Jean-Marc smiled a little. “Letting our imaginations run away, are we?”
“No, damn it.” Verbeux’s arched brows drew down. Light caught his glasses and veiled his eyes. “I chose not to tell you because I wasn’t sure. No reason to concern you. Not until I knew.” He pointed toward the bedchamber. “Last week. Glass on a tray by the bed. Assumed someone being diligent. You don’t make a habit of drinking before bed.”
“I may start,” Jean-Marc muttered.
“Thought it was Madeira. Smelled wrong.”
Jean-Marc concentrated. “And?”
“Took it to an apothecary. Slow. Just got a message. Aconite.”
“Aconite?” Jean-Marc grimaced. “Monkshood?”
Verbeux nodded.
“You think someone tried to poison me?”
“Know they did.” Verbeux brushed back his hair. “That drink would have killed you. Since that night, I’ve watched everything placed before you. Then the coach.”
“I wasn’t in the coach.”
“Your coach. Could have assumed you’d be in it.”
“Conjecture.” But there was no proof to the contrary. “Why would…are you suggesting my uncle may be trying to assassinate me?”
Verbeux turned red.
“You are. That’s preposterous. Louis may be misguided, but he’s not a murderer. He is also fond of me, as I am of him on good days. And he knows that as far as I’m concerned, no one would be more happy to see him back in line for the throne.”
“Not the Duke himself.” The valet made to straighten his waistcoat, discovered he didn’t wear one and appeared horrified. “Excuse me, My Lord. My, er, dress.”
“Couldn’t care less.”
“Of course. Fanatic bunch, Duke’s supporters. Expected favors. Honors. What not. Angry now. Could want to get rid of you—hope for a new shot at the palace.”
Jean-Marc went to a beautiful red lacquer cabinet from China. It was filled with fine crystal decanters, and he poured two glasses of brandy. “Here,” he said to Verbeux. “Settle your nerves. And mine.”
“Thank you.” Verbeux looked into the glass and appeared disinclined to drink from it.
“Good God.” Jean-Marc exploded. “You’re seeing killers in every corner. If you don’t want my brandy, don’t have it.” He tossed down his own drink and poured another.
Verbeux nodded and half drained his glass. “With respect, My Lord, what happens to you is important to me. Protecting you—one of my duties.”
“The hell it is. I protect myself.”
“Indeed. But I will not give up vigilance. I believe these people are desperate.”
“And can you tell me exactly who these people are?”
“Not yet, but I will find them out.”
“Sit down,” Jean-Marc said. “You’re a good man, Verbeux, but you take yourself too seriously.”
Surprisingly, Verbeux accepted the invitation and sank into a leather chair. He warmed to his brandy and drank with enthusiasm.
For some minutes they both regarded the fire and the brass andirons that glittered from scrupulous cleaning. They drank in silence, although Jean-Marc expected Verbeux to expand further on his conspiracy theory.
“You grow fond of Meg Smiles,” the valet said, catching his master off guard. The drink had rendered Verbeux unusually talkative, it seemed. “Interesting creature. Not a beauty, though, hmm?”
“Not a beauty,” Jean-Marc agreed, wrestling with a desire to say that she was nevertheless the most intriguing woman he’d ever met.
“Unusual.” Evidently Verbeux hadn’t entirely missed Meg’s complexities. “Otherworldly, in a way.”
“Very much so. Not traditional. Did you ever know of a woman who did this abstracted thinking?”
“No, My Lord. I’ve been told Miss Smiles spends time each day meditating. And she has a mantra? I’ve read about it all. Says the same words. Like putting herself into a trance. Strange.”
“Peaceful,” Jean-Marc responded, and didn’t care if he gave Verbeux more food for thought.
“Only peaceful?” Verbeux asked. He rose and went to the red cabinet. He refilled his glass and held the decanter toward Jean-Marc. “More, My Lord?”
“I have enough. No, she isn’t only peaceful. There is more to her. Chance is a strange fellow. Our paths should never have crossed.”
