The bullet left the muzzle in an earsplitting roar.
Lucas turned his face away from the speeding, deadly lump of gray lead. He didn't want to watch.
Exploding pain seared in his temple.
A yawning black pit swallowed him as blood flowed, warm and sticky beneath his cheek.
Dead.
A groan came from the region of his chest.
If he was dead, why the agony in his head? The smell of stale brandy choked him. He coughed.
Not dead.
He seemed to be sitting in a chair, his head on something hard. He groaned again and forced his gritty eyelids up, lifting his head a fraction, dreading what he would see.
His signet ring glinted in the narrow bar of golden light across his desk. A puddle of clear liquid rippled beneath his shaking hand.
A nightmare. He sighed. Suddenly nauseous, he pushed himself upright in his chair. He shuddered. Four empty bottles ranged across the polished wood of his desk in front of his nose. A fifth lay beside them, a pool of amber dregs leaking from its neck.
His head pounded as if hell's blacksmith had taken up residence. Tentatively, he touched his temple. The pain eased as he kneaded a tender indentation caused by sleeping on his ring. Better than a bullet wound, he thought wryly. Or not. He scrubbed his palm across the stubble on his cheeks and chin.
His gut felt as if it hadn't been fed for a week.
Five bottles. Or at least four and a half, in . . . how long? It must be a record. Who cared?
He squinted at the clock on the wall. With the curtains pulled together all but a crack, he couldn't make out the numbers.
He leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes until the room steadied. The room stank of stale cigars, spilled brandy, and sweat. A charred and crumpled piece of paper lay before him on the smeared wood. It was the reason he sensed a huge hole where his chest used to be.
Caro had run off to France with the Chevalier.
He pressed the paper flat. It shocked him to see his fingers tremble. Leaning on his elbows, he squinted at the neat handwriting, vaguely hoping the words would say something different.
Dear Lord Foxhaven,
A nice friendly start.
My cousin François kindly offered to escort me to Paris.
Kind. What a bloody joke.
Under the circumstances, I would be obliged if you would. . .
The rest of it disappeared into the blackened edge. It didn't matter. He could still see it in his mind's eye:
. . . be so good as to arrange our divorce. Carolyn Rivers.
And she hadn't sent it until four weeks after she left.
The hole in his chest opened like the pit of hell, and he felt his life's blood drain away. He glanced down at his front to be sure it was all in his mind, and he let the paper fall to the table. He'd been such a fool. Why hadn't he believed what he saw? He'd just never expected Caro of all people to betray him.
She hadn't even waited to tell him to his face, curse her. Utter despair swamped him. He didn't want to curse her at all. He wanted to kiss her, to tell her he was sorry for what had happened. All of it.
She had every right to choose, he snarled at himself. And she'd chosen the Chevalier. Only oblivion dulled the pain.
He snatched up the last bottle and drained it dry. The liquid burned his gullet and spread warmth to his belly. His head drummed an evil tattoo in protest.
More brandy would ease the pain in his chest. It had to.
He eyed the bell-pull on the wall by the fireplace. If he could reach it, he could ring for Beckwith.
A knock at the door made him turn his head. He groaned at the crushing ache, peering at Beckwith in the doorway. Good man that. He knew when he was needed.
"Brandy," Lucas croaked.
"Yes, my lord. Mr. Bascombe is asking to see you."
For a moment, the words failed to register. Lucas blinked through the blur filling the gap between him and the butler.
"Mr. Bascombe," Beckwith repeated through stiff lips.
So he'd annoyed the stuffy old bugger, had he? Lucas would have laughed, if he could remember how. "Not home," he managed instead.
"'S'blood, Luc," Bascombe said, pushing past Beckwith. "You look like the very devil."
Lucas kept his gaze fixed on Beckwith. "Brandy. Now." His roar came out a raspy whisper.
Beckwith left with what Lucas was sure was a sniff.
"Go 'way, Charlie."
Bascombe sauntered in and hitched a hip onto the corner of the desk. Lucas palmed Caro's letter and slipped it into his desk drawer.
Bascombe cocked a brow. "Not like you to shoot the cat." His voice held sympathy.
Lucas didn't want his damn sympathy. He wanted a mind-numbing drink. "Piss off."
"M'sister sent me." He spoke as if that answered why he didn't move.
"Bugger her."
The blue eyes hardened. "Damn you, Foxhaven."
Lucas rested his elbows on the desk and carefully placed his head in his hands. It felt safer that way. "Told you. Go 'way." God, it hurt to talk.
"Lady Foxhaven is in Paris," Bascombe announced.
Bloody hell. Did everyone know his business? He surged to his feet. The room swirled, sucking him into its vortex. Bile rose in his throat.
Oh, Christ. He was going to cast up his accounts. Groaning, he dropped back into the chair. "Leg it, Charlie." He closed his eyes and waited for the room to steady.
