“I was not going to ask that. I was going to ask how you know so much about the comte with whom you claimed a relationship.”
“Ahh. Well, you see, while I was a lowborn woman pretending to be a lord’s niece, someone else was a lord’s sister pretending to be a lowborn woman. Dominique is the true relative of the comte, and filled me with the descriptions and information I needed. She hides in her caps and simple clothes and unpainted face. She never wants her true birth known and none have questioned or guessed. She came very close to being killed and has never felt safe since. She is one for whom the terror never ended, so you must promise to keep the secret.”
“Of course I will keep the secret.”
Curiosity still burned in him. She waited to see if he would swallow it, or interrogate her further. She was not sure there was much more she could say that would not spur yet more questions, some of which she must not answer.
His fingers moved, until they rested on the image of Lamberte. Her heart beat harder. There were many ways to ask about the image of Lamberte. Some of them would require her to lie, unless she wanted to tell him everything.
Did she? Perhaps now that he knew her true history, or at least some of it, he would no longer care what she did. Maybe he would leave her alone to do as she wanted. Even his promise tonight to protect her—it had been given to Marielle Lyon, niece of the Comte de Vence, not the daughter of an engraver.
“That is a man named Antoine Lamberte,” she said before he could choose his words. “He is one of many who rose in the revolutionary government, but who did not care about the ideals. Lamberte only cares about himself, and his own power and wealth. He committed many crimes. Such men should not be allowed to act without sanctions, or be free from justice.”
“So you make these images and send them to France to denounce such as he. So you explained before. Do you have particular knowledge of his sins?”
She shrugged and hoped she appeared indifferent to the question. In reality her nape prickled. “His excesses are well-known.”
“Not this one that you accuse him of. Stealing from the government itself. If that were well-known, his head would not still be attached to his body.”
“Perhaps it is not. I would not know.”
He reached over and lifted her chin with his hand so she had to look at him. “Do not treat me like a fool, Marielle. I have warned you about that before.”
“I am not. I am simply tired of all your questions. Why do you care about any of this?” She swept her hand across the image.
“I care because you have gone to great trouble and expense to accuse this man of a crime that could cause him more trouble than a hundred murders committed during the years of unrest. If he knows about your prints, he cannot like them. Everyone knows the power of both the pen and the burin. I think he sent men to track those engravings back to their source, much as I have tracked them from you to the coast, only in reverse. The men who tried to kill you in the alley came from him, didn’t they?”
“Perhaps. I do not know.”
He raked his hair with his hand, exasperated. “Don’t you? They beat two men to death to learn how to find you.” He tapped Lamberte’s bearded face. “He is as bold as you, and more dangerous, if he sent killers to stop the denunciations in these satires. And even knowing that, you do not stop making them. Do you? Hell, you will probably send these over now that you have them back.”
She could not sit still while he browbeat her about the prints. She stood and paced away and tried to calm the indignation rising in her. “If I do not do what I can to stop such men, who will?”
“Someone else. Not you.”
“Why not me? Because I am a woman? You said you seek justice for what happened in Toulon. I would think you would understand.”
“That is different. That is personal. Let someone else bring this man down.”
She swung around and faced him. “Who? A soldier? They are all on his side now. The people? After the massacres in his region, there are none left brave enough to speak against him. The government in Paris? Not unless they are given a reason to look at him suspiciously, instead of being grateful such a tyrant keeps the rebellions from reoccurring.” She slammed her hand down on the print. “Such as this helped destroy a monarchy in France. If I have the skill to help bring this man to justice, I will do it.”
“No, you will not. Turn your attention to another if you must. This one is too sly, and too dangerous, and too close already.”
I do not want to turn my attention to another. There is no other who matters like he does. She almost yelled it at him. She barely caught the words before they spilled.
“You have no right to tell me what to do,” she yelled in frustration.
He rose and strode to her and grasped her shoulders. “I took the right when I took you. I’ll be damned before I let you get yourself killed over these. Find another crusade. Seek justice elsewhere.”
She jerked free of his hold and turned away so he would not see the tears filming her eyes. She had known he would try to interfere if he guessed any of it. He was that kind of man. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and fought for composure. Thank God she had not allowed their intimacy to lure her into confiding in him.
He took hold of her shoulders again, much more gently this time. His hands slid down and caressed her upper arms. She felt a kiss pressed to her crown.
“Promise me that you will not try to send these to France, Marielle.”
She looked at the table and the print showing Lamberte on his throne made of oppressed people. “I promise that these prints will not go to France.”
He turned her, and lifted her chin with his crooked finger. “Do not be angry. I only demand this to protect you.”
She knew that. She also realized that his touch did not feel different after all. Nor did he look at her any differently. “Are you not angry that I hid the truth of my birth from you?”
