The Bride Wore Scarlet

by Liz Carlyle

  Uneasy, Geoff poured the washbasin full of water, dampened a cloth, and mopped her brow. “You should try to sleep,” he suggested.

  “Oh, what a miserable state of affairs this is!” Arms wrapped round her waist, Anaïs was perched on the very edge of the berth, having refused his entreaties to lie down. “I think I’m going to retch again. Please, go find something better to do, and spare me the humiliation, won’t you?”

  Geoff managed a weak smile. “What kind of Guardian leaves his partner alone in the lurch?” he enquired softly.

  “What kind of Guardian gets seasick?”

  “A great many, no doubt, under the right circumstances.” He tucked a springy, wayward curl behind her ear. “This is a wicked sea today. Here, look at me. Your hair is falling down.”

  Anaïs reached behind as if to tidy it, pulled the wrong pin, and fully half the arrangement came tumbling over one shoulder. Muttering a most unladylike oath, she flung the pin across the cabin.

  Geoff sat down on the edge beside her. “Look, turn round,” he soothed. “I’m going to take the pins out. Then you are going to lie down.”

  “No,” she said feebly, propping one shoulder against the wall of the berth.

  But she offered no real resistance to his plan. His fingers were clumsy at first, plucking at the higgledy-piggledy pins. Eventually, however, they were out, and Geoff set about taking the other side down, marveling at the length and the texture.

  Just as he had fantasized, Anaïs’s hair was a glossy, springy mass of feminine glory that tumbled to her waist, and he found himself wondering how on earth she tamed it long enough to put it up.

  Unable to resist the temptation, Geoff pulled out the last pin, then ran his hands gently through it. And as he felt the warmth of it draw like satin between this fingers, it dawned on him that he’d never taken down a woman’s hair just for the pleasure of it. Just for the sensual self-indulgence of feeling the warm, ropy silk draw through his fingers like air and light and water all at once.

  He opened his mouth to say . . . well, something witless, most likely. But he was saved by a sharp knock at the door.

  Geoff answered it to find the cabin boy, a steaming hot mug in hand. “Thé au gingembre pour madame,” said Étienne, “avec opium. Le capitaine, he sends it. For sleep, oui?”

  “Oui, merci,” said Geoff, taking the mug. “This time she will drink it.”

  And she did—between bouts of insisting she would simply heave it back up again.

  “You’ve had nothing to eat or drink in twenty-four hours,” he said, pressing the mug to her lips. “That alone will make you sick. Now drink it.”

  Had she been fully herself, Anaïs would never have surrendered to his will. He knew that. But in her weakened state, she gave in, looking up at him between sips with round, brown puppy-dog eyes until something inside his chest did a curious little flip-flop.

  Good Lord. The woman was ill, pale, and in general, a mess. What the hell was wrong with him?

  He hadn’t long to ponder it. After half a mug, the ginger and the opium did its job with surprising swiftness. One moment she was drinking, and the next instant, her chin hit her chest and Anaïs slumped against him with the whole of her weight.

  Thank God.

  She would be out of her misery until daylight, at least. And at this speed, they should sight land late tomorrow evening.

  Throwing back the blankets on the narrow berth, Geoff scooped her up and settled her fully into it, wondering to what extent he dared undress her. He began by simply unbuckling the little pistol she wore round her calf, then pulling off her shoes—while trying not to stare at her legs, a matter of gentlemanly deportment at which he failed miserably.

  His hand itched to draw up her skirts—all the way up—to see, amongst other things, whether she truly wore the mark of the Guardian. And it inexplicably maddened him that Rance had seen what he had not, when neither of them had any business staring at the lady’s bare hip.

  And in the end, Geoff allowed himself the small—and faintly wicked—pleasure of running his hand down the turn of her calf, marveling at the layers of hard muscle beneath the deceptively tender skin. Then, with a measure of reluctance, he took her ankles and tucked them gently under the blanket.

