Bride for a Night (20 page)

If possible, Harry lost even more color, leaving his skin ashen.

“Even if I was fool enough to want the title, it is not a damned bauble that can be passed from one person to another,” he rasped.

Jacques’s lips flattened at the bitter memories of his childhood spent on the fringes of French aristocracy. There had been no need to explain that as a son of a mere artist, no matter how talented Jean-Luc Gerard might have been, he would always be considered inferior to the prissy dandies who sashayed the streets of Paris.

“I am well aware of the laws of heredity,” he snarled. “Laws that I intend to ensure are destroyed in France.”

Harry waved an impatient hand. “You may do what
ever you bloody well want in France, but in England there are very precise rituals that must be observed to inherit a title.”

“And?”

“I cannot simply appear among the House of Lords and demand the Lord Chancellor proclaim me the next Earl of Ashcombe just because my brother has disappeared.” Growing agitated, Harry paced across the room, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. “It will take years before they will agree to declare Gabriel dead. You know damned well how they all dote on him. No doubt the entire nation will be expected to go into mourning. And it will be years more before the Letters Patent would ever be offered to me.”

“There will be no need to have your brother declared dead,” Jacques assured him.

Coming to a halt, Harry regarded him with an insolent expression that made Jacques long to thrash him.

“You believe they will take my word for his untimely demise?”

Jacques straightened from the desk, his expression grim. “They will so long as you have his lifeless corpse to show them.”

“A corpse?” Harry blinked, his mouth hanging open as the implication of Jacques’s words sank through his thick skull. “You cannot…”

“Oh, come, Harry, there is no need to pretend such outraged shock,” Jacques drawled.

Snapping his lips together, Harry glared at him with impotent fury.

“It is no pretense, you bastard.”

“Of course it is.” Jacques arched a brow. “You must have known from the moment your brother discovered that you had bartered your soul to Napoleon that he would
have to die.” He deliberately paused. “If you did not, then you are an idiot.”

“You have him captured. He is no threat.”

“I have already discovered not to underestimate your brother. So long as he lives, he will be a threat,” Jacques muttered with a grimace. “Besides, did you not just assure me that it would be impossible for you to take his place without a proper funeral for the current earl?”

Harry hunched his shoulders, as usual unwilling to accept that his choices had a cost that must be paid.

“There is no need for me to be the Earl of Ashcombe to discover another contact within the Home Office. I shall return to London…”

“Non.”

“What?”

Jacques heaved an impatient sigh. “Have you forgotten you are currently embroiled in a nasty scandal after having abandoned your bride at the altar and taken off with her dowry?”

He did not even possess the grace to appear guilty as he waved a dismissive hand.

“It will have passed now that my brother has wed Talia.”

Jacques rolled his eyes. Harry truly believed his sins had once again been swept beneath the carpet by his brother.

“And how do you intend to explain their mysterious disappearance?”

Harry was momentarily stumped by the perfectly reasonable question. But with the skill of a born prevaricator, he offered a ready lie.

“It must be known by Gabriel’s servants that Talia was kidnapped by you and that he traveled to France to
rescue her,” he pointed out. “It will be assumed that he is still searching for her or he is captured.”

“Which will ensure that I am hunted by every British soldier in France.” Jacques shook his head. “
Non,
I thank you.”

The younger man scowled, predictably indifferent to the notion of Jacques being pursued by the entire British army.

“Then I will say that they have returned and have traveled to my brother’s estate in Scotland to recuperate from their ordeal.”

“And they took Lord Rothwell along as a chaperone?” Jacques scoffed.

Harry hissed with impatience, his face drawn with believable tension. Had Jacques not been so sadly familiar with the selfish cad, he might have been convinced Harry truly cared whether his brother lived or died.

“We can conjure some tale that will satisfy society.”

“I am not willing to risk our profitable arrangement on the hope you can deceive those who are already inclined to distrust you.” His lips twisted into a humorless smile. “And you cannot deny that your position as the Earl of Ashcombe would be worth a great deal more to me than a scapegrace younger son.”

Harry returned to his furied pacing, his jaw clenched and the sweat dripping down his narrow face.

“Dammit, I do not want the title,” he growled.

“Is that a jest?” Jacques demanded, watching the nobleman’s restless motions with a narrowed gaze. “You have spent your entire life consumed with jealousy.”

“I will admit that I have resented being forever found inferior to my perfect brother, but that does not mean I wish to step into his shoes,” Harry muttered. “And I most certainly do not wish to have him murdered.”

Jacques made a sound of disgust. “I could almost believe you if I had not spent hours listening to your drunken boast.”

