STOLEN CHARMS

by Adele Ashworth

  On the surface, a party like any at home.

  In silence Jonathan guided Natalie through the crowd to a refreshment table and handed her a glass of champagne.

  "You were marvelous," he said in praise.

  She eyed him carefully and took a sip. "The count is sly and somewhat charming, but she's rude and jealous of him unnecessarily. Simpleminded and tactless."

  Jonathan smiled wryly, taking notice of the rosy hue to her cheeks, eyes shimmering from irritation. "Very observant, but perhaps she has reason," he offered. "You outshine her beautifully from head to foot, and she knows it."

  Natalie huffed, brushing over his compliment as she began to search faces in the crowd for a resemblance to the thief. Irrationally that piqued his anger.

  "And like most members of the nobility," he added, "he's taken mistresses, and I'm sure she's aware of that. He probably has one now. Maybe more than one."

  Jonathan had no idea why he said that, it just seemed the perfect remark to grab her attention. It worked, too, for she quickly looked back to his face, her brows pinched in a light frown of disapproval.

  "This might come as a complete surprise to you, Jonathan, but not all gentlemen of breeding have adulterous affairs. Many obviously consider it a right of good birth and take advantage of wealth and opportunity, flaunting their paramours for all to admire." She drew a long breath and raised her chin stubbornly. "But there are others, regardless of the fact that they are few in number, who are wonderful men with keen moral judgment, rigid self-control, and sufficient love for their wives and families to remain faithful."

  He lifted his glass to his lips, curious as to how and where she acquired this information, but refusing to ask because that was exactly what she wanted. Instead he lowered his voice and returned candidly, "You're really passionate about this, aren't you, sweetheart?"

  Her cheeks warmed a deeper shade of pink, but she stared at him levelly, ignoring the sweetheart comment either by choice or because she was already fuming. He hoped it was the latter.

  "Perhaps it's something you should take note of, Jonathan," she advised a bit derisively. "How positively tragic it would be for me to learn that your future wife stabbed you through the heart with the count's mighty sword due to your lack of self-containment. Knowing your particular reputation, I suggest you reconsider buying it." She grinned in speculation. "Come to think of it, if you marry a feisty, jealous lady, she'll have a wide range of weapons to choose from already hanging on your study wall. If I were you I'd sell them all."

  Jonathan felt the urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless, to hold her tightly and relish the feel of her breasts against his chest, to run his fingers through her hair, and to hell with everyone present. He restrained himself, however, by taking another large swallow of champagne, his gaze never wavering.

  "I'm delighted to hear how much you care for my wellbeing, Natalie. But considering how much I cherish my existence, as well as my extensive and priceless collection of weapons, I think I'd rather give up my pursuit of the ladies. Particularly," he added in a whisper, leaning close so only she could hear, "if I marry someone as beautiful and challenging as you, my sweet. You would undoubtedly keep me in fear of my life should I break my vows."

  She stared at him, eyes large, measured alarm gracing her features as she considered a binding, permanent union between them, probably for the first time.

  "But then again I shouldn't worry," he continued offhandedly, raising his free palm to cup her chin, tracing her jaw with his thumb. "You'd have me so exhausted in the marriage bed I would never have energy enough to go elsewhere for a pleasure that couldn't possibly compare to what I get from you anyway."

  Now she gaped at him, thoroughly startled and speechless. There was nothing he enjoyed more than teasing Natalie Haislett into shocked silence, and he grinned broadly, knowing she understood this as well and that it infuriated her to acknowledge it.

  Before she could verbally attack him in response, he pulled the champagne glass from her fingertips, discarding it next to his empty one on a side table, and lightly gripped her arm. "I see Madeleine. It's time for an introduction."

  For the most part, Natalie adored parties of all kinds. At the age of five she'd been allowed a peek at her first—something her mother had called a small gathering, which actually turned out to include more than ninety people. She had been overawed by the glitter, the laughter and music, the color of coattails and skirts, tables upon tables of food, the flowing champagne. Twice more in her childhood she'd caught a glimpse of the glamour, until 1842, the season of her debut, when she'd finally been allowed to attend. That was the summer of the masked ball where she'd met Jonathan.

