Reckless Seduction

by Jane Feather

  There was a moment when the traffic seemed to clear, the eddying crowd to fall back so that Genevieve could see the street ahead for a little way, could feel space around her as the press of bodies receded. In the split second that followed, she registered the great iron studded door standing open to a courtyard on her left, then the sharp whining crack of a whip, the clatter of hooves, and the clanging roll of iron wheels on the cobbles. A carriage appeared alongside, a figure rearing up on the box, arm raised. The thick cowhide caught Silas viciously across the head and he stumbled with an agonized groan onto his knees. The door of the carriage was flung wide, separating Genevieve from the fallen sailor, and a hand shot out, seizing her wrist. Genevieve, reacting without thought, fueled with pure adrenaline, jumped backward, slamming the carriage door closed on the capturing arm. There was an obscene bellow from within the carriage, and her wrist was released. She leaped for the open door and the courtyard, not daring to stop for Silas who was shaking the stars from his head and struggling to his feet.

  Panting with fright and reaction, she hugged the shadow of the high stone wall, wondering if they would come after her. But there were voices raised in protest now, people crowding around Silas, and the carriage took off at breakneck speed, heedless of the danger to unwary pedestrians. Genevieve realized that she was crouching against the wall and straightened stiffly. Her hands were trembling. Shakily, she left her refuge and went out into the street where Silas, still groggy, was staring around him, acute anxiety in every line of the well-lined face.

  When he saw her, naked relief wiped out the anxiety, but only for a minute. “Are you all right, mademoiselle?” The brown eyes clouded as he examined her white face.

  “I am perfectly all right, Silas,” she reassured swiftly. “But what of you?” She reached up to touch the livid, blood-edged slash across his cheek where the whip had cut.

  He winced, but shook her off. “ ’Tis nothing. Nothing to what I deserve,” he added with a grimace of disgust. “Blind fool, I should’ve seen them coming. Monsieur’ll have my hide.”

  “It was not your fault!” exclaimed Genevieve indignantly. “How could you possibly have known?”

  “I should’ve,” he said grimly. “If you hadn’t moved so quick, they’d have had you.”

  “Well, let us go home and look to that cut.” She took charge on a brisk note that hid the little prickle of pleasure at the note of admiring approval in the sailor’s voice. Silas rarely indicated approval, and if he did, it tended to be a little grudging.

  They reached home without further incident, but Silas refused to heed Genevieve’s appeals that he let her bathe his wound. “I must go to the Elysée and tell monsieur,” he said firmly. “You stay inside with the doors locked and don’t answer to anyone.”

  Genevieve sighed. “Monsieur will be back in an hour or so, Silas. The story can wait until then.”

  “If you think that, you don’t know monsieur as well as you ought,” the sailor replied. “He’d have me hanging from the yardarm as soon as look at me if I didn’t tell him of this straightaway.”

  Genevieve shrugged. “At least let me put some salve on your face.”

  A tiny grin enlivened the sailor’s self-reproachful expression. “Best for me if it looks bad, mademoiselle.”

  Silas found the corridors of the Elysée mobbed with officials, soldiers, participants in the day’s fete, petitioners, and diplomats. The presence of an earringed, pigtailed sailor with a blooded weal on his cheek caused raised eyebrows from those he accosted for information about the whereabouts of Monsieur Fouché and Monsieur Delacroix. However, he was finally directed into a large rectangular room with long windows, the floor squared in black and white marble.

  Dominic got up from an embroidered couch where he had been head to head with Fouché. “What the devil’s happened, man?” He sprang across the room, anxiety rasping hoarse in the usually even voice. “Where is Genevieve?”

  Silas swallowed, licked his lips nervously and told the tale with no embellishment and no attempt to defend his self-perceived negligence.

  Dominic heard him out in silence, his face now impassive. “You need to get that cut attended to,” was his only comment at story’s end. He turned to Fouché. “We will have to continue our discussion some other time, Fouché. But you may rest assured that I will have Danseuse standing by at Rochefort until the emperor’s affairs are resolved one way or another.”

  The statesman nodded, then said, “Whom do you suspect in this attack on madame? Or was it just chance?”

  “Not chance,” Dominic replied. “Jean Luc Legrand, I suspect, but I have no proof.”

