Ruthless (19 page)

His smile was charming, exquisite, as he looked down at her. “I am indeed, my precious. A true villain—you'd best remember that. As well as remem
bering that you had no choice when it came to your sister's safety. If you wanted her away from here while my friends break almost every commandment then you must agree to whatever terms I offered you. It is that simple.”

She didn't bother to argue. He had the upper hand, which was both unsettling and infuriating. Fighting against him got her nowhere, and he probably enjoyed it. She needed to plan her battles more wisely. She took a deep, calming breath, forcing her hands to release their tight grip.

“So tell me, how are you feeling after the death of your dear mother? I expect the sense of relief is almost overpowering.”

She glared at him. “You are such a despicable man,” she repeated.

“Give it o'er, child,” he said wearily. “She was in the midst of dying a protracted, painful death. I would have said this was God's mercy if I believed in mythical creatures. You can't expect me to believe you truly mourn her.”

“I don't expect you to believe anything,” she said calmly, looking around her. The large, hulking footman had remained in the room during their conversation, and she signaled for him to come forward. “You may take me back to my room, Antoine,” she said, having learned his name the day previous. “I've finished with his lordship for the time being.”

She'd hoped to see Rohan's eyebrows snap together in anger. Instead he merely smiled. And Antoine made no move in her direction. “You haven't
eaten yet, have you? Neither have I. I'll have the servants lay for both of us and we can set forth the rules of our little truce.”

“I'd prefer to return to my room and eat there.”

“But I'd prefer you to join me,” he said in the sweetest possible voice, with absolute steel beneath it. “Antoine, you may transport Miss Harriman to the green salon.”

“
Oui,
milord,” Antoine said, coming forward to scoop her up again.

She fixed him with a look, and Antoine halted, clearly torn. “Touch me and you'll regret it,” she snarled at the poor boy. He looked so frightened she almost took pity on him, but that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

“Terrorizing the servants, my dear? You're learning from me.” He waved an elegant white hand in Antoine's direction. “You may leave, boy. Clearly the lady would much rather I carry her myself.”

She had played piquet in the past, and recognized herself outplayed by a master.
“Repique, monsieur,”
she said. “Antoine, you may assist me.”

Antoine didn't move until Rohan gave a slight nod. “You disappoint me,
ma belle,
” he murmured. “You're no featherweight, but I've managed to carry you on more than one occasion, and I believe I'm up to the challenge. But if you prefer young Antoine, so be it.”

Antoine had already scooped her up with due deference. “When have you carried me?” she demanded.

“Out of your burning house, my sweet. And when you fainted in my hallway.”

“I've never fainted in my life,” she protested.

“You needn't worry, poppet. I carried you into your bedroom and for the most part the servants undressed you. Your virtue was safe with me.”

“For the most part?” she said in an icy voice. “I remember none of this.”

“Just as well,” he said airily. “Take her away, Antoine. I have a small bit of business to conduct. I'm certain she'll manage to entertain herself well enough while awaiting me. Make certain you see to it.”

In other words, keep her prisoner. There was nothing she could do. She was well and truly trapped, and she'd put herself in his hands. At least his interest in her seemed as base and uncomplicated as a cat playing with a mouse. He would let her escape, just a bit, and then slam his paw down on her to hold her there.

But mice didn't snarl and fight back. As she most assuredly would. He wanted entertainment, and respite from boredom? She would provide it. So thoroughly that he'd be afraid to go to sleep at night, for fear she'd stab him.

She could play games as well. She wasn't strong enough to challenge him to a duel, she had no resources. But she had every belief that she could make his life a living hell.

And she had every intention of doing just that.

 

Mr. Mitchum was a troubled man. He dealt with estates and finances, not the cruder business of trials and criminals, and he'd been fortunate enough to
spend most of his busy life dealing with the émigré population of Paris. To be sure, young men of quality were a feckless lot, and it had been his duty to ensure that their spendthrift ways didn't land them in a French prison, but by and large it had been a good living.

