Loving the Earl: A Loveswept Historical Romance (9 page)

Claire looked at the closed door in disbelief. He did
not
just lock her in here. Another twist of the knob shattered her disbelief. Yes, he certainly had. The despicable rogue!

She paced the length of the sumptuous room. If he even thought she would be here when he returned, he would be sadly disappointed. She wasn’t staying in this … this luxuriously appointed
brothel.

Oh, she knew who those women were and what they were doing down there. Of all the cheeky nerve of Nathan Ferguson to lock her in such a place. Why, if word got out, her reputation would be ruined.

Then again, if word got out that she was traveling alone with him, her reputation would be ruined. Oh, bloody hell, sneaking off to Paris alone likely ruined her reputation.

She looked around the room, at the enormous bed covered in gold brocade with matching bed curtains and pillows. At the heavy white furniture trimmed in gold leaf. Quickly she made her way to a desk and yanked open the drawers. Quills and paper and pencils fell out but no key. Of course. She really hadn’t expected it to be that easy.

She hurried to the window and threw up the sash to see Nathan walk out of the house.

“Nathan Ferguson!” She didn’t care if she sounded like a fishmonger’s wife, or that the two men making their way up the front steps stopped and stared at her openmouthed.

Nathan looked up as well.

“You unlock that door this minute. This is unacceptable and … and … and …”

The two men snickered and leaned on their walking sticks as if they were watching an exhibition.

“Stay put, Claire.” Nathan hoisted himself into the coach and shut the door behind him.

Fuming, Claire could only watch helplessly as the coach rattled off, her lone piece of luggage still tied to the top of it.

One of the men whistled at her, the other offered several suggestions of what he could do to help her pass the time. Mortified, she ducked back into the room and slammed the window shut with enough force to rattle the panes, praying that the man didn’t follow through with his
suggestions.

She set to pacing until her legs grew tired and she collapsed into a chair so plush that she sank another few inches and feared she’d never get out without help.

“Of all the …” Words failed her and she put her head in her hands, that all-too-familiar feeling of despair overtaking her. “How do you get yourself into these situations, Claire?” She spoke the words but they may as well have been spoken by Sebastian, who’d said them enough times that they seemed to be engraved on her brain.

She always started out with the best of intentions but things always fell to pieces. Tonight was just another disappointment in a long line of them. All she wanted was to see Paris on her way to Venice. Was that so difficult to accomplish?

Nathan stared at the dirty piece of paper in his hand.

He looked around the dark, dank alley. Instead of finding his contact and finally getting some answers to his questions, he found the piece of paper. Had this been the plan all along or had something gone awry to spook his contact? Other than the business with Claire, which was completely unrelated, Nathan could think of nothing that would have scared his source away.

Nevertheless he inspected the alley one more time. The heels of his boots clicked an even staccato, the noise bouncing off the filthy buildings. Rats scurried out of his way, some nearly across his boots, but he paid them no mind.

He wanted to throw back his head and howl his frustration at the half moon that shed its meager light on the cobbled stones. He wanted to search the area looking for …

He didn’t know what the bloody hell he was looking for.

All he had was a missive sent to his home in London. A cryptic message that promised he would learn the truth about his father’s death if he traveled to the most dangerous part of Paris to a forgotten alley that boasted nothing but rotting vegetation and disgusting odors.

He turned on his heels and headed back to the coach. He’d had to bribe the driver to wait for him and now he prayed that the man was true to his word. Nathan emerged from the shadows and to his relief noted the coach still there, the driver looking anxiously around. Even the horses shifted uneasily.

The hair on the back of Nathan’s neck prickled and he quickly looked behind him. There was nothing there save the light fog that hugged the damp ground. Still he peered closer, sure that someone had been watching him. Was it his contact? Or had something nefarious happened to the letter writer?

He turned back toward the carriage. “Back to the Marquis de Marchant’s residence,” he instructed before entering the coach and collapsing inside.

The conveyance lurched forward as Nathan smoothed out the wrinkled parchment, reading it by the lamplight one more time. It gave no clues other than an address in Cannaregio Sestiere, one of the many Venetian neighborhoods.

In a way he shouldn’t have been surprised that he was going to Venice. It was, after all, the last city his father visited before returning home, and the playground of England’s wealthy. And yet he
was
surprised. Surprised and frustrated. Why bring him all the way to Paris when Venice was the real destination?

Or was it?

He drew out the original missive and compared the handwriting. Exactly the same. Even the cheap parchment was the same.

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Should he do it? Should he travel to Cannaregio Sestiere as the second letter said? And what if he arrived to find another letter? How long was he willing to let this game go on?

