She’d put the question to him candidly, and Thomas caught the first whiff in the air of her malevolent objective in their discourse.
He never took his eyes from hers. “My legs are stiff tonight, and I don’t care to dance, Lady Claire. Otherwise I would surely ask you.”
“Of course. Probably due to the unusually cold weather.”
She had to know, or suspect anyway, that his injuries prevented him from dancing altogether. Instead of explaining, he simply nodded once. “Probably.”
One side of her mouth lifted slyly, and she tilted her head fractionally. “I saw Mrs. DuMais with the baron, and, of course, she looked beautiful this evening. But then, I’m sure you noticed.”
The music and noise from the ballroom at his right had grown so loud he could barely hear the lady speak. To counter it, he took two steps to his left so that he stood next to the wall, beside her, giving him a better vantage point from which to view the foyer and all who walked within it as well.
“Most of the ladies here are as beautifully gowned and just as lovely, Claire,” he rebuked in a manner that implied sagacity in his word choice but sounded like a scolding.
It had no effect on her.
After finishing off the contents of her glass in two long gulps, she lifted her face as close to his as she could get it. “But we all know she’s an exceptional beauty, Thomas. To deny it now would be to make a mockery of me.” She laughed bitterly, then dropped her voice to a near-whisper. “Actually, I saw her leaving the library with Baron Rothebury, and they looked like they’d had a very entertaining exchange, indeed. They spent a good deal of time locked behind closed doors, alone together, and by her mussed appearance I don’t know just how proper the encounter was, although it was terribly clear that they weren’t dancing. She is French, after all. A widow in need of a man, and he is a randy one at that. Everyone knows it. Quite a pair they make, don’t you think?”
Thomas’s heart began to pound, but he refused to react, because that’s exactly what she wanted him to do. Naturally his instinct told him to smash his fist into the wall at his side, or better yet into Rothebury’s teeth. As always, though, because of his very proper upbringing, gentility prevailed. He stood cool and composed, not a change in his features, staring down in well-hidden disgust at the drunken, wrinkled face a satin mask couldn’t hide, only inches away.
Because he remained levelheaded by both nature and culture, he allowed her blunt words to sink in, to digest in his very rational mind before he replied. The anger he’d felt at the sudden and vivid picture of Madeleine and Rothebury making love to each other floated neatly from his body as he decided after a moment or two that such a conclusion made no sense at all. He knew Madeleine better than that. It didn’t happen, not here at a party and not in the man’s library. He suspected that Claire had seen them, and perhaps the baron had attempted to seduce Madeleine; but as certain as he was that there was a God in heaven, he knew Madeleine didn’t instigate the liaison. Thomas knew that regardless of her feelings for him as her associate and lover, it wasn’t necessary for her to gather information from intimate contact with the baron, and she was simply too smart to allow a casual affair with a suspect to interfere with their work.
Claire must have seen the resolution in his eyes, for at that moment her expression changed to one of vehemence.
“You don’t believe me,” she spat in a whisper.
Her outrage took him aback, and he blinked, looking her up and down. “I believe you saw them, but I’m not sure what that has to do with me,” he countered flatly. “She is my employee and nothing more. What the woman does privately is her business.”
Claire shook her head in contempt. “Don’t treat me like a blind cow. You’re in love with her. Everyone can see it, Thomas, because it’s pitifully obvious. She is a slut, no matter how beautiful she is on the outside. You’re an educated man who has fallen for someone who can give you nothing but heartache and disease. You look at her as if you haven’t bedded a woman in decades. It’s appalling, really, and you should be ashamed.”
That absolutely infuriated him as nothing ever had. He closed his hands together in tight fists at his sides to keep from striking out. He’d never come so close to slapping a woman in his entire life.
“You are drunk, madam,” he said in icy coldness, “and would do well to return home.”
She scoffed, then snickered. “Afraid to tell me how you really feel?” she asked in a whisper thick with the influence of alcohol. “I could have given you riches for your attention, Thomas. Would have taken you to my bed should you have asked. Your being crippled means nothing to me. You didn’t need to fall for a common woman who’s likely been with dozens of men, who will leave you for the next suitor who offers something more, something better, perhaps just his perfect legs and the ability to dance a waltz with her when she asks.” In a voice of sorrow, she stepped back to mumble, “She will break your heart and she will do it laughing.”
Thomas had had enough. Regardless of the fact that Lady Claire’s last words pushed deeply into the pockets of his only remaining doubts, he refused to have anything more to do with a woman who spoke from pure spite, who hurt him by mentioning something she knew mattered intensely.
Glaring at her now, he leaned very close to murmur harshly, “You reek of liquor and speak without thought. As a lady of quality, you should know better than to attack with words you can’t prove, but because you’re intoxicated, I’m ignoring them. The very funny thing, Claire, is that Madeleine DuMais, being lowbred and common, through no fault of her own, would never stoop to such coarseness by speaking so unkindly of you. She has outclassed you in every regard.” He stood erect once more, glowering into her puffy, shocked eyes, his repugnance hopefully apparent in his. “You are a mess, and in time I hope that you can overcome your addictions. But just to clear the air, I’d like to end this pointless conversation by saying that I would never, under any circumstances, be interested in sharing your bed. The thought alone makes me shudder. Good evening, madam.”
