In Bed with the Duke (27 page)

She paid no attention, but lightly touched the still-infected whip slash. “That looks painful. You should have had it tended.”

“I was busy.”

“Our little Miss Chegwidden has quickly made herself indispensible in the household as our physician. Next time, I’ll have her look at it.”

Jean-Pierre felt his interest stir. “Miss Chegwidden cares for the wounded?”

“She does what needs to be done. Her father was a vicar in a country parish in Yorkshire, so she became indispensible to the people of his flock, and thus indispensible to me.” Lady Fanchere smoothed her hand across her thickening waist.

“Ah. Congratulations are in order then.” Jean-Pierre kissed her cheek and shook hands with Fanchere again, but he didn’t really care that his cousin was increasing. Right now, that wasn’t important. What was important was the possibility that Miss Chegwidden was involved with the Reaper and his exploits. For what did they really know about her? Only what she had told them.

“Miss Chegwidden is quite the paragon, then, if all you and Sandre say is true.” Ever since Jean- Pierre had announced he’d shot the Reaper, Sandre hadn’t asked when he was going to be captured, or spoken of Quico’s wife, or mentioned the rapidly rising tension in the palace. He had spoken only of the silly chit with whom he’d fallen in love, boring Jean-Pierre half to death.

Perhaps Jean-Pierre should have been paying more attention. “Is she caring for the injured now?” He faked a mild curiosity when in fact he was straining to hear the reply.

Which Sandre interrupted. He appeared dressed in the uniform of commander of all Moricadian troops—troops he had never seen, as far as Jean- Pierre knew. He kissed Lady Fanchere’s cheek, but his gaze searched behind her. “Where is the lovely Miss Chegwidden?”

“I sent her to help Aimée pack up her house and the poor girl came back exhausted, so I ordered her to stay home tonight.”

Jean-Pierre’s excitement collapsed. Even this slim lead had failed him.

Sandre pulled a long face. “You shouldn’t weary Miss Chegwidden with such minor matters. Send a servant with Aimée. Better yet, send her home to pack.” He flicked a meaningful glance at Jean-Pierre.

Jean-Pierre could scarcely contain his irritation.
Yes, yes, I know. I’m to murder our cousin Aimée for you and make it look like an accident. But I’m busy right now, and Aimée is in Eleonore’s care. You wouldn’t like to have Eleonore’s illusions about you shattered, would you, Sandre?

“Aimée is very important to both Emma and me, and we wish her to enjoy at last a little of her life. If I could help her close her house and pack, I would do so, too.”

If Jean-Pierre could feel amusement—and he was beyond that—he would have felt it now, watching Sandre squirm under Eleonore’s gentle reproach.

“Yes, of course. I wish her Godspeed, too.” Sandre delivered that line with a little too much fervency.

Every minute, Jean- Pierre’s men were out searching feverishly, looking in every cave and every hovel, dragging the sick and injured out of bed to see if they had been shot, because every minute that ticked by brought them closer to Sandre’s deadline and the moment when someone’s wife or child would have to be shot. By him. By Jean-Pierre.

Meanwhile, the guests circulated, the champagne flowed, and in the gambling halls, travelers lost their wallets to Sandre’s dealers.

So as far as Sandre was concerned, all was right in the world. And for everyone in Moricadia, that was all that mattered.

Lady Fanchere patted Sandre’s cheek. “You’ll see Miss Chegwidden in three days at the Petits’ afternoon tea. You can wait that long, can’t you?”

“If I must.” Sandre bowed gracefully.

But Sandre’s eyes glowed with a peculiar combination of love and lust that meant Miss Chegwidden would suffer for every moment Sandre had to wait, and if Jean-Pierre had had any pity to spare for anyone but himself, he would feel sorry for Miss Chegwidden.

They were both caught in the claws of a monster.

“Bring them in. Bring them in.” Sandre waved to the mercenaries he’d hired to protect him from his own guard. “Don’t dawdle. I’m a busy man.”

Jean-Pierre stood, his back pressed against the wall in the guardroom, and watched as the families of his men were herded inside. Women. Children. Sobbing quietly or loudly or standing white faced. Mothers with babes in their arms and one old lady, Taverese’s mother, because Taverese had no other family for Sandre to hold hostage. She was a goodhearted soul, and even before this, she’d been nice to him. In the last three days, they’d all been nice to him, offering him food, service, sex if he would only spare their sons, their daughters.

They were like cattle to the slaughter.

And he was the killer.

Behind the line of mercenaries, the guard watched the scene.

Sandre had had them searched before he let them in. The revolution was not going to start here and now, he assured them.

No one—not the guard, not the women, not the children—could look away from the pistol Jean-Pierre held in his hand.

He’d searched long and hard for this pistol. It held small bullets, mere specks of round iron, the kind, he hoped, that would do the smallest amount of damage to muscle, bone, and nerve.

But he was gazing at a lineup of three-year-olds, of gawky adolescent boys and women who looked fragile from overwork. A small bullet . . . that could still kill, especially if he weren’t skilled. If his aim was off.

“Line up against the wall.” Sandre sounded brisk and cheerful.

Of course. Sandre had been looking forward to this for three days.

Jean-Pierre wanted to close his eyes and shoot. But he didn’t dare. He might kill somebody. A kid. A wife.

Instead, he picked his target carefully. He pulled the trigger.

Taverese’s mother slammed into the wall, blood pouring from her arm.

Taverese shrieked and cursed, and had to be restrained by the other guard from attacking Jean-Pierre.

And Jean-Pierre knew Sandre was right.

