Bride for a Night (7 page)

“Oh.”

There was a brief hesitation, then without warning Jack heaved a harsh sigh.

“Forgive me, Talia. I am not being entirely fair.”

She blinked in confusion. “I don’t understand.”

“From all I have heard your husband is a decent landlord who has done much to introduce the latest farming techniques to his tenants.”

“But?” she prompted, sensing he was not revealing the full truth.

“I beg your pardon?”

“What are you not telling me?”

He gave a lift of his hands. “The earl tends to be an intimidating figure to most in the neighborhood. Few would dare approach him without invitation. Which means many have continued to suffer.”

A portion of Talia’s distress faded upon hearing Gabriel was merely aloof and not a callous brute. Surely with a bit of encouragement he could earn the trust of those in his care? Not that she intended to be the unfortunate individual making the suggestion, she acknowledged with a tiny shiver.

Nor would her companion. Not if his barely hidden sneer was any indication.

“You disapprove of my husband?” she demanded, wondering if the two men had ever crossed paths.

“I have little use for those who treat their power as a God-given right rather than a duty to others.”

She narrowed her gaze at the intensity in his voice. “Are you a Jacobin?”

His charming smile returned in the blink of an eye. “I am a humble vicar who is devoted to his flock, not a revolutionary.”

“Hmm.” She tilted her head to the side. “Why do I sense there is much you keep hidden?”

Before she could realize his intent, Jack had reached to tug at a stray curl that rested against her cheek.

“I will admit that my estimation of the earl has risen considerably since your arrival at Carrick Park,” he murmured, his dark gaze regarding her with blatant admiration. “I would never have suspected that he possessed the good sense to wed a lady of such value, rather than a typical debutante.”

Talia blushed, vividly aware of the intimate touch of his hand against her cheek.

“You must know that I was not the bride of his choice,” she said in flustered tones.

His thumb brushed her lower lip. “Are you so certain?”

“Of course.” She regarded him in bewildered shock. He could not possibly mean that Gabriel was anything but horrified to be married to Silas Dobson’s daughter. “He barely noted my existence until my father bullied him into marrying me.”

“It is my experience that gentlemen such as Lord Ashcombe rarely allow themselves to be bullied into any situation, let alone into marriage.”

She wrinkled her nose. “You have not yet had the untoward pleasure of meeting my father.”

“I do not doubt he is a man of considerable…”

“Pigheaded stubbornness combined with a brute lack of morals?” she offered wryly.

“Whatever his power, he could never truly take on a wealthy peer of the realm,” he smoothly continued. “He might have given Lord Ashcombe an excuse to take you as his bride, but the earl would never have wed you unless that was what he desired to do.”

Talia’s heart gave a strange leap of excitement before she hastily quelled the ridiculous reaction.

Jack clearly underestimated Gabriel’s pride. He would have wed a savage from the colonies to avoid a nasty scandal. Now he hated her for the sacrifice he had been forced to make. And she did not blame him.

“You are quite mistaken.”

His lips twisted. “Perhaps.”

Giving a shake of her head, Talia parted her lips to continue her protests only to be distracted by the heavy tread of footsteps approaching from the cemetery behind the church.

With a frown she turned to watch two men dressed in rough woolen sailor coats and loose trousers come to an abrupt halt as they noticed her.

A strange chill inched down her spine at the sight of their heavily muscled bodies and their weathered faces that spoke of endless hours toiling in the sun. Still, it was not their rough appearances that made her consider the need to flee for safety, it was instead the unmistakable air of violence that hovered about them.

She took an instinctive step backward, not sure what to expect. Then surprisingly, she felt Jack move to stand protectively at her back, his hand circling her waist.

One of the two men glanced toward the vicar, and Talia tensed, terrified that they were about to be attacked.

Instead there was a taut moment of silence before they gave a respectful dip of their heads and turned to make their way into the church.

Talia gave a baffled shake of her head, not entirely certain what had just happened.

“Good heavens.” She turned to meet Jack’s wary gaze. “Who were those gentlemen?”

“No one who need concern you,” he assured her.

Talia was far from comforted. “Are you certain? They look to be ruffians.”

Jack shrugged. “Ruffians have as much need of spiritual guidance as any other. Even more so.”

“But…”

“It grows late, Talia.” Without warning, Jack leaned down to brush a soft kiss over her cheek. “Return to your home.”

