Diana looked no better.
And she knew had the scent of Paxten's on her skin—and the scent of their time together.
She flushed as Taliaris's stare swept over her, all too knowing, and touched by pity.
"I must beg your pardon that we did not rescue you in time from this Marsett."
Incensed, Alexandria stiffened. "In time? Rescue! Do you imply, Captain Taliaris, that either my niece, or my person, has been compromised in some fashion? I shall have you know, sir, that our state of undress owes more to the rude awakening by your men than to anything done by Mr. Marsett. And as to rescue, I should call this abduction and assault! Mr. Marsett has been a...well, not a complete gentleman, but certainly I know him to be honorable, and quite incapable of the crime for which he has been found guilty without trial!"
Taliaris listened to her, his expression unmoved. "He will be tried. And shot at dawn. And you will return to Paris under escort."
With a curt bow, he turned and left.
Diana let out a gasp and ran to the door. She pulled it open only to stare into two, rock-faced sentries, their muskets resting at their sides.
Glaring at them, Diana said in stuttering French, "Stand aside. I want to see Captain Taliaris."
They did not so much as look at her. She thought about trying to push between them, but they looked far too stocky to be easily moved.
With a muffled curse, she slammed the door and turned back to her aunt. "What do we do now?"
Her aunt moved to a wooden bench and sat down. Shoulders hunched, she rubbed at her forehead. The poor dear looked exhausted, with shadows under her eyes. Her hand shook slightly. "I do not know. I do not know."
Diana frowned. Someone had to do something. She opened the door and told the guards, "I wish for a hairbrush, hot tea, hot water, and clean cloths. And if one of you does not go to fetch these at once, I shall start to scream and I will not stop until they arrive."
Folding her arms, she waited. The guard on the left slid a glance to the one on the right.
Diana's eyes narrowed. "You have until the count of three. One...."
This time the guard on the right frowned at her. She did not care. What would they do? Strike her? Shoot her? She doubted that their captain—cruel as he seemed—would allow such utterly despicable behavior. He had, after all, stopped his men from pillaging their luggage. Still, she risked a great deal. But she could not just sit down and cry—she would do that later.
"Two...." she said, still counting in French and scowling to make her voice firm.
This time the guard on the left growled at her, "Get back inside."
"I shall, once I have my tea, and hairbrush, and hot water, and cloths. Three!" Pulling in a deep breath, she opened her mouth. A thick-fingered, grubby hand slapped across it. She drove her teeth into the fleshy fingers, the man yelped. She started to scream.
The shorter guard cursed her, the other lifted a hand as if to slap her, and the captain strode into the hall, demanding, "What is this?"
The guard dropped his hand and French flowed from the man as he stammered an explanation. The captain gestured for the guards to step aside, and as he loomed before her, Diana paused in her scream. A tremor fluttered through her.
He did not look a happy man.
However, she was not pleased just now either. She put up her chin and met his hard stare. "What sort of officers do you have in France that you keep two gently bred ladies in a taproom without so much as an offer to see to our needs. I asked for simple things—hot water, hot tea, and a hairbrush. And I am treated as if I were no more than a maid at this inn who can be ignored!"
The captain's mouth edged up at one corner, and he answered her in French. "I did not know English ladies could scream like fishwives."
"I can assure you, I can scream much louder than that!"
His mouth edged up a little more and admiration warmed his eyes.
A treacherous softening eased into Diana. She had to remind herself that no matter how handsome he could be when he smiled, he was the enemy.
He nodded at the shorter guard, and the man left. The captain turned back to Diana. "Is there anything else I may do for you?"
"Yes—give us our freedom, and allow Mr. Marsett to leave with us."
His smile vanished again into a cold, hard face. "I cannot. Besides, such a devil is not worthy of your concern. But I give you my word that you and your aunt will not come to harm."
She bit her lower lip, and then she said, her voice low, "And how can I trust the word of a man who would shoot an innocent gentleman?"