Beckwith entered with a silver tray, a bottle of brandy, and two glasses. He set it on the desk. Lucas watched him depart and then lunged for the bottle. He pulled the stopper out with his teeth.
Bascombe placed a restraining hand on his wrist.
Lucas cursed and jerked away.
"Didn't you hear what I said?" Charlie asked. "Audley says your wife is in Paris. She's using the name Torrington."
She assumed the divorce was a fait accompli. Sadness swamped him.
He picked up a glass. The decanter's rattle against the rim exploded in his head like gunfire. He lifted his eyes from the amber liquid and glared at Bascombe. "Leave me alone, Goddamn it."
Charlie recoiled, his expression a mix of comical fear and genuine concern. "No need to shoot the messenger, you idiot."
Lucas breathed through his nose, around the burning sensation in the back of his throat. "I know she's in Paris. Tell me something I don't know."
"She's staying with a Madame Valeron in the Faubourg Saint-Germain. Been there a few weeks, apparently. She's the latest rage, and the on dit is that she is to marry the Chevalier and bring him some sort of fortune. Sounds like a hum to me."
Lucas swallowed. The inside of his mouth tasted of old leather boot. "I said tell me something I don't know. Bugger off, Charlie."
"Tisha's doing her best to stop the tongues wagging here, but it will all be for naught once news of her dashing off alone to France gets out. Good thing you did dive into a hole these past few weeks. You have to sort this out. She's your wife."
Not for much longer.
His stomach roiled. He was duty-bound to honor the agreement he'd made with her. By rights, he should have posted off to Scotland the moment he got her note, almost a week ago.
He hadn't wanted to be married in the first place, and now he didn't want a divorce. Curse it all, she was his wife, but she despised him as a rake. She'd told him so to his face. She didn't know anything about him. No one did. Except maybe the lads at Wooten Hall. But whose fault was that?
Curse Fred for running off. If he hadn't got himself lost for five days, Lucas might have been in time to stop her. He had thought she was in Norwich and had very nearly posted up to see her a couple of times, but his lads' upcoming debut at King's Theater had kept him fully occupied.
Then her note arrived, and he'd been imagining her with the slimy frog ever since.
Hell. This was all his fault. He should never have married her in the first place. He liked her too well. But since he had, then he should have made sure she was up
to snuff. How could he have guessed she'd fall into such a coil? She'd seemed perfectly fine with Cedric and Tisha to guide her.
Guilt twisted like a knife in his gut. He'd been too busy with his own affairs to make sure. "It's too late, Charlie."
"Rivers is there too."
Lucas snapped his head up and groaned. "Cedric? That's all right, then. He'll keep an eye on her."
"Tisha thinks there's more to this than meets the eye."
His head pounded with the effort to understand. "What do you mean?"
"Why didn't Cedric put a stop to this damn race? He was there."
"He tried."
"Are you sure?"
He wasn't sure of anything. His wife had left him, and no doubt everyone would think he deserved it after his past mistress had led her into such fast behavior. "I wasn't there. If I had been, it wouldn't have happened."
Charlie nodded. "Right. It's high time you were there."
"Blast you, Charlie. And blast Tisha. She doesn't know what she's talking about." He'd made a mess of the whole marriage thing from the beginning. He wasn't cut out for it.
Charlie gave him a discerning look. "Get to Paris, man."
Perhaps he ought to make sure she really did want a divorce. And why hadn't Cedric informed him where Caro had gone?
Lucas nodded slowly, careful not to set the room spinning again. "I'll think about it."
Charlie slapped him on the shoulder. "Good man. By the way, that investment you put me in the way of came up trumps. Thanks. I doubled my blunt."
Lucas nodded dully. Then he must also have made a fortune. His father, who had instructed him to sell on Cedric's advice, must have lost a huge sum. A brief pang of sorrow surprised him.
None of that mattered. He had to decide what to do about Caro. He wanted his wife back, he realized. And to win her back, he needed to show her he was every bit as good as some smarmy Frenchman. He rose unsteadily to his feet.
And if he couldn't have her back, he needed to set things to rights.
Thirteen
Caro's aunt, Madame Honoré Valeron, a septuagenarian of generous proportions who clung to the powdered wigs and hooped skirts of her youth, presided over her usual Wednesday afternoon salon reclined on a chaise by the hearth. Caro glanced around the baroque drawing room. As on the previous five occasions, the room burst at the seams with elegant Paris society, and the conversation ebbed and flowed on the fascinating topic of French politics.
Seated on a gilt chair at the foot of her aunt's chaise, Caro leaned forward to catch the words of the Marquis du Bouvoir over the buzz of conversation and clink of coffee cups. Attired in the glittering blue uniform of the Guarde Royale, he was one of the many officers who made up the company.
"But how can I hold up my head, if I do not secure one dance with the incomparable Mademoiselle l'Anglaise?" the marquis asked with a flash of white smile beneath his dark moustache.
