In Bed with the Duke (19 page)

“Y
ou’ve returned.” Lord Fanchere helped the ladies out of the traveling coach. As he kissed his wife, he said, “You appear to be blooming.”

Lady Fanchere laughed and returned his kiss. “It was a wonderful retreat. Aimée no longer feels burdened with grief.”

Lord Fanchere kissed Aimée’s forehead and nodded as if he had never believed that to be an issue. “I was almost glad to hear the prince had ordered a ball, knowing that would bring you home to me.” His gaze shifted to Emma, and he nodded brusquely. “And with a new project.”

Lady Fanchere tucked her hand in his arm. “I can’t wait to tell you all about it.”

“I’ve heard rumors,” he said, and led her into the house and up the stairs.

Brimley directed the flow of trunks into the house.

Emma curtsied to him.

He seemed not to notice.

Aimée and Emma entered the grand foyer. Servants flowed around them, carrying garment bags and hat-boxes and everything new from Madam Mercier.

As they removed their hats and handed them to a maid, Aimée drooped with discouragement. “Now I have to decide what to do. Countess Martin spoke to me again, and warned me to stay away from cliffs and high places. Look around!” She gestured out the window. “All of this country is cliffs! Nowhere is safe for me. Except here. I never want to leave. As long as I’m with Eleonore, he doesn’t dare hurt me. But I can’t stay forever!”

“You’re speaking of Prince Sandre?”

“Yes. As long as I stay in Moricadia, my life is in danger. I know Eleonore doesn’t believe me, but it’s true. Sandre is going to kill me.”

“
I
believe you.” On the ride back, Aimée’s unhappiness had become increasingly apparent, and Emma had pondered her plight. “If I understood correctly, when you married Rickie de Guignard, you had a fortune.”

“I was an heiress.”

“Do you know, is the fortune intact?”

“I don’t know anything about it. He never allowed me that knowledge.”

“Perhaps you could ask Lord Fanchere to find out, and if there is a fortune, you could ask him to help you send funds ahead so you could go to Greece, or England, or anywhere beyond Prince Sandre’s reach.”

Aimée stared at Emma, dumbfounded. Slowly, a sparkle grew in her eyes. “I could do that, couldn’t I? I’ve always wanted to go to Italy.”

“You have no children to hold you here. Why not go and spend the winter wrapped in sunshine?”

“He would help me, I know he would, and that is the exact right solution!” Aimée embraced Emma.

“You are the smartest, kindest girl in the whole world! I’m not even going to unpack, and when Fanchere is finished greeting his wife”—she winked—“I’ll speak with him!”

Emma watched her trot up the stairs, and drew in a sigh of relief. At least she knew she’d done one thing right. Removed from Prince Sandre’s influence, Aimée would live a long and happy life.

“Miss Chegwidden?” A young girl of perhaps eight or nine curtsied before her. She was a pretty thing in a miniature maid’s costume, with a white mobcap too large for her small head, and a large white apron tied around her waist twice.

Emma couldn’t place the girl until she saw the sling that bound her arm against her side. “Elixabete! How good you look. How clean!” Perhaps not the most tactful thing to say, but without the grime that had encrusted her, Elixabete was a handsome child, if still far too thin.

Elixabete wasn’t offended. She grinned, showing strong white teeth.

“Lady Fanchere employed you, then?”

“Yes, ma’am, and Mr. Brimley has been most solicitous of my injury.”

Remembering the spy who had reported her visit to the city, Emma asked, “Is your mother well?”

“She is most well, thank you, and she told me to tell you something.” Elixabete glanced around and lowered her voice. “If ever you need help with anything, call me. I will do anything for you. You saved me, my mother, and my sister, and we pay our debts.”

Emma stared at the child. She was so young, so small, and yet she understood the need for subterfuge, for secrecy, and most of all, she understood loyalty. Emma wanted to assure her that she would never need anything, and yet . . . she was involved, so involved, in the troubles of this country. Someday, perhaps she might need to pass a message or send for help, and although her conscience might prick her, she would do it . . . to save the Reaper. “Thank you, Elixabete. I will remember that.”

