Bride for a Night (12 page)

“More properly known as the Earl of Ashcombe,” he grimly clarified, “has not only had the audacity to trespass into my home, but he has ruined a perfect opportunity for our soldiers to strike a mortal blow against our enemies.” He clenched his hands. “To make matters worse, he has exposed my associate in the Home Office who was providing a vital source of information. It will take me months to undo the damage he has wrought.”

“Ah, I see. A black plague, indeed,” she readily agreed, her gaze lingering on the tight line of his jaw. Was his resentment caused by the Earl’s destruction of his secret arrangements or Ashcombe’s attempt to rescue his young bride? “What will you do with him?”

Jacques shrugged. “I am in the process of composing a letter to the dowager countess demanding a ransom for the return of her son. I do not doubt that she will be eager to share a large portion of her vast fortune to ensure the earl’s safety.”

She stroked a dark curl that she had deliberately left to lay against the swell of her ivory bosom.

“What of his wife?”

Jacques visibly stiffened. “Talia?”

“Oui.”

“I fear the dowager has no love for the current countess,” he said dryly, his thoughts unreadable. “She would be more likely to pay for me to keep Talia as to have her returned.”

“And will you?”

“Will I what?”

“Keep her.”

A keen pain sliced through Sophia’s heart as Jacques abruptly turned to pace toward the fireplace. So her suspicions were not mere fancies.

Not entirely surprising.

According to the rumors, the Countess of Ashcombe had managed to bewitch every male from the most seasoned soldier to the youngest orphan with her ready friendliness and kind heart.

And, of course, what man could possibly resist the thought of a young and beautiful woman who was alone and so terribly vulnerable?

“It is a decision to which I will have to give some thought,” he muttered.

Sophia was too intelligent to press for an answer. Instead she carefully eased her way past his instinctive need to play hero to the more prosaic side of his nature.

“Her father is very wealthy, is he not?” she asked softly.

He shrugged. “As rich as Croesus, if the gossips are to be believed.”

“Then surely he would be willing to pay a ransom for his only child?”

His scowl returned. “It is difficult to know with men such as Silas Dobson. He was willing to sell Talia to the highest title, so it is obvious he has little affection for her.” His voice was edged with disgust. Jacques found social climbers as repugnant as nobles. “He might very well decide his daughter is no longer his responsibility.”

“There is only one means to discover if he is willing to pay,” she gently urged. “I shall be happy to assist you in writing the ransom note…”

“Non.”

“Jacques?”

His eyes blazed with a warning that could not be ignored. “The Countess of Ashcombe is my responsibility and I will decide her future without interference. Is that understood?”

Sophia bit back her words of protest.
Mon Dieu.
Had she not caused enough harm for one night?

She had intended to be subtle. She was, after all, a woman who had been beguiling men since the tender age of thirteen. It should have been a simple matter to discover the depth of Jacques’s feelings for Talia and from there to covertly begin the process of eroding his regard for the unwelcome bitch.

She had done it a dozen times before.

Perhaps a hundred.

But never for a man she loved,
her battered heart whispered.

And now her blundering had only made Jacques more stubbornly determined to protect the poor, sadly abused Lady Ashcombe.

“Of course,” she managed to murmur.

With jerky motions, Jacques pulled out the chair near the desk. “I should return to my correspondence.”

“As you wish.” Forcing herself to cross the room, Sophia paused at the door. “Do not work too hard,
chéri.
You must remain strong for all of us.”

He did not bother to glance in her direction.
“Bonsoir, ma belle.”

“Bonsoir.”

Sophia walked down the vast hallway, the rustle of her silk gown the only sound to break the heavy silence. She paid no heed, however, to the empty grandeur of her surroundings as she traveled grimly back toward her chambers.

Her disturbing encounter with Jacques had convinced
her that she had no choice. The Countess of Ashcombe had to leave France.

The sooner the better.

And there was only one certain means of accomplishing her goal.

With her decision made, Sophia entered her rooms to collect a blanket. Then dismissing the voice that whispered she was taking the greatest risk of her life, she silently made her way to Jacques’s private office. Her heart was thundering in her chest as she snuck into the darkened room. But she refused to give in to fear as she searched until she at last discovered what she was seeking in a locked desk drawer.

