In Bed with the Duke (15 page)

Aimée was shaking her head.

Emma couldn’t speak for dismay. Would Sandre’s scheme work? Would the Reaper die, leaving the Moricadian people without a champion?

“A sound plan, Sandre,” Lady Fanchere said. “I hope that brings an end to this terror that has stalked the land.”

Her turn of phrase displeased Prince Sandre. “The Reaper is not a terror. He is a foolish, measly coward, and I will have his head.”

In a cold, clear voice, Aimée asked, “If he’s a foolish, measly coward, then what are you that you’ve let him roam free for so long?”

Sandre turned apoplectic red from his starched white cravat to his forehead.

Emma wanted to moan. How could Lady de Guignard be so wise and so foolish at the same time?

“Aimée, I think it would be best if you went to rest. I believe you have a headache.” Lady Fanchere sounded coldly angry.

Aimée seemed startled by Lady Fanchere’s tone. She glanced up at Prince Sandre and whispered, “Oh. Yes. I do.” Standing, she curtsied, turned, and scuttled away.

“I do not know how you stand that woman,” Prince Sandre said.

Without pause, Lady Fanchere attacked. “You were in Emma’s bedroom last night?”

He sighed theatrically. “I’m afraid so, but let me offer my assurances that your companion was completely safe in my company.”

“Emma wasn’t alone with you,” Lady Fanchere said. “You said your men were there.”

Emma half closed her eyes, wondering if Prince Sandre would lie, and half hoping he did.

“It wasn’t proper for my men to be in a young lady’s room, so I sent them out.”

Lady Fanchere abruptly stood. “Sandre, if you would, I’d like a moment of your time.”

Prince Sandre nodded as if Lady Fanchere’s request didn’t surprise him. He bowed to Emma, took Lady Fanchere’s arm, and led her away.

E
mma glanced at Lady Fanchere and Prince Sandre, knowing full well she was the subject of their conversation, wondering what Lady Fanchere would say to him . . . but although her future depended on this conversation, it wasn’t what occupied her mind. Instead, she wondered how she could possibly pass a warning to the elusive Reaper.

“Miss Chegwidden?” A stranger’s voice made her turn and stare. His English was flawless. He was handsome, but in an intense, brooding way that made her think he would be an uncomfortable companion. He wore a dark suit and white linens that looked as if they had come from London’s finest tailor—and he looked not at all familiar.

“I’m Miss Chegwidden,” she acknowledged.

“How good to see you again.” He bowed with the seamless elegance of a gentleman born.

So she had met him. But where? “I fear I don’t recall ...”

“You don’t remember me. Of course, why would you?” He smiled at her as if expecting nothing more, although why this man should be modest, she didn’t know. “I’m Raul Lawrence, the son of Viscount Grimsborough. You and I met briefly at a gathering at St. Ashley. You were very young then, but somehow we had a chance to visit, and you know one of my sisters—from school, I believe.”

“Of course.” Still she didn’t recall him, or his sister, either. But she had certainly attended gatherings at St. Ashley, at Christmas and on May Day. And at her boarding school, she had met many noblewomen who noticed her only in passing. Some were kind to the rector’s daughter, others less so. Apparently his sister was one of the kind girls, so Emma pretended recollection.

“How very good to see you again. Are you visiting in Moricadia?”

“I live here.”

“Here?” She looked around the assembly room. Her gaze rested on Prince Sandre and Lady Fanchere, and once again she wondered what was passing between them that made Lady Fanchere look so solemn and Prince Sandre speak so persuasively.

“Not
here
. But in Moricadia. I own a villa not far from Aguas de Dioses. It’s a bit of a rattrap, I fear, deep in the woods without another dwelling for miles, but I make do.” He indicated the promenade. “Shall we?”

She didn’t really know him. Yet this was a public place, and he was an Englishman. This was proper, and just because she had a niggling of unease didn’t mean she shouldn’t accept his invitation. Rising, she joined him and the other members of Moricadian society as they strolled around the huge room, chatting and drinking their vile water. “What made you settle in this country?”

