The Wicked One (5 page)

Chapter 4

The Duke of Blackheath wasn't the only one tormented by what might have been.

With the real aphrodisiac safe in her possession, Eva de la Mouriére had reached the coast of England early the next morning, caught the packet to France, and was in Paris by late that afternoon.

She was in excellent spirits as she called at Dr. Benjamin Franklin's residence, only to find the famous statesman, scientist and politician looking as old as his years.

"What is it?" she asked.

Franklin gave her a bleak look.  "Twelve months I have been here, trying to convince the French to officially ally themselves with us in our fight for freedom.  Twelve months of negotiations, of hope, of playing one side off the other.  And still, no change.  We cannot penetrate the British blockade of our coast.  Their spies are everywhere, watching our every move.  None of the munitions we sent home reached Washington's troops."  He removed his spectacles and rubbed at his eyes.  "Without French alliance — and a colossal loan — I fear that independence will soon be a lost cause."

He looked so weary and hopeless that Eva couldn't resist reaching into her satchel.  "I got the aphrodisiac," she said with sly triumph.

"The aphrodisiac?"

Poor Franklin — he had so much on his mind these days, it was no wonder he had forgotten all about the elusive love potion.  His eyes brightened as Eva handed him the bottle.

"So, this is the magical elixir that is supposed to aid young Marie Antoinette . . ."

"It is indeed.  The
correct
one, this time."  Eva watched in satisfaction as Franklin examined the purple-garnet liquid that would set everything to right in the royal bedchamber and, he hoped, banish all rumors that the king was impotent.  If it succeeded in bringing about a royal heir, then surely France would officially align herself with America and help them win the war against Britain!

He handed the bottle back to her. "Well, Eva, let's just hope it works.  In the meantime" — he smiled, looking much more like his old self — "well done.  Very well done, indeed."

"Well, it wasn't difficult," she boasted, wrapping the bottle back in its cloth as she told him how she had procured the substance.  "The Duke of Blackheath may think he's the most cunning person on earth, but even his wiles cannot compare to a woman's."

Franklin's old eyes twinkled.  "What I can't understand, Eva, is why you didn't take advantage of the situation.  Any other woman would have, you know."

Eva started, then gave a snort of contempt to hide her momentary loss of composure.

"I mean, there you were, in his chambers, in his bed, the potion right there.  Any other woman in your position would have just tapped a few drops of it into his port to ensure it was the genuine article, and perhaps snared herself a duke as well."

Eva forced a careless peal of laughter.  "Now, why on earth would I have wanted to do that?"

"I'm told that the current duke is a very handsome — and wealthy — man."

"Yes, well, I have sworn off men.  You know that."

"Ah, Eva."  His eyes were kind behind the spectacles.  "You're too young to be so jaded . . . too lovely to harbor such anger . . . too beautiful to spend the rest of your life loathing the opposite sex."  He smiled.  "We're not all bad, you know.  One of these days, I think, you will meet your match."

This time, Eva's laughter was genuine.  "My match does not exist," she scoffed, and got to her feet.

Franklin only shook his head and saw her to the door.  Moments later, she was in a cab and on her way home to the fashionable apartments where she had lived ever since Jacques — may he rot in hell — had died and left her with a fortune won largely through bribery, embezzlement, and greed.  Directing a servant to fetch her trunk, Eva let herself in and, with a sigh, settled down on the divan, a glass of wine in her hand, as she contemplated the events of the last two days.

"Lucien de Montforte."

There, she'd said it.

And he had not materialized from out of the shadows like some phantom mist.

Another swallow of wine gave her the courage to follow her imagination — and yes, the memory, so fresh in her mind, of their recent encounter.  Here, in the privacy of her apartments, she could let her mind's eye wander over that splendid body once more, remembering how magnificent he had looked when he'd entered his apartments — only to find her waiting in his bed like some poisonous scorpion.  Even now, a thrill seized her blood and she shuddered, wishing it away, fearing its implications.

But it did not go away.

Just the thought of Blackheath was enough to make her nipples tingle, and her blood to flush with heat.

