by Isobel Carr
Philip paused outside the imposing gate that led to the courtyard of Margo’s Paris home. It was two stories high, with several doors of various sizes spaced across it. Her mother had given him the directions easily enough when he’d asked. All that was left to do was to actually see her.
The trip to Paris had proved entirely uneventful. There was a short delay in Calais while they worked out the details of their passports, and the roads were so rutted and rough that he’d been worried Livy’s wounds would reopen, but now that they’d finally reached Paris, it all seemed worth it.
He’d left Livy napping at their hotel. She still wasn’t entirely sure she wanted to see Devere, and he didn’t want to force the issue the moment they arrived.
The narrow, cobbled street was filled with carriages, and the walk was equally clogged with people. Philip took a deep breath and knocked on the smallest of the doors set into the gate. After a moment, the sound of the lock being turned became evident and then the door swung inward.
Philip held out his card. “Is Madame de Corbeville at home?” he asked in French.
The liveried footman waved him inside. “I shall go and see, monsieur. Beware the dog.”
Philip chuckled. He might be the only man on earth who didn’t need to beware of Margo’s new pet. While he stood waiting, he saw Devere pass through the inner courtyard. When Devere spotted him, he stopped and turned to come and greet him.
“We weren’t expecting to see you, my lord.”
“And yet, here I am,” Philip said.
Devere eyed him warily. “Come in and have a drink. Margo’s in the bath, but I’m sure she’ll want to see you.”
“I’d rather bribe you to tell me exactly which room she’s in and then to leave the house.”
“I’m not sure Margo would take that very well.”
“I’m sure she’ll take it about as well as Livy will your showing up at the Hôtel Maubourg and letting yourself into room ten.” He fished about in his pocket for the key to their suite of rooms and held it out. It wasn’t a large hotel, but he never stayed anywhere else when he came to Paris. The proprietor had been only too happy to accommodate him when they’d arrived that morning, sending away another party with an excuse about a misunderstanding of dates.
Devere reached for the key, and Philip pulled it back, wrapping his hand securely around it. He wanted those directions first.
“Through the main door, up the stairs, third door on the left,” Devere said, a conspiratorial grin spreading across his face. “Don’t blame me if she sets the dog on you, my lord.”
Philip smiled back at him and tossed him the key.
Roland paused long enough to direct the servants to stay out of the earl’s way before pulling on his greatcoat and hat. He couldn’t do much else to smooth the way for Arlington, but at least the man would have an undisturbed reunion.
At first, he thought Paxton might bridle when told to make herself scarce, but she merely nodded and headed back toward the kitchens with her armful of towels. Margo’s footmen were gathered in a tight knot in the courtyard. All three of them watched him as he crossed the yard. He flipped them a silver écu and told them to go and get a drink.
The hotel the earl had named was within easy walking distance. Roland ploughed his way through the afternoon crowds, earning dirty looks and rude hand gestures with nearly every step. Once inside, no one moved to stop his progress. The proprietor barely even glanced his way as Roland strode past him and disappeared up the stairs.
He let himself into the left-hand suite as the earl had directed. Frith gave him a startled look before shutting the lid on Livy’s trunk with an audible thump, pointing to the adjoining door and whisking herself out of the room.
Roland smiled to himself. He conspired in Margo’s best interest, and Livy’s father and maid conspired in hers. Lord Arlington must believe he had at least some chance of bringing Livy round or he would never have brought her to Paris, let alone set him on her like a hound loosed to hunt.
He cracked open the door. No sign of her. Stepping into the room, Roland could just make out that there was someone in the bed. He toed off his shoes and quietly crossed the room. He should wake her, but he wasn’t going to. If he woke her up, she might tell him to leave. If he just waited, at least he’d have the time between now and then.
She was fully clothed except for her shoes. Her feet looked small and oddly vulnerable in nothing but stockings. The clocks disappeared under the hem of her skirt, their points seeming to urge him to follow.
