The Marriage Trap (7 page)

Gasping, gritting his teeth, he sank back in the chair.

“I'm sorry,” she cried softly, her hands fluttering to her throat. “I should have remembered your wound. Oh, God, what have I done?”

He unclenched his teeth. “It's all right. I'm fine. It's not your fault.”

She got to her feet and studied him for a moment. “This is hopeless,” she said. She waited until her breathing had evened before going on. “We shouldn't be doing this. It's a doctor you need.”

“I don't need a doctor.” He was pressing his hand to his side, waiting for the pain to ebb. “My manservant can take care of me.”

“You have a manservant?”

He didn't want to talk about menservants or doctors. He wanted them to resume where they'd left off. If she was careful, they could manage.

One look at her convinced him it was too late. Her arms were folded across her breasts; her brows were knit in a frown. He'd missed his chance. But there would be other chances, he promised himself, and next time there would be no more dueling before he came to her.

Resigned, he said, “‘Coates' is his name. Perhaps you'd be good enough to call him. His room is at the end of the hall.”

“Yes,” she said. “I can do that.”

To his great surprise, she kissed him swiftly, then she quit the room.

He heard her knocking on Coates's door. He didn't need a doctor. A wadded towel bound tightly under his arm and across his chest would do the trick. Ash had already taken care of the wound before they went to the café, so there was little chance of infection setting in.

The minutes dragged by and at last Coates appeared. Jack looked over his manservant's shoulder. “Where is the lady?” he asked.

“She left.”

Jack knew that she would not leave without her bag of money and that was in the very chair in which he sat. He felt behind him. There was no bag. He slowly hoisted himself to his feet. The bag wasn't there or anywhere else he looked, nor were her gloves or mask.

It took a moment for him to grasp the situation. The witch had tricked him! She'd slipped the bag from the chair when she was taking off his coat, then had concealed it on her person before she kneeled in front of him. Her passion was a sham! So sweetly giving, so soft and pliant, be dammed! The only thing on her mind was money. Wasn't that just like a woman? She'd probably thought that he would steal it from her!

Coates coughed.

“What?” asked Jack, none too civilly.

“She left you a note, my lord.”

Jack took the proffered piece of paper. It was no ordinary note, but a banknote in the sum of one thousand francs.

“She wrote something on it,” Coates ventured to say, “after I gave her your old cloak to wear.”

Jack went to the candle and read aloud, “For services rendered, thank you. Aurora.”

He stared at the banknote long and hard, then his shoulders began to shake. He looked at Coates. “At least we know she's not a fortune hunter.”

“She told me to bring bandages and a towel to bind up your wound.”

“In a moment.”

He crossed to the window and looked out. Things had quieted down. It took a moment for him to find her.

As he watched, she turned and gave him a little wave. Then she disappeared through the gate to the rue de Rivoli.

She shouldn't be too hard to find. A few discreet inquiries about the beautiful English girl who went by the name of “Aurora” would soon track her down.

One of the gendarmes stationed at the entrance to the courtyard hailed a hackney for her after she explained, in her flawless French, that she was an actress employed at the theater. She told the driver to drop her off at the Tuileries, climbed in, then sank back against the banquette with her evening bag tucked tightly under her arm beneath her borrowed cloak.

All things considered, she thought she'd got off lightly. Her garments were crushed, but a warm iron would soon take care of that. The main thing was, she still had her money. She was lucky. The ruse she'd used to get her money back had almost cost her her virtue. That's what came of playing with fire. She hadn't realized, hadn't known, how a man's touch could addle the brains of an intelligent woman.

She removed one glove and touched her fingers to her lips. Her lips felt swollen, her body was still humming, her skin was hot. She was beginning to understand what made some women lose their heads over men. They weren't wicked; they were beguiled. Perhaps, like her, they'd been surprised by their first taste of passion and hadn't understood its power. Now that she did understand it, she'd make sure never to behave so recklessly again.

She rested her head against the banquette and closed her eyes. It had started innocently enough. Her one thought was to get her pochette and leave. But something else was at work in her. The thought that Jack saw her as a desirable woman had gone to her head and, just as though she were that silly schoolgirl again, she'd acted out her favorite fantasy.

Her gloves had saved her. In the heat of the moment she'd put her full weight on them as she kneeled in front of him and the pressure from one tiny glass button had made her flinch in pain. That's what had brought her to her senses. That's when she had deliberately pressed her hand to Jack's wound.

At least she knew now that kissing Jack Rigg was everything she'd imagined as a girl and more.

