Authors: Adrienne Basso
Intimate Betrayal (29 page)
“Have I told you, love,” he whispered delicately in her ear, “how truly splendid you look this evening?”
Alyssa blushed faintly under his praise. She knew the simple white silk gown she wore emphasized her willowy height and brilliantly showcased her magnificent jewels. She wore the entire emerald-and-diamond ensemble tonight—necklace, earrings, and tiara—not caring if it was a bit extreme. Morgan had given her these jewels with love, and she treasured them far beyond their considerable monetary value.
“I am pleased to inform you I am actually enjoying myself this evening,” she admitted shyly.
He smiled lovingly down at her. “So am I,” he said. “But I am afraid our delight will come to an end along with our dance.”
Alyssa frowned, knowing he spoke the truth. Morgan had warned her repeatedly this afternoon he would spend a large part of the ball in the company of Madeline Duponce.
“You will be careful, Morgan,” Alyssa requested, wide-eyed with concern, as the strains of the waltz came to an end.
“Of course,” he said. “Try to relax and enjoy yourself. If we are lucky, this whole thing will be over very quickly. And successfully.”
After escorting Alyssa off the dance floor, Morgan brought her to a corner of the room where Tristan and the dowager duchess chatted with a small group of guests. The duke bowed low, formally kissing his wife’s hand in farewell. “Keep a close eye on her, Tris,” Morgan instructed his younger brother, and then he disappeared into the crowd.
Chapter Twenty-three
Morgan is only playing a part, Alyssa reminded herself as Madeline let out another throaty laugh. When Alyssa had first been introduced to Mlle Duponce, she felt proud of her display of only mild curiosity upon finally meeting her nemesis, and inwardly chided herself for ever being so irrationally jealous of the tiny French woman. As the evening progressed, however, Alyssa was having difficulty keeping up her nonchalant air and the pretense that all was normal. Each flirtatious gesture Madeline bestowed on the seemingly mesmerized Morgan set Alyssa’s teeth on edge.
To make matters worse, Comte Henri Duponce had attached himself to her side in the absence of Morgan’s attention, and Alyssa was annoyed by his persistent company. She found his manner bold and unappealing, his flippant remarks offensive. After several unsuccessful attempts at removing herself from the comte, she gratefully spotted Baron Welles on the far side of the crowded room. Alyssa hastily excused herself and strode purposefully toward him, temporarily losing the comte in the process.
After speaking briefly with the baron she scanned the room, noticing Morgan and Madeline leaving the ballroom together. Gilbert was nowhere to be seen, but Alyssa noted with alarm that Henri immediately followed his sister and the duke. Alyssa also joined in the chase, and she observed Henri entering the duke’s private study.
Alyssa panicked for a moment, fearful Morgan might be in some sort of danger. She stood in front of the study door for several minutes, debating her course of action. She listened intently, pressing her ear against the hardwood door, yet she heard nothing. Bracing herself for a confrontation of some kind, Alyssa unceremoniously yanked the door open.
Henri had his back toward her and was obviously searching the deserted room.
“Is something amiss?” Alyssa inquired in a steady voice. Her eyes scanned the room in confusion, searching for Morgan and Madeline. She could have sworn she saw them enter the room.
Alyssa’s voice startled Henri and he jumped, turning quickly at the sound to determine the source.
“Your Grace,” Henri said with obvious relief in his voice. “I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Are you looking for something?”
“Not precisely,” Henri answered evasively. “Have you seen my sister, Madeline, or your husband recently? I thought I saw them come in here.”
“The last time I saw your sister she was dancing with Gilbert Grantham,” Alyssa lied boldly. “I’m sure she is with him.”
Henri gave her a cold stare. “You must be mistaken. The duke has hardly let Madeline out of his sight all evening. I know I saw them come in here. Where could they have gone?”
“If they did enter the study, which I doubt, they have obviously departed,” Alyssa replied sweetly, her eyes flashing angrily at his attempt to humiliate her by mentioning Morgan’s attentive behavior to another woman. “I am sure we will be able to locate them in the ballroom. Would you escort me back, please?” As much as she disliked Henri’s company, she preferred he be with her rather than harassing Morgan.
Defeated, Henri began to leave with Alyssa, but before closing the door behind him he gave the room another hard glance.
“Look, that door is ajar,” Henri cried, his finger pointing toward the door. “They must have gone outside.”