He shrugged out of his greatcoat and the silk one he wore beneath it and climbed carefully into the bed in his shirtsleeves. Livy mumbled in her sleep and fit herself to him as though his presence were the most natural thing in the world.
Roland wrapped an arm around her waist and pushed his nose into her hair, content to simply lie beside her and breathe in the scent of warm skin and lemon.
CHAPTER 44
Livy came awake with a start. There was a large, masculine arm draped over her and a hand she recognized cupping her breast as though it belonged there. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep in the first place, and she certainly hadn’t thought to wake up with Devere curled around her.
Where was her father? Where was Frith?
Devere kissed the back of her neck, and Livy rolled hastily away. She sat up carefully, her breath hissing out of her. Her side always seemed to stiffen up when she slept.
“I suppose sending you here was my father’s way of forcing me to talk to you.” Livy slid out of the bed and opened the doors that led onto a small Juliet balcony that overlooked the street. She needed air. And space between them in which to think.
The coverlet rustled as he climbed out of the bed, and the floors creaked as he followed her. Livy turned to watch him as he approached, but she stayed outside where she could breathe. The sun was hot on her shoulders. Below her, she could hear the rumble of the city, similar to London, but somehow softer.
“She really wasn’t—isn’t—my mistress.” Roland stood just in front of her, leaning one shoulder against the doorway. “If you want to hear it from her own lips, I can take you to the ambassador’s house right now.”
“You brought her to Paris with you?” The idea stung. It was a poor way to begin an explanation, let alone an apology.
Devere paused, clearly considering his words. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Along with my sister as chaperone, yes. Miss Bence-Jones, now Mrs. John Blakely, is the woman Carlow saw. She came of age two days ago and was married out of His Grace’s private chapel on the very same day.”
Livy felt the knot in her chest loosen so fast her knees wobbled. There was no denying that he was telling the truth. He could hardly have made up so fantastical a story, especially not when he offered his sister and the ambassador as witnesses.
She leaned against the low railing for support. Devere didn’t move. “You should have told me.”
He blew out a long breath. “It wasn’t my secret to tell, but if the need should ever arise again, I promise to tell you.”
“That’s the best you can do?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Livy pushed away from the railing and stepped up to put her hand on his chest. Her fingers curled over the edge of his waistcoat of their own accord. “I think you should promise that the need will never arise again. Married gentlemen have no business being involved in such perilous subterfuges. Let it fall to Thane, or Reeves, or one of your other friends who has no wife to embarrass or upset.”
“Shall we make it part of the vows?” One arm slipped around her waist. “Do you hereby solemnly swear to give all potentially embarrassing schemes the go-by?” Livy narrowed her eyes at him, and Devere grinned, wholly unrepentant. “So I’m forgiven?” he said.
Livy’s hand tightened on his waistcoat. “You’re forgiven if I am.”
He bent his head and kissed her, lips coaxing her to respond. The door rattled behind them, and he dropped a last, swift
kiss on the tip of her nose. Livy peeked around Devere’s shoulder, expecting to see her father. Her greeting died on her lips as Henry strode into the room, his boots dusty, as though he’d just alighted from a long trip.
Livy’s skin flushed with anger at the sight of him. Her throat tightened, and a sharp ache built inside her chest. She opened her mouth to command him to leave, but was cut off by his blustery, “What the hell is he doing here?”
Devere, clearly the “he” in question, turned slowly about, and put one arm out to keep her on the balcony. “I could ask the same of you, Carlow. Does Lord Arlington have any idea you’re in Paris?”
“Not as yet. I was coming to try and reason with him.”
“Reason with him?” Livy said. “I think we’re well beyond that.”
Henry reached into his pocket and pulled out a letter. “You don’t think I know that?” He waved the crumpled paper at her. “Have you seen this? Disinherited. Nothing but the title when he dies. And not even that if he manages to get himself an heir on his new wife.” The word wife came out as though it were the most vile word in the English language.
