In Bed with the Duke (4 page)

Raul inclined his, and turned away.

“Do you know him?” The voice that spoke at Michael’s left shoulder made him tense and swallow, trying to wet his suddenly dry throat.

But too much was at stake here for him to falter because of the memories. So he fixed a faint smile on his lips and turned to face the man who had caused so much pain. “Rickie de Guignard. How good to see you again, and in such strikingly different circumstances.”

“Indeed.” In appearance, Rickie de Guignard wasn’t cut from the usual de Guignard cloth. He was tall and gangly, well over six feet, with abnormally long and slender limbs. His fingers looked skeletal, with wide joints and narrow bones, and Michael had reason to know his hands held strength and agility. He had a tendency to get close and peer into his victim’s face, and when he was first imprisoned, Michael had thought that affectation an attempt to frighten the victim. Eventually, he decided the man had bad eyesight. In the end, it didn’t matter. The sight of that forehead, broad as a gravestone, that lantern jaw, that drooping nose, had the effect of making his blood run cold.

It chilled now as Rickie bent to fix his pop eyes on Michael’s. “Do you know him?” Rickie repeated.

Michael refused to back away. “I do. Raul Lawrence, bastard son of Viscount Grimsborough.”

Rickie pounced like an overgrown puppy. “You know him well?”

“No. Grimsborough adopted him, then forced him down the throats of the denizens of polite society. But Lawrence is younger than I, so we are only distantly acquainted.” Michael thrust his face back into Rickie’s. “Why? What do you suspect
him
of?”

“We like to gather information about people, especially people like him. He has chosen to settle in Moricadia.”

“There’s no accounting for taste.”

Rickie reared back, his brown eyes snapping.

Michael’s throat closed.

Rickie’s gaze dropped to Michael’s gloved hands clenched in fear. In a voice both low and menacing, he said, “You pitiful aristocrat. You wish you were back in England, do you not, Durant?”

“With every fiber of my being.” Michael had never meant anything so much.

“I promise you, until you tell us what we want to know, you will never see those verdant shores again.”

“Then I will never see them, because I don’t know what you think I do.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Surely you don’t imagine a pitiful aristocrat like me could have withstood two years in the palace dungeon suffering under your kind urgings?”

The fury that contorted Rickie’s face both pleased and terrified Michael. This time, his hands were not tied. If Rickie struck him, he could respond in kind.

But he knew what would happen then. Imprisonment. Darkness. Death.

Then luck, bad luck, intervened.

A man’s hand clasped Michael’s shoulder, pushed him back, and a man’s figure stepped between them—Prince Sandre, handsome, suave, wealthy, and as corrupt as any fiend in this land of corruption. “Gentlemen. Gentlemen. This ball is one of the highlights of the season. People are watching. You’re making a scene.”

Michael stood, knees stiff, eyes locked with Rickie’s. “You have no idea what a scene I could make.”

“But is it worth it to lose your freedom? Again?” Prince Sandre asked with mild curiosity.

At the pointed reminder, Michael stumbled backward. He had to play the game. No matter what, he had to play the game. “No.”

“Before I am finished with you, you will give me whatever I want.” Rickie stalked off, his long limbs loose and disjointed.

At thirty-five, Prince Sandre was a man in the prime of his life. He rode hard, fenced with devastating results, seduced women with careless ease. His dark hair was combed back, revealing the premature silver that streaked like wings on the sides of his head. No matter what the occasion—a party, a bad turn at the gambling table, a bout of heinous torture in his dungeon—his dark blue eyes sparkled with humor, and he smiled as he watched the crowd avoid his cousin, like a school of small fish shunning a shark. “You do have a way of irritating Rickie.”

“I try my best.”

“What is it that you’ve done this time?” He lifted a champagne flute from a circulating waiter, took a sip; then, as if he had just remembered, he said, “Oh! That’s right. He was curious to know whether you were friends with the Englishman Raul Lawrence.”

