“There you go, Miss Chegwidden, the secret to getting your own way in a marriage. Ask for little and you’ll get whatever you want,” Prince Sandre said.
She thought, I do not care what you think.
She said, “I’ll remember, Your Highness.” With the intention of changing the subject, she turned to Lady Fanchere. “I was lost in the palace, and found the terrace. I had no idea the view was so dazzling.”
“The old royal family chose their location well, wouldn’t you say?” Prince Sandre seemed willing to brush aside his interest in Aimée’s plans. “They say the only way this stronghold can be taken is by treachery from the inside.”
“I believe that’s how your family did it, is it not?” Lord Fanchere asked.
Emma looked at him in astonishment. He was so calm. So staid. So quiet. Yet he wasn’t stupid, and to say that to Prince Sandre . . . Was he, too, trying to distract the prince from Aimée’s plans?
“It’s true, Sandre—our ancestors were not admirable people.” Lady Fanchere shook her head sadly.
“I don’t know the story,” Emma said.
“The Count de Guignard was invited by the Moricadian royal family to visit the palace,” Lady Fanchere told her, “and before his arrival, he placed his people in key positions in the serving hall. He brought wines from his lands as a gift, and poured freely, and when the royal guard was insensible, he gave a prearranged signal. His people opened the postern door and let in the soldiers, and they slaughtered every member of the royal guard and all their servants, and violated the women, and dragged the king out and hanged him.”
“Horrible,” Emma whispered.
“The Trojan horse is a time-honored way to win a war.” Prince Sandre was remarkably unconcerned with his ancestors’ villainy.
“They broke all rules of hospitality!” Lady Fanchere retorted.
“Ah, but look what they gave to us, their descendants.” Prince Sandre gestured across the glittering, noisy ballroom. “The palace, the lands . . . the money . . .”
Emma saw her chance. “From the terrace, it’s clear your country has very difficult terrain. No wonder the Reaper has escaped you.” She held her breath for a moment, waiting to see if he would take the bait.
“Not for long.” Prince Sandre looked grimly pleased. “I had to clearly express my wishes to my cousin Jean-Pierre, and he has made the matter a personal concern.”
“Where is Jean- Pierre?” Lady Fanchere glanced around.
“He’s hunting.” A smile slipped across Prince Sandre’s lips, and it terrified Emma.
“For the Reaper?” she asked in an admiring tone.
“Yes. He is my best marksman.”
Emma felt the color drain from her face. “He’s going to shoot him? He’s going to kill him?”
“A good thing,” Lady Fanchere said. “That Reaper scared Aimée to death.”
“That Reaper killed Rickie,” Prince Sandre snapped.
“Perhaps the Reaper killed Rickie; perhaps someone else did. For all that he was our cousin, Rickie was not well liked.” Before Prince Sandre could contradict her, she added, “God rest his soul.”
“Regardless, the Reaper is going to hang,” Prince Sandre said. “For villains like him, I like hanging.”
Desperation made Emma bold. “I thought your cousin was going to shoot him.”
“You are a bloodthirsty little thing, aren’t you?” Prince Sandre approved. “No, I want the Reaper alive, and I will make an example of him. We’ll keep him alive until we can string him from the gibbet.” He bowed. “He should suffer for frightening a lady as lovely as you.”
“Yes,” she said, and because he seemed to think that was a tribute, she added, “Thank you.”
“Enough of this serious business. This is a ball. I’ve waited over an hour to dance with you again, Miss Chegwidden.” Prince Sandre offered his arm. “Let us waltz!”
Emma stared at him, repulsed by everything she’d learned of him, struck by the realization that, even for the sake of the Reaper, she couldn’t continue on this course.
“Miss Chegwidden?” He lifted a surprised eyebrow.
Emma couldn’t touch him. He made her flesh creep. She couldn’t bear it.
Lady Fanchere put a hand in her back and gave her a push.
