—”
“I am quite capable of fetching it myself. You must not fuss over me so.”
“Indeed I must. No one else in this godforsaken travesty of a household appears willing or able to do so with the exception of young Jenny, and she has had her hands full today preparing rooms in the west wing.”
Renée bit down on the pad of her lip. Mrs. Pigeon had received a note from Lord and Lady Paxton instructing her to clean and air out the large bedrooms in anticipation of their arrival at the end of the week. They would be bringing several guests and could expect more as the day of the wedding, now less than two weeks hence, drew closer. For the most part, Renée had managed to push the unsavory event to the back of her mind, never really thinking the day might actually arrive, never really believing she might have to go through with it.
Finn interpreted her expression correctly and shook his head gravely. “I promised both your mother and your father—”
“Yes,” she said softly, laying her hand on his arm. “Yes, I know. You promised you would look after Antoine and me until you drew your last breath.”
“It was not an idle promise, though I seem to have failed somewhat in the execution.”
“You have not failed at all. Antoine owes you his life— we both do, many times over. And without you by my side, I should have gone mad long before now. I may still go mad, of course,” she added in a whisper, “but not: because of anything you have failed to do.”
He opened his mouth to question the odd remark but remembered Antoine behind them and settled for clearing his throat. “My last breath is a long way away yet, mad’moiselle. We shall endure.”
Renée blew a final kiss in Antoine’s direction and retreated across the hall to her own room. There, she found! the fire had been stoked early enough to make the air nearly as warm and dry as in Antoine’s room. Two fat logs were glowing a brilliant red in the grate, with tiny wavelets of yellow flame licking across the tops. None of the tallow candles was lit, and for that she was grateful, enjoying the clean smell of wood smoke.
Sighing, she rubbed her hand across the knotted muscles at the back of her neck and crossed over to the window. The skies had been overcast and bleak for the past; two days, and there was nothing to see through the pane of glass but darkness. The nearest neighbor was four miles down a long, winding road, so there was not even the twinkle of a distant light to relieve the blackness and sense of isolation. Her gaze touched briefly on the scrolled latch, reassuring herself it was locked as tightly as she had left it several hours ago.
Finn, bless him, had left a decanter of wine on the nightstand and she poured herself a glass, draining half of it in the first few swallows. It was heavy and left a musty, iron taste at the back of her throat, but it was strong; she could feel its effects almost immediately in the warm rush that filled her belly. She forced down the second half and poured another glassful before replacing the stopper in the decanter, determined, if nothing else, to get a few hours of sleep tonight. She still had decisions to make and was no closer to a solution than she feared she would be an hour before the appointed rendezvous.
If she went.
Still at the window, she reached up and pulled the pins and delicate silver peignes from her hair. Setting the combs aside, she used her fingers to loosen the thick knot of curls, kneading her scalp at the same time, hoping to massage away the strange, restless feeling that had begun to seep through her body. It was the same every night. Regardless of how tired she was, as soon as she was alone in the darkness of her room, her eyes refused to close, her body refused to relax. She was lucky if she slept more than a few sporadic minutes at a time, luckier still if those minutes were not filled with horrific images from the past.
She had another sip of wine and unfastened the ribbon belt beneath her waist, then shook out the folds of white muslin to let the gauzy fabric hang free and straight. Thinking the numbness that was still spreading through her limbs was caused by the wine, she debated downing the rest of the second glass of wine as recklessly as the first, but then—whether it was because it was so unbelievably impossible it just had to be true, or because somewhere in the back of her mind she had almost been expecting it—she lowered her arms and stood as motionless as the shadowy figure in the corner.
He had not moved or betrayed his presence in any way. Perhaps it had been a subtle flaring of the flames in the hearth that had given him a hint of substance for a fleeting moment, or perhaps it had been the faint scent of mist and saddle leather and damp wool that had betrayed him. In any case she knew, suddenly, and without having to turn to confirm his presence, that the phantom who had been plaguing her every waking and sleeping moment for the past two days and nights was standing less than ten feet from her side.
She closed her eyes and swayed briefly with the flush of icy prickles that melted down her spine. “What are you doing here, m’sieur? Why have you come again?”
“I have been wondering that myself, mam’selle. The only answer I have been able to come up with is … curiosity.”
“Curiosity?”
She heard the soft crush of his boots on the carpet as he moved out of the corner and came up behind her. He stopped short of touching her, but she was acutely aware of his solid and imposing presence at her back.
“Curious,” he said again, “to know if you really understand how dangerous a game you are playing … or if it is just that you thought I would be easier to manipulate than Roth.”
“I do not think either one of you is easy to manipulate, m’sieur, nor am I trying to do this.”
“No?”
A black gloved hand reached past her shoulder and she half expected to see the glint of a pistol in its grip. There was no gun, however, and the only sparkle came from her wine glass as he plucked it out of her fingers and lifted it to his mouth.
When he swallowed, it was a hard, male sound, as abrupt and harsh as the curse that accompanied the glass to the table. “Personally, I have always found brandy to be more effective for keeping demons at bay, but I suppose an immature, rusty claret has its uses.”
“You have demons, m’sieur?”
“We are all a little afraid of what lurks in the dark, mam’selle.”
His answer, murmured close to her ear, set a small eddy of sensations whirling into motion between her thighs, and in the next instant, the eddy turned into a strong current, for his hand was at her shoulder, shifting the heavy golden mass of her hair to one side, exposing the curve of her throat.
“Curious,” he said again, as if their con
versation had not taken a brief detour. “You said yourself you had heard the stories about how clever I am”—he paused to trace a gloved fingertip along the sloping line of her shoulder— “surely you must have known I would check your story.”
“I did not lie to you, m’sieur,” she said through a shiver.
“You did not tell the whole truth either. Or did you just forget you had a brother?”
“Antoine?” she whispered. “He is just a boy. He is not yet fourteen—”
“And already accused of murder. How industrious.”
“H—how did you know—?”
“My dear Mam’selle d’Anton—” his voice caressed her nape, the words spiraled down her spine, the drag of his finger caused her flesh to tighten across her breasts and belly. “I have had two days to discover what would make a beautiful woman like yourself bow to the demands of a bastard like Roth. It might interest you to know I have even seen the warrant.”
Renée was stunned. Maximilien de Robespierre had once bragged of having the most extensive spy network in all the world, but he and his revolutionary tribunal would have been put to shame by the seemingly casual efforts of this English highwayman.
“The charge is false,” she said, trying to regain a measure of composure. “Antoine did not attempt to murder anyone. He heard a shot and ran to help, and when he found my uncle, Lord Paxton was already senseless. He claimed he was shot from behind and could not identify his attacker. I do not think even he believes it was Antoine, but Colonel Roth persuaded him to sign the warrant and to act upon it if I did not agree to help them.”
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