Until this recent case. Clients lied to him all the time, he expected it. But he was unused to full-out fraud, to attempted embezzlement, to crimes on a scale quite unexpected. So unexpected that he had no notion what to do about it.

He could scarcely turn the man over to the French authorities. He had the Englishman's distrust of the French, combined with a nationalistic shame over one of his countrymen perpetuating such a lie. He was certain that once he confronted the gentleman the situation could be handled with diplomacy and tact. The impostor would simply have to withdraw his claim and disappear.

Really, it was astonishing that he had gotten as far as he did, and he thought less of his colleagues back in London that they hadn't noticed something irregular in the situation. Had it not been for his own diligence the man would have gotten away with it, a notion that chilled Mr. Mitchum's legal soul. He believed in the sanctity of marriage, the superiority of the British race and the infallibility of British law. That someone would attempt to contravene it was a blow to all he held most dear.

He'd sent his clerk home for the day. The fewer witnesses to the man's disgrace the better. He sat
behind his desk and waited, patiently, as the snow fell outside. He was going to be late getting home, and his dear wife would scold, out of worry rather than temper, and he would drink a glass of burgundy and tell her, just a little, of what had been troubling him for the last few days. And she would kiss his forehead and tell him he was a good man and he would feel better.

The man finally showed up, half an hour later. Mr. Mitchum despised tardiness, but he had a moment's sympathy. Though he couldn't quite make the leap and put himself in the gentleman's position, he thought it likely that if he'd been caught in wrong-doing he would be reluctant to face his accuser.

He glanced outside his window. A storm was brewing—indeed, the winter and late spring had been unusually harsh. The sooner he got home the better.

His client was all charm and apologies for his tardiness when he arrived, shaking the snow from his hat. If he had any idea what was troubling Mitchum, he didn't show it.

After a moment, not wanting to waste time with conversational niceties, Mitchum forged ahead. “I'm afraid,” he said, “that I've come across a grave problem, Mr. Harriman. Your papers are forged. You are no more the heir to Baron Tolliver's estate than I am.”

Marcus Harriman was a handsome, affable man and he smiled at Mr. Mitchum. “I think you must have made some mistake, Mitchum,” he said pleasantly. He'd refused a seat, and was standing near the window, looking out into the gathering storm. “Has someone
been slandering me? Who knows of these accusations?”

Mr. Mitchum drew himself up, all offended dignity. “I believe I know how to be discreet, sir,” he said with a sniff. “So far I have passed my suspicions on to no one. I thought it only fair to give you a chance to right the situation.”

“Only fair,” Mr. Harriman echoed in his warm voice. “I do appreciate the chance to set things right, Mitchum. Perhaps you might show me where in the papers you find a flaw?”

Mr. Mitchum was well prepared, and he spread out the various proofs of identity on his desk as Mr. Harriman came round behind him. “Here,” he said, pointing to one clear forgery. “And here,” he added as Mr. Harriman leaned over him.

Mitchum saw his blood first, before he felt a thing, and he put his hands to his neck in a vain attempt to stanch it. There was no pain, a blessing, he thought. His wife's face swam in front of his vision. A moment later he slumped forward, dead.

Marcus Harriman wiped the blade of his knife against the old lawyer's coat, then slid it back under his waistcoat. He moved swiftly, scooping up the blood-soaked papers and stuffing them in the fire. He waited while they burned, then took the small shovel and scooped up some of the bright red coals, sprinkling them over the rug and the wood floor. The fire caught almost immediately.

He took a step back, admiring his handiwork. He hadn't dared stay long enough in Rue du Pélican after
he'd set the fire—it had been a rush attempt and in the end it had failed. This would be easier.

He glanced back at the lawyer. His wig had slipped from his head and landed in the pool of blood. He looked ridiculous, and Marcus laughed softly. Served the old fool right.

