Able to breathe again, Julian squinted, peering into the dark around him until he recognized the interior of a coach. He suddenly jerked his gaze to a window, wincing painfully. It was pitch black outside, no lights from gas lamps or drawing room windows. Damn! The coach was hurtling through the night, well gone from Paris, no doubt en route to Chateau la Claire, where she would be, waiting to torment him. . . .
An abrupt and loud snore caught Julian's attention; he slowly turned his head, peering bleary-eyed through the dark at a sleeping figure across from him. Louis, Ah, but he would kill the scoundrel this time! Clutching the squabs on either side of his legs, Julian lifted a booted foot and thrust it at the sleeping traitor, making contact with a soft part of his body. Louis shot up with a start, sputtering his surprise. "Qu'est-ce qui s'est passe?"
"I'll tell you what has happened, you degenerate Frog. You have abducted me!" Julian croaked.
A moment of silence passed. "Oui. So I have," Louis replied wearily and fumbled in the dark, blinding Julian with the sudden flare of a tinderbox he used to light the crystal kerosene lamps, illuminating the plush interior of the expensive travelling chaise.
"You might have asked me to take my leave of Paris, you know," Julian exclaimed irritably, blinking at the stark light. "There was no reason to resort to abduction. Don't you people have laws about this sort of thing?"
"There was every reason," Louis amicably disagreed. "One day you will thank me, for I do you an enormous favor. Monsieur LeBeau is quite determined to kill you— not that I have any particular objection to it, but I believe Genie would be quite displeased."
"LeBeau!" Julian snorted. It was hardly his fault that LeBeau's comely wife could not abide the tiny peacock she had married. Or that the imbecile couldn't play cards to save his fool life. Or that he took offense to being called a Little Bit.
"Oui, LeBeau. A leader in the Republic, a strong critic of the monarchy, and a sworn enemy of mine! He's quite ruthless, Kettering. I shouldn't be surprised if he is pursuing you even now."
Part of Julian hoped that was so—he would very much like to take his irritation out on the peacock. But he surmised Louis didn't particularly want to hear that, and closed his eyes, carefully resting his throbbing head against the velvet squabs.
"It is time, I think, for you to return home," Louis announced impassively.
Julian forced one eye open. His brother-in-law was casually studying a cuticle, his legs comfortably crossed—-all in all, looking rather inflexible on that point. "In the seventeen years I have known you, I've never seen you quite so . . . aimless. Rudderless, so to speak. Without purpose. A ship without a—"
"All right, all right!" Julian growled, and refrained from pointing out that in the seventeen years he had known Louis, he had never known him to be as motherly as he had been this last fortnight.
"I suppose you are suffering a bit from ennui, and who can blame you?" Louis blithely continued.
Julian blinked. "Pardon?"
"You raised your sisters from the time you were sixteen and now they are all grown and gone. Your estate and affairs seem to manage themselves, and Lord knows the Rogues are not the same force they once were. It seems your only worthwhile activity is the occasional lecture at university, but that is hardly enough to fill one's days, n'est-ce pas?"
With an impatient grunt, Julian waved a hand dis-missively. Louis was bloody well right that he was bored, but he had no hope the Frog could fathom just how bored. Because this wasn't merely boredom, this was everything and nothing, a struggle to survive in his own skin, an increasingly uncomfortable feeling as if he was forever trapped in an ill-fitted suit of clothes. Unfortunately, nothing could make the feeling go away. Not drink—although the Lord knew he had tried hard enough to drown the feeling—not travel, not study, not gaming or whoring. Nothing.
Louis's eyes narrowed, and he muttered under his breath. Julian closed his eyes, hardly in a mood to try to explain that the insufferable itch had started the day his sister Valerie had slipped the bonds of earth and had mushroomed into an internal rash the morning he laid his head to Phillip's bloodied chest. Or that the rash had turned into a cancer that had begun to ravage him in the months afterward, because even though he had offered to help Phillip and was rebuffed several times, Julian knew the truth. He hadn't really done enough to save Phillip, and he rather doubted Louis would want to hear his darkest suspicion—that in actuality, he hadn't tried so very hard at all because he knew if Phillip was in some gaming hell or on top of some whore, he was not with Claudia.