A contralto voice, musical and amused, saved Emma from disaster. “Sandre, darling.” Countess Martin stepped into the little circle, edged Emma aside, and caressed his face. “Have you heard the rumor that’s sweeping the ballroom? The Reaper has been seen here!”
“Here?” Sandre jerked his head aside.
“What do you mean, here?” Emma asked.
Countess Martin ignored her as if she didn’t exist. “He’s in the palace, darling Highness. Tonight! While your men are hunting the countryside for him. Now you have to admit, that’s amusing!”
Chapter Thirty
Jean-Pierre sat on his horse, watching the horizon while lightning flickered along the peaks like Zeus’s sharp blessings. The prince had given a ball, but had made it clear Jean-Pierre was not welcome. Not because of his mother, whom Prince Sandre laughingly called a slut with a talented mouth, but because Jean-Pierre hadn’t yet caught the Reaper.
The wind picked up. A cloud obscured the stars as it formed, grumbling in its growing pains. The smell of rain grew fresh in the air.
Confounded thunderstorm. It was coming, and coming fast.
Jean-Pierre was sick and tired of sitting in the old royal graveyard on the road to the palace, getting drenched every night. He intended to attend the next ball.
The slow clip-clop of a horse’s hooves brought his head around. He watched with negligent interest as a white horse rounded the corner from the palace.
On his nightly mission, he’d seen a lot of white horses. The rider wore a black cape.
But the rider reached the straight stretch of road and urged the horse forward. As he did, a brilliant flash of lightning illuminated the landscape.
Jean-Pierre straightened in the saddle.
A black cape . . . and a black mask . . . and when the cape rippled back, Jean-Pierre saw it—a white shroud and winding clothes that fluttered as he rode. So what if the description didn’t precisely match the reality? Everything about the Reaper had been obscured in gossip and legend.
Lightning blazed, thunder snarled, and Jean-Pierre pulled his rifle from the holster.
The Reaper’s horse was cantering now, gaining speed, smoothing its gait into a gallop.
Jean-Pierre steadied his aim at the Reaper’s right shoulder. He waited for the next flash of lightning and pulled the trigger.
As he did, the Reaper leaned into the horse’s neck.
Jean-Pierre heard the blast of the shot, saw the puff of cloth, flesh, and blood as the bullet struck the Reaper high between the shoulder and the neck.
The Reaper sagged in the saddle. Recovered. His horse leaped forward, riding around the bend and out of sight.
Jean-Pierre cursed, thrust his rifle into his holster, and slapped his horse on the rump. The Reaper would not escape him now.
But as he cleared the bushes and hit the highway, the heavens opened. Rain fell in buckets. The temperature dropped. Hail battered the ground, shredded the trees, and pummeled him. He rode, knowing the Reaper faced the same conditions, but he couldn’t see. He urged his horse faster. The beast balked, reared, and threw him out of the saddle.
Jean-Pierre splashed into an icy puddle.
The horse reared again, his hooves precariously close to Jean-Pierre’s head.
Jean-Pierre ducked and rolled across the mud.
The horse ran, head outstretched, back up the road toward the palace.
Cursing, Jean-Pierre came to his feet. He looked up and down the road.
It was empty. Of course. What fool would be out in this weather?
As he trudged after his horse through the torrents of rain and blasts of wind, he knew the story that would sweep the palace.
The Reaper had
called the storm and used the lightning to defeat his enemies.
Well, maybe so. But Jean-Pierre had seen that bullet strike.
The Reaper was wounded, cowering somewhere in pain, and Jean-Pierre would find him and bring him in.
Emma walked into her bedroom, holding her candle high, looked around, and wanted to cry. Tia was nowhere in sight, Emma had buttons up the back of her silk gown, and unless she trudged all the way down to the kitchen, she would have to sleep in this dress—and the corset.
She pressed her palm to the stays that held her spine rigidly erect and nipped in her waist.
She couldn’t do it. She would have to find help to undress.
On the other hand, after Prince Sandre left the ball early to direct the search for the Reaper, Lady Fanchere had admitted she was tired, and Lord Fanchere had brought them home through a blinding hailstorm. All of which meant that Emma did not have to dance a second dance with Prince Sandre.