  She wanted to cringe from the memory of that first dance so long ago. That first kiss. Oh, God, how that one small event had turned her life upside-down!

  Tonight he was her escort, handsome and sophisticated and smooth as new satin, astounding her with his ability to charm, to coerce, to lie with ease and perfection. Her cheeks burned from his suggestive comment, but regardless of the attempt she couldn't think of a suitable thing to say in response to something so presumptuous. And ridiculous. So she kept her mouth shut, moving in step with him like an obedient puppy.

  Quickly he guided her toward the edge of the dance floor where a group of ladies stood talking, wildly animated. So like the French to be enthusiastic when they were no doubt discussing how the count's wife dressed like a child ready to walk the Easter Parade. The English would discuss her lack of taste, too, but they, at least, would be staid and discreet about it.

  Then her eyes fell on Madeleine DuMais. Natalie recognized her immediately, a stunning woman, tall and elegant, with chestnut hair parted down the middle and pulled up high on her crown to cascade down her neck in soft ringlets. She wore a rich satin gown of modern cut in striking royal purple, with bold yellow rosebuds on the bodice and hem, and accentuating black lace flounces covering the low pointed neckline, enhancing her full breasts and tiny waist. In one hand she held a half-parted black-and-gold fan; a long, sheer black shawl flowed over the opposite wrist. Speaking to the ladies beside her, she was fluid and graceful, and stood out above them all. She was the kind of woman Natalie perceived as taking a country by storm, as one who would live on through the ages because men in love with her dream would die to possess her, writing poetry and stories of battles to defend her honor. She was that beautiful.

  Jonathan walked up beside her, and she turned, a look of delight brightening her face and filling her bold, light-blue eyes as she recognized him.

  "Monsieur Drake, I'm so pleased you could attend this evening," she said through a shining smile, staring at him openly, brushing aside the other ladies who carried on their conversations without notice.

  Jonathan took her long fingers in his, bowed, and kissed them. "Madame DuMais, it is always a pleasure." He turned. "May I present to you my wife, Natalie."

  A most uncomfortable moment seemed to stretch for hours as Natalie, feeling suddenly small and homely, stood stiffly by his side, squeezing her fan with tight fingers, while the Frenchwoman's gaze fell upon her at last.

  "Madame Drake. At last we meet," she addressed her in heavily accented English. "Your husband has spoken so well of you I feel I know you already, although to be truthful"—she looked her up and down—"he was somewhat lacking in complements as husbands usually are. What a beauty you are!" She glanced at Jonathan, shaking her head in feigned disgust. "My late husband was the same. A dear man who described me to everyone as 'tall with dark hair.' Nothing more. A pity we go to such trouble with our appearance—expensive gowns and perfumes and years of practicing the finer graces—when no one really notices but other ladies."

  Natalie grinned, liking her instantly, with no real idea why. Up close she spotted the subtle traces of false color on the woman's face—lips redder than natural, a touch of kohl outlining her lids to make her eyes stand out, and rouge to pinken her cheeks. Her mother's voice thundered at on
ce into her otherwise pleasant thoughts: "A lady of quality does not paint her face. She enhances that with which God has blessed her by adding only a delicate pinch to the cheek or a gentle bite to the lip for soft color." No, her mother wouldn't care for this woman at all, and Natalie liked her all the more for it.

  Confidence returning, she relaxed. "Indeed, Madame DuMais, I understand perfectly. Gowns in all colors and cuts for every function line my wardrobe, and yet my dear Jonathan no doubt described me to you as 'short and rather pale, but of good family.'" She tapped her fan against her free palm. "So typically English; more typically male."

