Midnight Raider

by Thacker, Shelly

  Elizabeth bit back an oath. She had been a woman in need the last time she was here.

  His fingers “accidentally” brushed her bosom—and for the first time, she felt afraid.

  Afraid of the stark, black hatred that drained every last bit of kindness and light from her soul. Thank God she hadn’t brought a loaded pistol.

  Because she wouldn’t have thought twice about shooting him dead.

  “I-I appreciate your generosity, Mr. Montaigne,” she choked out.

  “Please, you must call me Charles. I’ve heard so much about you, I feel as if I’ve known you a long time.”

  His gaze fastened on her décolletage, and Elizabeth had the sick feeling that he was mentally peeling the red dress from her body. “Truly?” She hoped her voice sounded stronger than it felt. “I do hope our mutual acquaintances have been kind.”

  He smiled and motioned for her to precede him into his study. Her legs felt wooden, but she managed to make it across the entry hall. As she stepped inside the large, well-remembered room, she felt all the breath leave her body.

  “My solicitor spoke quite well of you,” Montaigne continued. “I understand you attended a party of his a few weeks past. Everyone was quite taken with you.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember now.” Elizabeth struggled to inhale just one mouthful of air as wave after wave of memories assaulted her. The Queen Anne desk. Spindle-legged chairs. Ledger books. Silver inkwell. Everything was the same. The scent of wax and lemons assailed her.

  All was exactly as it had been on that frigid November day when she had come here seeking mercy, and found none.

  She summoned a bored sigh. “All the parties run together in one’s mind after a while.”

  “I’ve little time to attend such frivolities myself,” he said. “My businesses require my complete attention.”

  Instead of seating her before his desk this time, he escorted her to a plush green settee near the window. A title and money, Elizabeth thought bitterly, apparently made all the difference necessary between being tossed into prison and treated like an honored guest.

  Montaigne went to a three-tiered corner table that sported a variety of bottles and glasses, pouring a generous measure of claret for each of them. As he walked toward her, the cut crystal goblets gleamed like diamonds in the sunlight that streamed through the tall sash windows.

  What was wrong with the English nation, she thought with a flash of despair, that this monster should enjoy such splendor while innocents suffered? Perhaps Marcus was right: guns and gold and men like Montaigne ruled the world, and always would. Perhaps she was a fool for risking her life to try and change that in even a small way.

  She accepted the glass he handed her. “It sounds as if you are indeed a busy man… Charles.”

  Montaigne sat beside her. “Busy, yes. But I can always find time to advise a charming lady like yourself. It’s so rare that I’m able to host a member of the fairer sex in my own home.”

  His tongue seemed to linger over the word “sex.”

  Elizabeth forced her doubts aside. She had a great deal to accomplish—and despair and polite chitchat weren’t going to get her anywhere.

  She arranged herself in a pose that was proper but verging on provocative. Nell had spent the past week teaching it to her. Forcing a smile to her lips, she set about obtaining the information that would erase Montaigne and his greed from her memory forever.

  “Charles,” she said sweetly. “I understand how very valuable your time is, so I won’t waste it.”

  “My time is yours.” He took a drink. “How may I be of service?”

  Elizabeth sipped her claret. “As I mentioned in my letter, I am in need of advice in the area of investments. Everyone who is anyone says you are the most successful investor in all of London.”

  “Flattery.” He smiled.

  “Not at all, I’m sure. I shall be coming into a bit of money soon, and I wish to find some way of increasing it. My husband, you see, has had some success with his recent business ventures in Italy, and has instructed me to begin work on an estate.”

  “A younger son, is he, not inheriting the family properties?” Montaigne nodded knowingly. “I have consulted with many people in your situation, Lady Barnes-Finchley. May I call you Elizabeth?”

  “Please do,” she said smoothly, holding his gaze.

  Would he remember another Elizabeth on another day in this room?

