Confessions From an Arranged Marriage (12 page)

She looked delectably smug, no doubt contemplating victory. For a moment he wavered. When the Duke of Montillou had proposed the expedition to Chantilly he'd been pleased. Not only did the stable sound like a sight any horseman would want to see, he also learned that Artois was a keen amateur of horseflesh and his circle would put Blake in touch with important breeders.

He wondered if she was sorry to be left alone for two days. It wasn't much of a honeymoon, for either of them, but as a man he had more freedom to go out. He felt a pang of guilt about abandoning her every evening after dinner. Although he could claim altruistic motives for his excursions, he couldn't deny he was enjoying himself. Tomorrow he'd turn his attention to improving relations with his wife, as well as the other task he had to perform. Winning their little contest would be undeniably satisfying. Minerva would also be impressed. To his surprise it had become important to him that she not think him a worthless fool.

On impulse he walked over to her chair, pushed aside the paper, and kissed her cheek. “I should return by midafternoon tomorrow. We could go riding.”

M
inerva was convinced there was something she didn't know about her husband. In the Tuileries Throne Room, while she made the acquaintance of members of the Austrian nobility visiting Paris, she covertly observed Blake after he was released from the royal presence. He conversed with several different gentlemen and they didn't appear to be the kinds of superficial exchange one had in a language one barely knew. Of course, this was a gathering of diplomats, so perhaps his acquaintances all spoke English.

Now he'd set off for a day and a night in the company of a party of Frenchmen. He'd told her he wanted to talk about buying horses, business she knew from her mother demanded all one's wits. Wouldn't it be normal to be apprehensive about conducting such negotiations across a language barrier? And if he did indeed speak French, why would he try and hide it from her?

The minute she heard the front door to the apartment slam, she tiptoed through the connecting door from her room into his. The apartment had no dressing rooms but her bedchamber was enormous, with plenty of space for a large armoire and chest of drawers as well as a dressing table well supplied, like the rest of the house, with mirrors.

Blake's room had the same tall windows overlooking the gracious little garden at the back of the mansion. It was a bit smaller than her own, though the bed looked larger, and much tidier. Her maid had given up trying to control the books and papers that she accumulated like drifting autumn leaves. By contrast almost every surface in his room was bare. A single volume lay on a table near the bed, along with a water carafe and a decanter of wine. She snatched it up and recognized the red leather binding. It was the book she'd given him for a wedding present.

She held it for a moment, pleased that he kept it by him, though why would he not? Egan's
Boxiana
was a treat for any gentleman of sporting tastes. The book fell open to the white ribbon bookmark. He'd read two pages. As far she could see, it was the sole reading matter in the room and certainly not written in French. Did the man never read a newspaper? Even her mother read the racing news.

The dressing table bore only a pair of silver-backed brushes. With the ruthlessness that made her younger brother's life an open book, she opened drawers and rooted through the contents, finding small clothes and the accoutrements of a gentleman of fashion: cuff buttons, fobs, handkerchiefs, and such. Nothing surprising or revealing.

She picked up a slim card case, distracted by an intricate design of silver and lapis lazuli, and finally found a piece of paper, a letter stowed away beneath. She'd unfolded the single sheet before her action gave her pause.

What was she doing? It was one thing to have a look around the room at whatever was openly displayed. Looking in drawers was more intrusive and, now she considered the matter, she felt guilty. Blake was not her brother. And to read a private letter without permission? She wouldn't even do that to Stephen. Quickly she refolded and replaced the paper, but not before she observed that the writing was all in capital letters, as though addressed to a child who'd scarcely learned to read. The discovery dissolved a tension she hadn't even been aware of feeling. It was unlikely to be a love letter written in such a juvenile manner.

About to close the drawer and cease her prying, she noticed a large flat case tucked into the back. The contents made her gasp. Even a woman as little interested in jewelry as Minerva couldn't fail to be impressed by the exquisite emerald necklace. She cast her mind back to the day Sebastian had burst in with the story of Blake and his mistress and the rubies. She—and everyone else—had assumed then that the emeralds he'd purchased were intended for the same woman.

And yet, here they were. And here she was, in Paris, with Blake, while Mademoiselle Desirée de Bonamour was not. If that was her real name, a fact Minerva highly doubted. Perhaps she'd returned to Lancashire or Cumberland or some other prosaic spot from which she'd emerged.

