Ruthless (4 page)

She looked at him doubtfully. “I could accompany your servants…”

“No, you could not. You heard St. Philippe. There's no telling what kind of condition she's in. I only hope she hasn't infected half the servants—it's hard to get a decent coachman.”

Elinor drew in her breath swiftly. “Don't be absurd!”

“Your mother has the French disease, child. Or as we call it over here, the Spanish disease.” He shrugged. “Perhaps even the English disease. She's
going to die raving, and I suspect you know that as well as I do. If you want, I can do you a favor and have her tossed off the nearest cliff.”

“Joking about such matters is in very poor taste,” she said stiffly.

“Why in the world would you assume I'm joking?”

She could barely see his face in the dimly lit corridor. In such an enclosed space he seemed even larger, and she was uncomfortably aware of the fact that his white linen shirt was open. He wasn't joking about anything, she realized.

“I made the mistake of assuming you were a responsible human being,” she said stiffly.

“Oh, heavens, a very grave mistake indeed. I'll take you somewhere to wait. You'll be pleased to know I have a very English housekeeper who'll see to your comfort.” He held out his arm for her to take, and she didn't move. She didn't want to touch him again. The fine linen weave of his shirt was too thin, she could feel his arm too clearly, feeling the strength of him, the corded muscles, the heat. It distracted her—she wasn't used to touching men at all, and certainly not with such intimacy.

“If you don't take my arm you might trip and break your leg and then what good would you be to your poor mother?” he said in a bored voice. “This corridor is a back way to the private wing of the château and seldom used. There may even be rats.”

She grabbed his arm immediately, taking heart in the fact that she hadn't climbed on top of him. She had a horror of rats, which was unfortunate given her
family's living conditions. “Let's go,” she said hurriedly, trying to control her shudder.

“I take it you don't like rats,” he said, drawing her down the hallway.

She kept imagining them running up her skirts, and with her other hand she held them tight around her legs. “I don't care for them, but then, who does?” she said in her most reasonable voice.

“Oh, I think it's a little more than that. Rats are a fact of life, and yet you…”

“Could we please discuss something else?” She'd given up trying to hide her distaste. “Anything else?” The muffled sound of groans leeched through the walls, and they moved on before she could make the mistake of asking what those noises were. If anyone was in pain. Because a moment later she realized what those moaning, grunting sounds were. Remembered.

Her companion seemed oblivious to it all. “We can discuss your plans for the future. What do you plan to do after your mother dies raving?”

Not much of an improvement over rats, but she'd take it. “I don't even know what I'm going to do for the next week,” she said, perhaps unwisely, but she'd used up almost her last ounce of courage.

There was a moment of bright light as a door opened into the hallway, and then they were plunged into darkness again. The smell of perfume and heated skin was overwhelming, and she looked at the two who'd managed to breach the viscount's private hallway.

“I thought you'd be here, Francis,” the gentleman said, looking at her out of hooded eyes. He was the
one she'd first met, with the handsome, scarred face. “Veronique thought you might be interested in a trade and promised her I'd find you.”

“A trade for what?” Rohan said lazily.

“The little dressmaker,” the woman said in a husky voice. “You know as well as I do, Francis, that she's the most delicious thing to appear at one of our parties in a long time, and you can't just expect us all to ignore her. It's hardly reasonable.”

“Veronique, have I ever struck you as a reasonable man?”

“I, too, am not reasonable,” the woman, Veronique, said. “I can be extremely difficult when thwarted.” Her voice was a soft purr.

For some reason Elinor moved closer to Rohan, her fingers clutching his arm tightly.

“And exactly what are you suggesting?” Rohan inquired.

“I've tried to distract Veronique with my humble charms,” the man said with deprecating candor, “but she insists she's in the mood for a woman tonight, and she's never had a virgin. Assuming the little waif still is—she's been in your company for more than an hour, so there's no guarantee of anything.”

“Very true,” Rohan said. “So Veronique gets the girl and I get you? That hardly seems fair.”

The scarred man cast her a wary glance. “She doesn't understand us, does she? Her French was atrocious.”

“Oh, I think she understands us well enough, looking at her face. And I think we'll have to forgo the pleasure of your company.” He dismissed them.

“When you're done with her then, Francis?” the woman said, looking at her avidly. “I could have a lovely time schooling a lamb who has strayed.”