She ignored his forward manner, sensing that he was deliberately attempting to be rid of her. Why?

Did he fear the men might still be a danger to her? Or was there some other reason for his desire to send her on her way?

“You do not wish me to call for the constable?”

“No.” He gave her a small push down the narrow lane. “I will be fine. I will see you tomorrow.”

Talia obediently headed up the pathway, waiting until she turned the sweeping corner that hid her from Jack’s view before she darted into the nearby copse of trees and started to creep back toward the church.

There was something distinctly suspicious about the strangers. And while she admired Jack for his willingness to offer sanctuary to all who came to his church, she could not bear the thought that his kindness would leave him vulnerable to harm.

Or death.

Holding up her skirts to avoid becoming tangled in the thick undergrowth, Talia weaved her way through the trees, ignoring the odd sense of premonition that clutched at her heart. Who would not be unnerved at creeping through the gathering gloom?

Still, for the first time since she’d left London, she was conscious of the scurry of unseen animals among the bushes and the distant cry of an owl that filled the silence. And even more disturbing was the awareness of just how alone she was.

If something happened, who would hear her screams?

She gave a shake of her head. She would not allow Jack to be injured because she was frightened of shadows.

At last reaching the edge of the trees, Talia squared her shoulders and darted across the open yard to the back of the church. She pressed her back against the bricks, her heart lodged in her throat.

From inside the building she could hear the sound of voices, and before she lost her courage, she forced herself to inch toward the open window, sending up a silent prayer that no one would happen by.

How the devil would she explain the Countess of Ashcombe creeping through the dark and eavesdropping upon the local vicar?

She stopped at the edge of the window and tilted her head to peer into the room, easily recognizing the sacristy. How…odd. Why would the vicar take two strange men into a storage room for the church’s most sacred possessions?

The most reasonable explanation would be that the men had forced Jack to the room in the hopes of discovering something of value. The church might be small, but there were several items made of silver as well as a few
rare artifacts that a collector would pay a goodly sum to acquire. Which meant she should be dashing toward the nearest cottage to seek assistance.

But as her gaze shifted toward the three men who filled the room, she hesitated.

Jack did not look as if he were being held against his will. In fact, he appeared to be in charge of his companions as one of the men reached beneath his coat to toss a leather satchel at the vicar.

Jack eagerly tugged open the satchel and pulled out a stack of papers.

“These are the most recent maps?” he demanded, unfolding one of the papers and studying it with deep concentration.

The larger of the two men gave a grunt of agreement. “They were copied directly by a clerk at the Home Office.”

Talia stilled. Dear lord. She might know very little of politics, but she was well aware that the Home Office was headquarters to the various leaders who plotted war against Napoleon.

Jack was nodding, his attention still on the map. “And this clerk is certain no one suspects that he duplicated them?”

“Aye.” The stranger made a sound of annoyance. “Cost me a bloody fortune.”

An icy sense of disbelief spread through Talia as she watched Jack shrug, vaguely recognizing this was not the kindly vicar she thought she knew.

The glimpse of ruthless authority she had so readily dismissed earlier was in full evidence as he carefully spread the papers across the narrow table in the center of the room. And his French accent was far more pronounced.

It was as if he had been playing in a masquerade, and now the true man beneath the disguise was exposed.

“Do not fear, you will be well rewarded once I can be certain these are genuine,” Jack muttered.

The smaller stranger leaned over the table with a frown on his ruddy face.

“That ain’t France, is it?”

“Very astute, Monsieur Henderson,” Jack drawled, his tone mocking. “It happens to be Portugal.”

“And why would the Frenchies be wanting a map of Portugal?”

A smile of satisfaction curved Jack’s lips. “Because this tells us precisely where and when Sir Arthur Wellesley intends to land his army. And the battle strategy that he hopes to employ.” He stroked a slender finger over the map. “Most informative.”

Traitor…

The word whispered through her mind as Talia pressed a hand to her mouth. It was all so unbelievable. More like a plot from one of the thrilling novels she kept hidden in the privacy of her bedchamber than reality.

Who could ever suspect that the charming vicar in a remote village in Devonshire was attempting to destroy the British Empire?

The larger of the men folded his arms over his chest as he glared at the various maps spread across the table.

“Looks to me like a bumbling mess, but if you are satisfied, then so be it.”

“I am.” Jack offered a dip of his head. “And the emperor thanks you for your service.”