Michael knew better than to avoid the question, or say one word different from what he had to Rickie. The de Guignards would later compare notes, and he didn’t dare get caught in a falsehood. “We are acquainted, but he is a bastard, Prince Sandre. The heir to the dukedom of Nevitt does not associate closely with a bastard.” Michael well knew his own value as one of England’s top aristocrats. “If you suspect him of some nefarious deeds, you’ll have to find out by the usual means—spying and deceit.”

Prince Sandre did not leap into a rage in the manner of his cousin. Instead he gave a small bow and said, “You seem to be enjoying your house arrest, my lord. Lady Fanchere says you are the perfect guest. It was she who convinced me to allow you to attend this ball.”

Liar. You seek to discover what I know by subtler means, by observing to whom I speak and who speaks to me, by slacking off on the leash and unexpectedly tightening it, choking me and hoping that the pain will loosen my tongue so I tell you at last who conspires against you and your throne.
“I must remember to thank Lady Fanchere.”

“I would have let you have a bit of liberty sooner, but I understood your reluctance.” Prince Sandre sipped again. “Your voice . . . it was very bad.”

Michael touched the cravat that covered his throat. “Yes.”

“I’m delighted to hear it so much improved. Pray God you are able to keep it healthy.” It was a threat inflicted with skill and malice. A threat—and not a well-disguised one. But why should Prince Sandre bother to mask his intentions from Michael?

Michael was one of the few men who had seen all the way into his rotten soul. Or rather . . . one of the few men
alive
who had seen that soul. “I assure you, Prince Sandre, I would not do anything to jeopardize my . . . voice.”
How he hated Sandre
.

“Yes. Because it’s difficult to take your proper place in the House of Lords when you cannot speak. Harder yet when you are dead.”

“Actually, Parliament is frequently so boring, the lords therein appear to be deceased. And sometimes are.”

Prince Sandre laughed. “So I understand.”

“Interesting institution, Parliament. Allows for input into the government. Saves on uprisings like the one that led to the French guillotining their own king.”

Prince Sandre’s nostrils flared—but still he smiled. “So does a secret enforcement police with a strong hand to guide them.” Prince Sandre lifted his champagne flute and, in a slow, controlled motion, crushed the bowl in his fist.

The sound of splintering crystal cut the sound in the ballroom to a frightened hush. Nearby guests froze in place. Champagne dripped onto the polished wood floor.

Prince Sandre dropped the stem, and it shattered as an explosive exclamation point.

Then he pulled a shard of glass from his palm. Blood immediately stained his white glove. With his customary smile, he said, “How clumsy of me. I hope you’ll forgive me, my lord, while I seek out my hostess to bandage this.”

“Of course.” Michael bowed. “Prince Sandre, I hope you’ve done no permanent damage.”

“No.” He stripped away his stained glove and held it in his fist to stem the bleeding. “I always know exactly how much pressure to exert.”

As if his words were a signal, waiters rushed forward to clean up the floor, the quartet picked up their instruments, the volume of voices rose again, and movement resumed.

Lady Thibault appeared at Prince Sandre’s side. “If you would follow me, my prince, I will fetch my personal physician to tend to your wounds.”

“As always, you’re kind, but it’s not worth a visit from the physician. Tend to me yourself.” Prince Sandre caught her arm with his free hand and squeezed the soft flesh above her elbow.

Michael saw her grow pale, and sweat broke out on her brow.

Poor woman. Even so small an act of violence as breaking the glass had aroused Prince Sandre, and now she would pay the price.

As Michael moved back to allow the waiters to finish mopping up the mess, he caught sight of the drab gray gown Miss Chegwidden wore. She was moving with her usual stealth, head down, shoulders hunched, toward Lady Lettice, and she held the damp handkerchief in both hands as if it were the Holy Grail.

Poor dab of a thing. He would have further assisted Lady Lettice’s unfortunate companion if he could, but with matters standing as they were, he could help no one else without consequences more dire to everyone concerned.

The worst of her crisis was over. She was better off without him now.

 

The crowds had thickened, and Emma had circled the ballroom almost entirely before she caught sight of Lady Lettice, sitting like the queen toad on her lily pad with her suitors swimming like guppies around her. Thank heavens; Emma would hate to think she had found her way into the same room but failed to locate her employer.