"Damnation."  She should be able to flick Blackheath from her mind as easily as she might a fly from her horse's neck.  What was the problem here?  Impossible that any man could hold her thoughts, let alone her interest, when she thought so little of the entire lot of them.

Ridiculous that she now regretted not taking Blackheath up on his heady invitation.

His compelling command . . .

Seduce me.

Without warning, her skin went hot.  Her mouth, dry.  Again, she saw that ruthless face with its watchful, magnetic eyes.  Again, she felt that hard body against hers, skin to skin, hearts pounding against each other in a silent, angry battle of wills.  Eva shut her eyes, trying to control her sudden trembling.  Perhaps Franklin was right.  Maybe she
should
have seduced Blackheath . . . after all, when was the last time she'd had a man such as he?  The last time she'd had a man at all?

Not since I found Jacques in bed with my maid.

Her blood ran cold.  Her fingers clenched and the wine went to acid in her mouth.  Men.  Why even let herself think that Blackheath was any different from the rest?  They were all alike, every last damned one of them.  She had learned
that
lesson at her mother's knee, all those years ago . . .

Her mother, cold and moldering in her grave.

She was stronger than that.

She always had been.

Her face hard, Eva hurled the half-finished glass into the fireplace and sat back, staring out into the darkness beyond the window.

~~~~

Lady Nerissa de Montforte was at her desk answering her correspondence when she heard the sound of an approaching horse.

She put the quill down, rose, and hurried to the window.  It was a gray morning, the sky so low she felt she could reach up and stir those heavy grey clouds with her finger.  Sure enough, a rider was just galloping up to the castle.  She watched as, his face grave and his boots spattered with mud, he leaped off his sturdy black cob and strode toward the doors.

A chill pervaded Nerissa's bones.  Shuddering, she hugged herself and went to stand before the fire, trying to banish a sudden, inexplicable sense of dread. 
Something has happened to one of my brothers.
  Her heart began to pound. 
Oh, dear God, something had happened.
  Picking up her skirts, she left the salon and made her way towards Lucien's domain, trying not to break into a dead run.

The library doors were shut.  Behind them, she could hear voices, and then the doors opened and a footman was showing the messenger out.

Nerissa cast a momentary glance toward her brother.  Lucien was seated at his desk, his face totally without expression, his eyes as black, as bleak as she had ever seen them.  And then he shifted his gaze and saw her, and that moment of naked horror she had glimpsed in his eyes was gone, to be replaced by his habitual mask of unflappable calm.

She hurried forward as he rose.

"Oh, Lucien . . .  what is it?"

He looked at her for a moment, and then took a deep breath.  "Sit down, my dear."

But Nerissa did not want to sit down.  Not if something had happened to someone she loved, not if she was about to hear news that might forever alter the course of her life. 
Oh, please God, let time stop here, in this very moment, when everyone I know and love is still alive and well; do not let time march on because I simply cannot bear to see what the next moment will bring.

But no.  She was a de Montforte, brave and strong.  She shook her head and met his direct stare, noticing for the first time that his face was unnaturally pale.  Almost haunted.

He offered her a glass of brandy.  "It's Perry," he said quietly.

Nerissa's hand froze in the act of accepting the glass, and it fell from her nerveless fingers, crashing to the floor.  She stared numbly at her brother, her body going cold all over.

"The ship on which he took passage to Spain was attacked by an American privateer just off the coast of France," the duke continued in an odd, toneless voice.  "The captain gave a good account of himself, but he was outgunned.  The ship went down and what survivors remained were picked up by the Americans and brought into a French port."

"Dear God," Nerissa choked, her steepled hands going to her mouth.  "Perry —  is he —  is he —"

"We don't know.  His name was not listed amongst the survivors."

Nerissa stepped back, her knees trembling.  She looked at her brother and shook her head, unable to speak, unable to think, unable to accept what he had just told her.

"I am sorry, my dear.  I will do all in my power to learn his fate.  If he is alive, rest assured that I will find him and bring him back to England for you.  If he is not . . ."