The man snorted. “I ain’t wantin’ the thanks of bloody Napoleon. I want me money, nothing else.”

“Of course, I…”

Jack came to an abrupt halt, then without warning his
head turned toward the window, almost as if he sensed Talia’s presence. It was too late for Talia to duck away, and their shocked gazes locked before something that might have been regret flashed through his dark eyes.

“Mon Dieu,”
he breathed, shoving away from the table and heading toward the side door.

Talia gave a small shriek as she gathered her skirts and darted toward the nearby path. There was no thought to where she was headed, only a terrified need to escape.

Of course, it was a futile effort.

Even if she were not hampered by her layers of skirts and petticoats, she was no match for an athletic gentleman in his prime.

She was still in the churchyard when she felt strong arms circling her waist and hauling her squirming body against a hard chest. Then Jack leaned down his head to whisper directly in her ear.

“I truly wish you had heeded my advice,
ma petite.
”

T
HE GENTLEMEN’S CLUB
on St. James’s Street was filled with solid English furnishings and well-worn carpets that extended from the dining room to the discreet gaming rooms. On the white plaster walls were a series of oil paintings dedicated to the aristocracy’s love for hunting, and overhead a heavy chandelier glistened in the early sunlight. The entire building smelled of mahogany, leather and tobacco smoke.

A familiar combination that usually soothed Gabriel.

This morning, however, he was on edge as he sat at a table near the front window of the morning room reading the
Times.
He was annoyingly aware of the servants in black knee-breeches as they scurried to and fro and the numerous gentlemen who were enjoying hushed conversations behind him.

He should have remained at the townhouse,
a voice whispered in the back of his mind.

He had a perfectly lovely breakfast room that offered a view of his rose garden, rather than the narrow London street currently spread beneath him, and a cook eager to prepare whatever he desired. And of course, there was the decided benefit of being alone. The gawking gossips were currently studying him with an avid curiosity that made his teeth clench.

Unfortunately, he had devoted the past month to avoiding society. Unless he wished others to suspect he was
cowardly hiding from his supposed friends and acquaintances, he had no choice but to force himself to return to his previous routine.

Which included an hour at his club, followed by a trip to his tailor and then on to Tattersall’s to have a look at the horses to be auctioned.

Even if it meant he was to attract precisely the sort of sordid attention he detested.

He tossed aside the unread paper and smoothed his hand down the simply tied cravat that he had matched with a pale blue jacket and ivory waistcoat, his brooding gaze trained on the tip of his glossy boot.

Was it any wonder he was in a foul mood?

And he knew entirely where to lay the blame.

His aggravating wife.

His jaw tightened. Dammit. He had sent her to Devonshire to ensure she understood that she would never again be allowed to manipulate him. He would be the master of their relationship, and she would learn to be an obedient wife or she would suffer the consequences.

But after waiting day after day for a message from his suitably chastised bride, pleading to be allowed to return to London, he found his temper fraying at her stubborn lack of communication.

What the devil was the matter with the chit?

Surely she must be anxious to return to her precious society so she could flaunt her newfound position as the Countess of Ashcombe? For an ambitious female, being trapped in the country should be a fate worse than death.

And yet, his housekeeper had written several letters revealing that Talia had swiftly become a favorite among both his staff and tenants. Indeed, Mrs. Donaldson had gushed with monotonous enthusiasm for the newest Countess of Ashcombe, assuring him that Talia had
settled nicely at the estate and revealed no desire whatsoever to return to London.

Or to her husband.

So the question was—what game was his bride playing now?

The more cynical side of him insisted that Talia was merely biding her time in an effort to lure him into complacency, and yet, he could not entirely believe such a simple explanation. His tenants might not be well educated, but they were keen judges of character. They would have sensed if Talia were merely pretending to care.

And yet, she could not possibly be utterly innocent. Could she?

Tapping a slender finger on the side table situated next to his chair, Gabriel grimly admitted that the only means to discover the truth was to travel to Carrick Park. Beneath his watchful gaze Talia would either reveal that she was truly her father’s daughter or she would prove she was as much a victim as Gabriel was to Silas Dobson’s ambitions.

Yes. His vague notion hardened to determination. He obviously had no choice but to leave London for Devonshire. In fact, there was no reason he could not begin the journey today.

