“But … we cannot just leave him here.”
He glanced down and, after a brief hesitation, reached to an inside pocket of his livery jacket and withdrew a slim silver flask. Unstoppering it with his teeth, he dribbled a fine stream of brandy over Roth’s neck and collar, then fit the emptied flask into the unconscious man’s hand. When he straightened, he saw the look on Renée’s face and arched a wiry eyebrow.
“Strictly medicinal, I assure you. I anticipated it would be a cold evening.”
She glanced back down at Roth. “Will he not be angry?”
“Furious, I warrant. But unless he wishes to face a very public charge of attempted rape, which would not only bring the wrath of the crown down upon his head, but the outrage of every officer and gentleman in the parish, I rather think he will bear his humiliation in silence and do nothing.”
Renée shivered and fumbled to draw the edges of her cloak together.
“Come,” he said. “Before I am tempted to throft him again on principle.”
Her feeble attempt at a smile spurred Finn into stepping over Roth’s splayed legs and hastening Renée out the door to where the coach stood, black and gleaming against the night sky. When she was seated inside with the rug pulled high under her chin, Finn climbed up into the driver’s box and whistled the horses to attention, A grinding spin of the wheels and they were away, the glare from the coach lamp dwindling quickly into the distance.
Neither Finn nor Renée looked back at the inn, therefore neither one saw the sliver of light cut into the gloom as the door opened and closed to emit the tall, dark silhouette of a man.
He stood a moment in the cool night air and stared thoughtfully after the fading coach lamp. Then he, too, was gone, the wide black wings of his greatcoat curling back in his wake.
CHAPTER FOUR
The locals referred to Harwood House as the Gloomy Retreat. Built of gray stone, it stood isolated and forlorn against a bleak landscape, its ancient gables and lichen-covered walls exposed to fierce and unpredictable winds that blew off a nearby heath. A depleted stand of elm and yew marked the approach to what had once been the defensive outpost of a Norman baron; the round tower belonging to the original keep still marked the far end of the east wing. Only this ancient structure boasted a flat lead roof and crenellated stone teeth. Successive generations had added formal rooms and galleries and a second full wing of guest apartments, the whole surmounted by steeply pitched slate roofs.
These newer additions boasted long, mullioned windows, most of which had long ago lost the strength to do battle with the elements. The rooms were drafty and cold in the winter months, airless and musty in summer. The upper apartments suffered most from the strain of the heavy slate tiles exerting pressure on the rafters, and most of the ceilings leaked in anything more than a light fog. Dour and penurious, Lord Charles Finchworth Holstead, Earl of Paxton, had inherited well on paper, but most of his estates were heavily mortgaged and his finances stretched too thin to justify squandering any coin on repairs or upkeep. At Harwood House, there were birds nesting in the eves and the windows rattled loose in their centuries-old cuspings and traceries.
Renée and her brother had taken bedrooms in the older wing, near the blocked stone walls of the old keep. Neither of them minded that the housekeeper, Mrs. Pigeon, and the rest of the meager staff of servants preferred to make their quarters in the sounder structure of the west wing. The isolation suited Renée, especially when the sky was as bleak as her mood and the possibility of sunshine seemed hopeless.
There was no one waiting up for her, no one standing attendance on the front door to greet her or take her cloak. She would have felt honored that someone had thought to leave a candle burning in the hall sconce if she had not known it was more for the benefit of the dragoon who normally slept through his watch in a comfortable chair in the foyer. That he was not in evidence now, either meant he was in the pantry sharing a bottle of red wine with the scullery maid, or that the wine was finished and he was sharing something else with the dull-witted chit.
The chore of tending to Renée’s needs usually fell to Jenny, a slender, round-faced girl from the village who tried to do the best she could for her young mistress with the few resources at hand. But she would be long abed-by now. And while there were likely to be logs in the wood-box and kindling in the grate, there would be no fire blazing in her bedchamber to burn off the damp chill. Such an extravagance would be considered wasteful by Mrs. Pigeon, since there had been no one in the room all evening to enjoy either the heat or the light.
