Haunted Hearts (21 page)

“You told me you know ’er, and zat is when I wonder if I am in a trap? So I leave. But I know nothing. ’Ow am I to leave England? What path is zere for me to follow? So I must come back to you.”

“With scarce time to spare,
monsieur
,” Ian said sharply. “You are to sail tonight. We must leave at once--”

“
Mon cher vicomte
, I must know. If I am to be taken by zis woman tonight and ’er,” he struggled to find an English word, but settled on, “
gendarmes
, I wish to know now. I beg you. Just to know before I am taken--”

“Through no deed of mine will anyone take or harm you,” Ian interrupted, letting his insult show. He reached into his coat pocket and withdrew the papers Sir Terrence had carried to him this morning. “These papers give you your new life,
monsieur.
”

Douzain held his breath and stared into Ian’s face. When finally he reached out for the papers, his hands trembled, and perhaps even more when he saw they were indeed documents granting him a new existence.

“
Merci, merci
,” the man crooned, stepping to hold the papers near the lantern. “’Randolph Ralston, American.’
Mon Dieu,
so I am now an American. Who would believe this, eh?”

“Over there, everyone. It is a land of many accents. You will not be the first who has helped us who has been located there.”

“It is said in France zat ze escaped ones, we are always sent to Scotland. I never zink of America.”

“I am informed that’s what we wish everyone to think,” Ian replied. “Especially the French.”

Georges folded the papers and secured them in a buttoned pocket inside his dark cloak. “I ’ave said it before,
monsieur
, but I most truly zank you. Please forgive my doubts.”

“Then it’s time for us to leave. I have a carriage waiting, on the hope you’d not gone for good.”

“But your guests--? I hear zem and I zink again, per’aps it is not safe ’ere? Per’aps I am right to run? But I look in the windows, and I choose to make the gamble on you-- ”

“My guests are all the more reason to leave at once, before they think to miss me.”

The words were not even quite out of his mouth when the door opened, revealing a begowned figure. Lisette Lyons closed the door behind herself and stepped into the small circle of light, staring directly at Georges.

He gasped in horror, casting a wild-eyed look at Ian. “So! I am betrayed?”

“No,” Ian said at once. He stepped closer to Lisette, mouth tight with anger. “I know what you are now.”

She drew back a little, and cast Douzain a dark look.

“You were clever to associate with Lord Quinn. Being among his strange group diverted attention from your oddities of behavior.”

“I know,” she answered.

Georges looked from one to the other, drawing back a tiny step at a time, as though he would flee out the window once he achieved just enough distance.

“But you are too late. You must also know there is nothing you can do now,” Ian said flatly. “I am escorting Douzain out of the country, now.”

Her eyes were hard and glittering, and for a moment the three made a frozen tableau, held in place by doubt and tension. Finally, with uncanny calm, she nodded her head in agreement. “I suppose it is true. I cannot stop you from whisking
Monsieur
Douzain from our reach, at least for now. You will simply see zat I am restrained, zat I may not contact my allies, while you run to ze north. So, I must allow this little fish to go free--zat I might also escape.”

She reached up, seizing the seam between her bodice and sleeve, and wrenched it. It ripped and sagged forward as she reached to run both hands through her hair. Pins went flying, and tendrils of golden-brown hair fell around her shoulders. She then slapped herself across the mouth with the back of her hand, and her appearance of ravishment was complete. She turned, as the stunned men stared at her, and fled from the room, her growing wails reaching their ears from the hallway.

“
Merde,
” Georges swore.

Ian reached for the other man’s shoulder, shoving him toward the door. “Hurry!”

They hadn’t even reached the front door when Lisette stumbled into the hall, a circle of wide-eyed witnesses behind her. She raised her hand, her long finger pointing accusingly. “Ze viscount, he did zis to me!”

Ian’s heart plummeted as he saw a shock-faced Olivia standing among the others, staring at him. “Of course I did not,” he said as calmly as he could, again pushing Douzain toward the door.

“Oh
oui
, deny it, fiend!” Lisette sobbed, bringing her fisted hands to her forehead, weeping into her arms so artfully that Sarah Siddons would have been impressed by her acting, as certainly were a number of the guests.