Mr. Lawrence waved off a footman who offered a cup-filled tray. “I’m in exile, actually. My father’s a bit of a tyrant and I take ill to his hands on the reins. For all that he successfully shoved me down everyone’s throat for years, I’m not well received among the
bon ton
.”

He sounded like a misfit, like her. Like the Reaper. “Why is that, Mr. Lawrence?”

“I’m a bastard,” he said bluntly.

He had her full attention once more.

“I’m sorry; I’ve left you speechless,” he said. “But it’s true. So I live here among a society that is more tolerant of reprobates and gamblers.”

“Is that what you are?” she asked solemnly.

“Yes. I’m a bit of a rebel, actually.” He paused significantly.

When that sank in, she turned her startled gaze on him.
Rebel?
Did he say
rebel
? Did he mean what she thought he meant?

He smiled and inclined his head. “Yes, I think you and I are both rebels.”

She stopped cold.

He put his hand on her arm and gave a little yank. “Keep walking, Miss Chegwidden, and look pleasant and
slightly
interested.”

She moved with him, thinking furiously, trying to put all the pieces together. Was Mr. Lawrence a friend of the Reaper’s?

But no. He was cruelly handsome, darkly charming. He exuded such ruthless sensuality it made her nervous to walk beside him. He was surely not a good man.

So was he a spy for the de Guignards? Had someone who had seen the Reaper run from her bedroom reported her? Was Mr. Lawrence seeking information only she could give him?

But no, for, still smiling, still suave, he said, “Last night I believe you had a lump in your mattress.”

“How do you know that?” she asked in a low, incensed undertone.

“Perhaps I’m the Reaper.”

“No, you are not.” She didn’t know how she could be so certain, but she was.

Raul Lawrence laughed deep in his chest. “Then perhaps I’m a friend of his. Because only he or a friend of his would know where exactly you hid him.”

“That’s true.” So was she wrong in her reading of his character? Again, she thought hard and long, because she had to get this right. A man’s life—
her
life—depended on it. “Or perhaps you work for Prince Sandre, and have taken him and have tortured him to make him reveal that information.”

“If Prince Sandre had taken the Reaper, you would be currently inhabiting the royal dungeon,” Mr. Lawrence said flatly.

Already she knew enough about the de Guignards to believe that. Glancing once more at Prince Sandre and Lady Fanchere, she thought their conversation was winding to a close. Certainly Prince Sandre had noticed that she was walking with a man, and was not pleased, for while he listened to Lady Fanchere, he watched them with a frown.

“Can you pass a message to the Reaper?” She kept her voice low and urgent.

“Keep walking, Miss Chegwidden.”

She forced her feet to move.

“Smile as if we’re old friends exchanging minor recollections.”

She fixed a smile on her face.

“And . . . yes, I can.”

“Prince Sandre has a scheme to trap him the next time he rides.” Quickly, she outlined the plan.

“Thank you, Miss Chegwidden. You’re most helpful. I promise this will reach his ears. And now”—raising his voice, Mr. Lawrence said—“Mrs. Andersen said she’d rather be hung for a sheep than a lamb!” He laughed aloud.

Her voice quavered when she laughed, but she did laugh, and wasn’t surprised when Prince Sandre spoke behind her.

“What a pleasant surprise to find you two know each other.”

“Your Highness.” Mr. Lawrence turned in simulated surprise. “We do indeed know each other. One of my father’s estates marches across the estate where Miss Chegwidden’s father was rector.”

Prince Sandre smiled with chilly intent. “Then you are old friends.”

“Acquaintances, rather. Miss Chegwidden is far too proper a lady for me.”

Prince Sandre seemed to like that thought. “She is, isn’t she?”

“But it’s good to hear an English voice in this strange land.” Mr. Lawrence bowed. “Since I live so close, I frequently visit Aguas de Dioses, so I hope to see you again, Miss Chegwidden.”

“And I you, Mr. Lawrence.” She smiled and inclined her head, and acted the lonely expatriate as if she’d been born to the role.

“Are you homesick?” As Mr. Lawrence left, Prince Sandre slipped into his place on the promenade, walking at her side as if they were two normal people in society.

