The Rake to Redeem Her

by Julia Justiss

  Half an hour later, fully apprised of who she was to meet, when and where, Clara hugged her and walked out. An unnerving silence settled in the rooms after her footsteps faded.

  Though she supposed there was no need to work on the gowns the maid had left, from force of habit, Elodie took the top one from the basket and fetched her embroidery silks.

  Along with the sale of some gems, the gowns she’d worn as St Arnaud’s hostess, re-embroidered and sold back to the shop from which she’d originally purchased them, had supported her for six months. At that point Madame Lebruge, pleased with the elegance and inventiveness of her work, sent new gowns from her shop for Elodie to embellish.

  Letting her fingers form the familiar stitches calmed her as she reviewed what had transpired in the last few hours. Clara was right to be suspicious; she had no way of knowing for sure that Will Ransleigh would actually take her to Paris, rather than murdering her in some alley.

  But if he’d wanted to dispose of her, he could have already done so. Nor could one fail to note the fervour in his eyes when he talked of righting the wrong she’d done his cousin. She believed he meant to take her to London—and that she’d convinced him she’d not go there unless they went to Paris first.

  She smiled; he’d immediately suspected she meant to escape him there. Just because he was Max Ransleigh’s cousin, and therefore nephew to an earl, it would not do to underestimate his resourcefulness, or think him hopelessly out of his element in the meaner streets of Paris. He’d tracked her down here, most certainly without assistance from any of the authorities. He’d not been shocked or appalled by her idea of escaping in disguise, only concerned that she couldn’t carry off the deception. He’d then proposed an even cleverer disguise, suggesting he was as familiar as she was with subterfuge.

  Perhaps he worked for the Foreign Office, as Max had, only in a more clandestine role. Or maybe he was just a rogue, as the unpredictability and sense of danger that hung about him seemed to suggest.

  He’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket, he’d said. Perhaps, instead of growing up in the ease of an earl’s establishment, he’d had to scrabble for a living, moving from place to place, much as she had. That would explain his housebreaker’s skill at scaling balconies and invading rooms.

  The notion struck her that they might have much in common.

  Swiftly she dismissed that ridiculous thought. She sincerely doubted that he had ever had his very life depend on the success of the disguise he employed. Nor should she forget that he’d sought her out for a single purpose, one that left no room for any concern about her well-being. Still, depending on what happened in Paris, she might consider going to London as she’d promised.

  She would give much to right the wrong she’d been forced to do Max Ransleigh. After studying the background of all of the Duke of Wellington’s aides, St Arnaud had determined Max’s well-documented weakness for and courtesy towards women made him the best prospect among those with immediate access to Wellington to be of use in his plot. He’d ordered her to establish a relationship with Max, gain his sympathy and learn his movements, so he might be used as a decoy when the time was right.

  She’d been instructed to offer him her body if necessary, but it hadn’t been. Not that she found Max unappealing as a lover, but having learned he’d already taken one of the most elegant courtesans in Vienna as his mistress, she judged him unlikely to be tempted by a tall, brown-haired woman of no outstanding beauty.

  His attentions to her had been initially just the courtesies any diplomat would offer his occasional hostess. Until one day, when she’d been sporting a bruised face and shoulder, and he’d figured out that St Arnaud must have abused her.

  She’d told him nothing, of course, but from that moment, his attitude had grown fiercely protective. Rather ironic, she thought, that it had been St Arnaud’s foul temper and vindictive spirit, rather than her charms, that had drawn Max closer to her.

  In fact, she’d be willing to bet, had the moment not occurred for St Arnaud to spring his plot, Max would have tried to work out an honourable way for her to escape her cousin.

  But the moment did occur. As little choice as she’d had in the matter, it still pained her to recall it.

  The night of the attack had begun with an afternoon like any other at the Congress, until Max had casually mentioned that he might be late arriving to the Austrian ambassador’s ball that evening, since he was to confer briefly in private with the Duke before accompanying him to the festivities. It was the work of a moment for Elodie to inveigle from him in which anteroom that meeting was to take place, the work of another that night to intercept Max in the hallway before he went in.