A young man, Mr. Hayden, stepped forward, hands slowly curling into fists as he frowned at Ian. “You did this to Miss Lyons?”

Lord Quinn came behind everyone, observing the scene silently, narrowing his eyes as he slipped forward and took a wide-eyed Douzain by the arm, preventing him from slipping out the door.

Ian was struck dumb, for he saw at once how clever she’d been.
Who was the Viscount Ewald anyway
, Hayden and others might be thinking. Hadn’t he spent a great deal of time in heathen lands? Wasn’t he the outsider? Was it possible he’d done this terrible thing? And then, of course, Lisette could wail and slip away, under proclamations of her need to be gone from the scene--in order to warn her confederates, while he himself was made to answer to her charges. Douzain’s escape would fail, for the man had no idea what ship, of the tens if not hundreds at the docks, to meet.

Ian made his decision after only two beats, even though he wished by all that was holy that Lady Stratton was gone from this scene.

“
Mademoiselle
,” he said to Lisette, his face as stiff as his shoulders. “I deny I touched you, but harm has been done you. You must allow me the opportunity to amend this grievance. Please say you will do me the honor of becoming my wife, by accompanying me at this very moment to Gretna Green. My good friend, Mr. Douzain, will accompany us.”

The crowd gasped, and Douzain tried to break away from Lord Quinn, with no luck. He gave a little squeak of discomfort. The crowd rustled, gazes leaping from person to person, following the contretemps. Ian kept his gaze toward Lisette, but he would have sworn one of those gasps had belonged to Olivia. His heart fell, knowing what she must be thinking, assuming.

Lisette’s tears had been erased in a moment, and her eyes narrowed at Ian. She must be thinking he meant to take Douzain to Scotland; that the man would escape under her very nose.

Her hand whipped out, gathering up Olivia’s with a pinching grip. She tugged Olivia forward. “And Lady Stratton will be my chaperone, to be sure you carry out zis marriage and do not attack me again.” She did not smile, although there was a malicious triumph in her eyes at her countermove.

Ian stepped forward, his hands closing into fists, well aware at once of Lisette’s scheme. She’d not picked Olivia randomly; she’d chosen the one person who would keep him in line. She knew he’d do nothing to endanger Olivia.

“Miss Lyons--” he growled, only to be interrupted.

“I will go.” It was Olivia, speaking words in direct conflict with the abhorrence marking her features.

His heart slipped further south.

Olivia’s brother, Lord Hargood, burst through the crowd, his face bright red. “My sister’s not going anywhere, with any gentlemen, without me along!” He glared at them all, but lastly at Lisette, his eyes filled with doubt and with flickers of insult and injury.

Ian took in a deep breath, accepting what was unfolding. “Then let us away, at once, I insist. I have some money in my library, and that will have to suffice for us all.” He stepped past Lisette, not offering her his arm, his boot heels beating a staccato as he went through the parting crowd, toward his library. Lord Quinn must have released Douzain, for the man scurried to follow Ian. Lisette trailed, her hand still locked on Olivia’s arm.

It was the work of a moment for Ian to seize up a purse and a bag from his library desk, and then he led them out the front door. His eyes met Olivia’s over the slightly shorter Lisette’s head, and for a moment he was frozen again. What could she think, with him standing there with an already packed bag? He couldn’t blame her if she thought this whole event had been staged.

The other guests all went to find their outer garments.

“Quickly,” Ian said, wanting to drive away before the others came out to find their own carriages; they might only complicate an already messy situation. Fortunately, Miss Lyons seemed of like mind, giving Lord Hargood a push in the back to urge him to follow Georges Douzain within the coach.

Lord Quinn stepped forward, towering over Lisette and Olivia, his eyes only on the latter. “I will come as well,” he stated darkly.

“Zere is no room,” Lisette snapped.

“There isn’t,” Ian admitted.

Quinn threw Lisette a poisonous look, then fixed on Olivia again. “Miss Lyons is probably not what she seems. You mustn’t trust her with anything. Lady Stratton, it’s my fault you’re in this position, and I insist--”

Brows raised in shock at the pronouncement, Olivia had looked to Ian, who’d shaken his head firmly behind Quinn’s back; clearly he meant her to know the situation needed no further complications. “Thank you, my lord, but no,” she said. “My brother will see that all is well with me.”