“I always knew you were not whom you claimed. The only mystery was who you were instead.” He backed up toward the bedroom, leading her by the hand.
There was no passion when they went to bed. Not of the sexual kind, at least. They lay together and slept. During the night she awoke, and looked into the dark while she inhaled the scent of him and listened to him breathe, and wondered what he really thought about discovering that she was no lady.
In the morning two carriages arrived. Kendale climbed into his and it headed west. André helped her into hers and they rolled in the opposite direction.
There was much she had to think about, but try as she might she could not remove her thoughts from that cottage and the emotions of the prior night. She had deceived him since the moment they met, but it had never felt wrong before. She had been able to tell herself there was no choice, that he pursued her for his own reasons and she would use his interest for hers. It was different now, in ways that confused her mind and hurt her heart.
Love was weakening her, perhaps. Distracting her. Consuming her so that she forgot that she had promises to keep and larger concerns than whether her lover was happy with her. Deceptions in the name of duty were not so bad, were they? He had lied about having the prints for that reason, hadn’t he?
Too often as she lay in his embrace last night she had been tempted to waken him and tell him everything about herself, her history, about Lamberte and the prints and the way she had very particular knowledge of his crimes. If she explained about her father, would that make a difference? Would he stand aside and let her do what she had to do? More likely he would lock her away so she never had the chance to even try, if he thought she might come to harm.
She lost sense of time while debating it all. So it startled her when the carriage stopped. She looked out the window, expecting to see a blue door. Instead she saw only trees.
The little door between the cabin and André opened. “The way i
s blocked, mam’selle. Another carriage is ahead and it does not move.”
She scooted over and stuck her head out the window. The carriage up ahead was a big coach with footmen in livery. She peered into the trees. Perhaps the occupant had needed to relieve himself and the delay would be brief.
One of the footmen walked to the coach’s side, then turned and strode toward her carriage. His powdered wig indicated the coach was owned by someone wealthy, even if the size of the equipage had not made that clear enough. The tax on powder for wigs was so high that it had ended that style forever in England. To spend it on servants—
That wig appeared outside her window. The young man wearing it bowed. “My lord requests that you ride with him, Miss Lyon.” He opened the door and set down the stairs, as if her compliance could not be questioned.
Since her own carriage could not move unless she agreed, she stepped out and walked to the big coach. The profile of a man showed in the window. She recognized the straight nose and deep-set dark eyes of the Duke of Penthurst.
Upon seeing her, he moved to the seat behind the coachman. The footman handed her in, set up the stairs, and closed the door. The grand coach moved. She trusted André would follow.
“Did you block this lane for long while you waited for me?” she asked.
“I have been here only an hour.”
“I am flattered, Your Grace. Also disconcerted that you knew I would be traveling this way.”
“Discretion is not one of Kendale’s preoccupations. Perhaps he finds it as tedious as he does other social requirements. It was not hard to learn about that cottage.”
“I cannot imagine why you would care to learn about it, let alone waylay me as I left it this morning.”
“Can’t you?”
The way he said that, and the way he looked at her, told her much. This was not a man interested in her as a woman, that much was certain. This was no silly little abduction as a romantic game, by a duke trying to steal her from a viscount. Rather this man regarded her with a frankness that both worried her and flattered her. We are both intelligent people, those eyes said. Let us save time and avoid dissembling.
“No, I can’t,” she said finally, although it did not sound convincing to her own ears.
“You sound cautious. You have nothing to fear from me.”
Of course she did. For all of his grace right now, he struck her as a dangerous man. She had some experience in knowing them when she saw them.
“Kendale accepts you are not a spy,” he said.
“You trust his judgment so completely?”
“In the least I accept that if you managed to convince him, you would probably convince me as well. I can think of no man less likely to be swayed, no matter how pretty and charming the liar.”
She wondered what this duke wanted. He had inconvenienced himself to have a conversation with her, but about what? He would tell her soon, so she did not ask.
“That cottage,” he said. “As I said, he is not famous for discretion and it is most discreet in location. I wonder if that is only to create privacy for your rendezvous.”
“I demanded little except privacy.”
“How generous of you. Still, have there been any visitors?”
“No.”
He eyed her. She gazed back impassively.
“As you can see, I have some questions, Miss Lyon, but they are not about you.”
“You must think very little of me if you believe I will take well an interrogation about him.”
“I think that you are a woman who has learned to be practical. Kendale believes you are not a spy and I am inclined to as well. However, the opinion is not unanimous. Should you ever find yourself in the hands of those who still wonder, my friendship will be very useful.”
A bribe more than a threat, but a shiver ran through her anyway.
“Has he ever mentioned Toulon to you?”
