Ruthless (5 page)

Which was no certainty. He'd been watching when they'd wrestled the woman into the carriage, her curses and her fists flying. The pox had driven her mad and nothing would change that. The sooner she died, the better for all concerned.

He could arrange it, of course. As he lounged on the settee he considered the possibilities. The wretched
hag would have little connection with him, and there'd be no reason for him to be accused of orchestrating her death. Any of the Heavenly Host who happened to have noticed her presence here tonight would never breathe a word of it, or risk being ousted from their hallowed little group.

The police in Paris were fairly lax, but they might pay more attention to the death of a titled émigré. Then again, they might not. They let him do anything he wanted in his mansion in Rue Saint-Honoré, but then, no one had died. At least as far as he knew.

No, his charitable instincts would be better off curbed for the time being. Wretched as Mademoiselle Elinor Harriman's life might be, it was hardly his job to fix it. To remove the major obstacle to her happiness.

Though the poxy wretch might annoy Reading so much that he stabbed her. Reading was notoriously quick-tempered, rash and impulsive. Perhaps he'd take care of things of his own volition.

In the meantime, here he was, ready to sleep with the perfect virgin. He let out a soft laugh. Miss Harriman would hate that, making it all the more delightful. They would sleep together, albeit a chaste three feet apart, and it would annoy her for the rest of her life.

And with that he closed his eyes and slept, a smile on his face, malice in his heart. He slept.

 

It was past five in the morning, and Lydia Harriman was already up and dressed, having spent a wretched three hours in bed, tossing and turning, before giving
up completely. Her mother's disappearance wasn't that unusual—Lady Caroline would vanish for days at a time, and there was nothing they could do about it.

But she'd gotten much worse recently. Her conversations were sprinkled with curses, and there was a strange, otherworldly look in her eyes that no one could break through. She complained constantly of the cold, even with the warmest fire, and when things were really bad they tied her to the bed lest she hurt herself.

Or them. When her mother was raging there was no telling what she might do, and Nanny Maude kept the knives hidden just to be safe. And there were times, which Lydia would never admit to, that she hoped her mother would simply not return from her next escapade.

But this time Elinor had disappeared as well.

It was an eerie, ice-cold dawn. She'd been careful not to put too much wood on the fire. What little fuel they had must last as long as possible. Elinor tried to shield her from the harsher realities of life, and Lydia had stopped arguing. If it made her elder sister happy to think that she was ignorant of the truly desperate circumstances they were living in then Lydia could pretend. Elinor had always been a bossy sibling, in the best sense of the word, and she wouldn't hear of Lydia shouldering her share of the burden. Sooner or later she'd have to give in, but for now Elinor was happier pretending that she had everything under control, when control had vanished months ago.

She heard the noise in the kitchen, and she jumped up, almost knocking over the chair in her relief. Nanny was already there, in her robe and nightcap, as Jacobs came in. Alone.

“Where are the others, you auld idiot?” Nanny Maude demanded before Lydia could speak.

The old man hung his head. “We followed her ladyship out of the city to the devil's own playground.” He turned to Lydia. “There was no stopping your sister, miss. She took off before I knew what she was doing, and they wouldn't let me follow her. I tried to fight them but there were too many of them, and I'm an old man. Not as strong as I was.”

“You couldn't have done anything,” Lydia said in a soothing voice, while Nanny made a derisive noise that could almost be called a snort.

“They wouldn't have been stopping
me,
” the old woman said bitterly. “You're a fool and a coward.”

“You crazy old bat, no one would dare to touch a harridan the likes of you,” he snapped back, their lifelong battle flaring up.

“Stop it, both of you!” Lydia said sharply. “You still haven't told me where they are. Did they go to that man's château?”

“They did indeed,” he said. “Your mother had gone there to gamble. I hadn't been there an hour, still trying to find my way into the house, when they came and found me. Told me to take the coach and get back to town, and your mother and sister would be following.”

“What coach?”

