Ruthless (16 page)

“Yes,” she said with unnatural calm. “It is.”

After a moment he lifted his head. “I'm going to go get drunk,” he announced. “I'm going to get so drunk that you won't find me for days, and then maybe I'll get drunk again.”

Elinor was too weary to smile, though she was tempted. “That sounds like an excellent idea, Jacobs. Just be certain you remember to find us when you're done with such a noble activity.”

He didn't recognize her irony. And indeed, getting roaring drunk was a fitting tribute to her mother, even though Nanny Maude would have abhorred it.

He strode wearily out of the room and was gone, and she was alone. For the first time since she could remember, she was alone. The number of people in her care had suddenly been cut in half, and yet there was no relief, only guilt.

She looked about her. The house was still and silent—a few candles were burning, enough to light her way into the broad hallway. It didn't look familiar to her, but then, this house was huge, and she'd only seen a small portion of it. It stood to reason they'd brought Nanny to the servants' quarters, though the room had been large and comfortable. And this certainly wasn't a servants' hallway, with its rich carpets and paintings on the damask-covered walls.

She needed to find someone, to tell them Nanny Maude had died. She would need to be washed and laid out properly, a decent burial seen to. But she had no money. Nanny would end in a pauper's grave. Unless she asked Rohan to pay for a decent funeral.

Which she would. She would have thought she'd never ask him for anything, but she knew right now she was wrong.

At least she didn't have to make arrangements for her mother, she thought, half in a daze. She really should try to find some help, but right then her mind couldn't concentrate. There were stairs to the servants' quarters somewhere, but she couldn't remember where they were. If she could just find where Lydia slept she could crawl into bed beside her, filthy, soot-stained clothes and all, and sleep. She'd need none of Etienne's laudanum to help her. She just needed to find the right place to go.

She moved down the shadowed hallways, her nightgown flowing about her. She was becoming alarmingly light-headed. She ought to sit down before she fell down, but her feet had begun to hurt again, her legs felt weak, and she was afraid that if she sat she would never rise again. And she was…for a moment she couldn't remember where she was, which was truly absurd, and she ought to laugh, but she wasn't supposed to laugh, was she? All she could do was keep moving, through the long, endless hallways of this mysterious place.

A door opened, and a young girl backed into the hallway, a tray in her arms. She turned, took one look at Elinor and screamed loud enough to wake the devil, loud enough for reality to come crashing back as she remembered exactly who and where she was.

“It's a ghost!” the girl babbled in French. “God protect me, it's a ghost!”

Suddenly the hallway was filled with a great many more people than she could have wished. All she'd wanted was one sensible person to help her find her sister and suddenly there were servants in various stages of dress and undress, holding candelabra, and what must be the housekeeper coming in one direction, and the evil Cavalle coming from the other, a murderous expression on his face, and she suddenly thought she'd better run, and she tried to spin around, but her feet tripped her up, and she felt herself falling toward the heavy carpet, when strong hands caught her. And even without looking up she knew whose strong hands they were. Just as she'd known in the smoke and the darkness who would have snatched her up, no matter how little sense it made.

“I have always had a dislike of screaming servants,” Rohan said in a mild voice that held a note of steel. “Would someone please smother that girl?”

The maid was still screeching about a ghost, and the housekeeper made quick work of her with a harsh slap and an even harsher reprimand.

“Thank you, Madame Bonnard. And could you please tell me why my guest is wandering around the house in rags when I had assumed she'd been properly seen to? Is this the way I wish to have my guests treated? And where is her sister, scrubbing floors in the kitchen?” To a stranger his voice might sound almost genial, but the servants looked uniformly terrified.

He was behind her, still holding her up, and since her feet weren't working she couldn't turn and look
at him. “It's not their fault,” she said, and she almost didn't recognize her own voice. It was raw from the fire, raw from tears, both shed and unshed. “Someone needs to see to Nanny Maude. She's dead.” The words were so short, so harsh that she couldn't stand it anymore. She needed to disappear into the darkness, to pull the shadows around her. “I need to sleep…”

And then the blessed darkness folded down around her, and she opened her arms and embraced it.

 

He caught her as she fell, and when several footmen rushed to assist him he snapped at them like a caged tiger. The thought would have amused him if he weren't in such a cold, towering rage. He had a tendency to keep his temper and to view things with a distant amusement. But at the moment he would have happily seen all his incompetent servants whipped and turned out into the streets.