“I think you'll have to find another stray lamb, madame,” he said, placing one hand over Elinor's. “You're already aware of the motto of the Rohans—what I have I keep. Reading can find you another innocent.”

“Hard to do when you won't let us invite children,” Veronique said with a pout.

“A foolish inconstancy on my part,” he drawled. “But it's not up for discussion. I'm certain the two of you will find adequate distraction back in the green room.”

Veronique spat a very nasty word, one that Elinor had only heard a few times and then from the worst gutter whore in Paris, and she started with shock as the door slid open again, and the woman flounced through, her straight back expressing her disapproval.

The man, Reading, paused a moment longer. “Best be careful, Francis,” he said.

“I'm hardly afraid of Veronique.”

“She's not the woman I think you should worry about,” Reading murmured. And a moment later the door slid shut, leaving them in cocooning darkness once more.

Rohan looked down at her. “You see, my dove. There are creatures far more terrifying than rats who wander these corridors.”

“You're known as the King of Hell, Monsieur le Comte,” she said. “What else would I expect from your guests?”

He laughed softly, but she had the sense she'd annoyed him. “Next time you wish to call me names you might consider what I've saved you from. Veronique is not very nice to girls—she is one who takes pleasure from hurting people, where most of the whores simply fake their distress.”

“I'm ever so grateful,” she said with cloying sweetness.

“Of course you are, love. Unfortunately I desire that you show your gratitude before I release you. Just a small token is all that's needed.”

“I beg your pardon?” she said in an icy voice.

They'd reached what appeared to be a blank wall. The rest of the corridor disappeared into darkness, and there were no embarrassing animal sounds. He moved, and suddenly she felt her body pressed up against the wall, quite firmly, his hands on her arms. And then a moment later, before she realized what he intended, he moved closer, his tall body covering hers in shadows, and all she could do was feel him, hip to hip, his chest against hers, his heart, slow and lazy against her racing one, as he filled all her senses, and she was drowning.

Endure, she reminded herself, and closed her eyes, holding very still. He moved his head down, to the spot at the base of her neck, and she felt his mouth, his teeth, just the lightest of bites against her skin, and she quivered. Endure, she reminded herself again, trying to breathe normally. He was much too strong to fight.

His body held her still, and he released her arms to
slide his hands up, the fingers stroking the pulse at her neck that was racing so wildly. “Ah, child,” he murmured. “If only you'd been lying.”

A second later he pulled back, no longer touching her, and she knew she should run. And run she would, as soon as her senses regained their proper order.

“I…I do not lie, monsieur.” The stammer was faint, and she couldn't help it. Those few seconds in the darkness had been…overwhelming.

“Alas, you don't,” he said. “I had hoped you were more like your dear mother. That you'd seized upon this opportunity to find a protector, as Lady Caroline was prone to do. But appearances, unfortunately, are not deceiving. You're an innocent, and you have no more interest in partaking of our unholy pleasures than you do in becoming a holy martyr.”

“It's better than rats,” she said frankly.

Silence, and in the darkness she could only see the gleam in his hard eyes. “Child,” he said faintly, “you unman me. If I am ever in the position where I wish to seduce someone I will simply assure her it's better than rats.”

“Why wouldn't you be in the position of seducing someone?” It was an impertinent question, but she was still oddly light-headed, here in the darkness with him.

“I don't have to make the effort. They all come to me, sooner or later,” he said simply.

“How boring,” she observed.

“Indeed.” He reached up behind her to touch something that was out of her line of vision, and a moment later a door opened, and he guided her through.

It was like stepping into another world. The small salon was warm and cozy—a fire burned in the grate, the walls were covered in pale green silk and the furniture looked sturdy and comfortable. There was no sign of revelers or indeed, any of the kind of jeweled ostentation of the first room she'd been in. No false throne and dais, no gilded walls and cherubed trim. She might as well be in a family drawing room in England.

“There's a seat by the fire,” he said as she pulled away from him.

There was indeed, a large, tufted chair that looked so comfortable she wanted to weep. “Isn't that yours?”

“Much as it pains me to tear myself away from you, I have other responsibilities, as well as the party I seem to be hosting,” he said. “My guests will wonder where I've gone.”

“I must get home. My mother…”

“When your mother is found she'll be taken back to the city in comfortable accommodations. You will follow, and you'll never have to see me again.”

