Ruthless (2 page)

Nanny nodded her head, and Elinor could see tears shining in her eyes. “Don't be ridiculous, you two. I'm not walking into the gates of hell. The Comte de Giverney is just a man who throws decadent parties, not Satan himself, and I'm hardly the type of female to inflame his darker passions. Besides, Jacobs carries a pistol, and he'd shoot the first man who tried to harm me. I'll go in, ask for my mother, and they'll probably be happy enough to get rid of her. So there's nothing to worry about.”

“Except the diamond brooch,” Nanny said grimly.

If Elinor had been closer she would have kicked one of Nanny's painful shins. The old lady had a very gloomy outlook on life, and right then Lydia needed to be hopeful. She didn't need to learn their last hope of rescue had vanished, and if the jewelry was lost they were well and truly doomed.

But right then she couldn't afford to waste any more time. Apart from the orgiastic goings-on at the Comte de Giverney's notorious house parties there was high-stakes gaming. The brooch would be gone in a matter of moments, and if anyone were fool enough to extend her mother credit they'd have to start hiding from a better class of creditors, the aristocracy as well as the greengrocers.

She grabbed her threadbare cloak and the rough shawl she wore over it for added warmth, kissed Lydia and Nanny Maude goodbye, trying to appear insouciant and brave. Nanny clung to her like it was a final goodbye, but Lydia simply sat back in her chair and calmly took up her knitting again. It was an act—she knew just how dangerous Elinor's task was, and she knew the best thing she could give her sister was not having to worry about her. The sight of her brave, bowed head of blond curls made Elinor want to cry.

But she didn't have time for crying. Moments later she was out in the cold night air; her fingerless gloves, which were more darning than original weave, were pulled on, the shawl over her ordinary brown hair, and she started down the street, determined to ignore the more unsavory denizens of the neighborhood.

Jacobs would be at the nearby café, where horses and carriages were stabled. Circumstances had forced them to “borrow” a carriage once before, when Lady Caroline had proved herself unwelcome at a masked ball, though they'd fortunately been able to replace it in time with no one the wiser. Tonight they might not be near as lucky, but she couldn't afford to think of that. For now all she could concentrate on was getting her mother safely out of the devil's lair. One thing at a time.

Jacobs did better than she'd expected, appearing with a small traveling chaise large enough to hold two females and not much more. She scrambled inside before Jacobs could get down to assist her, and a moment later they were off.

It was a cold, moonless night in early February, and if the modest carriage had ever held lap robes they were long gone. She pulled her shawl from her head and wrapped it around her shoulders, shivering. It would take an hour to reach the comte's château, if she didn't freeze to death before she got there.

Still, if she was half-frozen it could only help matters. It would give her something less daunting to concentrate on. She held on to the seat as it swayed back and forth. Jacobs was driving at a dangerous pace, but she had complete faith in his abilities. They would arrive at the château in one piece; the rest was up to her.

She had no qualms. She knew exactly what she looked like. She was tall, a bit too thin thanks to the state of their larder, with plain brown hair and eyes,
and that unfortunate nose. It wasn't that bad, she mused, it was narrow and elegant, and when she was an old lady she would look quite striking. Still, that didn't help when she was young and wanting to be pretty.

But she was past all that. If she ran into the wretched comte he'd take one look at her dowdy clothes and hair and never even see her. Thankfully that was the way with most men. She had no doubt she could find her mother in no time at all, spirit her away and the strange goings-on at the château would be a distant memory.

If she still believed in God she would pray, but she'd lost that particular comfort six years ago. Besides, Nanny and Lydia would be praying for them like mad—if there really was a god he'd certainly listen to the two of them. Lydia was too charming to ignore, and Nanny too fierce. Perhaps it was only Elinor he paid no attention to.

She closed her eyes. The day had been disastrous from beginning to end, with the unlikely hope of a small inheritance being a mere pinprick compared to the far greater disaster of their future prospects having vanished with the succession. For now she'd hold that knowledge to herself. Nanny Maude and Lydia didn't need the worry.