“You’re back!” Michael Durant stood in the door of the library. His voice was low, scratchy, but he projected it across the breadth of the entryway.

“My lord, how good to see you.” Emma folded her hands primly before her.

“You look well.” He surveyed her from head to toe, noting her new garments. “You look very well. Aguas de Dioses must have agreed with you.”

“Yes, thank you, it did.”

“Go on, Elixabete.” Durant pointed toward the servants’ quarters. “Before someone sees you speaking with Miss Chegwidden. You know it’s better if you appear not to know her.”

What an odd thing to say. Or perhaps not so odd; Durant seemed to comprehend Elixabete’s situation better than anyone.

“Yes, my lord.” Elixabete curtsied and whisked away, a sprite in a big brown dress.

“What brought you back?” He advanced on Emma, curiosity dancing in his lively green eyes.

“Lady Fanchere received an invitation to the prince’s ball tomorrow night, and so we returned to prepare.” She hesitated, reluctant to tell him everything, but what was the use of hiding the truth? He was going to find out somehow, and better if he heard it from her. “Actually, I received an invitation, too.”

“You did?” Imperiously, he gestured her into the library.

She found herself obeying him without question. He had an air of command about him, and she remembered he was, after all, the son of a duke and a privileged member of English society.

He indicated a love seat by the window.

She placed herself in one corner.

He placed himself in the opposite corner, not three feet away. In a stern tone, he asked, “Since when does Prince Sandre invite a paid companion to one of his royal dances?”

She felt as if she were facing a strict older brother. “He wishes to court me.”

“Have you lost your mind?” His voice rasped with dismay.

She expected him next to point out the chasm between a prince and a serving girl.

Instead, he said, “Have you not heard of his cruelties, his excesses? You can’t marry a man like that. You would be miserable living with him, and die an early death while under his thumb. Believe me. Many have.”

She stared at him, wondering at the way he leaned forward, at the shadow that darkened his eyes and the intensity with which he spoke. She wanted to assure him she knew all those things, and that she had an ulterior motive.

But how would that improve matters between them? He’d warned her about getting involved in the situation here. He would hardly approve of her helping the most wanted man in Moricadia.

Most important, she could never hint that she had met the Reaper.

“Lady Fanchere is quite enthusiastic about Prince Sandre.” Emma was very good at being noncommittal; she had learned the art while working for Lady Lettice.

“Lady Fanchere is a kind woman who sees the best in everyone, and she’s related to your beloved prince.”

“I know.” Emma glanced out the window. The sun was starting to sink below the horizon. She needed some privacy, some time to prepare in case, just in case, the Reaper somehow managed to follow her here. “I comfort myself that the prince can court me, but I don’t have to accept.”

“Once Prince Sandre has indicated his intentions, and the rest of the country knows about it, do you believe you can walk away from him?”

“Until I agree—”

Durant snorted. “My dear, even you can’t be that naïve. If you dared refuse him, he would hunt you down and bring you back, and make you pay for humiliating him.”

He chided her so passionately, she wavered, then remembered again—the Reaper. She was doing this to help the Reaper. “Surely it’s not so desperate as you paint it.” Jumping to her feet, she said, “I must go. It’s bedtime.”

Durant looked outside in astonishment. “It’s still light!”

“I’m tired. From the journey.”

He stood tall, unsmiling, forbidding. “I suppose you want a good night’s sleep so you’ll be fresh for the ball tomorrow night.”

“Of course.”
Good excuse.
“Yes!”

“You know, at one time, I had thought of courting you myself.”

“Don’t be silly.” She laughed.

He didn’t. “But what’s a man who will someday inherit a dukedom when compared with a prince of a small country?”

Her amusement faded. “I don’t believe you, but even if I did—why would you imply such a cruel thing?”

“Cruel? For what other reason than the desire for wealth and security would a woman like you marry such a man as Sandre de Guignard?”