And a moment later he let himself out the door, closing it, and the fire, behind him.

R
ohan moved through the candlelit hallways, threading his way around entwined couples. He knew he looked exquisite—he'd spent many hours on his toilette, and everything was as it should be. From the top of his perfectly curled and powdered wig, down the front of his gray satin coat encrusted in black pearls. His clocked stockings were made from the finest silk, and his evening shoes had diamonds on the high heels to match those on his fingers and in his ear.

He was of mixed feeling about those shoes. They were quite magnificent, and had cost a small fortune. One of many he could afford to waste. They matched his evening dress perfectly. And the heels added to his already considerable height, making him taller than any member or guest of the Heavenly Host. The problem was, he'd never managed to master the perfect, mincing walk. He had too much a tendency to stride, and half a lifetime living in the scented drawing rooms and bedrooms of France hadn't been able to change that.

Early influences were often the strongest, he knew. And the first decade and a half of his life had been spent alternating between his father's vast estates in Cornwall and his grandfather's lands in Scotland. Cities were virtually unknown to a young boy with far too much energy, and he'd roamed the countryside, coming in each day covered with mud, an equally filthy spaniel or two by his side, sometimes with a brace of pheasant, sometimes with a string of trout from the nearby stream. He would dream, at times, of stretching out by that stream, his line in the water, a spaniel snuffling in the grass nearby, and he would think he was back in that well-nigh-perfect time in his life. And then the water would turn red with blood, and men were dead and dying all around, and he'd be holding his brother in his arms, trying to staunch the flow of life's blood as Simon's eyes slowly glazed, when he saw the pike just as it was thrown, and there was no way he could duck.

He'd wake up screaming, covered in sweat. It had been a great many years since he'd had that reaction, and the blessing was he'd never been sharing his bed with anyone who might ask questions. He'd come to the reasonable conclusion that if he was able to exhaust himself with the soft form of a woman the nightmares would keep their distance, and he'd acted accordingly.

It was a good thing he hadn't gone the way of Elinor's mother. Though in fact the English disease, as well as other, lesser misfortunes, were easy enough to avoid if one was careful in one's choices. When in
doubt he simply walked away—he'd never wanted someone enough to put himself in danger. There was always someone just as charming with a more trustworthy history.

He was willing to change that careful plan, however. He had no idea exactly who and what had occasioned Miss Harriman's deflowering, but in truth it didn't matter if she'd been raped by a boatload of infected sailors. He wanted her. It was that simple. And there were contraptions to avoid illness, envelopes made of sheep guts or linen soaked in chemicals. He'd never used one, but for the sake of partaking of Miss Elinor Harriman he'd be willing, and he'd sent his valet to procure a goodly number. He had the strong suspicion that once was not going to be enough with his charming, so-unwilling houseguest.

In truth they ought to be available to the Revels of the Heavenly Host, but proper caution was such the antithesis of “Do what thou wilt” that he imagined his fellow members would ban them. There were times when their games seemed remarkably foolish.

The formal start of the Revels was not till tomorrow night, but members had already begun to arrive. Including the new applicants. There was one of them who interested him mightily, though he pretended to have no knowledge of him. Marcus Harriman, Lord Tolliver, had been brought to their gatherings by Sir Henry Pennington, which was far from a recommendation. Sir Henry was an annoying little toad with a particular affection for the giving of pain, but he had
enough friends in their close circle that Francis simply chose to ignore him. But the Harriman name had caught his eye, and he was most curious to meet the heir whose inheritance had forced Elinor into his wicked toils. Not that he would see her. He had every intention of keeping Elinor well out of sight of the Heavenly Host. Still, he would have to find some way to express his gratitude.

He'd had word from Mrs. Clarke. Lydia had settled in well enough, as he'd no doubt she would. If Elinor stopped to think about it she'd know that giving Lydia over into Mrs. Clarke's tender care was a boon worth any sacrifice. Her warm, practical affection could heal any sort of wound.

