In Bed with the Duke (11 page)

Other people appeared in windows and around the fringes of the courtyard, and two women ventured to the well in the center to draw water, all the while staring and observing.

“Thank you for bringing Elixabete home,” Damacia said. “Thank you both. Ever since Rickie de Guignard was killed, we’ve barely stirred out of our rooms for fear of the prince’s men catching us and asking their questions. Once they’ve held you, you might as well die of the shame.”

One of the women at the well thumped her bucket on the cobblestones. “Quiet, Damacia. For the sake of your children.”

Damacia shook her head fiercely. “This is the
Englishman
.”

Both women inhaled sharply. They seemed to know Durant by that title.

One bobbed a curtsy.

The other one, the one who offered a warning, edged away.

Emma watched, trying to understand, and thinking,
This is a society broken and divided by fear.

Durant lowered his voice. “Has retaliation been bad?”

“Not too bad.
They
don’t really think it was any of us.
They
think we’re not smart enough to make a plan to be the Reaper.
They
know we haven’t the money for a fast horse, and
they
know most of us have never ridden.
They
imagine we’re too cowed to try to kill a pig like Rickie de Guignard.” Damacia’s voice vibrated with outrage. “Maybe we are, but we’re glad he’s gone.”

“Damacia. Quiet.” The other woman at the well spoke urgently.

Durant and Damacia paid her no heed.

“I heard that the Reaper is frightening away the gamblers who bring their money and squander it at Prince Sandre’s tables,” Durant said.

“Good.” Damacia laughed harshly. “I heard that Prince Sandre is angry because his men can’t catch and eliminate the Reaper, and he’s afraid he’ll become the butt of all the jokes in Moricadia. Our prince does not like to be viewed as a fool.”

“Then he shouldn’t try to catch the Reaper. The Reaper is the ghost of King Reynaldo, and ghosts can’t be captured.” Durant looked quite serious, as if he believed in ghosts.

Emma didn’t believe in ghosts . . . or she hadn’t until she came to Moricadia. Now a barely remembered skeletal face made her so faint with fear she dropped plates and wondered if she had been hallucinating.

“I heard that rumor, too. Maybe he is. I don’t care. Rickie de Guignard killed my husband.” Damacia spoke to Emma now, as if Emma would understand.

“I am sorry,” Emma said.

“He left Tiago’s body hanging at the crossroads for the birds to pluck out his eyes. I’m glad Rickie suffered the same fate, and I hope the birds had a chance at him before they cut down the body.”

The violence of Damacia’s sentiments shocked Emma, yet at the same time . . . if she had someone to love, and he had been so unjustly taken from her . . . She wasn’t without emotions. Surely she would be angry. Maybe even unforgiving.

She didn’t know. It had been so long since she allowed herself to feel anything but dull acceptance, she didn’t know what she would feel.

Durant lowered his voice. “I also heard that Reynaldo’s ghost is the harbinger of the true king’s return.”

The two women edged closer, straining to hear.

Damacia stared at him. “Is it?” Her words were no more than a breath.

“Of course, it would be worth more than your life to repeat such a report.” His eyes glinted as he spoke.

Damacia nodded without taking her gaze from him. “Yes. That would be very dangerous. I won’t repeat it.”

But the two ladies at the well stood transfixed, and Emma thought that if Durant was trying to start a rumor, he’d done a good job.

In a more normal voice, he said, “Elixabete seems to be an intelligent young lady. After a few days of recuperation, send her to Lady Fanchere’s. She has a position open for a scullery maid, and I know Miss Chegwidden would be glad to recommend her.”

“Indeed I would.” Emma smiled warmly at Damacia and her child. “Do you need assistance taking Elixabete to your rooms?”

“No, I thank you. My friends will help.” Damacia backed away from the cart. “Elixabete, say thank you to Miss Chegwidden.”

“Thank you.” Elixabete tried to smile, but her face was pinched with pain.

“Oh, wait.” Emma opened her medical bag and rummaged among the jars tumbled by Lady Lettice’s careless hand. She found the one she wanted and offered it. “Boil a spoonful of ground white willow bark in water, let it steep for thirty minutes, then have her drink it. She’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Durant climbed into the cart and slapped the reins on the pony’s back.

