He returned his pistol to the case lying on the seat beside him, which Venetia recognized as a dueling set. Clearly he had great confidence that she was helpless—which indeed she was at the moment. As the coach picked up speed, she had no choice but to obey his command.
They drove for another half hour at least. Venetia alternated between hope and dread that Quinn would somehow divine her location and come after her, for a rescue attempt could prove fatal for him.
By now the road had narrowed to a rural lane. They were in farming country, where houses and cottages were more sparse. Dusk was falling by the time the coach turned onto a badly rutted lane.
When eventually they halted and Montreux handed her down, Venetia took careful note of her surroundings. It appeared to be a farm. Before her stood a two-story, timber-framed cottage, with woods on one side, barns and outbuildings on the other. Perhaps lodging for a tenant farmer and his family.
“I regret the poor accommodations,” Montreux said as he took her elbow and led her toward the cottage. “No doubt it is not what you are accustomed to. This was all I could afford when I had to flee France. Fortunately, I recouped many of my lands and possessions, so that I now have significant wealth.”
Behind her, a second carriage rolled to a halt and dislodged the henchman called Armand, along with several other grim-faced men. Montreux shook Venetia’s arm to prevent her looking over her shoulder, then ushered her inside, where a lamp lit the small entry hall.
“Your room is on the floor above,” he said, gesturing at the narrow staircase. “Dinner will be brought to you in a short while, naturellement. I am not a savage. I will treat a comptesse with the courtesy she deserves.”
Venetia quelled a retort. Of course he was a savage, but it would be the height of stupidity to challenge him and let him think her other than a spineless captive.
From his coat pocket Montreux pulled out his fob watch and checked the time. “I expect by now your husband has learned of your disappearance. In the morning I will send a message to Traherne. For now I will permit him to, how do you say it, stew? He will be frantic once he learns of his missing wife.”
Unable to imagine Quinn becoming frantic over anything, Venetia again bit her tongue. Somehow she would have to manufacture her own rescue before Montreux had the chance to murder Quinn, but for now she would pretend to go along with her imprisonment.
She was taken by Armand to a bedchamber on the second floor and locked inside. When after a few moments she tried the handle, the door wouldn’t budge, but at least she was able to open the window.
Her room faced the rear of the house, she saw in the fading light. There was a vegetable garden below, enclosed by a wall with an iron gate at the rear. If she could manage to climb over the wall, she would seek aid at a neighboring farmhouse. She had to escape, but how?
She waited until full dark, pacing the floor, trying to think of her best course of action. After a quarter hour, she got to work, tearing strips from a bedsheet and knotting them together to make a rope.
Nearly another hour passed—time she spent fretting—before a man delivered a supper tray. He found Venetia sitting meekly in a chair. But as soon as the door closed behind him and the key turned in the lock, she jumped up and began her escape attempt. Now would be the best time to flee, while Montreux and his cohorts were occupied with their own supper.
She secured one end of her sheet rope around the bedpost, then fished the other end out the window. Thankfully, it was long enough to reach the ground.
Now for the difficult part. The drop was only a short distance—perhaps some twenty feet—but she had to complete her feat in silence to avoid alerting her captors. In the hush of the garden, every sound seemed amplified. And the glow of light coming from a window below her would make her more visible as well.
Chiding herself for her faltering courage, Venetia tied up her skirts to free her legs. Then, taking a deep breath, she climbed backward over the ledge and started to lower herself down.
She had miscalculated how taxing it was to hold on to the rope with the friction burning her hands, though. Gritting her teeth, Venetia summoned her last reserves of strength, but after only a few more feet, she lost purchase on the linen fabric and was forced to let go.
Her fall was about ten feet, and she landed mostly on her feet, but the descent jarred her. Feeling a sharp pain in her left ankle, she barely stifled a cry.
Turning awkwardly, Venetia began hobbling toward the rear garden gate, which seemed so far away in the dark. Someone must have heard her fall, for a door opened behind her and a man shouted after her.
