His only answer was to tighten his arms around her.
Chapter Twenty-three
“Fetch the doctor,” he snapped at a maid hovering in the corridor. “And ask Mme. d’Hivers to come.”
He managed to lean over and open the door of her room without dropping her and laid her carefully on the bed. She was too thin. She was a tall woman and should not weigh so little. Did no one ever take care of her?
His hand hovered over her cheek. The mark was darkening, and she would have a black eye. “There is a bit of blood. His ring cut you.” He tried to keep the anger out of his voice.
“It’s nothing, truly.” She tried to smile but winced at the movement.
“Right, nothing. You’ll be fortunate if he didn’t break a bone.” He sat down on the side of the bed and took her hand, caressing her fingers gently.
A corner of her mouth lifted. “Ah, well. He was angry. Men like him, they do not like to think someone has played them for a fool.”
He gave a dismissive snort. “No one likes to be played for a fool. Decent men do not react by using their fists on a woman.”
She gave him one of those looks of hers that made him feel like a naive idiot. He tried to ignore it. “Anyway,” he said, “what made him think his arrival would be welcome? I cannot believe you invited him.”
“Of course not. It was, I think, Delphine.”
“Delphine? What about Delphine? What has she done now?” Mme. d’Hivers came hurrying in. After one look at Marguerite’s face, she began making clucking noises. Moving efficiently, she poured water into the washbasin and soaked a cloth. Her glare made Ned get up. Only after she had sat down in his place and held the cloth against Marguerite’s cheek did she speak again. “Tell me what Delphine has done now.”
“Louvois said she had written to him. Ah, the cold feels good.” Marguerite closed her eyes.
“A cold compress? Yes, that is good.” Doctor Fernac arrived to take over. Ned found himself pushed out, told he would just be in the way.
He resented the dismissal, though it was quite possible that he would be in the way, since he had no idea what to do about Marguerite’s injury. But he was too angry and frustrated to do nothing.
Delphine. He recalled what Marguerite had said. Delphine had written to Louvois? Whatever for? She had to know that her cousin feared and loathed the man. Why was she trying to create difficulties for Marguerite?
He charged off to confront her.
After slamming his way through half the rooms on the main floor of the chateau, his temper began to cool. Still, he needed to talk to the girl. When he finally found her in the green sitting room, she was standing, arms akimbo, staring out the window at the drive, where the comte’s carriage was just disappearing, and tapping her foot impatiently. And, of all things, she was in costume. She was wearing one of those silly gowns she had found. It didn’t quite fit, and was trailing on the ground.
Once the carriage was out of sight, she let out a disgusted humph and flung herself into a chair. When she noticed Ned’s arrival, she burst out, “She let him leave without her. How could she be so foolish?”
“Foolish! You think she is the one who was foolish?” He heard his voice rising, so he took a deep, calming breath and began again. “Is it true? Did you write, asking him to come?”
“But of course.” She waved a hand dismissively. “Marguerite, she does not write herself. She does not have the sense to see that he is the best she could hope for. I think to do her a favor. He will come, she will see that he is still interested, and poof! She will go off with him.”
“What are you talking about?” He could not believe what he was hearing. “Do you realize that he struck her?”
Delphine shrugged. “She should not have angered him. At her age she should know better how to deal with a man.”
This was utter nonsense. He felt as if he had tumbled into a topsy-turvey world. Had Delphine lost all sense of reality? Taking still another deep, calming breath, Ned tried again. “She does not want to deal with Louvois. You know—she has told you—she does not even like the man.”
“Bah, like! What has liking to do with it? She must be realistic. He is a comte, not perhaps the highest of the high—it is only a few hundred years old, that title. But still, he is of the aristocracy, and he is rich. She will mingle with people she could never hope to meet otherwise, and she can stop always pinching the pennies. He will buy her decent clothes, so she does not always go around in black, like a crow. And if she uses her wits, she should be able to get some good jewels from him.”
It was getting increasingly difficult to keep a rein on his temper. Yes, she was very young, but even a child should have more sense than this. “Delphine, don’t you understand? He wanted to make her his mistress.”
“But of course.” She looked at him as if he were the child. “What else could such as she hope for? Ah, I know she has her eye on you, but your family is also of the aristocracy. They would never allow you to marry a performer.”
“You cannot be such a fool. Marguerite is hardly a music-hall performer. For heaven’s sake, you’ve heard her play, you’ve heard her music. She has an incredible talent, and my family—any family—would be honored to welcome her.”
She turned on him in fury. “Music, music, music! That is all I hear from her and her father. As if anyone of any importance cares! And the humiliation for me. Imagine it to yourself. I am of the true nobility, la noblesse ancienne, and I must stand by while my cousin displays herself on the common stage.”
Ned lost his temper completely. “Have you lost your mind? You must be mad to think that your childish pretenses are of any importance compared with Marguerite’s gift.”
There was silence while she froze and stared at him. Then she erupted into a whirlwind, shrieking and attacking him with her hands curved into claws. “I am not mad! I am not! You are wicked to say such a thing! Wicked!”