Emma considered that a victory she could celebrate.
Outside, the storm was rumbling away at last.
She fumbled with the diamond pins that held her coiffure in place—one thing she had to say for Madam Mercier: Nary a strand had dared escape—when a male figure limped out of the shadows at the back of the room. “Miss Chegwidden.”
A week ago she would have screamed. Tonight she pulled a pin from her hair and held it like a weapon.
The man held up an arm. “I am not here to harm you. I am Rubio, Durant’s valet.”
She had seen him from above before; now she looked into his face.
He was older than she by probably five years, but his eyes were the eyes of a man who had seen horrors no one should see, had experienced pain no one should experience. As before, he was dressed with a gentleman’s precision in a black suit with white linens. One sleeve was neatly pinned up; his arm was gone. And tonight his reddish blond hair was rumpled, and a spot of blood stained his cuff.
She lowered the pin. “Yes?”
In an urgent voice, he said, “He’s been shot. He needs you.”
She stared at him, confused, her mind tumbling, trying to understand whom he meant. Not Durant. So . . . “The Reaper?”
“Yes. They shot him. You can fix people up. Come and help him.”
She grabbed her medical bag, picked up her skirts, and said, “Lead me.”
“You go.” Rubio started limping toward the door. “He’s in the dowager house.”
So the Reaper was with Durant? But she didn’t wait to ask questions. She raced out and down the stairs, out the back door, and across the wide expanse of lawn. It was wet. Pieces of hail rolled beneath her leather slippers.
The door stood open.
She rushed in.
The dowager house was old, a primitive castle decorated to disguise its age. She hurried up the winding stone stairs to the second story, then walked toward the open, lighted chamber.
She paused in the entrance of the bedroom.
Michael Durant sat on a chair in front of the mirror, writing on a piece of paper. His red hair dripped water. A soggy black mask was discarded on the table. His face was drawn with pain, and blood oozed from the bullet wound that creased his muscle between his shoulder and his neck. A soggy white scarf wrapped his throat. Damp white trousers were decorated with winding rags. He was bare chested . . . and she recognized that chest. She recognized that chin. She recognized him.
At last she knew the truth.
Michael Durant was the Reaper.
Chapter Thirty-one
“You bastard,” Emma breathed.
Jean-Pierre had shot the Reaper. He had shot Michael Durant.
She wanted to kill Durant herself.
He glanced up, met her eyes in the mirror. “I told him not to tell you. Why did he tell you?” He dipped his pen into the inkwell and went back to writing.
His voice was hoarse, distinctive.
Oh. Of course. No wonder the Reaper had spoken only one word to her. It wasn’t an accent he was trying to disguise. It was that distinctive rasp.
The deceitful bastard.
She diagnosed him with a glance. “Because you’re so white you look like you’re in disguise, you’ve got blood all over your chest and back . . . and you can’t lift your left arm?”
He couldn’t. She could tell by the way his hand rested limp in his lap, palm up, and by the faint blue hue of his flesh. And by the fact that he didn’t deny her accusation, but sat weaving in his seat.
“Lie on the bed while you can,” she said brusquely. “I’ve got to get that bullet out of you.”
“The bullet went through. And I have to finish writing this list of informers before I forget.”
“Before you die?”
“That, too.” He seemed remarkably unconcerned with that prospect, or with her discovery of his true identity. Probably he figured she was going to find out eventually. Probably he figured she’d do what she always did and take it with a proper British stiff upper lip. Probably he figured she wouldn’t kill him.
Not yet, anyway.
Opening her bag, she found her towels, her tweezers, her small container of sulfur water drawn from a spring in France. She soaked a linen strip, laid it on his wound, and smiled as he flinched and said, “By God, woman. That hurts!”
Served. Him. Right.
“And it stinks,” he added, but he wasn’t really paying attention.
“The sulfur will help stop an infection.” She took the strip away and examined the wound. “You’re going to need all the help you can get. The bullet blasted the costume and the shreds have adhered to the muscle.”