If Jacobs had been looking shamefaced before, he looked even more devastated now. “The coach…er…I meant to say…er…the coach…” He cleared his throat. “I had to borrow a coach…”

“You had to steal a coach,” Lydia interrupted him gently. “That's all right, Jacobs. I'm not as blind as my sister wishes me to be. You've done it before, I know. So you stole a coach in order to go after my mother. Well done. Did you get it back before anyone noticed it was missing this time?”

Jacobs lifted his head, clearly relieved. “Not quite, Miss Lydia. But I managed to sneak away before they caught me. And they're not going to make too big a fuss since everything's been returned.”

“Everything but my mother and my sister,” Lydia said.

“The viscount's men promised they'd be coming home in a fancy coach,” he said desperately. “I never would have left if I didn't think they'd be better off with his lordship.”

“The man everyone calls the devil? The one who runs satanic parties and drinks the blood of virgins?” Lydia said, trying not to sound panicked. “You need to steal another coach, Jacobs. I have to go after her.”

“Miss, it's daylight. I canna steal a coach in broad daylight.”

“Then I'll walk,” she said fiercely. “I'm not going to sit by and let my family be—”

The noise at the front door interrupted her, and she turned around and flew down the hall, flinging
open the door with relief. “Oh, Nell, I was so worried about you…!”

Her voice trailed off, as she realized she was looking at someone a far cry from her sister. He stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the sunrise over the rickety buildings, and she couldn't see his face, even though he doubtless could see hers quite clearly.

“Not Nell, I'm afraid.” He had a deep, English voice, and for a moment Lydia was flooded with a host of memories of a life lost long ago. “I assume you're her sister? I have your mother in the coach. If you'll show me where I can have my men bring her I'd be greatly obliged.”

“Yes. Of course.” It took her a moment to gather her wits. “In the front bedroom.” She could hear the howls and curses coming from behind the stranger, and her heart sank. Her mother was in one of her full-blown bouts of madness, and Elinor wasn't around. She was better at calming Lady Caroline than any of them. “We'll have to see about restraints. I'm not sure where anything is.”

“You needn't be concerned, Miss Harriman,” he said smoothly. “My men can handle things.” He turned and made a gesture behind him, and for a moment she could see his face.

It was a handsome face, or it would have been, if not for the scar running from eyebrow to mouth on one side, giving him a faintly sinister look, quirking his lips up in a parody of a smile. He was dressed exquisitely, and he'd doffed his hat to expose unpowdered tawny hair. For a moment she couldn't move.
This must be the devil they talked about, and for the first time she could understand the lure.

“Miss Harriman?” he said gently, and she shook herself out of her abstraction.

“You're very kind,” she said, racking her brains for his title. All the ones she could remember were vastly insulting. She backed out of the way and he followed her into the shabby little house, and she mentally thanked God she was already up and dressed. Nanny was bustling around, clucking like an agitated hen, clutching her robe around her plump frame.

He took her arm with the finesse of a prince. “Why don't we get out of their way and leave them to take care of things? Your housekeeper can show the footmen where to put her.”

“That's Nanny Maude,” she blurted out as he drew her into the tiny front room with its sullen excuse for a fire. It was a ridiculous thing to say, but she didn't want Nanny relegated to the role of servant when she was so much more.

He smiled, the move jerking his smile up so that he looked even more ruthless. “Nanny's got things well in hand,” he said smoothly. “And I've been remiss—I haven't introduced myself.”

“I know who you are, my lord,” she said. Finally his name came to her. “You're the Comte de Giverney.” She was determined not to show any fear. “Apparently you consort with the devil, have orgies and drink the blood of virgins. According to gossip you're sin itself.”

The smile, which had been oddly pleasant and even
comforting despite the scar, turned cool. “Sorry to disappoint you, Miss Harriman. I realize I look like the very devil, but in fact I'm nothing more than an untitled gentleman with an ugly face and empty pockets. Charles Reading, at your service.”