Nerissa felt the blood draining from her cheeks, and now a myriad of black spots danced before her eyes as the full impact of Lucien's words slammed into her heart.  Perry.  Her dear Perry with whom she had quarrelled, cut to pieces by a cannonball, shot to death by a musket . . . drowned —

Lucien caught her as she collapsed.  He stood for a long moment, holding his little sister close to his heart and staring into the flickering orange flames.  He heard the messenger galloping off.  Heard the rain, now beginning to fleck the window outside.

And heard Fox's words echoing in his head:

"For the love of God, Lucien, one of these days you'll go too far and your scheming machinations will come back to haunt you . . ."

He took a deep breath, unable to admit that this time, he had, indeed, gone too far.

One thing was for certain.  Nerissa must never learn that he had engineered Perry's departure, had bought the estate in Spain that Perry had supposedly inherited.  He shut his eyes. 
God and the devil, she must never know what I have done or she will loath me forever.

There was no time to waste.  His sister in his arms, he strode from the room, already calling for his servants.  "Phelps, lay out traveling clothes and send word to the stables to prepare my coach.  I am going to Paris."

Chapter 5

"A toast, ladies and gentleman!  To the brave General Washington!"

"To the brave General Washington!

All around the glittering Parisian ball room, glasses were raised.  Eva de la Mouriére, standing beside Dr. Franklin and several of the American dignitaries, smiled, tipped her own glass and downed the champagne.

"Now the French will have no choice but to sit up and take notice," Franklin predicted.  "Burgoyne's surrender, Washington's attack on the British army at Germantown . . .  Pray God, it won't be long now before we've got France into this war, my friends!"

He turned to Eva.  "Here comes General Lavisson; bend his ear, if you will, about our victory . . . he is close to the king, so turn all of your charm on him."  He watched the general approaching from across the crowded floor.  "Have you given the potion into the queen's keeping?"

"I will see her on Saturday."

"Good.  Now here's Lavisson.  Every man in this room is chomping at the bit to dance with you, my dear . . .  Go, make them all envious of our hopelessly besotted general."

Lavisson bowed low over Eva's hand.  "
Madame
," he murmured, letting his gaze sweep her face, "you are a vision.  Will you honor a poor soldier with a dance?"

"It would be my pleasure," Eva purred, offering her gloved hand.

He drew her out onto the floor.  Lavisson was a stocky man, packed with muscle, possessing a raptor's pale blue eyes and a hooked nose.

"I must congratulate you Americans on your capture of Burgoyne," he said gallantly.  "Such feats are enough to warrant a second look at ze fighting prowess of your countrymen."

"Ah, well, we are used to dealing with the frontier, with Indians, with all sorts of dangers," Eva said airily.  "I'm sure we can handle a few pompous Britons."  She smiled, aware that he was trying hard to unglue his gaze from her bosom, swelling in high, creamy glory just inches from his nose.

"I hate ze British.  Zey are vain and arrogant, boastful and proud.  Why God put zem across the Channel from us is a joke only He must enjoy —"

He broke off as a low murmur swept through the room.  A sudden chill snaked up Eva's back and, instinctively sensing danger, she stiffened and looked up, missing a step and nearly tripping over Lavisson's shoe.  He caught her in time to keep her from falling, but Eva, eyes narrowing, was already scanning the ballroom.  All around, others had also gone quiet, and heads were turning toward the great double doors of the entrance.  The music stopped.  A hushed murmur rippled like a current through the swell as people craned their necks, trying to see who had elicited such a widespread and universal reaction.

A man stood by the door, exquisite in fitted indigo velvet, a good head taller than those who surrounded him.  And then Eva saw his face.

Stark cheekbones.  Penetrating black eyes.  A cold stare that was focused entirely on
her
.

"
Le Duc de Blackheath!
"

Eva's heart stopped.  Her mouth sagged open, involuntary ripples of excitement quickened her blood, and she stared in disbelief.  What was
he
doing here?  Why was he in France?  Had he purposely sought her out, come to take his vengeance for destroying the potion?

Had he learned that she'd stolen the genuine one after all?