by Karen Ranney
“At the door since two, sir,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.
“And when did you get back?” he said, pointing at Betty, the gesture having the effect of making her eyes even wider.
“About the same time, sir,” she said, bobbing a curtsy.
“So you don’t know how long she’s been gone?” He’d left the house about eight, which meant that Jeanne could have been missing for hours.
He rubbed his hand across his forehead.
An unwanted thought struck him, one that seemed perfectly plausible. What if they were together? What if she had left him and taken Margaret? It would be a punishment he probably deserved. But there was something wrong about that idea.
Jeanne didn’t possess his capacity for cruelty.
Chapter 32
“W hat are you going to do?” Jeanne asked her father.
“Do not think that, because of our attachment, you have any right to speak to me in that tone.”
“What you don’t understand, Father,” she said, talking despite the pain in her throat, “is that I gave up any fear of you a long time ago. There is nothing you can do to me that you haven’t already done.”
“A pity that your punishments didn’t teach you anything, then.”
“Oh, they taught me a great deal. Shall I tell you what they taught me?”
“The journey will hopefully not be that long, Jeanne,” Nicholas answered, “that I will be forced to espouse an interest in a subject that would, essentially, bore me.”
For a moment she didn’t say anything, merely studied him.
“You’re not going to let me go, are you? Do not pretend otherwise, Father. I wouldn’t believe you, regardless.”
“You might have been a source of pride, Jeanne. But, like most women, you’re ruled by your emotions. It made a whore of you.”
“At least I am not willing to sacrifice everything for the sake of my name. Edinburgh is littered with people who used to be important, whose names were ancient in France. But they’re still going hungry.”
He looked at her with derision. “I have no intention of being reduced to hiring myself out.”
“Your actions have brought more shame to the du Marchand name than anything I’ve done. What type of man wants to kill a child?”
“Bastards do not litter our family tree.”
“No,” she said in contempt. “Only murderers.”
Eyes closed, Douglas pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache. His library, usually a sanctum, felt almost like a prison at the moment. Standing, he left the room, making his way to the rear of the house only to be hailed by the officious footman.
“Lassiter is back, sir. Would you like me to get him for you?”
He turned and stared at the footman. “Let Lassiter rest.”
“Can I help you, sir?” the footman asked.
“Unless you can saddle a horse, then no,” Douglas said shortly. “Return to your post.”
He was halfway to the stable when he was hailed again. This time he stopped, took a deep breath, and prayed for patience before answering. But it was Lassiter this time, still dressed in his workman’s clothes.
“Sir!” Lassiter called.
“You should be resting,” he said when the older man reached his side. His majordomo wasn’t a young man, but Douglas was willing to bet that he’d worked as hard as one today.
“Sir, this just came for you.” Only then did he see the envelope in Lassiter’s hand.
He took the envelope, slipping a finger beneath the flap. “Who brought it?”
“One of the street boys. He’s waiting in the foyer.”
“He probably doesn’t know anything,” Douglas said, scanning the words. The message was succinct.
If you want to see her again, bring the ruby.
He crumpled the letter in his hand, obscuring the signature of the Comte du Marchand.
“I took the liberty of questioning the boy myself. I believe you’re right, sir. He was given a coin to bring the envelope to you and to direct you to an entrance to Mary King’s Close. It’s not a place I would recommend you go alone.”
“My daughter’s been taken, Lassiter, and now Jeanne. I don’t have a choice.”
There had been occasions in his life when he had been surfeited with rage: the rescue of his infant daughter, seeing Jeanne in Robert Hartley’s home, and now.
He wanted to hurt the Comte du Marchand. He wanted to kill him, slowly, and watch as the breath left his body. Only then would he feel a sense of vindication. Not only for Margaret, but for what the man had done to Jeanne.
“Shall I accompany you, sir?” Lassiter asked. “I have some acquaintance with fisticuffs.”
He smiled at his majordomo. Lassiter looked like he would blow away in a high wind, but there was a fierce look on his face that warned he was not to be taken less than seriously. Only today, he’d demonstrated how loyal and determined he was.
“You continually surprise me, Lassiter.”
“A man is not solely his occupation, sir.” The major-domo bowed slightly and smiled, the fierce look on his face softening only somewhat.
“I appreciate the offer,” Douglas said. “I’m not such a fool as to go into a lion’s den without reinforcements.”
The fact of the matter was that there were few men left to accompany him. Everyone else in his employ was scattered throughout Edinburgh, which left the young footman or Lassiter. Of the two, he’d choose Lassiter.
“Then shall we go, sir?” Lassiter straightened his workman’s jacket, adjusted the pitch of his cap, and squared his chin.
A strange moment to feel amusement, but it faded just as quickly as Douglas rounded the house and nodded to the boy who’d been sent as his guide.
“He won’t come,” Jeanne said, her voice still hoarse.
“You had best hope he does, my dear,” Nicholas said, putting the lantern on the small table. The room in which they sat was made of four brick walls and an opening, and was small enough that it could be called an alcove. The man who had abducted her had led them down to this dark and damp place and then disappeared as soon as her father paid him a few coins.