When Renée, Antoine, and Finn had arrived at Harwood House a fortnight ago, they had been presented with a lengthy list of what was permitted and what was generally discouraged. Great, glowering emphasis had been placed on the fact that whatever grand style to which she and her brother may have been accustomed while growing up in their gilded chateau in France, they were in England now; they were living off the grace and goodness of their uncle’s charity and there would be neither waste nor willful excess, not so long as Ephemerty Pigeon’s fist was clamped around the household keys.
A large, bellicose woman, Mrs. Pigeon had a face like one of the cement gargoyles that crouched over the battlements of the old tower, and footsteps heavy enough to rouse dust from the cracks between the floorboards. She had been in Lord Paxton’s service for twenty-five years and was well acquainted with the ways of stretching a penny into a pound. She did not like Renée and made no secret about it. Any questions Renée asked were answered in snorts or grunts and any requests met with glaring belligerence. It was usually left to Finn, in his capacity as valet, coachman, servant, and guardian angel to find extra wood, extra candles, and even to charm an extra cup of chocolate out of the cook if it was required.
Just as there was no one waiting up for Renée, there would be no groomsmen waiting to unhitch the horses or stable them for the night. Finn would have to see to it himself—which he would, for he would no more consider leaving the tired animals in their traces until morning than he would admit to being too old and too weary to be carrying on so in the middle of the night.
Renée was more than tired herself. She was drained and depleted and had felt physically ill after leaving the inn. Those last few minutes with Roth had made her frighteningly aware of just how vulnerable a position she and Antoine were in. The story she had told the highwayman tonight was not a complete fraud. If anything, with a charge of attempted murder hanging over her brother’s head, her position was worse than she had represented it. Roth had assigned four of his dragoons to remain in residence at all times, to watch and report every sneeze, every scratch, every walk or morning ride. They had no friends, no other family to whom they could appeal for help or refuge. Renée was afraid—no, terrified—to trust anyone other than Finn, and although she knew he would tear his heart from his chest if she asked him to, he was old, sixty, and not in the best of health despite his strident claims otherwise. He slept next to Antoine’s room in adjoining valet’s quarters, and there were nights she could hear him across the hall, coughing so hard, she expected to find his lungs on the floor the next morning.
Renée lit a second candle from the sconce and cupped her hand around the flame to guard it against the draft as she walked along the gallery toward the east wing. There were tall windows with many mullioned lights running the full length of the gallery, and as she moved past each pane she trod in the squares of moonlight that patterned the wood floor. The hem of her skirt and cloak whispered softly with each step, but otherwise she made no sound as she reached the end and turned to ascend the narrow, curved staircase that led to the upper floors. Because this was where the old keep was adjoined to the newer sections of the house, the stairs followed the rounded shape of the wall, and without windows, it was as black as sin. A thick and musty tapestry hung over the stones, concealing a small arched door that led into the tower of the keep. Antoine had discovered it one day quite by accident, and his curiosity had taken him as far as the first t
hick veil of cobwebs inside.
At his insistence, she had asked Jenny about it, but the serving girl had quickly crossed herself and spat over her left shoulder to ward off evil spirits. According to local lore, the ghost of the original owner still resided in the keep. He had been starved to death in the dungeons by a raiding party of Welsh barbarians and was known to roam the upper battlements, wailing and rattling his chains in hunger. It was another one of the reasons why the servants avoided the east wing and rarely ventured there after dark. And while Renée did not believe in ghosts, there were times, like now, when she felt an eerie sensation of fingers plucking at her hems that kept her moving smartly to the top of the landing.
Arriving at the second floor, she paused again, for there were no candles and the only window, large as it was, was near the middle of the hallway where a second corridor led back into the middle section of the house crossing above the gallery. Her bedchamber was on the right, and, after taking a moment to divest herself of her cloak and light the kindling in the fireplace, she moved quietly back across the hall to the room opposite hers and listened a moment before she eased her way inside.
