Ruthless (8 page)

They'd given him laudanum—he was familiar enough with its delightful effects to recognize it, and he welcomed the drugged daze. He could remember a few unhappy moments when Etienne had dug around in the flesh of his upper arm for the bullet, and no doubt the young man had taken a fair amount of pleasure in inflicting pain on his so-called usurper. But that was all in the hazy past, and if he could just get a bit more comfortable…

“You're coming around, cousin.”

He turned his head to see Etienne de Giverney looking at him in pinched disapproval. He'd be a handsome young man if only he didn't have the unfortunate tendency to sneer, and Francis considered informing him of that when he realized it was the effect of the laudanum.

“Saved my life, did you, Etienne?” he murmured. “That must have gone against the grain.”

“Hardly. The bullet was in your arm, not your heart. Whoever shot you did a very poor job of it.”

“Which must sadden you tremendously.”

“I do think assassins should know what they're doing,” Etienne said in his clipped voice.

Francis was emerging from the drugged daze, reluctantly. He struggled to sit up without any aid from his unwilling doctor. “You think that was what it was? An assassination attempt?”

“Since you were in town I doubt it was a hunting
accident,” Etienne said coolly. “And I imagine there are a great many people who would like to see you dead.”

Francis straightened his back. His arm was wrapped in layers of gauze, and despite the drugs the pain was more than annoying. He was going home to soak himself in brandy until it stopped. “Perhaps. But none of them are crack shots.”

“Whoever it was missed his target,” Etienne pointed out.

“He came close enough, considering the circumstances. A busy city street, the protection of a carriage. I imagine we should look for a talented marksman. Perhaps someone newly discharged from the army.”

“Well, should you ever discover him you can give him your compliments on his marksmanship.”

Rohan controlled his irritation. “Where's my shirt? And where's Reading?”

“He's been doing your bidding. You had quite the list of commands before you finally succumbed to the laudanum. A servant should arrive with fresh clothes momentarily—I had to shred your coat and shirt. They were soaked with blood—there would have been no salvaging them anyway.”

“
Tant pis
. I can always buy more,” he said deliberately, just to see Etienne's brow darken.

“And just who is it you're trying to corrupt at the moment?”

Francis smiled pleasantly. “Anyone who comes near me, Etienne. Did you have someone in mind?”

Etienne made an annoyed click of his tongue. “You had Reading dispatching firewood and food to someplace in Rue du Pélican. Don't you realize you could have anyone from that area raise her skirts for a few sous?”

“I agree, it's not a very savory area, but you'll find there are a couple of very virtuous young ladies in residence. With their ill
maman
. I'd like you to call on them, see if there's anything you can do for the poor woman,” he said, trying his best to look saintly.

“Charity is unlike you.”

He laughed. “Oh, acquit me of any such motives. I have nothing but the most impure thoughts when it comes to one of the young women. I'd like you to see to the mother's swift and painless passing and marry the older girl. She'll provide you an excellent wife—commonsensical and plainspoken. She'll organize your life and your practice and give you a dozen hopeful children.”

There was a moment's silence. “You still have the capacity to surprise me,” Etienne said finally. “I'm not going to kill some old woman for you. Nor am I about to marry some woman so you can debauch her younger sister.”

“In fact, the mother's not that old. But she's dying of the Spanish disease and her mind's gone.” Rohan poked at his arm, then winced. “She'll be dead in a matter of months anyway. And it's your future wife I wish to debauch.”

Etienne stared at him. “There are times, Francis, when I wonder if you're quite mad.”

“In my own way. I take it you don't fancy the idea of aiding me?”

“No.”

“I would be most grateful if you'd consider it,” he said. “You know I tend to express my gratitude in tangible ways.” He could see the light of greed in his cousin's flat black eyes. “And the mother could do with a doctor's care. I could send someone else, of course, but I thought I should offer such an opportunity to my dear cousin and heir.”

