In Bed with the Duke (14 page)

She waved frantically in return, knowing he couldn’t see her, but unable to remain still.

Then he was gone.

Reluctantly, she pulled herself inside. She shut the window all the way. Then, claustrophobic, she opened it a few inches. Taking a white linen towel, she dried her face and rubbed at her hair, looked down at herself and laughed a little in embarrassment. With her nightgown wet, she indeed might as well have been nude. A good thing for her the Reaper didn’t see
that
.

A better thing Prince Sandre had not.

Going to the door, she locked it again, then walked to the bed and sank down on the mattress.

Only this morning, with complete solemnity, she had promised Brimley she would avoid involvement in the Moricadian revolution. And now she had hidden the Reaper in her bed! She had attracted the attention of Prince Sandre! Who was she? Timid companion or foolish heroine?

And what was worse—the danger she faced, or her wanton behavior?

 

Michael stood watching the sunrise through the bars on his window, and everything in him vibrated with tension and excitement.

Tonight had been a close call, the closest so far. Ever since Rickie had been killed, Sandre had flung all his resources into catching the Reaper.

But the Reaper would not stop. Not until he had vengeance. Not until he had justice.

Michael had accepted the fact that the Reaper would probably be captured, probably die a horrible, agonizing death.

Before it hadn’t mattered, but now . . . after so much suffering in the cold, damp, close dark, the Reaper had found a reason to live.

Her name was Miss Emma Chegwidden.

Turning to Rubio, Michael said, “Send a message to Raul Lawrence. Invite him to visit me here today.”

“What if he’s busy?” Rubio asked.

“Tell him it’s a favor for an old friend.”

“Y
ou’re looking very rosy today, Emma.” Lady Fanchere smiled as they strolled through the assembly room. “Moricadia agrees with you.”

Emma blushed, her mind very much still on the danger she’d faced last night, and the kiss that had followed. “Yes, Lady Fanchere. I’m happy here.” And ecstatic to discover, after tactfully questioning the maid who brought her hot water this morning, that the Reaper had escaped capture.

“The surroundings are lovely, are they not?”

Emma viewed the spacious interior of this noble building: its marble columns holding the arched and painted ceiling, its large windows facing out into the valley, and its stone fountains, one that ran with steaming hot water from the earth, the other icy from the glacial melt. Both were reputed to have healing powers, and as the morning progressed, the wealthy gathered to sip from marble cups, walk slowly or sit elegantly, and be seen among the modish surroundings and in the sunny atrium. “It’s not the surroundings that make me happy, Lady Fanchere; it’s being in your employ.”

Lady Fanchere laughed musically. “A graceful compliment, until I remember where last you worked.”

Emma smiled, too, so at ease with Lady Fanchere she knew she was being teased.

“But I swear it’s true.” Lady Fanchere would not be dissuaded. “You’re almost blushing. What could be the cause?”

“Perhaps the altitude?”

“After that storm last night, the air is very fresh here,” Lady Fanchere agreed.

Emma felt her face go from rosy to hot. She ought to tell Lady Fanchere about Prince Sandre breaking into her room last night. If she didn’t, Lady Fanchere would find out some other way, and that would put Emma’s character and virtue in doubt. Yet Prince Sandre’s appearance was bound in her mind with the Reaper, her own astonishing courage, and that kiss. She found herself saying, “I might have gotten too much sun.”

“Did you take off your bonnet during your ride with Michael?” Lady Fanchere asked sternly. “With your fair skin, you should be more careful.”

“You’re right, I
should
be more careful.” In every way. Emma should keep soldiers and princes out of her bedroom, and never, ever should she kiss a ghost.

But still, remembering the night before, and the sensations that kiss had caused, she could find no regret in her heart—or other places.

“Eleonore. Eleonore!” Aimée hurried toward them, looking once more overexcited.

A footman holding three cups balanced on his tray followed.

A diversion for Lady Fanchere.
Thank heavens.

“Aimée is so kind, so well- intentioned.” Lady Fanchere rubbed her temple with her gloved hand. “But I only wish that for one moment, she would stop talking, especially about—”

Aimée reached them, out of breath. “Have you heard?” She handed them the cups of steaming water straight from the hot springs, then shooed the footman away. “The Reaper was spotted last night. Here! In Aguas de Dioses!”

Emma froze and held her breath.