He'd been three years into his exile in Paris when she'd simply shown up, husband and infant daughter in hand, and proceeded to dig him out of the dark, wretched place he'd retreated to. She hadn't been able to bring him all the way back. No one could, not after the things he'd seen. It was of no consequence. She helped him keep his life neatly partitioned, and when the dubious pleasures of the Heavenly Host grew too wearisome he could always escape into the world Mrs. Clarke had created for him.

That was what Miss Lydia needed right now. Fate had not been kind to her, but then, fate was a fickle jade. If her sister was determined to provide her with some kind of happy ending the cards were stacked against her.

Interesting, that his poppet might even consider that a happy life was possible. She certainly didn't think one
would be available for her, and he once more considered Etienne. He was a humorless bore, but Elinor had the ability to charm even one as world-weary as he. After a few years perhaps she could get Etienne to laugh.

One thing was certain: Etienne was not going to get his wish. He was not going to have Miss Lydia Harriman, no matter how sweet she was to him. He expected Charles Reading would be seeing to that.

And Etienne was not going be inheriting the title of Comte de Giverney, along with the considerable estates, until Rohan chose to die, and he had no intention of doing so for quite a long time. No intention of reproducing, so Etienne would most definitely end up as a wealthy count. And Elinor a comtesse. Would she like it? He'd have to be dead for that to happen. Would she think of him, and what he'd given her?

It was a great deal too bad that Mrs. Clarke's civilizing influence hadn't extended very far. Etienne had presented his lawyers with a simple way to turn over the estate and the title. He'd inherited it on a fluke, and if Etienne had had the money he could have contested it, and chances were the French king would have favored his own countryman over the exile. After all, they'd driven the Young Pretender from their shores in record time, once he became a liability.

Which was just as well with Rohan. He'd only seen Bonnie Prince Charlie from a distance, that red-gold hair shining in the cold sun, not near enough to see the famous blue eyes. He'd lost everything for the man whose arrogance had led to disaster at Culloden,
putting them at the mercy of Butcher Cumberland, and he was perfectly happy never to see him again. Rome was too close.

“Care to join us, Francis?” a woman's voice lured him. Juliette was lounging on a sofa, a man kneeling beneath her voluminous skirts, and her eyes glittered in the candle light.

He shook his head, so as not to disturb the young man servicing her. He was guessing by the sight of his rump that it was milord Valancey, who was a good fifteen years younger than her most recent bed partner, and he allowed himself a small smile. She was indefatigable. It was good that she was choosing a young man bursting with energy. She would be less likely to come looking for him.

He heard the shrieks of laughter coming from the smaller ballroom. At least, he assumed those whooping noises were amusement. Whatever they were, they were not his concern. Right now he was going to visit his captive princess, to see if he could convince her to let down her hair.

There was music playing, a recent conceit of his. He'd discovered the surprising pleasure of coupling whilst listening to music, and the habit had spread among the members of the Host. A small quartet played in what he preferred to call the evening room. Long ago it had been a morning room, complete with a chaise for a young lady to recline on, a desk at which to write her letters. There were no young ladies in his household. The chaise was still there, and had seen much vigorous usage, but the desk was gone, and the
east-facing windows were covered with black cloth, to keep the curious from peeping inside.

He moved past the gaming room, resisting the urge to play a few hands of piquet. The focus was not on the game, and he was ever a man who preferred to do one thing at a time and do it extremely well. Besides, it was far too easy to win when people had other things on their minds, and he found winning under those circumstances to be an utter bore.

He climbed the flight of stairs to the second floor. The numbers of guests would reach above this one, filling most rooms on this floor and the next, with even some in the east wing that had previously held Miss Lydia Harriman. Of course, he'd lied about their previous occupancy—he'd had no interest in letting Elinor spend too much time with her sister.