Devere took a menacing step forward, and Livy went with him, clinging to the back of his waistcoat. Henry’s tirade continued, his voice rising until he was shouting. “He didn’t even write me himself. He had his damn solicitor do it. Sent it to me with a stack of banknotes and his best wishes for a safe journey back to Italy. I’m not some whore he can give her congé. I’m his heir.”
Henry paused for a breath. The letter crackled in his fist. “I never meant for you to be hurt,” Henry said, his tone suddenly cajoling. “Lewis wasn’t supposed to touch you. You understand, though, don’t you, Livy? I have to defend what’s mine.”
Livy suddenly understood all too well. She was going to be sick in a moment. Her stomach churned and she swallowed hard. Her jumps felt as tight as a full set of stays.
“What the hell is he talking about?” Devere looked like Hephaestus himself, his brows drawn down into a tight solid line across the bridge of his nose.
“Oh, Henry.” Livy shook her head slowly as she stared at him. “You should go now. Before my father gets back and finds you here.”
“I can’t,” Henry said, his eyes wild and his jaw tight. “I have to make him understand. He can’t do this to me.”
“Livy,” Devere said, the one word drowning out Henry, cutting him off. “What does your cousin mean, you were never supposed to be hurt?”
Roland felt Livy’s hands loosen their grip on his waistcoat. She smoothed them across his back until they rested at his waist, then dropped her head, letting it press against his shoulder blade. Her cousin paced, as though tightly enclosed, his agitation palpable.
“He means,” Livy said finally, her voice so soft the words were barely discernible, “that the man who attacked me last week in London was after your sister. But the comtesse had already left for Paris, only Henry didn’t know that.”
Roland’s curse echoed through the room. Carlow stopped in his tracks, his shoulders hunching as if waiting for a blow. With a last glance at Livy, the man turned and raced for the door. Roland lunged after him, seized him by the trailing hem of his coat, and hauled him back.
The sound of threads popping was loud and distinct as Henry’s coat split up the back. Roland heaved again, yanking Carlow off his feet, and sending him flailing to the floor. A spur sliced across Roland’s leg, a bright burst of pain that colored his vision red.
Carlow scrambled to his feet, backing away. “It’s not my fault.”
“Sending someone after my sister isn’t your fault?” Roland circled, putting himself between Carlow and door. Livy was clinging to one of the great carved legs of the bed, her face white. Roland forced himself to breathe. Killing Carlow would only make things worse, and he was angry enough to beat him bloody. “Whose fault is it? Mine?”
“Yes, if you like,” Carlow said as he bumped up against the carved caryatid that supported the mantel. His hand closed over the fire poker and his lips curled into a ghost of a smile. “It was you who introduced them after all, so you’re as much to blame for my predicament as anyone.”
“You should put that down, Carlow,” Roland said. Though he sincerely hoped that the man didn’t.
Livy’s sharp intake of breath caused her cousin to flinch. He glanced past Roland, gaze fastening on Livy, and his face hardened. Carlow flexed his arm, testing the weight of the poker. Without a word, he leapt forward like a fencer, swinging the poker in a high arc.
Roland ducked and raised one arm to block the blow. The heavy length of iron caught him hard across the forearm, pain radiating down into the bone. Roland grabbed hold of the poker with his other hand, twisted aside, and yanked it out of Carlow’s grip.
Livy dashed across the room, a flash of white and gold at the edge of Roland’s vision. She flung open the door, screaming for help. “Au secours! Au secours!”
Carlow’s expression changed to pure panic, and he fought to regain the poker, fingers digging into Roland’s flesh, spittle flying as he cursed Roland and Livy both. They slid across the floor, the leather soles of their shoes offering no traction on the polished wood. Roland dropped the poker and spun away, striking Carlow hard in the face with his fist as he did so.
Carlow fell back a step, wiping blood from his mouth with the back of his hand.
The distinct rumble of running feet sounded through the outer room. Livy stormed toward them, hair flying, her father’s walking stick raised like a cricket bat. Roland waved her back. He didn’t want her anywhere near her cousin. Not even in the guise of avenging angel.
