In Bed with the Duke (26 page)

Rubio peeled Durant out of his trousers and covered him. He looked at her and saw the way she was staring at Durant’s throat. “When he got out of the dungeon, he couldn’t speak at all,” Rubio said.

He couldn’t speak?
She
couldn’t speak.

The marks on Durant’s neck looked as if someone had hooked a chain around him and dragged him behind a horse. The skin was red, scarred, broken across his Adam’s apple. The disfigurement covered him from his jaw to his collarbone. . . . It was barely healed. It would never heal. “What caused it?”

“The de Guignards love hanging.”

“I’ve heard that before.” Earlier tonight, in fact. From the prince.

“Because it’s true. They love to put rope around a man’s throat, pull him up, and let him dangle, kicking and choking, grabbing for his throat while death creeps up on him so slowly he can count the beats of his heart.”

“They hanged Michael? So what saved him?” Rubio laughed roughly. “Their desire to hang him again. If you leave a man up there for fifteen minutes, you can cut him down and let him recover, then hang him again and enjoy his struggles all the more. It’s a rough thing, knowing you’re going to die with their laughter ringing in your ears.”

She looked at his throat and saw similar marks rising above his stiff collar.

“I was no one. They didn’t care whether they mutilated me. So they hanged me and they cut me up and put me to the rack. Him”—Rubio jerked his head toward Durant—“they cared about. Because his family has money and influence. Because he wouldn’t break. Because he gave them a lot of entertainment. Because they believe he knows more than he will admit.”

“Does he?”

“I don’t know. But if he does, he’s fought off the fear and the pain to keep his secrets.” He sounded as if he admired Michael.

Of course, he was a man, simple and direct.

And she was a woman betrayed.

She went back to work on Michael’s wound. “Get me warmed sandbags. We need to pack his arm to keep his blood moving.”

“I’ll do it.” She heard the heels of Rubio’s boots on the stone floor as he limped away. Step.
Step
. Step.
Step
. The boots stopped. “Someone needs to don the Reaper’s costume and ride while he’s wounded.”

“Then find somebody.”

“It can’t be a Moricadian. Moricadians used to be the best riders in the world, but now none of them can afford a horse, and if one of them is caught, they’ll be hanged seven times before they die.”

“Then the Reaper’s role will go unfilled.” She concentrated on the task at hand.

“The Reaper has ruined the prince’s income by frightening away the gamblers. The Reaper has created hope in the common people—they believe his appearance is the harbinger of the true king’s return. Best of all, the Reaper has made the prince look like an incompetent fool.” Rubio laughed hoarsely. “He’s made Sandre a laughingstock. The Reaper’s done a lot of good here. You can’t let his efforts go for naught.”

She shot him an annoyed glance. “I’m not listening.”

But she heard him.

 

Inside his study, the prince sat at his desk, working in his leather-bound book of accounting. Flames flickered in the fireplace, dispelling the chill of the sudden, icy storm. Quico’s wife, Bethania, moved with quiet grace around the room, dusting the furniture. It was a cozy, peaceful scene . . . probably the last Jean- Pierre would ever gaze upon.

He stood in the doorway, dripping on the floor, shivering with cold . . . and fear.

“Yes?” Sandre didn’t look up.

“I shot the Reaper, my prince.”

The prince placed his pen on the blotter, looked up from his desk, folded his hands, and smiled. “Not fatally, I hope.”

“Not fatally, no.” Jean-Pierre regulated his breathing to keep his voice even. “He got away.”

Sandre’s smile faded. “He got
away
?”

“My liege, I was careful not to kill him—too careful, I fear.” Jean-Pierre hurried on to the next bit, the good part. “But I saw the bullet hit, saw the impact take out the shoulder of his costume. I saw him sway in the saddle, and the blood spray in the air. He is hurt. He can be found.”

Sandre stared at Jean- Pierre. Just stared at him. Stood. Opened his drawer. Reached in. And pulled out a pistol.

Jean-Pierre was going to die.

Sandre lifted the pistol, aimed it at Jean-Pierre—then swung it around and shot Bethania.

She screamed and fell to the ground, writhing on the carpet, holding her thigh.