His accusation brought Harry to an abrupt halt, his expression suddenly wary. And for good reason. Who had not been in Harry’s company and not had to endure his tedious complaints of the injustice of the world in general and his elder brother in particular?

“What drunken boast?”

“That the title of Earl of Ashcombe was wasted on a humorless prig who should have been drowned at birth,” he reminded his companion in sardonic tones. “That you would have been a far superior heir had fate not been so cruel.”

“A man will say anything when he is in his cups,” Harry said with a peevish frown.

“
Oui,
and almost always it is the truth.”

“No. I do not want this.” Harry tugged at his rumpled cravat, as if it was choking him. “You ask too much.”

“I do not
ask,
Harry,” Jacques corrected in soft, lethal tones. “I am informing you what is to occur.”

Harry’s throat convulsed as he struggled to swallow his swelling panic.

“You cannot force me to take the title,” he blustered. “If you kill my brother I will refuse to return to England.”

Jacques gave a grunt of disgust. “I notice you do not threaten to expose yourself as a traitor to your country. That, of course, would put any end to my hope of using you as a spy, but then you would have to face the consequences of your sins, would you not?” He watched the fear darken Harry’s eyes, sensing that he had the fool precisely where he desired. “Something you have never been willing to do.”

“Say what you will, I refuse to become the Earl of
Ashcombe,” Harry warned, but his swagger had been reduced to a childish whine.

Jacques stepped close enough to grasp the lapels of Harry’s tailored coat, his expression merciless.

“Careful,
mon ami,
the moment you cease to be of use to me is the moment I lodge a bullet in your heart.” He smiled at the sound of Harry’s tortured struggle to breathe. “And make no mistake the pleasure it will give me to rid the world of your worthless presence.”

The pale eyes glittered with hatred. “Damn you.”

Jacques thrust Harry toward the door, weary of the sordid business.

“Return to your foolish entertainments while the men tend to business, Harry,” he commanded. “I shall let you know when I have need of you.” He waited until the Englishman had stumbled across the room. “Oh, and Harry,” he drawled.

Grasping the doorjamb, Harry glared over his shoulder. “What?”

“Do not stray far.”

He jerked as if he had been slapped. “I am a prisoner?”

“Calais is surrounded by French soldiers who are eager to spill English blood.” Jacques grinned. “Only a fool would willingly become their target.”

W
AITING UNTIL HE
heard the sounds of Harry slamming the front door of the townhouse, Jacques heaved a sigh and headed out of the study.

He intended to return to the library and finish the nasty duty awaiting him there. After all, Lord Rothwell would soon awaken. It was imperative that he had them quietly…exterminated…before they could cause more trouble.

The sooner he was finished with the task, the sooner he could have Harry returned to London and the sooner they could discover what the British military was planning.

His feet, however, refused to obey, and rather than leading him downstairs, he found himself headed for his private chambers.

Perhaps he should ensure Talia was still locked in his bedchamber, he argued with the voice of reason in the back of his mind. The last thing he desired was for her to sneak out of the room and witness the death of her husband.

It was bound to be difficult enough for her to accept becoming a widow.

Refusing to contemplate Talia’s reaction once she realized Gabriel was dead, Jacques was distracted by the slam of drawers coming from the bedchamber directly across the hall.

With a frown he pushed open the door to watch as Sophia stormed from the cherrywood armoire to shove a satin gown into a case lying open on the canopied bed.

Wise enough not to enter a room with a furious woman who had an artillery of crystal perfume bottles and heavy silver candlesticks at her disposal, Jacques instead leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb.

“You are displeased with your chambers?” he demanded.

With a small gasp, Sophia whirled to confront him, her midnight eyes flashing fire.

“I could hardly admit to being displeased when it was I who insisted it be refurbished to suit my taste,” she muttered, casting a glower about the room dramatically decorated in black and gold to emphasize Sophia’s own exotic beauty. Even the fireplace was made of black marble to contrast with the bed that was draped in a shimmering gold satin.

He briefly recalled Sophia’s pleasure as the last of the workmen had left, and they had christened the wide bed in a storm of passion. By the time they had finished, his cravat had been dangling from the gilt chandelier and trousers tossed on the window seat.

He swallowed a sudden sigh.
Sacré bleu.
It all seemed a very long time ago, and not for the first time he questioned his decision to bring Sophia to Calais.

After her betrayal, he had been determined to pack her off to Paris. How could he possibly trust she would not allow her emotions to overcome her common sense? Especially now that Talia was once again his prisoner.

But in the end, he’d found himself commanding her to pack her bags and join him on the short journey. He’d claimed that he desired to keep her close at hand where
he could ensure her good behavior, but the truth of the matter was his motives were not so easy to comprehend.