He brushed by her and entered the ballroom.
Chapter 18
They left the masquerade ball just before one, deciding it best to take the shorter route home by walking the lake path due to the lateness of the night and the frigid air. Although muddier than the village streets, Madeleine didn’t care about staining her gown when she would likely freeze to death if she went the long way home. Well, perhaps that was an exaggeration, but even with her fur-lined pelisse-mantle embracing her head to foot, she still felt the chill. Thankfully, though, the wind had died completely, and darkness prevailed now as the full moon of earlier had become hidden beneath a low cloud cover.
Thomas seemed overly pensive, and she didn’t want to interrupt his thoughts until they were a rather good distance from the baron’s home. He had, in fact, been quiet since he’d returned to her side nearly two hours ago, speaking only briefly about superficial things like the deliciously rich chocolate soufflé, of which she herself had eaten two large servings, and the remarkably high quality of Rothebury’s chosen champagne. She’d drunk almost a full glass of that as well, far more than she normally consumed at a party, and it had soothed her to the point where she’d actually enjoyed herself after being nearly accosted in the library by her host. Still, aside from a few meager words of a casual nature, Thomas had said little to her through the evening, regardless of the fact that he’d remained at her side at all times except when she danced.
Now they were nearing the eastern edge of the baron’s property, where the path narrowed considerably, and the very still air and thick darkness made the going slow. She had to walk in front of him but decided they were far enough away for her to break the silence and discuss what she had learned in Rothebury’s home.
“Did you have a good time tonight, Thomas?” she began ever so perfunctorily.
She thought she heard the faintest snort.
“I don’t know if I’d call it a good time,” he answered
brusquely, reaching across her shoulder with his arm to shove a cluster of leaves from an overgrown bush out of her way. “But I will say it was somewhat enlightening.”
She ignored his staid tone to remark agreeably, “I thought it was enlightening, too.”
“Did you.”
His statement was matter-of-fact, but Madeleine detected a hint of caution in his voice.
“For a book dealer, or trader, or whatever he wants to call himself,” she carried on when he offered nothing more, “Richard Sharon certainly doesn’t have many of them.”
“He has no books?” Thomas asked in disbelief.
She ducked her head from an overhanging branch. “He has a few but not what you’d expect for a dealer, or even someone who only takes a mild interest in them. His library instead is filled with unusual antiques and some very lovely artifacts. I’m not sure how this all ties in with smuggling but I’m certain it does.”
“Interesting.”
For moments she heard nothing more than the crunching of twigs and pebbles beneath their feet. Then finally the path widened again as they rounded the bend, heading in a northerly direction toward the cottage.
“The house is smaller inside than outside,” Thomas mentioned very slowly, as if piecing together an intricate puzzle while he thought about it. “Did you notice that?”
Madeleine paused in her own musings to consider what he was implying. “Very briefly, I suppose, when we first entered, but I haven’t really given it much thought. What are you suggesting, Thomas?”
He inhaled deeply of the crisp, night air, moving up to walk at her side again. “I’m not sure. Just thinking aloud for now.”
A drop of rain hit her cheek, then another, and Madeleine lowered her head and raised her muff to her neck. “Maybe the rumors are true, then.”
“Rumors?”
“The rumors of it once having been a refuge for those not afflicted with the Black Death,” she expounded. “Maybe the structure is so old that the house has been closed in somewhat on its foundation, and there are spaces between rooms.”
He chuckled at that, lightening the mood, for which she was grateful.
“Usually, I’d consider that the stuff of fantasy,” he replied, “but in this case you may actually have a valid explanation. Don’t forget, though, that the entire house can’t be built that way. The ballroom, for example, is clearly open to the structure walls, and there are windows to other parts of the home that can be seen from the outside.”
She slowed her pace and brought her muff higher, to her nose, to warm it for a second or two. “Yes, but windows to what? I remember looking at the house from behind the cottage in the early night and not seeing one blessed light on. That did seem very strange to me since it was only just after ten.”
He shrugged. “Perhaps he retires early.”
She scoffed. “Does the Baron Rothebury strike you as the type of man who would retire early, Thomas?”
“I see your point.”
They were quiet for another minute.
“Let’s assume,” she continued solemnly, “that his home has been remodeled to accommodate certain…What shall we call them? Passageways?” She tossed him a swift glance even though she couldn’t see much of his expression.
“That seems an adequate term,” he concurred.
The notion of secret passages in Rothebury’s home both confounded and fascinated her. “Why would he do that? For what purpose?”
Thomas hesitated before replying. “To smuggle? To move from room to room unnoticed so he can observe his indolent servants? To…bring young ladies into his bedroom at night without them being observed?”
She gradually stopped walking, pulling one hand out of her warm, sable muff to grasp his coat sleeve. He halted a pace ahead of her, pivoting to look down at her in question.