  “Why would Legrand have that sort of interest in your wife?” Fouché asked, curiosity in the shrewd old eyes.

  “That is a long story, one that is best left buried.” Dominic dismissed the inquiry firmly, offering a brief bow in farewell. “Come, Silas.”

  “I beg your pardon, monsieur,” Silas began as they walked fast through the corridors. “I blame myself. If mademoiselle hadn’t acted so fast—”

  “I’d have torn you limb from limb,” Dominic interjected with a wry smile. “Get down to the quay as soon as you’ve cleaned that wound and find passage for yourself and Genevieve on a riverboat to La Havre. From there, you’ll both take ship back to America.”

  Silas heard the sentence of banishment in stoic silence. Mademoiselle could not be sent off on such a voyage alone, for all her quick reactions, and if the nursemaiding fell to his lot he knew better than to object.

  Genevieve, however, did not. She ran to greet Dominic as soon as he set foot in the hall, words of explanation and excuse for Silas tumbling from her lips. The subject of her well-meant peroration muttered something inaudible and disappeared instantly. Dominic could not help laughing as he caught her to him, the tightness of his hold the only indication of the extent of his relief. “I am not such an ogre, sprite. I have not touched a hair of the man’s head!”

  “Well, you put the fear of the devil into people,” she said in laughing reproach. “I knew exactly how he felt.”

  The laughter died in his eyes and he released her, striding ahead of her into the salon. “I am going to make certain that the opportunity for such a thing does not arise again.”

  “We shall just be extra specially careful,” Genevieve said, following him and perching on the arm of a chair. “But I am sure they will not try again.”

  Dominic recognized the shape of the upcoming battle and steeled himself. “I am not prepared to take that risk, Genevieve. I am sending you back to America.”

  The color drained from her face, the light from the tawny eyes. “I don’t understand.”

  “Silas is going directly to book passage for you both to Le Havre. From there, you will take ship back home. There are always several vessels whose captains will be quite happy to take a couple of passengers.”

  “But what of you?” He could not possibly mean what he had said. She must have misunderstood him.

  “I have work to do here—a commitment that I cannot renege on.”

  Genevieve fought the sense of unreality and kept her voice reasonable and even, as if this were a perfectly ordinary discussion. “If I must go anywhere, why can I not go on board Danseuse?”

  “Danseuse must remain unencumbered at Rochefort, should Napoleon need her in haste. It is part of the commitment I have made,” Dominic explained with a calm to match her own. His, however, was not feigned since he saw nothing extraordinary in the discussion. “If you are at risk of attack on board her, then she is also endangered and I cannot take that chance. For as long as you remain in France, you are in danger, and I cannot spare the time or the manpower to deal with that danger.” It was all very straightforward, the privateer thought. A pragmatic plan. He had a job to do, a commitment that he had undertaken, and Genevieve’s present situation would hinder him in the accomplishment of that task. For her own safety and his peace of mind, she needed to be well away from France. Maybe she wou
ld be out of danger across the channel in England, but he could not be sure of that, not when one of her pursuers was English. If he had to worry about her, and he would unceasingly if she were not well away or constantly under his eye, his efficiency would be impaired.

  He was sending her away, just like that, with no preparation, no discussion. Hacking the adventure to a close, ripping apart their loving, lusting partnership without even the mention of a friendly future, sometime, somewhere. And all because she had suddenly become an awkward impediment to the completion of the task he had undertaken. Never in her bleakest conceptions of this moment had she imagined such a coldly abrupt ending simply because her place had slipped in the privateer’s priorities.

  “And what am I to do in America?” she demanded in a stifled voice. “I can hardly return home.”

  “No, of course not,” he replied matter-of-factly. “What you do initially will depend on where your ship docks. I will, of course, ensure that you have more than enough funds to establish yourself.”

  “I do not wish to establish myself in America!” cried Genevieve in desolate horror at this neat, conscience-salving disposal of her future. Establish herself as what? She stood up, squaring her shoulders. If this was the end of the affair, then she would end it in her own way. “I have the right to make my own decisions, to choose my own destiny. Is not that what you offered me when you took me from my father’s house? I will not be tidied away neatly, paid off like an outgrown mistress.” Her voice caught on a sob. “You need not concern yourself about me. I am not your responsibility. I never have been, and I would not dream of interfering in your business affairs.” She dashed away a recalcitrant teardrop and continued without pause. “Neither do I need your funds to establish myself, thank you.”