He stiffened. "How is it that this Marsett can make everyone think he has such virtue? If you knew that—"
"What? That he stands accused of rape by a woman whose own virtue I sincerely suspect?"
For a moment he said nothing. Mouth tightening, he shook his head, and said, "You're a child. You know nothing."
"And you are a fool! You know nothing if you think Madam D'Aeth anything like a lady!"
He glared at her, and she wondered if he would strike her. He looked as if he might. His eyes had darkened and his fists clenched. He leaned forward as if to intimidate her.
But the guard hurried back with a wide-eyed maid who carried a wooden tray piled with Diana's requests. The captain stepped back; the maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried into the room.
The guards would not allow the maid to linger, but ushered her out. Diana thought of perhaps opening the door again and dashing the hot tea into the guards' faces. She and her aunt could escape then. But what of Mr. Marsett? They did not know where he was, and how could they leave him behind?
She settled instead for picking up the hairbrush and starting to brush her aunt's hair.
"Thank you, dear, but tea is all I want."
"Nonsense. We both need time to pull ourselves together and then we can make a plan. We are practical Edgcots, after all, are we not?"
Alexandria looked up and gave a fragile smile. "Yes, dear—we are. But Paxten is not. And now they are going to shoot him, just because he is a rash, impulsive hot-head! Oh, bother the man!"
And with that, she burst into the tears she had never allowed herself to shed over the man she loved.
#
He lay in a cellar. At least it smelled like a cellar. Musty. Damp. A vinegar odor of wine gone off filled the place. With a grimace, he lifted himself from the dirt floor. The guards had thrown him down the stairs. New aches lay over old ones now. The burning agony in his side, however, made the other pains seem as nothing.
Slowly, he climbed to his feet, and he swayed. He could see nothing in the blackness, and for an instant the thought chilled him that he might be blind.
Then he grinned.
They'd probably shoot him soon enough and what did it matter if he could not see his execution?
With one hand out, he eased forward, the dirt cold on his bare feet. He found the damp, hard touch of a stone wall, and felt downwards to the smooth edge of a wooden crate. The lid lifted at his touch, so he pulled it open and put his hand inside. Straw crunched under and around his hand. And then his fingers closed over smooth glass and the narrow neck of a bottle.
Brandy, he hoped.
He pulled it out. But he had no means to pull the cork.
Exhausted, he closed the lid of the crate and sat on it.
He could crack the neck of the bottle against the wall, breaking it. But that sounded untidy. And he had no taste to drink stray bits of broken glass that might cut open his stomach. No, they would have to shoot him. Or hang him. The longing to hold any hope for life still stirred in him.
He leaned against the wall.
Merde! He had been an imbécile to let down his guard. To think he could not be tracked here. They ought to have waited on the cliffs. Or anywhere else. But no, he had wanted his Andria in a soft bed, and payment now for his desire was to have dragged her into the worst danger possible.
Would they think she had aided him?
Or perha
ps accuse her of spying?
He frowned, and wished again for some means to open the bottle. He groped in the darkness for a nail.
As he did, wood creaked and light shafted down into the room. He stopped his search and squinted against the flare of brightness. Boots sounded against wood, and a solider loomed before him. An officer to judge by the amount of gold braid on his chest. He wore the dolman jacket of a hussar, swung by a cord like a cape from his shoulders, the sleeves too tight to actually wear. And he wore the fitted breeches and boots of cavalry. Paxten recognized the face as well. He had seen it once before—when he had stolen into Andria's carriage in that village just outside Paris.
The man certainly had the virtue of persistence, curse him.
Glancing up the stairs, Paxten saw another solider at the top, a lantern in one hand and a musket in the other.
For an instant, he calculated the odds. Could he strike this officer with the bottle and be up the stairs before the other man could shout an alarm? Or shoot? He straightened and pain flared up his side. He winced and knew he would be lucky to hobble up the stairs like an ancient.
