Scarcely breathing, she shifted her head a tiny bit to the right. Yes, someone was there—a man, perched soundlessly on the narrow balcony beside the window, watching her, all but the top of his tawny head and his eyes hidden behind the wall and the vines crawling up it. Had she not chanced to look into the mirror at that precise instant, she would never have seen him move into position.
From the elevation of his head, he must be tall, and agile, to have scaled the wall so soundlessly. The minuscule amount of him she could see gave her no hint whether he was thin or powerfully built. Whether he was armed, and if so, with what.
Not that the knowledge would do her much good. All she had to defend herself was her sewing scissors; her small pistol was hidden in her reticule in the wardrobe and her knife, in the drawer of the bedside table.
But as seconds passed and he remained motionless, she let out the breath she’d been holding. The afternoon light was bright; he could clearly see she was alone. If he’d meant to attack her, surely he would have made a move by now.
Who was he, then? Not one of the men who’d been watching the apartment from the corner ever since Clara brought her here. No one had bothered her since the foiled attack; so small and damaged a fish as herself, she thought, was of little interest, especially after Napoleon’s exile at St Helena put an end once and for all to dreams of a French empire.
Elodie kept her gaze riveted on the mirror as several more seconds dragged on. Despite her near-certainty the stranger did not mean her any immediate harm, her nerves—and a rising anger—finally prompted her to speak.
‘Monsieur, if you are not going to shoot me, why not come inside and tell me what you want?’
The watching eyes widened with surprise, then in one fluid motion the stranger swung himself through the window to land lightly before her. With a flourish, he swept her a bow. ‘Madame Lefevre, I presume?’
Elodie caught her breath, overwhelmed by the sheer masculine power of the man now straightening to his full height. If he meant to harm her, she was in very bad trouble indeed.
He must be English. No other men moved with such arrogance, as if they owned the earth by right. He loomed over her, tall and whipcord-lean. There was no mistaking the hard strength of the arms and shoulders that had levered him so effortlessly up to the balcony and swung him practically into her lap.
His clothes were unremarkable: loose-fitting coat, trousers and scuffed boots that might have been worn by any tradesman or clerk toiling away in the vast city.
But his face—angular jaw, chiselled cheekbones, slightly crooked nose, sensual mouth and the arresting turquoise blue of his eyes—would capture the attention of any woman who chanced to look at him. Certainly it captured hers, so completely that she momentarily forgot the potential danger he posed.
He smiled at her scrutiny, which might have embarrassed her, had she not been suddenly jolted by a sense of déjà vu. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked, struggling to work out why he seemed so familiar. ‘Have we met?’
The smile faded and his eyes went cold. ‘No, madame. You don’t know me, but I believe you knew my kinsman all too well. Max Ransleigh.’
Max. His image flashed into her mind: same height and build, thick, wavy golden hair, crystal-blue eyes. An air of command tempered by a kindness and courtesy that had warmed her heart then—and made it twist again now with regret as she recalled him.
The afternoon sun touched this man’s tawny hair with tints of auburn; rather than clear blue, his eyes were the hue of the Mediterranean off St Tropez. But beyond that, the two men were remarkably similar. ‘You are Max’s brother?’
‘His cousin. Will Ransleigh.’
‘He is well, I trust? I was sorry to have done him … a disservice. I hoped, with Napoleon escaping from Elba so soon after the event in Vienna, that his position had not been too adversely affected.’
He raised one eyebrow, his expression sardonic. Her momentary bedazzlement abruptly vanished as her senses returned to full alert. This man did not mean her well.
‘I regret to inform you that your tender hopes were not realised. As you, the cousin of a diplomat, surely know, the “event” that embroiled him in the near-assassination of his commander ruined his career. He was recalled in disgrace and only the outbreak of war allowed him a chance to redeem himself on the field of battle.’
‘I understand the carnage was terrible at Waterloo.’
‘It was. But even his valour there was not enough to restore his career, which was destroyed by his association with you.’
‘I am sorry for it.’ And she was. But given the stakes, if she had it all to do over again, she would do nothing differently.
‘You are sorry? How charming!’ he replied, his tone as sardonic as his expression.
Her anger flared again. At men, who used women as pawns to their own purposes. At a woman’s always-powerless position in their games. What matter if this man did not believe her? She would not give him the satisfaction of protesting.
As she remained silent, he said, ‘Then you will be delighted to know I intend to offer you a chance to make amends. Since you don’t appear to be prospering here …’ he swept a hand around to indicate the small room, with its worn carpet and shabby furnishing ‘… I see no reason why you shouldn’t agree to leave for England immediately.’
‘England?’ she echoed, surprised. ‘Why should I do that?’
‘I’m going to escort you back to London, where we will call on the Foreign Office. There you will explain exactly how you entrapped my cousin in this scheme, manoeuvring him into doing no more than any other gentleman would have done. Demonstrating that he was blameless in not anticipating the assassination attempt, and any fault should be assigned to the intelligence services whose job it was to sniff out such things.’
Her mind racing, Elodie weighed the options. Her hopes rose crazily as she recognised that travelling to London, as this man apparently had the means to do, would get her a deal closer to France, and immediately—not next autumn or in another year, which was as soon as she’d dared hope her slowly accumulating resources would allow.