This was the third time tonight he'd had to scoop her up in his arms, and the thought of how much she would have hated it brought a smile to his lips. As far as he was concerned she could swoon all she wanted—he was more than happy for an excuse to put his hands on her.

Madame Bonnard had the temerity to approach him. “I will send two of the maids to see to her woman. I am sorry, monseigneur, I had no idea she hadn't been properly seen to. I promise you, I will dismiss those responsible.”

“And will you dismiss yourself, madame?” He said in a silky voice. “I'm taking her to the green bedroom.
I will require hot water, enough for a bath, some clean clothes and some French brandy.”

“Sir, should she be having brandy when she's fainted?” Madame Bonnard was foolish enough to ask.

“The brandy is for me, you idiot,” he said in his most amiable voice. The one he used before he destroyed someone.

The servants immediately scattered in every direction. His way was lit to the green room, and lights were placed all around the elegant bedchamber. The first pails of hot water appeared almost before he'd set her down on the high bed, and a moment later Madame Bonnard read his mind and presented him with a basin and a cloth. Perhaps he might let her live after all.

He took the wet cloth and began to clean the soot from Elinor's face. There were salt trails of tears there, which oddly surprised him. She was such an Amazon, he didn't expect her to ever cry or show weakness, even at the loss of her mother. That old bitch was well and truly gone, and he could only view that circumstance with relief. The glowering nurse/housekeeper he could have dealt with—after all, he'd managed to fend off Mrs. Clarke's efforts to reform him for all these many years—and for Elinor's sake he was sorry she was dead. It was too much a burden for one night.

He was gentle with the cloth. The filth was on her clothes, down her neck, and he unfastened her chemise as he absently ordered the footmen from the room. “My lord,” Mrs. Bonnard began, scandalized. “Let me do that.”

He looked up at her. “How long have you served me, Madame Bonnard?”

She flushed. “Seven years, my lord.”

“And did anything ever give you the impression that I wasn't entirely capable of undressing young ladies on my own?”

“No, Monsieur le Comte,” she said. “It wasn't your capability I was questioning. It was the young lady's feelings on the matter.”

His housekeeper was treading dangerously close to disaster. “Ah, Bonnard,” he said in a silken voice. “You remind me of my better self. Unfortunately, I have no interest in listening to that part of me, and I'm much more interested in taking care of my own best interests than the young lady in question. If you're so worried about her, go see to her dead nursemaid. When Miss Harriman wakes she'll be distraught if her friend hasn't been seen to.”

A moment later the door closed, and he was alone with his awkward poppet.

She looked like hell. It was interesting washing the soot off her face, discovering the creaminess of her skin, admiring once again the faint tracing of freckles across the Harriman Nose. It really was a lovely nose. Narrow and elegant, it made her much more striking than her pretty little sister. By the time she was forty she'd be magnificent, and he couldn't wait…

He pulled back. He might not even be alive when she was forty. He'd be fifty-six, an old man, and even if he were still alive he was unlikely to be anywhere near her. He wouldn't even remember her existence.

He rinsed out the cloth and drew it down the side of her neck. She was in a deep, untouchable sleep, shock and exhaustion and grief having overwhelmed her. He hated seeing her defeated, but he had no doubt whatsoever that she'd be ready to fight back tomorrow. To fight him. She was like an angry Roman goddess—nothing could defeat her for long.

He set the cloth down and put his hands on either side of her thin nightgown, pulling it apart to look at her. He was a degenerate bastard to do so, but he had no illusions as to who and what he was. He was surprised Madame Bonnard still did.

Her breasts were quite lovely. Small and perfect, and the nipples were pleasingly dark, not insipid pink. He'd always had a weakness for dark nipples. He should have known she'd be hiding such a treasure.

He stared at them, and he could feel the beginnings of arousal stir in his cynical body. What other treasures might her flesh provide? He reached out to tear the gown down to its hem, and something stopped him.

It was hardly decency, he told himself, pulling the gown back together, covering her breasts reluctantly. He was finding himself quite stimulated at the sight of her, and at the moment there was no one he was interested in…er…spending that stimulation on. He'd have to do something about that.

