A Proposition for the Comte

by Sophia James

  ‘Because you are dangerous?’

  ‘Completely.’ One word ground out slowly. One word that didn’t seem quite so English now. ‘And you got wounded because of it.’

  His tone seemed more grave than the small bruise on her skull should have elicited and she smiled. ‘I am sure that I shall live. The doctor said it was a tiny injury.’

  ‘Perhaps so this time, but why is no one here with you? Watching you? It cannot be safe to be alone after a knock to the head...’

  She stopped him by asking another question.

  ‘What did those men want with you?’

  Shrugging, he leaned forward. ‘The world of London society is a rarefied one, Lady Addington. All pomp and circumstance, but often lies, as well. A public debacle is probably one way of discrediting me or at least starting rumours.’

  ‘Rumours?’

  ‘That I am not solid. That demons stalk me. That trust in my motives might be misdirected. Were I now on the other side of such a ruse I might even say it was creditable.’

  ‘You are not reassuring me on the merits of your true character with such talk. Why would they be trying to discredit you in the first place?’

  ‘I am a stranger and our countries are at war. Your husband was a viscount from the north, was he not?’

  She stayed silent, shocked by such a quick change in subject. Had he been finding out about her?

  ‘Harland Addington was an upright man, according to many, though there are those who might say otherwise.’

  ‘Otherwise?’

  ‘There are whispers, my lady, that are...less flattering.’

  ‘Are you threatening me, Monsieur le Comte?

  ‘With such a small and private warning, Lady Addington? Hardly.’

  The double meaning of his last rejoinder made her stiffen as he carried on explaining.

  ‘It seems the Viscount’s death was barely recorded by many. The funeral was a small one. Some say his wife might have even been relieved?’

  ‘Grief is a private thing. No one can know the very extent of another’s sorrow.’

  ‘Relief is the same. And retribution? Have you ever been to Paris?’

  Her head began to throb, the bandage tightening over the drumbeat. Could he know some of the things she had found out about Harland? Or were these queries just conversational, almost languid, each hiding a wealth of knowledge?

  ‘Is Douglas Cummings a man you know well, Lady Addington?’ His tone was sharper now, less laconic. ‘You held his hand most tightly in the dance.’

  The constant change of subject set her off balance and worried her. ‘I know him mostly because he works at the Home Office along with an old family friend, Mr Charles Mountford. Cummings is one of the secretaries there and has an unblemished reputation.’

  He laughed then, softly. ‘It is a rare man who lives his life without complaint or criticism.’

  ‘I am not certain I understand you, Comte de Beaumont.’

  ‘Do you truly not, my lady?’

  She felt the blood leave her face as her mouth formed a denial, but he was already standing.

  ‘Can you tell me how you came by the gold statue sitting on the mantel in your downstairs salon?’

  ‘I do not know which one you mean. There is a large collection of art in that room, for Harland held a taste of beautiful things.’

  She felt her skin blanch, the blood draining away in shock at the unintended double meaning of her words, but when she did not speak further he smiled in a way that was almost sad, his fingers lifting to twist the heavy ring off one finger.

  ‘This is in repayment for your help.’ He set the piece down on her bedside table. ‘Buy yourself a ticket to somewhere far away from here for at least a month and disappear. It will be safer.’

  ‘For you or for me?’

  ‘For both of us, perhaps.’ Reaching forward, he took her hand, placing a kiss on the opened palm. She felt his warmth and the roughness of stubble on her skin and leaned in to it. Then he was no longer there.

  Could he know of her connection with the French gold and, more important, if he did, what would he do about it? Why had Aurelian de la Tomber appeared out of nowhere with his insinuations and his questions and his hard and desperate beauty?

  The ring was heavy when she lifted it, his warmth still imbued in the metal. Tipping it into the light, she saw the punched stamps inside were readable despite the age of the piece. The flower marks of Paris indicated the purity of the carats and a crowned and scripted letter gave a date. Seventeen forty-five or forty-six, she guessed, and ran her finger across the maker’s mark. A faded V in a circle.

  Her father’s jewellery business had led her to an interest in gold. She had always seen the beauty and age of its handcraft as the gift of an ancient art. A mark of responsibility, too, and a true establishment of location and worth. In her shifting world of blame and guilt such things seemed unearthly pure and unchangeable, the one permanent truth in a world of deceit.

  She no longer trusted anyone. Even herself, for in the conversation with Aurelian de la Tomber in the darkness she had wanted to reach out and touch him, to keep him safe and unharmed. She’d wanted much more than that, too, if she was truly honest, but those thoughts were better left alone.

  She would need to change the locks on all her doors for sturdier ones if the Comte de Beaumont could so easily access her town house.

  Leaving London and running was out of the question. She had not faced her problems before and because of it nothing had ever changed or improved. This time she needed to be present and certain. This time she would cower to no one.

  With care, she reached over and rang the bell on the other side of her bed and waited until the maid came in.

  ‘Send up a footman to me first thing in the morning, please, Edith. I need to have something delivered promptly and safely.’