Yet Emma looked around and saw people staring. Lady Fanchere had returned to the chair she had vacated earlier, and watched with a smile. The best society of Moricadia were watching and gossiping about the prince and Lady Fanchere’s foreign companion, and Emma hated to imagine what kind of speculation ran rampant in this room . . . and beyond. “I do miss England,” she said. “But Moricadia is a country of unsurpassed beauty, and I’ve enjoyed my stay here.”

“Your diplomacy is exemplary.” He looked ahead and smiled, as if she’d passed some unexplained test. Still in that congenial voice, he said, “I forgot to ask you last night—did you enjoy your trip to the lower city?”

“My trip to the lower city?” Emma stopped, turned to him, stared.

People walked around them as if they were pebbles in a stream.

“It was very good of you to set that child’s arm. What is her name? Elixabete? So sad that she lost her father tragically.”

Emma was horrified at this demonstration of the reach of his knowledge, and afraid he knew what Damacia had said about him, and that he would take action against her.

But he laughed amiably. “Come, Miss Chegwidden, I
am
the prince, after all, and it
is
my business to know everything that goes on in my own country.”

Who in that tenement courtyard was one of his spies? Which one of those ladies at the well had sold her soul to keep her children fed?

Emma glanced around, for the first time uneasy in this place.

Who in this room was one of his spies? Who watched and listened and reported any unusual activities to the prince and his henchmen? The thought made the back of her neck itch. “Your Highness, I just did not realize that you would trouble yourself with something so unimportant. Now, if you would excuse me . . .” She sounded abrupt, she realized, but he didn’t know her. Perhaps he thought her always so tactless.

She walked away from Prince Sandre, going against traffic, blundering past ladies trailed by their maids, and gentlemen so surprised they dropped their monocles.

She had no one else to blame but herself for this conundrum. She had chosen to rescue the Reaper. She had sat up in bed, knowing full well she was revealing herself in an enticing way, and she had attracted the attention of the most powerful man in Moricadia.

Now she had to pay the price. And she would do it gladly, because now Prince Sandre was moved to confide in her—no,
brag
to her—and she might be the one to save the Reaper from vengeance at the prince’s hands.

Prince Sandre trailed Emma to Lady Fanchere’s side. “You’re taking this too seriously. To not discover what my people are saying and doing is to neglect them.”

“I’m not one of your people,” Emma said.

“I would like to change that,” he answered.

Oh, God.
She wasn’t ready to move at this speed.

He caught her hand. “Do I repulse you?”

“No! Not at all. But you’re a prince and I’m only a servant.”

He tugged her closer. “I’m a man and you’re a woman.”

A woman who was very unused to such attentions, and yet quite aware that he sounded as if he were reciting a line in a play he had acted many times.

She pulled free. “Your Highness, to speak so to me is inappropriate.” Conscious of Prince Sandre watching her intently, she turned to Lady Fanchere. “My lady, you expressed a wish to walk outside. We should find Lady de Guignard and proceed so that you both may enjoy luncheon all the more, and your rest this afternoon.”

Lady Fanchere smiled as if amused by Emma’s careful planning. “As always, Emma, you’re the perfect companion.”

“Perhaps I might join you in your walk,” Prince Sandre suggested.

But Lady Fanchere was firm. “Tomorrow you may join us, Sandre. Today is our first full day here, and time for us ladies alone.”

Prince Sandre’s eyes flashed with impatience, but he sounded pleasant enough when he said, “Enjoy your day, then, and I look forward to tomorrow.”

L
ady Fanchere watched Prince Sandre walk away, then took Emma’s arm and headed toward the door. “Come on. We have to find Aimée.”

“Yes.” Because Aimée had a sensible attitude about Prince Sandre, and Lady Fanchere had a militant gleam in her eyes.

They marched out the door, through the square, and to their hotel. There they found Aimée sitting in the lobby, looking miserable and worried.

Uncharacteristically, Lady Fanchere seemed not to notice. She put her hand under Aimée’s arm and hauled her to her feet. “Come on. We’re going to Madam Mercier’s establishment.”

Aimée’s eyes lit up. “Shopping?”

“Yes. Come on, Aimée! You know I treasure your advice in these matters.” Lady Fanchere walked back out the door, energized in a way Emma had not yet seen.

“What are we shopping for?” Aimée asked.