“In this cold?” Alyssa questioned unbelievingly. “I am certain you are mistaken, Comte. The wind must have blown the door open.”
“Well, I intend to find out,” he told her, heading for the open door.
Alyssa hesitated a fraction of a second before following. “If you insist on pursuing this, Comte, then I will accompany you.”
“As you wish,” Henri replied with an indifferent air.
He hurried out into the cold, misty night with Alyssa close on his heels. They followed the garden path that ran the length of the house, their way eerily illuminated by the full moon. Their feet made a crunching sound on the gravel as they walked silently along at a brisk pace.
“There doesn’t appear to be anyone out here,” Alyssa said after a few minutes. “Let’s return to the ballroom before we are missed.” Alyssa was beginning to doubt the wisdom of her actions as the cold wind cut through the thin material of her gown, and she realized dismally how very alone she was with this dangerous man.
“Wait. I think I heard something,” Henri cried.
They both paused and listened intently.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Alyssa insisted nervously. “I am sure the duke and Mlle Duponce are not outside in this frigid cold. I am returning to the house before I freeze. You may do as you please, Comte Duponce.” Alyssa turned and walked away from Henri, determined to put as much distance between them as she could.
A loud crash halted her steps. “What was that?” Alyssa questioned automatically.
“It sounded as though it came from up there.” Henri pointed to a window on the second floor of the west wing. He saw the sudden flash of fear in Alyssa’s eyes. Moving quickly next to her, he menacingly grabbed hold of her wrist. “I think, Duchess, you know far more about Madeline and myself than you should.”
“I do not have the slightest idea what you are referring to, Comte Duponce,” Alyssa replied in her most regal imitation of the dowager duchess. “Remove your hands this instant.”
For a split second, Alyssa thought she had succeeded with her bluff, but the comte narrowed his eyes at her in anger. “There must be a side entrance,” he decided, his eyes searching the length of the castle. “Show me.”
Realizing there was no other alternative, Alyssa reluctantly complied. When they reached the entrance, Henri pulled her through the side door and into the house. They walked down the deserted hall to the back staircase, Henri’s grip on Alyssa tightening with each step.
The hallway lamps were lit, but because of the party there were no servants in this section of the house. Alyssa paused momentarily at the bottom of the steps, but Henri tugged insistently on her arm. With a sigh, she gathered up her silk skirts and hastened up the staircase, her heart pounding with fear at what she might discover.
They paused when they reached the second-floor landing, barely breathing as they listened for further clues.
“I think the noise came from that door,” Henri declared, indicating the first room on his left.
“That is the estate room,” Alyssa told him, worrying it might be where Morgan had hidden the documents he wanted the Falcon to steal.
Walking to the doorway, Henri slowly turned the latch. Throwing open the door suddenly, he thrust Alyssa inside the room ahead of him. She faltered a bit but regained her balance and quickly scanned the room.
“Morgan,” she cried, rushing across the thick carpet toward the duke. He lay slumped on the floor, apparently alone in the room. “What happened? Morgan, are you hurt?” She pulled him up from the floor into a sitting position. He shook his head groggily, his face pale.
“Alyssa?” he questioned, blinking his eyes rapidly. Morgan gingerly rubbed the back of his head, wincing slightly as he touched a tender lump on his scalp. “Someone must have struck me from behind. How on earth did you find me? Are you alone?”
“Comte Duponce is with me,” she answered in a warning tone. She moved to the side so Morgan could see Henri, who stood by the door.
Henri hesitated only a moment before striding into the room. He reached down, roughly pulling Alyssa away from her husband.
“I hate to interrupt such a charming little domestic scene, but I have business to attend to. Such a pity you have become involved, Duchess. Now I shall have to kill you, along with your husband.”
“Leave her out of this, Duponce,” Morgan said dangerously, standing on his feet.
“I am afraid she is already in it, Your Grace. We cannot possibly make good our escape if she informs the authorities. The risk is too great.”
Alyssa struggled furiously against Henri’s hold, successfully breaking away from him. Morgan took advantage of the momentary diversion to lunge for the rapiers hung over the fireplace. He managed to grasp one, but as he dislodged it, the second sword also fell from the wall. Henri quickly retrieved it.
He gave Morgan a sly grin. “I knew you would not go to your death without a fight. It shall give me great pleasure to cut you to ribbons while your lovely wife watches,” Henri cried, lunging toward Morgan.
