by Mia Marlowe
Quinn. He wanted to be known as Quinn or called by his military rank, not his title. Not Lord Ashford. Now she knew the real reason why.
Guilt.
Someone pressed a cool, wet cloth to her forehead and a callused hand smoothed over her cheek. She smelled Quinn’s scent. How could he be so tender and caring now and so cold then?
Oh, God! The torrent of sensations from last night’s lovemaking washed over her. Her chest constricted. Why did she have to have this lump of feeling for him?
And such loathing for herself. What was wrong with her? She discovered she’d made love with a monster and it didn’t seem to matter one particle to her wanton insides.
She’d hoped the ring would show her something of the man she’d given herself to. It had, but not as she’d expected. Instead, she was given a glimpse into the previous Lord Ashford. The ring had yanked her into the last moments of life of Quinn’s older brother, Reginald.
And showed young Quinn helping him drown.
Quinn paced the room while Sanjay cleared away their breakfast. Viola hadn’t stirred. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, but her cheeks were pale as foolscap.
She’d been fine, flushed and rosy and looking entirely swiveable when he’d left her at their breakfast table. Viola was not the sort given to vapors. She was vibrant. Strong.
But for no apparent reason, she was laid low.
He hitched a hip on the edge of the bed and covered her hand with his. Her fingers were icy. “Is there anything I should do for you?”
“No.” Her voice held a repressed sob.
“Are you in pain?”
“Yes.” Her lips were nearly white.
“Maybe spirits would help. There’s sherry in the decanter.”
She swallowed hard. “No.”
“Laudanum?” He was loath to suggest it. He’d seen too many friends lose themselves to opiates in India, but for this much pain, perhaps it was warranted. “I could nip down to the apothecary and—”
“No, no.” She pulled her hand away from his and lifted the edge of the wet handkerchief to peer at him for a moment before letting the cloth drop back into place. Her mouth turned down into a frown. “Please. I just need to be quiet for a bit. This will pass.”
“It’s happened before?”
She sighed.
“Often?”
“No.”
“What brought it on?”
“Please, Quinn.” She rolled away from him. “Leave me alone.”
Some people preferred to be sick in solitude. Lord knew, he did. When he was recovering from a saber cut in Peshawar, he wouldn’t let anyone see him weak and feverish, refusing all visitors and barely allowing the daai in to change his sweaty sheets and wound dressing.
He respected Viola’s need for privacy. He’d never realized how frustrating that might be to someone who was trying to help the patient.
“Fine, if that’s what you wish.” He stood and shoved his hands in his pockets because he didn’t know what else to do with them. “I’ll see about that burgundy ball gown, then.”
She made a small noise he chose to consider appreciative.
“If you need anything, ring for Sanjay.”
“No!” she said with surprising force. She sat bolt upright, then seemed to think better of the sudden movement and flopped back down. “I mean, you should take him with you.”
“I hardly think it takes two men to pick up a gown.”
“But think how it will appear.” She grabbed his pillow and covered her head with it. To shut out the light more completely, he guessed. Her voice was muffled, but he could tell her jaws were clenched from the way she clipped her words. “A gentleman shouldn’t be seen carrying his own parcel. That’s why you have a servant.”
“You’re right,” he said, a weight lifting from his chest. If she was able to scold him, she was on the mend. “We won’t be long then.”
She mumbled a good-bye and he left, feeling very much dismissed. Sanjay refused to ride in the coach with him, insisting on hanging on the back rail as English footmen did. After rattling along alone for a few miles, Quinn had to talk to someone. He rapped on the ceiling of the coach, signaling a stop several blocks before the modiste’s shop so he could get out and walk. Sanjay fell into step with him on his right side, but was careful to maintain a position back a pace in keeping with their supposed relationship as master and servant.
“Sanjay, we’ve never talked about your domestic relationships, but you’re a married man, aren’t you?” Quinn asked over his shoulder, trying to sound nonchalant though his gut was jumping.
“Oh, yes, sahib. I have six wives and eight concubines.”
Perhaps Sanjay wasn’t the right one to give him the counsel he sought, but no one else was available at present. “How did you know it was time to marry?”
“My father told me. Even a prince’s marriages are arranged in my country.”
“But did you . . . do you love your wife . . . wives?”
“Oh, yes, I love all my wives,” Sanjay said with a smile in his tone. “I just love some of them more often than others.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Quinn frowned. “I guess I’m wondering if there’s a way to know if a particular woman is the one a man should wed.”
“Are you, my friend, considering such foolishness with Lady Viola?”
Was he as transparent as that? He made a mental note to steer clear of the gaming tables until this business was finished.
“Why do you say it’s foolishness?”
“In order to wed, a man must first be confident the woman is worthy of his trust. A man gives his wife the protection of his good name, something which is easily lost and not as easily restored.”
A good name. Could that be why Viola had turned ill? Last night, she was upset over word getting back home about their posing as husband and wife. Sanjay claimed her illness was a darkness of the heart. Disorder of the spirit could lead to disorder of the body.