“I prefer to go with her.”

“I prefer you to follow. Which of us do you think will triumph?” he said.

She almost mentioned Lydia. Her younger sister would be panicked if she didn't return home. Already she must be half-mad with worry.

But her younger sister was just the sort of toy these libertines would take and destroy. She needed to make certain they knew nothing about her, and if surviving a night of worry was the price for her sister's safety, then so be it.

“Never see you again?” she said. “You're fulfilling my wildest dreams.”

“If those are your wildest dreams then you need to work on them. Mrs. Clarke will be here in a minute. Go get warm.”

In fact she was freezing to death. Now that the immediate fear had passed, and there was nothing more she could do to salvage the situation, the warmth seemed to have left her body. Her feet in the too-tight shoes were cold and damp, and if she didn't hold herself very still she'd start shaking. And she bloody well wasn't going to do that in front of the Antichrist.

She headed straight for the armchair. It was even more comfortable than it had looked. It seemed to enfold her, and she couldn't suppress the sigh of sheer delight. She looked up, ready to say something disparaging to her host.

But he was already gone.

E
linor leaned back against the chair, finally alone, trying to regain her balance as the world whirled about her. She'd been in rooms like this, years ago when they'd lived in England. Warm, cozy rooms, with bright fires burning and comfortable, slightly worn furniture.

Which didn't make sense. The notorious Francis Rohan was as rich as Croesus, and the ornate glory of the rest of the château attested to that. The red damask upholstery on the sofa opposite her had worn patches, and the floor was scuffed. She must have slipped into some sort of dream, and when a stocky woman appeared a few minutes later Elinor decided she was simply a manifestation of her deepest longings for the warmth and safety and comfort of a life long past.

“There you are, dearie,” the apparition said. “I'm Mrs. Clarke, the housekeeper. You look exhausted. And no wonder, all this chasing around you've had to do. Mr. Willis says to inform you that your mother has been found, she's perfectly fine, and Mr. Reading is taking her back home.”

Elinor struggled to her feet. “I need to go with them.”

“They've already left, dearie. We have orders from Master Francis. You're to rest for a while and then be sent home in the second-best carriage. Your mother will be fine. Mr. Reading's a good man for all that he's mixed up with this lot.”

The woman looked like Nanny Maude's younger sister. Plump, pleasantly rounded, just the kind of woman you might find in English households everywhere. Just not in the household of the King of Hell. “But I need—” she began, but Mrs. Clarke calmly interrupted her.

“I know you do, dearie. But there's no arguing with his lordship. You just sit back and rest and I promise you, all will be well. You're still wearing your cloak? What was that man thinking! It's raining outside, and you're all cold and damp.”

Before Elinor realized what the housekeeper was doing, Mrs. Clarke had managed to strip the cloak and shawl from her, laying the patched garments carefully near the fire. “I hadn't planned on staying,” she said. “My mother…”

“Now, don't you go defending him,” Mrs. Clarke said. “He's a sweet boy but he can be so thoughtless! And your shoes are soaked as well.” She made a disapproving clucking sound as she bent down to untie Elinor's too-small shoes.

“I'm not…” Before she could deny defending him, the woman's words sank in. “You must be confused,” she said, trying to pull her feet away. “It was the Comte de Giverney who brought me in here.”

“Exactly. I was the one who brought him up. Came over from England after he was exiled and I've been looking after him ever since.” She pulled off one shoe and set it near the fire, then the other. She must have noticed how worn they were, that they were too small, but she said nothing, treating them like jeweled slippers. She sat back and looked up at Elinor for a moment, her gaze sharpening. “You need some hot tea and something to eat.”

“I'm not going to be here long,” Elinor said, ignoring the fact that she was ready to faint from hunger.

Mrs. Clarke was as good at ignoring protests as her master. “Won't take me but a minute. You just sit there and warm up. Master Francis's chef is a stuck-up Frenchman, but he does know how to make cinnamon toast and a good strong up of tea. My girl's bringing it up—won't take but a moment. Just rest, Miss Harriman. You look like you need it.”

Indeed she did. She couldn't remember when she'd last had a full night's sleep. Her mother had a tendency to wander—just a week ago she'd found her two streets away, dressed only in her nightgown, babbling something about being late for a rout. She'd brought her back and slept sitting up on the corner of her bed, just to make certain her mother didn't wander again. If she'd had any sense she would have tied the woman up, but Lady Caroline made such distressed noises when they did that it was almost worse than the worry.