And he was hardly likely to make love to her while she was unconscious. It would be like making love to a corpse, something that had never appealed to him.

He rang the bell. Bonnard appeared immediately,
which annoyed him. “You didn't think I meant what I said?” he said in a silken voice.

“Of course you did, monseigneur. I was merely counting on the fact that you're easily bored.”

He found he could laugh. “You know me rather better than I thought,” he said. “I'm not sure how comfortable that makes me.”

“Monsieur?”

“Bonnard, you know as well as I do that it wouldn't be boredom that stopped me, and that I'd need some shallow excuse to salve my wounded
amour propre.
Which you have done admirably. Send chambermaids to finish taking care of Mademoiselle Harriman while I go get drunk.”

Bonnard didn't argue.
“Oui, Monsieur le Comte,”
she said, dipping into a curtsy.

Rohan took one last look at Elinor, lying still and silent on the bed. Not for him, he thought. And taking his glass of brandy, he left the room, closing the door behind him.

I
f it hadn't been for her sister, Elinor would have refused to wake up. She heard the noises from a distance. It seemed the great house was in a state of complete chaos. Furniture was being moved, servants were chattering in lowered voices. Those things she could have ignored. If she opened her eyes she'd have to face reality. That her mother was gone, burned in the flames of her own making. And far worse, Nanny Maude was dead, the last person she could even think of turning to. All their possessions had gone up in smoke, and they had nothing, only each other, for comfort.

Lydia would need her. She couldn't stay in bed, the covers pulled over her head, and pretend none of it had happened. She would need to make plans. Accepting charity from the notorious Viscount Rohan was bad enough; actually living underneath his roof would destroy any chances of Lydia making a decent marriage.

Unless Etienne came through, and there was no guar
antee of that. He'd given every indication of being smitten. Unfortunately she'd seen Lydia in Charles Reading's arms, heard her piteous cry for him. She might be too blinded by infatuation to see Etienne's worth.

Except that Lydia had never been easily swayed. Despite all the men, young and old, who'd been naturally smitten by her charm and beauty, she'd viewed them all with impartial affection.

That was not how she viewed Reading.

Elinor opened her eyes to the gray-green light that filled the room. She closed them again for a moment, her nerve failing her, and then opened them once more, resolutely, and made herself sit up in bed.

And what a bed it was. The sheets felt like silk. She looked around her slowly. She had no idea how she'd gotten there—her memory of the night before was hazy and jumbled. She remembered that Nanny had died, slipping away peacefully. And she'd gone in search of Lydia, in this vast, dark house. And then nothing.

She was no longer wearing her shabby nightdress. Someone had stripped it off her, replacing it with something made of the finest cambric. She no longer stank of soot and smoke—she'd been bathed as well, and when she swung her legs out of bed she saw that her feet had been bandaged.

For a moment the notion startled her. The thought of being stripped and bathed when she had no knowledge of it was unsettling in the extreme, but then she reminded herself that her unwilling host would have
had no part in it. He'd have waved a pale, careless hand to have his servants take care of her and forgotten her existence.

She climbed down from the high, impossibly comfortable bed and limped toward the window. The room was huge, a fact which startled her. Such elegancies made her uncomfortable. She pushed open the curtain, letting in the murky light. She had no idea what time it was, and the light outside was no help. They were in the midst of a blizzard. The snow had piled up everywhere, and it was coming down at a fierce rate, blasting against the windows. She could feel the cold radiating from outside, and she pulled the curtains shut again, shivering.

The fire was glowing brightly, sending forth waves of heat, and she turned and moved toward it. There was a robe laid across the foot of her bed, and she pulled it around her.

She felt as if the blizzard had entered her brain as well—she wasn't thinking clearly. She'd slept too long, or not long enough, but she could no longer afford such weakness.

She pushed open the door to a corridor filled with servants. One of the maids immediately ceased what she was doing and came to the door. “You're awake, mademoiselle,” she said, stating the obvious. “Last time I checked on you, you were still sound asleep. If you go back to your room I'll bring you some dinner…”

Elinor looked past her at the hallway. The servants were busy wrapping black cloth around the portraits
and windows, a singularly odd procedure. “I need to see my sister,” she said. “Could you take me to her?”

The young maid hesitated. “His lordship said you were to keep to your room and not wander….”