“Oh, no.” Lady Fanchere sighed.

“Yes.” Aimée clutched her throat. “He has come for me!”

“Aimée, that’s not possible,” Lady Fanchere said.

Aimée ignored that with a determination that was impressive. “Drink your water, Eleonore. It’s good for the baby.”

Lady Fanchere touched the cup to her lips.

“Emma, you should drink yours, too. You’re all flushed.” Aimée peered into Emma’s face. “You’re not coming down with the plague, are you?”

“I don’t believe so, Lady de Guignard. My health is most robust.”

“Good.” Aimée reverted to her favorite topic without pause. “The Reaper was here, in this very hotel. That handsome Irish scoundrel, Mr. Gillespie Cosgair, said he heard the commotion.” She leaned forward and cupped her gloved hand beside her mouth, and whispered, “They say Countess Martin is here also, and there have been nocturnal visits between their rooms.”

“The Reaper and Countess Martin?” Emma exclaimed in dismay.

Aimée
tsk
ed. “No, dear! Mr. Cosgair and Countess Martin. She’s a famous strumpet, but not even she would sleep with a ghost!”

“He’s not a—” Lady Fanchere took a breath. “Aimée, if your only verification was a stranger’s account of some brawl, then that’s a rumor, not the truth.” Her exasperation seeped through her usual calm demeanor. “You must stop repeating gossip, especially about the Reaper.”

Aimée drew herself up to her full height, which still meant she was several inches below Lady Fanchere. “I don’t know about Mr. Cosgair and Countess Martin, but the tidbit about the Reaper is not gossip, Eleonore.”

“How do you
know
that?”

“Because Prince Sandre arrived hot on his heels.”

Lady Fanchere’s tone became quiet pleasure. “Sandre was here? Is still here?”

“Yes! Yes!” Aimée jumped up and down with excitement.

Oh, no.
Emma wanted to sink through the floor. If Prince Sandre was nearby, if he hadn’t left Aguas de Dioses, then Emma really needed to acknowledge the incident last night. “Lady Fanchere, I have a confession.”

Aimée didn’t pause. “I’m telling you, Eleonore, Sandre was after him, but the Reaper summoned the storm and vanished in a bolt of lightning!”

“Oh, Aimée.” Lady Fanchere sounded as if she were in despair.

“I am doomed to die at the hands of either the Reaper or Sandre. They’re stalking me across the countryside!”

“Lady Fanchere, it would be best if you could spare a moment of your attention,” Emma said.

But Lady Fanchere was completely focused on Aimée. “You have done nothing! Why would either one of them want to kill you?”

Emma sighed. She put the cup to her lips; then when the smell hit her, she pulled it away with a moue of disgust. “This is vile!” she exclaimed.

Both women paused in astonishment.

“Yes,” Aimée chirped. “Didn’t you know?”

“Why would anyone drink this?” With a straight arm, Emma held the cup out.

“It’s good for you!” Aimée said.

Lady Fanchere grinned, collected the cups, and gave them to a passing servant.

“So, it’s not the Aguas de Dioses water that put the roses in your cheeks?” Lady Fanchere asked Emma.

“It is most definitely not the water, my lady.” Emma wanted to scrape her tongue.

“Yet Miss Chegwidden looks so fetching this morning,” said Prince Sandre from behind them.

In a flurry, the three women turned and curtsied.

Emma kept her gaze down and wished desperately to be somewhere, anywhere, but here.

A quick glance at Aimée proved she felt exactly the same.

“Now, now, cousin.” He opened his arms and embraced Lady Fanchere, and kissed both her cheeks. “You needn’t be so formal. We’re family!”

Lady Fanchere hugged him with obvious delight. “It is good to see you, Sandre. It’s been too long.”

“You’ve been reclusive. Why is that?” He held her hands.

“She’s increasing,” Aimée piped up.

Prince Sandre started, eyes wide with surprise, then smiled broadly. “Is that true?”

“It
was
a secret,” Lady Fanchere said crushingly.

“But such good news. Congratulations to Fanchere at last.” He kissed her cheeks again, then turned to Aimée and embraced her, too. “As for you, little cousin—still saying too much about that which should be kept silent. Such indiscretion could get you killed.”

He sounded genial, but the words were cold, and Aimée shrank as if he’d slapped her.