Slipping the small piece of jewelry in one pocket of her dressing gown and a sealed letter in the other pocket, she headed back into the hallway and toward the nearest staircase with an air of purpose.

She continued her swift pace ever downward, sweeping past the curious guards until she reached the cellars and the soldier who stood directly before the locked door.

Summoning her most charming smile, Sophia gestured toward the blanket in her hand and assured the wary guard that Jacques had sent her to make certain their guest was made comfortable. The man hesitated, then with a faint shrug he turned the key in the lock and pulled open the heavy oak door.

Sophia stepped past him, waiting for the door to be shut behind her before moving into the shadowed room, her breath squeezed from her lungs as the tall gentleman lifted his graceful form off the narrow cot and prowled toward her.

Even for a woman jaded by a lifetime of men, Sophia had to admit this one was a magnificent specimen.

In the torchlight his hair shimmered like the finest
gold, and his perfectly chiseled features looked more fitted for an angel than a mere man. But for all his astonishing beauty, Sophia felt a chill of premonition inching down her spine.

Unlike most of the nobles she had entertained over the years, the Earl of Ashcombe was no primping dandy, nor was he a debauched lecher.
Non.
This gentleman was a sleek, dangerous predator who regarded her with a cold, silver gaze that seemed to pierce through her hard-earned defenses.

“Well, well,” he drawled. “Jacques might be a ghastly host, but he does possess an exquisite taste in guards.” He ran a blatant gaze down the length of her body. “Or are you here in the guise of a maid?”

She tossed aside the blanket, offering him the famed smile that had seduced men, from chimney sweeps to royalty.

“How can you be so certain I am not a genuine maid?” she said huskily.

His eyes narrowed, but thankfully he seemed as susceptible as every other gentleman to her allure, and stepping forward, he captured her hands in a light grip.

“Few servants can afford a gown made of pure silk. And these hands…” His thumb brushed her inner wrist with a touch that spoke of his vast experience in pleasing women. “Soft and smooth. They have never known hard labor.”

“While your hands are finely crafted like those of an artist and yet, strong enough for a warrior. An enticing combination.” Her throaty words were cut off as she found herself being roughly shoved against the brick wall of the cellar, her captor using his large body to restrain her instinctive attempt to escape. Sophia froze, her lips twisting with the rueful acceptance that it was Ashcombe
who had lured her into a false sense of security rather than the other way around. She did not know whether to be insulted or impressed. “My lord. Should we not at least be introduced before you attempt such intimacies?” she quipped.

His expression was set in cruel lines. “Does Jacques think me a fool?”

“Actually he refers to you as the black plague.”

“Tell me why he sent you.”

Sophia shivered beneath the impact of his icy gaze. Up close the Earl of Ashcombe was even more intimidating than at a distance.

She felt very much as if she had poked a sleeping lion, and now she was about to suffer the consequences.

“He does not know I am here,” she responded.

His jaw tightened. “I have no patience for such tedious games.”

With an effort, Sophia stiffened her spine and forced a teasing smile to her lips. This was too important to lose her courage now.

“I assure you, my lord, my games are never tedious.”

His gaze flicked with chilling indifference down her slender body, seemingly disinterested in the perfection of her curves.

“You are either here in the hopes of seducing information from me or in an effort to lure me from my wife.” His gaze snapped back to her face. “Both of which are doomed to failure.”

She couldn’t curb the stab of bitterness. “
Non,
I could never hope to lure a gentleman from the bewitching allure of the Countess of Ashcombe.”

“What do you know of my wife?” he growled.

“I know that she cannot be allowed to remain here.”

He frowned, caught off guard by her simple words. “Who the devil are you?”

“Sophia Reynard.”

“Sophia.” He slowly tested her name on his lips. “Why is that so familiar?”

Her chin tilted with pride. “Before my retirement I was considered one of the finest actresses in Paris.”

“Ah, yes.” Frigid recognition flared through his eyes. “You were a companion to Napoleon.”

Sophia rolled her eyes. No matter what her success upon the stage had been she would always be renowned for her powerful lovers, never for her considerable skill as an actress.

Such a pity men were allowed to rule the world.

“That is all in the past,” she informed him.

“Then why are you at this palace?”

“I should think that would be rather obvious to such a worldly gentleman,” she said dryly.

“Good God.” He grimaced. “Jacques Gerard?”