A moment later Mrs. Clarke was back. There was steam rising from the tray she carried, and she could smell the cinnamon and butter from where she sat.
“There we are,” the housekeeper said cheerfully, setting the tray down beside her on a slightly battered table. “All nice and cozy, are we? I'm going to find a throw to put over you—that's a nice enough fire, but you look like you've got yourself a chill.”

She didn't deny it. She was so cold and disoriented that she wanted to weep. What had happened to her? Had he managed to drug her? There were rumors that he and his band of degenerates did that to unsuspecting young women, but the brief glance she'd had of the half-clothed women parading around the château told her that he had no need of a plain, over-tall spinster with a nose.

A moment later a thick cashmere robe was tucked around her, at odds with the shabby furniture. “You poor thing!” Mrs. Clarke said. “I'm just going to forget about manners and sit right down beside you. You don't look like you've got enough strength left to pour yourself a decent cup of tea. And Master Francis has never been a man who pays much attention to ceremony. You don't look like you do either.” She plopped herself down in the chair beside her, pulled the hand-knitted cozy off the earthenware teapot with capable hands.

“You're looking at the teapot, aren't you?” Mrs. Clarke said as she proceeded to pour her a cup of tea, with lashings of heavy cream and sugar. “I brought that from England when I came here. I thought Master Francis would need something to remind him of home. So young he was, poor boy, to have lost his family, his home, his country.”

Elinor wasn't going to ask. She'd heard rumors, but the vagaries of the titled émigré population of Paris had never been of particular interest, and even in the best of times her mother seldom talked to her. “Indeed,” she said in a noncommittal voice.

“Indeed,” Mrs. Clarke said cheerfully. “You don't want to talk about him, and I can understand that. He's a very bad boy, he is. But he has reason.”

“I cannot think of anything that would excuse his—” she was going to say “licentiousness” but thought better of it “—his behavior.”

“No, I suppose not. You're too young to remember.” She shook herself. “We'll get you warm and fed and taken care of and back home right as rain,” she said firmly.

It took all Elinor's self-control to keep her mouth shut. Too young to remember what? What reason might he have for an exile that was far from voluntary? Some scandal? But none of it mattered, she reminded herself. This wasn't her world.

“You look like the kind of girl who's been drinking her tea black,” Mrs. Clarke continued, “but right now I think you need some sustenance.”

The housekeeper was right—she'd given up sugar and milk more than a year ago, insisting she preferred her tea undiluted. In fact, she preferred her tea just as Mrs. Clarke was making it, but of late it had become more important to ensure that her sister got enough to eat and drink. Any cream and sugar they could afford went to Lydia.

The tea was ambrosia. Manna from heaven, milk
and honey—the biblical terms danced through her foggy brain. It was so wonderful that she would have happily trampled over her sister's delicate body for it.

“Let me get you another cover,” the housekeeper said, rising from her seat. “I don't know what's come over me. It's just been so long since I've had a proper young English girl to look after that I let my tongue run away with me.”

Elinor struggled to be polite. “Don't you miss England?”

“Of course I do, child. But I could never abandon Master Francis. Not until he gets past this playacting foolishness and marries.”

“I believe the Heavenly Host has been holding their revels for many years,” Elinor said. That much gossip she'd heard. “Perhaps you should give up waiting.”

“Foolishness,” Mrs. Clarke said firmly. “Eat your toast, dearie. I'll be back.”

The thin slivers of cinnamon toast were wonderful. She tried to eat slowly, but she was so famished she devoured them.

She really must be in a dream. In a moment the King of Hell would come in and chop off her head or something equally bizarre. It would be worth it.

She closed her eyes, the teacup still in her hand. It was old, eggshell-thin china, with myriad tiny cracks in it. Another anomaly, but for a moment she wasn't going to think about it. She was going to keep her eyes closed and let herself drift into this strange, wonderful, magical world, where everything was safe and familiar, where there were no raving mothers, no
sisters in need of protection, no servants who needed to be fed, and most of all, no Francis Rohan.