Would it be so bad to make their ruse reality? Marrying in truth would solve a number of problems and might very well cure what ailed her. Besides, there was every possibility she might already be increasing with his child. Could the sickness be related to that? Surely it was too soon, but what did he know about the mysteries of women?
“You could not trust a thief to value your name, sahib,” Sanjay was saying.
Quinn realized his friend had been talking for the length of a block without him being aware of it. Viola’s sudden illness had jolted his heart. She seemed so self-assured, so independent. Now it was obvious she needed his protection.
How better to shelter her than with the protection of his name?
“Please do not tell me you contemplate such a thing, my friend.”
“Very well,” Quinn said as he allowed Sanjay to come around him to open the modiste’s door for him. “I won’t tell you.”
But he was contemplating the hell out of it.
As soon as Quinn left their suite, Viola dragged herself from the bed. She splashed cold water on her face and fought through the pain to dress herself in one of her old ensembles. She packed one of her valises, leaving behind all the new finery and even her beloved hats. The way her head was pounding, she didn’t think she could manage more than one bag.
She rifled through Quinn’s drawer, but could find no stocking filled with jewels. He must have taken them with him or deposited them in the hotel’s safe. No matter.
She’d have to pawn the cameo brooch and the pendant watch to purchase a ticket on the coach for Calais.
Please God, may there be a vacant seat on the next run!
She’d wait to see if she had enough money left for passage on the paddle steamer to Dover or if it was necessary to part with the serpent ring as well.
“Never tell a man no when he offers to buy you jewelry,” she muttered to herself as she pulled the door to their suite closed behind her. A fine necklace, a bracelet even, would have made her escape far ea
sier.
For she must escape. As badly as she wanted Quinn, how could she ever trust a man who would drown his own brother? She tried to puzzle out another interpretation of what she’d seen, but nothing else made sense. The horror of the vision washed over her afresh and she fought back a wave of nausea.
She couldn’t put enough distance between her and Quinn.
She was going home. She was done with thievery. She’d sell the town house and move her family to a small cottage in the country, just as her mother wanted. Somehow, they’d scrape by. If she no longer cared for appearances, she might be pleasantly surprised by what she could do without.
The headache subsided to a manageable throb. She picked up her pace down the Place de la Concorde toward a coaching inn she’d noticed when she and Quinn were shopping. Turning off the well-traveled thoroughfare and down a narrow lane, she was so intent on her goal that she was less observant of her surroundings than she should have been.
“Well, your ladyship, fancy meetin’ you ’ere. Ain’t it a small world?”
A beefy hand weighed down her shoulder and she turned to look into a face that could frighten a gargoyle.
“Willie, what are you doing here?”
“I was ’bout to ask ye the selfsame question.” He eyed her valise. “Going someplace without yer gentleman friend?”
“Not that it’s any of your business, but, as a matter of fact, I’m going home.”
Willie laughed unpleasantly. “Picked ’im clean already, did ye? Well, that’s wot I like so much about ye. Quick and to the point.”
He snatched the valise from her and popped it open, rummaging through her chemises and drawers and second-best gown. When he didn’t find what he sought, he began to fling the contents to the ground till the bag was empty. “All right, where is it?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
They were only steps from a public street, but no one had intervened when he tore through her luggage. She had no hope anyone would come to her aid even if he became violent. Her only recourse was to shelter behind distant disdain and hope that her title would make him think twice before accosting her physically.
“You know. The Indian diamond. I knows that’s wot ye’re ’ere for.”
“I have not done any burglary since I arrived in France,” she whispered furiously. Never mind that she’d intended to make use of her skills on the morrow. “My companion and I have decided to part ways and I’m on my way home. That’s all there is to it. I told you this trip had nothing to do with you, Willie. You might have saved yourself the trouble and expense of following me.”
“Well, I’m ’ere in any case, ain’t I?” He swaggered a step closer and she resisted the urge to retreat. A show of weakness would only encourage him. “And I’m out a fair piece of change. Reckon you’ll have to make it right for me.”
She straightened to her full height, which unfortunately was quite a bit less than his. “I most certainly will not.”
“Oh, your ladyship, I wish ye hadn’t said that.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Ye see, I have it on good authority there’s half a dozen bawdy houses wot would love to have a real English lady in their stable not half a mile from this spot. All I need do is give ye a clout on the head and ye’ll wake up chained to a bed.”
She scuttled backward, but he snaked out a hand and snagged her wrist.
“But I’m the kindhearted sort, ye see,” Willie went on, twisting her wrist as he spoke. “It would pain me to see ye brought so low. So ’ere’s wot ye’re going to do. Ye nip back to yer gentleman friend, that Lieutenant Quinn, and do whatever ye need do to get back in his good graces. And then ye look for a likely chance to lift his stash of jewels. When ye got ’em, why, ye just take a little walk to stretch yer legs.”
He released her wrist and Viola resisted the urge to rub it. If she let him see he’d hurt her, it would only bring him pleasure.
“I’ll be watchin’ ye, milady. Best ye don’t disappoint me. I’m not always as good-natured a fella as ye see me being right now. So what’ll it be? Will ye go back to Quinn and lighten his wallet for me or would ye rather spread yer legs for France’s finest?” He raked her with a lascivious gaze and her belly curdled. “Damn me if I wouldn’t line up to be first if ye picked the latter.”