“
Oui.
He is handsome and charming and a
magnifique
lover. More important, he is a skillful leader who is destined for greatness.”

Lord Ashcombe shrugged. “Only if Napoleon succeeds.”

“Which he must do,” she said, her voice thick with sincerity. “And to accomplish his victory he has need of Jacques.”

He studied her for a long, unnerving moment. Then slowly he stepped back, although Sophia was not foolish enough to believe he would allow her to escape, even if she desired to.

“Why did you seek me out?”

She smoothed a nervous hand down the silk of her
gown. “Since Jacques’s return to France I find myself growing concerned.”

“So you should,” he taunted. “He is a treacherous bastard who should be delivered to the guillotine with all possible haste.”

“My concern is that he is being distracted from his responsibility.”

“If you have no desire for him to be distracted then perhaps you should consider leaving the palace.”

Her lips twisted in a smile of self-derision. “Much to my dismay I find that I am not the distraction, my lord.” She met his gaze squarely. “It is your wife.”

S
TANDING SO HE COULD
keep an eye on both his unexpected intruder and the door, Gabriel narrowed his gaze and resisted the urge to throttle Sophia Reynard.

There was no doubt the female was a stunning beauty.

Her silky hair and dark eyes set against the pale alabaster of her skin gave her an exotic air that would make any man think of warm nights and satin sheets.

But Gabriel had never been a gentleman who allowed himself to be led by his cock.

So far the female had attempted to distract him with a peek of her bosom and a few seductive smiles. Now obviously she had turned her tactics to insulting his wife and attempting to make him question her honor.

“Be very careful what you imply, Sophia,” he rasped.

Her mouth tightened with something that might have been resentment.

“I merely speak the truth.”

“My wife is above reproach and if you think to say otherwise you will regret—”

“My lord,” she interrupted with brittle impatience. “I would never be so mad as to question the Countess of Ashcombe’s honor, but you must realize that she is precisely the sort of female to stir Jacques’s most protective instincts.”

Against his will, Gabriel found himself hesitating. He wanted to dismiss her words as a trick, but how could
he? There was only one reason that the Frenchman had brought Talia to this palace and treated her as a welcome guest rather than a prisoner.

He wanted her for himself.

White-hot fury exploded through him.

“She belongs to me.”

“You have an odd means of claiming her,” Sophia said, her voice edged with annoyance. “I am not entirely certain why you chose to abandon your young and beautiful bride in the countryside. It was highly irresponsible and destined to rouse the primitive desires of every man the neighborhood over to rush to her rescue.”

He scowled, ignoring the unpleasant realization that she had a point.

“I did not abandon her.”

“She was alone and vulnerable, an irresistible target for a man who worships the memory of his father.”

He feverishly paced across the cellar, his heart giving a strange lurch at the thought of his wife feeling alone and vulnerable while he had been in London, pompously wallowing in his self-righteousness.

“What does his father have to do with Talia?”

“The previous Monsieur Gerard was willing to die to protect his wife from the cruelty of a villainous nobleman. How could Jacques not be eager to charge to the rescue of a damsel in distress?”

Gabriel snorted. “The bastard did not charge to the rescue. He kidnapped her and now is holding her prisoner.”

“In his mind he is the hero rescuing her from you, the evil blackguard threatening to destroy her life,” Sophia ruthlessly pressed.

Male possession clawed through him. Talia was his. And he would kill any man who thought otherwise.

“I assume that you have a purpose in seeking me out?” he seethed.

Her dark eyes smoldered with barely suppressed emotion as she stepped from the wall.

“I wish your wife to disappear from France and I believe you are the gentleman to accomplish the delicate task.”

“I would, of course, be delighted to return my wife to our home in England, but perhaps you might have noticed I am currently being held captive.” He waved a hand toward the door. “Unless you have magically made the guards disappear?”

“
Non,
but I am willing to distract them while you escape.”

He studied her with blatant suspicion. “Why?”

Her brow wrinkled in confusion.
“Pardon?”

“Why would you assist me?”

“I have told you, I desire the countess to be taken far away from France.”

“Mere jealousy would not compel you to betray your lover, and certainly not your country.”

A tragic smile curved her lips as she stood proudly beneath his accusing gaze. “You understand nothing of women if you are unaware that we will sacrifice everything for love.”