The lawyer, Mr. Mitchum, had suggested she meet with the new heir, the stranger who'd have control over her inheritance, but she'd left the office in a fit of temper.

She'd have to meet with her distant cousin eventu
ally, and she'd been a fool to storm off. If there was, in fact, even the most pitiful of bequests she couldn't be proud enough to refuse it.

But first she had to find her mother.

F
rancis Alistair St. Claire Dominic Charles Edward Rohan, Comte de Giverney, Viscount Rohan, Baron of Glencoe, leaned back, letting his long pale fingers gently stroke the carved wooden claws that decorated the massive chair he sat in. He let his head rest against the velvet cushioning, surveyed his eager guests and allowed himself a faint smile. The vast supply of tapers lit even the dark corners of the salon, and he could see them all, his so-called friends and acquaintances, practically quivering in anticipation of the revels that stretched in front of them. Three days and nights of the most libertine indulgences—gaming and coupling with anyone agreeable, whore or lordling, male or female. Mock satanic rituals to make participants feel truly wicked, calling on a dark force that no more existed than did a loving god, but babbling Latin in front of an inverted cross gave them even more license to indulge themselves. There was opium and brandy and wine and even good Scots whiskey, and by the time the party was done he expected every
drop to be gone, every body to be well pleasured, every soul drained of any illusion of morality.

And he would watch it all, indulging when the urge struck him, overseeing it all with veiled interest. He always wondered how far people would go in pursuit of pleasure. He knew his own appetites were extraordinary, and there were times when he needed more than his own pleasure to satisfy him. He needed the wicked delight of others, and his willing acolytes provided it.

There were women and men awaiting his word, some dressed in clerical garb, some wearing little at all. He could recognize Lady Adelia dressed in a diaphanous chemise better suited to a dancer half her weight, and her husband would be somewhere among the gentlemen dressed in feminine splendor, their carmined lips pursed in anticipation.

He let his gaze drift over them, his disciples in the art of sin, and he sat up, tossing back his long, unpowdered hair.

“My children,” he said in the French they all understood, English and French and German émigrés who'd come seeking pleasure. “Welcome to the revels of the Heavenly Host. You will partake of each other as you would partake of the holy wafer, you will drink the wine as if it were the blessed blood, and you will take your fill, with no one to judge. For the next three nights the paltry rules of society are forfeit. Our motto stands…‘Do what thou wilt.'”

“Do what thou wilt,” they intoned with deep seriousness, like novices taking their final vows, and he
let a faint smile dance around the mouth they all craved. They were so determined in their pursuit of wickedness that it made him laugh.

He waved his hand, the layers of Mechlin lace floating. “Then go and sin once more,” he said, his deep, rich voice echoing in the huge salon.

There was a cheer, and the great doors to the rest of the château were opened. The revels began, and Francis Rohan leaned back in his chair, wishing he were back in Paris with a glass of brandy and a good book and no eager sinners seeking his attention.

He was bored. He'd witnessed almost every depravation known to man, participated in a great many of them, and he'd yet to find anything to pierce his interminable ennui. True, he could still find physical pleasure, but it was no more than a brief respite. When he so desired, he would wander through the rooms of the château and observe acts prohibited by church and state, he would watch fortunes being won and lost at the turn of a card. He would watch men give in to the most base instincts with no fear of repercussion, and in the end, he would return to his opulent chair and he would try to summon up some interest.

One woman had separated herself from the hearty revelers, and she glided toward him, a demimasque on her face, her lush body spilling out of the artful gown she wore. It laced in front, and beneath the loosely tied strings he suspected there was nothing but ripe flesh. He would enjoy loosening those strings—Marianne had quite the most spectacular breasts he had ever seen. And she knew the rules. He wasn't
fond of kissing, and she would seldom make the mistake of putting her lips anywhere near his face. She would instead use that magnificent mouth elsewhere, and it would while away an hour or so, while the more timid of his guests watched.

He signaled with his hand, and she approached, a sly smile on her lips. Lips devoid of rouge—she knew what he preferred from her. She came up the small dais his idiot followers had built him, and he noted with approval that the lacing went down to the hem, and indeed she was wearing nothing at all underneath.