Her mind raced to decide her response. To claim ignorance would imply a lack of intimacy with Kendale, and call into question his opinion of her. To tell this duke everything that had been shared would be perhaps a betrayal. Would half a loaf do?
“He said he was there, at the siege. He has some scars from it. He does not speak of it with me, however.”
He nodded vaguely. She had responded correctly.
“Has he spoken to you of a mission or a journey that he is planning?”
The question alarmed her. It would not have been asked unless this man already knew something. “He spoke of visiting his properties sometime, perhaps in summer. I think he believes he has neglected them.”
“No other journey? One more imminent?”
She shook her head and widened her eyes, innocently. “He would have told me if such a thing were going to happen soon, I think. He would not want me to arrive at that cottage only to find myself alone for the night.”
Such a scrutiny she received then. She was well practiced in being interrogated, however, and even a duke’s examination did not fluster her.
“He said you and he were friends not so long ago,” she added, to direct this elsewhere. “After you visited Ravenswood, that is what he said.” He had also said that Penthurst might have come to prevent others from coming. Did this duke seek to expose Kendale with all his questions at Ravenswood and now? Or to protect him? And expose what? Protect from what?
“That is true,” he said.
“And yet you are no longer?”
“He holds something against me. I cannot blame him, since I have never explained it.” He rapped on the wall of the coach, and it slowed and stopped. “I will return you to your carriage now.”
The footman set down the stairs, but it was the duke who handed her out. He strolled beside her as they walked back to André. Partway there, he stopped.
“Miss Lyon, I must say something. Forgive me in advance for the words and the implications if they are misplaced.”
She faced him. He smiled, but she sensed a dark intensity at work in him below his amiable surface.
“You should know that despite the estrangement, I still count Kendale as a friend. And I still value his judgment where you are concerned. However, if he is wrong about you and if you do anything to cause harm to come to him because of confidences he has made to you, I will see that you are imprisoned until you are a very old woman.”
With that, he continued escorting her to her carriage.
After the door had closed and Penthurst had walked back to his own coach, André bent and spoke through the little door. “Another lord?”
“Yes. A duke.”
“The first lord will not be happy to know you met the second one.”
“That is true. It would be best if you did not tell him about this.”
“He would expect me to. I was instructed to let him know if anyone interfered with you.”
Rolling her eyes, she opened her reticule and plucked out some coins. André’s hand was already waiting at the little opening.
Chapter 18
Two mornings later, Dominique entered Marielle’s bedchamber while she washed for the day. “Two letters came early,” she said, waving them. “Both are very fine paper. One is from him, I am sure.”
Marielle kept her back to Dominique while she closed her eyes and hid her reaction. She had not expected to hear from Kendale again. He would provide the protection he had promised, but the rest—between her deception and her true history—she believed he would now drift away from her.
She finished washing while Dominique sat on the bed holding the letters, impatient to learn what they contained. Finally she reached for them and sat next to her old friend. She broke the seal on Kendale’s first.
My dear Marielle,
I expect that journey to happen soon. Within a few days. Preparations have occupied me. I would like to see you before I depar
t.
You should be receiving an invitation to an event hosted by Ambury’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Highburton. It is as much a celebration of his father’s better health as it is one of the Season. Ambury arranged for this invitation when I said I would like to attend with you. I hope you do not find the lateness of its arrival too impolite, and will forgive my interference if you do.
Mr. Pottsward has arranged for the gowns from Ravenswood to be brought up and delivered to you. They should arrive tomorrow. I feel neglectful for not having bought you a new wardrobe as I had planned. Would you have accepted one?
I will call for you at ten that night, unless I receive a letter saying you decline.
Your servant,
Kendale
She lifted the other letter. The paper proved so thick one could cut cold butter with it. Dominique bent over it and examined the seal.
“It is from a duke,” Marielle said while she slid her finger under that impressive seal. “Whoever thought I would receive letters from one?”
Even Dominique, who had known fine papers and seals in her day, was impressed. The secretary’s elegant hand flowed over the paper, requesting Marielle’s attendance.
“It is a ball,” Dominique said. “And you say Lord Kendale learned the truth of your blood? Perhaps he did not understand.”
“He understood.” Was it possible it did not matter? If so, she should give him a new name. Peculiar Man.
“You must have won his heart, if he wants you at his side at such an affair even knowing your parentage. It is not a place where a lord normally brings the daughter of an engraver.”
“No one else will know I am the daughter of an engraver. Perhaps that makes a difference.”
“It is good that he is sending the gowns. I told you that you needed a better wardrobe now.”
Word spread in the house that she was attending a ball. Dominique, who normally kept her own counsel, confided in Madame LaTour. Madame confided in her two best friends. They passed the news to others. By noon all the women knew and it was the talk of the studio.
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