Emma turned back and called, “Keep that arm immobilized!”

She waited until they had driven out of the cesspool of lower Tonagra before bursting out, “Why is it like that there?” He started to answer, but she didn’t wait. “This country is so rich. So much money comes in from the rich visitors. And the native Moricadians live like that? Why?”

“Because the de Guignards and Prince Sandre have the power to hold the wealth, and they do.”

“That’s what Brimley said. But it’s a small country. The de Guignards could share the tiniest bit of what they have, and what a difference that would make. Leaving people to live like that”—she gestured back toward the tenements—“it’s criminal!”

“Yes.”

“Can nothing be done?”

“I was in prison for two years because Sandre thought I knew something about a conspiracy. So no. Nothing can be done.” He stared straight ahead, his expression stern, aristocratic. “Miss Chegwidden, keep your nose out of Moricadian business.”

Outrage almost lifted her from the cart. Two years in prison, yes. That was horrible in a way she knew she couldn’t comprehend. But to speak so coldly of this outrageous neglect, to say there was nothing to be done, when he was so pleasantly situated!

“Miss Chegwidden. You will not get involved with the Moricadian people.” His tone made it clear he was giving an order. “It’s hopeless. There are too many. You are no crusader, so don’t start now.”

She looked around. The Moricadian countryside embraced them, beautiful, rugged . . . cold, cruel, and hard. If Lady Fanchere turned her out, she would be on that road into the forest again, back toward a fate composed of fear and starvation.

Her indignation collapsed. He was right. Courage was a luxury she couldn’t afford, and didn’t have anyway. In a small voice, she asked, “Does Lady Fanchere really have an opening for a scullery maid?”

“She’s very kind, so yes, soon it will come to her attention that she needs another child to scrub the andirons.”

He wasn’t so bad, really. He was generous in a careless way, and he’d helped her set Elixabete’s arm without hesitation. She needed to stop judging him so harshly. After all, he was no more of a coward than she was herself . . . although he did have family and wealth to support him, should he choose. And for the life of her, she didn’t know why he didn’t choose that oh-so-easy life. Michael Durant was a bit of an enigma.

For the first time since they’d walked into the chaos of Lady Lettice’s room, Emma looked at Durant, really looked at him, and saw a man streaked with coal dust. “You’re a mess!” she said.

“My dear girl. That’s the pot calling the kettle black. Literally.” With two fingers, he wiped across her cheek, then showed her the soot that colored his skin.

In horror, Emma looked down at her gown, the handsome gown she’d found waiting for her this morning. Black stained the material over the knees. She had soot on the bodice and all over her right arm, and somehow, somewhere, she’d torn her white cuff off completely. “This is the second gown I’ve ruined in two days. Do you think Lady Fanchere will notice?”

Leaning his head back, he roared with laughter; then, when he had stopped, he leaned back and looked at her. Just looked at her, but the expression in his eyes was different. Interested, or intrigued, or . . . something. “I think she will. And very soon.” Still smiling, he turned the cart into the Fancheres’ estate.

“Can you take me to an entrance where I won’t be seen going into the château?” She spread her hands in her lap. Her nails were stuffed with soot, and somewhere she’d lost her gloves.

“Of course. The château is full of passages and entrances.” Driving her to a small side door, he stopped the cart before a stoop. “Before the Fancheres moved the kitchen, this served as the servants’ entrance. It will take you on the shortest route to your room.” When she prepared to climb out, he stopped her with a hand on her arm.

She looked at it warily. What did he intend?

“Listen carefully while I give you directions to the servants’ quarters,” he said.

She relaxed. “Thank you.” So he had had a peculiar expression in his eyes when he looked at her. He had been a perfect gentleman. She was foolish to imagine anything else.

She listened as he told her which stairs to take and how many corners to turn. She assured him she could find her own room, although she was none too sure of that, and allowed him to help her to the ground. She hurried toward the château.

His voice stopped her. “Miss Chegwidden.”

She turned, once more on edge.