A pang of envy—or was it longing?—briefly pierced his heart before he angrily dismissed the sensation.

Love was nothing more than a pretty illusion that females used to disguise their primitive passions. Couples were drawn together by lust, by power or by wealth. It had nothing to do with rosebuds and moonbeams.

“Actually I understand enough of women to be suspicious when a beautiful female simply appears, offering precisely what I most desire,” he said and sneered.
“There is always a price to be paid. Usually one I have no wish to pay.”

She made a sound of impatience. “What could I hope to gain by assisting you to escape?”

“It is not something I intend to discover.” He regarded her stubbornly. “Frankly, I do not trust you, Sophia Reynard.”

There was a long silence, as if the woman were pondering some deep problem, then at last she heaved a sigh.

“A pity,” she muttered. “I had hoped to avoid this.”

“Avoid what?”

She visibly squared her shoulder. “I will prove that I am willing to sacrifice all to reclaim my lover.”

His brow arched. “A charming offer, but one that does not interest me.”

Her expression hardened with annoyance. “I do not intend to share my body.”

“Then what?”

“I…”

“Yes?”

“I can reveal the English traitor who is Jacques’s partner.”

Hardly an earth-shattering offer considering they had already dealt with the immoral bastards.

“We have captured his partners.”

“
Non,
you captured a few trifling employees.”

He stiffened at her derisive tone. “A clerk in the Home Office is hardly trifling.”

“Perhaps not, but he is easily replaced.” She paused. “So long as one is acquainted with a gentleman who is in the proper position to replace him.”

“Jacques?” he asked, baffled by her vague hints.

She gave a vehement shake of her head. “Jacques avoids London like the plague. It is essential that he main
tain a discreet presence in England so as not to attract unwanted attention.”

“Why?”

“His mother resides in London. She has no notion of his…”

Gabriel was not entirely surprised that the Frenchman would have family in England. His English had been far too polished for him not to have spent several years in England.

“Treachery?” he suggested.

“Of his daring crusade,” she corrected sharply. “And of course, the ruffians he employs to transport the information from London could never cultivate the necessary contacts within the government and military.” She stepped forward, holding his gaze. “
Non,
only a gentleman of noble birth could provide the access that Jacques needs.”

His lips parted to deny the mere thought that a noble gentleman could ever be involved in such a sordid scheme, but he stopped short. He, better than anyone, understood that some of the greatest thieves, murderers and cutthroats were not in the stews, but traveled the hallowed streets of Mayfair.

Besides, she had a point. Jacques had to have a powerful patron to have become such a successful spy.

“Very well, I accept that there must be a gentleman of considerable social standing to have connections within the Home Office,” he grudgingly conceded.

“And if I offer you the identity of the traitor you will leave France with your wife?” she demanded. “Your word?”

Gabriel hesitated. He had assumed from the moment the beautiful woman had entered the cellar that this was a trap. He would be a fool not to.

But could he in all conscience ignore any opportunity to discover a traitor to the crown?

Who knew how many British soldiers had been lost because of the mysterious bastard? And how many more would be put at risk in the future?

He had no choice but to allow her to take the lead in the farce they were playing.

At least for now.

“My word.”

“The traitor is…”

She allowed her words to dangle, feigning a reluctance that was no doubt intended to whet his appetite. Instead it just annoyed him.

“Yes?” he snapped.

“Mr. Harry Richardson.”

Silence filled the cellar as Gabriel struggled to accept she had dared accuse his brother. Then, with a murderous fury he grasped her arms and hauled her forward to glare down at her treacherous beauty.

“You bitch,” he rasped. “I knew this was a trick.”

Her face paled to a sickly shade of ash, but she grimly refused to admit the truth. “
Non.
You must listen to me.”

“Listen to the filthy lies that drip with such ease from those lovely lips?” He shifted his hand to wrap his fingers around her neck, his grip just hard enough to reveal how easily he could put an end to her lies. “I have a better notion. Why do I not choke the truth from you?”

He felt her swallow convulsively, her eyes darkening in genuine fear.

“My pocket,” she managed to squeeze out.

“What?”

“Reach into my pocket.”

“Why?” he mocked. “Do you have a viper hidden?”

“I have proof.”

Gabriel gave a sharp laugh, not certain why he was surprised that his enemies would sink to accusing his own brother of such treachery.