  But the berth was so short, even Anaïs was cramped by her height. On a soft curse, he unbuttoned the front of her green gown. As he had suspected, she wore a modern corset with a bone busk. Swiftly, he popped the fasteners. Her dainty breasts shifted and flattened beneath the thin lawn of her shift, and her shoulders rolled back, relaxed. On a sigh of what sounded like pure pleasure, Anaïs squirmed halfway onto her back, and began to breathe deeply.

  There. It was the best he could do. It was all he dared do.

  But she was asleep, and she was comfortable.

  With one last look of regret, Geoff pulled the blanket fully over her, and tucked it in all around.

  And on his next breath, he suddenly wished that he had not called upon Lady Anisha Stafford the day after Ruthveyn’s wedding. Or invited her and her younger half brother, Lord Lucan, to the theatre with his mother the evening after that.

  He had even gone so far as to extract his mother’s promise to call upon Lady Anisha during his absence. To take her to tea, and ask her to dinner. All of which had left his mother with a speculative glint in her eye. So he had told her the truth—insofar as there was a truth to be told. He greatly admired the lady. He meant to court her.

  They would likely be shopping for a trousseau by the time he got back from Brussels.

  Geoff felt suddenly a little seasick himself.

  Lady Anisha was, of course, a dear friend and always would be. She was so dear a friend, Geoff wished never to do anything that might leave her feeling awkward. He hoped he had not already set himself on a course toward doing precisely that.

  He set one hand about the turn of Anaïs’s cheek. She was like Ruthveyn’s sister in that one glance at her black hair and warm skin could tell you she was no mere English rose, but a hothouse orchid, rare and slightly exotic. In every other way, however, they were as dissimilar as two women could possibly be.

  He dropped his hand, and willed his mind to turn in some other direction from the one it was rambling toward.

  In an effort to distract himself, he went to his portmanteau and withdrew the files DuPont had given him. In addition to the dossiers and the notes, DuPont had included a few personal items, amongst them a letter with Madame Moreau’s signature, and a long, yellow hair ribbon tagged with Giselle Moreau’s name.

  This Geoff plucked from the packet, and for a time he sat at the little dining table drawing the ribbon pensively through his fingers. Sometimes personal effects could be of use, but because the child was of the Vateis, he would see little. The mother, however, was a different story. Her letter might open the void to him, but tonight he hadn’t the heart. He did not want to see Giselle’s future, or feel her mother’s fears. He did not want to know Madame Moreau’s grief or feel any lingering hint of her memories.

  It might all seem too painfully familiar.

  He tossed down the ribbon as if it were an asp to his breast. Rising, he turned the wick on the table lamp, leaving just enough light to watch over Anaïs. Then he yanked off his boots, tossed his coat and waistcoat over a chair, and gingerly wedged himself into the bunk that lay opposite, knees pulled halfway to his chest.

  Rolling onto his side, Geoff let his gaze drift over her, and heaved a sigh. He was cramped, damp, and more than a little obsessed. As Anaïs had said, a miserable state of affairs indeed.

  Lord, it was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 7

  In the practical art of war, the best thing of all is to take the enemy’s country whole and intact.

  Sun Tzu, The Art of War

  Brussels was beautiful in the spring. Pushing her bedchamber windows wide, Anaïs leaned out over the Rue de l’Escalier and inhaled deeply of air that was, for the moment, fresh with the scent of
rain. Sadly, it would not last, the new butler had assured her, for the effluent of the city, like that of London, was carried away on a river that ran through the middle of town.

  But for now Brussels was lovely and—unlike the Jolie Marie—very, very still. And to Anaïs, not even a deep whiff of the River Senne could lessen the beauty of that.

  Across the narrow lane, pots of early flowers perched almost jauntily upon the wrought-iron balconies that marched up the street. Directly below, two elderly men were unloading the fourgon that had followed them from their inn at Ostend, grumbling at each other in what sounded like two or three different languages.

  Reluctantly, Anaïs withdrew, for she could feel the promise of rain. It had drizzled almost the whole of their journey inland, but she had not minded, so grateful had she been to get her feet on land, dry or otherwise.

  “And this way, madame, is your dressing room,” said the butler’s voice behind her.