“She is an answer to your prayers. The Princess blooms. I see her smile. Not often, but occasionally. And she follows directions—Miss Smiles’s directions.”
“I know. My half sister is about to turn into a swan, and I have Meg and Sibyl Smiles to thank for that. I’m not sure what part the caper merchant plays.”
“Ash provides contrast. Beside her the rest appear so desirable.”
“Indeed.” Jean-Marc had to grin. He leaned to pick up the poker and stir glowing coals. The room felt as comfortable as if he had occupied it for many years. The carpet was a rare piece that echoed the scene overhead. Dark green draperies made of velvet hung across casement windows. His large desk occupied the space in front of both windows. Books covered one wall, the wall into which was set the door to the bedchamber.
Verbeux cleared his throat and drank rather hurriedly. One might almost think he was boosting his courage.
Leaning back in his chair, Jean-Marc watched Verbeux and decided to allow the silence to last until the man said what was on his mind.
Verbeux shifted in his chair.
The hour grew late. Jean-Marc wasn’t tired. In fact, he was very awake and filled with thoughts that made peace impossible.
“You don’t want any part of ruling Mont Nuages,” Verbeux said finally. He removed his spectacles and dangled them between his knees. A handsome man, Jean-Marc could not help acknowledging. “You never wanted it.”
“I never expected it. I have not been prepared. Once I might have relished the possibility. Now I have other dreams.”
“What dreams?”
Jean-Marc made no remark about the impertinence of the question. “I am half English. The affairs of England are of the deepest interest to me. I could be very useful to Mont Nuages as ambassador to England. I already perform the task informally. And I’d like to farm. I could do both more than adequately.”
“Much more than adequately. Do it.”
Jean-Marc squinted across the rim of his glass. “Do it? Simply do it?”
“You would have to give the Prince a reason to change his mind—and also to accept your value to him here in England.”
“I’d like to believe he already knows my value to him here.”
“That will not stop him from moving to carry out the course he intends for you.”
“I suppose you intend to tell me what would stop him?”
“He wishes you to marry very well. No doubt a princess. He will want your marriage to provide an advantageous alliance.”
Jean-Marc digested the idea and said, “Just as he expects Désirée to marry someone useful.”
“Naturally. Sees it as the most use he will get from her.”
Tempted as he was, nevertheless Jean-Marc still did not share his thoughts about his sister.
“You must defy him on the subject of your marriage.”
“As you know, I have no plans to marry. At least not in the foreseeable future.”
“Change your plans. Lady Upworth has shown herself more than willing to assume the position. But there was, I understand, an even earlier marriage that was annulled. The Prince would never approve of the gossip that must have caused.”
Careful to disguise his curiosity about Verbeux’s real feelings toward Ila, Jean-Marc said, “I’m afraid I would be deterred because the lady has a certain reputation.”
“For what?”
Aha, so there might be something afoot with these two. Verbeux would be unlikely to question him otherwise. Jean-Marc shrugged. “Some call her the Grateful Widow. And they don’t mean she’s grateful for any kindness she receives. It is her relief at being a widow to
which they refer.”
“Her husband was much older. He was also sick for some time. She’s finally free. That’s acceptable.”
“The lady is entertaining.” This could be highly dangerous territory. “She is not for me. On the same topic, I have seen you regard Miss Sibyl Smiles with more than passing interest. And I shouldn’t be surprised if she’s developing a tendresse for you.”
A deep breath expanded Verbeux’s chest. “Lovely girl. Innocent. Too innocent for me. She needs gentle treatment. I am not gentle.”
“Really, Verbeux?” Jean-Marc could scarcely contain his fascination at the thought of Verbeux being a forceful man with women. “Is there someone else?”
“Perhaps. You are the one under discussion. There is someone you admire. We both know this. Someone you would gladly take to your bed.”
“You are too blunt.”
“I am honest,” Verbeux said. “And I know what is at stake here. Oh, for God’s sake—what is that?”