Caught off guard, never having expected such a frenzy, Ned stumbled back, holding up his arms to keep her from scratching his eyes out since that seemed to be her goal. He didn’t want to hurt her, but she had turned into some sort of demonic creature. “Delphine…” He should probably say something to calm her down, but he didn’t know what would work. All he really wanted was to get away from her.
“Delphine!”
Mme. d’Hivers’ voice carried over Delphine’s shrieks. Ned had never been so glad to hear it.
“Horace, come help me.”
While he was ducking and fending off Delphine’s attack, he caught glimpses of the pair of them—the companion and the servant—coming up behind the girl. Horace caught hold of her from behind, pinning her arms to her sides, and Mme. d’Hivers stepped in front of her to administer a sharp slap to her cheek.
“Enough of that, Delphine!” The older woman spoke sharply, and to some effect. Delphine’s shrieks subsided to sobs, and she sagged against Horace.
Mme. d’Hivers took the girl into her arms, rocking her gently and making soothing noises.
“He said…he said I am mad…” The words came out between sobs and hiccups.
“No matter,” said Madame. “Come along now, you need to rest.”
The two women walked slowly from the room, the older supporting the younger while she murmured soothing words.
Ned felt in need of support himself. He had no idea what had just happened. Surely a scolding—and a well-deserved one at that—should not have brought on such a tempest.
He turned to Horace, who was regarding him reproachfully. “What was that all about?” he asked. Then he wanted to laugh at himself for asking a simpleton for an explanation.
Horace shook his head. “You shouldn’t get Mlle. Delphine upset. It’s not good to get her upset.”
Not good to get her upset? He stared at Horace, though the statement seemed to have been made in all seriousness. For God’s sake, the girl had created a situation where Marguerite had been attacked, struck in the face by that bloated bastard,
then she had flown into an hysterical temper tantrum at a perfectly justified reprimand, and he was being blamed for upsetting her?
Were they all mad?
Chapter Twenty-four
Refused admission to Marguerite’s room—the doctor had given her laudanum and insisted she needed to rest—Ned headed for the library. There, he knew, he could find a decanter of brandy. Perhaps that could subdue the combination of fury and fear churning through him.
Slamming into the room, he snatched up the decanter and poured a healthy portion into a tumbler. He downed half of it, refilled the glass and carried the decanter with him when he seated himself beside the fireplace. Evening was drawing in and the lamps had not been lit, but that bothered him not at all. The fire burned brightly enough, and he stared into its flames.
This was not what he had expected love to be like.
Oh, he wasn’t an idiot. He knew nothing in life would be all sunshine and roses, and that included his future with Marguerite. Her musical career, composing, concert tours—he was still trying to understand what it meant to her, what it required. He did understand that it would require accommodation. Especially from him.
But these were practical problems, and could be dealt with. He knew himself to be perfectly competent when he had to be.
What he hadn’t expected was this pain. She had been hurt—punched in the face! He had been right there in the next room and had still not been able to protect her. His failure tormented him.
Should he have ignored her when she told him to leave? She thought she could manage, but obviously she had not been able to do so. Should he have insisted on staying?
He had no right to insist. Not yet. He wanted that right—he needed it.
Another gulp of brandy burned its way down his throat. It didn’t burn nearly as fiercely as his need to protect her. Once they were married, he could stand between her and creatures like Louvois. But until they were married there was always the danger that his protection would be misunderstood. He certainly didn’t want to make her life any more difficult.
Why wouldn’t she agree to marry him? Her stubborn refusal made no sense. He knew perfectly well that the problem was not indifference to him. He could feel her vibrate whenever they touched—whenever they were even near each other.
Had he failed to convince her that he would not interfere with her musical career? What more could he say? No, he thought he had made her believe him.
That nonsense about his family not approving? Would he have to drag her to Penworth to meet them before he could convince her that they were nothing like Louvois?
Or was there something else? There must be—he was certain of it. Some secret she still kept hidden.
He could help her. Whatever the problem was, he could help her. Even if he could not eliminate it—and he was not such a fool as to think all problems could be solved—he could share the burden so that it did not fall so heavily on her shoulders.
His meditation was interrupted when Tony burst into the room and began pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace.
Ned carefully centered the decanter on the table. “You are creating such a breeze that you could blow the furniture over.”
Coming to a halt and looking around at the heavy mahogany tables and oversized chairs, Tony snorted dismissively. “This furniture? A tornado would be needed to lift it an inch, and even that might not be enough. A nice big explosion—that’s what’s needed to obliterate this ridiculous monument to the past.” He slammed his hand against the carved escutcheon over the fireplace. This caused no damage to the stone but brought a grimace of pain to his face as he shook his hand.
Ned dragged his thoughts away from Marguerite long enough to peer at his friend. Was Tony actually looking ill again or was he just in a rotten mood? Ned couldn’t tell—he seemed to be having a slight difficulty focusing—so he asked. “Has something happened?”
