He laughed. “You are quite amusing. The English government helped put you here. My men will find pleasure in interrogating you fully—very fully—in the morning.”
He pushed her inside, and she steadied herself against the wall. He unlocked her handcuffs, yanking her to the side.
Then he exited the cell, the key turned in the lock, and everything was silent.
This was fine, she tried to tell herself.
There would have to be a trial. Then people would learn what had happened to the jewels. She was only giving exposure to the cause.
She tried to cling onto the belief, but the hope seemed feeble. She settled onto the floor. There was no need to keep tears from welling in her eyes, and no need to keep them from sliding down her face. There was no one to see her, no one at all.
Chapter Thirteen
Every second was urgent, and Arthur did not wait long before formulating a plan. He didn’t trust those men with Madeline at all.
He needed help.
There was one person he knew here. One person who might help ascertain that Madeline was treated fairly.
Admiral Fitzroy.
The man had coordinated many teams who’d gone against the French. Likely the man could break her out of the prison.
But Arthur didn’t desire that.
If Admiral Fitzroy looked into the history of the jewels and confirmed the French had happened upon the jewels in a criminal manner, perhaps Madeline’s sentence might be lightened. Gabriella would testify that Madeline had intended to steal the jewels and return them to the people they’d been taken from. She would be able to provide the documents from the solicitors proving the jewels should belong to the Costantini family.
“Wait here,” he told Gabriella.
He rushed outside. Admiral Fitzroy was staying at a villa nearby, and Arthur ran over the cobbled streets. The street was empty. Everything was dark. He could hear the waves crash onto the shore before him and he ran toward the sound. Admiral Fitzroy’s villa was on the ocean.
A few stars sparkled above him, but the moon was only a thin sliver, and appeared only on occasion. Clouds must be obscuring the heavens, even though this region was famed for its good weather.
He forced himself to lengthen his strides. His feet pounded against the pavement, and his breath tightened in his chest.
A Frenchman shouted at him through a house window to be quiet, but he maintained his pace.
Finally he arrived at Admiral Fitzroy’s. During the day the canary colored villa might look cheerful, but now it appeared foreboding. Arthur’s feet crunched over the gravel road, and he hammered on the door until the butler arrived.
The man’s hair was tousled, and he glowered at Arthur.
“I need to speak with Admiral Fitzroy,” Arthur said.
“You may call on him in the morning,” the butler replied.
“It’s urgent.”
“Admiral Fitzroy did not inform me he would be receiving any urgent requests.”
“He didn’t know he would have one. It’s an emergency.” Frustration rushed through Arthur, and he raked his hand through his hair.
“If you leave your calling card…” the butler said.
Arthur scowled. He was going to speak with the admiral, even if he had to drag the man out of bed himself.
He pushed past the servant and rushed into the corridor.
“Admiral Fitzroy.” Arthur’s voice thundered, and the butler hushed him.
“I must insist, sir.”
“So must I.”
Arthur spotted the stairs and started up them. The butler tackled him, and in the next moment they were sprawled on the landing.
“What on earth is this racket?” Admiral Fitzroy’s voice boomed.
The sound should have struck fear to Arthur’s heart, but he only felt profoundly grateful.
“You’re awake,” he exclaimed. “I need your help.”
“Obviously,” the admiral muttered. “You can return to your bedroom. I’ll deal with this man myself.”
“Are you certain?” The butler looked worried. “Should I rouse the other servants?”
“I suspect they’re already awake.” The admiral scowled. “No need to. This man works for me. He’s a marquess and should know better.”
The butler blinked and left the room.
“Now, Bancroft,” the admiral bellowed. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
“There’s been a frightful miscarriage of justice,” Arthur said. “Lady Madeline Mulbourne has been arrested for stealing the jewels.”
“Oh?” The admiral frowned.
“Comte Beaulieu dragged her to the prison himself.”
“Indeed?”
“We must make sure that she is treated well.”
“And why was she arrested?” the admiral asked.
“The jewels were taken, and when I went to see her—”
“Lady Mulbourne is that pretty blonde widow, isn’t she?”
“Er—yes.” Arthur considered her pretty. Beautiful. But he didn’t like the thought of anyone else remarking on it.
He felt an absurd protective urge when it came to Madeline. One that left him entirely without reason.
“Blue eyes, hmm?”
“Yes.”
“Good god,” the admiral said. “She’s it.”
Arthur blinked. He wasn’t certain what “it” meant, but the admiral was rushing down the stairs. That had to be a good sign.
“I’ll come with you at once. Colbert,” he shouted. “See that the carriage ready. We’re going to the prison. We have a woman to rescue!”
This was good.
Definitely good.
Clearly his words had worked. It showed a definite favorability toward the aristocracy that he didn’t like, but he wasn’t going to protest.
He was only glad that the admiral hadn’t asked if the baroness had indeed stolen the jewels.
“I didn’t think you had it in you,” the admiral exclaimed. “I feel foolish for thrusting my niece at you.”
“Don’t worry.”
“She did find you quite appealing, but I’ve always approved of the baroness.”
“Well.” Arthur wasn’t going to contradict that.