“If you take me directly to my sister I wouldn't be wandering,” she said reasonably. “And if you won't take me there I'll find her on my own.”

The maid looked doubtful, but she nodded. “Would you like to dress first, mademoiselle?”

“I have no clothes.”

“I've filled your closet, mademoiselle. His lordship's orders.”

And now she was going to have to be grateful to the King of Hell for the clothes on her back. The alternative was not acceptable, not at this moment, but the last time a man had provided clothes for her had been six years ago, and the memory still had the capacity to make her ill.

“I'll see my sister first, thank you…?”

“Jeanne-Louise,” the girl offered. “As you wish, mademoiselle. If you will come this way.” She started toward the stairs, and Elinor pulled back.

“My sister's room isn't near mine?”

“No, mademoiselle.”

That seemed extremely odd. She could feel the servants' eyes on her as she followed Jeanne-Louise up the winding stairs. Even with the bandages her feet were painful, but she was determined not to limp, not with so many people watching her. The marble staircase was hard and cold beneath her feet, and she gritted her teeth and climbed. Why would Lydia have
been put on a different floor entirely? It made no sense.

They reached the next flight, and then Jeanne-Louise turned right, heading into another wing of the huge building. Elinor was having a hard time keeping up with her, but kept on. At that point she would have walked over coals to see her sister. In fact, it probably would have been less painful.

This wing of the house was older, smaller, the ceilings lower. The maid stopped in front of a door and knocked, then pushed it open, and Elinor quickly took stock of her surroundings.

It was a small salon off an even smaller bedroom. Pretty and comfortable, it was a far cry from the opulence of her own bedroom, which at this point seemed half a mile away. Why in the world had he separated them? And why the disparity in their rooms?

Lydia was sitting by a window, dressed in dove-gray, and she turned at the sound of the door.

“Oh, Elinor,” she cried, and rushed to her, flinging her arms around her and bursting into tears. Elinor rocked back for a moment from the strength of her, and then hugged her tightly, murmuring soft, comforting words.

After a moment she nudged her toward the sofa, afraid her feet wouldn't hold her anymore, sinking down on it with gratitude. She glanced back at Jeanne-Louise, but she'd closed the door behind her. So much for finding her way back, though in truth, there was no reason for her to return to the gilded green room she'd woken up in. She'd left nothing behind.

It was a long time before Lydia's tears shuddered to a halt. Elinor had already discovered a fine lawn handkerchief in the pocket of her dressing gown, and she gently dabbed at Lydia's face. “You know, dearest, you're the only person I know who can cry for an hour and still look absolutely radiant,” she said fondly.

“Oh, blast that,” Lydia said forcibly, and Elinor managed her own weak chuckle. “What are we going to do, Nell?”

For a moment Elinor closed her eyes as the enormity of their situation washed over her. And then she pulled herself together. “Don't worry, sweetheart. I'll see to everything. I have a plan.”

“You do?” Lydia said hopefully.

“I do,” she said, hoping to God that Lydia wasn't going to ask for details. She'd come up with something soon enough, even though right now her mind was a total blank. “Have you seen the doctor today?”

“Etienne keeps asking for me,” she said, and there was no missing the reluctance in her voice. “I've pretended to be asleep.”

The panic she'd squashed down began to rumble in the pit of her stomach. She'd forgotten Lydia's look of dislike. “You did?” she said carefully. “I thought you liked Etienne.”

Lydia managed a weak smile. “Oh, I do. I like him very much. But I know what he wants, and I cannot give him the answer he's looking for. Not yet.”

“What does he want, sweetheart?” she asked gently, trying to keep the despair from her voice. If
Lydia hated the thought of Etienne then that was the end of it.

“To marry me,” Lydia said, making it sound like a death sentence.

All the language of the stable came roaring back to Elinor's head, but she kept her face passive. “You don't wish to marry Etienne? I thought it would be a good match. He's handsome, dependable, he adores you.”

“Yes, he's all those things,” she said sadly. “The problem is, I'm not in love with him.”

“Love is…” Elinor trailed off, words failing her. She swallowed, then continued. “Love is highly over-rated, my sweet.”

Lydia turned to look at her, her eyes still swimming with tears. “Do you want me to marry him, Nell? Because I will, of course, if you think it's the best thing to do. I know I've been selfish, daydreaming. If you want me to marry him then I certainly will. You're right, he's all that's kind and proper, and I should make a very good doctor's wife.” She even managed a sunny smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes.