Her heart slamming, she tried to sprint along the path, to no avail; moments later she was tackled to the ground, the wind knocked out of her.
Her attacker then rolled her onto her back and wrapped his fingers around her throat. Briefly glimpsing his face in the dim light, Venetia recognized Armand before he shoved her head against the flagstone and tightened his grasp on her throat.
He meant to choke her, she realized. Seeing stars, desperate for air, she struggled to pry his fingers away. She was only vaguely aware of another shout, but then thankfully, Armand’s grasp loosened and his weight shifted off her.
Venetia rolled onto her side, gasping and coughing reflexively. She heard Montreux snapping orders in French. Then Armand hauled her to her feet.
Feeling faint and nauseated, she could barely stand, so he half pulled, half carried her into the kitchen and through the house to a small parlor.
Having followed close behind, Montreux was livid—as much at his servant as at her, it seemed. While Armand tied her to a chair, her arms wrenched behind her back, the compte let loose a tirade in French at them both, finishing with a final warning to her: “I told you, I don’t want you harmed until Traherne can witness it!”
Montreux barked more orders at Armand and sent him back to the kitchen to finish eating, then directed his fury at her again.
“Attempting to escape was extremely foolish, madame. Did you not consider that my house is surrounded by my loyal men? Now I shall have to watch you myself.”
With a sound of disgust, he drew out both pistols from the dueling case and set them on the tea table in front of him, then settled down to finish his supper while Venetia suffered.
At the completion of his meal, he appeared to have calmed down somewhat. Taking a sip of wine, Montreux glanced across the parlor at her. “A pity you must spend the night here, secured to a chair, when you could have enjoyed a comfortable bed.”
Venetia didn’t have the heart or the voice to answer. Her misery was complete. The strain on her shoulders was excruciating, the rope cutting into her wrists. Her head and ankle both ached as well. And her throat was raw and dry as dust, which only magnified the pain when she coughed intermittently.
But the chief cause of her discomfort was fear compounded by guilt. She had failed. No doubt the moment Quinn arrived, Montreux would shoot him.
No, Venetia screamed silently. She had to make one last effort to dissuade him from his course.
“Mon…sieur le compte…” The words came out as a broken squawk. Her voice was so hoarse she could barely speak.
Venetia cleared her throat and tried again. “It seems…that you mean to…kill me in front of my husband,” she rasped, “and then kill him.”
“Oui.”
“The least you can do…is tell me why you want him dead.”
Montreux took another sip of his wine.
“If I am to die,” Venetia pressed, “then it does not…matter if I know. Is it for revenge?”
After a moment, he nodded. “In part.”
Venetia hoped for a more complete explanation. “I believe I know why. If Quinn’s mother, Angelique, had wed you as planned, you would have been an enormously wealthy man, with all the power and legacy her family connections would have brought you.”
Montreux’s mouth curled with contempt. “Instead I was forced to endure exile and poverty for years, w
ith only scraps from Angelique and her noble husband, Lionel Wilde.” A note of bitter hatred laced the compte’s voice as he glanced around the small parlor. “Angelique quite generously provided me with this hovel. Have you any notion how humiliating it is to accept charity from the woman you should have wed?”
She had some inkling, yes, since she’d had to rely on Cleo’s generosity for years, even though Cleo was a beloved friend.
Montreux was still spitting venom. “This farm is where I suffered my exile from my country while Angelique lived like a queen at her palace. This is also where her son will meet his demise. There is a measure of poetic justice in choosing this place, would you not say?”
At the relish in his tone, fear squeezed the breath from Venetia’s lungs. She closed her eyes, trying to remain calm, and forced herself to continue prodding Montreux for details.
“You owned the ruby pendant, didn’t you? You lost it playing cards at a gambling hell in Paris last winter, to an Englishman named Bellamy.”