She could feel the color flood her face. “You're not the demon king?”

“I'm afraid not.” He shook his head. “No, he's busy entertaining your sister.”

F
or a moment Lydia didn't move. “You're not ugly,” she said. Before he could respond to that she went on. “And what's the comte going to do with my sister? I presume the stories are just that—stories made up to scare children into behaving.”

“Do they work? Are you properly terrified?”

“I left my childhood behind years ago, Mr. Reading.” At that moment they were interrupted by the procession of people carrying her mother into the house. She was struggling, swearing and spitting, her waif-thin body unnaturally strong, and one of the men carrying her cursed when she managed to land a blow. A moment later they disappeared into the bedroom, Nanny Maude following them and closing the door behind her.

She turned to look back at Reading. He had dark eyes, and he was watching her with curiosity and no pity whatsoever. “How long has your mother had the pox?”

“I don't know,” she said, unable to pull her gaze
away from him. For a penniless gentleman he was quite elegant, from his high cheekbones to the glossy boots he wore. The left side of his face had an almost unearthly beauty; the scar on the right had healed badly, turning that beauty into a travesty.

“A duel,” he said.

She blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“You're wondering what caused the scar. Don't be embarrassed. It's what everyone thinks when they see me.”

“I'm not embarrassed…because in fact I wasn't thinking about that at all. I was worried about my sister.”

“I stand humbled and corrected. Though in fact I'd prefer not to stand. I had no intention of riding in the coach with your mother casting up her accounts all over the place, so I rode, and I'm quite tired. However, I can't sit down until you invite me to do so and sit down yourself, and since you don't seem about to I thought I might offer a little hint.”

“Please, sit,” she said, rattled, taking the small, hard chair and leaving the more comfortable one near the fire for him.

He shook his head. “Not likely. Change seats and I will.”

“I'm fine where I am…” Before she realized what he was doing he'd tossed his hat onto the small table, clamped his gloved hands on her arms and lifted her, dropping her into the seat by the fire as if she weighed no more than a bird.

He must have thought as much. He frowned. “Have you been eating properly?”

She thought about the thin soup Nanny had managed to stretch for the week with the careful addition of more and more water, and her stomach knotted. “Of course,” she said.

“Because you don't weigh more than a child.”

“How many children are you in the habit of picking up, Mr. Reading?” she responded. “Oh, I forgot, the devil sacrifices babies, does he not?”

“He doesn't…” He stopped protesting. “You're teasing me, are you, Miss Harriman?”

“Just a little bit,” she allowed. “I shouldn't—things are hardly humorous right now, but since I've seen the difference between gossip and reality firsthand I have little doubt that the Comte de Giverney is nothing more than a self-indulgent hedonist.”

He took the seat across from her, and she held her breath, afraid it might not hold his firmly muscled weight. It creaked, but survived, at least for the moment. “As is his best friend,” he said, his voice less than reassuring.

“Really?” she said, her voice bright. “I've never seen a self-indulgent hedonist before. I have to say I'm a bit disappointed. You don't look very dissipated to me. Maybe you haven't been at it for a terribly long time.”

“Long enough,” he said beneath his breath.

There wasn't much she could say to that. “Could you tell me where my sister is? Why didn't she return with you?”

“Again, there's the problem of the carriage.”

“Oh, dear. I forgot. Your poor carriage. We can't
afford to have it cleaned, but Jacobs and I can see to it.”

“It's not my carriage. And Rohan has more than enough servants to deal with it. More than enough carriages for that matter.”

“Rohan?” she echoed.

“The King of Hell. The Comte de Giverney, the Viscount Rohan,” he clarified.

“The man who has my sister.”

“He'll return her safe and unharmed. Francis doesn't waste time with innocents. Unless your sister's shabby clothes and stern manner hide a lurid background.”