Etienne drew himself upright. “I'll go see the poor woman. Because I swore an oath to attend the sick. And you're not going to see me inherit the title—you'll marry on your deathbed and beget an heir just to spite me,” he said in a voice that wasn't far from a whine.

“What a wonderful opinion you have of my virility,” Rohan replied. “As it is, I have no interest in begetting anything. Assist me in this matter, at least as far as the woman goes. It's always possible that you might suddenly become enamored of her daughter. You need a wife, and she'd be a lucrative pick.”

“You'd settle money on her simply in order to get her into bed?” Etienne said, aghast.

“Don't I do the very same thing with the beautiful whores who attend me? Even the grand ladies offer up their charms for a price, be it jewels or flattery. Sex is always some kind of transaction, and I have no hesitation in paying the price.”

Etienne shook his head. “You're an extremely cynical man, cousin.”

“As are you,
mon fils.
” With great difficulty he managed to swing his legs over the side of the small cot. For a moment the world swirled about him most unpleasantly, and then it came back into focus. “I believe I hear a commotion outside. I expect it's Reading, back from his errands of mercy. Direct your man to assist him.”

“I have no ‘man,' cousin. Just an elderly widow who helps me in the surgery, and I'm not about to have her wait on a spoiled aristocrat.”

Francis smiled his most angelic smile. “You'd be very happy to be a spoiled aristocrat yourself, Etienne, admit it. This man-of-the-people air you affect is simply because of circumstance, not preference. And you'll have to get rid of the woman. I think Miss Harriman might tend to be the jealous, possessive sort, and she wouldn't want you in close quarters with a comely widow. And don't try to pretend she's not comely, Etienne. I know your tastes too well.”

“If the woman you desire is the jealous, possessive sort then why are you interested? Those are qualities that have proved anathema to you in the past.”

Rohan was struck. “You know, you are quite right. I have no idea why I am so intent on debauching a young woman who will give me nothing but trouble. But then, I've never spent overmuch time examining my motives. I want her. That's enough.” He looked up as Reading was ushered into the room, indeed by a buxom young woman who could only be Etienne's “elderly” widow. “Have you come to rescue me, dear boy? There's only so much of Etienne's disapproval that I can bear.”

“The carriage awaits. The food and wood have been delivered, with furniture and rugs and bedding to follow. Are you certain you want to bother? You can dress a pig up in satin and lace and it's still a pig.”

Francis smiled hazily. It had been a long day. In fact, a long pair of days, though he usually survived sleepless nights quite well. “Are you calling my intended a pig, Charles?”

Charles raised a dark eyebrow. “Intended what, Francis? You surely can't be having respectable inclinations toward this girl. The bullet hit your arm, not your head.”

“No such thing, my boy. I'm too old to change.” He turned to look at his sullen cousin. “Etienne, do you have more of that lovely laudanum? I think I'll need medicinal assistance for the ride back to Maison de Giverney.”

He wasn't so far gone that he missed the pinched expression Etienne always wore at the mention of the Paris mansion that should have been his. “You've had enough.”

“But if you give me more I might accidentally take too much and die. And then where would you be?” he said sweetly.

“It will take but a moment.”

The moment he left the room Rohan turned to Charles. “The two women will be removed from the sty as soon as it's feasible. These things must be handled delicately, with finesse, and I've never been a clumsy man. Give me your arm. This place smells of cabbage and death. The sooner I return to my own bed the happier I shall be.”

“Your cousin has gone to get you more laudanum.”

“I merely got tired of his sour face. He can send it later. Perhaps we ought to send someone to cheer him up. Marianne, for instance.” He rose to his stocking feet, unsteadily. “Get me out of here, for mercy's sake. I have evil plans to hatch. Are you with me?”

“Every step of the way,” Reading said, taking his arm. “We're going to hell, you know.”

“That was ascertained many years ago, Charles. Thank God.”

“Thank God,” Charles echoed heartily.

But even in his drugged state Rohan could hear the faint thread of doubt in his friend's voice as they headed out into the snowy evening.