  Anaïs spun about with a bright smile. “Lead the way, Bernard.”

  The butler showed her into a wide passageway with a pair of wardrobes, storage for several trunks, and a small dressing table. In the confined space, one could still catch the scent of fresh paint.

  “Through this door, madame, is Mr. MacLachlan’s chamber,” Bernard informed her. “The bathroom, it is shared, and all the rooms connect.”

  Anaïs felt her smile fade. This she had not considered when giving in to Geoff’s argument that a sham marriage—even in front of the crew and staff—made a slip-up less likely.

  “I am sure, Bernard, that it will do nicely,” she managed.

  The servant bowed and went out into the passageway to oversee the trunks, which were now bumbling up the steps. Anaïs watched him go, then drifted back to the window.

  Bernard was far more formal than any servant Anaïs’s family had ever engaged. He had come, he explained to them, directly from the Parisian town house of Mr. van de Velde, as had the two housemaids. The footmen had come from Monsieur DuPont’s. The kitchen staff from someone in Amsterdam.

  Though they were all trusted and loyal, they were a small group, Bernard had ruefully explained. In addition, their mysterious host—who, in the end, had not been especially mysterious after all—had brought with him a lady’s maid and valet when he met them at the port.

  Mr. van de Velde had turned out to be a short, fat, and very rich Rotterdam banker with a swooping mustache and fingers in the financial pies of France, Belgium, and the Netherlands. Like Bessett, he wore the Fraternitas symbol on his cravat pin, albeit without the thistle cartouche.

  After a warm welcome, and yet another warning about Lezennes’ reputation, he provided them with maps, keys, and a list of contacts throughout Brussels, then whisked himself off again, for he was too well-known, he explained, to be seen with them beyond the privacy of his enclosed carriage.

  Behind Anaïs, Bernard gently cleared his throat.

  “The Royal Palace, madame, is that way,” he said, pointing up the hill. “Madame Moreau’s church is a short walk down, just through the Grand Place and flower market. Mind your step, if you please, as you go out, for all of Brussels is under construction.”

  Anaïs smiled. “The Revolution has been good for business, I collect?”

  “In some ways, oui.” With a tight smile, Bernard dropped his voice. “And especially good for the bankers. Monsieur van de Velde has many business interests hereabouts.”

  “Including this house?”

  Bernard gave a decidedly Gallic shrug, and opened his hands. “Alas, the previous owner played his cards too deeply,” he murmured. “He was compelled to let out the house for a year. To meet the mortgage.”

  “A loan for which Monsieur van de Velde held the note, no doubt,” said Anaïs wryly.

  Bernard lifted one slender eyebrow. “He holds many such mortgages, I am sure.”

  She turned back to the window, wondering yet again just how deep the tentacles of the Fraternitas wove throughout the governments and the economies of Europe. And van de Velde had taken the house for a year? Good Lord. Surely it wouldn’t take that long to make off with the Moreau family—or what was left of them.

  With Maria’s reluctant complicity, Anaïs could skate her way past her parents’ curiosity for a while—a couple of months, perhaps, now that the growing season was here. With a little luck, Armand would be too busy cutting a swath through Town to realize she’d ever come home from Tuscany. And Nate . . . oh, Nate was like a bloodhound if he caught the scent of scandal. Even the clever Maria would not be able to put him off then. But Nate was frightfully busy, and used to her being far away.

  Oh, it was true that a Guardian—even an unofficial one such as herself—often had to make personal sacrifices. She would certainly do what was necessary. But a year’s absence, she considered, would burn some bridges. It would ruin her in society. And heaven only knew how she would manage under the same roof with Bessett—with Geoff—for that long.

  It would be helpful, perhaps, if he returned to being that haughty, domineering gentleman she’d first met at the St. James Society. Instead, he seemed determined to keep her perpetually off-kilter with the occasional spate of pure kindness. From time to time, even those ice-blue eyes began to look capable of melting.

  But Bernard was still standing at her elbow as if awaiting her next command.

  “So the house with the red and yellow tulips,” she murmured, “that is the house of the Vicomte de Lezennes?”