“Or you’ll do what?” she asked. “Kill me? Justine isn’t around to carry out your orders, Father. Have you someone else to do your bidding?”
“The convent changed you,” he said. “I’m surprised; I would have thought you less courageous, not more so.”
“Freedom does that,” she said. “Tell me, did you ever regret your decision to send me there?”
He seemed to consider the question for a moment.
“No, you shamed the du Marchand name. I considered that you were simply receiving a justly deserved punishment.”
She could not fault him for his honesty or for his consistency. “Tell me where Margaret is.”
Instead of answering, he leaned back against the chair and regarded her with some interest. “You remind me of your mother, Jeanne. I find the resemblance quite extraordinary. My dearest Hélène wasn’t quite as…English as you’ve become, however.”
“How would you define being English?” she asked.
Nicholas raised one eyebrow but he answered nonetheless. “A certain arrogance of speech,” he replied. “A lack of tact, perhaps.”
“A certain independence of spirit?”
“Exactly.”
“Perhaps I’m Scot.”
He sent her a disgruntled look before moving the chair back into the shadows. He then adjusted the wick on the lantern until the light was barely enough to illuminate the space. Sitting again, he rearranged his walking stick so that the blade was drawn from its holder just enough to allow him to use it quickly.
“You’ve overestimated my worth to Douglas MacRae,” Jeanne said.
“I don’t think so. I think MacRae values you very highly. After all, does he not remember you from Paris?”
Surprised, she clasped her hands tightly together, trying not to reveal
any emotion at all. “How did you know?”
“I made it my point to discover the father of your child. I might have demonstrated the extent of my irritation with that young man had he not left France so soon.”
“When you have the ruby, will you go back to France?”
His expression turned sour. “Not now. Perhaps after the madness has eased, when a man is recognized once more for his lineage.”
She was grateful for being able to see him as he truly was, a man of middle years who had been privileged from birth. Circumstances had stripped him of his rank and fortune but he still clung to the notion that he belonged to a rarefied group, that he was unique and somehow blessed above other men. Commonsense rules and normal behavior had never applied to the Comte du Marchand. For that reason, he could send his granddaughter to her death and imprison his daughter and never feel a pinch of contrition.
“So, will you kill me, Father? Or simply leave me here?” She stared at the rats huddled in the corner, their black and shiny eyes looking like tiny shards of ebony. They appeared avaricious and hungry. “And allow them to do the job for you.”
“Now, that would be a solution, would it not?”
She turned at the sound of footsteps, thinking to shout and warn Douglas that it was a trap. She knew her father had no intention of letting him leave this place alive. But to her surprise, it wasn’t Douglas at all, but the goldsmith, Charles Talbot.
“I knew you would cheat me,” he said.
“What are you doing here?” Nicholas asked, standing.
“A question I might ask you, Count. The kidnapping was planned for tomorrow.”
“I changed my mind and didn’t see the necessity of informing you.”
“You’re going to sell the ruby without me, aren’t you? Have you already lined up a buyer?”
Jeanne looked from one to the other. How had Charles Talbot become involved in her father’s plans?
“Where is Margaret MacRae?” she asked, jerking away from her father.
Both men turned to her, anger etched on their faces.
“What have you done with her? You have me; you no longer need a child. If you let her go, I’ll get the ruby for you.”
Talbot raised his hand and sliced it through the air as if to cut off her words. “I don’t know anything about a child. All I know is that your father is a French weasel. He’ll cheat anyone.”
“Am I supposed to feel badly because you have a low opinion of me, Talbot?” Nicholas asked dismissively. “If so, you’re wrong. An insult from you is indeed a compliment.”
He glanced at Jeanne. “You’ve been rattling on about that brat for hours now. I don’t have her, but if I’d known you had such fondness for the girl, perhaps I would have planned differently. But you’re going to give up the stone easily enough, daughter. As I recall, you’re not too fond of pain.”
She stared at him, feeling as if someone had stopped her on an Edinburgh street and introduced himself, claiming a fatherly bond. She didn’t hate her father but neither did she like him. She didn’t know him. Nor did she want to. He was a travesty, an aberration, a monster that she was somehow related to by blood. It was worthless to wish that her mother had been unfaithful and that she was the daughter of another, when she and Nicholas, Comte du Marchand, shared the same features—the same color eyes, the same shaped nose, the same half smile.
Talbot glanced in her direction. “Do you have the ruby, Miss du Marchand?”
She shook her head. “Not with me. But I know where it is.”
“Don’t tell him anything else,” her father commanded.
She ignored him and edged closer to Talbot. “If you release Margaret, I’ll give it to you.”
“I regret that I don’t know what you’re talking about. But perhaps we can come to some kind of arrangement.”
She’d sooner bargain with a snake, but Jeanne kept a smile on her face.
Behind her, Nicholas moved along the wall toward Talbot, so slowly that she wondered if the goldsmith noticed. Or did he see that her father held his walking stick behind his back like a club?