A smile flickered at the corners of her lips when she felt her toes curl. Every woman should have a kiss like that to remember. She was taking the kiss one step further in her mind when the hackney hit a pothole and brought her out of her reverie. She was thankful for the interruption. It was foolish to indulge in memories that were best left undisturbed. Memories led to dreams, and those dreams were out of her reach.

Her dreams were modest. She had to earn her living until Robbie was settled in some profession, then she'd keep house for him. Naturally, she expected him to marry. If she got along with her sister-in-law, well and good. If not, she'd go back to earning her own living.

The prospect was daunting. This was not how she'd imagined her life would unfold. She'd dreamed of having her own home, a husband, children. She'd had suitors in her younger days, but their interest had waned when they realized that they were taking on not only a wife but her brother, as well.

It was no wonder that she was tempted, occasionally, to let Aurora have her head.

The moment her coach pulled up outside the Tuileries, she knew something was wrong. Across the road, the hotel blazed with lights. She'd never been out this late before, but she knew that it was too early for any of the guests to be up and about. Yet there were lights at all the upstairs windows. The ground-floor windows were shuttered, but even there lights glimmered.

Heart thudding against her ribs, she paid off her driver and walked to the corner of the next street, cut across the rue de Rivoli and made her way to the side door. She had the key ready to insert in the lock when the lock turned from the inside and the door swung open. The porter was waiting for her. She slipped her key into her pocket before he could see it, then sailed by him with a cheery, “
Bonjour,
Georges,” as though there was nothing unusual in her arriving home at this unearthly hour.

“Arrêtez!”
His tone was threatening.

“Don't you recognize me, Georges? It's Miss Hill, Lady Sedgewick's companion.”

He nodded. “They're waiting upstairs for you.”

She hoped she'd misunderstood his dialect. While he watched her with eagle eyes, she sedately mounted the stairs, but when she turned the corner, she ran like a hare.

The key to her chamber was at the bottom of her pochette. She dug around, found it, and whisked herself inside her room the moment she had the door open.

For a few moments, she stood with her back pressed against the door, waiting for her breath to even, trying to calm her chaotic thoughts.
They're waiting upstairs for you.

She'd been found out. Something dreadful must have happened in her absence, and they'd discovered she wasn't on the premises. Dear Lord, what could she say?

Georges's warning spurred her to action. The first order of business was to light a candle. That done, she took the money from her pochette and stowed it in the traveling box where she kept her stationery. Then, she began to strip out of her clothes. She could hear voices coming from a room farther down the corridor, and that made her hurry all the more.

She was undoing the buttons on her gown when someone knocked at her door.

“Miss Hill? I know you're there!” The voice belonged to Staples, Lady Sedgewick's elderly abigail. “The porter told me. Her ladyship wants to see you at once.”

Ellie took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Miss Staples had the instincts of an English bulldog. There was no escaping her, so she tried a little prevarication.

“What is it, Miss Staples? What's wrong?”

Miss Staples snorted. “It's no good pretending you don't know. At once, Miss Hill. Those are her ladyship's orders.”

“Give me a few moments to get dressed.”

“
Now,
Miss Hill. Or shall I fetch her ladyship?”

Ellie ground her teeth together. There wasn't time to get out of her dress and put on her nightgown. Reaching for her dressing robe, she shrugged into it. The rest of her costume—her overdress, gloves, shoes, pochette, along with Jack's cloak—were hastily deposited in her closet. At the last moment, she remembered to remove her silver combs and put on her embroidered slippers. When she opened the door, her stomach was in a knot.

Miss Staples's experienced eyes took her in at a glance, then she sniffed and led the way down the carpeted corridor to Lady Sedgewick's private parlor. At least, thought Ellie, the abigail wasn't spiteful to her in particular. She was like this with all Lady Sedgewick's employees. Having served her mistress before her ladyship's marriage, she thought she ruled the roost.

When she walked into her ladyship's parlor, she came to a sudden stop. Not only were the Sedgewicks there in force, but so were her Cousin Cardvale and his wife, Dorothea.

Cheeks flushed and bosom heaving, Lady Sedgewick jumped up from her chair beside the fire and crossed quickly to confront Ellie. Her voice quivered in outrage. “Lies won't serve you now, my girl. Only the truth will do. Where have you been? What have you done with Lady Cardvale's diamonds?”

It was the second question that set Ellie back on her heels. “‘Lady Cardvale's diamonds'?” she said faintly.

“Her diamond necklace!” retorted her ladyship.