  Bernard stepped nearer. “Oui, madame,” he said, dropping his voice. “Already we have accomplished much. Mrs. Janssen has made the acquaintance of Lezennes’ cook at the market in the Grand Sablon, and our footman Petit is—how do you call it?—stepping out with the upstairs maid? They will have much to tell you of the rhythms and gossip of the house.”

  Anaïs pulled the sheer drapery aside, and peered more intently at the house just two doors up the steep lane. “And what of the child?” she asked pensively. “Has she been seen at all?”

  “Very little,” said the servant. “Most days Madame Moreau takes her to the park for a midday walk, and Lezennes meets them there, then walks them home again. He has also engaged a governess to come in each day.”

  Just then, Geoff’s firm footsteps came swiftly up the stairs. Anaïs turned to see him striding down the passageway, one of her trunks balanced easily on his right shoulder. Today he wore his straight, heavy hair tied back with a leather cord, as if he were too busy to give it any thought. Her new French maid hastened after him, barely able to keep up with Geoff’s long legs.

  “Well, that’s the last of it,” he said, making his way through to her dressing room. “The house is splendidly situated, Bernard.”

  “Certainly the view across the street could hardly be better.” Anaïs went to the dressing room door as Geoff set the trunk down with a grunt. “And look, my dear,” she continued, crossing her arms over her chest. “Our dressing rooms connect—and we share a bath.”

  From his kneeling position, Bessett cut a teasing glance up at her. “Aye, well, at least there’s a bit of plumbing,” he said evenly. “Up in Yorkshire we still tote our water—hot and cold.”

  Claire, her new maid, bobbed a quick curtsy, declaring in rapid French her intent to begin the unpacking.

  “Merci,” said Anaïs.

  Behind them, the butler cleared his throat again.

  “Ah, Bernard,” said Geoff, rising. “You said there was something in the attics you wished us to see?”

  The butler gave one of his stiff little bows. “If madame and monsieur would kindly follow me?”

  Much like a London townhouse, the house in Brussels was deep and narrow, and consisted of a below-grade service floor with kitchens, three main living floors, and vast attics above. Anaïs and Geoff followed the butler up the last flight of stairs, expecting to find servants’ quarters.

  Instead, most of the attic was open and vaulted, finished with white ceilings, a polished wooden floor, and a large, raised
skylight to the rear. In one quadrant sat, of all things, a pocket billiard table, longer and perhaps narrower than an English table. In the opposite corner some distance away hung a stuffed leather bag on a rope, such as gentlemen might use for boxing practice. Between the two lay a thick, quilted mat—for indoor wrestling, she assumed, her brothers having a fondness for that sort of brutish violence.

  The opposite half of the attic was empty, save for a wall rack containing an array of rapiers and épées, along with miscellaneous side blades and fencing gear. And at two of the dormered windows sat small telescopes mounted on tripods, like those used for navigation, along with a pair of matching chairs.

  Geoff turned slowly around, and gave a low whistle of appreciation.

  “A gentleman’s paradise, n’est-ce pas?” said Bernard. “The owner is a great fan of sport.”

  “Hence his unrelenting indebtedness,” muttered Anaïs, crossing to take down one of the rapiers.

  “These telescopes are an unusual touch,” said Geoff, sliding into one of the chairs to peer through the eyepiece. “Ah. I see.”

  “They are ours, oui,” said Bernard. “You may wish to move one of them to your bedchamber, perhaps. For now, we take turns here watching Lezennes’ dining room, and what we believe is his front parlor.”

  “Seen anything?” asked Geoff, still squinting.

  “Occasionally, Madame Moreau,” said Bernard. “She seems to move freely through the house, and she goes out—shopping, a little, and to church two or three times a week.”

  “The dossier DuPont gave us says that she is Catholic,” said Anaïs pensively. “Is she devout, do we believe?”

  Bernard shrugged. “Her late husband was devout, certainly,” he answered. “Our contacts in Paris believe she is perhaps less so. It may be that church has become an escape from Lezennes’ thumb. Or perhaps the lady is praying desperately for something.”