With a flurry of feet, the largest cat Jean-Marc had ever seen catapulted itself between himself and Verbeux. Gray and white, with green eyes and a pink nose, it sat there and looked from one face to the other.
“A cat, damn it,” Jean-Marc said. “Where did it come from? And who owns it? It eats a good many meals, that much is obvious. The servants know they may not keep animals. Have you seen him before?”
“I have not—and how did he get in when the door is closed?” Verbeux asked, and Jean-Marc actually thought he saw anxiety in the other man’s eyes. “I don’t like the look of him.”
“Must have arrived earlier when the door was open. Cats like to hide. Get him out of here.”
Verbeux didn’t appear enthusiastic.
The cat rose slowly, arched its back and strolled to rub languorously against Jean-Marc’s legs. He heard the creature begin to purr, and occasionally it looked up at him with what looked ridiculously like a smile in its green eyes.
“Finish what you were saying,” Jean-Marc said and bent to stroke the cat. “I’ll see to this later. I’ll have to speak with Rench. No, no, not you, Verbeux, me. They need to learn that I have my fingers on the pulse of this household.”
“My plan is simple,” Verbeux said. “You do something that will anger your father and make it impossible for him to persist in his plan to make you his successor.”
Jean-Marc laughed shortly. “What would that be? Am I to declare war on England?”
“I have already as good as told you what I have in mind. A very public wedding to someone far enough beneath you, to make the Prince withdraw his confidence in you—as his heir. He would come around soon enough and be glad to have you representing Mont Nuages here—but he would never allow you to rule if he considered your wife unworthy.”
Jean-Marc looked into the cat’s eyes and said, “I have little stomach for using women so badly.”
“Using them badly? By providing one of them with a home she never dreamed of? Marry, have children, farm—serve your country as pleases you—but live where your heart is, in England. Marry Meg Smiles.”
23
Even wearing a cloak over her gown and robe did not keep Meg warm. She crouched low to the ground beside a massive suit of armor that stood between two doors leading to Jean-Marc’s apartments. Her legs felt as if they would never move again.
She should have fled the corridor some time ago. The arrival of Verbeux had sent her scurrying for cover. At first she hadn’t known it was him, but when he’d entered Jean-Marc’s study, she’d heard him speak.
Both men had deep voices that carried clearly. Meg had heard too much. Verbeux had made his astonishing suggestion about her, and Jean-Marc’s response hadn’t been clear, but from his tone she knew he had brushed the idea aside. She should not be surprised or disappointed by that.
Halibut had brought her on this chase. The cat had come into her bedchamber and peered around. Princess Désirée, who had crept to Meg an hour earlier, very upset at learning the full story of the affair in Bond Street, had crawled into Meg’s bed and fallen asleep. The cat jumped onto a table near the bed, peered at his mistress, then raced from the room. Meg followed, terrified the Princess’s beloved Halibut would be discovered by someone who would insist he be dispatched elsewhere. She had been appalled to see him dart behind Verbeux and into Jean-Marc’s study.
“Better go about your business, Verbeux,” Jean-Marc said clearly. “No, leave the cat to me. I believe I know who he belongs to. I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention seeing him.”
“You will give further consideration to what I’ve suggested?” Verbeux asked.
“I have a great many matters to consider.” That was the only response. Then, “Good night to you.”
Within moments Verbeux came into the corridor. He appeared tired and disheveled and quite unlike himself. With hurried footsteps, he left the Count’s apartments.
Slowly, Meg stood up, her legs tingling as blood returned. The best course would be for her to follow Verbeux and return to her quarters.
But leaving Halibut here would be unwise.
It was an excuse, but she was only a woman, with a woman’s longings, and she longed to see Jean-Marc and to have him be kind to her. Even if she did know he considered her much his inferior.
Would she be prepared to toss aside her pride and accept any small crumb he offered?
Perhaps.
Meg tapped lightly at the door, and almost ran away. But Jean-Marc’s command to come in stopped her. After checking her hair—still in its braids—and glancing downward at her odd attire, she held herself erect and entered. She thought fleetingly of the packet Hunter had brought. Adam had sent it—the preparation for her hair from Mme. Suzanne. She would use it just as soon as she could.