A
s far as days went, this one was looking as miserable as the day before. Once Rohan had left, Elinor had waited only long enough to make certain her mother and sister had no need of her, and then she set off to find the lawyer, Mr. Mitchum. Her proud departure yesterday had been put in perspective. There was no room for pride when Lydia was at stake, no room for pride when the Prince of Darkness had set his sights on her sister. Elinor had been a fool to walk out without seeking an appointment with her father's heir, but the disappointment had been too deep. Without a generous inheritance they were doomed.

She never would have thought she'd be so impulsive. In the last six years she'd considered herself calm, practical, thoughtful. Now in one rash moment of temper she might have put her sister and her small, motley family in danger, and her self-contempt knew no limits.

Mr. Mitchum was no help at all. At least the new Baron Tolliver hadn't left France, but for the moment
he was out of town, visiting friends in the country. There was no telling when he'd return, or even if he'd still be willing to see his poor female relation at that point. Perhaps if Miss Harriman were to return in a week's time an appointment might be arranged?

They might be lost in a week's time, Elinor thought grimly, scurrying through the wintry streets of Paris. The snow was falling, swirling down in pretty patterns, and at another time she might have appreciated it. Not on this bitterly cold evening. Once she'd left the lawyer she'd walked for hours, more of her fruitless quest for employment. In this area of Paris people could barely find enough to survive—no one had the money or the interest in learning the fine art of playing the pianoforte or stitching a perfect seam. Particularly since no one could afford to own a pianoforte, and needlework was kept for more practical applications. Just as well, because her needlework was appalling and it had been years since anyone had been forced to listen to her on the pianoforte.

She pulled the shawl around her more tightly. Her own cloak that she'd left behind at the château was warmer than the flimsy wool. Rohan had brought the stolen fur-lined cloak, but Elinor had enough sense not to wear it into the streets. Chances were it would have been ripped away from her in a matter of minutes. One did not display items of such worth in a desperate neighborhood such as this.

And indeed, she'd left Lydia wrapped in it, warm and comfortable in the icy house, so it served its purpose. She just had to hope Lydia didn't have an
attack of guilt and cover their mother with it. Lady Caroline was beyond knowing if she was hot or cold, and she'd thrown everything away. She didn't deserve the one bit of comfort in their barren home, Elinor thought with fierce bitterness.

Tomorrow she would sell the cloak. Tonight they were going to have to break up the furniture in order to keep from freezing, and she wasn't sure where to start. Her mother's bed would be the obvious choice. The rest of them were already sleeping on the floor. But if Lady Caroline had a pallet on the floor there'd be no way to restrain her, and that was even more dangerous than freezing to death.

It would have to be the chairs or the table, and she couldn't decide which was more necessary. They were young enough and agile enough to sit comfortably on the floor, though Nanny and Jacobs had a much harder time of it. Nanny Maude had frequently napped as she sat beside Lady Caroline on the bed, her back against one of the posts, but that could hardly serve as her main mode of sitting.

Darkness was falling, and what little safety there was in the streets that surrounded them was fading fast as well. She had no choice but to head back, having failed in the most simple of quests. She thought back to that tray of cinnamon-toast strips and wanted to cry.

There was an odd light coming from the small windows that looked out onto the street, and Elinor paused, momentarily confused. One house did look much like another, and she might have mistaken where she was, but no, she could hear Lydia's voice
raised in laughter, and she burst through the door, suddenly terrified that her nemesis had returned.

The room was warm—waves of heat coming from the crackling fire in the hearth, with stacks of wood waiting to one side. There were candles lit all around, putting a temporarily pleasant glow on their poverty, and she could smell the unbelievable scent of roasting chicken from the small room that served as kitchen and servants' quarters.

She looked around, somewhat desperately, but there was no tall, dangerously beautiful man in sight. No one at all but Lydia and Nanny Maude.