Jean-Pierre would never dare sleep again.

A
nother two nights of searching with no sleep and no success made Jean-Pierre want to shout at the brightly gowned, gregarious, and cheerful crowd at the Petits’ afternoon tea. Did they not realize the gravity of the situation in Moricadia? The prince was insane, the Reaper was unfound, and Jean-Pierre had one more night and one more day before he had to shoot another one of his guards’ family members—and there were no more old ladies to sacrifice in place of a wife or child.

Jean-Pierre took a long drink of absinthe. The old lady was still alive, but if Jean-Pierre shot somebody’s kid, he didn’t know how much longer he would be.

Hey, look. Here was Sandre, swaggering over in his uniform, come to ask if Jean-Pierre had yet to see his little flower blossom, Emma Chegwidden. And here were Lord and Lady Fanchere, dressed in their afternoon finery, headed to intercept the prince—and Miss Chegwidden was nowhere in sight.

Here was trouble.

Jean-Pierre moved into position to overhear the conversation.

“Eleonore, you promised me Miss Chegwidden would attend this party. Don’t tell me she didn’t.” Sandre didn’t sound princely. He sounded petulant.

“No, Sandre, I’m sorry.” Lady Fanchere did look apologetic.

“Because of Aimée? She’s not here because of
Aimée
?” His voice rose when he said her name.

“That’s not it at all,” Eleonore said in a soothing tone. “Aimée took her maid and went to her house alone, for I was told one of our staff was injured and Miss Chegwidden was forced to stay back to care for him.”

Sandre breathed heavily, clearly angry, yet restraining himself in front of his cousin . . . and the other guests. A few tourists and their servants had been roughly handled by the guard. Amid rumors of instability, a steady stream of travelers was leaving Moricadia, taking their wealth with them. Sandre couldn’t afford to offend any more by throwing a royal temper tantrum. “I hope, Eleonore, your servant’s injury is not serious enough to inconvenience you.”

Jean-Pierre finished his drink and found a tray of fresh absinthe thrust under his hand. He didn’t glance at the footman. He didn’t care who he was. All he cared about was the answer to his question. Stepping forward, he asked, “Who was hurt?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” She pressed her hand to her stomach. “Lately I’ve found myself squeamish when faced with the sight of blood.”

“So it
was
serious?” Jean-Pierre exchanged his empty glass for a full one.

“I believe so,” she said. “But why?”

Jean-Pierre looked around. “Where’s Durant?” He hadn’t been in the inner circle two years ago when Sandre imprisoned Michael Durant, but he well remembered that Durant had been cocky, laughing, dashing, charming the women, outfighting the men, and winning every gamble—just the kind of man to take on the role of the Reaper.

“The last ball was too much for his voice, poor fellow.” Suddenly she seemed to comprehend the direction of his questioning. With a reproving glance at Jean-Pierre, she turned to Sandre. “My prince, when he is not in our company or, with your permission, at a party, Michael Durant is locked in the dowager house, watched by our servants and guards.”

“That is true, Your Highness,” Fanchere said.

Jean-Pierre raised his eyebrows. It took a lot to move Fanchere to speech.

“You trusted me with his custody,” Fanchere said in his slow, precise voice. “I’m not fool enough to fail you.”

Precise and to the point, Jean-Pierre judged. In two sentences, Fanchere reminded Sandre that Sandre had faith in him, and subtly suggested Fanchere stood in fear of the prince and his brutal reprisals. Which, Jean-Pierre now knew, he should.

“Quite right,” Eleonore said. “We all know who holds my husband’s trust. In addition, before night, Aimée will return to our home and be there as chaperone to Miss Chegwidden, and of course, Miss Chegwidden would never do anything that she believed was wrong.”

Sandre laughed. He actually laughed. “That Michael Durant could be the Reaper might have occurred to our cousin Jean-Pierre, but I know that pitiful aristocrat. He cowers at the sight of me. And I assure you, he would not approach the woman who interests me.”

“But you put him in the dungeon because you believed he had information about the revolutionaries,” Jean-Pierre said.

Sandre turned on him impatiently. “Yes. So?”

“You never got that information from him. So he either didn’t have it, or he’s held out on you.” Jean-Pierre saw Eleonore flinch. He glanced at her.

She was looking at Sandre as if she could see him all too well, and didn’t care for the view.

“That has nothing to do with this,” Sandre said in a savage undertone. “I have no worries about him and Miss Chegwidden. Even if he dared, out of spite, to court her, no woman wants a broken man.”

The footman was still there, holding the tray, and Jean-Pierre put his glass down and quietly turned away.

Everyone knew the English were fools for the underdog, and Emma was an independent Englishwoman with the ability to heal the sick, living in a house full of Moricadian servants itching for revolution who were led by an English butler. And housed under their roof was an English nobleman who had already been involved with the revolutionaries and most certainly desired revenge.

He was glad Sandre thought Durant had been reduced to a shadow of his former self. Jean- Pierre wasn’t so sure.

Someone shook Emma’s shoulder and whispered in her ear, “Miss Chegwidden. The prince’s man is on his way.”

Emma opened her eyes and looked stupidly at Elixabete. “What?”

With increasing urgency, the child said, “Jean- Pierre de Guignard is on his way here.”

Durant’s fever had finally broken last night. He would recover, and after spending the night putting water down his throat and helping Rubio change the sweaty sheets, Emma had fallen asleep on his bed with him. Now she was tangled in his arms, staring at Elixabete, trying to make sense of what the child was saying. She eased herself free of Michael’s embrace and quietly asked, “How do you know this?”