Jessica’s fear paralyzed her. Then an idea flashed in her mind. If she could reduce his urges to nothing, she might be safe.
“What coupling?” she taunted. “Am I supposed to drool over a eunuch?”
His face twisted in cruel anger. With a tremendous shove, he pushed her back onto the bed. She missed the mattress, banged her head on the bedpost, and fell heavily to the floor. Lights exploded in her brain. Stunned, she lay in a heap, knowing she should do something, but she could not get her brain or body to work.
The Marquis pulled her up and tossed her onto the bed. She tried to crawl away, but he pounced on her. He straddled her and yanked up her skirt. She heard the sound of rending cloth.
“I will show you what a true man feels like, you whore,” he panted as he fumbled at his breeches. “We shall see if I am man enough for you.” He laughed viciously.
Jessica shoved at him, trying to fend him off, but he was too heavy. Her head spun. She could not think clearly. Fear turned her cold.
“Stop,” she protested. “No!” She tried to squirm away.
He caught her wrists and loomed over her, blocking the light. With a deft movement, he forced her legs apart. She felt him between her thighs, pushing at her, trying to gain entrance. Horror overwhelmed her. She screamed until her throat was raw.
The sound of splintering wood exploded into the room. The heavy body of the Marquis was swept off her. She heard a flurry of blows, the crack of knuckles against flesh, thumps, grunts and moans that indicated a fight. And then it was over. Damien had the Marquis pinned against the wall with a hand around his throat. Her attacker’s face was turning purple.
“If you even look at her again,” Damien warned, his tone cold and dangerous, “I will cut off your balls.”
Bellingham pulled at Damien’s grip around his throat with one hand. The other hand slipped into his pocket and pulled out a deadly little pistol.
“Look out!” Jessica warned.
Damien grabbed Bellingham’s wrist. The gun waved wildly back and forth as they struggled. Her attacker tried desperately to aim at Damien, while Damien fought to deflect it away. The barrel swept around and pointed at Jessica. She rolled off the bed, huddled as close to the floor as she could, and watched in horror as the Marquis forced the pistol between them. They grappled, barely moving, evenly matched in their intent, one man desperate, the other furious.
And then the pistol fired, the sound muffled by their two bodies.
The two men stood motionless. All Jessica could see was Bellingham’s stunned expression and a muscle working fiercely in Damien’s jaw. Dread and anxiety sat like two weights in her chest. Had the bullet pierced Damien? Was he bleeding from a death wound? She was paralyzed, terrified to discover what had happened.
Damien stepped back. Bellingham slumped to the floor. A large, red stain spread across the middle of the Marquis’s yellow-striped, satin waistcoat. His eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. Jessica covered her mouth with both hands, as she sobbed with relief.
Damien dropped the pistol, and, as if the world had slowed, she watched him turn to her. She could not move. Now that she knew he was still alive, now that she knew Bellingham was dead, she became aware of all her hurts. She felt a trickle of blood from her split lip, and a bruise throbbed on her temple. Her gown was ripped in several places, exposing bruises and scrapes and bare skin in intimate places. She shivered as cold from inside out seeped through her, and she curled into a ball on the floor. Damien placed his coat about her shoulders and rearranged her skirt and bodice to cover her. He pulled her up to sit on the bed, then sat beside her and dabbed the blood at her mouth with his handkerchief.
Jessica allowed him to do as he wished. She had no energy left to dissuade him and she could not stop shivering. In an expressionless tone, she said, “You’re not dead.”
His mouth quirked. “No.”
“How did you know where I was?” she asked.
“I was just arriving when I saw you go up the stairs,” he said. “Then I saw Bellingham follow you. I became suspicious, so I followed.” He pushed a stray hair out of her face.
Jessica nodded. She was relieved that Bellingham was dead. She was grateful to Damien for saving her. And very, very glad he was still alive. Yet her brain circled around one painful thought. If Damien had been discreet on the night he had kissed her when the Marquis had seen them together, or if he had left her alone as she had asked, would this have happened?