Quinn meant to protest, but she pushed past him, this time leading with Lisette being dragged along.

Ian followed them into the coach, rising up to speak to the driver, telling him to drive away at once. The coach leaped forward almost before he could climb inside, leaving an deeply scowling Lord Quinn behind.

***

Olivia was seated next to Lisette inside the darkened carriage, facing backwards. On the other side of the carriage the three men crowded together. No one spoke. Olivia liked the quiet and the dark, because then she could think without having to work hard to avoid anyone’s gaze.

She was as conflicted as she’d ever been. She couldn’t figure it out: why had Ian offered for Miss Lyons? He’d not assaulted the woman, Olivia was convinced of that. There’d been the way he’d looked at her; a wealth of information had been contained in that sharp, quick, anguished glance--and it had been clear to her he’d not done it. He was chagrined to be put in the position in which he’d been placed, but it was somehow unavoidable. And dread--she’d seen fear in his eyes. Fear that she wouldn’t understand, wouldn’t trust him to explain it all later.

Well, she didn’t fully understand why he’d done it, but that wasn’t why she’d agreed to come. She’d agreed because she knew, all at once, that it was the only way to have any possible ability to make sure such a marriage never took place. Something was terribly wrong here, and she’d do all she could to prevent it from becoming a worsened situation. Ian had won that right from her when he’d stepped forward, fists clenched, trying to protect her from whatever Miss Lyons had thrust her into the middle of.

And who had she looked to when she’d needed another opinion? Not Lord Quinn, but Lord Ewald. He’d shaken his head, disallowing Quinn’s added presence in the coach, and she’d accepted his counsel without question. She’d trusted him.

How many times had she trusted him, or turned to him, or relied on him, just in a few weeks’s time? And now again, even though her brother was not three feet from her, it was Lord Ewald’s lead she looked to.

Something in her middle separated from alarm and worry and upset, and floated up to make her lips form a soft smile, her eyes widen in the dark the better to read the man’s face, and, impossibly, made her want to laugh aloud.

In the darkness of the carriage her foot slipped forward, until it bumped into Ian’s boot. It was not the right time, for they’d not exchanged the kind of words  that reflected her buoyant manner, but nonetheless she needed to tell him something of how she was feeling. She lifted her slipper, letting it tap three times on the leather over his toes, then lowered it next to his.

There was a hesitation, and then, to her joy, he slipped his boot over her slippered foot and lightly tapped three times in return.

Of a sudden they had no need of words, each suddenly and preposterously euphoric in the midst of a dark, uncertain flight into the night.

Chapter 19

Quinn arrived at his home five minutes after Lady Mackleby’s ball was ended so abruptly by accusations of assault and an elopement. He was in a foul mood as he moved up the stairs to his front door. Olivia had refused him, however kindly, and again when she hadn’t let him join her misbegotten party of five.

Lisette had put on quite the performance. Over the past few months, he’d increasingly felt he was being used by the woman, and so had used her in return: to serve as his hostess, to utilize her undoubted talents to the purpose of uncovering those souls like his own who wished more for England than present day religions offered; and, for a brief while, her body. That had not lasted long, and he ought to have known his heart might be foolish, but it had seen what his mind would not. Still, his distrust had grown, and this past week he’d been paying a Bow Street Runner to learn more of the lady.

His butler met him at the door. “My lord, there is a man who wishes to speak with you.”

Quinn knew from the butler’s tone that it was not a person of refinement. “Where is he?” he growled.

“I put him in the yellow salon, my lord.”

It was the Runner. He handed Quinn an envelope with a broken wax seal.

“She’s a French spy, m’lord,” said the investigator, pointing to the pages Quinn unfolded. “And there’s the truth of it. I took it away from the bloke what she paid to carry it. ’E’s got a nasty bump and a visit to gaol to show for his trouble. And there’s my report. I’ve a mate what can make a sure thing of any code, even from the French like that. This here only took him about twenty minutes to figure.”

Lord Quinn noted the missive written in Lisette’s hand, and read through the decoded report, noting the attention to detail. The rumored or reported location of English battalions; a list of who was subject to extortion and how to enact such, including one high-ranking member of the War Office; a list of those who could possibly be persuaded to the French cause--she was exact and observant, and condemned by her own hand.