“Meg?” Sitting with Halibut on his lap, he glanced up, and his surprise was evident. “Come in and close the door. Get over here by the fire. What are you thinking of? Your feet are bare. You should not have left your bed. You’ve had a shock and need—”
“My Lord, could you please not speak anymore? Could you please just allow me to take the cat and leave?”
He glared at her. “No. No, I cannot allow you to tell me what to do. You insinuate yourself into my rooms, looking like…looking like…” He indicated the length of her. “Like a waif recently drenched and not quite dry. And then you expect me to be quiet while you leave without any explanation. No, damn it. Do as you are told. Sit in that chair—” he pointed to one facing his “—and be quiet. I shall be the one to talk.”
“I’m sorry Halibut found his way here. It’s not like him to wander away. I do hope—”
“I do hope that you intend to follow my instructions fairly shortly. The cat is yours?”
“Oh, no…I mean, um, yes, he’s mine.”
“He’s not yours. And lying doesn’t become you. Let me guess. He belongs to Désirée.”
“I’m sure I can’t say.”
“Exactly, he belongs to Désirée. She has always been fond of animals but was never allowed to own one.”
“That’s so sad.”
“If you say so,” Jean-Marc said. “I will discuss this creature with her in the morning. He’ll sleep here tonight.” Halibut jumped heavily to the floor and curled up before the fire. He kept his eerie eyes open, and they moved back and forth between Jean-Marc and Meg.
“That’s so fair of you,” Meg said. “I know the Princess will be grateful for your consideration.”
“What if I tell you I require some persuasion from you if I am to allow the cat to remain in this house?”
Meg prickled all over. “You want me to persuade you?”
“I do indeed. How are you feeling? Bruised, no doubt.”
“I feel perfectly well, thank you.” Wrong answer. “Fairly well, thank you. What bruises I have are minor. The cuts on my neck are annoying, but will disappear soon enough. And my hand is healing.”
He gripped the arms of his chair and locked his elbows. “A litany o
f injuries for which I feel responsible.”
“You aren’t responsible. Anyway, I’m sure a good night’s sleep will make me completely recovered.”
“Should you like to have that night’s sleep with me?”
Speech deserted her.
“I would ensure that it was very good, Meg.”
His regard bewildered her, but it also excited and made her quake.
“Thank you for the offer, My Lord, but it isn’t necessary. However, since we are alone and I have one or two things to discuss with you, I’d appreciate being allowed to speak.”
He shifted forward in his seat and allowed his long, strong hands to relax.
Since he seemed disinclined to comment, Meg persisted. “The Princess has been invited to as many as three events in one day and evening, My Lord. M. Verbeux informed me that you wish her to attend every one of these.”
“Correct.”
“Impossible.”
“She will accept all invitations.”
“Why, My Lord?”
“Jean-Marc, remember? In order not to miss a single opportunity to find her an admirable husband, that’s why. Although it may be necessary to refuse for certain days. Not many. I will inform you when I know.”
Halibut got up, executed an impressive forward and backward stretching maneuver, yawned hugely and planted himself at Jean-Marc’s feet. The cat stared upward into the man’s face.
“Impertinent animal,” Jean-Marc muttered.
Meg laughed and was too late in trying to disguise the sound.
Jean-Marc’s wide grin delighted her, and she shook her head. “He is only a cat. Evidently he finds you captivating.”
“Evidently. If you have finished with your questions, I should like to return to discussing my own concerns.”
“The musicale. It is too soon.”
“The invitations have already been delivered, and responses are arriving. Everyone is accepting. Your concern must be with costumes. Do not forget that you promised to take care of mine also. An Eastern theme? What shall you do with me, I wonder?”
Meg was overwhelmed, and confused, and exhilarated, and frightened. And she would not be anywhere but right where she was, with this man—alone. She was also foolish.
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