But even with King Louis on France’s throne and the two nations officially at peace, as a French citizen she was still vulnerable. If she testified to involvement in an attempt on the life of the great English hero Lord Wellington, saviour of Europe and victor of Waterloo, she could well be imprisoned. Maybe even executed.
Unless she escaped on the way. Ransleigh would likely want to journey by sea, which would make the chances of eluding him before arrival in England very difficult. Unless …
‘I will go with you, but only if we stop first in Paris.’ Paris, a city she knew like the lines on her palm. Paris, where only a moment’s inattention would allow her to slip away into a warren of medieval alleyways so dense and winding, he would never be able to trail her.
Where, after waiting a safe interval, she could hunt for Philippe.
He made a show of looking about the room, which lacked the presence of a footman or even a maid to lend her assistance. ‘I don’t think you’re in much of a position to dictate terms. And I have no interest in visiting Paris.’
‘A mistake, Monsieur Ransleigh. It is a beautiful city.’
‘So it is, but unimportant to me at present.’
She shrugged. ‘To you, perhaps, but not to me. Unless we go first to Paris, I will not go with you.’
His eyes darkened, unmistakable menace in their depths. ‘I can compel you.’
She nodded. ‘You could drug me, I suppose. Gag, bind and smuggle me aboard a ship in Trieste. But nothing can compel me to deliver to the London authorities the sort of testimony you wish, unless I myself choose to do so.’
Fury flashed in those blue eyes and his jaw clenched. If his cousin’s career had truly been ruined by her actions, he had cause to be angry.
Just as she’d had no choice about involving Max in the plot.
‘I could simply kill you now,’ he murmured, stepping close
r. ‘Your life for the life you ruined.’ He placed his hands around her neck.
She froze, her heartbeat stampeding. Had she survived so much, only for it all to end now? His hands, warm against the chill of her neck, were large and undoubtedly strong. One quick twist and it would be over.
But despite the hostility of his action, as the seconds ticked away with his fingers encircling her neck, some instinct told her that he didn’t truly mean to hurt her.
As her fear subsided to a manageable level, she grasped his hands with a calm she was far from feeling. To her great relief, he let her pull them away from her neck, confirming her assessment.
‘Paris first, then London. I will wait in the garden for your decision.’
Though her heart pounded so hard that she was dizzy, Elodie made herself rise and walk with unhurried steps from the room. Not for her life would she let him see how vulnerable she felt. Never again would any man make her afraid.
Why should they? She had nothing left to lose.
Out of his sight, she clutched the stair rail to keep from falling as she descended, then stumbled out the back door to the bench at the centre of the garden. She grabbed the edge with trembling fingers and sat down hard, gulping in a shuddering breath of jonquil-scented air.
Eyes narrowed, Will watched Elodie Lefevre cross the room with quiet elegance and disappear down the stairwell.
Devil’s teeth! She was nothing like what he’d expected.
He’d come to Vienna prepared to find a seductive siren, who traded upon her beauty to entice while at the same time playing the frightened innocent. Luring in Max, for whom protecting a woman was a duty engraved upon his very soul.
Elodie Lefevre was attractive, certainly, but hers was a quiet beauty. Sombrely dressed and keeping herself in the background, as he’d learned she always did, she’d have attracted little notice among the crowd of fashionable, aristocratic lovelies who’d fluttered like exotic butterflies through the balls and salons of the Congress of Vienna.
She had courage, too. After her first indrawn breath of alarm, she’d not flinched when he clamped his fingers around her throat.
Not that he’d had any intention of actually harming her, of course. But he’d hoped that his display of anger and a threat of violence might make her panic and capitulate before reinforcements could arrive.
If she had any.
He frowned. It had taken a month of thorough, patient tracking to find her, but the closer he got, the more puzzled and curious he became about the woman who’d just coolly descended to the garden. As if strange men vaulted into her rooms and threatened her life every day.
Maybe they did. For, until she’d confirmed her identity, he’d been nearly convinced the woman he’d located couldn’t be the Elodie Lefevre he sought.
Why was the cousin of a wealthy diplomat living in shabby rooms in a decaying, unfashionable section of Vienna?
Why did she inhabit those rooms alone—lacking, from the information he’d charmed out of the landlady, even a maid?
Why did it appear she eked out a living doing embroidery work for a fashionable dressmaker whom Madame Lefevre, as hostess to one of the Congress of Vienna’s most well-placed diplomats, would have visited as a customer?
But neither could he deny the facts that had led him, piecing together each small bit of testimony gathered from maids, porters, hotel managers, street vendors, seamstresses, merchants and dry-good dealers, from the elegant hotel suite she’d presided over for St Arnaud to these modest rooms off a Vienna back alley.
St Arnaud himself had disappeared the night of the failed assassination. Will didn’t understand why someone clever enough to have concocted such a scheme would have been so careless about ensuring his cousin’s safety.
And how had she sensed Will’s presence on the balcony? He knew for certain he’d made no sound as he carefully scaled the wall from the courtyard to the ledge outside her window. Either she was incredibly prescient, or he’d badly lost his touch, and he didn’t think it was the latter.