Celia Compton, a reliable source of information about things proper ladies weren't supposed to know, had told her gentlemen often gave their mistresses expensive parting gifts. Perhaps that's all those ruby bracelets had been.

She raised fingers to the spot on her cheek where Blake had kissed her good-bye. It was cool to the touch but warm in her imagination.

The necklace might be a wedding present. If Blake had decided to behave in a husbandly manner at last, Min would welcome it. She would find the courage to ask for an explanation of his previous neglect. It wasn't like her to be so timorous.

Her fingers moved to her mouth, lightly tapping her lips and eliciting memories of a certain kiss. Instead of asking Blake why he hadn't come to her bed, perhaps she'd make the move toward intimacy herself. Although rather apprehensive about how to go about it, it suited her temperament to take the initiative.

She put the necklace back where she'd found it, made sure she left no sign of her intrusion, and returned to her own room to await her maid. While Blake wasted his time with a lot of horse-mad men, she'd be following up a very promising lead. She looked forward to taking the first prize in their contest.

And had an idea of what she would ask for.

Chapter 12

M
inerva was in the salon when Blake returned, rather later in the afternoon than he'd intended. He stood in the doorway for a moment, taking in the scene. Aside from the gilt plasterwork and mirrors, the walls were decorated with paintings of classical temples and abundantly blooming rosebushes among which wandered ladies, gentlemen, and cherubs dressed in the modes of the last century. Although to be precise the cherubs wore only wisps of cloth, the perennial fashion for junior angels. In contrast to the sugary frivolity of her background, his wife seemed the epitome of restraint in a simple gown of some blue and white striped stuff. Seated on a gilt and brocaded sofa that complemented the rest of the furnishings, she looked serene, pretty, and unpretentious.

How agreeable to come home to such a sweet creature,
Blake thought, then grinned at such an inapt description of Minerva, Marchioness of Blakeney. For a start, the wholesome spouse of his fleeting imagination would doubtless be occupied by her embroidery. He couldn't swear to it, but he'd be astonished to learn Minerva had ever wielded a needle in her life. She probably didn't paint in watercolors or play the harp either. Instead, predictably, she sat with a litter of paper on her lap and a pile of books and magazines on the sofa. She was reading a letter with frowning concentration when his arrival distracted her.

“I'm sorry I'm late,” he said. “I fear it's too late to ride out now.”

In his experience women became fractious about unpunctuality. She dismissed his offense with glorious and unfeminine unconcern. “Never mind that. I have good news for you. And look at all the invitations that have arrived for us.” She pawed through the mess on her knee. “Tonight we are asked to a reception by the Prussian ambassador, a literary soirée to hear readings by several poets, and I daresay there are more.”

“Splendid,” he said, planning avoidance tactics. “We can decide which we prefer later.”

“Oh, I'm sure we'll have time for more than one.”

“I want to tell you about my expedition,” he said firmly.

She set aside her letters and sat up straight. “You had a enjoyable time?” she asked, though he could tell her question was merely polite.

“There must have been a dozen gentlemen in the party, including a couple of English sportsmen, Armitage and Thornton, both good friends of mine. They were invited over to offer advice on setting up a French Jockey Club and getting some quality horse racing started in France.”

“Really?” Minerva's reaction was bored—and predictable. It amused Blake that he began to know just what would elicit her enthusiasm. She wasn't expecting to hear anything of interest about a lot of men talking about horses. He decided to play with her a little.

“The Revolution set back the progress of the sport in France,” he began, clasping his hands behind his back and pacing about the room.

“Oh?”

“Horse racing is, after all, an aristocratic sport.”

“Oh.”

“The breeding of first-rate horses demands care and almost unlimited funds.”

Her eyes grew dull but, as he waxed lyrical about the care and training of thoroughbreds, they gradually began to glow, but not with joy. Five minutes later she looked as though she'd like to beat him over the head with a riding crop. It was time to put her out of her misery. Although she wasn't going to be precisely happy when she discovered how many favors she owed him. Never mind. She looked especially fetching when annoyed.

