In Bed with the Duke (12 page)

“She’s wearing black. But I assure you, she is not in mourning, and Aguas de Dioses is a place where ladies go to take the waters, to bathe, and to recover from grief and disappointment. No one will gossip.” He seemed very sure.

But Emma was still doubtful. In England, this plan would be unacceptable. But more than once since she’d arrived in Moricadia it had been forcibly borne in on her that she was not in England any longer. “Very well. Let me clean up and change my gown—”

“No time for that.” He caught her wrist and tugged her down the corridor. “Come on!”

Horror-stricken, she tugged back. “My lord, I can’t go to your wife in this state.”

He glanced at her, and for the first time seemed to see her and the stains that covered her from head to toe. “What did you do? Fall in a chimney pot?”

“Something like that.”

“Perfect.” He walked on again, dragging her after him. “Both women will be aghast at your plight.”

He seemed a very odd man, but worried to death about his wife, and for that, Emma liked him. But to appear before Lady Fanchere and Lady de Guignard in such a state . . . “This isn’t proper.”

“This is Moricadia. Propriety takes a backseat to profit, to expediency, and especially to survival.” He glanced back at her with a pitying eye. “I know it’s hard to believe, in light of the luxury that surrounds us, but we live balanced on the narrow blade of a sword, and one wrong move could be fatal. Right and wrong have become muddled in this country, so please, Miss Chegwidden, for your own sake, say as little as possible and don’t get involved with matters of conscience.”

“You’re the third man to give me such a warning today.”

“Take that as a sign.” He stopped before a wide double door.

From within, Emma could hear loud weeping.

He placed his hands on the doorknobs. “Now, remember. Your task is to move them to Aguas de Dioses. So . . . distraction. Distraction. Distraction!” Flinging open the door, he called, “Eleonore, Miss Chegwidden seems to have gotten herself into trouble again. Can you and Aimée help her?”

 

The trip to Aguas de Dioses was accomplished with relative ease. While Lady Fanchere and Aimée exclaimed over Emma’s spoiled gown, their maids packed their bags. By the time Emma was bathed and dressed in yet another new gown, the traveling coach was at the door. Lord Fanchere handed the ladies, and Emma, into the coach and admonished them to relax and enjoy themselves. The road was good, the coach well sprung, and when they arrived at the spa in the early evening, Emma exclaimed in surprise and delight.

Aguas de Dioses was more than a place to take the waters. Set in a tiny, verdant bowl of a valley, the spa was a whole town built around the warm springs that eased from the earth, rich in iron and sulfur, and the cold water tapped from a bright blue glacier near the top of the mountain. The assembly rooms were its beating heart, and glowed pink and white with marble from Italy.

Tall, luxurious hotels bookended the springs, and wide streets wound up from there, full of shops that sold breads, cheeses, hats and gloves, fine lace . . . anything a bored lady or gentleman of leisure could desire. Below the assembly rooms, narrow streets led to homes where lived the maids and footmen who worked in the shops, the hotels, and the impressive assembly rooms.

Lord Fanchere had sent them to the smaller and more exclusive of the two hotels, and their arrival was greeted by a gathering composed of the manager, the butler, the housekeeper, the chef, the concierge, and five maids, two assigned to each of the ladies and one to Emma.

In her travels with Lady Lettice, Emma had visited a great many hotels, but never had she been given a maid whose instructions were to make sure she needed for nothing. “I am very impressed,” she said as she watched the maid take her small valise up to her room on the fourth floor.

Lady Fanchere laughed. “It is beautiful here, one of my favorite places in the world.” She took Aimée’s arm and strolled through the lobby, gesturing for Emma to follow. “We can relax here, can we not, Aimée?”

“Oh, yes. Prince Sandre is far away, and surely the Reaper can’t find me here.” Lady de Guignard’s voice shook with little quavering tremors. “Can he?”

“Now, don’t start that again,” Lady Fanchere admonished.

The first time Emma heard Lady de Guignard mention the Reaper, faintness had once again overcome her. But she’d recovered, for she had heard the same plaintive moan all the way to Aguas de Dioses.