Caro frowned at the handsome olive-skinned noble and shook her head in mock disapproval. "You make me sound like a dessert."
He waggled his brows. "A exceedingly delicious one."
"Enough of your flattery, sir. I will grant you the last waltz of the evening."
Aunt Honoré flicked her ostrich fan in their direction. "Monsieur, take your argument and my niece elsewhere. How can I hear the Prince de Tallyrand above your nonsense?"
The pale elderly man murmuring in her aunt's ear raised his piercing gaze, and Caro suppressed a wriggle. She wasn't sure what was worse, the way he seemed to see right through her skimpy gown or the knowledge that he had played an influential role in every French government since the Revolution. Her aunt seemed to dote on him.
Glad of the excuse to escape Talleyrand's unnerving observation, Caro relinquished her coffee cup to a lackey. The marquis led her through the press of fashionable ladies and gentlemen and the colorful uniforms of every army in Europe to the window overlooking the rue de Lille.
"You are an incorrigible tease, and I adore you," the marquis said, his hazel eyes gazing into hers.
She laughed. "You, monsieur le marquis, are an outrageous flirt."
He grinned as if she had paid him a compliment. "What else am I to do, since your Chevalier has stolen a march on the rest of us poor mortals?"
Unwelcome warmth washed over her. "We are cousins, nothing more."
"Come now, mademoiselle, your aunt makes no secret of his intentions."
"And that is why you feel free to practice your wiles on me," she flashed back.
He gave her a knowing glance. "Methinks the lady doth protest too much. And how prettily she blushes."
Her color had nothing to do with her relationship with François. She should never have agreed to hide her married state from her aunt, even if it did mean admitting she had left London in disgrace.
Being caught in the web of lies concocted by Cedric after he learned of her arrangement with Lucas weighed far more heavily on her conscience than the truth. Cedric meant well, but it left her with the uneasy sensation that her skin didn't quite fit her new persona.
The marquis lifted his quizzing glass and inspected the room. "Speaking of your admirer, where are the elegant Chevalier and his so–very-English friend?"
She didn't want to think about where François had gone. "They have gone out of town on business, I believe."
"Ah, oui, champagne." He kissed his fingertips. "The nectar of the gods, and the best of it comes from Chateau Valeron."
He glanced idly around the room, his quizzing glass dangling from his fingers. "And here Lord Audley brings yet another Englishman to our salons. Paris becomes more British than London."
She raised a brow. "In the face of such disapproval, perhaps I should depart immediately."
A droll expression of horror crossed his face. "Pardon me. It is not the so charming ladies of whom I speak, je vous assure." He swept a languid hand to the room in general. "It is the foreign soldiers billeted in our homes and the businessmen from every country in Europe, the vultures in black suits, to whom I object. The city is under siege, and French treasures flood across the Channel like blood from a wound."
She'd heard the complaints before. The British ambassador purchased vast quantities of priceless books and furniture, Wellington collected Boulle cabinets and empire tables, and Sir Charles Long harvested paintings for the Prince Regent to hang in Carleton House. She had no consolation to offer.
He narrowed his eyes. "This one looks like a nobleman."
She turned to observe the object of his displeasure.
A strange little jolt in her heart stopped her breath and quickened her pulse. The dark-haired man with his back to her topped the stern Lord Audley by half a head, and they were the tallest men in the room. Could it be Lucas?
She peered through her usual blur. A wave of disappointment emptied her chest. The man's carefully ordered black hair barely brushed his collar. She turned away.
"Why the sad expression, mademoiselle?" the marquis asked. "Were you expecting someone?"
When would it stop? Each time she glimpsed a dark-haired man of above-average height, her heart took flight like a bird, only to crash to earth when she realized he wasn't Lucas. Why her heart hoped to see him in Paris when she had sent him to Scotland, she couldn't imagine.
She forced a smile. "How could I possibly look for someone else, when I am in your company?" She raised a brow. "Provided we do not discuss politics."
"Touché, mademoiselle."
"Mademoiselle Torrington, du Bouvoir." Audley's distinctive gravelly voice came from behind her.
Thank goodness Tisha had not introduced them when he last visited London. She turned to greet him. "Lord Audley, how pleasant to see you again." They had met at a British Embassy soirée the previous week.
The marquis bowed. "You ruin our tête-a-tête, milor' Audley. Don't follow in your Lord Stuart's footsteps, if you please. Leave the single ladies to us bachelors."
Audley bowed, his expression impassive, despite th
e overt reference to the British ambassador's penchant for Parisian courtesans. "With pleasure, monsieur le marquis."
Du Bouvoir lifted his quizzing glass. "And whom do you bring with you today? Another of King George's parliamentarians to advise us how to run our Chamber of Deputies?"
The imposing figure beside Audley swam into focus. Lucas?
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