Tony flopped down on the sofa with a snort. “Happened? Of course not. Nothing has happened here in years. Decades. All that old man can think about is something that took place a century ago. Will he listen to reason? Will he consider the future? No. All he can think about is that blasted treasure.” He leaned back with his arms under his head and stared at the ceiling.
Ned thought about that for a minute, then drank some more brandy. “He’s an old man. Very old. He hasn’t much future to consider.”
Tony turned his head just enough to glare at Ned. “That’s right. Be reasonable. No one else around here is.”
They sat in silence, each one meditating on his own problems. Eventually, Tony roused himself to speak. “Am I as mad as the rest of them?”
Ned thought some more. “Marguerite’s not mad,” he said with finality. “Determined, driven, yes, but not mad.”
“That’s because her mother escaped,” Tony said. “But the rest of the family? Mad as hatters, the lot of them. Do you realize that Delphine grew up in England but had to be taught English by a governess? That whole branch of the family is so obsessed with their noble blood that they have spent the past eighty years waiting for the restoration of the monarchy, and a constitutional monarchy was not enough for them. They spend their lives pretending they are living under the ancien régime. They even refuse to speak English.”
“That’s mad. But it does explain Delphine. A bit.” Ned considered, then shook his head. “They must be mad. Ignore them.”
“But should I ignore the old man as well?” Tony brooded in silence. Finally he shook his head. “To hell with them all. Pass the brandy.”
Penworth Castle
The weather had turned, and there was no sunshine streaming through the window to greet Lady Penworth that morning. There was, however, a letter.
“There’s another request for you, my dear,” she said when her husband arrived. She was frowning at the letter.
Her husband was just pouring himself a cup of coffee and looked over in concern. “Is that from Ned? Is something wrong?”
“Yes and no. Do be careful.”
He caught himself up and stopped just before the coffee overflowed his cup. He waited until he had settled himself at the breakfast table with bacon, toast, and coffee before speaking again. “I meant, is something wrong with Ned?”
“I don’t know.” Lady Penworth spoke slowly and handed her husband the letter. “He asks if you know anything about a French count named Louvois who has been causing difficulties for Miss Benda. But he doesn’t say anything about what kind of difficulties and he still doesn’t say anything about Miss Benda.”
Lord Penworth read through the letter quickly and then read it again more slowly. “He wants to be prepared in case the fellow causes any more trouble? That doesn’t sound like Ned. I mean, I know you worry about it, but his villains are usually the obvious kind. The sort he can send off with a raised eyebrow or a black eye or two. He doesn’t normally ask for help in dealing with them.”
Lady Penworth stirred her coffee as she looked off into the distance. “That’s not what bothers me. It’s this Miss Benda.”
Her husband glanced over the letter again. “But he doesn’t say anything about Miss Benda, except that Louvois made problems for her.”
“That is precisely what bothers me. Usually when Ned meets a young woman, he can’t stop talking about her. There are three or four letters enumerating all her beauties and virtues and talents, and then she is forgotten. But there has been nothing about Miss Benda except that she is a musician and she appeared on stage with her father.” Lady Penworth shook her head. “We know nothing about her.”
“Perhaps he doesn’t think she’s important,” he said.
She shook her head again. “More likely he thinks she is too important to discuss in a letter. And that worries me.”
Lord Penworth gave his wife an amused look. “Ned is not a child, you know. And there may be things in his life that he does not wish to tell his mother.”
“Of course.” She fluttered a hand at him. “I know that. R
eally I do. But I can’t help worrying. He is, after all, asking for your help with her problems, and he would not do that if she is someone he would not want us to know about.”
“There is that,” he said slowly, frowning down at the paper.
“Ned is so trusting,” Lady Penworth continued. “All those other girls were no threat to him because they were essentially empty-headed fools. What if this one is clever? Too clever for him.”
Chapter Twenty-five
It was still too early for lunch, but Marguerite had not been able to concentrate on her music. Her cheek no longer hurt, at least not badly, but she kept touching it, and that did hurt. She gave up the pretense that she was practicing, and retreated to the drawing room. It would be warmer there.
She was standing hunched over by the fireplace when Ned and Tony came in. Tony was puffing angrily on a cigarette. When he noticed her, he held it up and asked, “Do you mind?”
It was, she thought, less a question than a demand, so she said, “No, of course not.” Tobacco smoke in the drawing room was the least of her worries.
“He’s a bit upset,” said Ned apologetically.
“So I see.” She sat down to wait for an explanation. Hearing about someone else’s problems had a decided appeal.
While Tony paced around the room, Ned sat down next to her and spoke in an undertone. “He heard from his partner, Georges. A man they were counting on for financing has backed out.”
“But that is not right.” She frowned in concentration. “Tony and Georges have already committed themselves to a site, haven’t they? How can this man just leave them in the lurch that way?”
Tony threw his cigarette into the fire and laughed bitterly. “It seems he can do it quite easily. He hasn’t signed any formal contract yet. We were foolish enough to trust his word.” He leaned on the mantelpiece and stared into the fire.
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