It shouldn't have bothered her, but she pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders, hiding some of her own shabbiness. Her only clothes were those passed down from Elinor, one stage closer to the ragbag, something this exquisitely attired gentleman had no doubt noted and inwardly mocked. “I'm afraid we're living in straitened circumstances, Mr. Reading,” she said, lifting her head. “We're awaiting word from our father, who will doubtless come to our aid, but in the meantime there is no denying that our fortunes have suffered of late.”

He said nothing more than, “Indeed.”

“I get the uneasy suspicion that you're holding something back, Mr. Reading,” she said. “Or were you simply going to cast more aspersions on my threadbare wardrobe?”

“I'm afraid you're so pretty that I hadn't even noticed your wardrobe, Miss Harriman. Your sister doesn't have the advantage of your beauty.”

“If that's supposed to make me feel better it's failed,” she said, finally getting angry. “My sister is very striking, and only shallow gentlemen would fail to realize that.”

“I'm very shallow, Miss Harriman. You enchant me. Your sister terrifies me.”

“Good,” she said. Then realized how it sounded. “I mean, good that my sister terrifies you, and I would certainly wish that I could do the same.”

He looked at her. “In fact, you do terrify me, Miss Harriman, for quite different reasons.”

“I can't imagine why.”

His twisted smile was far from reassuring. “I think you would prefer I not mention it to you,” he murmured.

“I don't understand.”

“You don't need to. I believe I should make certain your mother is settled.” He rose, and he suddenly seemed a great deal more alarming. He took her hand, so small in his large one, and pulled her to her feet, with such strength that she practically flew into his arms, only her presence of mind and his quick thinking preventing such an absolute disaster. He lifted her hand to his mouth, that twisted, scarred mouth, and kissed it. Leaving her to stare after him, momentarily distracted.

 

Elinor awoke in a dimly lit room deliciously warm for what seemed like the first time in years. Her stomach was pleasantly full, her feet didn't pinch and for a few brief moments she felt almost…peaceful.

And then she opened her eyes and saw a man
sleeping on the sofa across from her. And not just any man—King Rohan himself. Her quick intake of horrified breath was almost silent, but he opened one eye anyway, looking at her.

“Yes, you slept with the devil, Miss Harriman,” he drawled. “And lived to tell the tale.”

She sat up, shoving down the cover that someone had thoughtfully draped over her, then realized her shawl was gone as well, and during her sleep the threadbare bodice of her ancient dress had shredded just a little bit more, exposing too much of her chest. She needed a fichu as well as her shawl, but woven cloth was a scarcity and she'd thought the shawl would give her modest coverage. She was wrong.

She started to yank the cover back up, but he was closer than she realized, and his indolent pose was clearly just that, a pose. He caught the blanket before she could cover herself, tossing it to one side. “There's no need to be excessively modest, Miss Harriman. You still err on the side of decency.”

“My shawl,” she said in a strangled voice. “It's over on the chair.”

He glanced that way. “Is it? And why would you assume I'd be interested in waiting on you? Particularly when I don't wish to have you cover up your surprisingly delightful charms.”

She started to get up, feeling desperate, and he simply pushed her back in the chair again. “All right, if you're going to be tiresome,” he said, moving over to her discarded clothing and fetching her thin shawl. She could see the light through it, but it was better
coverage than what she was wearing, and she snatched it from his hand, wrapping it around her shoulders and waist so that it stayed firmly in place. “That's better,” she said, breathing a sigh of relief.

“Terrible. And it doesn't change the fact that you spent the night sleeping with me.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I had no idea you were there, and I'm not quite certain why you chose to fall asleep on such an uncomfortable piece of furniture. You're in the midst of hosting an orgy—shouldn't you have been frolicking with courtesans?”

“It's a three-day revel, child. I seldom frolic until the second night. And besides, I've already…frolicked with any of my guests who interest me. You're a novelty.”

“A novelty who shall remove herself forthwith,” she said. “I cannot believe I let myself fall asleep in such circumstances. Where is my mother?”

“Back home. I had Reading see to her, and since he has yet to return I'm assuming he's had a bit of difficulty.”