Walking up behind the little group of suitors, Emma heard Cloutier say, “She must arrive within the next minute, or I lose!”

The despicable little group of guppies had been wagering on the time she would return—or if she would return. Unexpectedly, the anger she thought long crushed beneath Lady Lettice’s mighty displeasure surfaced, and she stepped briskly into the circle. “Lose what, my lord?”

Cloutier said, “Ha!”

Lady Lettice jumped. Her skin turned ruddy with displeasure all the way down to her amply displayed breasts, and she snapped, “Where did you come from, you vexsome girl?”

Emma curtsied and smiled disingenuously, because she knew that whatever wager Lady Lettice had made, she’d lost. “The ladies’ convenience, as you commanded.” Emma extended the handkerchief.

Lady Lettice plucked it out of her palms. “It’s wadded up, and too wet. You’re so stupid.”

Emma’s brief, unexpected surge of confidence began to wilt.

“Can’t you do anything right? Must I instruct you in every nuance? To think that you are the best the Distinguished Academy of Governesses had to offer is simply appalling. I shall write the director and complain. I shall!” With a flip of the wrist, Lady Lettice opened the handkerchief.

And a tiny, still-wiggling goldfish slipped out and down her cleavage.

She screamed. Leaped to her feet, slapped at her chest. Screamed again.

The music stuttered to a stop. The dancers turned to look.

Lady Lettice plunged her hand into her own cleavage, fighting against the restriction of her stays, trying to reach the tiny, wiggling creature.

The men around her burst into hearty laughter. Mr. Graf went so far as to double over with glee.

Still screaming, she lifted her skirts, revealed pudgy legs, and leaped onto the chair. Leaning forward as far she could, she shook like blancmange, but no acrobatics she performed could dislodge the fish.

Word spread through the ballroom. Dancers crowded around, hooting and pointing. Mirth blazed as brightly as wildfire.

And Emma Chegwidden backed away, hand over her mouth, whispering, “I am ruined. I am ruined.”

E
mma stood on the lonely dirt road outside the château, shivering from cold and fear. She was alone as she had never been in her life, in a foreign country, without a way of supporting herself and without even the barest necessities—a furious and humiliated Lady Lettice had made sure of that. Emma hadn’t been allowed to collect her cloak. Her meager belongings were at the hotel, miles from here. She hadn’t eaten since morning. The moon was new, and the stars barely touched the sky with light. Dense woods and tall mountain peaks surrounded the château. And her thin slippers were not made for walking.

But she had no choice. She could either walk, or sit down and die. Lady Lettice had done everything—slapped her, scolded her, humiliated her—yet no matter what, Emma had refused to break. No matter how miserable her life seemed at this moment, no matter how downtrodden and hopeless she felt, she couldn’t convince herself to give up. Not yet.

So she stood indecisively looking left and right, trying to remember which way they’d come in, which way would lead her back to the hotel and then to Tonagra, where she might find work and lodgings. But the carriage that had brought them had arrived as the early-evening sunlight still streaked through the trees. Everything looked different then. And while she could memorize a route, given the chance, at the time she’d seen no reason to think she would have to know. Closing her eyes, she re-created their route in her mind. They had come from the left; she was sure of it. So she turned left and walked.

Behind her, the château with its lights and music faded to nothing. The road wound along the mountain ridge through the darkest part of the forest, and even as her eyes adjusted she saw nothing but tall trees blotting out the sky. Within the stands of pines, she heard the rustling of animals. Once a dark shadow swooped toward her. She gasped and ducked. The owl hooted and sailed on.

The high-mountain temperature dropped rapidly, and she tucked her hands into her armpits in a futile attempt to keep them warm. Just when she thought she should turn back, the road plunged downward, and she well remembered the difficult climb to the château. So she was going in the right direction.

She continued on, exhausted, hungry, and half-frozen. The road got rougher. She comforted herself that the ruts were growing larger because the carriage wheels had dug them deeper, and not because water had cascaded down these slopes during the spring runoff—a runoff that had finished months ago. Deep in her heart, she knew carriages could never descend this grade, nor get through the trees that pressed closer and closer, clawing her with leafy fingers.