"Very well then," Louis huffed. "If the Divine Dane is offended with the notion that perhaps he is human after all, I cannot help him."
Ha! If only he were human! Julian slumped down against the squabs and slung an arm over his eyes, ignoring Louis's loud sigh of frustration.
"Ach! You care so little for what
I
think? What of Genie? She frets terribly. At least think of your sisters!"
Oh, now that was almost laughable. From the moment his father, in the throes of death, had begged him to keep his sisters safe and well, he had thought of little else. "I think of them, Louis. Every day," he muttered.
"I apologize—naturally, you are right, Kettering. You have always indulged them shamelessly—"
"Please. I've done no such thing."
"You have always given them whatever they want. If they wanted new gowns and slippers, you supplied them. If they preferred sweets to break their fast, you merely smiled. If they complained there were not enough ribbons to go around, you commissioned a seamstress that very day!"
Julian shifted his arm slightly to peer at Louis from beneath it. "All right, so I might have pampered them a bit—"
"Pampered them?" Louis rolled his eyes. "They were incorrigible—"
"They were hardly incorrigible—"
"And the screams! I shall never forget the screams. The trunk from London—wow Dieu, my head ached for days!"
An inadvertent chuckle escaped Julian. He remembered, all right. The modiste he had paid so handsomely to have his sisters properly outfitted in the finest fabrics had done splendid work. Each time a dress was pulled from the trunk, the girls screamed their approval. "I am thankful that you recovered sufficiently from your horror to beg me for Eugenie's hand."
"On both knees," Louis reminded him, trying gamely to keep the grin from his face. "You forced me to crawl. Rather proud of yourself then, hmmm? Strutting around my wedding breakfast like a gamecock—as if you had given life to those four girls!"
He had not given Valerie life. He had taken it. A weight suddenly settled on Julian's chest, and with a shrug, he closed his eyes again. "I did what I could for them."
"Oui, this too is obvious. It was a brilliant match you made for Ann—Viscount Boxworth rather adores her. And Sophie has benefited greatly from the finishing school in Geneva. But they are grown now, and your restlessness surely comes from trying to fill the space they once occupied."
"That's absurd," Julian snapped. "Now that they are grown, I have the luxury of time to engage in my own interests. I lecture at Cambridge and Oxford—"
"I beg your pardon, you may be quite renowned for your expertise in medieval languages, but an occasional lecture about old documents is hardly enough to fill the days of a grown man."
Julian did not like the direction this conversation was taking, not one bit. Suddenly he sat upright, propping his forearms on his knees and swallowing past the nausea his sudden movement caused. "Good God this conveyance is uncomfortable!" he complained. "I should think you could afford better, Renault."
"I warn you, mon ami, that a restlessness such as yours can get a man killed in France."
"How long to Chateau la Claire?" Julian interrupted, lifting his head to glare at his brother-in-law.
Louis brushed a wrinkle from his trouser leg. "Our destination is not Chateau la Claire. We are to Dieppe."
"Dieppe?" He was liking this less and less. "As I don't suppose you intend to take the healing seawaters there, might I conclude we are going on from there?"
"Not we. You. To England."
"You are throwing me out of France." It was not a question; it was a statement of fact.
"I am," Louis shamelessly admitted. "Fortunately, Christian runs a rather accommodating enterprise. When I spoke with his man last week, he assured me there would be room for you on the daily packet boat."
With a snort of indignation, Julian folded his arms across his chest. "And if I refuse?"
Louis shrugged indifferently. "His man also promised to return your gun and purse the moment you set foot on English soil."
Instantly, Julian clutched his side, his frown deepening when he discovered his pistol and purse were missing.
"These things you will not need on the boat."
The pulse at Julian's temple was throbbing painfully now. "On my honor, if it weren't for this spectacular pain in my head, I would gladly beat my purse out of you."
"Ah, but you are hardly in any condition to do so, and I am compelled to force you from France before your sister finds that fool head of yours piked on the gate at la Claire. Do not doubt that LeBeau will make good on his threats, Kettering. He is a vicious little man who will not tolerate the humiliation you've caused him. You are going to England."
