Athena's Ordeal (13 page)

By mid-morning Sabre had seen John, Laura, and Lizzy off for their mission. The carriage included a good number of items to be of comfort for a young lady. She gave stern instructions to the staff that they should do their best to conceal the girl’s identity when she left the school, covering her with a shawl and keeping the curtains on the carriage drawn. It wasn’t certain, but most likely the
blackmailer was having the school watched and any edge they could gain against him would be helpful.

Undoubtedly Jack would spoil the girl to no end, even without knowing that she was Quince's sister. Now, after a flurry of activity, there was nothing to do but wait. Worry. To Sabre the whole blackmail affair felt like trying to play a game of chess with at least half the board obscured. Who were the remaining lords of
The Four? What were they really capable of? What sort of resources did they have?

Unfortunately,
due to Quince's own stubbornness, the pieces he did have available to him were not yet in play. Gideon Wolfe could undoubtedly be useful but Quince had yet to confide in him. Although originally involving Robert, Quince was now withholding information from him as well. This morning, when Quince had folded up the letter to his sister without inviting her to read it, Sabre had realized that Quince was perfectly fine concealing information from her. Not that she expected him to allow her to review everything, but she had shown him all of her letters. He had said he trusted her. He had said he trusted both she and Gideon. Yet if she were to judge by his actions, that wasn't the conclusion she would draw. So here they were, with sparse defense and no movement, waiting for a move from an obscure but potentially powerful enemy. Potentially deadly enemy.

The duke's lack of action might drive her insane.

One of Sabre's favorite games as a child had been War. She had made up most of the rules herself and would play it with anyone who would indulge her. War was far more complicated to set up and play than chess, and included the element of chance. It entailed setting toy soldiers on a terrain, declaring troop movements, and rolling Crown and Anchor dice to determine outcomes. They had reenacted many famous battles from history over the years, those being a particular favorite for Jack. They had also created wars whole cloth, with made up nations and generals.

If she were to compare this to a battle in War, it was as though she and the duke were in a valley, knowing that the enemy was over the next rise but unaware of whom it was, how many they numbered, or how they were equipped. The logical move was to fall back and send a scout or two ahead. But how were they to gauge the enemy’s strength without even knowing
precisely where to search? Mulling over their potential resources she kept coming back to the people they knew. She kept coming back to Robert and Gideon.

The only one who could ever beat her at War was Robert. Clever, ruthless Robert. It would be helpful to have him on their side. Especially if this enemy turned out to be even half as clever and ruthless as Robert could be. But she couldn't discount Quince's unease about her brother because she shared it. No, as powerful a resource as Robert might be in this instance, it would be a mistake to involve him in their movements. It was too much of a risk until they knew more.

That left Gideon Wolfe, Earl of Harrington. The duke's best friend. He was recognized as a powerful presence in the House of Lords and rumored to be wealthier than Croesus. Using him to protect Jessica was wise, but most likely an underutilization. Certainly there was any number of things that he could do to help Quince if he desired. If he knew what there was to be done.

All that brought her back to Quince. If she weren't here he would be in this valley by himself. Refusing to take action, refusing to enlist the help of his friends. If she were to help him, it would be to get him out of this valley before his enemy descended upon him. No matter how she turned it about in her mind she didn't see any path that he would want to take. Which left her to figure out which path he would find least offensive and convince him to take it.

She needed to think.

As she didn't trust that a horseback ride wouldn't be circumvented with another abduction, she settled for walking the gardens of Belle Fleur.

Quince had been in his study for some time, lying on the couch and thinking, when he realized that the house seemed
strangely quiet. Still. Perhaps even lifeless. He sat up and concentrated on listening. No sound but the longcase clock in the front hall. He swiftly rose to investigate. Before long he discovered staff quietly employed at their chores. But no Sabre. He checked her room. His room. The duchess's quarters. Not sure where else to look he ventured out onto the suite's balcony. And that was when he saw her. Wandering among the flowers, her fingers reaching to touch a bloom here and there.

The house was quiet because she was quiet. A rare contemplative mood. In her pale blue dress and straw bonnet she was the ideal of a young English girl admiring the gardens. Resting his elbows on the balustrade he settled in to watch her. After some time she seemed to sense his gaze and looked up at him. She smiled and moved more directly below the balcony.

She called up, "But, soft! What light through yonder window breaks?"

Quince laughed. "Aren't those my lines?"

"You're the one on the balcony." She shaded her eyes against the bright sunlight as she continued to look up. "Is it time for luncheon yet?"

"I suppose that it is. Would you like to dine in the gardens?"

"Dine al fresco? How positively continental of you."

"I beg to differ. Nothing could be more English than taking more time to admire the gardens."

"For either reason, I accept."

He smiled down at her. "Then I shall be down presently."