With increasing awareness, she whispered reluctantly, “He said that to me, Thomas.”
Even in nearly pure darkness she saw him frown.
“Said what?”
“That he wanted to bring me in at night. For a lover’s tryst, although he didn’t use those words. And when I protested by saying something he probably expected me to say as a cultured lady, about how I couldn’t possibly meet him because I might stumble into a servant and speckle his reputation if I were caught, he quite casually informed me that there are other ways of getting inside the manor house than using the front door.”
Thomas wiped his face with his gloved hand. “He said this while you were alone together?”
“In the library,” she admitted, releasing his sleeve and inserting her hand back inside her muff, feeling only a trifle guilty for not immediately telling him about her and the baron’s little escapade. She would get to that in a moment. “He wanted my…undivided attention, and I wanted to get him alone to talk, only suggesting that room because I’d get a good look at his book collection, which, as I just said, did not really exist.” She clucked her tongue and shook her head in disgust. “Of course, he never mentioned a concern for my reputation, but then he’s not the type of man who would.”
Thomas smiled slightly at that.
“I suppose he could have meant the servants’ entrance,” she reasoned matter-of-factly.
“And chance meeting one of them? I doubt it.” He stroked long, leather-covered fingers over his whiskers, slowly. “Do you want to know what I think?”
She grinned. “You have to ask?”
More droplets of rain tapped her hooded mantle, and Thomas glanced up to the dark night sky. “It’s getting heavier.”
“And I’m about to freeze to my death.”
Without thought or comment he stepped toward her and wrapped a strong, comforting arm around her shoulders, pulled her tightly against his thick, broad chest, then began walking again with her at his side.
“I think this,” he disclosed contemplatively. “I think that house is very old, perhaps even as old as local rumor suggests. Because of its age the inside has been remodeled through the years—to renovate it, to change the interior style for decorative reasons. I think there are hidden passages behind the walls that connect some of the rooms, maybe many of them, and that there are entrances into that house from the outside property.”
It was all beginning to make sense to her, too. “Tunnels underground,” she said in a quick breath.
“Maybe. Maybe only one. I’m beginning to suspect that’s how he’s getting crates of opium inside his home without anyone the wiser, including, perhaps, even his own servants.”
“Servants would never talk, Thomas,” she reminded him. “Not if they need their jobs.”
“True,” he agreed. “But remember that with a timely, illegal operation like this one he couldn’t possibly take such a risk if he could help it. He’s far too clever to chance bringing crates of stolen opium through the front door in the middle of the day.”
She looked up to study the bold, rough edges of his facial features as he continued to stare straight ahead.
“He’d bring them in at night,” she theorized aloud as amazing conclusions began to dawn on her. “He’d do it quietly, by lantern light, through tunnels that led into passageways in his home.”
“That’s precisely what I’m beginning to believe.”
“And there he could hide everything from visitors and the authorities if he had to.”
“Right again.”
“Which is why he’s cautious about inviting neighbors into his home socially.”
“And probably why he holds the Winter Masquerade each year.”
Her brows drew together. “That I don’t understand.”
“Think about it, Madeleine.” He cleared his throat as he shook his head minutely. “If one looks at the house closely, as I did tonight, it can be deduced that the outside is larger than the inside, if only slightly and at certain observable angles. However, when he’s filled it with people it would only seem small to someone who, although might notice a difference, would disregard the apparent siz
e variation because it’s crowded.”
An incredible presumption, and perfectly plausible under the circumstances.
“So,” she concluded for him guardedly, “he has to host a social event from time to time, or villagers would begin to wonder why they are not receiving invitations from the Baron Rothebury.”
“Exactly. What better way to stay in the villagers’ good graces than to invite them all to a masquerade ball each year, where the food is excellent and the expensive drink flows. Everybody has a marvelous time, he mingles with the local gentry, and the rest of the year he’s busy. It’s actually very clever on his part.”
Madeleine plainly heard the disgust dripping from his voice at that remark, but because she knew Thomas liked the baron less with each passing week, she brushed over that as another thought of much more significance occurred to her.
“That’s what Desdemona has seen.”
He squeezed her once and pushed a branch covered with wet, clinging leaves out of her way with his free arm as they finally neared the clearing behind the cottage. “I imagine she’s seen something, but fortunately for the good Baron Rothebury, he doesn’t have to worry about a woman who can’t say a word about it to anyone without ruining her family’s fine reputation.”
Suddenly Madeleine understood, and felt nauseated by it. “She was his lover.”
“I would not be in the least surprised,” he said coolly.
“So that explains the lights in the night that she mentioned,” Madeleine surmised as her own mind began to bubble with possibilities. “But how much do you think she really knows?”
He shook his head again and slowed his stride as the bench came into view. “Impossible to say unless she talks, and it’s doubtful she would help us if she could.”
He guided her toward the entrance to the small tunnel of foliage that led to the cottage, but Madeleine pulled herself away from his grasp and continued strolling toward the water.
Winter Garden Page 21