Was there not a saying that “the rules of fair play do not apply in love and war?”

Keeping one hand wrapped around her throat, Gabriel used the other to slip into the pocket of her dressing gown.

“I had already planned to kill Jacques Gerard, now I intend to make certain that the process is as slow and painful as…” He forgot how to speak as he pulled out the small, round object he found in her pocket and glanced at the antique gold ring carved with a familiar signet. “What the hell?”

“You recognize the ring?” she asked softly.

Recognize it? Of course he damned well recognized the thing. Hadn’t he personally put it on his brother’s finger after his father’s funeral? He had worn it himself until he had been forced to accept the ring bearing the Ashcombe crest.

He barely dared to breathe as he fought back the deluge of emotions that threatened to drown him.

Shock. Disbelief. Rage.

Insufferable regret.

“Where did you find it?”

“Jacques demanded it of your brother when Harry agreed to become a spy for France.”

He was shaking his head in denial before she ever finished her vile accusation. “No.”

“Jacques sensed that Harry might prove to be an unreliable ally so he desired a token to ensure your brother
would not decide to betray his new employer,” she pressed.

His gut twisted, his blood running cold even as he told himself that it was a cruel trick.

Whatever Harry’s numerous sins, he would never betray his country. Never.

He clenched his fingers around the ring. “Why this?”

Sophia shrugged. “The ring would expose Harry’s own sins should he ever decide to be…indiscreet.”

“It proves nothing,” he forced himself to mutter. “The ring could easily have been stolen from Carrick Park. No doubt
Vicar—
” he mockingly stressed the title “—Gerard was often welcomed into my home.”

She regarded him with something perilously close to pity as she reached into her other pocket and pulled out a folded piece of parchment.

“And this?”

With a curse he snatched the paper from her hand, still attempting to convince himself that this was a deception. It only took a glance, however, for harsh reality to slam into him with agonizing force.

It was not just Harry’s signature or the stamped wax seal next to it that convinced him the note confessing his brother’s willing pledge to the Emperor Napoleon Bonaparte and his agreement to offer Jacques Gerard any assistance he might require that convinced him that it was not a forgery. It was the careless, nearly illegible penmanship that was distinctly his brother’s. It would be near impossible to duplicate. Damnation.

His mind reeled as the appalling implications of his brother’s treachery bit deep into his heart.

Soldiers had died. He shuddered to think how many.
The Corsican monster had been allowed to continue his rampage across Europe and now the Peninsula, because England and her allies had been constantly one step behind. And masses had been driven from their homes to flee from the raging battles.

Was there any worse crime that could be committed?

Unwelcome memories of Harry seared through Gabriel’s mind. Images of Harry arriving home in the early morning hours appearing drunk and disheveled with the stench of cheap perfume on his clothing. Of the young man badgering his mother for yet another loan to pay for a flamboyant carriage or box at the theater. Of the burly men who arrived on the doorstep demanding payment from one gambling hell or another.

Weak and self-indulgent.

Two faults that had proven more dangerous than any murderous madman.

Unable to stand still, Gabriel paced across the dirt floor, his mind in turmoil.

Was it possible his brother had been forced into becoming a spy? Had he been blackmailed into writing the damned note?

As unlikely as it might seem, it was the slim thread he could grasp at.

“Tell me from the beginning.”

Sophia cleared her throat, no doubt relieved that Gabriel had not chosen to kill the messenger.

“From what Jacques has revealed, he and Harry attended school together.”

Gabriel frowned, unable to believe that the intensely driven Jacques could ever have chosen a shallow gamester who considered nothing beyond his own pleasures as a companion.

“They were friends?”

“I do not know the entire story, but they were at least acquainted closely enough for your brother to be aware of Jacques’s sympathies for the revolution, as well as his return to France and loyalty to Napoleon.”

Gabriel glanced toward his companion. “How can you be certain?”

“Because he made a most surprising visit to this palace over a year ago.”

Harry had traveled to France?

“Exactly when?” he demanded.

Sophia took a moment to consider her answer. “Two years ago this past April,” she at last revealed. “I cannot give you the precise day.”

It was Gabriel’s turn to hesitate as he shifted through his memories, wanting to be able to prove that Harry had been safely in London when this woman claimed he was here bartering away his soul.