He barely had the patience to order their luncheon served before joining her outside. As they ate Quince knew this would be a memory he would treasure all of his life. They dined in a spot of shade on the side of the manor. A breeze blew periodically, wafting the scent of the flowers over them and ruffling the lace edging on Sabre's dress. Cook had outdone himself with the kidney pie. The conversation was filled with nonsense and laughter. If there were an hour that he could preserve forever, it would be this one. With Sabre's eyes full of mirth and his heart full of love for her. His fairy queen.

He kissed her hand and twined his fingers in hers. "Hear my soul speak. Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service.”

She smiled. "The Tempest."

He could tell by her easy acceptance that she thought he had only found a quote to recite to her. Not that he was telling her of his heart, of his love. If they were lucky he would have time to convince her of that love later. But for now he was content to have this short, idyllic break in the otherwise consuming task of
 out-thinking his opponents.

Sabre thought that luncheon was an excellent example of how she could be charming without being mentally present at all. She still worried over what the best next action would be to remove Quincy from danger. Meanwhile, he chatted and flirted with her as though they were in the bosom of the 
ton
 without a care in the world. She was beginning to think that he could fiddle while Rome burned.

Not that she wouldn't enjoy his company immensely if there weren't some horrid blackmail plot hanging over their heads. A plot her father was likely involved in. A plot that she had yet to divine her brother Robert's role in. Not that she thought Robert would do anything at their father's behest. To say that the viscount had a strained relationship with his eldest son would be a vast and laughable understatement. Sabre didn't know the
exact source of the discord, but it seemed very obvious. The two could be in the same house, the same room, and it was as though the other didn't exist. She hadn't seen the two of them exchange a word in at least ten years. Robert doted on his two siblings. Even, to a lesser degree, their bastard brother Justin. He was unfailingly polite with her mother, their father’s second wife and Robert’s step-mother of these past twenty years. But it was as though he could neither see nor hear Father. And Father treated him exactly the same way. It was left to Charlie to ferry messages if anything of import needed to be communicated.

The greatest question in Sabre's mind was what sort of resources this blackmailer had. His letter had intimated that he was in contact with Quince's mother. That was either hubris on the part of the blackmailer, or an indication that he didn't have the funds to hire someone to watch her rather than do it himself. The letter about Jessica, however, hadn't directly indicated he had seen her or visited her school. Of course, he could have acquired at least the school name from her mother if they were on friendly social terms. It came back, however, to a suspicion that he wasn't so well off that he could hire men to do his bidding. Perhaps. Again, it could be ego. And if it was ego, that was a weakness to exploit.

While that debate chased its tail in her head she also considered what they knew, or thought they knew, about The Four. It would be easier for her to put the pieces together if Quince would give her more information, but based on what he had told her she didn't know that she wanted to hear any more about the group. Further, as they had already discussed, hearing about the depravity they were capable of while out of the light of Society didn't particularly help to know what they acted like while they were
in
Society.

Honestly, it would be easier if there
 
were
 some papers that his father had left behind describing these men. Giving some clue to their identities. She had hoped the business papers she had pored through would reveal some business partnerships his father had made that could give them a list of suspects. Far from it.

Everything his father did had been handled at an arm's length and the list of businesses and
solicitors she had made would only help if she could run down the connections. That would only be possible in London. Since she was wary of giving Robert more information, she had to hope that Justin, in his new role as Harrington's clerk, would be able to find the information. She did find, however, that although Quince didn't seem to keep the bulk of his papers here, it was readily apparent that he had a business partnership with Harrington. One that yielded a hefty return based on the one statement she had run across. If this was ducal poverty she had no idea what he thought his holdings should be worth. But if the duke was cash poor then that was also a consideration for any strategy they might employ.

Thus her mind spun round and round over the central concern; how do you conquer an unknown enemy? How do you judge his strength? How do you anticipate his next move?

She smiled indulgently at Quince while thinking she might throttle him if he didn't become more serious about the trouble that he was in.

Sabre wasn't quite sure where Quincy had disappeared off to after lunch but as she had wanted to spend more time reviewing his father's papers she decided not to worry about it overly. She had sufficiently cowed his steward to be granted free access to the study and took the opportunity to dig deep into the drawers and cabinets. Surely there was something here that would help. She was so bent on her task that she barely noticed a supper tray had been brought for her. Eating from it absently, she continued to read and organize the papers. Quincy hadn't been facetious in saying that his father kept detailed journals about everything including the growth rate of crops. There was a journal regarding the gardens of Belle Fleur that spanned more than fifty years. Journals that related to the profitable business of the lands had been maintained, if sporadically, after the older duke's death. This journal for the gardens ended abruptly with the autumn entry for 1810. Early in the book the duke's crabbed and angular handwriting had been interspersed with a more flowing and rounded hand that Sabre suspected was the first duchess. It made her unaccountably sad to see the journal not kept up. As she had spent all morning walking through the gardens and was quite familiar with them now, she took up the steward's ink and set to creating the entry for spring 1815. She was just completing notes for the early roses when she heard the door open again. Expecting it was a servant returning to remove the tray, she hadn't even looked up yet when she heard the duke's voice.