The carriage sped through the town. Finally they came to the prison.
“That Comte Beaulieu,” the admiral muttered. “Far too hasty. Has no concept of romance.”
Arthur blinked. Surely the admiral didn’t think—
The coach halted, and the admiral rushed out.
“No need to fear, Bancroft. We’ll get her out.”
The admiral banged on Fort Carré with equal vigor to Arthur’s similar ministrations on the door of the admiral’s villa.
A guard opened it, and the admiral shouted some things in French.
“We demand to speak with Comte Beaulieu,” the admiral said.
The prison guard looked suspicious, but after the admiral had announced his title, the guard shrugged and led them through a dim corridor.
“You’re in luck,” the man growled. “He’s still here.”
The admiral nodded and pushed inside the door.
Comte Beaulieu sat at his desk.
“You have arrested the wrong woman,” the admiral declared. “I demand you release this British citizen at once.”
“I assure you I have not. In fact, the marquess led us directly to her.”
“Baroness Mulbourne is the man’s fiancée. It’s not uncommon that he would be seeing her.”
“So late in the evening?” Comte Beaulieu scoffed.
“The man is in love,” the admiral announced. “Though yes, that was improper. Widows have other rules.”
“I see. Yet we have evidence to the contrary.”
“What evidence?”
“She attended the party in disguise. As a Swedish countess. Most suspicious.”
The admiral sighed heavily. “True love will make a woman do mad things.”
“What evidenc
e do you have of their relationship?” Comte Beaulieu asked. “The relationship is definitely with this woman? Not another?”
Arthur frowned. The manner in which the comte had asked the question seemed strange, as if he suspected him of having an affair with someone else.
The admiral seemed unworried. “The marquess told me himself yesterday. You should have seen how his eyes sparkled. So smitten.”
Arthur’s chest clenched. This was not right.
He didn’t love Madeline.
He’d just—well, he’d just happened to describe her when he thought of his imaginary ideal woman.
Purely coincidental.
He could just have easily have made her brunette. He hadn’t even known Madeline was staying in Antibes.
But he couldn’t tell them that now.
Not when even the comte’s eyes were melting.
“Let me ask you one question,” the admiral said. “Did you find the stolen jewels on her?”
“My men were not successful. Mon dieu,” the comte said. “I’ve been a—what is it you English have? An idiot. I’ve been that. Since Lord Bancroft was working on the case, I naturally assumed that when he visited a woman who’d attended the ball in disguise, that his visit was connected to the missing jewels.” He stood up. “Guards! Guards!”
The men entered the room and gazed suspiciously at Arthur and Admiral Fitzroy.
“Please bring Lady Mulbourne up here at once. And treat her well.”
Chapter Fourteen
Footsteps sounded outside, and then a key turned in the lock.
Had Comte Beaulieu decided to have her interrogated now after all?
Several guards stormed into the room.
“Rise. Vite,” one guard barked.
Madeline stumbled to her feet.
Her heart hammered. Surely being rushed into another room couldn’t be a good sign. She was depending on the courts to give prominence to the despicable art thefts during the Napoleonic Wars.
But no judge or jury would see her now. Courts didn’t meet past midnight.
She trudged up winding stone steps.
Voices sounded from another room. She wasn’t certain if the comte joined by people would be an improvement or not.
The guard swung open the door.
Was he opening the door for her? It was not the act she associated with people working with prisoners.
She entered the room.
The comte was not alone.
Arthur was there. Admiral Fitzroy, a man she knew only from London circles, stood beside him.
Comte Beaulieu cleared his throat. “You should be pleased to learn that I have decided to free you.”
“You’re letting me go?” She must have misheard.
The man did not start to laugh, and he did not order his guards to drag her back to her cell.
Perhaps… Perhaps it was actually true.
She glanced at Arthur for confirmation.
The marquess gave her a crooked sort of smile. For some reason he didn’t seem to want to meet her gaze.
Had he done something to free her? She glanced around. If he had coerced Gabriella to confess on her behalf…
“What brings this change?” she asked carefully.
“We know the truth,” Comte Beaulieu. “Have no fear, baroness.”
“Indeed?” She croaked.
“But,” Comte Beaulieu gazed at her sternly. “I must admonish you on your behavior. It was abominable. Absolutely abominable.”
That sounded more like what she’d expected.
“But I’m free to go?”
“Ah, yes,” Comte Beaulieu said. “Though I expect you to rectify the deficiencies of your lifestyle.”
She blinked.
“Marriage,” Admiral Fitzroy said, “is vital. You know it, you were married before.”
“And we’ll make certain you marry again soon,” the comte said. “We can’t have men running to strange homes in the middle of the night.”
This time she truly did look at Arthur.
The man’s expression was pained.
What had he told them?
“The love this man shows you is clear,” Admiral Fitzroy said. “He dragged me out of my home in the middle of the night.”
The admiral did look bedraggled. She suspected that untied cravats were not a new part of the British uniform, no matter what sort of austerity budget they might be on.
She gazed back at Arthur. He had arranged for her to be free. Even after everything she’d done. The man was so kind. Joy coursed through her.