“Of course the main point of the trip was to see the Great Stables. I've never seen anything so magnificent. They are like a palace for horses. The prince who built them in the last century believed he would be reincarnated as a horse. I suppose he thought he was providing himself with proper quarters for his future life.”

A noise in the back of her throat told him what she thought of that piece of nonsense.

Now they were getting to the good bit. “The Prince of Condé, it was. The present owner of Chantilly, the Duke of Bourbon, is the last of the line and the son of the Duke of Orleans is his heir.”

He expected her to grasp the significance of these members of the French royal family, but she was no longer listening. Instead she rose to her feet and glared at him.

“Will you stop?” she burst out. “I told you I had news and all you do is go on and on about horses. You're worse than my mother. It's my turn to talk.”

His news could wait. She was going to have a big shock and the lingering anticipation would make him savor her chagrin all the more. She would learn that her husband wasn't as much of a fool as she'd thought. He'd be fooling her, of course. If she ever found out the truth she'd never see him as anything but a pitiful idiot. A weight settled in his stomach as he contemplated the odds of getting though a lifetime without her learning about him. Not good.

He shook off the shadow of fear that he was used to ignoring. “I apologize for monopolizing the conversation,” he said with feigned remorse. “Please, sit again and you'll have all my attention.”

He joined her on the sofa, close enough that their knees brushed. He took both her hands in both his and looked down at her with his most soulful gaze and his best coaxing smile. “Tell me what you've been doing for two days. Tell me all about it.”

She'd been dying to tell him what she'd learned and had nearly burst her stays while he went on and on about those wretched equines and their dreary owners. What felt like the last hour, though she knew it hadn't been that long, reminded her of the bad old days when she and Diana had listened to Blake bore on about hunting.

Now, when she was at last getting her chance to speak, he distracted her by sitting too close and holding her hands and
looking at her
. She'd never experienced deep blue eyes focused on her with such intensity. Her heart beat faster and her stomach fluttered and she felt her control slipping away, as though she might do something without forethought. Like kissing her husband. And though she'd decided the day before that she would kiss him again, she'd also decided it would be at a moment of her own choice. This was not the moment and she would not succumb to her unruly impulses.

Breaking the lock of their gazes, she snatched free her hands and edged away from him up the sofa. She took a deep breath to clear her head. “While you have been jaunting around with your horse-loving friends,
I
have been putting my time to good use.”

“Embroidery?”

“Espionage.”

“Sounds hazardous.”

“No more dangerous than drinking tea with the wife of the Austria ambassador.”

“Spilled tea can burn badly if very hot. I'm sure the Austrians serve tea hot.”

“I made the acquaintance of Princess Walstein.”

“How charming for you. Does she have a firm grasp on her teacup?”

“She has a firm grasp on her friendship with the Austrian royal family. She's a friend of the Empress Marie-Louise.”

“Remind me . . .”

Minerva turned her head sharply. Could he possibly have forgotten the significance of Napoleon's widow, or was he simply being annoying? His features were set in bland incomprehension but she thought she detected a glimmer of laughter in his eye.

“The former Empress of France.”

“Oh.”

“The mother of the Bonaparte heir.”

“Of course.

“Princess Walstein is a close friend and member of the imperial household. I can guess what she's doing in Paris.”

“Buying new clothes? Meeting her lover?”

“Women do think of things besides clothes,” she said. “And lovers.”

“Pity.”

It was time to take control of the conversation. “I believe Princess Walstein is here to investigate support for the restoration of the Duke of Reichstadt as emperor.”

“Or to buy clothes.”

“I'm not making this up. I have reasons to think so. I observed her in close—very close—conversation with the Duke of Mouchy-Ferrand.”

“Oh yes, my old friend Mouchy.”

“Do you know who he is?”

“Haven't a notion.”

“It's a Napoleonic dukedom. His father was a general who managed to avoid taking sides after Bonaparte's escape from Elba by claiming illness and remaining at his country estate.”

“Very sly.”

“Well, it turns out he really was ill,” she said. “He died on the day of Waterloo. It means his son never had to state his preference. In fact, after the Restoration the new duke was a member of the Ultras, the Count of Artois's conservatives.”

“Doesn't sound like much of a Bonapartist to me.”