The only weapon at hand was a small gilt chair. A fantasy suited only for a lady’s boudoir. Roland caught it one-handed and, turning with his full weight behind it, hit Carlow broadside. The chair splintered into pieces with a thunderous crack and Carlow collapsed onto the floor in a heap.
Roland brought his foot down on the man’s wrist, pinning it. When Carlow’s hand went limp, Roland kicked the poker away from him. It skittered across the room and disappeared under the bed. Livy’s cousin moaned and covered his head with his free arm.
The room was suddenly overflowing with the hotel’s staff and the earl’s own servants, everyone looking somewhat stunned by the tableau of destruction before them. Nearly every bit of furniture except the bed had been overturned. The mantel ornaments lay smashed on the hearth, nothing but tiny bits of broken porcelain and scattered, trampled flowers.
“Are you all right?” Livy set her father’s walking stick aside. She tugged her fichu free and pressed it to his cheek to stanch the blood he could feel dripping down his face. There was more blood oozing down his leg from where Henry had caught him with his spur and a nasty red stain was growing beneath the large rent in his shirt sleeve.
“What on earth are we going to tell them?” Livy glanced over her shoulder at the ever-growing cadre of people flowing into the room.
“As little as possible,” Roland said, pushing her hand gently aside. “Unless you want to see Carlow hang.”
Livy glanced at her cousin and drew a shaky, uneven breath. “What I want is to never see Henry again.”
Roland nodded and firmly escorted their audience out of the suite. He sent Livy out to the sitting room while he and Lord Arlington’s valet attempted to get her cousin back on his feet. Roland righted one of the wingback chairs and together they tipped a groaning Carlow into it.
Raised voices from the antechamber made it clear that the hotel’s owner was incensed about the damages. Roland ground his teeth.
“Go and see if you can calm the proprietor,” Roland said to the earl’s man. “The last thing we need is someone summoning the maréchaussée.” The man nodded, looking relieved, and left the room.
Carlow moaned again and opened his eyes. He put one hand up to grip his head as though he were checking to see that it was still whole. Roland glared and considered his options. The French constabulary weren’t likely to concern the
mselves with a brawl between two Englishmen, at least not so long as the hotel’s owner was compensated. The real concern was what to do with Carlow himself. Pitching him over the balcony was probably not the best plan, though it held an appeal Roland couldn’t deny.
Roland leaned against the mantel, the shattered remains of a vase crackled underfoot. “I want to make one thing perfectly clear.” Carlow looked up, his eyes bleary. “You’d better hope that nothing ever happens to my sister or to Livy. Because if anything unfortunate does befall them—a violent footpad, a dangerous highwayman, a deadly house breaker—I’ll see that you’re held responsible.”
Carlow sat up a bit straighter and pushed his hair back from his face. His split lip was already starting to swell. “You and I both know that there’s no way you can prove I did anything.”
“Prove? No. A failing of our system of justice, to be sure. But you needn’t concern yourself with what I can prove, because believe me, I won’t. I’ll kill you myself if you leave me no other option. As for today, I’d advise you to run for Italy as quickly as you can, and I’d recommend you stay there, for you won’t find yourself welcome in England ever again.”
CHAPTER 45
Roland sat still while Livy dabbed at the cut on his cheek with a salve her maid swore by. It smelled like turpentine and she knew from personal experience that it stung like fire. She clucked her tongue as he wrinkled his nose. “I don’t think it needs a plaster,” she said, standing back to survey him. “But you won’t be the handsomest man in Paris for a good while.”
He rolled his eyes at her and stood up. “I doubt I was the handsomest man in Paris before Carlow slashed my cheek open.”
Livy bit her lip and raised her brows provokingly. Roland grinned back at her. He still looked like a pirate after a battle, for all that he’d changed out of his torn and bloody clothing and tamed his hair. She ran a finger over the scrape on his chest that was already blooming into an ugly bruise. Roland caught her hand and brought it to his mouth. He kissed her palm and she smoothed her thumb across his cheek.
