“You would deal with those people? The same ones who persecuted your family and drove us out of our home?”
“If it were the only way to make them pay for their crimes, yes.”
“You propose a dangerous game, mad’moiselle,” he said quietly.
“Life is full of danger, Finn,” she quoted softly. “And precious little justice. Even if we only manage to steal the rubies, we will have the satisfaction of cheating them out of the fifty thousand pounds they are worth.”
“I would be happier cheating them out of our company,” Finn said grimly. “Something that grows more difficult to do the longer we remain in residence here. The wedding, if I might remind you, is but three days hence.”
“You stole my mother away from the altar an hour before the ceremony was to take place,” she reminded him. “At any rate, we have a way out now—the passage—and can leave at a moment’s notice, regardless how many soldiers Roth has watching the doors and windows. M’sieur Hart would even help us, I am sure.”
“Has he offered?”
“N—no. Not exactly.”
“Nor will he, not when his own neck is at risk. Rogues like him are always chivalrous when they are at your mercy. For all that he appears to have the fortitude of an ox, however, I should not anticipate his gallantry lasting beyond the hour of his departure.”
A faint hiss and sputter drew Finn’s attention to the lamp. The candle had been barely more than a stub when he had lit it and they had been sitting in the stairwell a fair half hour now.
“It will be nearing nine o’clock. I was dispatched to inform you that your presence, and that of your brother, would be expected at supper.”
She nodded and stood, and Finn shot to his feet beside her.
“Mr. Hart should be informed they are here,” Finn said, handing her the lamp. “Take extra care when you are exiting below. There are sure to be additional maids and servants running about and it would not do to have one of them see you emerge from a presumably solid stone wall.”
“I will hold the light while you go up.”
“I am quite able—”
“To break your neck or your leg or both in the dark,” she said flatly. “I will wait and hold the light. Tell le capitaine what he needs to know, then go to Antoine. See that he dresses in his very finest clothes. We must make a good and dutiful impression on our guests.”
Finn hesitated a moment, then took the uncharacteristic liberty of placing both his hands on her shoulders. “I have not agreed to anything yet. And if, at any time, I feel there is danger—”
“You will have to pick up your heels and run fast to keep up with Antoine and me,” she assured him. “Now go. Tell M’sieur Hart the ghost must be extremely quiet from now on.”
Renée followed her own advice and changed into a pale, rose-colored gown with a low-cut bodice and long fitted sleeves. Jenny arrived in time to dress her hair in a high crown of golden curls, and although Renée normally shunned the use of cosmetic aides, she dabbed a small amount of rouge on her cheeks and a touch more on her lips to relieve the bloodless cast of her skin.
It was precisely ten o’clock when she and Antoine descended the main staircase. While she had braced herself for the first meeting with her uncle in over five weeks, she faltered a moment on the landing when she heard a raucous burst of masculine laughter coming through the open doors of the main drawing room.
Antoine had stopped beside her. From his expression, she guessed he would rather run naked through a gauntlet than go any farther. He was wearing a light gray coat and dark breeches. His cravat was tied high and tight beneath his chin and his curls had been tamed into smooth blond waves. For the briefest of moments, she saw her father’s face imposed over Antoine’s, and as frightened as he was, she saw some of the same determination flex into the muscles of his jaw.
“Have courage, mon coeur” she whispered.
I would rather have one of the captain’s guns.
She gave him a startled look but he only extended his arm and offered Renée a shaky smile.