Without warning a savage flare of anticipation clutched his stomach. An anticipation that had nothing to do with discovering the truth and everything to do with returning his beautiful bride to his bed.

Christ, he ached for her.

It was ludicrous. He could have his pick of beautiful, willing women. All of them eager to offer him endless hours of pleasure.

But night after night he had slept alone, plagued by the memories of his dark-haired gypsy.

A prickle on the back of his neck shook Gabriel out of his delectable thoughts of Talia spread across his bed, his hands tangled in her dark hair as he thrust deep into her satin heat.

He turned his head, preparing to flay the unwelcome intruder with a few well-chosen words, only to have them die on his lip.

Damn.

His gaze skimmed over the tall gentleman with a large, muscular body who was currently attired in a cinnamon jacket and tan waistcoat, black breeches and glossy boots. The nobleman’s light brown hair was cut shorter than the current fashion and his features were more forceful than handsome. And while his golden-brown eyes often simmered with amusement, they could also send any preening fop who hoped to garner his acquaintance fleeing in fear.

Hugo, Lord Rothwell.

And one of Gabriel’s few friends.

“Is there a particular reason you are hovering behind me like a vulture, Hugo?” he demanded wryly, knowing it would be a futile effort to try to convince his friend that he preferred to be alone.

Hugo narrowed his golden gaze, absently toying with the signet ring on his little finger.

“I am attempting to decide if I have the nerve so early in the day to beard the lion in his den. Or shall I wait until I am in my cups and therefore impervious to your foul mood?”

Gabriel pointedly turned his attention toward the dunces clustered about the room casting covert glances in his direction.

“My mood would not be foul if I were not surrounded by idiots,” he growled.

“Hmm.” With the ease of a natural sportsman, Hugo lowered his large body into the leather chair opposite Gabriel. “That would not be my first guess as to why you have been snapping and snarling at every unwitting soul who has crossed your path over the past month.”

“At least I have not yet taken to lodging bullets in those who annoy me,” he smoothly pointed out, “although that might change at any moment.”

Hugo smiled at the threat. “You do realize that you cannot keep society at bay forever? Eventually you will have to face their curiosity.”

“Society’s curiosity, or yours?”

“Both,” Hugo admitted. “But considering we have been friends since I bloodied your nose our first day at Eton I surely deserve to be the first to be taken into your confidence?”

Gabriel snorted. “First of all, I was the one to bloody your nose after you attempted to pinch my favorite cricket bat. And I have never known you to take an interest in gossip.”

“That is because the rumors have never before hinted that the proud and notoriously aloof Earl of Ashcombe has secretly wed the daughter of Silas Dobson.”

Gabriel’s jaw tightened at the mention of his offensive father-in-law.

“Obviously not so secretively.”

“Is it true?”

There was a moment of silence before Gabriel gave a grudging nod of his head. “Yes.”

“Bloody hell,” Hugo muttered.

“My sentiments exactly.”

Hugo scowled at Gabriel’s dry retort. “I suppose I need not ask how this particular disaster occurred,” he
rasped. “Only Harry could force you into such an untenable situation.”

Gabriel shrugged. Hugo had never bothered to hide his disgust for Harry and his reckless extravagances.

“He certainly can take a share of the blame,” he admitted.

“A share?” Hugo shook his head. “It is common knowledge that Harry jilted Miss Dobson after disappearing with her dowry. Typical of him.”

Gabriel ignored the stab of possessive outrage at the mere thought of Talia wed to his brother.

“Quite typical,” he agreed. “Which is why I should have foreseen the looming danger. I was a fool.”

Hugo breathed a low curse. “I will admit you were a fool, but only for allowing your guilt at Harry’s betrayal to trap you into a vile marriage.”

“Guilt?”

“Of course. Why else would you have wed the vulgar wench?”

Gabriel parted his lips to inform his friend that it hadn’t been guilt but rather sordid blackmail that had forced him into matrimony, but he swallowed the revealing words. It was not just embarrassment at having to admit he had been bested by Silas Dobson, but a disturbing suspicion that he was not being entirely honest with himself.

“My reasons do not concern you,” he snapped.

There was a pause before Hugo reluctantly turned the conversation.

“Have you managed to track down your brother?”

Gabriel shook his head. He had sent two of his most trusted footmen in search of Harry the moment he’d realized he was missing, but thus far they had been unable
to discover anything more than the rumor his brother was seen heading toward Dover. “Not yet.”