The compte’s mouth pursed as he calculated whether to respond. “Lamentably, yes. He played above his skill that evening, and my luck was unusually poor.”
“What I don’t understand is how you gained possession of the pendant in the first place. Do you have more of the de Chagny jewels as well?”
“If so, I only claimed what should have been mine.”
“I think,” she said slowly, “you must have stolen the jewels somehow. Is that true? You grew worried when Traherne began inquiries about the pendant and feared he would trace its origins to you and expose you?”
Montreux took a long gulp of his wine, then leaned forward to refill his glass from a decanter. “That was not my only concern. Your husband sent a man to the south of France to investigate the wreck of Angelique’s yacht.”
“But I thought there was no excavation of the shipwreck.”
A faint smile played on his mouth. “There was no need to excavate. The jewels did not go down with the ship.”
Venetia frowned. “We recently learned that in all likelihood, the yacht was not sunk by a storm but an explosion. Did you have a hand in the explosion?”
Montreux scowled and clamped his lips shut, evidently determined to say no more.
Venetia tried another tack. “Surely you realize you won’t get away with killing Traherne. Too many people know who you are. He already suspects you since you called at our home this morning. That was not wise, monsieur. Indeed, you should not have come to England at all.”
“It could not be helped. Armand failed to do the deed.”
“But not for lack of effort. It was Armand who attempted to run Traherne off the road last month, was it not?”
“Yes, by following his curricle from the mews.”
“And then Armand stole into the Traherne garden, dressed in the earl’s livery colors, in order to shoot him.”
Montreux grimaced. “I am extremely disappointed with Armand. He makes an excellent assassin, but in all three instances, luck was smiling on Traherne. At last, I realized I needed to take charge of the problem myself. I could gain access to your home when Armand no longer could. Since the shooting, Traherne has been too well guarded.” The compte gave a brief chuckle. “In truth, I might have shot him this morning in his very drawing room, but departing afterward would have been difficult, perhaps impossible. A pity. It would have saved me the trouble of abducting you.”
Montreux settled back in his chair, looking as if he had begun to enjoy himself. “It is possible I may not need to shoot Traherne, however. If he drinks the cognac I brought him as a gift, he will discover a rude shock.”
Venetia’s heart lurched. “What do you mean? You poisoned the bottle?”
“Bottles, yes. But I could not rely on that means alone. Success was too uncertain. But no matter. This way is better.”
“And you believe you will escape detection,” she said shakily.
“Certainly I will. Armand will do the actual killing, so I needn’t soil my hands. As you said, my cleverness is to be commended.”
His preening revolted Venetia, but she continued to encourage it. “One more layer of concealment to keep your own identity hidden?”
“Precisely. Armand will be blamed for the murder, but he will easily return to France and disappear. There will be nothing to connect me to Traherne’s death. I took great care on that score.” Montreux turned to stare steadily at Venetia. “You should harbor no doubt, madame. You and Traherne will die on the morrow. I cannot allow witnesses.”
Finally rendered speechless by his boast, Venetia remained silent, her terror and despair rising in equal measures. She had lost her one chance to stop Quinn’s vengeful enemy.
Montreux was no madman, however. He was a cold, calculating, hate-filled man with a great deal to lose, which made him even more dangerous. He was driven not only by revenge but self-preservation—the fear that his entire life would be ruined once his secrets were divulged to the world. And in trying to rescue her, Quinn would be walking directly into his trap.
—
Quinn neared their destination, beset by doubts. They were indeed taking a risk setting out for New Cross without waiting to be contacted by Montreux to learn his demands. If they were wrong about the location, Venetia would likely suffer for the miscalculation.
But if not, the advantage could prove invaluable, and he had to act. He despised feeling so totally helpless, despised having no control over his destiny, despised even more that he might be powerless to rescue Venetia. If she were to die, he would be to blame—for marrying her and putting her life at risk. A part of him would die as well, he knew with bleak certainty. But as long as he had breath left in his body, he would fight to save her.