Edgar Vincent was standing by the fireplace, a drink in his hand, looking like a large black hawk in dark wool and contrasting whites. He was talking to two other men, both of whom seemed vaguely familiar, though their names escaped her. Lord Paxton and his wife, Lady Penelope, were at the opposite end of the wide hearth; her aunt was sitting and conversing with another woman of similar starched qualities, while her uncle stood to one side in a stance that conveyed his best parliamentary mien. He was a large man with a forthright belly and short, thin legs, all of which was pinched, girded, and stuffed into peacock blue satin. His reddish brown hair framed his face in short, well-oiled waves that flowed down each heavy jowl to form thick muttonchops whiskers. In the early days of the revolution, when King George had been suffering one of his fits and the cry was out to install the Prince of Wales as regent, Lord Paxton had backed Charles Fox and his fellow radicals in Parliament. Later, when the tumbrils had begun to roll through the streets of Paris and Fox had been depicted as supporting regicide, Paxton had quickly declared himself for William Pitt—a change many of Fox’s former compatriots had also made, but for valid political reasons.
If Tyrone Hart’s suppositions were correct, Renée could see why—now looking at her uncle with a calm and dry eye—it would have been expeditious to declare himself a monarchist, sympathetic to the plight of the fleeing French aristocrats. Who, indeed, would put their family’s welfare into the hands of a banker who believed in abolishing the crown?
“Mademoiselle d’Anton! How lovely to see you again!”
The shrill, nasal greeting had come from her left, where two younger women that Renée had not previously noticed were standing. She recognized the voice and the speaker at once, partly by the instant tightening of the skin across the nape of her neck and partly by the long, extraordinarily hooked nose that had earned Ruth Entwistle the unkind nickname of “Miss Beaker.”
Having established the one identity, it helped put a name—Sir John Entwistle—to one of the gentlemen speaking with Edgar Vincent. And it was Dame Judith Entwistle, Miss Beaker’s mother, who nudged Lady Paxton on the arm and whispered a less than discreet alert.
Noting her aunt’s cool response, Renée smiled and offered Miss Beaker a polite curtsy.
“How nice to see you again, Miss Entwistle, and how lovely of you and your family to visit. I trust the roads were not in too dreadful condition?”
“Oh my dear, they were simply appalling. I was just saying to my dear sister Phoebe that I have not been bounced around so much since I was an infant on papa’s lap. Even so, we should not have missed the festivities for all the rain in the world.” Small, feral eyes glinted in Antoine’s direction. “Gracious! I had quite forgotten how handsome, and mature, is your brother.” She dipped in a tastefully executed swirl of burgundy silk. “Your Grace. You do, of course, remember Phoebe?”
Renée could feel Antoine’s body tensing beside her as Miss Beaker thrust her younger sister forward for his inspection. He might only have been thirteen, but he was a duc and would be regarded as a highly prized catch to a family consisting of eight other siblings, all girls.
“I am afraid you will have to excuse us a moment, Miss Entwistle, for we have not seen our aunt and uncle since their arrival in Coventry.”
“Of course.” When she smiled, the end of her nose hung well over her front teeth. “But we shall expect to monopolize your company at supper.”
“Renée.” Lord Paxton’s voice was cold and dry, the nondescript blue of his eyes even more bland as he offered a perfunctory bow. “I trust you have been well these past weeks?”
“Thank you, yes.” Unable to stop herself, Renée stared at the abbreviated nub of his left earlobe and the scar just visible beneath the carefully arranged waves of his hair.
“Colonel Roth told me your gout was causing you some discomfort,” she murmured. “Was he mistaken?”
Paxton followed her gaze down to
acknowledge the glaring lack of bandages or cane. “Bah. Sound as a tree stump, actually. It was all the braying and bleating in the House that began to wear on my patience. Shouting day and night. And all because this Napoleon fellow is scattering the Austrian army like skittles and putting Mr. Pitt in a righteous froth. Wants us to send troops to Italy, would you believe it? Wants to send Nelson and the whole bloody navy to the Mediterranean just to slap the wrist of some short-assed artillery commander who imagines himself a conqueror. I tell you it is enough to bring on a bout of gout, what with all the kicking and stamping and long-winded elocutions. I was thankful to have an excuse to come away.”
Sir John and Edgar Vincent joined the circle, the latter coming up beside Renée. After studying the appreciable amount of cleavage revealed by the low-cut bodice, he slid his hand with possessive familiarity around her waist.