“The poor man with the scar?”

Rohan laughed softly. “Oh, he would be distressed to hear you call him that. He thinks his scar makes him a very dangerous character. So tell me, Miss Harriman, what will he find when he arrives at your home? Besides your hapless, larcenous coachman.”

“No one.” Lydia was much better at opening her eyes wide and looking innocent, but Elinor gave it her best try.

“Don't attempt to play games with me,” he said lazily. He strolled over to the window, looking out
onto the early-morning landscape. “I'm a master at them. Who else resides in your household besides you and your mother?”

“My old nanny.”

“And who else?”

“No one.”

He turned his head. “You're not an adept liar, Miss Harriman. If I remember correctly, Lady Caroline Harriman had two daughters.”

“My sister died.”

A faint smile touched his mouth. “If you're going to continue lying you really need to do a better job of it, my pet. I'm certain I could find someone to teach you the fine points. It's a useful skill.”

“I'm not lying.” She glanced toward the door. If she caught him off guard she could make her escape, and if she couldn't find a carriage or a horse she could simply walk the five miles to Paris. Except that her tattered shoes were nowhere to be seen.

“Don't be tiresome,” Rohan said. “You have a very pretty little sister, do you not?”

She wasn't going to show her terror. She'd always known she'd be safe enough—she hadn't the face to drive men to distraction, and a determined libertine such as Rohan would have beauty at his fingertips. But her baby sister was a different matter. She'd already done everything she could to keep her safe, and she had nothing left to barter.

Except rage. “If you or anyone touches my sister I'll kill you,” she said in a cold, determined voice.

He flashed her his exquisite smile. “Now, that was
said with real conviction. Your sister must be quite extraordinarily pretty.”

“My sister is none of your business.” She quickly came up with a more believable lie. “As soon as my father arranges it we'll return to England and she'll be happily married…”

“You expect your father to arrange a marriage for her?” he asked, leaning against the wall of the study. He still wore his long silken waistcoat, unbuttoned, and during the night his white shirt had opened even more. Exposing his chest. Women weren't meant to see men's bare chests, and for the first time she could understand why. There was something deliberately enticing about that expanse of flesh, and it could lead a girl to sinful thoughts.

Not that she was a girl. And she was impervious to sinful thoughts. “She won't have an arranged marriage,” she snapped. “I intend to make certain she marries for love.”

His look of astonishment wasn't feigned. “My dear child,” he said softly. “You cannot tell me you still believe in the existence of love! Not after the life you've been forced to live.”

“My life has been just fine,” she said coolly. “And I'm not thinking for myself, but for Lydia, absolutely. It's no less than she deserves.”

“And why don't you deserve it?”

She didn't flush. She'd trained herself not to show any reaction, and she was a far better liar than he gave her credit for. “I have no interest in it. Lydia's a different matter. As soon as our father…”

“You know as well as I do that your father is dead. The new Baron Tolliver is in town, looking to make your acquaintance.”

She kept her expression calm, her hands gripping her skirts, out of sight. “How do you know that?”

“I am kept abreast of everything that goes on in émigré society, poppet. Lord Jasper Harriman died of an apoplexy several months ago, and the heir who has taken his place is now in Paris. He's yet to make my acquaintance, though I assure you that time will come if he stays here long enough. I doubt there's any rescue coming from that direction.”

She wasn't going to let him get to her. “Then Lydia will simply have to marry a handsome, kind, wealthy Frenchman,” she said calmly.

He moved away. “And what will happen to you and your mother? If your sister is as pretty as I suspect she is, from your fiercely protective mien, then a good marriage isn't out of the question. A deranged
belle-mère
and a sister-in-law are less appealing.”

She flushed, knowing he spoke nothing but the truth. “We both know that my mother won't live for much longer,” she said. “As for me, I am perfectly capable of being independent. I can become a governess. I can teach English and the pianoforte, or I could obtain a position as companion to an older lady.”