As the contest began, Alyssa retreated to a corner of the room, her eyes darting about for a means of escape. She watched breathlessly as the swords flashed back and forth, the meeting of steel against steel ringing through the room. Each clanging noise vibrated through her, and she stood transfixed, watching the men circle each other, testing for weakness, determining each other’s measure.
Facing each other, their physical differences were instantly apparent. Morgan was taller and had a larger, more powerful frame than the willowy Henri. Alyssa hoped Morgan’s obvious strength would give him the advantage, but even her untrained eye could discern Henri was an expert swordsman, graceful and swift. Helplessly she watched them battle, the swords seeming to move with a life of their own, blurring in a quick flurry of movement.
In minutes both men were tiring and panting for breath as sweat lined their brows. She watched them lock together again and again, their arms straining, faces grimacing, muscles rippling. Continually, Henri took the offensive and Morgan somehow managed to parry, but Alyssa could see Morgan was beginning to slow down. She knew the blow he had suffered to his head had dazed him, and he wasn’t at full strength.
The taunting comments streaming from Henri’s foul mouth set her nerves on edge, but they were answered only by an occasional grunt from Morgan. Alyssa wondered how long they could continue the fight with the same intensity, as they chased each other about the room, grim concentration and determination etched in their faces.
Suddenly Morgan tripped over a fallen chair. He stumbled back, losing his footing and dropping his guard. Henri pressed the advantage, thrusting mightily forward, his blade finding its mark in Morgan’s right shoulder. Morgan rolled quickly out of the path of the sword before Henri could strike a second time. Miraculously Morgan regained his balance, resuming a ready stance.
“Tiring so quickly, Your Grace?” Henri taunted as they continued their battle.
Terrified, Alyssa watched the small stain of blood on Morgan’s shoulder spread rapidly at each thrust of his sword. She saw the white lines around his mouth, his face tightening in pain. She knew he could not fight much longer with such a strategically inflicted wound. Frantically her eyes darted about the room, coming to rest on Morgan’s desk. She remembered him telling her that, as a precaution, he often kept a pistol hidden in the drawer of his desk. Keeping a watchful eye on the dueling men, she inched her way over to the desk and pulled open a drawer. Nothing. Frowning with distress she continued her unobtrusive search of the desk drawers, her eyes never leaving Morgan and Henri.
She sighed with grateful relief when she at last discovered the weapon. Slowly she grasped the handle of the long pistol, gripping it tightly, her fingers sweating. Unseen, she pulled it from the drawer and held it hidden at her side, out of sight in the folds of her gown. Swallowing hard, she eased back the hammer, praying the gun was loaded, and waited with mounting dread for the moment she feared would eventually come.
Even though Henri too seemed to be tiring, he continued to mount an aggressive attack. Then Henri stumbled slightly, his movements momentarily clumsy, and Morgan’s thrust caught the edge of Henri’s sword. With a powerful flick of the wrist, Morgan sent the weapon flying across the room, effectively disarming his adversary. Alyssa let out a tremendous sigh of relief, but her joy was premature; she saw Henri reach inside his coat and withdraw a small pistol. Instinctively knowing he would show no mercy, Alyssa acted swiftly.
Automatically she swung the pistol up and steadying the weapon with both hands, fired, praying her shot would hit the right man. There was a deafening noise and an almost blinding flash of light and smoke. Henri turned toward Alyssa, his face a mixture of surprise and confusion, as he crumpled to the floor in a heap. His gun flew out of his grasp as he hit the ground.
Alyssa watched him in horror, her eyes wide with disbelief. She staggered back, dropping the pistol to the floor as if it were burning her hands, and brought her palms up over her ears to stop the constant ringing.
“Good lord, I’ve killed him,” she whispered, Henri’s shocked expression as he fell haunting her mind. Her knees buckled and she leaned back against the wall, sinking to the floor. She turned frightened eyes to Morgan, and he quickly reached her side, his strong arms encircling her and raising her to her feet.
“Christ,” Morgan swore loudly. “Alyssa, are you all right?”
“My God, Morgan,” Alyssa cried, her voice choked with emotion as she held on to him tightly, seeking comfort in his crushing embrace. “He was going to shoot you. I had to try to stop him. But I truly did not mean to . . . to . . .”
Morgan kissed her gently. He stroked her hair and tried to soothe her. “Alyssa, love, don’t upset yourself. You haven’t killed anyone.”
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