Jack had willingly accompanied him, as had Skye and Kate. The ladies refused to be relegated to waiting helplessly at home, arguing that Venetia could need a woman’s comforting after what was certain to be a traumatic ordeal. Fully understanding their sentiments, Quinn let them come, as long as they agreed to remain at a nearby inn, out of danger.
His one consolation was knowing of Hawk’s vast experience with just this sort of crisis. Montreux’s calculations hadn’t taken into account Hawk’s presence.
Quinn’s fear remained at a nerve-wracking level, however. They were literally making a stab in the dark. And time was passing at glacial speed. It took more than two hours to plan for their mission, and another for their procession of carriages to reach the posting inn at the village of New Cross, where they were able to ascertain the exact location of Montreux’s former lodgings. Leaving Skye and Kate at the inn, Quinn and Jack proceeded first, with Hawk and his entourage following closely behind. They traveled several more miles and set up a command post in a wooded area, a few hundred yards from the farm cottage where Venetia was possibly being held.
With darkness for cover, Hawk led the effort to scout the premises. Quinn’s dread increased with each passing moment until Hawk reported back.
“This must be the right location,” Hawk murmured. “Thus far we counted at least four guards stationed around the cottage. We must dispose of them before we can get closer.”
Amending his orders, Hawk had his men quietly overpower the exterior guards and drag their inert forms to their camp, while he managed to peer through several windows. Again, Hawk was able to claim a measure of success. In one of the front rooms, Venetia was seated in an armless chair, with her arms tied behind the chair back, attended by a well-garbed gentleman who fit the description of Montreux. And in what appeared to be the kitchens, several men were eating and drinking at a table, including one who might be Armand Firmin.
Quinn’s incredible relief was short-lived, for they still had to free Venetia without her being harmed.
After another brief consultation, they decided to act now while they still claimed the advantage, before the missing guards were discovered. Yet if they stormed the house, she could be caught in a crossfire.
Hawk sent his best confederates a
round back to disable the men in the kitchen while he, Quinn, and Jack secured the front. Although Firmin was likely the more lethal adversary, Montreux was the first priority, and Quinn insisted on being the one to confront him.
The three of them crept up to the cottage. Then Hawk carefully eased open the front door and studied the interior. At his hand signal, they slipped inside, with Quinn bringing up the rear. Keeping an eye out for more guards, they quickly crossed the small entry hall and ducked behind the staircase, where they remained, not daring to breathe, straining to hear.
After a moment, Quinn peered around the corner, down a dimly lit corridor. There was a man posted outside the parlor door, lounging back against the wall in a bored fashion. To lure him away, Quinn called out in a muffled voice, claiming that Firmin wanted him in the kitchens.
Appearing eager to be relieved of his duties, the fellow left his post and strode down the corridor, where Hawk silently dispatched him by knocking him unconscious.
With the way cleared, Quinn eased from his hiding place. Tightly hugging the wall, he stole forward until he could enter the parlor, holding two pistols at the ready.
His sudden appearance clearly shocked Montreux, who leapt to his feet, brandishing his own pistol as well as a knife. Moving at lightning speed, the compte backed away until he stood beside Venetia, with the knife at her throat, his pistol aimed at Quinn. “Ne t’approche pas ou je vais la tuer!”
Quinn’s heart almost stopped at the vow to kill Venetia if he came any closer, but he struggled to appear calm. “If you harm her, you will be dead an instant later.”
He risked a glance at Venetia, who was gazing at him with hope and fear in her eyes. Her hair and clothing were disheveled, her skirts rucked up to expose her stockings and garters.
Quinn returned her gaze, silently offering encouragement even though his own chest was so heavy he could barely breathe. Hawk and Jack were both behind him in the corridor, but could do little good from their position.
“Comment avez-vous me trouvez?” Montreux demanded, asking how he had been found.
The Art of Taming a Rake (Legendary Lovers #4) Page 26