  “Well, Elizabeth.” He leaned toward her. “There are any number of choices that would keep your money quite safe and provide a modest profit. The East India Company is doing splendidly in China. And the Spitalfields silk trade has been particularly good this year. Or perhaps—”

  “Yes, of course.” Elizabeth inched closer to him. “But I am not interested in a modest profit.”

  His smile broadened and his eyes dropped to her bodice again. “A woman after my own heart.”

  She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial level. “I am told that there is a much faster way to make a very large amount of money.”

  He glanced up with a sly look, then his expression changed to one of intense interest. “You have the most beautiful eyes, Elizabeth. Such a lovely shade.”

  She nearly bolted from her seat. Only by the greatest effort of will did she remain frozen in place.

  His brows came together in puzzlement. “I’ve seen that color before…” He shook his head. “But for the life of me I can’t remember where.”

  Elizabeth wanted to strike him. It was me! she nearly shouted. A desperate, pregnant woman you condemned without a thought! Was I so insignificant that you don’t remember at all?

  She knew she should be grateful, but instead wanted to drop the entire charade right now and tell him exactly who she was and what she thought of him.

  It horrified her to realize that if she’d had ammunition in the gun in her pocket, she might have done it.

  As it was, she managed to hold onto her smile and tilt her head to one side in a coquettish gesture. “Thank you, sir, for the compliment. I must tell you”—her voice dropped to a seductive tone—“with my husband away so long, it’s been quite a while since I’ve been able to enjoy a gentleman’s… compliments.” She moistened her lips with her tongue. “I’ve been so dreadfully lonely.”

  He slid his arm along the back of the settee. His fingers brushed her shoulder, and Elizabeth felt bile rising in her throat.

  “And it’s been a very long time.” He put his empty glass on the floor. “Since I’ve had the company of such a charming and beautiful young woman.”

  She looked at him boldly from beneath her kohl-blackened lashes. “A pity for us both to suffer so.”

  Before she had time to consider the wisdom of what she was doing, he was on her. Pushing her back into the padded seat, he pressed his open mouth to her neck. Elizabeth felt a scream rising in her chest, and forced herself to turn it into a moan. Filled with disgust, she focused her attention on trying not to throw up.

  He reached into her bodice, grabbing her breast.

  “Charles, please!”

  “Anything, my sweet. Anything.”

  He apparently thought she was begging for more. Elizabeth felt tears stinging her eyes and struggled to bring him back to the topic she had in mind—now, while lust made him vulnerable.

  “W-we were speaking of my money.”

  “Yes, yes.” He took her claret from her hand, tipped the glass and spilled it over her décolletage. “Well…” He lapped up the wine. “For quick profits, the gin trade is best.”

  “The gin trade?” she asked innocently, barely keeping her hands from clawing his face.

  “Cursed highwaymen have been giving me trouble, but it’s still the fastest way to make an astounding amount of money.” He raised his head at last, his eyes sparkling with lust and greed. “I can tell you everything you need to know.”

  “Wonderful,” she whispered. Suddenly she extricated herself from his embrace and stood up. “But I’m sure we’
ll not have time to discuss it all today. When may I see you again?”

  “B-but…” he babbled, surprise and disappointment on his face. “But…”

  “Really, Charles,” she reprimanded. She felt much better out of his arms, but knew a day-long bath wouldn’t be enough to make her feel clean after his pawing. “A tumble in your study would be so common.”

  His expression brightened. “Of course. You’re right. I was carried away by your beauty. Let’s go upstairs.”

  She sashayed out of reach as he rose from the settee. “With your servants all about? Think of my reputation.”

  “But what do you suggest?” he pleaded.

  “Let us meet again in a more… exciting place.” She took a deep breath and launched her salvo, hoping his lust-crazed mind would loosen his tongue. “My home, perhaps? On Sunday next?” She purposely chose the day of St. Bartholomew’s Fair.

  “Sunday next? My dear, I would love to, but I’m to meet with my coachmen here in the morning—” He stopped himself suddenly.

  “Coachmen, pooh!” She pouted, dropping her fan. She bent over to pick it up, exactly as she had practiced. “We could meet early, if you like. Before church. Think of it!”