Calmly, as if he did this every day, Sandre put the pistol back in the drawer and shut it. Raising his voice to be heard above Bethania’s shrieks, he said, “Since the Reaper started making his appearances, there has been a decided drop in income from the gambling halls and the hotels. And do you hear that sound?”

Jean-Pierre glanced at Bethania. “Yes, Your Highness.” How could he not?

“I don’t mean her. That other sound. Listen!” Sandre cupped his ear.

Jean-Pierre strained, but he could hear nothing above the woman’s pain-fed sobs.

“It’s the sound of Moricadia laughing. Do you know whom they’re laughing at?”

Jean-Pierre shook his head.

“They’re laughing at me. They’re laughing because the Reaper still rides.” Sandre dropped his hand to his desk and leaned forward. “No one laughs at Prince Sandre de Guignard.”

“No, Your Highness.”

“Tell my guards to go and find the Reaper. Every three days that they don’t find him, another wife or child will be shot.”

Jean-Pierre couldn’t believe Sandre.

The prince was crazy.

The prince was going to get his way. This would galvanize the guard as nothing else could.

“Take her out of here.” Sandre rubbed his temple. “Her screaming is giving me a headache.”

Jean-Pierre rushed in, gathered the writhing woman in his arms, and started out the door.

“Jean-Pierre!” Sandre called.

Jean-Pierre turned back.

“From now on,
you’re
going to be the one shooting their loved ones. You’d better find the Reaper fast, or you’ll never dare fall asleep again.”

“D
o you suppose I should take this with me to Italy?” Aimée smoothed her hand along the white-painted wood of her grand piano in the echoing music room of her imposing mansion.

“Do you play?” Emma eyed the nine- foot length with trepidation.

“Oh, no.” Aimée wiggled her short fingers. “I don’t have the reach.”

“Then I think you should rent one when you get there.” Lady Fanchere had sent Emma to help Aimée pack her belongings and close her house, and now Emma knew why. As Aimée sorted and discarded the paraphernalia of her life, someone had to be the voice of reason.

But Emma had spent the last two nights awake, caring for Michael Durant as he lay in the Fancheres’ dowager house, tossing with fever. While she was away from him, Rubio cared for him as tenderly as if they were brothers, yet every moment she spent helping Aimée, she worried, and that infuriated her.

Why was she concerned about the fate of a man who had lied to her? Seduced her? My God, he had even reproached her for allowing Prince Sandre to court her when he knew perfectly well why she was doing it, and he’d taunted her with the prospect of courting her as Michael Durant, the heir to the Duke of Nevitt, when he knew he’d made her fall in love with the Reaper. With himself!

If he didn’t die from this infection, she was going to kill him.

“Dear, are you all right? You look upset!” Aimée looked upset, too.

“I believe I’m perhaps a little weary.” Not a good excuse, but truthful, and the only one of which Emma could think.

“Sit down here.” Aimée pulled the sheet off one of the chairs. “Elixabete, run and get Emma a glass of water.”

Elixabete stood stock-still, her eyes wide and frightened.

Emma took pity on the child. “No, truly, that’s not necessary. If I could rest for a moment, I’ll be fine.”

Lady Fanchere had sent Elixabete to assist them, to fetch and carry, but the child hadn’t been the help Emma had hoped. Not that Emma blamed Elixabete. Maybe it was Emma’s exhaustion that made her oversensitive, but Aimée’s home was spooky. It was huge, larger than the Fancheres’, with dual curving stairways climbing from the massive marble foyer up to the second-floor gallery and into the corridors lined with doors and rooms and more rooms and more, until a person felt as if she could get lost and never find her way back.

Everything—the marble on the floors and the columns, the walls, the furniture, the vases and accents—was white and pristine. The paintings were watercolors of faded gray, and even the servants were dressed in white, pale ghosts who slipped silently through this horrible parody of heaven.

When Emma had tactfully asked about the decor, Aimée had said, “It’s Rickie’s doing. He wanted the house to look clean.”

In Emma’s opinion, the house didn’t look clean; it looked barren, unwelcoming . . . haunted. As she directed Aimée’s servants to cover the furniture with sheets and Lady Fanchere’s servants to carry Aimée’s trunks to the cart, she constantly found herself looking behind her, convinced someone was watching. Once she saw Elixabete turn suddenly, fists up, prepared to defend herself against . . . nothing.