“I can sympathize with your feelings of impatience, Paxton. These last three days are going to seem like an eternity.”
“You will be kept too busy to notice the time,” Lady Penelope promised, her smile as pretentious as the eyebrow that arched in Renée’s direction. “We will be hosting a small party here tomorrow evening. Nothing too elaborate on such short notice, of course, but it seems to be expected, so we must comply. Just a few neighbors and close acquaintances, some political associates, the like. The invitations were dispatched this morning from Fairleigh Hall before we departed, but if there is anyone you especially wished to include. A new friend you have made, or some such … ?”
“I did not have many opportunities to socialize,” Renée said quietly.
“No, indeed.” Her aunt offered another pinched smile. “Mrs. Pigeon tells me you have been quite the ideal houseguest. She claims she rarely saw you and never heard any complaints. I dare say, Edgar, she should make the ideal wife, so docile and demure. Not at all like her mother, by all accounts.”
It took every scrap of strength and willpower Renée possessed to keep her skin from flooding an angry red. It was not the first time she’d had to practice such restraint; the long months she had spent in London had been one test of endurance after another. As it was she could scarcely believe her mother and uncle had emerged from the same womb, or that they had grown into two such opposite individuals. To compound matters, her aunt was a jealous and resentful old crow who enjoyed picking at open wounds. She referred to Antoine as “that stupid little boy” and openly implied that he was not just mute, but slow-witted.
He was standing behind Renée, hoping to use her as a shield, but Lady Penelope could not let an opportunity pass. “Come out from behind there, Nephew, and greet our guests properly.”
Antoine edged forward. He looked solemnly at Lady Entwistle and offered a polite bow, then duplicated the gesture for his aunt.
Pronouncing every word with exaggerated care as if it were the language posing the barrier, she asked, “Can you not say hello yet?”
Antoine’s lips moved, delivering his reply silently in French, and beside him, Renée was forced to lower her lashes to keep her expression blank.
“What did he say?” her aunt demanded.
“He said”—you hideous fat cow, I hope you choke on a mouthful of your own dung—“welcome to you Madam, it is a pleasure to see you again.”
“Well.” Lady Penelope expanded her already prodigious breasts with a lungful of air. “At least he is civil.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The evening dragged on for three endless hours. Somewhere in the five carriages there had obviously been crates of food and wine, for they had a late feast of roasted plovers, fresh trout, and grilled lamb, all of it accompanied by great bowls full of buttered vegetables and savory sauces—delicacies neither the cook nor the housekeeper had thought to squander on Renée and her brother. Antoine ate so many fresh custards and twists of cream-filled pastries his eyes were glazed.
When the men were left to their cigars the two older ladies and Miss Beaker declared they were too weary to linger overlong in the drawing room. This suited Renée just fine, for her eyes burned with fatigue and her cheeks were numb from maintaining a frozen, polite smile all evening.
Finn was waiting to tend to Antoine. He reported that he had looked in on Tyrone Hart and there was, quite simply, nothing else that needed to be done for their patient. He would be gone by morning and frankly, it was not soon enough to suit James Finnerty.
Renée wearily agreed, but when she was in bed and her arms were hugged around a fat feather bolster, she found she could not keep her eyes closed. She kept seeing Tyrone Hart bending over in front of the fire, his body naked and gleaming, or Tyrone beside her in the bed, his eyes smoldering like flames as he rose up above her.
With a sigh, she rolled over onto her back and stared up at the shadows overhead. The firelight threw moving patterns onto the ceiling and she remembered the last time she had watched them dance and writhe—her hands had been twisted around the sheets and Tyrone’s tongue had been tracing wicked patterns across her belly and between her thighs. She closed her eyes and let the memories wash over her, arching into the flow as her nipples gathered and tightened, and her skin rippled with the remembered sensation of his hands roving from her breasts to her waist to her thighs. A soft groan recalled how his fingers had stroked deftly over places so sensitive she thought she would faint from the pleasure. An even softer sigh noted that the ache was still there, throbbing and insistent, and the heat caused her to throw off the blankets and quit the bed. She walked to the window and stood looking out over the darkness. And a moment later, she drew on her bathrobe, lit a stub of candle and, peering cautiously out into the hallway first, slipped through the door and along the corridor, refusing to even think of what she was doing until she was behind the tapestry and easing open the door to the old tower.