  His gaze was fastened on her décolletage and the immoral idea apparently excited him beyond his power of reason. “Yes,” he replied quickly. “I’m to meet them at seven, but after…” He shook his head, frowning. “No that won’t do at all. It’s the day of St. Bartholomew’s Fair, you know.”

  “Oh, the Fair. I had forgotten. Simply everyone will be there, won’t they? How disappointing. We won’t be able to”—she fluttered her lashes—“rendezvous after all.”

  He crossed the room and took her arm. “You must see me before then. I won’t last!”

  Elizabeth hesitated. The more time she spent with him, the more likely it was that he might remember where he had seen her violet eyes before. But she still knew only part of his plan for the Fair. Another tête-à-tête might reveal more.

  Or it might land her in a situation beyond her control.

  She decided that an event with a larger number of people might solve both problems. “Charles, I’ve so little time and so many social engagements.”

  “Make time,” he begged.

  “Perhaps… I recall that Lady Beauclerk is having an assembly on Wednesday. It’s an all-day affair, with dinner in the gardens and cards and then supper and dancing.” Elizabeth had already declined an invitation from Lady Kimble, Georgiana’s irritating acquaintance, to accompany her and her friends. She supposed she could change her mind. “Meet me there?”

  “Yes. Anything. They’ve a large house, haven’t they? With many bedrooms?”

  “Dozens,” Elizabeth promised. She had no idea, having never been in Lady Beauclerk’s house.

  “Then I will meet you there, Elizabeth.”

  She had to withstand a kiss on the lips before he would let her go. It was all she could do not to wipe her mouth and run for the exit.

  As he escorted her toward the door, he flashed that lecherous grin. “I will look forward to—”

  The sounds of yelling in the entry hall interrupted him. A second later the study doors were thrown inward. Gasping, Elizabeth leaped back as a young man, fending off two footmen, tried to throw himself at Montaigne.

  “Bastard!” he cried. “I’ll kill you!”

  Montaigne moved so that he was partially shielded behind Elizabeth. “Underwood! Apsley! Remove this rabble!”

  The two servants wrestled the man to the ground but couldn’t keep him quiet.

  “My sisters,” he sobbed. “Only fifteen and sixteen! Innocents! And you sent them to a brothel and let your filthy, depraved friends use them!”

  Shocked to her depths, Elizabeth couldn’t speak, couldn’t move.

  Montaigne came out from behind her now that his attacker had been subdued. “You offered their services as payment for your debts,” he said with annoyance, signaling to his servants to take the man away.

  “You said that you would have them work in the kitchens! Liar!” He kicked at the footmen as they dragged him out. “I’ll kill you. I swear on my sisters’ honor, I will kill you!”

  “Apsley!” Montaigne called after his servant. “Take that piece of filth to the magistrate and have a charge sworn out against him for breaking into my home and attacking my person. Tell them I won’t settle for anything less than a hanging, and I want it soon. None of their thumb-twiddling this time!”

  “Yes, sir.” The servant closed the study doors.

  Not sparing the young man another thought, Montaigne turned toward Elizabeth. “Are you quite all right, my dear?”

  Her mind reeling with what he had done, Elizabeth looked at him blankly.

  “There, there. I know it’s frightening, the way these lower-class vermin intrude upon our lives these days.” He put an arm around her shoulders. “But rest assured, I’ve sent dozens like that one to a well-deserved end. Disgusting rabble. The world would be a better place if we just exterminated them all. Don’t you agree?”

  Elizabeth desperately tried to remember her role and find her voice. “Y-yes.”

  Montaigne escorted her to the front door and helped her into her cape himself, fondling her as he wrapped it around her shoulders. Elizabeth shuddered, but the conceited slime took it for arousal.

  “I’ve never met a woman like you!” He smiled broadly, finally letting her go and holding the door for her.

  Elizabeth forced herself to return his smile. Yes, yes you have, you bastard. “Good day, Charles. It’s been a most… delightful afternoon.”