  Dominic had been so taken aback by this speech that he had allowed it to run its course, but now, as she turned to the door in a swirl of amber silk, he lunged for her. “Just what the hell do you think you’re talking about, you silly child?” His tone was merely exasperated as if he were dealing with an infantile tantrum, and indeed, to the bitter regret of hindsight, that was truly how he saw it. He did not hear the meaning of the words, the mature anguish in her voice; he heard simply the exaggerated objections of a spoiled baby who did not wish to do what was necessary.

  The words, the tone, the hard hand on her shoulder proved the last straw. Genevieve wrenched herself out of his grip and raced into the hall. Dominic, after a startled second, charged after her just as there came a loud bellow from Silas mingling with a crash and a cascading crescendo of breaking glass. Dominic stood, frozen for precious seconds in the doorway, taking in the sight of Silas flat on his back, surrounded by the shattered crystal of glasses and decanter, splattered by the deep ruby of spilled vintage port. Genevieve tore open the front door and was out in the street before either the twice-felled Silas or the utterly bewildered Dominic could gather their wits.

  “Sweet Jesus!” Dominic registered the chill shaft of a sharp breeze and abandoned Silas. He ran for the door that still stood ajar. Genevieve was an amber flurry up the street, and he pounded after her, calling her name. He saw the closed carriage with plain panels standing at the corner, and panic flared as he realized that Genevieve had not seen it—that she was not aware of anything outside her own unhappiness at this moment. He yelled a warning, but with a sick fatalism he watched the scene that played out before his eyes almost in slow motion. A bulky figure sprang out of the carriage, and the diminutive Genevieve seemed to disappear in the dark cloth of his hold, the frantic swirl of her amber skirts and the white flash of petticoat the only indication of her violent protestations. Another pair of arms appeared from within the carriage and she was bundled inside, followed by the dark bulky figure. The carriage door slammed, and it had rounded the corner before Dominic could cover half the distance between them.

  “Death and damnation!” Silas arrived on the scene, panting and wine bespattered as Dominic still stood immobile on the pavement. “What possessed her, monsieur?”

  Dominic closed his eyes briefly, running an anguished hand through the nut-brown hair already disheveled by his headlong run down the windswept street. “My fault, Silas! Dear God, I cannot believe I could have been such an insensitive simpleton! An outgrown mistress! She thought I was packing her off because … and, of course, that was exactly how it sounded. How was she supposed to read my mind? I haven’t said a damn word to her about how I feel … just somehow expected her to …” He swore viciously and spun on his heel, leaving Silas to follow him back to the house, trying to fill in the gaps in this self-immolating tumble of words.

  “What do we do now?” Silas asked as he followed the privateer into his bedchamber, giving up the struggle for comprehension and deciding that action was easier.

  “Find out where they’ve taken her, of course,” Dominic snapped, taking a pair of pistols from a drawer.

  “Yes, monsieur,” said Silas woodenly. “But how was what I was asking.”

  Dominic pushed the pistols into his belt. “Fouché will be able to furnish me with Legrand’s address. We start from there. I am going to need men, half a dozen. You know the type?”

  Silas nodded. “Handy, you mean.”

  “Just so. Have them here by this evening. We cannot afford to waste time.” A look of pain scudded across his features, and this time Silas had little difficulty understanding the reason for it. He nodded grimly and left the house.

  Fighting to close out the images created by a fevered imagination, Dominic took horse back to the Elysée. But he found that his usual iron control over matters that might hinder the process of clear thinking and thus impair efficiency were somehow enfeebled. What the devil were they doing to her? Were they interested in hurting her? Would she have the sense to give them what they wanted without resistance? And Dominic Delacroix had a fairly good idea of what they wanted. Dear God! There had been that time in Morocco, when the crew of that galleon had invaded a fishing village in search of a missing prisoner and had found a little diversion on the way. The pictures ran rampant in his head—pictures of her body, naked, bruised, used! He could hear her piteous sobs of defeat and debasement—the sobs he had heard on that dreadful afternoon.