Her awareness impressed him even more than her courage, sparking an admiration he had no wish to feel.
Any more than he’d wanted the reaction triggered when he’d placed his hands around her neck. The softness of her skin, the faint scent of lavender teasing his nostrils, sent a fierce desire surging through him, as abrupt and immediate as the leap of her pulse under his thumbs.
Finding himself attracted to Elodie Lefevre was a complication he didn’t need. What he did need were answers to all the questions he had about her.
Such as why it was so important for her to get to Paris.
A quick examination of her room told him nothing; the hired furniture, sewing supplies and few basic necessities could have been anyone’s. She seemed to possess nothing that gave any clue to the character of the woman who’d lived here, as he’d learned, for more than a year, alone but for the daily visits of her former maid.
He’d just have to go question the woman herself. He suspected she would be as vigilant at keeping her secrets as she was at catching out uninvited visitors to her rooms.
To achieve his aims, he needed to master both those secrets—and her. Turning on his heel, he headed for the garden.
Chapter Three
Will found Madame Lefevre picking spent blooms from the border of lavender surrounding a central planting of tall yellow flowers.
Hearing him approach, she looked back over her shoulder. ‘Well?’
He waited, but she added nothing to that single word—neither pleading nor explanation nor entreaty. Once again, he was struck by her calm, an odd quality of stillness overlaid with a touch of melancholy.
Men awaiting battle would envy that sangfroid. Or did she not truly realise how vulnerable she was?
‘For a woman who’s just had her life threatened, you seem remarkably tranquil.’
She shrugged. ‘Nothing I say or do will change what you have decided. If it is to kill me, I am not strong or skilled enough to prevent you. Struggling and pleading are so … undignified. And if I am to die, I would rather spend my last moments enjoying the beauty of my garden.’
So she did understand the gravity of her position. Yet the calm remained.
As a man who’d earned much of his blunt by his wits, Will had played cards with masters of the game, men who didn’t show by the twitch of an eyelid whether they held a winning or losing hand. Madame Lefevre could hold her own with the best of them. He’d never met a woman so difficult to read.
She was like a puzzle spread out in a jumble of pieces. The more he learned about her, the stronger his desire to fit them all together.
Delaying answering her question so he might examine that puzzle further, he said, ‘The garden is lovely. So serene, and those yellow flowers are so fragrant. Did you plant it?’
She lifted a brow, as if wondering why he’d abruptly veered from threatening her to talking about plants. ‘The daffodils, you mean.’ Her lips barely curved in amusement, she looked at him quizzically. ‘You grew up in the city, Monsieur Ransleigh, no?’
‘Commonplace, are they?’ A reluctant, answering smile tugged at his lips. ‘Yes, I’m a city lad. But you, obviously, were country bred.’
‘Lovely flowers can be found in either place,’ she countered.
‘Your English is very good, with only a trace of an accent. Where did you learn it?’
She waved a careless hand. ‘These last few years, English has been spoken everywhere.’
She’d grown up in the country, then, he surmised from her evasions, probably at an estate with a knowledgeable gardener—and an English governess.
‘How did you come to be your cousin’s hostess in Vienna?’
‘He never married. A diplomat at his level has many social duties.’
Surprised at getting a direct answer this time, he pressed, ‘He did not need you to perform those “duties” after Vienna?’
‘Men’s needs change. So, monsieur, do you accept my bargain or
not?’
Aha, he thought, gratified. Though she gave no outward sign of anxiety—trembling fingers, fidgeting hands, restless movement—the abrupt return to the topic at hand showed she wasn’t as calm as she was trying to appear.
‘Yes,’ he replied, deciding upon the moment. At least seeming to agree to her demand was essential. It would be a good deal easier to spirit her out of Vienna if she went willingly.
He was still somewhat surprised she would consent to accompany him upon any terms. Unless …
‘Don’t think you can escape me in Paris,’ he warned. ‘I’ll be with you every moment, like crust on bread.’
‘Ah, warm French bread! I cannot wait to taste some.’
She licked her lips. The gesture sent a bolt of lust straight to his loins. Something of his reaction must have showed in his face, for her eyes widened and she smiled knowingly.
He might not be able to prevent his body’s response, but he could certainly control his actions, he thought, disgruntled. If anyone was going to play the seduction card in this little game, it would be him—if and when he wished to.
‘How did you, cousin to Thierry St Arnaud, come to be here alone?’ he asked, steering the discussion back where he wanted it. ‘Why did he not take you with him when he fled Vienna?’
‘Nothing—and no one—mattered to my cousin but restoring Napoleon to the throne of France. When the attempt failed, his only thought was to escape before the Austrian authorities discovered his connection to the plot, so he might plot anew. Since I was no longer of any use to him, he was done with me.’
It seemed St Arnaud had about as much family loyalty as Will’s uncle. But still, self-absorbed as the earl might be, Will knew if anyone bearing Ransleigh blood were in difficulties, the earl would send assistance.
What sort of man would not do that for his own cousin?
The Rake to Redeem Her Page 2