  She wouldn’t remember later how she got out the door and down the steps to the hackney coach that—thank God—was waiting by the curb. The driver had to half-lift her inside. She barely managed to choke out a direction before she covered her eyes with both hands. She collapsed into the corner as he closed the door.

  “And how did that go?” a familiar voice asked dryly from the seat across from her.

  Her head came up, but she didn’t even care that Marcus had taken it upon himself to wait inside her coach. “How do you think it went? Absolutely smashing!”

  To her dismay, she started crying. She turned and hid her face.

  Marcus was beside her in a second, taking her into his arms. “What did he do to you? Elizabeth—”

  “Nothing! He kissed me. That was all.” She withdrew from Marcus, untangling herself from his embrace. “I found out a great deal. The gold is arriving at his house on Saturday, in ten trunks, disguised as deliveries from different shops.” She wiped at the smeared powder and rouge on her lips and face, trying to get it off. “He’s meeting with his coachmen at seven the morning of the Fair. I’m not sure what route they intend to take, or how many guards there will be, but I’ll find out.”

  “You’ll find out? You’re not meeting with him again, not after this—”

  “I have to! I didn’t want to ask too many questions all at once or he would have become suspicious. I’ve convinced him that I’m a lonely wife in need of a little company. We’re meeting at Lady Beauclerk’s assembly Wednesday afternoon.”

  “You are not meeting with him again,” Marcus growled. “Not alone.”

  “I won’t be alone. I’ll be going with Lady Kimble and her friends. I’ll just slip away with him for a short while and—”

  “Absolutely not. We know all we need to know.”

  “We do not know all we need to know.” She turned away from him.

  “Your part in this is done, Elizabeth. I will take care of everything from here.”

  His tone was unyielding, and full of concern for her that made fresh tears well in her eyes. “I have to keep this second assignation with him. If I don’t, he’ll definitely be suspicious, after the performance I just put on.”

  “What kind of performance do you mean, exactly?”

  “I don’t want to discuss it anymore!” Elizabeth pulled a handkerchief from her pocket to try and wipe of
f the rest of her face paint.

  The hackney coach came to a halt in front of Nell’s shop. The driver hadn’t even opened the door yet but Elizabeth got out on her own, hurrying toward the shop, wanting to put this entire dreadful day behind her.

  A man she had never seen before stepped forward from where he had been leaning against the wall. “Pardonnez-moi, madame.” He blocked her path. “May I ask you some questions?”

  Marcus strode up behind her. “Who are you?” he demanded “What’s this about?”

  “Beg your pardon, monsieur. I should introduce myself.” He bowed. “I am Monsieur Jean-Pascal Rochambeau.”

  Chapter 20

  “You really must excuse me, monsieur.” Elizabeth tried to move around the Frenchman and get to the door. She took him for some sort of fancy peddler. “I’m in a hurry.”

  The man blocked her way again. “Oui, I have seen you here before, madame. Hurrying in and out at all hours.”

  Elizabeth stopped and stared at him, feeling all the color drain from her cheeks. She started to stutter a response when Marcus cut in.

  “We don’t wish to be rude,” he said coolly, taking Elizabeth’s elbow. “But the lady has had a terrible fright, as I’m sure you can tell by her appearance. We haven’t time to chat.”

  “A fright?” the Frenchman asked, not moving an inch.

  “Footpads accosted her in the park. She wishes to go inside and refresh herself.”

  “Yes,” Elizabeth added quickly. “Th-the shopkeeper’s a friend of mine.”

  “Vraiment? So sorry to hear of your misfortune, madame.” He kept studying her, subtly looking up and down as if gauging her height, before his attention returned to her face. “All of England is overrun with criminals, n’est-ce pas?”

  Elizabeth suddenly felt light-headed. “I’m not sure what you mean, sir.”

  The man moved out of her way at last. “Only that you English, you are so resistant to having any policemen, you must rely on the thief-takers.” He smiled, a friendly, charming grin that Elizabeth found not the least bit warm. “And most of them are not so successful, eh?”