Even Aimée’s bedchamber was washed-out, without color or character of any kind, and that, more than anything, told Emma what Aimée’s life had been with Rickie. This lady who loved flowers and bright clothes and laughter had been regimented while in the confines of her own room.

Apparently Aimée saw nothing wrong, packing, trotting up and down the stairs, chatting merrily. Perhaps the sight of her prison meant nothing now that she had made her escape. She decided what to keep and what to throw away in a slapdash manner, and so far nothing white had made the cut.

Taking the sheet off another chair, Aimée seated herself, then pulled the footstool close and patted it.

Elixabete hurried to her and curled up on the stool, huddling as near as she could into Aimée’s skirt.

“When I get to Italy,” Aimée said, “I was thinking of getting a kitten. I’ve always wanted a kitten, but Rickie said they shed—and worse. I always thought
worse
was worth it for the joy of having a little thing that jumped in my lap and twined around my ankles.”

Emma watched her smooth her hand over Elixabete’s hair over and over, an unconscious gesture of comfort and closeness. “You seem like the kind of woman who would own dozens of dogs and cats.”

“Yes, I am that kind of woman.” Aimée brightened. “Maybe when I get to Italy, I’ll get a dog, too. Fanchere did rent me a villa; there should be lots of room for pets.”

On impulse, Emma suggested, “And maybe a lover?”

All expression smoothed from Aimée’s face, leaving it blank and still, and she didn’t look at Emma or speak.

Emma was embarrassed; she knew she should never have suggested such a thing; it was too daring for an unmarried woman to say. But she so badly wanted Aimée to be happy, and she had a vision of her in her villa surrounded by flowers and pets, in the arms of a tender man who loved her for all the caring, wonderful, silly things she was. “I apologize,” Emma said. “That was bold and uncalled-for.”

“Not at all, dear!” Aimée smiled, but without her usual joie de vivre. “But as to another man in my life—no. Once was enough.”

Emma’s heart hurt for Aimée, even while she understood completely. Because loving someone was too much trouble and too much anguish, and somehow, when she had Michael Durant cured and on his feet again, she was going to flee Moricadia and never look back.

“Maybe I will come to be your paid companion in Italy,” Emma said.

Aimée’s hand stopped in midair and her true smile blossomed. “I would like that.” She offered her hand to Emma. “I would like it better if you came as my friend.”

Emma was so touched, tears sprang to her eyes again. She took the outstretched hand and squeezed. “I would like that, too.”

Aimée hugged Elixabete with her other arm. “And she’ll bring you, Elixabete, and we’ll teach you to read and write and make a great lady out of you. Shall we do that?”

Elixabete nodded and smiled.

The three of them pushed the cruel ghosts away, and joined in a moment of peaceful companionship.

Then Elixabete stood. “If we’re going to go to Italy, we’ve got to finish packing!”

J
ean-Pierre was here at last, attending a royal ball.

But he wasn’t enjoying himself.

He stood holding a glass of champagne and watching the guests flow into the ballroom. None of them looked wounded or feverish. None of them even looked tired.

Well, of course not. That would be too easy. Instead he would have to examine the guest list, find out who didn’t come, and go search their homes in the hopes he could at last make an arrest and end his hunt for the Reaper—and he would do it before tomorrow night, when Sandre’s three-day deadline expired.

“Jean-Pierre! How good to see you. Where have you been hiding yourself?” Lady Fanchere hugged him and offered her cheek.

Taken by surprise, Jean-Pierre at first stood stiffly, then touched his lips to her face. He’d been under so much strain, he’d forgotten how truly loving his cousin Eleonore was. He shook hands with Fanchere, who was standing, as always, at Eleonore’s right shoulder, stoically silent, and said, “I’ve been on the prince’s business.” He sounded clipped, he realized, not like a guest at a ball but like the hated policeman Sandre had created. So he smiled, but the expression felt more like a grimace.

Eleonore cupped his face and gazed searchingly into his eyes. “You look worried to death. I’ll have to speak to Sandre about working you less.”

“No. Please!”
God, no.
“Say nothing. I live to serve His Highness.”