And now that she was involved in a murder, what would happen next? Would Madame banish her? How could she survive? She had no means to earn money, other than gambling. How would she be able to fulfill her obligation to Margaret and keep her brother safe?
“Jessica, are you all right? Is there something I can do?” he asked.
She gazed at him. She felt numb except for the dull ache of despair. “Please,” she pleaded, the words wrenched from her body. “Leave me alone. You have ruined everything.”
He stood swiftly, as if she had threatened him with a weapon. Before he could respond, Madame burst into the room, followed by two burly servants.
“Qu’est-ce que c’est?” she demanded. What is this? Then she saw Bellingham’s body. “Oh, mon Dieu!” She glanced from Jessica to Damien. “You protected her,” she said to him. “Merci. Now go. We will take care of this, and I will care for ma petite.”
Madame motioned to the two servants to remove the body, then she rushed to Jessica and enfolded her in her arms. As Madame crooned to her and examined her bruises, across the woman’s shoulder, Jessica watched Damien stiffen, then without a word, he turned and left.
Damien shut the door quietly behind him. All he could see were Jessica’s stark eyes in her very pale face. Her lack of tears or emotion in reaction to the horrible ordeal she had just been through disconcerted him. He’d wanted to hold and comfort her, but her stoniness prevented him. Her cold words had initially cut him deeply and yet desperation had been stamped clearly on her face. Her life was not as carefree as she wanted it to appear. Was she truly an adventuress or was there something more going on? Either way, it was his fault. Unwittingly, he had caused this attack, as she had accused. He had erred, allowing his lust to overcome his good sense. Guilt twisted through him. Even if she was an adventuress and Madame’s courier, she did not deserve what Bellingham had done. Satisfaction at the man’s death mingled with the revulsion of taking a life. He needed a drink. And he needed to decide what to do about the entrancing woman he had just saved. A woman who was fast becoming too important to him.
By the time he reached the main floor, his concern for the woman who caused the blood to sing in his veins made his decision for him. He would warn Jessica, the Lady Fortuna and possible messenger for Madame, that she was navigating through very treacherous waters. At least then, he might still be able to protect her from what could happen.
For the next several days, Jessica remained in her rooms as she recuperated from the attack by the Marquis of Bellingham. She’d won the sum of the stipend she was to deliver to Margaret the night before Bellingham’s attack, so she did not have to go back to Madame’s until after her return from Braeleigh. The Marquis was buried. The gossipmongers had enough tidbits to chew over for weeks. Jessica just wanted the nightmare to end.
The day before she was to leave for Braeleigh, a messenger arrived with a single rose and a note. He did not wait for a reply, but disappeared as soon as the items were in her hands. She thought Damien had sent them and debated whether to throw them out the window. Resentment against him smoldered and sparked. He had caused her enough problems with his arrogant pursuit. She was glad he had not been injured in his struggle with Bellingham, but as much as it pained her, she wanted nothing more to do with him.
The note remained on her dressing table with the rose for most of the morning. Finally, her curiosity overcame her anger, and she opened the parchment. It read:
A simple rose is not so simple. It hides its essence under many layers. One by one, the petals are peeled away until its heart is laid bare. Beware that all your secrets are not opened to the light. The countryside is no place for a delicate flower.
The note was signed only with the footprint of a cat.
Jessica realized it was a warning of some kind, but the reason behind it eluded her. No one except Madame knew of her secret, and she did not think Madame would betray her identity and the reason for her gambling to anyone. And no one except Damien knew where she lived in London. The signature of the cat’s paw was another puzzle. If the note had been sent by him, why be so cryptic?
Jessica threw the note and flower back onto the dressing table with impatience. She had enough things to worry about without puzzling over some silly note. She had not bled at her usual time this month. Perhaps it was because of the stress she had been under to meet Margaret’s demands. Perhaps because of the trauma of the attack by Bellingham. Or perhaps, a more likely reason, she was carrying Damien’s child. She had been stupid and careless. Now she would pay the price.