  Fouché saw, instead of the suave, impassive, authoritative Creole, a man with haunted eyes in a gray face. A man who strode into the crowded room, pushing his way through without apology. A man with two pistols and a sword in his belt and the demeanor of one who intended to use them.

  “I was about to send you a message,” Fouché said. “Bonaparte is preparing to march on Brussels and engage with Wellington and Blucher.”

  “To the devil with Bonaparte!” Dominic spat. “Legrand has abducted Genevieve. He has a house in Paris, does he not?”

  Fouché nodded. “On the rue de Rivoli. But would he take her there if he knows you will follow him?”

  “He does not know for sure that I know he has her,” Dominic said in a cold, flat voice, speaking the unpalatable truths as he now saw them. “But even if he did, his purpose is a limited one, I suspect. He wishes for revenge and when he has taken it, I imagine will ensure that she is not in a position to tell the tale—to identify her abductors—so that there will be no proof. He has only to keep her captive until he has finished with her and, with sufficient guards and good locks, will believe himself invulnerable.”

  Fouché shivered at the frozen azure depths of the man’s eyes. If Legrand believed himself invulnerable to Dominic Delacroix, he was in for a severe shock. “Jean Luc Legrand is well known for his ruthlessness,” he confirmed quietly. “He is not a man of scruple.”

  “I did not imagine he was, which is why matters are a trifle pressing.” A ghastly smile, ice tipped with cynicism, touched the privateer’s lips. “Nor are Sebastiani, Grand Duke Sergei, or the Englishman, Cholmondeley.”

  “They also?”

  “Unless I am gravely mistaken. So, you will excuse me if the emperor’s plans are of little interest at the moment
.”

  “Yes, of course.” Fouché frowned. “Why do you not take a party of militia and confront him?”

  “On what grounds? And do you really think I would find her?” Dominic queried with a sardonic twitch of his eyebrows. “Legrand is no fool. He will have her well hidden from any obvious search party. No, I must find her by stealth, although I may have to take her by force. And for that I prefer my own men.”

  He left the Elysée and found Silas waiting for him in the rue du Cirque with six villainous-looking men, all sailors from the quays of the Seine. It took only a few minutes’ talk for Dominic to be convinced that they would be loyal to the paymaster of the moment, would follow orders, but were far from stupid. They were experienced knife men, which Silas knew monsieur preferred when stealth was of the essence. There was all too much danger of an accidental shot escaping a pistol in moments of great strain and excitement.

  One of them was dispatched to the house on the rue de Rivoli. Shaven and in the worsted britches and waistcoat of a manservant, he looked respectable enough to infiltrate the kitchen quarters of a gentleman’s residence. These days there were always servants looking for odd jobs, and they were rarely turned away by their luckier fellows in possession of permanent positions.

  As soon as darkness fell, Dominic and Silas slipped through the streets to the rue de Rivoli. The front of the house was impenetrable, except by the great entrance door, standing as it did in a long row of attached mansions that faced the high walls of the Tuileries Gardens. They exchanged a brief nod of silent agreement and melted into the side streets to scout out the rear. An hour later, they had found what they were looking for.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The experience was tauntingly familiar, yet this time inexpressibly more petrifying than when she had substituted herself for Elise and had been a willing victim of abduction. Then she had had only the alarming prospect of facing an angry privateer at journey’s end. Now, at the end of this jolting carriage ride where she was trussed hand and foot like a chicken, a scarf pushed roughly into her mouth, there would be four of them. But she must meet them with dignity, if it was allowed her. If she was not to be dropped before them, helplessly bound and rendered mute. Their four faces floated in her mind’s eye: thin, pointed Sebastiani; the fleshy lips and milk-white hands of the Russian; the bland smile and curiously flat eyes of Legrand; the false heartiness, the smooth amiability of the Englishman. She was not sure which of them frightened her the most, which of them repelled her the most. But she must get a grip on herself; must face them without fear. Dominic would come. How or when, she had no idea. But he would come and she must hold on until then. Unless Napoleon needed him urgently, and he could not spare the time for a rescue mission. It was her own fault this had happened, after all. But even as she thought these wretched thoughts, she knew that not even the emperor would keep him from finding her. Even though their affair was at an end, he would not desert her. His pride would not allow him to do so, whatever else he might feel.