Ellie's mind raced this way and that as she tried to make sense of what was happening. She knew about the diamonds. They'd been in the family for generations. Dorothea never lost an opportunity to show them off.

She shook her head. “I don't know where the diamonds are.”

She glanced at Dorothea. For someone whose diamonds had just been stolen, she looked remarkably pleased with herself. Her beauty was dark and dramatic, but spoiled, to Ellie's way of thinking, by shades of malice.

Harriet ran to Ellie and took her by the hand. She cried passionately, “Nothing will ever convince me that Ellie is a thief.”

Ellie was beginning to feel light-headed. As she swayed on her feet, Lord Sedgewick came quickly to her side and led her to a chair. “I'm sure,” he said in his calm way, “that Miss Hill has a reasonable explanation for her absence from the hotel tonight.” He ignored his wife's disbelieving snort. Looking directly into Ellie's eyes, he said gently, “You see how things are, my dear. Lady Cardvale's dressing room was broken into. Her maid was attacked and her diamonds stolen. Lady Cardvale awoke and raised the alarm.”

“The maid?” she cried.

Dorothea said hotly, “It might have been me! I practically surprised the fiend in the act.”

Ellie pressed a hand to her heaving stomach. “Don't say the maid is dead?”

“No, no.” Sedgwick spoke soothingly. “She'll be fine in a day or two, but she took a nasty knock on the head. We sent for the gendarmes and they searched the hotel. Everyone has been accounted for but you. You must see how bad this looks. The authorities will want to question you. You must tell us where you were and who can vouch for you.”

She returned Lord Sedgewick's direct look and said earnestly, “I did not steal Lady Cardvale's diamonds. I swear it.”

She looked at her cousin, who had yet to speak to her. He was sitting with his hands clasped loosely in front of him, studying his fingers with an abstracted frown. Though he was only in his late thirties, he looked much older. His brown hair was thinning; his shoulders were stooped. A “milksop” was what Uncle Ted used to call him. Marriage to Dorothea had not improved him. She was another one who liked to rule the roost.

“Cardvale,” Ellie said softly, “I swear I did not take the diamonds.”

He looked up with a smile. “I don't doubt you, Ellie, not for a moment.” Then to his wife, “Can you really see Ellie forcing the door? She hasn't the strength.”

“How did it happen?” she asked him quietly.

“The thief used the staff's staircase and forced the door into the dressing room. There was a scuffle with the maid and he went off with the diamonds, or at least, with the jewelry box containing the diamonds. We found it just outside the door. Ellie, I know you didn't do it.”

The alarm that seemed to have settled in her throat eased momentarily and she thought that this was the strangest conversation between cousins who had not seen each other in years.

“Thank you,” she said simply.

This exchange between her husband and his cousin did not please Lady Cardvale. Her voice was cold with dislike when she spoke to Ellie. “And why have you changed your name to ‘Hill'? Only someone with something to hide would do such a thing.”

“I haven't changed it.” Ellie was as cold as Dorothea. “I dropped ‘Brans' because I wanted something less pretentious when I had to earn my living. I've been known by ‘Ellie Hill' for some years now, and that's how I want to keep it, plain and simple.”

Cardvale said, “If that's what you want, Ellie, then of course you shall have it.” His voice was gentle, but the look he gave his wife was razor-sharp.

Dorothea either did not see it or ignored it. She was still on the attack. “We are still waiting to hear where you have been all night and who can vouch for you. We know you weren't in the hotel, so it's no good pretending you've just risen from your bed.” As she spoke, she rose and went to stand in front of Ellie. Her eyes made a slow appraisal, missing nothing. “Well? What have you to say for yourself?”

As though she were playing a game of cribbage, Ellie's mind began to sort through various possibilities. She dared not mention Milton and the gaming house. As for being with Jack Rigg in his rooms at the Palais Royal—that was even worse. She was thinking of pleading sleepwalking or loss of memory when Dorothea gasped.

With a shaking finger, she pointed to the hem of Ellie's gown that dipped below the edge of her warm robe. “There is blood on her nightdress!” she cried out. “My maid's blood! See now, Cardvale, how your favorite has repaid us after all we did for her.”

The silence was profound. All eyes were on Ellie. The prospect of being charged with attempted murder loosened her tongue. “I was with the Earl of Raleigh,” she said. “He will vouch for me.”

In his rooms at the Palais Royal, Jack was roaring like a caged lion as his manservant held him down while Ash Denison tipped a bottle of brandy over the wound in Jack's armpit.