She ran up the steps, slowing only when she reached the top landing. A slit of light was fanning out across the stone floor and, with her heart throbbing in her throat, she turned the latch and eased the door open a few inches. The bed, the room was empty.
“M’sieur?”
A cool, metallic click brought her whirling around. Tyrone emerged out of the darkness of the landing behind her. He had one of the snaphaunces in his hand and even as her eyes were registering the shock of seeing him, he released the hammer and uncocked it, then lowered the gun to his side.
“What were you doing?” she asked on a gasp. “Where were you going?”
“I was just coming back, actually. I found it tiresome listening to Paxton and Sir John Entwistle debate the vagaries of fighting a war on two fronts.”
“You were in the main house?”
“I was careful.” The cool, pale gray of his eyes followed the wild tumble of her hair down over her shoulders. Her belt had slipped its knot in her haste and her robe hung open, revealing the thin wisp of linen beneath. “And you, mam’selle? I might ask the same thing: why you are out roaming the halls in such a fetching state of dishabille.”
“I … came to ask if there was anything else you needed before I … before I went to bed.” She paused and swallowed hard.
“Finn was already here.” The dark slash of his eyebrow crooked upward. “I was left with the distinct impression it was a farewell appearance, for he conveyed your fondest wishes for my speedy departure. In fact, he very clearly indicated that he did not see any reason why either of us should have to see each other again, and that it would be for the best if we did not.”
“He said the same thing to me,” she admitted with a faint smile. “He even threatened to sit outside my door all night.”
“But you came anyway,” he mused, “to see if I needed any more broth, or wanted my forehead bathed, or my blankets tucked in?”
They stared at one another through a small, suspended silence, each acutely aware of the other’s closeness. His shirt was open at the throat and his hair was tied back with a strip of torn linen. Through the sheer white fabric she could see the wide band of bandaging that was w
rapped tightly around his ribs. Above it the muscles across his shoulders and upper arms filled out the shape of the garment nicely, bulging farther as he bent over to set his guns on the table.
Finn had already expressed amazement at Hart’s speed of recovery, but Renée had difficulty believing the man who stood before her now, as cool and confident as the first time she had seen him, was the same one who could barely sit upright without help two days ago. Here was the jungle-cat again, dark and sleek and dangerous, just a little bruised under the eyes but equally as wild and unpredictable. She took what she hoped was a casual step toward the door, and when he followed, she took another and another until her back came up hard against the rough stone wall.
“So-why are you really here?” he asked quietly.
“I t—told you why.”
Tyrone’s gaze touched on the pale pink blush that warmed her cheeks, on the gaping edges of her robe that trembled with the same soft vibrations that shook her body. He had often taken pride in the fact that he could read a person’s intent through the way they stood or held their bodies or conveyed what they were thinking, feeling, saying with their eyes. Renée d’Anton wanted something from him and it had brought her to him at the run without a thought for Finn’s warnings or her own common sense.
Was it the rubies again? A woman’s mind was a fickle thing at best, not easily understood by the bravest of men, but if she had come to ask for his help again …
“Look at me,” he ordered softly.
When she did, when she lifted the protective shield of her lashes, each and every hair stood up across the nape of his neck. The blue of her eyes was darker, more intense than he had ever seen it, filled with such an utter depth of loss and loneliness it would be easy to mistake what he was seeing for fear. It was not fear, however. It was desire and longing and a thousand other emotions all tangled up with a helpless appeal for understanding.
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