He glanced at the man before him again—one of those young, square-jawed officers, stiff with honor and gold braid. He could not recall if had ever heard the man's name, so he lounged back against the wall, and asked in French, his tone intentionally insolent, "And what is it you want?"
"You've led us on a long chase, Marsett."
Paxten lifted the shoulder on his uninjured side. "I had no wish to lead you anywhere. I had hoped that traveling with those two women would throw you off the scent. They did not want to help me. You may as well know that. I forced them to."
The fellow gave a snort. "With a gun to their heads, was it? I think not, Marsett."
"Ah, but I needed no gun. You see, I knew Lady Sandal years ago. It was easy to give her a story, and when she wanted to leave me, to send her carriage on without her. And to blackmail her into aiding me by saying I should ruin her if she did not agree."
"You're a liar, Marsett."
Paxten frowned. He sat up. "I tell you—Lady Sandal and Miss Edgcot knew nothing of my being a fugitive. They wanted only to go home to England, and I used them for my own purposes. They thought I had been injured in a duel. They should not be held to blame, nor made accountable for any of this."
"And did you forcibly darken the mademoiselle's hair to help hide you? And how did you coerce them into stopping in a town for a fair? As I said, you have led us many places, Marsett. I've heard much of your stops along the way."
Paxten's mouth twitched. He glanced around the room, and at the bottle, heavy in his hand. Perhaps he should simply smack it upside the fellow's thick head to get rid of any notion that Andria and Diana were willing participants in aiding an accused criminal.
He looked back at the officer. The man returned his regard, his stare giving away nothing.
One of those well-starched sorts who lived by his code of honor, Paxten decided, summing up the solid build and the clean-shaven face. Even in this dank gloom, the man's boots gleamed. He probably folded his clothes every night, said his prayers, and visited his family every Sunday that he could. And he probably viewed shooting a ragged, half-English criminal as a service to France. Which it probably was.
But it ought not to touch Andria.
Paxten's mouth pulled down. "Look, you can do with me as you will. I've certainly sins enough on my soul to merit harsh judgment—including the sin of stupidity where it comes to Lisette D'Aeth. But Andria—Lady Sandal is an honest innocent in this."
"She did not look so innocent when we found you—after you had got done with her."
Paxten rose, jaw clenched and his fist tight on the bottleneck. "By God, I ought to ram that insult down your throat! You preening conceited cockerel!"
The light at the top of the stairs wavered and Paxten glanced up to see that the sentry had set down the lantern and shouldered his musket. Paxten looked back at the officer. He twisted his mouth into a ragged smile. Might as well be shot now, calling this fellow to book for his remark about Andria.
The young officer, however, turned and said something to the sentry. The man lowered his weapon. The officer glanced back at Paxten. "Lady Sandal and Miss Edgcot are not your concern. I will see them safe to Paris."
"But not to England—sweet Mother of God, why not let them go? They're not going to make you a general for hauling in a pair of Englishwomen."
"No. But I might be made a major for shooting you." Turning, he strode away, but he paused at the base of the stairs and glanced back. "I can see now how you do it, how you convince others you're a gentleman. You must have been once. Before you became a rapist."
He left, going up the stairs two at a time. The light vanished behind the door and a bolt rammed home with a thud.
Swearing, Paxten threw the bottle against the wall. Glass shattered and the sweet smell of champagne filled the air. It gave no satisfaction. Sinking down on the crate, he buried his face in his hands.
He had not long to wait.
It seemed only minutes later they came for him. Six burly fellows, three with muskets, one with a lantern, and two to drag him up the stairs. He let his weight sag. Let them think they had injured him more than they had. He had bled, but not enough so very much. And, yes, he ached, but what did that matter if he found a chance for freedom.
Only how could he leave Andria?
They dragged him out of the inn and onto the rocky shore near the quay. Not far from the inn. Why exert themselves any more over him, he thought, his mouth lifting a little.
He glanced around him.