If she was truly enceinte, she would have only another three or four months before she would have to stop her visits to Madame’s because of her swollen belly. How would she manage after that? Could she swallow her pride and go to Damien to beg for her child? His child? Their child? The thought of begging repulsed her. She would not be a kept woman. She knew Margaret would disown her when she found out. What, then, would happen to Jason?
Jessica could not arrive at any acceptable solution. Putting the troubled thoughts out of her mind, she decided she would only concern herself with the present. The need for a solution was still several months away. For the moment, all she would think about was leaving for Braeleigh on the morrow. And delivering Madame’s letter to Monsieur Montaigne.
Chapter 8
Jessica’s arrival at Braeleigh was uneventful. The workers had nearly finished their refurbishing, and the house was again quiet. Margaret was obnoxious, as usual. The only change in Jessica’s normal routine was that she did not stay the night at Braeleigh. She remained only long enough to give the stipend to Margaret and visit with Jason a short while. Her relief at leaving Margaret behind was overshadowed by her regret at leaving Jason. She had to find a solution to their situation soon. A little voice in her head kept saying that Damien would help if she became his mistress. But her pride kept rejecting that advice. She was distracted when she left on horseback to deliver Madame’s letter to Monsieur Montaigne. As usual, Donny had traveled as far as the inn. She would wait for Jessica there, where they would spend the night and then travel back to London the following day.
The sun was beginning to set as Jessica rode into the yard of the house belonging to Monsieur Montaigne. She was too preoccupied, her thoughts still on Jason, to notice the unusual stillness, although she did think it strange that the gallant gentleman did not come to the door to meet her as was his custom. He knew when she was coming and always remained at home.
Her horse gave a nervous whinny as she tied it to the hitching post. Jessica calmed it, then walked to the door and knocked. When she received no answer, she tried the door. It was unlocked, so she walked in. There were no candles lit to dispel the oncoming gloom of dusk. The house was in shadow.
“Monsieur Montaigne!” Jessica called. “It is Jessica!”
There was no reply. Perplexed, she walked several steps farther and tried again.
“Monsieur! Monsieur Montaigne!” Again, there was no answer.
Jessica frowned and worried her bottom lip with her teeth. Now what was she to do? There was no one to whom she could deliver the letter. She could not wait for Monsieur Montaigne’s return, for it would be dark soon, and she had to leave for the inn. As she turned to retrace her steps to the door, something moved in a corner. She peered into the shadows. A form detached itself from the gloom and stepped into the dim light from the doorway. She fell back and gasped, her imagination turning it into a ghoul. But no. It was a man, dressed completely in black, except for his shirt, which was a startling white. His jacket was of superfine, his waistcoat of satin, his breeches of soft, black buckskin, his shirt of silk. His boots gleamed in the dull light, and the wide brim of his peasant hat placed his face deep in shadow. He wore a black, silky half-mask across his eyes.
He made a sweeping bow, then spoke in French, “Bonjour, mademoiselle. Perhaps I can be of some assistance?”
Jessica took another step back. Now that she saw she did not face a monster, her heart rate slowed, but she remained wary.
“Who are you, monsieur?” she demanded, also in French. “Where is Monsieur Montaigne? Where is his housekeeper, Madame Souchet?”
The stranger shook his head. “I regret they are no longer here. They were forced to leave on very urgent business. Could I deliver some message, perhaps?”
Jessica stilled, suspicious. Could this man be after the letter she was carrying? Had he been sent by the enemies of Monsieur Montaigne and Madame du Barré? But why? Who was he?
“No, thank you. That will not be necessary,” she answered smoothly. “I came merely to pay a visit to my friend, Monsieur Montaigne. Since he is not here, I will leave.” She began to back toward the door.
“I do not think that would be wise, mademoiselle,” he said softly in a voice edged with steel.
The dim light that was coming through the open door was cut off. She swung around. Another man, also dressed in black, blocked her escape. She turned back to the caped figure. Panic seized her. The memory of the night she was attacked by Bellingham made her shake. To hide the trembling of her hands, she clutched them together. She prayed her knees would not buckle.