  She waylaid him with a plea that he assist her on some trumped-up matter that would call down on her the wrath of her cousin, should she fail to speedily accomplish it. Despite his concern for her welfare, so great was his impatience to meet his commander, who had a well-known intolerance for tardiness, that she was able to delay him only a few minutes.

  It was long enough. St Arnaud’s assassin found his target alone, unguarded, and only Wellington’s own battle-won sixth sense in dodging away an instant before the stranger bursting into the room fired his weapon, had averted tragedy.

  To the Duke, anyway. Captured almost immediately, the failed assassin withstood questioning only briefly before revealing St Arnaud’s, and therefore her own, connection to the plot. Assuming the worst, St Arnaud had dealt with her and fled. She’d been in no condition afterwards to discover what had happened to Max; she assumed that, disgraced and reprimanded, he’d been sent back to England.

  Dear, courteous Max. Perhaps the kindest man she’d ever known, she thought, conjuring up with a sigh the image of his face. Odd, though, that while he was certainly handsome, she hadn’t felt for him the same immediate, powerful surge of desire inspired by his cousin Will.

  An attraction so strong it had dazzled her into forgetting, for the first few moments, that he’d invaded her rooms. So strong that, though he’d coerced and threatened her, she felt it still.

  It had also been evident, even in his ill-fitting breeches, that the lust he inspired in her was mutual. Elodie felt another flush of heat, just thinking of that sleek hardness, pressing against his trouser front.

  Such a response, she suddenly realised, might be useful later, when she needed to escape him. A well-pleasured man would be languid, less than vigilant. And pleasuring Will Ransleigh would be no hardship.

  Eluding him in Paris, however, would be another challenge entirely.

  Chapter Five

  Loitering at the corner, hidden from view by the shadow of an overhanging balcony, and cap well down over the golden hair Madame Lefevre had found so distinctive, Will watched the guard posted at the opposite end of the alley. He’d grab some dinner and return to remain here through the night, noting how many kept watch and when they changed. Although he’d agreed with madame’s suggestion that she leave in full daylight, it would be wise to know how many men had been employed to observe her—and might be sent in pursuit when they discovered she’d fled.

  He shook his head again over her unexpected talent for intrigue.

  Before seeking his dinner, he would question madame’s friend Clara. He’d not bothered the girl before, having worked out where madame had gone to ground without having to accost the maid. Although the person who’d protected madame would likely be the most reluctant to give him any information, after an interview that had given rise to more questions than it answered, it was worth the attempt to extract from the girl anything that might shed more light on the mystery that was Madame Lefevre.

  A woman who thus far hadn’t behaved as he would have expected of an aristocratic Frenchwoman who’d served as hostess to the most important leaders of European society.

  Now that he’d confirmed that the woman he’d found was in fact Madame Lefevre, it was time to re-examine his initial assumptions about her.

  The speed with which she�
�d come up with the suggestion that she escape in disguise—masculine disguise, at that—seemed to indicate she’d donned such a costume before. Recalling the grim expression on her face, Will thought it hadn’t been in some amateur theatrical performance for amusement of friends.

  ‘France has been at war longer than we’ve been alive …’ Had her family been caught up in the slaughter leading from monarchy to republic to empire and back? It seemed likely.

  He wished now he’d paused in London to plumb for more detail about the St Arnaud family. Thierry St Arnaud’s employer, Prince Talleyrand, possessed an exceptional skill for survival, having served as Foreign Minister of France during the Republic, Consulate, Empire and now the Restoration. At the Congress of Vienna, the Prince had even managed the unlikely feat of persuading Britain and Austria that France, a country those two allies had fought for more than twenty years, should become their partner against Russia and Prussia.

  What remarkable tricks of invention had the St Arnaud clan performed to retain lands and titles through the bloodbath of revolution and empire?