He opened his eyes and peered out the window, uneasy with the thought that someone might have been watching him in that alley.

He pulled out his flask to take a deep drink then looked at the two papers lying on the seat beside him. Who was he fooling? He wasn’t ready to abandon this game.

Nathan entered Gaudet’s home, the feeling he was being watched still with him.

Gaudet greeted him with a big smile, pounded him on the back and handed him a drink. Automatically Nathan took it and sipped, the fine champagne traveling smoothly down his throat.

“There is a good game of faro in the card room,” Gaudet said. “High stakes. Just as you
like, no?”

Nathan looked toward the room Gaudet referred to. This was what he needed—good wine and a card game with enough high stakes to take his mind off his troubles.

“I must check on Lady Chesterman first.”

Gaudet waved his hand in the air and made a dismissive sound. “She is well. Locked safely in her room and undisturbed, just as you have ordered. She will sleep the night away and you will play cards with us. Like old times, eh?” The lure of the game called to Nathan. He looked at the steps, then at the room where he could hear the cards being shuffled. That was how he knew it was a serious game, by the near silence that came from the room. Even the ladies of the night steered clear of the goings on in there.

“Let me check on her first.” He handed his glass to a passing footman and bounded up the steps, the desire for the game nearly drowning out his other thoughts. He didn’t need the money anymore, but that didn’t mean the cards weren’t in his blood. It was what he was good at, what he excelled at. And what he loved above all else.

He stopped outside Claire’s door and listened for any movement on the other side. He didn’t know what he was expecting. Incoherent weeping? No, Claire probably wasn’t one to weep. Rather, she’d come after him with some sort of weapon, which made him hesitate to open the door.

Not hearing anything, he tried the knob and found the door still locked, which had him breathing a sigh of relief. He looked toward the stairs, then the door. It was far past midnight. In a few hours morning would burst forth. No doubt Claire was sleeping soundly.

Still, he had to see for himself.

He fished the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. He opened it slowly, cautiously, expecting the unexpected. The room was doused in shadows. A lone candle flickered by the bed, revealing a large lump in the middle of it.

Claire, fast asleep on the bed. Just as he suspected.

Conscience cleared, he headed for the gaming table.

Claire thought she heard the door latch but when she arose from the too-comfortable chair and
turned around, the door was still closed and, much to her disappointment, still locked. Blowing out a frustrated breath, she made her way to the bed and straightened the pillows she’d tossed about in a fit of rage. It wasn’t Gaudet’s fault she was trapped in his home, and she wasn’t about to punish his servants by making them clean up after her childish tantrum.

Once that was finished, she looked about the room for something to do. There was nothing. No books to read, no newspapers, although she doubted she could read the French newspapers, no embroidery, even though she despised any sort of stitching work.

She made her way to the window and leaned her head against the pane. Nothing of interest was happening outside. It was too early for people to start heading home. In fact, for most of the revelers, she suspected the night was still young.

If only Lord Blythe would return soon.

She lifted her head, squinting to get a better look out the window. Was that …? Certainly it couldn’t be …

Yes, it was most definitely their carriage. She would recognize her trunk anywhere. He was here, the blighter! He was here and he hadn’t come to fetch her like he promised.

She spun around and headed for the door. If he was waylaid because of some card game, she would drag him out by his ear. See how he liked to be ushered about and told what to do.

Claire grabbed the doorknob and yanked, pulling up short before she slammed into the still-locked door. With a cry of frustration she balled her fist and hit the thick, heavy wood. Pain shot through her fingers and down her wrist but she paid it no mind. Fury built inside her until she feared she would burst with it.

She turned back to the room. There had been many times she’d been angry and frustrated with her husband, but not nearly as angry and frustrated as she now was with Blythe.

Nathan Ferguson was not about to get the best of her. She merely had to bide her time.

After all, he couldn’t leave her in here forever.

Eventually the lock on the door clicked and the knob turned. Claire bounded from the chair and rushed to the door, arms raised, a cudgel clutched in her sweaty hands. Well, not really a cudgel but the next best thing. Gaudet would be very unhappy to see that she was using the beautiful vase from atop the mantel. She’d pay him back. Somehow.

The door opened a fraction then stopped as if someone were peering in. Claire waited, not willing to act too soon. Yet acting too late would be a serious mistake as well. She had to wait for the perfect moment, when Blythe would be inside the room but not so far that he would see her.

He would never know what hit him.

The door opened farther and he shuffled in. Claire swung with all her might, putting every bit of muscle into it, like all those times that she and her brothers played with sticks and balls in their mother’s garden.