“Let them kiss,” the admiral said.
“Kiss?” Madeline squeaked.
“After the fright the marquess experienced, I’m sure he deserves one.”
“I really am fine,” Arthur said hastily. His cheeks were definitely redder than normal.
“You do not want to kiss?” Comte Beaulieu asked.
Arthur’s eyes widened.
Perhaps he’d heard the note of suspicion in Comte Beaulieu’s voice as well. She’d hoped she’d imagined it.
Arthur’s gaze hardened, and her heart sped. Would he confess the deception to them?
He stepped forward, and her heart thudded. In the next moment he clasped her into his arms. She was vaguely aware of broad shoulders and a firm chest, and that scent, that delightful masculine scent of cotton and pine needles.
He crushed her against him, and she exhaled. Her bosom pressed against his chest, and she was very aware that only thin pieces of cloth and silk separated them. He didn’t seem to mind clasping her against his white shirt, even though she’d spent the past two hours or so in a damp and dingy prison cell. His nose didn’t wrinkle, and he didn’t grimace as he touched her torn and dirtied gown.
For a moment it seemed like his eyes softened, but that was probably for the benefit of Admiral Fitzroy and Comte Beaulieu.
One didn’t get sent by the government to work on certain jobs without some ability to act.
His head dipped toward her, and in the next moment she fluttered her lids shut. His lips parted hers. The sensation was heavenly, and energy soared through her.
She clasped hold of his back as he continued to kiss her. She had the horrible suspicion that she must be moaning right there in his arms, before the other men, before…him.
Finally he released her. She stepped back uncertainly, nearly stumbling, as her body fought to grow accustomed to other things in the world besides the feel of his lips, his tongue, against hers.
Comte Beaulieu laughed. “Are you certain you’re not French? Leave, you two.”
*
The kiss still sent fire flitting over his lips.
Arthur clasped hold of Madeline’s hand and nearly dragged her from the prison. A guard opened the heavy wooden door of the fort, and they traversed the narrow bridge. The salty scent of the sea and the squawks of seagulls had never been more welcome.
Torches flickered from the star-shaped fort, illuminating the thick, sharply angled walls that towered over them. Arthur’s heart continued to quicken, but he forced his strides to remain even, despite the rockiness of the steep parkland that bordered Fort Carré.
At any moment Comte Beaulieu and Admiral Fitzroy might abandon their romanticism for logic, and Arthur didn’t desire Madeline to be anywhere near their presence if they did so. He refused to permit her to be hauled back inside the fort.
They needed to flee France.
They hurried down the jagged terrain, avoiding thick trees and passing horses tied to posts. Unfortunately stealing one of the guard’s horses likely would not endear either of them to Comte Beaulieu and would subject them to deserved scrutiny.
“Do you have a carriage at your cottage?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Good. Amble normally,” Arthur said, keeping his voice low. “But when we reach the harbor, let’s run to your cottage. Grab your companion and any possessions.”
“Very well.” Her voice wobbled with obvious strain
, but she retained a steady pace.
Guards marched over the top of the fortress and shone bright torches. Their gruff voices carried in the still of the night.
Arthur’s heart quickened, as if already sprinting, but he forced himself to stride with every semblance of calm.
They reached the bottom of the woodland, and he surveyed the street. Dark water lapped against the dock, and boats, the night obscuring their exact forms and color, bobbed.
Thankfully no people were present, and when the fort disappeared from view, Arthur and Madeline stormed over the cobbled streets to her cottage.
They arrived at the cottage, and Miss Costantini peaked out. Her eyes widened when she spotted Madeline, and she flung the door open. “You’ve returned!”
They hurried into the cottage.
“We need to leave at once,” Madeline said. “Get the jewels.”
“Perhaps we should return them,” Arthur suggested.
“Nonsense,” Madeline said sharply.
Arthur remained silent. This was a time for haste, not argument. At any moment—his heart clenched, and he rushed outside to hitch the horses to the carriage.
Miss Costantini brought down the luggage immediately. Clearly Madeline and she had expected to leave that evening. They just hadn’t envisioned that Madeline would spend part of the night in Fort Carré.
He bundled the two women into the carriage and poked his head inside. “Where to? Le Havre? Calais?”
“Venice,” Madeline said.
Arthur nodded. He would be glad to see Percival again anyway, and Madeline and her companion had always intended Venice as a destination.
Except—Arthur had told the admiral that he was thinking of visiting Venice. If they traced the provenance of the jewels, they could guess their destination.
Blast.
“Is something wrong?” Madeline asked.
The woman was so quick to observe.
“It’s possible the admiral might suspect we headed there,” Arthur said.
Her face tensed. “Then we must reach Venice first.”
“You mustn’t worry.” Arthur closed the door to the carriage and climbed onto the driver’s seat. The wind brushed against him, and he realized he was still dressed in evening clothes.
Likely they were torn from his amble through the woodland outside Fort Carré. When Brummel had advocated for ebony evening wear, he’d likely not considered the usefulness of the color for rescuing women from French prisons that even Bonaparte had failed to escape from.
A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5) Page 9