Mad for Love (14 page)

Henri was too good a servant to raise his brows at such a hoydenish plan—she had never in her life taken dinner from home without her father—but she could feel and hear Henri’s approbation in his restraint. “Very good,
Mademoiselle
. I shall tell
Monsieur le Comte
when he returns. He went out, for a walk, he said. I fear he was quite low,
Mademoiselle Mignon.
”

It was a token of Henri’s concern that he had let himself lapse into such familiar address. “Yes, I fear so, too, Henri. But pray tell him, if you will, that all will be well. And that I am this moment seeing to the matter of his difficulty.”

Henri nodded in his solemn, if not quite believing, manner. “If you say so,
Mademoiselle
.”

She did say so. She was quite determined.
 

Yes. There. She had almost convinced herself.
 

But before Henri could pull open the door, the brass knocker sounded without.

As she had expected no visitors this afternoon, she was more annoyed than alarmed. Still the interruption had her nervy heart clattering away in her chest like an out of time team of horses—unless that sound of horses was real, and was Mr. Andrews come to collect her instead of meeting her at Somerset House as they had arranged. Best to be sure.

“Pray, unless it is Mr. Andrews come to collect me, please tell whomever it is that I am not at home,” she instructed Henri before she hid herself out of sight behind the doorway to the salon, where she could listen while Henri opened the portal.

“Good evening, my lord,” was Henri’s elegant greeting of the unseen caller.
 

“The Duke of Bridgewater to see Mamselle Blois,” was the response.

Oh, of all the people! Mignon had absolutely no desire to see the Duke of Bridgewater, and even less to hear him mispronounce her name.

“I am sorry, Your Grace.” She could almost hear Henri’s deep, respectful bow. “
Mademoiselle du Blois
is not at home.”

“Not at home, or not at home to visitors?” She could hear the jolly confidence in His Grace’s tone—who refused to see a duke? “Send up my card. She’ll see me.”

“I am deeply sorry,
Monsieur le Duc
. But
Mademoiselle
is not at home, Your Grace.”

There was a minute pause while his grace pondered an imponderable—that she might not actually want to see him—before he spoke. “I’ll wait.”

No, no, no.
 

But Henri was already out of his considerable depth, because His Grace had already blustered his way through the salon door behind which she was hiding, and was making himself comfortable in her father’s wing chair closest to the hearth.
 

Which meant she had two choices—she could either stay hidden and hope that he grew too bored, or she could bluster her own way out of—

“Ahh. There she is! Your man said you’d gone out.” His Grace of Bridgewater had already spied her, and was on his feet, advancing upon her apace.

“Oh, good evening, Your Grace.” Mignon fussed with her skirts and parcel, as if she had had business behind the door. “I am on my way out, but I forgot something.” She lifted her carefully wrapped parcel as evidence. “Thank you, Henri, I will show His Grace out on my way.”

“No, no,” the duke insisted. “Can’t go yet. Made up my mind, y’see? Have to do it while the blood’s high.”
 

Whatever it was he had to do with his blood high involved clasping her hand in an alarmingly familiar manner.
 

Mignon attempted to free herself from his unwelcome grasp. “Your Grace, I do not think it is advisable to do anything while the blood is high. You might do yourself a fatal injury.”
 

He did not take her suggestion to heart. Nor did he surrender her hand. “Fear not. It’s only a short speech, don’t you know.”

“I do not know, but I am afraid I have not got the time to find out. You see—”
 

But he was already leading her toward the chaise. “Oh, you French girls—not a moment to waste, what? So I shan’t waste your time.” He clasped her hand in his in that alarmingly familiar fashion, and came right to his point. “I am come so you might do me the honor of making me the happiest man alive.”

Mignon felt as if she had stepped too close to a fire—the prickly heat of embarrassment was the same. “Oh,” she tried to smile over her confusion, for politeness’ sake. “How might I do that, Your Grace?”

“By marrying me, of course.”

It was as if he had gifted her with an exotic elephant on a lead line—Mignon did not know when she had been more astonished, or more ill-prepared to accept.

Except every time she had spoken with Mr. Andrews, of course.
 

But his large grace, the Duke of Bridgewater, was certainly no Mr. Andrews. “Marriage? But we—” She struggled for an excuse. Any excuse. “But I hardly know you, Your Grace.”

The duke waved her concern aside. “What does that signify? You know I’m a duke. You’ll get to know me. What the engagement’s for, what?” He was everything confident and jolly—completely assured of his success.

And she had to disappoint him. And soon. She had an exhibition to burgle. “But I cannot possibly get engaged to a man I have only just met, even a
duc
.”

“But you’ll be a duchess, m’dear. Thank of that.”
 

As if money and position would solve all her problems. Though they might solve many, they could certainly not solve her most pressing one.

“Yes, but I really must think about that, you see, for I do not know the first thing about being a duchess.”

“Your father is a count, is he not?”

“Well, only lately come into that title, as a courtesy”—she scrambled for excuses— “because, well, the aristocracy in France is no more.”

“Which is why we must do our best to keep you here. Bring new blood to our sceptered isle, what?”

All she had to offer the poor man was tainted blood. “I am sorry, Your Grace. I am sensible of the honor you do me, but I needs must have a good long time to consider before I can—”

“Well, dukes, and the opportunity to become their duchess, don’t grow on trees y’know, what?” He kissed her hand. “Don’t take too long, m’dear girl.”