The scorn with which he spoke caught her by surprise, and so did the rage that lifted her like a wave rising on the incoming tide. Lunging at Durant, she said, “You know nothing of what a woman
like me
desires. You’ve never been so poor that if you didn’t obtain a position, you would have to work the streets as a prostitute. You’ve never rubbed a minor noblewoman’s smelly feet, knowing full well that when she was satisfied, she would kick you away. You’ve never wandered in the forest, so cold and lost that lonely death beckoned and you wanted to run to its arms.” She gestured widely. “Yes, you were in prison for two years, but you put yourself there. Women
like me
are placed in this prison of poverty and desperation through no volition of our own, and we live and die there without hope of ever escaping. So don’t judge me, my lord. You know nothing of my motivations.”

“Emma . . .” His hand rose as if to cup her cheek. He stared into her angry eyes. . . .

And for a moment, she had the oddest feeling of familiarity . . . and fear. What was it about this man that made her react so violently to his disdain?

Then the wave of fury crashed around her, and she didn’t care. Turning, she flounced out of the library.

A
s Emma hurried to her bedchamber, she wiped a few angry tears off her hot cheeks.

How dared Durant speak to her so critically? What did he know about women “like her”? His whole life had been one of privilege. Or at least, until the last two years it had been a life of privilege. Stupid to care about his opinion when he stayed here in Moricadia, lazing about, doing nothing to relieve his family’s worry; he was a man of little honor or loyalty.

Yet she couldn’t forget that he had been kind to Elixabete and Damacia, and she knew that in another time and place she would have been enchanted by his interest in her.

Oh! She couldn’t make sense of that man. First he was indolent. Then he was kind. Then he implored her to stay away from Prince Sandre for her well-being. Then he accused her of being nothing better than a strumpet, trading her body for money.

She started up the second stairway to her bedroom in the servants’ quarters when Tia stopped her. “Miss Chegwidden, do you remember me? I’m the maid who helped you on your first day here.”

“You’re Tia.” And Tia was acting oddly, not looking at Emma, pretending to be subservient to the extreme. “What’s wrong?”

“Thank you for your graciousness.” Tia curtsied. “I’m here to assist you. Your chamber has been moved.”

“Moved?” Emma scrubbed her handkerchief over her red eyes. “Why moved?”

“Those were my instructions, ma’am. If you would follow me . . .”

Emma glanced up the narrow stairway, then hurried to catch up. “All right, but I’ll need to get my belongings. . . .”

“I transferred everything to your new chamber. There was not so much that I needed help.” Tia said the words with such a lack of inflection, they were a criticism that made Emma wince.

“No, I suppose not.”

The maid led Emma down a broad corridor hung with oil paintings and gilt- framed mirrors, and stopped before a wide door. Opening it, she waited while Emma entered.

Emma gaped at the large, sumptuous room. An oriental rug of brown, red, and cream covered much of the polished wood floor. A mirror hung over the dressing table covered with creams and cosmetics. A red velvet chair sat on one side of a fireplace set with wood.

While Emma watched, Tia knelt and lit the fire. “It’s warm for a fire,” she ventured.

“As the sun goes down, the evening will grow chilly, and you’ll want the heat after your bath.”

Tia closed the amber drapes of velvet hung at the windows and opened the bed curtains to reveal the massive bed. Going to the tall wardrobe, she opened it and said, “I’ve hung your gowns here, and your under- and nightclothes are here.” She showed Emma the drawers. “I’ve taken the liberty of laying out one of your nightgowns and a robe.” She gestured toward the bed.

Emma gawked at the white lace-trimmed garments.

A soft knock rattled the door.

“That would be the water.” Tia let a procession of serving maids carrying steaming buckets into the room. Two burly scullery maids followed lugging a huge tub.

Brimley stood in the entrance, holding a cold supper laid out on a tray. He handed it to Tia, who placed it on the table beside the bed. Then as she directed the placement and filling of the bath, Brimley asked, “Is all to Miss Chegwidden’s satisfaction?”

She stared at him, horrified.

He used his most proper stuffy-butler tone, and he wouldn’t look at her.

This was why he hadn’t spoken to her as she entered the château. Clearly, he was indicating his loss of respect for her.

He had come up especially to indicate his loss of respect for her.