“He must be very clever. I can't think of any reason why he'd be speaking so earnestly with the Princess. In German too, so no one would understand. Everyone else present was French and, as far as I can tell, very few of the French speak German. Luckily I can. I heard them arranging a private meeting.”

“Is she pretty?”

Minerva gave up in disgust. He refused to take her seriously, but she knew she was right. She had her ideas about how to discover the reason for that meeting.

“Scoff if you want,” she said, “but I'll get proof that the duke is a Bonapartist and you will owe me a favor.”

Blake leaned in and lowered his head close to hers. “I'll look forward to it,” he murmured, his breath warm on her cheek. “And I look forward to
your
favor.”

“I don't owe you one,” she said, disgusted that her voice was a little wobbly.

“In fact you do, Minnie.”

“Don't call me that.”

“I'll call you anything I like. Since you owe me four favors, you are not in a position to argue.”

Minerva scuttled over to the far end of the sofa to avoid his proximity and the way it muddled her brain. With a good three feet between them, she tried to make sense of his claim and failed.

“Four? What do you mean?”

He grinned at her, odiously smug. Also odiously handsome. What was one to do with a man who made one's body quiver at his gaze? She was not a foolish female, to be distracted from important matters by well-cast features and a roguish smile. And dark blue eyes.

It took more to impress Minerva Montrose—she still couldn't get used to thinking of herself by her new name—than looks, however exceptionally fine. She admired a man for what he achieved, not the face he was born with.

Blake held up his left hand, palm forward and fingers splayed, interrupting her view of that handsome face.

“Four,” he said and rattled off a string of names, counting them on his fingers. She recognized the names, of course, all prominent members of the circles of King Louis XVIII of France and his heir and brother, the Count of Artois. “I met them all at Chantilly.”

“How nice for you. What does that prove?”

“Did I mention that the Duke of Orleans joined the party for the tour of the stables and dinner?”

“You met the duke?”

“He lived in England for many years, you know. He seems a delightful man. Very keen on horse racing.”

Minerva couldn't believe his luck. Men and their sports! “Is that all you talked about?”

“A group of men want to start racing at Chantilly and he is speaking with his cousin Bourbon, the owner of the estate, on their behalf.”

“Is that all?”

Half an hour later she was convinced.

“I wouldn't call it proof,” Blake concluded. “Short of asking them directly if they'd like to see Louis Philippe made king, or intercepting secret communications, I don't see how there could be. But I think Gideon will be pleased with the information and that, after all, is the object of our researches.”

Minerva nodded slowly. She couldn't argue with that, neither did she wish to. “Excellent work,” she said. “I concede your victory.”

“Thank you, my lady. I'll admit I was lucky.”

“I don't believe in luck. You saw the opportunity and seized it.
That's
what luck means.”

“I disagree. I'm beginning to think I was very lucky the night I mistook you for the Duchess of Lethbridge.”

“Oh.” Her voice wobbled. “Are you flirting with me, Blake?”

“I'm trying, but you're quite hard to flirt with. You don't take compliments well.”

“If you mean compliments on my face, I don't care for them.”

“It wasn't your face I was complimenting.”

To her dismay she felt herself blushing hotly. Could he possibly be referring to the part of her body he'd been investigating that night?

“I meant,” he said, and judging by his sly smile he'd read her thoughts, “that having a clever wife isn't such a bad thing. Far from it.”

She'd never felt less clever in her life. “What are you going to claim for a forfeit?”

“I would like to choose where we go this evening.”

“Very well,” she said over a pang of disappointment. She'd thought he might ask for something more . . . intimate. “I really hope you're not going to pick the poets.”

“Not a chance. And I don't fancy the Russians.”

“Prussians.”

“Not them either.”

“No? There'll be all sorts of interesting people there.”

“I'd like to take you to dine at a restaurant or café. It's quite usual for ladies to eat out in public here.”

“Do you mean
ladies?
”

“Yes, indeed. Ladies of impeccable birth. And when did you become so high in the instep?”

“I'd enjoy that. I'd have a chance to see some of the ordinary citizens of Paris.”

“I'd thought we might try one of the fashionable spots, but if it's ordinary people you want, then I think we'll go to the Café de la Paix in the Palais-Royal. Unless you fancy the Café des Aveugles.”

“The Café for the Blind? What an odd name.”