Behind him the Sèvres clock on the mantelpiece chimed the half hour. She had only thirty minutes left to get herself to the gates of Somerset House. She’d have to run.

“Why do you not come back tomorrow, Your Grace?” With any luck, might be in a gaol tomorrow. “After I have had a chance to think, and … and talk to my father. I must speak to him, of course, before I may make a decision.”

“What a good idea! Let us both speak to him, as I’m sure—”

“No!” The last thing on earth she needed was for her darling, dishonest papa to find a duke dangling at her fingertips—Papa would fill all of Bridgewater House with his forgeries. “It is a very delicate thing with my papa. I am all he has left, you see, from the revolution.”

“All he has left, besides his marvelous collection. How can he be alone with all this magnificent art?” The duke made a thorough perusal of the salon walls—walls covered in forged paintings—as if he thought he was the one getting one up on her papa.

Oh, good luck with that—he would need an impossibly long ladder if he ever thought to get one up upon her papa.
 

But that was not what a duke wanted to hear. “Yes. Quite,” was all she could possibly say.

Unfortunately, it was the wrong thing. “I’ll take that as a yes!” His grace beamed at her, and patted her hand.

He really was the most trying man. Even more so than Mr. Andrews.
 

Who was, no doubt, already waiting for her in the arched gateway of Somerset House. “No, Your Grace, you misunder—”

“Say no more, m’dear mamselle.” He kissed her cold hand, and patted it again, as if she were a child, or a particularly obedient and pleasant dog. “You really are just the thing.”

“I am not, Your Grace.” But the man wasn’t really listening, so she had much rather save her breath to cool more porridge, and do the most expedient thing. “You do me a great honor, Your Grace. An honor I must think about very carefully, for I fear that I am not worthy of so great and distinguished and rarefied”—that ought to please him—“an honor. I pray you would give me some time in contemplation and consultation with my dear father, who will no doubt be heartbroken at the thought of losing me.”

“Well, yes. But we’ll give him other compensations, shall we?”

They most certainly would not.
 

Because there really was only one thing that was going to compensate and please her dear papa—for her to steal the Verrocchio. And for that, the man she needed was not the Duke of Bridgewater, but a gentleman thief by the name of Mr. Rory Andrews.

Chapter Fourteen

Rory paced the length of the deep arched gate at the entrance to Somerset House and back, and still, there was no sign of Miss Blois. And if she did not arrive within the next—he consulted his watch for the hundredth time since he had arrived half an hour ago—two and one half minutes, he was going home. He was certainly not going to steal her precious statue by himself.
 

Where would be the fun, or gain, in that?

Of course, doing so might impress Miss Blois. And that would be a good thing. But if she didn’t have the nerve to come out and help him steal her own damn statue, well, he wasn’t sure she really was fit to become the mother of his future children—black-haired, light-fingered imps that they were destined to be.

As he stood grousing and cooling his badly polished heels, out on the Strand a disreputable hackney carriage was rolling to a stop, but before it could do so, its door swung open to disgorge his Miss Blois, who jumped to the pavement at a run, practically throwing coins at the driver in her haste.

“Am I late?” She was breathless, as if she had run the whole of the way from Soho Square instead of only from the carriage. And her eyes, those dark, wide, appealing eyes searched his face as if she had rather have done anything rather than disappoint him.
 

And he knew, even if that were not true—even if she was simply forgetful and rushed—he knew he would have waited for her into the dark of the evening. He would have waited even if she had not come. And he would have gone and stolen her blasted statue for her.

But she had come, and he was so very glad she had.

It would never do to tell her so. “Aye. Only just.” He let his impatience color his voice. “Where on earth have ye been?”

“Getting betrothed.”

Rory felt as if his feet had been kicked out from under him. “To whom—if I may be so impertinent as to ask?”

“To a duke.” She let out a put-upon sigh, and shook her head as if she might clear it. “It was awful. He showed up—the Duke of Bridgewater, if you please—and he would not listen to a word I spoke, nor stop his talking, and I did not want to be late, so I got engaged to him as a last resort, so I might leave, and come to you. But am I too late?” Her pale brow was flushed that angelic vermillion pink, and pleated up with her distress.

So she wasn’t actually betrothed.
 

Rory regained a little of his
sang froid
at her obvious dislike of being so importuned. Bloody duke. “It’s all right. Ye’re only just here in time.” His own relief was so profound that he had to share it with her. “In fact, the exhibition is open for another fifteen minutes, so if ye’d like to go back and actually marry him, or better yet, refuse him, I suppose I can cool my heels for—”

“Oh,
mon Dieu
. The thought is not to be borne. He only wants me to get to the Verrocchio.”
 

Rory felt a pang of something that must be his conscience. It all came back to the Verrocchio, even for him—They were all trying to get to the statue, though for different reasons.

But the darling lass had linked her arm with his in the most pleasingly familiar fashion, and was hurrying him toward the entrance. “Come, Mr. Andrews. We have not a moment to lose.”

They had a great deal more than a moment to lose, both of them—reputation, career, security, liberty. The list was inexhaustible. But still he walked on.

Within Somerset House, a highly fashionable crowd was still milling about, gathering largely near the Diana, which stood in the center of the exhibition space. He steered Miss Blois and her string-wrapped parcel through the throng, again taking note of where the Bow Street Runners who were acting as guards were stationed in doorways and at the corners of the rooms. But they hadn’t much time in which to get acclimatized—the hour of reckoning was nigh upon them.