Yet she couldn’t dislike Aimée de Guignard. Lady de Guignard was a petite woman with rich auburn hair, a plump face, and blue eyes made sad by too many years spent with the wrong man. She seemed not to have a speck of sense or discretion, but when she saw Emma’s soiled gown and heard the story, she had been kindness itself, insisting that Emma try one of her day dresses, then giving it to her because,
By the time I’m out of black crepe, the fashion will have changed, and anyway, the color doesn’t flatter my coloring at all, but the violet makes your eyes sparkle like jewels!

Emma smoothed her hand over the polished cotton. She straightened the white lace insert that ran from the bodice to the waist, then down the skirt in a panel, and she swore to herself she wouldn’t ruin this dress as she had ruined the others.

Lady de Guignard babbled on, uncaring that the housekeeper arranging the flowers or the footman carrying the luggage could hear every word. “The Reaper is the ghost of King Reynaldo, so as a phantasm, can he go wherever he wishes? Or is he tied to the area around the castle where the de Guignards hanged him?”

“The Reaper is not a ghost,” Lady Fanchere said.

“I saw him. He glared at me through empty eye sockets.” Starch crackled as Lady de Guignard clutched the fall of ruffled lace at her throat.

“He’s not a ghost,” Lady Fanchere repeated patiently. “He’s a man dressed like a ghost.”

“That’s what Sandre said, too, and he got quite angry with me about the matter.” Lady de Guignard took a shuddering breath. “I don’t know how my death will come, but I know it’s imminent, either from supernatural means, or because Sandre will murder me.”

“Sandre would not harm a lady, much less a lady who is his relative.” Lady Fanchere had lost her patient tone.

Lady de Guignard came to a halt. “You didn’t hear what he said to me.”

“But I know Sandre.” Lady Fanchere was firm.

“You think he is the same boy with whom you played as a child, and he takes care to keep you in that belief.” Aimée’s voice began to rise. “He isn’t. You know what Rickie always was, and what Sandre did with Rickie in that dungeon is the stuff of nightmares. Now Sandre wants to silence me. But I can’t lie about how Rickie died. I saw him. I saw his body hanging on the tree, and the Reaper on the rise behind him, waiting to guide his spirit to hell—”

“Shh.” Lady Fanchere patted her hand and glanced behind at Emma, silently summoning her to help.

Remembering Lord Fanchere’s admonition—distraction, distraction, distraction—Emma hurried to Lady de Guignard’s side. “I see the dining hall is this way, and the servants have put cloths on the tables for the evening meal. I know it’s early, but our dear Lady Fanchere is looking pale and in need of sustenance. Lady de Guignard, can you help me take her there?”

On cue, Lady Fanchere staggered slightly.

Lady de Guignard sniffled, glanced at Lady Fanchere, and at once agreed that she should be coddled because she was—Aimée spoke in a piercing whisper that carried throughout the lobby—increasing.

Apparently, Lady Fanchere had shared her secret with Lady de Guignard, and from the exasperated expression on Lady Fanchere’s face, she now knew it would be a secret no more.

By the time Emma had cared for the ladies—made sure they were fed, taken to their third-floor adjoining suites, helped them into their nightgowns, and put them to bed—she was glad to adjourn to her own small, neat room, one of the three dozen rooms in the attic assigned to the personal maids and companions who accompanied the ladies to the spa. Apparently the spa had thought matters through, assuming that servants living in comfort would encourage their employers to stay longer.

Here under the eaves, the daytime sun had created an uncomfortable heat, so Emma went to the window, opened it, and let the nighttime air wash over her. It was four stories to the ground, and only the occasional dormer broke the slope of the steep, slick slate roof. Overhead, diamond stars twinkled in a sky so deep and dark, it looked like eternity. The lights of the town sparkled in the midst of a forest, dense and primal, that pressed close to the edges of the town.

As if on cue, Emma’s heart picked up speed. She broke into a sweat. She had walked into the wilderness. Been menaced by a wolf. And been rescued by . . . by . . . she didn’t know who. Or what. She could
not
remember, but when she did, she knew it would mean . . . something.

Faintness overcame her. She yanked her head inside and covered her face with her hands. Hidden in her brain was something she did not want to confront, something she feared so much. . . .