  ‘Yes, my lady. Mrs Hamilton said I was to wake her if you stirred...’

  ‘Pretend I did not and go to bed yourself. I have no need of company until the morrow.’

  When the door shut, she pushed back the covers and sat on the side of her bed until she felt the dizziness lessen. After another moment or so she stood to walk to her writing desk. Extracting paper and pen and a book to press on, she scurried back to the warmth of the blankets.

  She gave no heading to the missive, but carried straight on into the body of her message. A direct and ordered reply leaving the receiver with no doubt of her intentions. It was how she managed things these days, it was how she survived.

  When she’d finished, she tucked the ring into a twist of paper and laid both items on her side table.

  Would this set some dreadful chain of events into motion or had she just stopped the cogs of an imminent disaster from winding up further?

  ‘Unlike you, Harland,’ she whispered into the dark, ‘I take responsibility for my actions and am prepared to bear the consequences.’

  * * *

  The letter came before the hour of nine, an unusual happenstance in the ordered world of the ton. A servant of the Addingtons had delivered the note personally and when Aurelian opened the missive he could well see why.

  The ancient ring of the Lorraine-Lillebonne family seat was twisted up in the protection of paper and with it came a message.

  Either you have no idea of the value of this ring, my lord, or the promise of my silence must be of inordinate worth to you. Whichever it is, my honour is not for sale.

  She hadn’t signed it, but when he brought the parchment to his nose Lian could smell her. Violets. He smiled. Well, the game was started and the players had already surprised him. He liked that they had. The feeling of excitement swelled, a living, breathing flame that wormed through him in the way it had done a thousand times before.

  Life was not cheap, but neither was it certain. Lady Addington had
thrown her dice into the corner of honesty, but that did not mean she was trustworthy. Cunning had its own edicts and sometimes surprise was as effective a weapon as force.

  She knew the ancient gold marks of Paris. That in itself was revealing. He wondered if she understood the responsibility that accompanied such knowledge, the appreciation of purity, the fight against counterfeit.

  His thoughts wandered to the ornament that by pure good chance had come into the Ministry of War’s hands, the one he had told Shay of with its accompanying warning.

  When the metal had been examined by the ministère, those checking its properties had been shocked by the measure of greed inherent in it. The bulk of the ornament was silver, a small slither of gold on the outside, cased with lead at the base to compensate for the weight. A further note attached with a dab of glue outlined what was known of the French connection and their cause, but said nothing of the English receivers.

  Whoever had sent it had held an expertise in the properties of the precious metals and when he’d gone to the boarding house in Brompton Place the man who had shot him had whispered six words before he had pulled the trigger.

  She sent me to kill you.

  Violet? He hoped not, but the small and important clues were beginning to mount.

  Sometimes intelligence was simply a matter of waiting for the right place and for the right circumstance. This time, however, he had an inkling that waiting would only be more dangerous. To him?

  He shook his head and tried not to breathe in the quiet scent of violets. He wasn’t worried about himself—after all, he had been in this game for years. No, it was Lady Addington who was in trouble, he was sure of it, whether it was of her own making or someone else’s. Lifting the ring from its bed of paper, he put it back on the third finger of his right hand. He had not missed it, which was surprising, and more surprising still was the fact that he had wanted her to have it, to wear it, a part of him with her, the fiery-headed widow of a man who was had died in an unfortunate accident.

  Violet Addington held secrets in her eyes, but he liked talking to her. He liked watching her. He liked the smattering of freckles across her nose and the way she used her hands when she spoke. She made him laugh and her light settled his isolation.

  He’d seen her at the Creightons’ ball before she had noticed him. She was gracious and charming, but there was something held back. She’d been rattled when she had known he was there and no doubt the woman she had been talking to had pointed out all the ways he was dangerous.

  They did that here far more so than in Paris. He could feel the tension in the mamas when he walked by them, protecting their chicks from perceived harm while balancing the attractions of his wealth and title.

  Violet Addington observed him in a different way. There was a decided sensual slide underneath the mask of cordiality.

  She was no untried girl, no ingénue who would demand careful handling and slow measured steps. She was no longer young and that attracted him, too. He wanted her in his bed underneath him, her tresses of fire falling across white sheets and staining their tryst with passion.

  He wanted her as he had never wanted a woman before and that was saying something, for he’d seldom been short of female companionship.

  Reaching down, he adjusted the fit of his breeches as they tightened around an arousal that was growing with each passing thought.

  God. She might be the poisoned chalice he had been sent to expose. His French ministère wanted the matter settled, but someone else here did, too, and the cache of gold that had been hidden away had not materialised at all.

  A wind outside battered the thinness of glass and brought the spiky branches of a chestnut close against the southern wall of the town house. It was freezing and he was sick of the aching cold of the climate. His head still hurt where the miscreant had got in that one lucky strike and an ache in the arm that he had broken two years ago left him irritable and restless. The dull throb in his side underscored every other pain.

  It was long past time to retire from the business of intelligence. He deserved it, damn it, deserved quiet after chaos and mayhem.

  But he needed first to see that Lady Addington stayed safe.