All he knew for certain was that the thought of her walking away was unacceptable.

“Then why are you packing your bags?” he asked.

She tossed her head as she moved to the lacquered dresser and pulled out a handful of lacy undergarments.

“I should think it obvious.”

“Perhaps to you, but I will admit to being baffled.” His gaze followed her path back to the bed, her hands unsteady as she dropped her belongings on the growing pile. “Explain yourself.”

The dark gaze lifted to stab him with a smoldering glare. “You have the woman you want, do you not?”

It was a question he had not allowed himself to consider. After all, Talia was perfect for him. She possessed precisely the sort of qualities that he desired in a female. She was spirited and courageous and yet, so sweetly vulnerable that he longed to wrap her in his arms and keep her safe. And of course, only a dead man would not find her curvaceous body a source of constant enticement.

But that did not lessen his desire for Sophia. Or his fury at the thought of her packing her bags and leaving him.

“I assume that you refer to Lady Ashcombe?”

“I do,” she snapped. “Unless you have yet another female hidden in your rooms?”

He shrugged. “For the moment she is my prisoner.”

She folded her arms beneath her lovely bosom that was emphasized by the low cut of her rose-and-silver striped gown.

“Please do not treat me as if I am an idiot, Jacques.”

A delectable hunger shivered through him, making him wonder if she would spit and scratch if he tumbled
her onto the wide bed or welcome him with the raw passion that always shimmered between them.

He ruefully squashed the urge to discover which she might choose, instead moving forward to block her path to the dresser.

“I was not aware that was what I was doing,” he murmured, grasping her arms and pressing her back toward the bed. “Cease this nonsense and sit down.”

Perching stiffly on the edge of the mattress, Sophia regarded him in defiance. “Now what?”

“How did you discover that Talia was here?”

She shrugged. “The entire household is whispering that you have not only captured Lord Ashcombe but his wife and friend, Lord Rothwell, as well.”

Jacques snapped his teeth together, damning loose tongues that could spread gossip faster than wildfire.

It was not that he was idiotic enough to believe he could keep his prisoners a secret, but he had hoped to be rid of Ashcombe and Rothwell before the word of their presence began to spread through the streets of Calais.

Not only was it going to be a difficult enough task to haul two corpses and a petulant Harry Richardson onto a ship that he had commanded be docked just north of the town without attracting undue attention, but he had not lied to Harry when he’d said there were several hundred French soldiers outside the city walls. It would take very little to provoke them into a frenzied thirst for English blood.

Especially if that blood happened to be that of an English aristocrat.

“My household should concentrate on their duties and not on gossiping about matters that do not concern them,” he growled.

“You cannot fault them for their interest,” she sniffed, her eyes flashing fury. “It is, after all, believed that you intend to slay Lord Ashcombe in order to make the lovely Talia a widow and mistress of your household.”

He dropped her hands, his spine stiffening at the implication in her low words.

Certainly he had taken pleasure in taunting Ashcombe with the threat of making Talia a widow, but he would never murder a man simply to acquire a wife. No matter how much he might desire her.

“My decision regarding Lord Ashcombe has nothing to do with Talia,” he said in harsh denial.

Her brows rose in disbelief.
“Non?”

“
Non.
I am doing what is best for France.” He frowned with impatience. “Even you must admit that having the Earl of Ashcombe as my spy rather than a mere younger brother is preferable.”

She stubbornly refused to admit the truth of his words. “You were not so eager to be rid of the current earl until you were bewitched by his beautiful bride.”

He muttered a curse, the temptation to press Sophia back onto the mattress and drown his troubled heart in the pleasure of her soft, satin skin nearly overwhelming.

What would it matter if he pushed aside his unpleasant duties for a few hours and indulged himself in the sensuous delight Sophia offered?

Then, with an effort, he pulled back, hoping the space would return his fading sanity even if his body was hard and restless with unfulfilled need.

“Harry was a suitable partner until our tidy arrangement was exposed. Now the government will be even more vigilant and it will take more than a bribe in the proper hand to receive the information we need.” He shook his head in disgust. It was infuriating to have lost
his contact in the Home Office. The information he had been receiving might very well have made the difference in winning or losing the war. “Besides, it was too risky to attempt to kill Lord Ashcombe while he was in England. A nobleman of his wealth and status is forever surrounded by servants and sycophants.” He shrugged. “Now, however, there is no one to protect him.”

A strange expression fluttered over her lovely face. Something that might have been regret. But why?

She did not know the Earl of Ashcombe well enough to mourn his death. Could it be she feared what the toll would be on Jacques’s soul for commanding the death of an aristocrat?

“What of his brother?” she asked.