He pulled her onto his lap, gently, and began playing with the laces, loosening them until her milky-white breasts spilled out into the cool night air. Her nipples beaded with the chill, and he had the sudden urge to suckle her.

“Lean back,” he said in his bored voice, and she immediately did so, arching over the arm of the chair, presenting herself to him, and he moved his head down to let his tongue graze the pebbled mound, when a sudden noise caught his attention, and he sat up, annoyed, drawing Marianne with him.

“You've got trouble, Francis,” Charles Reading said in his rough, lazy voice. “And it's early times for you to be sampling the banquet.”

Marianne turned and smiled at him, cheerier than Rohan felt at that particular moment.

“What kind of trouble?” he said. “I'm not in the mood to be seconding duels or even stopping them. If they want to kill each other then let them go ahead. I have servants to clean up the blood.”

“Not that kind of trouble. I think you'll like this one. I myself find it rather irresistible.”

It was enough to get his attention. There was very little Charles Reading found entertaining, and whatever did had to be unusual, and therefore possibly of interest. “Then don't keep me waiting. Bring forth the trouble.”

“One of your footmen has her. Willis was going to send her on her way when I intervened, knowing you'd be entertained. Shall I tell him to bring her in?”

“I should go,” Marianne said, attempting to pull her gown together over her breasts. He was having none of it.

“You should stay,” he said in the cool voice. He turned to Charles. “A her, is it? An interesting ‘her'? I find that hard to believe. But by all means bring her in. If nothing else, we can toss her to the gentlemen and ladies in the green room.”

Reading was a handsome man, if you could discount the scar that had been slashed down the right side of face, turning his smile into a twisted grimace. He made a sketchy bow. “I am yours to command, my lord.” He backed away in a parody of servile humility, and Francis watched as he called out to a servant.

Charles Reading was one of his most amusing companions. Charles had as little regard for propriety as he did, but he viewed things with the fierce passion of youth, making Francis feel every one of his thirty-nine years. In truth, he felt eighty.

He could feel Marianne squirm, trying to reach for her gown, but it was a simple matter to capture her
hand in a viselike grip. He remembered she liked pain, and he deliberately kept his grip gentle but unbreakable. If he was going to enjoy her later in the evening, as he expected he would, he didn't want her becoming too excited too early. She would go spend that energy on someone else, and he did rather like to be first.

One of the footmen appeared, with Willis, his servant from a lifetime ago, on the other side of what was undoubtedly female and undoubtedly not one of the prostitutes imported from the city. This
was
going to be entertaining. He leaned back in his chair and gestured them closer, waiting as they approached, waiting as Reading stood in the background watching him.

“What have we got here, Willis?” he asked in his mildest voice. It was too much to hope for anything truly entertaining, but it might provide a few moments distraction.

She lifted her head, the dowdy creature, and he found himself looking into warm brown eyes filled with such loathing that for a moment he was charmed. Few people ever showed their dislike of him.

“And who is she?” he inquired lazily. “Don't tell me—someone thought dressing a whore as a ragpicker would provide added entertainment. Or no…I think perhaps she's supposed to be a young lady fallen on hard times. Or perhaps a shopgirl. Though I fail to see how a shopgirl could add to our entertainment. Tilt her head up a bit.”

The footman moved to do his bidding and the wench snapped at him like a wild bitch. The man made the
very grave mistake of hitting her across the mouth, and when she lifted her head there was blood on her lip. “No,” Francis said calmly. “I don't think she's a whore, Willis. Not with a nose like that. Whores have pretty little snub noses—this young lady has a nose of consequence. Perhaps you should simply send her on her way.”

She glared at him, the frowsy little creature. Though in fact she wasn't particularly little—she was taller than most women of his acquaintance. She tried to speak, but Willis pushed ahead of her. “She says she's looking for her mother, my lord.”

Francis threw back his head and laughed. “She's the daughter of a whore? What will we come to next?”