“Isn't it wonderful, Nell?” Lydia cried, jumping up. “The wood arrived just an hour after you left, more than enough to keep the kitchen fire going as well for weeks, and then the food. You wouldn't believe it—flour and sugar and tea, fresh cream and butter. And chicken, potatoes, sausages. Nanny's already made us scones. It's heavenly.”

Not quite, Elinor thought, remember Rohan's satanic smile. “There'll be a price to pay for all this,” she said in a dour voice, stripping off the threadbare shawl and advancing into the cozy room.

“One I'll gladly pay,” Lydia said cheerfully. “If I have to trade my innocence for a warm bed and a chicken dinner then I'll do so without hesitation. This scone itself is worth any number of indecent favors.”

“Don't make light of it, Lyddie,” she said sharply. “This isn't an act of disinterested charity.”

Lydia popped the rest of the scone in her mouth, then smiled beatifically. “No, I suppose it's not. But
for some reason I doubt Lord Rohan would be the kind of man who'd force you, no matter how wicked he likes to think himself. I think he likes the thrill of the chase.”

“Lyddie darling,” she said, crossing the room and taking a scone. “He's a heartless, soulless libertine. I doubt there's anything he'd refrain from doing, simply for moral principles. He has no moral principles.”

“Perhaps not. I suspect he's not the villain he pretends to be. He likes the challenge, the power. Using force would be too clumsy for him—he'd consider it failure.”

“You're right about that much,” Elinor said. “But it's not me he'd want. And I'm not letting any man—” she took a bite of the scone “—take liberties with you…” She took another bite. “I'm here to protect you—” she closed her eyes “—and, damn, you're right. This is enough to make one surrender one's honor in a trice.”

“Don't use such language, Miss Elinor,” Nanny Maude said. “You've been spending too much time in these awful streets and around your mother.”

“Our awful mother,” Lydia said with a giggle.

“And I didn't make the scones—they arrived along with everything else. Real Devonshire clotted cream, strong black tea from China, fresh strawberry preserves. Even the chicken was already butchered and dressed, ready for the pot. Someone thinks I can't cook,” she said with offended dignity.

“Someone thinks you have way too many things to worry about and thought you deserved some assis
tance,” Lydia assured her. She twirled around the room, practically giddy. “Don't you see, Nell? We have a guardian angel, and who cares if he's a fallen one? I'm not afraid of him. You're wrong—he has no nefarious designs on me, and you're more than a match for him. If he has wicked motives he's going to be sorely disappointed.”

Elinor couldn't help it—the fire called to her with its siren warmth. She sank down on her knees in front of it, holding out her chilled hand, as Lydia brought a cup of tea—real tea—over to her and sat down beside her.

The heat was sinking into her bones, and for a brief moment she simply wanted to put her head down on the rough floor and weep.

“There's someone at the door,” Nanny Maude said in her customarily cranky voice.

“Tell Lord Rohan to go away,” Elinor said. “We're not entertaining guests at this hour.”

“It's not him,” she said darkly. “There are a bunch of them. Probably come to take the things back. They were brought here by mistake.”

“Then definitely tell them to go away,” Elinor said, feeling somewhat giddy herself. “They're not taking my fire or my tea.”

Jacobs stomped in from the kitchen, clearly annoyed with the lot of them, and opened the door. “More fripperies,” he said in a dour voice that couldn't disguise his pleasure. “You watch where you put those things, laddie.” He moved out of the way, as a line of men entered the house, bearing furniture, rugs, mattresses and arms of linens.

Elinor sprang to her feet. “You can't bring those in here!”

“Sorry, miss, but we've got orders,” one man said as he dropped one end of the settee to the right of the fire. “We're not taking these things back. Just tell us where you want us to put it. We've got orders not to leave until you're satisfied.”

“And I won't be satisfied until these things are gone,” she said sharply.

“Watch yourself,” said Nanny Maude, slapping at a young man carrying a small desk.

“I can't help you there, miss,” he said. “I'm a lot more frightened of his lordship than I am of you. He told me to come back and report to him and I don't like the thought of what he'd say if I brought anything back.”