The room was much like her own, square and utilitarian. The bed sat like a sacrificial altar on a raised dais, boasting four fat posts at the corners and a canopy overhead. Sturdy velvet draperies were swagged around each post and could be loosened to enclose the occupant in a warm cocoon at night. Heavy carpets covered most of the bare floorboards and tall, floor to ceiling curtains hung over the window. With the fire glowing robustly in the hearth and shadows reflecting off the writing table and chair, the blanket box at the foot of the bed, the two night tables with their pewter candelabra … it almost looked cozy.
Renée tiptoed to the side of the bed and experienced a momentary flutter of panic when she did not see the familiar pale splash of yellow hair on the pillow. She quickly dropped to her knees and lifted the bed skirt, and there he was, curled tightly in a ball, his arms hugging his shoulders, his eyes wide and staring out at her like a wounded creature trapped in the dark.
“Antoine,” she whispered. “It is only me.” She drew another breath to ease the tightness in her chest and added in as calm a voice as she could muster, “Come out of there now, my darling, before you catch your death of a cold.”
With pitifully slow and halting movements, he unwound his arms and stretched his legs, using them to wriggle his way out from under the bed.
“Mon Dieu” she scolded, “look at the dust. I vow the floor under there has not been swept for a hundred years or more. Was I so late in coming home that you thought to frighten me and disguise yourself as a mole?”
He stood still as she batted away the cloudy wads of dust that clung to his nightshirt. He was trembling and his hands were cold as she took them into hers and raised them to her lips. “I did not plan to stay out so long, but look … it is barely midnight and I said I would be back by then. Into bed with you, goose, quickly before Finn comes up and sees what a fuss you have made.”
Did you see him?
The words had no sounds, but after more than a year of silence, Renée had become proficient at reading his lips.
“Yes,” she sighed. “I saw him.”
His eyes brightened for a moment, but she pointed sternly to the bed. “If you get into bed and fall asleep right away, I promise to tell you all about it in the morning. No, not now,” she added before his lips could form the words. “I am so tired my knees are weak.”
Even so, Antoine raised his hand, folded his two fingers against the palm and raised his thumb like a cocked hammer. Did he shoot at you? Were you very frightened? Was he mean and ugly and did he smell very bad?
“No. He did not shoot at us. He was … quite civil, actually, far more so than Finn will be if you waken in the morning with a red nose and a rattling chest.”
Antoine kissed her swiftly on the cheek to placate her, but he only took two small steps toward the bed before he was turning to look at her again, and the gleam was gone, leaving only the haunting darkness of his fears clouding his eyes.
I was afraid you would not come back. I was afraid the soldiers would come and take me away where you would not be able to find me.
Renée shook her head and opened her arms, and when he came into them, she hugged him so tightly she could feel his heart beating against her own.
“Never ever think I would leave you, mon coeur,” she whispered. “Never believe for one instant that I would leave this place and not take you with me, or that I would not come back when I promised you I would.”
She smoothed her hand across his brow, pushing back the silky strands of yellow hair. They shared their mother’s fair coloring and startling blue eyes, although the structure of Antoine’s face was all their father. The angular jaw, the high cheekbones, the strong nose, and wide, scholarly brow represented the last of a noble line that stretched back to the days of Charlemagne. Everyone else—uncles, aunts, cousins, nieces, and nephews— all had come to an abrupt and bloody end on a raised platform in the Place de la Revolution, and four months shy of his fourteenth birthday, Antoine was now the twelfth Due d’Orlôns. His shoulders were still slender and his legs lanky, but the promise was there for breadth and power, and Tome day, if the madness in France subsided and the monarchy was restored, he would claim his place in the royal court with the authority and stature he deserved.
For the moment, he was a frightened boy who could not speak, who had witnessed more terror and suffering in his young life than men four and five times his age.
“Into bed with you now,” she said, kissing his forehead, “or Finn will blame me for coming in here and waking you up just to get a hug.”