The sun had not yet risen. Only the faintest lightening of the sky and the stirring breeze signaled that dawn hovered near. Stars and moon had faded. The captain of the Mouiller would be waiting.
Paxten glanced at the quay, at the masts of the anchored ships, bobbing softly as the tide turned, and the rigging creaking. No one else in Dieppe stirred. Yet, Paxten thought he glimpsed movement on one of the ships.
He looked back at the soldiers before him.
One soldier dragged Paxten's hands behind him. Rough rope burned his wrists.
"Is that necessary?" he asked.
No one answered him, but another solider pulled out a black scarf. "Blindfold?"
Paxten shook his head. The man shrugged, but glanced at Paxten with greater respect. Paxten's mouth twisted up. Courage had nothing to do with this, but the mad desire for a means to escape did, and he would need his eyes for that. Only he could not see one.
They would line up and they would shoot him. And Andria would be sent to Paris with her niece. He clenched the muscles in his arms as they pulled tight the ropes.
At the creek of a door opening, the soldiers paused and looked towards the inn.
Paxten followed their stares. He pulled in a sharp breath as Alexandria and Diana stepped from the inn along with that hard-faced officer who had come to him in the cellars.
Mother in heaven, did the man intend to make Andria and her niece watch the execution?
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Taliaris walked away from his interview with Marsett even more displeased than before he had begun. He could certainly see how the man had persuaded others. Marsett had lied just now without a quiver, without hesitation. But the man had lied, it seemed, to make it seem as if Lady Sandal and Miss Edgcot knew nothing of his crimes.
Yet, Diana Edgcot had proven already with her words that she did know. And so had Lady Sandal.
Frowning, Taliaris strode into the small parlor he had commandeered for himself. Night still cloaked the world outside this snug parlor. Beyond the yellow glow of lamps and fire, the stars had begun to fade. He wanted only enough light for his men to see well enough to shoot Marsett. No man—not even the lowest of English scum—should die in darkness.
He frowned.
Why had the mademoiselle protested Marsett's innocence?
Marsett certainly had not.
Odd
, that. Taliaris thought of the guilty faces he had seen before this. Human nature existed even in the discipline of the army; men found ways to cheat, lie, steal, and murder no matter what. But such ones as he had known always seemed to have excuses ready along with pleading their lack of guilt.
So why had the girl called him innocence when the man himself would not?
That question—and his own curiosity about Marsett—had driven him to go and meet that half-English dog. He had found much of what he had expected—a now-ragged man with the marks of dissipation on his face. A man with some charm about him, and with even features a woman might find attractive. A man with an aristocratic look to him, with a strong nose and languid manners.
He frowned. Well, he knew at least that Madam D'Aeth had been assaulted. And Marsett had been shot as he fled her rooms. Those were facts a man could trust.
A knock sounded on the door. Taliaris turned from the window as one of his men entered and saluted. He recognized Melun as one of the two he had ordered to guard Lady Sandal and Miss Edgcot. He could guess what came next, but still he asked, "What does she want now?"
Melun frowned, as if he disapproved. "To speak with you, sir. That is, sir, Lady Sandal would like to speak with you. The girl asked us to find you and tell you."
Taliaris strode out the door, but then stopped and asked, "How did she get you to move this time?"
For a moment, Melun's face flushed—he looked embarrassed by what he must say, but he admitted, "The poker, sir." Taliaris raised his eyebrows and Melun rushed on, "She threatened to take the poker to every breakable in the room, and then to us. That one needs a whip taken to her, I tell you!"
Taliaris glanced at the man, his eyes hard. "How brave you'd look whipping a girl. Don't be a fool, Melun. I've no doubt she asked nicely enough the first time for you to fetch me."
The man snapped to attention. "Sir, I did not think the captain ought to be disturbed by the likes of—"
"Melun. Think less and follow orders more. And remember that Lady Sandal and her niece are to be treated with respect and care. Do you understand?"
Lady Scandal Page 18