Julian's response to that declaration was a cold glare.
"Tonight you escape with your life," Louis warned him. "Take my advice and mend your ways before someone actually succeeds in killing you."
A rumble of bitter laughter lodged in Julian's throat. "Perhaps my ways are best mended if someone does manage to kill me, have you considered that?"
Louis responded by pressing his lips firmly together and frowning at his lap. Julian slid down onto the bench. "Wake me when we arrive, will you?" he muttered.
Louis woke him, all right, just in time to push him out of the coach and toss a small bag after him. Standing on the main thoroughfare in Dieppe, Julian stared daggers at the Frenchman as he explained that the Maiden's Heart would sail at midnight, and that the captain would return his pistol and his purse when they docked at Newhaven. And just before he pulled the coach door closed, Louis tossed a coin that Julian caught in mid-air. He glanced at his palm—one gold franc—and sliced a murderous gaze across Louis.
"Eat something, won't you? You look as if you could use it. May I recommend the Hotel la Diligence? Seems rather the perfect place for a Rogue."
Lifting two fingers to his temple, Julian bowed. "You've been a most gracious host, Monsieur Renault. I look forward to treating you in kind," he mocked.
Louis laughed. "I don't doubt it for a moment. Until then, au revoir!" Grinning, he signaled the driver and pulled the coach door shut, leaving Julian standing with a satchel at his feet, a waistcoat buttoned unevenly, and a heavy shadow of a beard chafing his face.
"Bloody Frog," Julian muttered irritably as the coach disappeared around a corner. He adjusted his clothing as best he could, quickly tying the neckcloth into something barely resembling a knot, slapping the dust from his trouser legs, and thrusting both hands through his hair in an attempt to comb it. He rather imagined he looked like hell, but he hardly cared. There was nothing to be done for it, so picking up the satchel, he dragged himself to the Hotel la Diligence.
Slogging along a rutted French road in a carriage that had seen better days, Claudia Whitney frowned at the man sitting beside her. "I tried to warn you, Herbert, you know I did. I told you I was hardly in need of a driver, and I distinctly recall saying non when you started running after me."
Herbert peered so intently at her she could almost see the rusty wheels turning in his feeble brain. "Qu'est-ce que ga veut dire?"
"Oh Lord," Claudia moaned, and impatiently snapped the reins against the back of the hapless mare, urging her to please go faster than a stroll. This drive was quickly approaching the longest of her life. Unfortunately, she knew very little French—all right, she had never been particularly studious, but she would pay a grand sum to know it now. When she had accidentally run over the footman's foot and therefore had been forced to bring him along—she could hardly leave him hobbled in the road like that—he had been polite enough to pretend he knew some English. So she had talked for the sake of it, filling the space and time, until the last fifteen miles or so when Herbert had begun his wild gesticulating to the ankle and the horse and the reins all over again.
She stole a glance at his swollen ankle. Blasted footman shouldn't have tried to stop the mare anyway! "If I wasn't exactly clear when I said I did not want a driver and to please not follow me, I was most decidedly clear when I asked you to move," she reminded him. "Honestly, what sort of man stands in the middle of the road when a carriage is bearing down on him?"
"Madame, parlez un pen plus lentement, s'il vous plait!"
"Don't blame me for your predicament, sir!" she said sharply. "Oh, look! There is Dieppe just ahead! You see? We'll get that foot looked after in a trice now." She smiled brightly at him.
With a shake of his head, Herbert tossed his hands in the air and looked off into the distance. "Je ne comprends rien," he muttered.
In spite of the fact that they could actually see Dieppe, Claudia had no hope they would ever reach it. Not at this rate, anyway. One would think a man of Renault's considerable fortune would have more than an old nag in his stables, and she spent the remaining half-hour silently cursing him.
When they coasted onto the main thoroughfare in Dieppe, Claudia reined the mare to a stop and helped herself down from the carriage—over the loud French protests of Herbert—and stood, hands on hips, surveying him, his ankle, and the drop to the ground. "Rather a long way down, sir," she informed him. "I think you'll have to put your hands on my shoulder, whilst I put my hands on your waist," she said, reaching for him. "And then, we might—"