For a moment Elinor didn't move. It was the wise thing to do. Hadn't she learned in the last, increasingly hideous few years that you had to take the lifeline when offered? Here was safety dangling in front of them. She had little doubt Etienne would welcome her into their household as well, simply because she could be useful. They would never have to worry about where the next meal came from, which creditors to duck, whether they'd freeze to death in the night.

She looked down into dear Lydia's face, at the determinedly cheerful expression. “Except that he's so damn stuffy,” she said.

Lydia exploded with laughter. “Your language, Nell!”

“I haven't got Nanny Maude to keep me in line anymore. You know I spent too much time in the stable when I was young. Don't marry Etienne, Lydia. Tell him no, in the most gentle of ways.”

Lydia looked at her. “Are you certain? What else shall we do? I hadn't thought it through clearly. We seem to be out of resources and possibilities.”

“You forget, there's Cousin Marcus. I have yet to find out what our small bequest is, but with luck it's enough to keep the two of us and Jacobs. If not, our cousin might be disposed to be charitable.”

“Dearest,” Lydia said, “you know as well as I do that the bequest is for you, that the cousin is yours.”

“Dearest,” Elinor responded fondly, “you know as well as I do that everything I have is yours.”

“I could still marry Etienne. I think he'd have me.”

“Have you?” Elinor scoffed. “The man would be lucky to kiss the hem of your garment. In truth, I don't want you to marry Etienne. His lectures would drive me mad. I expect we can rely on Cousin Marcus. Otherwise…” She failed to think of any way to complete the sentence.

“Otherwise we'll become adventuresses!” Lydia said. “Why not? We have no reputations to lose. We'll travel Europe and be very mysterious and very gay, and men will adore us and women will want to be like
us. We'll dress in the finest clothes and be very witty. I think we should go to Venice first.”

Elinor blinked. “And how are we to support this new life?”

“We'll have to find protectors, of course,” Lydia said brightly. “Wealthy men in need of a mistress. We'll pick and choose, of course. Only the most handsome and most amiable of men should be allowed anywhere near our bedrooms. They'll give us fabulous jewels, which we can sell off when times are difficult. Don't you think it would be glorious?”

“Glorious,” Elinor echoed. “And totally impractical. I'd have you married to Etienne before you became a courtesan, no matter how stuffy he is.”

Some of the wicked light left Lydia's eyes. “You're right, of course. And a few months of passion is no fit trade for a lifetime of safety and sobriety.”

She could blame the shocks of the last few days and her own exhaustion for not having put things together before. Lydia's fanciful idea hadn't been plucked from thin air. It took Elinor but a moment.

“You're in love with Mr. Reading.”

Most people would have believed Lydia's light, silvery laugh. Elinor was not most people. “How absurd, Nell! I barely know the man, and while there is no denying he's very handsome he's far from agreeable and not very flattering, and he's hardly the type of husband one could look for.”

“Hardly,” Elinor echoed, remembering him from her night at the château. “He would, however, make a fitting partner for an adventuress. For a month or so.”

Lydia's smile still didn't read truthful. “Don't worry, Nell. You said you had another plan as well as applying to your cousin. What is it?”

Her stomach dropped, but she managed a cheery smile. “Let us see if I can get in touch with Lord Tolliver first,” she said. “He was most amiable when I met with him, and I would think he would be the answer. If I could convince him to give us a small cottage on one of the estates, perhaps a tiny stipend that we could augment with pianoforte lessons. And you'd be bound to marry, and there'd be no financial incentive to force you into making the wrong choice.”

“And he said he'd offer you this cottage?” Lydia asked, looking skeptical.

“We didn't get that far…Mama—” oddly enough her voice seemed to have developed a catch “—had one of her fits, and he left. But I have no doubt he'll hear of our misfortunes and be more than happy to provide assistance. He would have no reason not to help us, and he would dislike the disapproval of society if he abandoned us.”

“If you say so,” Lydia said, looking unconvinced. “What shall we do in the meantime?”

“In the meantime I shall speak to my Lord Rohan about sending a message to my cousin. I despise having to rely on Rohan's charity, but I cannot decide which would be worse, sleeping in his house or taking money to sleep elsewhere.”