"I wondered where you'd wandered off to. Don't we have a steward to see to that? Whatever it is?"

He sauntered closer, raising a brow as he looked down at the journal she was still holding open. Sabre felt herself flush to the tips of her toes. Partially because it felt a bit naughty to not only be looking through, but updating, the duchy's papers. But mostly because he didn't ask if 
he
 had a steward. He had said 
we
. Flirting and quoting the bard struck her as meaninglessly romantic. But saying 
we
 when referring to the household? When the only possible 
we
 would be the two of them? That was very meaningfully romantic. She finally realized what else he had said.

"I thought you knew where I was since you sent in a supper tray."

He sat in the chair opposite from her. "Indeed I did not. The staff informed me that you were taking a tray and I assumed you had requested it." He tilted his head as he considered her. "I couldn't ascertain why you would want to avoid dining together."

Sabre busied herself with cleaning the quill before setting it aside. "I didn't mean to, I just got caught up in reviewing the papers here and then wanted to update this journal. It's about the gardens at Belle Fleur."

"Yes, I know what that journal is about."

She glanced up at him through her lashes. He wasn't precisely angry, but whatever he was feeling was in the neighborhood of it. A blackmailer was threatening his family and he chose to be testy about whether or not she came to the dining room?

"My apologies that I lost track of time, your grace."

He sighed and looked off to the windows where the pink streaks of the sunset glimmered against the darkening sky. "I wasn't looking for an apology, Sabrina."

She felt his emotional withdrawal as an almost physical pain. Not naturally being a creature of emotion she hadn't noticed the attachment growing between them. Hadn't noticed how she immediately turned her attention to him when he entered the room. Hadn't noticed that she hung on the slightest sign of attention and affection from him. He had arrived irritated but curious. Now his tone and posture communicated that he had shut her out. Sabre felt a completely unexpected surge of panic. But fear always had the peculiar effect of stiffening her spine.

"I find that I'm looking for one, your grace," she said in a prim voice.

That bold statement proved sufficient to return his regard to her. "Beg pardon?"

"That hardly sounds like a sincere apology," she admonished.

The irritation had returned. "What am I apologizing for, exactly?"

She gave him her most grave and imperious stare. "If I have to explain it to you that somewhat reduces the effect of the apology, doesn't it?"

His features settled into a neutral, haughty expression. Raised to be a duke, he would be her match at this game. "Then you shall have to suffer through a reduced apology. Explain."

Although she tried to keep her face impassive she felt her lips quirk at the corners. It wasn't her fault that the man was so damned adorable. Especially when he was being The Duke. Now it was Sabre's turn to tilt her head with some curiosity. He did treat his title more as a role to be played than an essential part of who he was.

He raised a brow. "As enchanting as your Mona Lisa expression is, I am waiting to be educated on what you think it is I need to apologize for."

"You have left me on my own for hours without so much as a kiss."

Now his brows both flew up. "Would you rather have an apology or a remedy?"

She smiled and pretended to consider his question, staring at the ceiling. "Perhaps the latter."

He stood and leaned over the desk to cup the back of her head, lowering his lips to hers. The kiss was sweet, surprisingly sweet after such cross words. She sighed and leaned into him, grasping the lapels of his jacket. He took hold of her arms and hauled her onto the desk.

"Quincy! The ink!"

He pushed it aside and set to kissing her again. Her lips, her throat, nibbling on her earlobe. His hand caressed up and down her ribcage, brushing the side of her breast. She wanted desperately for him to cup his hand over her breast. Or better yet, for him to kiss her there.

"Quince," she panted, "please touch me."

Finally his hand was fully on her breast, stroking her nipple. She felt her body catch fire. Surely if they joined it would be better this time? It had to be better. Her body insisted that it would not only be better, it would be glorious.

"Take me to bed?"

He cupped her face in his hands and pulled back to look at her. His eyes were shadowed with worry. "It's not just about that. You know this, yes?”

"It's not about that all the time, but right now..."

He laughed and kissed her forehead, then drew her into a hug. She nestled into his shoulder. It should probably worry her, she thought, that his touch could rule her emotions so easily. That he could make her want, could soothe her. She gave a sigh of contentment. His arms were strong and warm around her. His scent of lemongrass and male were like a tonic that made her forget her worries. She wanted all the rest of it to be over. For there to be just this, just him.