With a sigh, he put down the pen and looked at her, really looked at her, for the first time since she’d walked through the door. “Emma, this is important.”
If he told her he loved her, she was going to say she didn’t care.
“That paper contains the list of informants, either willing or unwilling, to Prince Sandre. You must promise me you’ll make sure Rubio gets this list to Raul Lawrence.”
Hadn’t she already realized she was a fool? And now she knew she was a hopeful fool, clinging to the expectation that he was going to declare his devotion to her. She wanted to slap herself.
No, she wanted to slap him.
“Emma, will you promise?”
“Of course. I’ve given my all to the cause. I’m hardly likely to fail you now.”
His voice deepened, and he crooned, “Emma . . .”
Oh, now he realized she was upset. And he was turning, if possible, even whiter.
She didn’t care. That bastard. If he dies, I’ll kill him. “Lie down on the bed.”
“I dream of you saying that to me, but under different circumstances.”
Did he imagine he could charm her now?
He stood up. He swayed.
She leaped forward and wrapped her arm around him.
He leaned against her heavily, then straightened.
The stupid, bullheaded, strutting, pulling-the-wool-over-her-eyes rotten bastard.
“What did you say?” he asked.
She was a vicar’s daughter. She hadn’t really thought any of that. She certainly hadn’t said it out loud. “I said, lie down.”
“I thought so.” How dared he sound amused here? Now.
She helped him to the neatly turned-down and waiting bed.
Earlier tonight. Earlier tonight he had kissed her beneath her skirt; then, not half an hour later, he had conversed with her in the ballroom, pretending that none of that had happened, that he hadn’t been in her bedroom the night before and every night before that. And the night before that, and the night before that, and that he hadn’t convinced her to seduce him into making love to her, and hadn’t made her stay awake nights worrying about him.
She was so angry. She was shaking with rage. It sure wasn’t worry that he would die of this measly little wound that had blasted out a chunk of muscle, leaving his arm limp and him with an infection she could see coming a mile a
way.
“How did you pull this off?”
“Tonight or . . . ?”
“All of this. Your costume, your horse, the freedom to ride at night when you’re supposed to be locked away or under supervision?”
“Rubio is a miracle with clothing and costumes. When I went into the dungeon, my Moricadian friends saved Old Nelson for me.”
“Old Nelson is . . .”
“My horse. There’s a stable in the cave below the dowager house.” His voice grew weaker, the rasp more distinct.
“So you have all the ingredients to be the Reaper except freedom, and—let me guess. Fanchere’s guards are Moricadian, and none-too-vigilant when it comes to caging the Reaper.” She wasn’t really guessing. Brimley had warned her there was more to the Moricadians than met the eye, and allowing Michael to roam the roads was neatly undermining the de Guignards’ fortune and prestige. Of course the servants wanted him to ride. “Fanchere is Moricadian. Is he also a party to this deception?”
“Perhaps.” But Michael nodded thoughtfully. “We’ve never spoken of it, and if he is, it’s more of a blind eye than active assistance.”
Emma inclined her head.
“Don’t be angry with me,” Michael whispered. “I know what you think I’ve done to you, but it’s not true.”
“You don’t know what I think.” She went to work with her tweezers, pulling threads of his black cape and his white shroud out of the mangled, bleeding muscle.
He didn’t answer. He had passed out.
Good. He couldn’t feel the pain, although why she cared, she didn’t know.
She ran her hands along his arm. It felt cool and lifeless. The bullet had done something dreadful: ripped his nerves, destroyed an artery—she didn’t know, and for all her furious ill humor, she didn’t want to amputate his arm.
She glanced up as Rubio finally made it through the doorway.
If Durant were conscious, she would get Rubio over here to tell him about living with an amputation. Just to scare him. Just to let him know how close he was to death and dismemberment.
Rubio limped to the bed. “How is he?”
“He’s fine.” She continued working the shreds of his costume out of his shoulder.
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