The luncheon they'd shared had been…interesting. She'd watched him like a wary fox, certain he was about to attack. And he'd been his most amiable self. Any other woman, and she would have been put entirely at ease. Which was why he didn't want any other woman. Elinor simply watched him out of her warm, brown, skeptical eyes, waiting for him to cross the line.

He didn't, of course. The sturdy Antoine carried her back to her bedroom, where, in her absence he'd had books and sweetmeats delivered, and since then he'd heard nothing. Reports came that she had asked for a light supper, but apart from that she was entirely self-sufficient in her apartment.

He was about to change all that.

Paris was a noisy city at the change of the hour—bells from every part rang in the cold night air, and as he approached her door the hour of eleven o'clock announced itself. To his astonishment he could feel his arousal stirring. While his body parts worked perfectly and reliably, no matter what he demanded of them, it had been many years when anticipation had caused a reaction. An anticipation that might not be met.

Eleven o'clock. A lovely hour. The girl he'd assigned to be her maid was sitting in a chair outside her room, wise enough to be awake at his approach. “You may go,” he said softly.

“Where, milord?” she asked, startled.

“Do I look as if I care?” he said, caustic. “Far enough away that you won't be listening to every bit of our conversation, close enough that you will arrive if she calls for you.”

“Yes, milord,” she said, ducking her head quickly. She scurried off, and he watched her go, impatient.

The door was locked from the inside. The key was still in the lock, keeping him out, and he suspected there might be a chair in front of it as well. He laughed to himself, and the pleasant tension in his body grew. He liked to play games.

There were two doors to the suite where he'd had Elinor placed, as well as two covert entrances. The rooms had once belonged to his great-aunt, whose appetite for lovers had astounded even the jaded French. There was always a way for an enterprising man to make his way inside the fortress.

She'd found the first one and blocked it, and his interest grew by measurable accounts. It was a panel in the hallway that would slide open if one touched the right part of the cherub that perched on the molding.
Tant pis,
he thought, moving on. There was one more entrance, this one through a cupboard in the adjoining room, opening up beside the massive, curtained bed. If she'd found that one he'd simply call for Antoine to beat down her door.

The adjoining room was still and quiet. In the daytime the damask covers on the wall were a peaceful gray-blue, while the faint light from his candle rendered everything into shades of black and gray. It was a large apartment, almost as large as his own, and he made the sudden decision to have some of his clothes moved in here.

The moon was almost bright, filling the darkened room with enough light to see his way. He blew out his candle, opened the cupboard door and reached for the latch.

There was a satisfying click. He pushed open the door and moved into her bedroom, as silent as a ghost.

She was sitting on the chaise, a candle by her side, a book in her lap. And the same, lovely little pistol pointed directly at his black, black heart.

“How in heaven's name did you manage to regain that nasty little weapon?” he murmured, moving into the room.

“Charles Reading returned it to Jacobs. He thought we needed protection, living where we lived. And where is Jacobs?”

“Who, may I ask, is Jacobs?” He strolled across the room. The pistol didn't waver.

“Our coachman.”

“You had no coach.”

“Don't be pedantic,” she said briskly. “At one point we had any number of coaches. He came with us to France and stayed with us over the years, looking out for us.”

“Ah, the larcenous coachman. May I point out that his caretaking abilities fell short?”

“He did the best he could. Where is he?”

“I rather believe he's accompanying your mother and your nursemaid's bodies back to England for burial.”

She almost dropped the gun, which might have been unfortunate if it had gone off. “What?”

“I assumed both of them would rather be buried on English soil. I made arrangements for them to be brought back to your father's estates and buried there.”

“And you didn't think to ask me?”

“Obviously we had to move with a fair amount of speed, although winter made such a gesture more reasonable. You don't think that's what they would have wanted?”

“Nanny Maude, of a certainty. She always missed England. My mother would be rolling over in her grave to be buried with my father.”

“There was always that advantage as well,” he said solemnly. “You think your mother deserved eternal peace?”