Emma shrank, too, at his public reprimand of Aimée, and because she recalled last night and his visit and the way his eyes had turned to ice when he spoke of the Reaper. The more she heard, the more she realized Sandre was a truly frightening man.

Lady Fanchere put her arm around Aimée’s shoulders. “I don’t mind, Sandre. The truth will be obvious soon enough, and dear Aimée has been nothing but kind and helpful since she arrived at my home, saddened by Rickie’s death.”

Prince Sandre’s mouth tightened. “Yes, Rickie’s death was a tragedy, and one I promise will not be repeated. We almost caught the Reaper last night. The net is closing.”

“So it’s true? He was here?” Lady Fanchere looked suddenly tired, as if that news were more than she could bear.

Emma took her arm. “My lady, if you would . . . You’ve walked enough, and there are seats in the atrium. Let’s go there, and I’ll find you a cup of water, cold water, from the glacier.”

“That would be pleasant,” Lady Fanchere acknowledged.

“Let me clear the way.” Prince Sandre walked briskly toward a group of Moricadians relaxing on chairs in an alcove. He spoke to the occupants. They scattered. And in only seconds, Emma was able to place Lady Fanchere in a cushioned chair with a view of the glacial wall of ice and the stream that raced from beneath its icy toes.

“Thank you, Sandre. That was very good of you.” Lady Fanchere rubbed the small of her back.

Aimée chafed her hand.

Emma put her shawl around her shoulders.

“I’m not an invalid, you know,” Lady Fanchere objected.

“No, just well loved.” Aimée’s plump, pink cheeks and sunny smile made a mockery of her black mourning gown.

Lady Fanchere lightly touched her arm. “You’re a dear. Now.” She turned to Prince Sandre, and her eyes were unexpectedly severe. “Emma tried to tell me something earlier, and I wasn’t listening. But you seem to know my dear Emma, and I wonder how.”

Emma winced and said, “I should have told you immediately, but—”

Lady Fanchere interrupted, “I asked Prince Sandre for his explanation.”

Emma subsided, so embarrassed at the reprimand and the coming tale, she could do nothing but sit with her hands twisting in her lap.

But Prince Sandre was more than glad to answer Lady Fanchere. He posed, a hand on one hip, and said,

“It is true. Coward that he is, last night the Reaper chose to hide among the weakest and gentlest of the people in Moricadia. He ran upstairs into the servants’ wing—”

“Where you are housed, Emma?” Lady Fanchere asked.

“Yes, my lady,” Emma said in a small voice.

Almost without pause, Prince Sandre plunged on. “And I ran after him, my men on my heels. He hid—”

Lady Fanchere interrupted again. “But not in your room, Emma?”

“I heard the boots thumping as the prince’s men searched,” Emma said.

“Although we searched all the rooms,” Prince Sandre continued, “we didn’t find him. He escaped, and now it is up to us to bring him down.”

“You can’t take down a ghost!” Aimée said. “He’s ephemeral.”

Prince Sandre turned on her, his face savage with impatience. “I have a plan.”

Emma lifted her head and considered him, eyes narrowed. A plan? He had a plan?

“Dear Aimée, don’t be silly.” Lady Fanchere pressed Aimée’s arm with her hand, and at the same time stared reproachfully at Sandre.

Once more, he donned the facade of the noble warrior. “Silly Aimée. You’re so childlike in your belief, almost as if you were Moricadian yourself.”

Aimée tried to speak again.

Lady Fanchere shushed her.

Emma took a breath. Took another breath. Then inserted herself into the conversation. “Your Highness, won’t you tell us about your plan to capture the infamous Reaper?” She was surprised to hear herself sound so calmly interested and so . . . so . . . composed, as if she regularly made conversation with royalty and noblewomen. Had it been only three days ago that she’d massaged Lady Lettice’s feet?

Yet Lady Fanchere cast her a grateful glance, as if Emma had planned her intervention to save Aimée from censure.

And Prince Sandre smiled at her, a man proud of his intentions and the woman who invited him to proclaim his wiliness. “A good question, Miss Chegwidden. Tonight and every night until we hold him crushed in our fist, my men will wait at the crossroads between the lower city and the castle. They’ll place a rope across the road, wait on either side, and when they see the Reaper galloping close, they’ll pull the rope tight. The horse will fall, the Reaper will be flung to the ground, and we’ll capture him. And hang him, of course.” He paused, waiting for praise.