Taking a long breath of the fresh nighttime air, she gained control of her wayward emotions.

The maid had unpacked Emma’s bag, hung up her second-best gown, and put her underwear into the drawers of the tiny dresser, leaving Emma with nothing to do but comb out her long hair, braid it, and change into her white cotton nightgown. The sleeves covered her from her shoulders to her wrists. The length covered her from her throat to her toes. Yet the amount of material was deceptive, for the nightgown was so old and thin, it was like tissue. She wrapped herself in her beloved wool shawl and, candle in hand, threw back the covers and examined the sheets. They were clean and white. The comforter was also white, thick and full of down. She climbed into bed and sank into the deep, plush feather mattress. She fluffed the pillows at her back and sighed with relief.

It had been a very long day.

Her mother’s worn copy of
Pride and Prejudice
rested on the nightstand beside the burning candle; she lifted it with the resolve to read only a few pages.

Five chapters later, it was midnight and she was so involved in the story she had forgotten where she was. A breeze from the window ruffled the pages of the book. She glanced up, disoriented, as a rumble of thunder snatched her back from Regency England. The soft
snick
of a turning latch made her stare, still caught up in her longing for Mr. Darcy, as with the creak of hinges, the door swung wide to reveal—the Reaper.

Emma dove out of bed and prepared to scream—then her breath caught in her throat.

E
mma recognized the pale, corpselike figure. . . . She remembered him!

The Reaper leaped across the small room to the bed, clapped his white-gloved hand over her mouth, held her tightly, and shook his head in silent warning.

She stared, wide-eyed, at the figure that had inspired so much fear and loathing.

He stood over six feet tall, clothed in a white shroud and ragged winding clothes. A dingy white hood covered his hair; a pale mask concealed the upper half of his face. White powder dusted his broad jaw, his generous lips, and the hollows of his cheeks, while streaks of charcoal, carefully placed, created a skeletal illusion. In the flickering light of the candle, with the storm gathering overhead, he was a frightening creature.

But Prince Sandre was right: The Reaper was not a corpse, but a man.

In her mind, memory bridged the gaps created by fear, and the recollection of that night in the forest now sprang fully formed into her mind.

The Reaper had saved her life.

That night in the forest, half-crazed with terror, cold, and hunger, she had run from a wolf right into the arms of the Reaper, then turned and fled again. She had fallen, and while she was barely conscious, he had picked her up off the ground, lifted her onto his horse, and ridden with her to Lady Fanchere’s, delivering her to the doorstep and leaving her there like an unwanted newborn.

Never, not once, had he spoken, but he had covered her with his cloak, cradled her in his arms, cared for her as no one had cared for her since her mother’s death. He had been more than conscientious. He had been kind.

Slowly, incredulously, she pushed his hand away from her mouth.

Beneath his mask, the skin had been darkened to create the empty eye sockets that had so frightened Lady de Guignard, but his eyes glinted as he observed her with the caution of a man who knew his existence hung by a thread.

She started to speak.

He put his finger on his lips.

She indicated her understanding, then watched as he made his way to the door and quietly shut it. He put his ear to the panel, then shook his head, and through the mask and the powder, she saw fear and determination.

Treading softly, he went to the window and looked out. She knew what he saw—four stories to the ground and a steep slate roof. He might be able to leave in that direction . . . or he might fall to his death. Certainly it wasn’t a climb she wanted to attempt.

In the distance, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled.

Outside the door, she heard men shouting. A dozen boots running up the stairs.

She owed this man her life.

In a soft voice, she said, “They’re after you.”

He nodded and prepared to climb out.

“You’ll slip, especially if it rains.” Thunder rumbled again. “And it sounds as if it will. Let me hide you.” More than gratitude guided her offer. Today she’d been to the lower city, seen the poverty there, heard Damacia’s satisfaction in knowing that the Reaper sought vengeance for a reason. Odd and frightening as he was, Emma knew he was a crusader—and he needed her help.

He looked around the room, then at her. Far beneath the holes of his mask, she could see the glisten of his black-rimmed eyes, and she could almost see the skepticism that directed his every move.