  Chapter Four

  Violet stepped into the jewellery shop in Regent Street with a sense of trepidation and when the door closed behind her, her fingers wound around the blade that she kept in her pocket.

  Just in case.

  Her motto for the last years of her marriage turned around in her head. Just in case he hits me again. Just in case I have to escape.

  She had come to ask the jeweller, Mr Whitely, to release two sets of Addington family jewellery that Harland had sent in to be valued just before he had died. She had found the docket a few months ago in a drawer at the Chelsea town house, but hadn’t mustered up the courage to confront Mr Whitely directly. However, with her own source of income dwindling, to say the least, the realised funds from the heirlooms was more than necessary.

  Whitely met her as she opened up the front door of his shop and the same dislike she had always felt for the man resurfaced as strongly as it had each time she met him. Lifting her chin, she met his eyes directly.

  ‘Lady Addington.’ He said the words a little too breathlessly and she knew that something was not quite right. ‘I am unable to see you right now. I wonder if I might call on you instead in the late afternoon, say at four thirty at your town house?’

  There was a sheen of sweat on his upper lip and the pulse at his throat was fast. She was so good now at determining the inner workings of others that the thought almost made her smile. But not quite. She did not want this man visiting. She did not wish to entertain even one of Harland’s associates now that she did not have to.

  ‘No, I am afraid I shall be busy then, Mr Whitely.’ She made it a point to look at the large face of a clock behind the desk.

  But then another door opened to one side and a man walked towards them. It was only as the gloom of the alcove was replaced by the light that she understood exactly who he was.

  Mr Whitely smiled and tried to put the newcomer at ease. ‘If you could just wait for a moment, sir, I shall not be long.’

  ‘Oh, take as much time as you need. I am in no hurry at all.’

  The drawn-out tones of an American accent fell easily over the voice of Aurelian de la Tomber. With a heavy brown wig and moustache, he looked nothing like the dashing French Comte who had ladies from nineteen to ninety in thrall.

  But it was not just the clothes and hair. He walked more heavily and the tick in one eye was inspired.

  What could he be doing here of all places and in disguise? Even as she thought it the worm of a horror began to build. This was more than coincidence, much more.

  Left with them both facing each other, Mr Whitely had no other recourse but to introduce them.

  ‘Lady Addington, this is Mr Daniel Bernard, newly arrived from the Americas.’

  ‘My pleasure, ma’am,’ he said, the amber behind thick spectacles darkening. ‘I could not help but overhear Mr Whitely say that he was occupied. If it is my business that holds you up, Mr Whitely, I can easily meet you another time.’

  ‘Oh. I should not wish you to do that, sir,’ Violet interjected, this day turning out so strangely that all she wanted was to be home. ‘After all, you have come a very long way. Which part of the Americas are you from?’

  She saw the muscle in his jaw jump and the quick pucker of a dimple in his cheek.

  ‘New York.’ This lie was given boldly. He did not flinch from her gaze. ‘Are you also a collector of beautiful things, Lady Addington?’

  Straightening herself so that she was not quite so small, she simply smiled. She would tell him nothing else for she had the thought that he was one who could deduce the truth from only a small amount of fact.

  ‘Her husband, Lord Addington, was the collector,
but he was killed in an accident.’ Mr Whitely now joined the conversation and Violet wished he might not have. ‘Unfortunately a horse got loose in the Viscount’s stables and clipped his temple in panic. He had no chance, poor man.’

  Fumbling with a handkerchief taken from her pocket, Violet dabbed at her eyes. She had found an outpouring of emotion a most effective way to silence others in their desire to speak to her about Harland. Mr Whitely looked taken aback, but she did wonder if she appeared quite upset enough for there was a gleam in the Comte’s eyes that held a great deal of question.

  ‘I give you sincere condolences, my lady.’ Whitely was now all solicitous apology. ‘Mr Bernard was just asking me about the marks on gold. He holds a great interest in the subject, it seems.’

  ‘I am especially keen on the jewellery and ornaments fashioned by Mr George Taylor.’

  Violet suddenly wanted nothing more than to escape and she saw that the sweat on Whitely’s upper lip and forehead was beading into noticeable droplets. Could Aurelian de la Tomber understand the danger such a statement placed them all in or was he a part of the deception, too?

  ‘You collect his work?’ Her voice sounded small and weak.

  ‘Not yet, but I have seen a statue that I am most taken by.’

  Shock kept her still, the undercurrents stronger than ever. He spoke of the Taylor statue in her salon, she knew he did, for he had asked her about it once before. She had wanted to remove it, but felt shackled by its history, the small harbinger of warning a reminder of all that she would never do again.

  ‘I see.’

  And she did. Saw it all in every colour of dread. Saw how all the lies had come to this point and how there could no longer be any chance of going back.

  ‘I think I shall leave.’

  ‘Might I trouble you for a short lift, Lady Addington? I am feeling faint and probably need to be at my lodgings which are only a few streets away.’ She could hardly refuse de Beaumont without causing question.

  Once outside and the door shut firmly behind them, the French Comte lost all pretence.