  Perhaps, rather than spending her girlhood tucked away at some genteel country estate, madame’s aristocratic family, like so many others, had been forced to escape the guillotine’s blade. They might even have fled to England; the British crown had supported a large émigré community. That would explain her excellent, almost accentless speech.

  Or perhaps she was such a mistress of invention because she was one of Talleyrand’s agents. His gut churned at that unpleasant possibility.

  But though Will wouldn’t totally discount the idea, Talleyrand was known to be an exacting master. It wouldn’t be like the prince to leave a loose end—like a former agent—flapping alone in the Viennese breeze for over a year; Madame Lefevre would likely have been eliminated or spirited away long since.

  Still, it wouldn’t be amiss to behave around her as if she had a professional’s expertise.

  He smiled. That would make the matching of wits all the sweeter. And if the opportunity arose to intertwine bodies as well, that would be the sweetest yet.

  But enough of carnal thoughts. He couldn’t afford to let lust and curiosity make him forget his goal, or lure him into being less than vigilant. He was certain she intended to try to escape him during their journey, and he’d need to be on his best game to ensure she did not.

  As he reached that conclusion, Clara exited madame’s lodgings. Keeping into the shadow of the buildings, Will followed her.

  To his good fortune, since the onset of evening and the thinning crowds would make it harder to trail her unobserved, the maid headed for the neighbouring market. He shadowed her as she snapped up the last of the day’s bread, cheese and apples at bargain prices from vendors eager to close up for the night.

  The Viennese were a prosperous lot, he noted as he trailed a few stalls behind her, and remarkably careless with their purses. Had he a mind to, he could have snatched half a dozen as he strolled along.

  Unable to resist the temptation to test his skill and thinking it might make a good introduction, Will nipped from behind the maid to snag her coin purse while she lingered by the last stall, bidding farewell to the vendor and rearranging the purchases in her market basket.

  He followed her from the market until she reached a mostly deserted stretch of street, where the buildings’ overhanging second storeys created a shadowy recess. Picking up his pace, Will strode past her and then turned, herding her towards the wall. With a deep bow, he held out the coin purse.

  ‘Excuse me, miss, I believe you dropped this.’

  With a gasp, she shrank back, then halted. ‘Why … it is my purse! I was sure I put it back into my reticule! How can I thank you, Herr …’ Belatedly looking up, she got a glimpse of his face. ‘You!’

  Will bowed again. ‘Will Ransleigh, at your service, miss.’

  Alarm battled anger in her face. ‘I should call the authorities and have you arrested for theft!’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘How could you do that, when I’ve just returned your purse? If officials in Vienna arrest every fellow who follows a pretty girl, the jails would be full to overflowing. I mean you no harm.’

  She sniffed. ‘I note you don’t deny you took it! But seeing as how you could have just as easily knocked me over the head as given it back, I suppose I’ll not scream the houses down—for the moment. What do you want?’

  ‘I intend to help your mistress leave the city.’

  She looked him up and down, her expression wary. ‘I warned her not to trust you. Oh, I don’t doubt you’ll help her, all right—to do what you want her to. Just like that worthless cousin of hers.’

  Remembering madame’s bent and swollen fingers, Will felt a surge of dislike. If he ever encountered Thierry St Arnaud, he’d force the man to test his strength against a more fitting adversary. ‘He intimidated her, didn’t he?’

  ‘Bastard.’ The maid spat on cobblestones. ‘I only saw him strike her twice, but she almost always had bruises. I’ll not hurt her more by telling you anything.’

  ‘I appreciate your loyalty. But whatever you can tell me—about her relationship with St Arnaud or my cousin—will help me protect her on the journey. I can do a better job if I’m aware of potential threats before they happen. If I know who’s been watching her, and why.’

  Her expression clouded, telling Will she worried about her mistress, too. ‘Herr Ransleigh, your cousin, was an honourable man,’ she said after a moment. ‘You promise to keep her safe?’

  ‘I promise.’ To his surprise, Will found he meant it.

  Clara studied him, obviously still reluctant.

  ‘You want her to stay safe, too, don’t you?’ he coaxed. ‘How about I tell you what I know and you just confirm it?’