  Jonathan looked amused, hands clasped behind his back, mouth twisted in a half smile. "I suppose I did forget to mention your beautiful assets, my darling," he replied conversationally, though peering straight into her eyes. "Deliciously curvy, hair the color of a sunset, eyes like jewels, a smile to light a room." He pursed his lips, brows furrowing. "But of course I tell everyone you are of good family. Why else would one marry?"

  Natalie flushed from his blunt statement and open regard, but her eyes sparkled with pleasure as she answered dramatically, "Good breeding aside, I married you for your money, Jonathan."

  He bowed fully, and Madeleine threw her head back in a small laugh. "Goodness, such honesty between you. And my dear Natalie—may I call you Natalie? And you must call me Madeleine. I married my late husband for the same reason, and may I say I have been able to enjoy every minute of his death."

  Natalie stifled a giggle, watching Jonathan, who appeared captivated by the conversation.

  "I shall take that as good advice, Madeleine," she noted brightly. "Perhaps I'll be as fortunate."

  "Let's hope so." Smiling, Madeleine took her by the arm. "Now, I'm sure your husband would like to wander into the smoking room, or do whatever it is men do at such functions." She looked to Jonathan. "If you do not mind, Monsieur Drake, I will take your wife and introduce her to a friend or two. And I'm certain she and I have many things to discuss."

  "I've no doubt," he replied dryly. "Just please don't change her mind about how much she adores me."

  Madeleine's grin broadened for him. "Impossible to do, I'm sure."

  Natalie fidgeted and for the first time caught a glimpse, an impression really, of something more between them. Not suggestive, or even implying closeness, but a kind of … understanding. As if they knew a secret she didn't.

  "And Natalie?"

  She shook herself from that uncomfortable thought and gazed back to his face.

  His eyelids thinned when they met hers. "We'll dance later."

  It was a simple and innocuous statement, and yet anxiousness flourished from the look he gave her—intense and full of meaning. As if they were the only people in the room.

  She nodded minutely. Then Madeleine pulled on her elbow, and he swung around and disappeared into the crowd.

  For twenty minutes the Frenchwoman introduced her to various acquaintances, most accepting her presence there indifferently if not a bit coolly. Natalie was as gracious and attentive as she could be under the circumstances, her face and manner expressing an easy consideration to those around her, while inside she boiled with apprehension. She wanted to follow Jonathan, not exchange pleasantries with the French elite. She wanted to observe from the shadows when he met the Black Knight, to see the legend for the first time unnoticed. She was almost beside herself, knowing the thief might already be at the ball, that he might already have spoken to Jonathan, that he might even now know of her presence.

  "Why don't we talk a little," Madeleine suggested, leading her toward a group of mostly empty straight-backed chairs in the far corner of the ballroom.

  "I'd like that," Natalie returned absentmindedly, eyes skimming the crowd as time seemed to drag while her restlessness steadily increased.

  After gracefully sitting beneath a large, lovely portrait of a child kneeling in a blooming rose garden, and after taking the necessary time to straighten skirts to avoid wrinkles and entangled hems, Madeleine asked directly, "What brings you to France, Natalie?"

  The question took her by surprise, forcing her to focus her attention back on the woman beside her instead of each dark-haired gentleman of the Black Knight's vague description within her view. "I beg your pardon?"

  Madeleine opened her fan and began lightly to brush the air in front of her face. "I'm wondering what brings you to France since I do understand perfectly your relationship with Jonathan."

  Natalie's first thought was that she hadn't realized her faux husband and this woman were on first-name terms. But of course they would be. They actually appeared to be more than acquaintances, and had, after all, spent some time alone together in the lady's home discussing their business arrangement, which, on the whole, still sounded suspicious to her.

  She sat a little straighter in her chair, hands placed properly in her lap, annoyed that the reflection should bother her. "Jonathan has agreed to introduce me to a friend."

  Madeleine's brows rose. "Really."

  The simple comment implied disbelief, or at the very least suspicion in her own right. The air began to feel unpleasantly warm with the growing number of people filling the ballroom, and Natalie raised her opened fan as well, steadily swishing it in front of her.