He opened the hamper at the back of the cart and brought forth her medical bag.

“Thank you!” She had almost forgotten it. She turned away.

Again he called, “Miss Chegwidden.”

She swung back to see him holding another bag, her old, worn travel bag that seemed stuffed with . . . “My clothes! How did you get them?”

“I had the maids collect them while you were busy with the child.”

“Thank you, you’ve saved my life!”

“No, Miss Chegwidden, I did not save your life, and let us both pray I never have to try.”

“True. I wouldn’t like that, either.” Because she didn’t believe he could do it.

Opening the travel bag, she found her second- best gown crammed within and undoubtedly wrinkled, but at least clean. Beneath that was the wool shawl the ladies in her village had woven for her, her father’s miniature, her mother’s copy of
Pride and Prejudice
. “You have done a great many services for me today,” she told Durant. “I will remember, and I promise, somehow, I’ll repay you.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” When she looked at him, startled and abruptly worried, he smiled with well-practiced insouciance and slouched against the cart. “Do you remember my directions to your room?”

“Yes. Thank you again!” With a wave, she hurried into the château.

He watched until the door closed behind her.

Before his arrest, he had been carried away by pleasure, by anger, by the love of adventure. Wherever his feelings took him, he willingly went without prudence or forethought. His brother had complained about Durant’s excess, telling him that sooner or later, it would get him in trouble.

Jude had been right, and someday, Durant intended to tell him so. But for now . . . On his release, Durant had discovered the dungeon’s dark loneliness had pressed away his capacity for delight.

How fascinating that, after so long, a woman as cautious and jumpy as a kitten should make him feel real emotion. Miss Chegwidden made him laugh. That laughter felt familiar, as if something in him well remembered when he took joy from every day. At the same time, the amusement that bubbled up in him felt new, as if he’d never felt the sunshine on his face, smelled the cut grass, experienced the pleasure of listening to a pretty girl.

Miss Chegwidden was right to be wary. He had a mission to accomplish, and then . . . and then, she would discover the manner of man Michael Durant had become.

E
mma recited Michael’s directions to herself while dodging maids and footmen, and made it all the way to the servants’ quarters without being seen.

Then her luck ran out.

Lord Fanchere paced up and down the corridor. He looked worried, running his hands across his bald head, ruffling the tufts of hair around his ears, and she thought—she wasn’t certain, but she thought—he had staked out her bedroom door.

She picked up speed. Had something happened to Lady Fanchere?

Catching sight of her, he burst into speech. “Thank God you have returned. Where have you been?” Before she could even try to answer, he gestured dismissively. “Never mind that. Come at once. I want you to take my wife and her cousin to the spa to take the waters.”

“Your wife and her cousin . . .” What he said was so very different from what she had expected. “Lady Fanchere is well?”

“Very well, but she must go to Aguas de Dioses at once.”

“I . . . I don’t understand. If she is well, why must she ...?”

“Aimée is crying because her husband is dead, God rot him. She says the Reaper killed him, and that Prince Sandre is going to kill her for saying so.”

Emma nodded as if she understood, when all the while her mind was racing to put together the clues. . . . The Reaper had killed Rickie de Guignard, so this Aimée was Lady de Guignard, Rickie’s wife. Or rather, his widow. “But why is Prince Sandre perturbed by Lady de Guignard’s declaration? I thought the Reaper
had
killed Rickie de Guignard.”

“Don’t
you
start saying that. If Sandre’s official story is that the Reaper doesn’t exist and didn’t kill Rickie, then anyone who contradicts him could suddenly disappear. Do you comprehend me?”

“Yes. Yes, I fear I do.” Had she not been told this already today?

“Eleonore likes you, she’s become attached to you, and your disappearance would distress her.” Lord Fanchere pointed a finger at her. “I won’t have her distressed. Aimée is saying things that will bring Sandre’s wrath down upon us,
and
ruining Eleonore’s serenity. I want Aimée muffled and distracted. Ergo . . .”

“The spa. But . . . is not Lady de Guignard in black crepe and deepest mourning? For her to go out in public at such a time will surely create a scandal.”