  After considering another moment, the maid nodded.

  ‘You’ve been with your mistress more than a year. She engaged you when she first arrived in Vienna—September 1814, wasn’t it?’

  Clara nodded.

  ‘That last night, before her cousin fled the city, he … hurt her.’

  Tears came to the girl’s eyes. ‘Yes,’ she whispered.

  ‘Badly?’ Will pressed, keeping a tight rein over his rising temper, almost certain now he knew what she would tell him.

  ‘She was unconscious when I found her. Her ribs broken for sure, and her arm and hand bent and twisted. Didn’t come back to herself for more than a day, and for the first month, I wasn’t sure she would survive. Bastard!’ the maid burst out again. ‘Blaming her for the failure of his foolish plan! Or maybe just taking it out on her that it failed. He was that kind.’

  ‘You took her from the hotel to rooms at a boarding house and nursed her. Then, once she’d recovered sufficiently, you moved her to the lodgings here,’ Will summed up the trail his search had taken him on.

  ‘By then, she said she was recovered enough to work. I’d sold jewels for her those first few months, until her bad hand healed enough for her to use the fingers. She started doing embroidery then.’

  ‘And there were watchers, each place you stayed with her?’

  ‘I guess there were, though I didn’t notice them until she pointed them out after she got better. I was frightened, but what could they want with her? After a few months, I got used to them hanging about.’

  ‘Viennese lads, they were.’

  ‘Yes. I spoke to some of them, trying to see if I could find out anything, but they seemed to know only that a local man hired them. I’m certain someone more important was behind it, but I don’t know who.’

  Will filed that observation away. ‘Why is she so insistent on returning to Paris?’

  ‘Her family’s there, I expect. She never spoke about herself, nor was she the sort who thought only of her own comfort. Waiting for her at the dressmakers or at those grand balls, I heard other maids talking about their ladies. Madame wasn’t like most of them, always difficult and demanding. She was kind. She noticed people and their troubles.’

>   Her eyes far away, Clara smiled. ‘One night, Klaus the footman had a terrible head cold, hardly able to breathe, poor man. Madame only passed by him in the hall on her way to a reception, but first thing the next morning, she had me fetch herbs and made him a tisane. Not that she made a great fuss about doing so, playing Lady Bountiful. No, she just turned it over to the butler and told him to make sure Klaus drank it.’

  ‘Did you ever wonder why she’d not brought her own maid to Vienna?’

  Clara shrugged. ‘Maybe the woman didn’t want to travel so far. Maybe she couldn’t afford to bring her. I don’t think she had any coin of her own. St Arnaud paid my wages, all the bills for jewels, gowns and the household expenses, but he gave her no pin money at all. She didn’t have even a few schillings to buy ices when we were out.’

  So, as she’d claimed, Will noted, madame had been entirely dependent on St Arnaud. ‘She never spoke of any other relations?’

  ‘No. But if they were all like St Arnaud, I understand why she wouldn’t.’ The maid stopped abruptly, wrinkling her brow. ‘There was one person she mentioned. Several times, when I’d given her laudanum for the pain after St Arnaud had struck her, she murmured a name as she dozed. Philippe.’

  Surprise and something barbed and sharp stung him in the gut. Impatiently he dismissed it. ‘Husband … brother … lover?’

  ‘Not her husband—St Arnaud said he’d died in the wars. I did once ask her who “Philippe” was, but she just smiled and made no answer, and I didn’t want to press. She sounded … longing. Maybe he’s someone she wanted to marry, that her cousin had refused; I can see him sending away anyone he didn’t think grand enough for the St Arnauds. Maybe St Arnaud promised if she helped him in Vienna, he would let her marry the man. I know he had some sort of power to force her to do his will.’

  For some reason he’d rather not examine, Will didn’t like the idea of Madame Lefevre pining for a Parisian lover. Shaking his head to rid himself of the image, he said, ‘Madame’s dependence on St Arnaud for food, clothing, housing and position would have been enough to coerce her co-operation.’