She heard the door open, heard the measured footsteps approaching her. Mrs. Clarke must have returned. She felt the teacup being taken from her slack fingers, and she knew she should open her mouth, insist on a carriage and a ride home—Lydia was waiting for her—but right then it was impossible. Two more hours wouldn't make that much difference. She'd sleep for that long and awake refreshed and reasonable, and this magic room would make sense. By the time she got home her mother would be in a dull, stupefied state, and they wouldn't have to deal with her for a few days at the least. She always slept deeply after one of her sorties.

And all Elinor would have to worry about was what in heaven's name they were going to do next.

 

He took the teacup from her hand and set it down on the small tray. Mrs. Clarke was watching him, a suspicious look on her face. She knew him too well—she was the only person who saw him clearly, with all his flaws and vanities and wicked indulgences. Saw him and loved him anyway, like an exasperated parent.

In truth she wasn't that much older than he was. She'd come into service at the age of twelve, and her first task had been the care of the Viscount Rohan's youngest son, Francis. He'd been born a sickly, angry child, prone to noisy displays of temperament, and young Polly Siddons had been saddled with him. But
even at age twelve she'd known how to deal with him, and she'd been with him ever since, following him to Paris after the debacle of 1745. When her husband died, she'd simply replaced him with a Frenchman, but she still was Mrs. Clarke to all and sundry. His lifeline and his conscience. For all that he listened.

“And what exactly do you think you're doing with this young lady?” she demanded. “If you brought her here you know as well as I do that she's not one of your fancy pieces. She has no place here.”

“True enough,” he said. “And I'll send her home safely, untouched. You've been around me long enough to know that I have no interest in innocents. And she's hardly my style, don't you think? I insist on beauty.”

“In the rest of this godforsaken place, yes. But these rooms are different, Master Francis. Here you're more likely to value real worth. And I don't like seeing her here.”

I do,
he thought, surprised. “Don't worry, Mrs. Clarke. I'll be sending her back to her misbegotten family as soon as she awakens. Which looks to be a while.”

“Poor thing was worn-out,” his housekeeper said. “She needs a rest without you harassing her.”

“I'm not going to harass her,” he said. “I'm simply going to take a nap myself. She'll probably wake up and start beating me with a fire poker, but I'm willing to take that risk. You can go back to bed.”

She gave him that doubtful look that always made him feel twelve years old, but then she nodded. “You
behave yourself, Master Francis. The girl's already got too much to deal with. She doesn't need you complicating things.”

“Trust me,” he said airily, heading for the settee opposite his sleeping guest. “I only intend to make her life simpler.”

With a disapproving sniff Mrs. Clarke departed, leaving him alone in the room with the sound of the fire crackling in the fireplace, the lash of rain on the windows, her steady breathing as she slept.

He kicked off his elegant shoes. The settee wasn't the most comfortable of beds, but it was long enough to hold his frame, and he couldn't ask for much more. He'd slept on it when he was younger and it had resided in his father's house in Yorkshire, and he'd always found it surprisingly comfortable. He stretched out, his arms behind his head, and stared at her.

He could be kind, he could be generous, if he had reason. He had his reputation to consider, but he doubted anyone would know he'd done an act of charity in seeing to Miss Harriman's mother. If anyone heard, they'd assume he had wicked, ulterior motives, and that was good enough for him.

This girl before him wasn't a beauty. Her dark brown hair was unremarkable, her body, what he could see of it beneath the shabby clothes, could hardly compete with Marianne's lush pleasures. The pleasures he'd turned his back on to lie on this shabby sofa staring at this shabby girl.

Her face was…interesting. She had a smattering of
freckles across her cheekbones, something he'd always found irresistible. A surprisingly lush mouth, which clearly hadn't been kissed enough. And the nose.

It was narrow and elegant and only slightly longer than beauty required. In fact, it gave her face a certain piquant charm. Without it, with the requisite button of a nose, she'd be boring.

Boring was the one thing Miss Elinor Harriman couldn't lay claim to. She'd stormed into his life, and she was still here, long after she should have disappeared.

He could have handed her off to Reading. She would have much preferred accompanying her mother's drunken body back to Paris, but he'd kept her here instead. She was better off this way. Lady Caroline had proven combative, and he'd sent two strong footmen to keep her contained in his traveling carriage, with Reading to oversee the transfer.

No, this stern young woman would be better off arriving home after her mother was properly settled. He'd given Reading orders to make certain one of the footmen remained until they were convinced Lady Caroline had returned to her senses.