“My mother's not a whore,” she had the temerity to say, and his interest grew. She had a good voice, solid, low pitched, and undoubtedly from the upper classes of England. He'd been exiled from that land twenty-two years ago, but he'd entertained enough titled visitors to know the difference. It was the same voice he spoke in, when he cared to speak English.

“Then she's not here,” he said. “The only women here are whores. Even lovely Marianne here. Granted, she's a titled whore, but a whore she most definitely is.” He waited, hoping that Marianne might pull away, but she sat still in his lap, her breasts in full view of the interloper.

The girl—no, the woman—looked at him. She was past her girlhood, perhaps somewhere in her twenties, and her lip still bled.

“Release her, Willis,” he said lazily. “And take the
footman in hand. I'm afraid he's going to have to be taught a very harsh lesson. No one is struck in this household unless they find it arousing. I can tell that Miss Lumpkin is not aroused.”

He could hear the footman's alarmed intake of breath, and the fool tried to apologize, tried to explain as Willis hustled him out of the room, another sturdy footman appearing and helping with the disposal of the rubbish. Rohan released Marianne's wrist, and she carelessly pulled her provocative gown together, hiding her treasures. “You may leave us, Marianne,” he murmured. “I find I have better things to do tonight.”

He paid absolutely no attention as she scrambled away from him. She'd be very angry with him, which might make things more exciting if he decided to avail himself of her later on. At that moment he was doubting it.

The child in the middle of the room was glaring at him, for child she was, no matter what her advanced years. She was a virgin, untouched, unkissed, innocent and angry, and he was prepared to enjoy himself immensely. “So tell me, little one. What really brought you here?”

She clearly wanted to tell him to go to hell, but young ladies didn't do that. She brought her fury in hand with a visible effort, yanked her pathetic cloak more tightly around her and squared her shoulders, obviously determined to be calm. “I'm looking for my mother,” she said again. “I realize you have trouble understanding plain English. Perhaps your dissipations have begun to affect your mind, in which case
you have all my sympathies, but it's my mother I'm concerned about. I believe she arrived here with Monsieur St. Philippe, and it really is imperative I get her home as quickly as possible. She's not well.”

“St. Philippe?” he said. “I believe he had a female companion, but I paid little attention. Clearly you're of an advanced age, which leads me to believe your mother must therefore be old enough to make her own decisions on such matters.” He snapped his fingers and a servant immediately materialized from the shadows. “Bring mademoiselle a chair. She looks weary.”

“No!” she said. “I have no interest in conversing with you, Monsieur le Comte. I simply need my mother.”

“And I need to prove myself a proper host,” he returned.

“You've managed to overcome your more proper urges so far,” she said pointedly. “Why change now?”

There was enough of a barb in her voice that he was amused. He rose, setting his glass of wine down. “A good point, mademoiselle…?”

“You don't need my name.”

“If I don't have it how am I to produce your mother?” His voice was eminently reasonable as he started down the short steps from the dais. She didn't move—he had to grant her that. She was courageous enough to walk into the lion's den and not shrink from his approach.

She hesitated. “Harriman,” she said finally. “My name is Elinor Harriman. My mother is Lady Caroline Harriman.”

He froze. “Holy Christ. That poxy old bitch is here?
Don't worry, my precious. We shall find her immediately. I have no intention of allowing her to stay among my guests. I am astonished St. Philippe had the temerity to bring her with him. Unless it was simply to gain my attention.”

“Why would he do that?” the young girl asked, bewildered. He usually found innocence to be tedious. Mademoiselle Elinor Harriman's innocence was oddly appealing.

“Because he has a tendre for me, and I've shown no interest.”

“He has a tendre for you? He's a man.”

“He is indeed,” he said gently. “And how have you lived in Paris for so long without knowing about such things?”

“How do you know how long I've lived in Paris?” she retorted.

“Lady Caroline Harriman left her doltish husband and came to Paris with her two daughters some ten years ago, and she's been in steady decline ever since. I'm surprised she's still alive.”

“Just barely,” the girl said grimly. “Could I please go look for her instead of standing here talking to you? She's probably gaming, and I'd like to stop her before the last of our household money is gone.”