Elinor turned back to Lydia. “This is impossible. Next they'll be delivering clothes and undergarments.”

A wistful smile crossed Lydia's face. “It would be so nice to have pretty undergarments again.”

“Don't be ridiculous. I'm going to put a stop to this right now.” She pushed past the man carrying the rug and reached for her shawl.

“You can't go out now!”

“I can and I will. It's still early—I can inform his lordship that his inappropriate gifts should be removed immediately.”

“Not the chicken?” Lydia said in a plaintive voice.

Elinor paused. “No, not the chicken. Or the scones. Or the firewood,” she added with a shiver. The con
stantly opening door was spreading blasts of cold through the house.

“You're not going out to that château again!” Nanny Maude said in a shrill voice.

“No need. He's at his town house. Over on the Rue Saint-Honoré,” said the helpful man, who seemed to be the leader of this never-ending line of furniture movers. “I'm Rolande, in charge of the comte's household possessions. I can promise you these things are merely castoffs from his overfilled house.”

“It is still unacceptable. I'm going.”

“I can take you there if need be,” Rolande offered.

Elinor looked at him suspiciously. “Did
he
tell you to bring me?”

“I don't talk to the comte, mademoiselle,” he said. “Just his steward. And no one said anything about bringing you back. Just trying to be helpful.”

She looked at him for a long moment. It was a cold, dark night, snow was falling, and finding Lord Rohan's town house could be problematic at best. She had no choice—the more things he sent the harder it would be to get rid of them. It wasn't simply the fact that if anyone heard of it Lydia's reputation would be ruined. This was how their mother had lived, how they had lived, dependent on the largesse of a man with wicked plans. She was not going to follow in her mother's footsteps, she simply was not.

Rohan wouldn't listen, of course, no matter how she tried to explain it. If she had any sense she would sit back by the fire, in one of the new chairs the men had brought, and accept it for the sake of her poor
family. What was honor if your family was starving to death?

But there was still her missing cousin. They weren't devoid of all hope. They could accept this, and nothing more, and she would make that clear.

“Let's go,” she said.
“Allons-y.”

The ride from the gutter to the elegant streets of Paris was surprisingly short, given the disparity between the residences. A good thing—Rolande's mode of transportation was a wagon, the only seat being beside the helpful driver, and the wind seemed to grow colder with each breath she took. She tried to concentrate on his stories of his grown son, his grandchildren, his bad leg, but by the time he slowed the horses she was shivering.

“Here we are, mademoiselle,” he said, coming to a stop. “Would you like me to come with you? This isn't the sort of household that welcomes people like us, not at the front door.”

People like us? she thought, startled. And then the truth hit. In fact, this servant was better dressed than she was—his old clothes were worn but patched. She'd had to put on her last dress when she'd arrived home earlier that day, and she'd torn the skirt on a loose nail.

For a moment she wavered. Someone of Rohan's wealth and stature would hardly have nefarious designs on a young woman who lived in worse surroundings than his own servants.

But then she remembered that Rohan didn't have a charitable bone in his body. He lived for his deca
dent desires—altruistic gestures were beyond him. It didn't matter what had happened in his youth to wound him. He was the man he'd become, and that man was dangerous.

“He'll want to see me,” she said with false certainty, sliding down off the wagon before Rolande could help her.

“Just in case, mademoiselle, I'll wait here for you.”

“There's no need…”

“Just in case.”

“You're a very kind man, Rolande,” she said. “I will tell his lordship to double what he's paying you.”

“His lordship pays very generously. And I'm doing this for you, not him.” He cast a look of dislike up at the huge house. “You go on ahead now, mademoiselle. You look very cold.”

Rohan
would
have to have a broad expanse of steps leading up to his mansion, she thought dourly, starting the climb. She expected lights, gaiety, debauchery spilling out into the nighttime, but the house seemed secure and quiet.

She reached for the huge brass knocker, but before she could use it the door opened and an extremely proper-looking servant stared at her as if she was complete filth. He had to be French.