“As always, Monsieur Richardson’s only concern is for his own selfish needs,” Jacques muttered in disgust. “I truly believe he would barter his mother if he thought it necessary.”

“And Lord Rothwell?”

Jacques did not allow himself to hesitate. “He will share his companion’s unfortunate fate.”

“But not Lady Ashcombe,” she pressed.

His brows snapped together at her ridiculous question. Did she truly believe he had become the sort of man who would slay a vulnerable maiden?

“There is no need for her death.”

“Of course not.” There was a long, uncomfortable silence before she tilted her chin and regarded him sternly. “Do you intend to make her your wife?”

He shifted in sudden discomfort.
Mon Dieu.
Surely a man was not expected to discuss his future wife with his current mistress?

It was…unsavory.

“Is that not rather presumptuous?” he hedged. “I have not yet made her a widow.”

“But that is your wish?”

“Who can say?” With a burst of impatience he paced across the floor, uncertain when his life had become so complicated. He almost wished he could turn back the clock to when he was still the idealistic young man who had first returned to France, determined to dedicate his life to his country. “It is enough to concentrate on each day as it unfolds, is it not?”

A wistful smile curved her full lips. “That was what I once told myself.”

Jacques ignored the sensation, perilously close to guilt, that tugged at his heart.

“And now?”

“Now, I must consider my future.” Her gaze shifted toward the bag lying open on the bed. “I am no longer a young maiden, after all.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“For now I shall return to Paris.”

“Will you resume your career on the stage?”

“Perhaps.”

He came to an abrupt halt, a scowl marring his brow. “Do you have a gentleman awaiting you?”

Sophia was gracefully on her feet again, moving to the armoire to take out the last of her gowns.

“There are always gentlemen.”

Sheer fury at the thought of her going from his arms to another man seared through him.

It did not matter that she was a courtesan. Or that he had barely acknowledged her presence since bringing Talia to France. She was…a part of his life. And she had no right to leave him.

“Sophia, quit this foolishness,” he snapped as she dumped the dresses atop the pile in her bag.

“What foolishness?” She refused to glance in his direction. “Leaving you?”

He waved aside the blunt question. “It is too late to travel to Paris tonight.”

“Then I will leave at first light.”

“Non.”

Now she did lift her head to look at him, her expression hard as she met his frustrated gaze.

“The decision is not yours to make, Jacques.”

With three long strides he had his hands clenched around her upper arms.

“You are mine to protect.”

Her dark eyes flashed a brazen challenge at his possessive tone.

“Protect me from what?”

“Napoleon has attempted to bring order to the masses, but we both know that his efforts are not always successful.” He latched onto the first thought that came to mind. “With so many soldiers roaming the streets a woman on her own is always at risk.”

She appeared unimpressed with his logic. “The streets of Paris have never been safe,
chérie,
which I discovered at a very young age.” The edge in her voice hinted at the high cost of her survival. “Thankfully, I am no fragile flower. Unlike your precious Talia, I have learned how to depend upon my own wits.”

Jacques was wise enough not to inform his mistress that Talia had proven she was more than capable of depending upon her wits. Instead he shifted his hand to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing the sensuous curve of her bottom lip.

“I do not doubt your ability to fend for yourself, So
phia, only the need to do so,” he gently corrected. “You will always have a place in my home.”

“As your mistress?”

“As my…” He hesitated, irritated by her refusal to simply accept his offer of protection. What did she want from him? “As my friend.”

Without warning she yanked herself from his grip, the candlelight shimmering off the hint of fire in her dark curls.

“You might wish to discuss my position in your household with Talia,” she retorted in biting tones. “There are few women who would desire a previous lover beneath her roof.”

“I have more than one home. You may choose to live wherever you please.”

His reasonable suggestion was met with a furious hiss as Sophia turned to slam down the lid of her case.

“Ah, a female for every establishment,” she taunted. “How terribly convenient for you.”

His own temper flared. Was he not doing everything in his power to ensure she was kept in luxury when any other gentleman would have tossed her into the street after he’d finished with her? She should be showering him with gratitude, not hissing at him like a wounded cat.

“You are deliberately attempting to misunderstand me,” he charged.

“
Non,
I understand perfectly. You no longer desire me, but you cannot bear the thought I might find another gentleman who does. Admit the truth, Jacques.”

He stiffened, refusing to consider the accuracy of her words.

If she desired to play the role of the martyr, then who was he to thwart her tragic exit?

“Very well. You have obviously made your decision.” He offered a stiff bow before heading toward the door. “I will have a carriage at your disposal.”

G
ABRIEL DID NOT
attempt to smother his groan of relief as Hugo at last managed to loosen the ropes that had cut deep furrows into his wrists.