“Bastard,” Hugo hissed.

“He cannot elude me forever.” Gabriel gave a sharp laugh. “Not that it truly matters now.”

“No, the damage has been done.” Hugo studied him for a long moment, seeming to consider his next words. “May I ask where you have stashed your blushing bride?”

Gabriel arched a brow. “Do you fear I’ve locked her in the wine cellar?”

“The rumor is that she has been whisked off to one of your estates, although I hold out hope that you had the good sense to drown her in the Thames.” Hugo’s lips twisted with a cruel humor. “Or at the very least had her transported to the colonies.”

Gabriel’s hand landed on the table with enough force to rattle his coffee cup and create a startled twitter of alarm that rippled through the room.

He ignored the disturbance, his gaze locked on his friend.

“This is my wife we are discussing.”

Hugo frowned, his jaw jutted to a stubborn angle. “Yes, a grasping, overly ambitious harpy who does not even have the decency to possess a hint of grace or beauty.”

Gabriel leaned forward, not giving a damn that his fury was entirely unreasonable.

“Not another word,” he warned.

Glancing toward Gabriel’s tightly clenched expression, Hugo jerkily settled back in his seat.

“Damn, Ashcombe,” he growled. “What is the matter with you?”

It was a question that Gabriel had no answer for, nor did he particularly care at the moment. His only thought was ensuring his friend understood that Talia now belonged to him.

“I will not have anyone insulting the Countess of Ashcombe,” he snarled. “Including you.”

“Even if she forced you into marriage?”

“Talia…” Gabriel faltered, not certain he was prepared to share his doubts. “What?”

“She claims she had no desire to wed either Harry or myself,” he at last confessed.

Hugo waved his hand dismissively. “Of course she would deny trading her soul for a title. What woman would confess such a truth?”

“I am not completely convinced of her guilt.”

His friend hissed, his eyes darkening with shock. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

Gabriel narrowed his gaze. “Take care, Hugo.”

“If she had no desire to wed, then all she had to do was say no. The days of buying and selling women as if they are cattle are long past,” Hugo pressed. “She could not have been forced into marriage.”

It was precisely what Gabriel had told himself, but now he glared at Hugo, barely resisting the urge to punch his closest friend in the nose.

“Have you had the misfortune to meet Silas Dobson?”

Hugo grimaced. “A nasty bit of goods, but a damned shrewd businessman. I have invested in his latest shipping venture.”

“He is an uncouth brute who makes a habit of terrorizing those in his power.”

“That does not mean Miss Dobson…”

“Lady Ashcombe.”

Hugo’s jaw tightened at Gabriel’s interruption. “It does not necessarily follow that your wife is a victim. It is quite likely she was a willing conspirator with her father in plotting to claim the highest available title.”

Gabriel impatiently shook his head. He would soon enough determine the truth for himself.

“Her guilt or innocence no longer matters.”

Hugo’s frustration was replaced by a flare of sympathy. “True enough,” he murmured. “Harry made a deal with the devil and now you must pay.”

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Have you considered a career on the stage?”

“I…”

Hugo snapped his lips shut as a footman in the familiar blue-and-silver uniform of Ashcombe halted beside Gabriel and handed him a folded note.

“Pardon me, my lord,” he apologized. “This has just arrived from Devonshire. The messenger said it is urgent.”

“Thank you.” Expecting information on his brother, Gabriel was unprepared for his housekeeper’s plea for him to travel as fast as possible to Carrick Park. His blood ran cold as he shoved himself to his feet with enough violence to tumble his chair backward. “Damn. I must go.”

“Go?” Hugo swiftly lifted himself upright. “Go where?”

“Your ill wishes for my wife have come to pass,” he ground out, unfairly striking out at his friend as a fear he did not entirely understand clutched his heart.

Hugo flinched. “What the devil do you mean?”

“My wife has disappeared,” Gabriel turned on his heel, headed for the door. “You had best pray I find her.”

T
HE
F
RENCH CASTLE
tucked in the countryside south of Paris retained much of its delicate charm despite the obvious ravages of war.

Built in a perfect square to frame the formal inner courtyard, the structure retained two towers from what Talia assumed to be a previous castle and vast wings that were constructed of a golden stone that shimmered in the sunlight. Along one wing a covered terrace was supported by a series of archways that led to the main residence that offered a striking double stone staircase and carved stones set above the large windows.