Viola eyed him coldly, not willing to allow him the satisfaction of her revulsion, and stooped to retrieve her scattered garments. She stuffed them back into the valise, fighting to keep her hands from trembling, and snapped it shut. “Kindly step aside. I’m returning to my suite at the Hotel de Crillon.”
She had no choice but to go back to Quinn.
Willie laughed again, a ragged cackle. “Ye wound me heart, yer ladyship, but me purse is like to get fatter this way, so I collect I’ll get over it.” His face screwed into a fierce scowl and he yanked her so close his putrid breath streamed over her.
She fought the urge to retch.
“But don’t ye be thinkin’ ye’re going to stiff me, Peach. I don’t take kindly to it. I don’t take kindly to it at all.”
CHAPTER 14
“You must be feeling better.”
Quinn was relieved to find Viola in the darkened sitting room instead of in bed. The heavy damask curtains had been pulled, blocking out most of the sun’s light, but at least she was fully dressed.
Though not in one of the new ensembles he’d bought for her, he noted with consternation. Then he realized she probably hadn’t wanted to ring for an abigail to help her dress and decided to muddle through by herself with some of her old things. She was a very private person. In that, they were alike.
Well suited. His resolve strengthened.
But she hadn’t acknowledged his arrival yet.
“Viola?”
“Oh, I beg your pardon.” She gave her head a small shake and glanced his way. “Yes, my head is somewhat better, thank you.”
“Excellent.” He turned to Sanjay. “Will you be a good fellow and unwrap that package? The modiste said we should spread it out on a bed so the wrinkles don’t set.”
“No, Sanjay, I’ll do it.” Viola rose more quickly than Quinn expected a woman with a sick headache could and moved to intercept Sanjay on his way to the bedroom. “You shouldn’t have to wait on me. You’re not really a servant, after all.”
Sanjay stopped short. It was the first time she’d spoken to him directly unless it was to give him an order.
“Quinn told me your true situation, Your Highness. And may I say, I am dismayed by the injustice done you and your people.” She dipped a shallow curtsy, then gentled the parcel away from him. “I believe you and I started on the wrong foot, but that’s my fault since we met under larcenous circumstances. I apologize for treating you as if you were my servant in the past. I assure you, it will not happen again.”
She smiled charmingly and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving both Quinn and Sanjay staring after her.
“Did she strike her head on something when she fainted?” Sanjay asked.
“I didn’t find any evidence of it.” Before she’d regained consciousness, he’d checked her thoroughly for injury. Nothing accounted for her fainting.
But Viola was definitely altered by the experience.
“No matter. To my mind, the lady is much improved by her malady.”
“You think so?” Quinn wasn’t so sure. Something felt off about Viola’s abrupt change toward Sanjay. It was as if she were suddenly currying his favor for some reason.
“I wonder if the kitchen has any more of those scones Lady Viola likes,” Sanjay mused aloud. “I shall bring some with your tea.”
“Sure I shouldn’t get it myself?” Quinn drawled. “After all, you’re not really my servant.”
“No, but we must keep up appearances. At least, for the world’s eyes. If the Blood of the Tiger suddenly goes missing and it is known that Amjerat’s prince is near, it will not take much to connect me with the jewel’s disappearance.”
Sanjay le
t himself out and Quinn went into the bedroom. Viola had spread the burgundy gown across the counterpane and was billowing the skirt to shake out wrinkles.
“Is it to your liking?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “It’s very fine. Thank you.”
She still hadn’t looked at him.
It was deucedly hard to propose to a woman who wouldn’t meet his eyes.
“I’ve been thinking,” he began.
“Mmm-hmm.” She skittered to the far side of the bed and smoothed out the gown’s long train.
“I’ve been thinking I’ve been unfair to you.”
“You’ve brought me to Paris, bought me a new wardrobe, and tried to shower me with jewels,” she said, still not looking up. “Most women would find that exceedingly fair.”
“Not if I also compromised their reputation in the process. I confess I hadn’t foreseen that outcome when we set out on this venture.”
Viola straightened and folded her hands before her fig-leaf fashion. She seemed intensely fascinated with her own thumbs.
“I’d like to make amends for that.” This was shaping up to be the most ham-handed proposal in history, but he plowed ahead doggedly.
“I don’t see how, since it would be rather like shutting the stable door after the horse has escaped. Gossip flies on swift wings.” She began smoothing the burgundy tulle again, her hands nervous as butterflies, alighting and rising again between one heartbeat and the next. “I’ve no doubt word of our supposed elopement has journeyed toward the Channel already. I’m as good as ruined.”
“Not if the elopement wasn’t pretend.”
She looked at him then, her hazel eyes wide. “What are you suggesting?”
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Quinn said, disgusted with himself for doing this so badly and more than a little irritated with her for making it more difficult than it need be. “I’m proposing.”
In the silence that followed he clearly heard the mantel clock ticking in the adjoining room.
“I’m proposing we end this sham and marry in truth.”