“What do you want of me, monsieur?” She was surprised her voice sounded steady and strong. “I have nothing of value.”
“What one person thinks of as worthless, mademoiselle, is another person’s treasure. You are carrying something of great value to many people.”
Jessica caught the gleam of white teeth as he smiled. She raised her chin in brave defiance. She would not be fooled into handing over Madame’s private correspondence to anyone, especially this stranger who could be working for Napoleon’s Minister of Police.
“I believe you are mistaken, monsieur.” She spread her hands before her. “As you can see, I have nothing that could be of such great importance to so many.”
The man signaled to his friend blocking the doorway, who backed out and shut the door, but his departure only heightened Jessica’s apprehension. She was alone again with the man wearing the cape. He stepped toward her.
“Perhaps, if I described this important item, you would remember that you carry it,” he suggested.
He leaned negligently on the back of a nearby chair. His air of nonchalance did not fool Jessica in the least. But perhaps it would give her a few extra seconds to get to one of the rooms at the rear of the house and then make her escape through a window. She inched back a few steps.
“Yes,” she agreed. “If you could tell me what it is you want, then maybe I could help you.”
“It is a letter,” he said. “A letter from someone you know in London written to Monsieur Montaigne. Do you know of such a letter, mademoiselle?”
“A letter, monsieur?” Jessica frowned as if in thought. She was amazed at how easily she pretended with this dangerous stranger. She shook her head. “No, I know of no such letter.” She edged away a bit more. “There must be someone else coming to visit Monsieur Montaigne. He must have the letter you want.”
At her last word, Jessica turned and fled. She heard the stranger behind her. If she could only reach that doorway, she could close and lock the door on him. He was so close. Just a few more steps. He grabbed for her. She slipped away. Then into the room. He was too close for her to shut the door. To the window. His hand closed around her arm, jerked her back. Her impetus swung her about and slam
med her against the wall. The wind was knocked from her. He held her, face to the wall, pinned by his body, one hand pressed against the wall on either side of her.
She tried to wriggle free, but he caught her wrists and pulled her arms above her head. His grip was firm, unyielding. He would not let go. Against her back, she could feel his heart beating. His warm breath fluttered tendrils of hair on her neck.
“I am sorry if I have hurt you, mademoiselle, but it was not wise to try to run away.” His words were soft. “You would not have gone far had you escaped. My men surround the house, and they do not take kindly to people who cause them trouble. Nor do I. Not even someone as beautiful as yourself.” He paused. “Now, mademoiselle, you have a choice. Either you give me the letter that we both know you carry, or I will take it by force. I assure you, the first alternative will be more pleasant for you, and the second, well, that will be more pleasant for me, non?”
His last words sent a shiver down her spine. She had no doubt that his threat was sincere. The thought of having his hands tearing at her clothes turned her stomach nauseous. All she could think of was Bellingham above her, pushing her thighs apart, attempting to breach and defile her.
“I will give you the letter, monsieur,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“A very wise decision, mademoiselle. I warn you not to try anything foolish that will anger me. You would not like me when I am angry.” He released her wrists and stepped back.
She swung around to face him. “I do not like you now, monsieur.”
He let out a mock sigh. “That is most unfortunate.” Then he grinned. “Because I like you.”
Jessica scowled at him.
Becoming grave, he said, “The letter, please, mademoiselle.”
She glanced left and right, considering escape. He took a step closer, threatening with his proximity. She would never get away from him. She was caught. She could only give him what he wanted.
She hoped Madame would understand why she turned over her correspondence to this outlaw. She turned her back on him and lifted her skirt. Tucked into a frilly garter was the sealed letter. She pulled it out and allowed her skirt to drop into place. As she handed him the letter, she tried to see his face beneath the hat. Something familiar about him niggled at her.
The Duke Who Loved Me: On His Majesty's Secret Service Book 1 Page 11