She felt a frisson of horror knowing what her father was going to do.
“You never intended to let me sell the ruby for you, did you?”
“Of course I did,” Nicholas said. “However, contrary to what you believed, it was not going to benefit you.”
“You’re a damned fool, Count, if you think I’ll let you cheat me.”
“You’re impertinent, Talbot. A base merchant.”
The lantern illuminated Talbot’s smile, one that did not quite reach his eyes. They were narrowed as they looked at her father. “This isn’t France, Count. And I’m not one of your flunkies.”
“A pity, that,” Nicholas said. “I would have you killed if we were in France.”
The goldsmith didn’t have a chance to answer. Her father’s arm arced over his head. Jeanne screamed out a warning as she heard the hiss of a blade.
Shockingly, a gunshot reverberated in the small space, the sound ringing in her ears.
Her father twisted around, a look of surprise on his face. Slowly, he fell, landing heavily at Jeanne’s feet.
Douglas heard a gunshot and then the sound of Jeanne’s scream, felt his heart catapult in his chest, experiencing fear like he hadn’t known since those early days of Meggie’s life. The steps were slippery but he barely noticed them as he half tumbled, half flew down the steep staircase.
His blood chilled as Jeanne screamed again, and then his heart seemed to stop as he entered the doorway and saw her. Her attacker was a man of middle years, a stranger to Douglas. When he raised his arm to strike Jeanne again, Douglas threw himself on the man.
For a moment he was insensate, incapable of rational thought or reasonable action. All he wanted to do was to destroy the man who dared raise his hand against Jeanne. He felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder, pulled away, and then felt it again.
“Douglas.”
Only then did sounds begin to penetrate. He heard the gasping wheeze of the man on the ground beneath him, the soft pulpy sounds of his fists repeatedly striking the man’s face, and above it all, the sound of Jeanne’s soft, imploring voice.
“Douglas.” Just his name, and like a siren’s call it had the effect of pulling him back from madness.
Rational thought came slower. He was atop the body, his knees braced on either side of the older man’s chest. And he was beating him senseless.
Douglas took a deep, steadying breath, forcing himself to calm. Jeanne’s hand on his cheek was a cool, soft touch. He turned toward it and looked up at her. She knelt beside him and framed his face.
“It’s all right, Douglas,” she said, her words seeming to come from very far away. It wasn’t, of course, but he somehow managed a half smile and was rewarded for his effort by her gentle kiss on his lips.
She stood then, holding out her hand for him. He placed his own bloody fingers against her palm, allowing himself to be led away from the silent, recumbent form on the stone floor.
“Have I killed him?”
A moan a second later reassured Douglas that he had not.
“He hurt you,” he said, taking her in his arms. He felt her tremble against him, breathed into her hair, exhaling as he fought down his anger.
“It doesn’t matter.”
“What a foolish thing to say, Jeanne,” he said gently. “Of course it matters. You matter.”
He pulled back and surveyed her in the faint lantern light. There was a red mark forming on her cheek that would soon lead to a bruise. Her eyes looked haunted, the shadows accentuated below her eyes. His thumbs traced over the fragility of her lovely face. How could his happiness be so contained within this one woman? How could she be all that he needed?
“It doesn’t matter now,” she amended.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, gently circling her reddened skin.
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
In the distance, Douglas
heard the faint sound of laughter, and nearby came the skittering sound of rats.
“I don’t think he knows where Margaret is,” Jeanne said.
“Who is he?” Douglas asked, glancing at the man who still lay huddled on the floor.
“Charles Talbot, a jeweler.”
The name was familiar to him, but he ignored the niggling memory in favor of leaving this place.
As they headed for the door, Jeanne turned and looked at the far wall and that’s when Douglas saw the other body.
“My father,” she said. “If he knew where Margaret was, Douglas, he didn’t say.” She looked at him helplessly. “What do we do now?”
“Get out of here,” he said, taking her arm and leading her up the steps.
He turned, still holding an arm around her, and surveyed this small room. In this dimmest of dungeons, in this place of horror, he had almost lost her again. How many times could a man resurrect himself without hope?
How had she done it?
He glanced at her, realizing the depth of her strength.
Even now, when most women would have been justifiably in hysterics, she was calm. She didn’t tremble. Nor did she cry, and as he looked, the expression in her eyes softened.
“I almost lost you,” he said, and he didn’t just speak of tonight’s adventures.
She nodded, and it was as if she understood the depth of his horror. “No,” she said softly and curled her fingers around his bloody hand.
He led her up the stairs into the clean night air. At the top, he glanced up at the sky and the sparkling stars. The world was too large, the universe too vast. One little girl could so easily become lost.
If they didn’t find Margaret, he would need to borrow some of Jeanne’s strength.
Chapter 33
L assiter was given the task of turning Talbot over to the authorities, which he looked pleased to do. When she and Douglas returned home, he led her to his library. “How do you feel?”
Moving to the sideboard, he poured them both a glass of sherry, and then brought both glasses to where she sat and placed them on the lion table between the wing chairs.