  "May I be candid with you, Madeleine?" she asked after a moment of silence.

  The Frenchwoman breathed deeply and leaned gingerly on one padded, velveteen armrest, eyeing her with calculation. "I hope you will be. Please believe I can be your friend, too, Natalie."

  Again, a simple statement saying little, and yet Natalie felt the woman's honesty, and her own urge to confide. She shifted her body in her chair, angling closer and lowering her voice. "Have you heard of the English thief called the Black Knight?"

  The only noticeable sign that Madeleine heeded her words was the slightest pause in the movement of her fan. Then she murmured, "Yes."

  Natalie gathered her courage. "I believe he's here, in Marseilles, and that Jonathan knows him personally. I'm paying him to introduce us."

  A shot of rolling, laughter broke out in a small group of ladies to their left. Madeleine's concentration, however, remained transfixed on her, with only the barest flicker of puzzled amusement crossing her features.

  "I wonder how he intends to go about this introduction," she said very slowly.

  Natalie considered that a rather odd thing to say when she expected questions. "I—I'm not sure," she stammered, straightening. "He's supposed to be at the ball tonight."

  Now the Frenchwoman appeared enthralled, dropping her fan to her lap and sitting forward. "Is he? And why, do you suppose?"

  That thought had only occurred to her once before, in their hot hotel room by the harbor, and even then Jonathan hadn't been forthcoming regarding his guess as to why the thief would attend this particular party. She assumed it related to the sword Jonathan intended to purchase, but now this seemed far-fetched. The Black Knight was an expert at intrigue and deception, working for the good of governments, the underprivileged. What would he want with a sword? And how could he steal it in front of five hundred people and out from under the count's crafty, observant nose? He couldn't, wouldn't, and now she felt her confidence abating as her confusion grew. If he appeared at all, it would be for something else, something she hadn't yet considered.

  "I can't imagine that he would attend a ball in honor of the comte d'Arles's daughter because he's a family friend or acquaintance," Natalie conceded at last. "That just seems too incredible. Logic then suggests he'd be here on business, more exactly to steal something. And if he came all the way to the south of France to steal, the object of his interest must be of great value." She sighed and shook her head. "But this is just guessing on my part. I really don't know."

  Madeleine didn't appear to notice her stupefaction. Instead, her entire countenance flashed with levelheaded fascination. "The only thing I can think of small enough for a thief to steal at a ball would be … oh … documents the count mi
ght possess somewhere in his home, or more likely a lady's priceless jewels. Something he can hide in a pocket—perhaps a diamond brooch or a ruby ring."

  Natalie frowned. "But why come all the way to France to steal a brooch? He could do that in England."

  Madeleine pursed her full, red lips, forehead crinkling in prudent thought. "Unless this particular brooch has priceless value of a different sort."

  Without trying to sound too terribly ignorant, she asked, "In what way would jewels have value beyond what they're worth in sale?"

  The Frenchwoman began fanning herself again. "Well, imagine for instance they could be traded for important documents that might be of some use to the British government."

  "Trade a stolen French brooch for French documents…" she thought aloud.

  "Or maybe the Black Knight is here to confiscate jewels originally stolen from a British subject," Madeleine proposed instead.

  Natalie contemplated that one and had to surmise it made the best sense of all, given the man's penchant for returning items he steals.

  Madeleine leaned very close again, eyes sparkling. "Every good thief must have a reason behind his actions," she concluded in a whisper. "And the Black Knight especially isn't known for stealing items for money alone. If Jonathan expects him here tonight, I think I will watch those ladies wearing priceless jewels. This could turn out to be a very eventful and entertaining evening."

  Natalie glanced out at the party guests once more, observing ladies dressed in finery mingling, gentlemen idling around buffet tables, couples laughing, whispering, dancing to a beautiful Viennese waltz being expertly played by a twenty-piece orchestra. Nearly every lady she could see wore diamonds or sapphires, or something just as valuable displayed for all to admire. The target could be any of them, providing Madeleine's conjecture was correct.