The huge, solemn eyes regarded her unblinkingly for a long moment. Then as suddenly as it had disappeared a moment ago, his smile was back, wide and mischievous. He cocked both thumbs of both imaginary pistols and shot his way into bed, burrowing under the thick mound of quilts and blankets until only the top of his head showed above the bedding. Renée leaned over to ruffle the bright gold curls, and with a last stern warning issued through the pressure of a forefinger against his lips, she retraced her steps to the hall, then back across to her own room.
Once there, she closed the door and leaned heavily against it, her eyes shut, her throat burning with the need to scream. They had come to England thinking they would be safe here, thinking their uncle would offer them refuge from the horror in France, thinking they would be free of the tyranny, oppression, and fear that had governed their every waking and sleeping hour. But all they had encountered so far was more treachery. Their uncle was greedy and manipulative; he had wasted no time putting Renée on the auction block and selling her to the highest bidder. Her fiancé, Edgar Vincent, was a large brute of a man with ham-like hands and dirty leers, and though she suspected he thought it a form of flattery, he was usually visibly aroused when he stared at her for any length of time. He was also, purportedly, good friends with Roth, which made the colonel’s behavior at the inn all the more repulsive. She had no reason to doubt Roth would have forced himself on her tonight had Finn not come to her rescue with the candlestick.
She groaned and pushed away from the door.
Roth would not let that pass. Finn would pay for his chivalry and Roth would delight in exacting his retribution. She felt like a fly caught in a spider’s web, and if they did not find some way to tear free, the threads would tighten around them and they would be devoured inch by inch until there was nothing left but empty shells.
Lighting a second candle off the one she had left sputtering on the nightstand, Renée stripped off her shoes and stockings and left them where they fell as she walked into the adjoining dressing room. It was not very large. A hip tub sat in the corner nearest the door, where it could easily be dragged out and placed in front of the fire. A washstand, mirror, and cabinet commode accounted for the rest of the space on one side of the room, while the opposite wall was lined with shelves, barely a quarter of them f
illed with neatly folded garments. Her four pairs of shoes looked sadly overwhelmed on the long rack, as did her meager collection of gowns. If she were in Paris, and if there had been no revolution to destroy her life, her undergarments alone would have filled two rooms this size with floor to ceiling shelves and wall to wall compartments. She would have had four hundred pairs of shoes, in colors to match every gown, every mood, every change of weather.
Setting the candle on the washstand, she poured water into the stained porcelain bowl, and it was only when she was about to raise a dripping handful to her face that she dared meet her reflection for the first time. What she saw in the mottled glass of the mirror caused her to stare into her own eyes for a long, still moment before she could confront the angry red imprints left on her throat by Bertrand Roth’s grasping fingers. Thankfully, the light had been too dim in Antoine’s room for him to have noticed, but here, in the close circle of the candle flame, she could see where each individual finger had left an impression. And when she angled her chin upward, the spot where his thumb had gouged into her nerves was already an angry blue.
She let her gaze wander critically over her face. To her, it was just a nose like any other nose, a mouth that suffered from an overly generous lower lip, and eyes that seemed too large and dark and direct to ever master the art of subtle flirtation. Her lashes and brows were the color of tarnished gold, thick enough to give her eyes definition but not nearly as exotic as the lush, dark coloring of most Englishwomen.
Her mother had been an exceptionally beautiful woman, with silvery blonde hair and pale, soft skin. When the young and dashing Marquis de Mar had been introduced to Celia Holstead on a trip to London, it had been love from the very first moment they met. It did not matter that Celia’s father had already chosen her future husband, or that her brother was outraged at the very notion of her wanting to marry a Frenchman. When every last avenue of appeal had failed, they had eloped, vowing to love each other all the more for the fact her father—a cold and brutish man at the best of times—had gone to his grave without ever speaking to her again, or that her brother refused thereafter to acknowledge her existence. They had each other and their love proved to be as strong two decades later as it had been the day they wed.
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