She reached up to touch his cheek. “Because I want you to know I don’t blame you.”
The words snagged on his memories, making him choke down a flood of remorse. Then he realized where they were and glanced about to see who might be close enough to overhear. “Mother, we can’t talk about this here.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She flashed him a wan smile. “I’m not used to having so many people about. But you understand what I’m saying, right?”
That she “sometimes” missed the arse who’d sired Gregory and John and had hit them whenever they’d made a wrong step? That she actually missed the arse who’d beaten her whenever he was in his cups, which was most of the time?
Oh, and then there was the fact that she didn’t blame her son for defending her that night and shoving his father so that he lost his footing and tumbled down the stairs to his death.
Gregory could scarcely comprehend her train of thought. But then, he’d lost only an abuser when he’d killed his father. She’d lost a husband. Guilt coursed through his veins like a shot of bad whiskey.
“Yes,” he said tersely. “I understand.”
They stood there a moment in a companionable silence, both of them lost in the past as his father’s ghost hovered between them.
Then he shook off the chill that gave him. Her mention of Father had reminded him of what he’d learned yesterday. “As long as you insist upon discussing this, I have something I should warn you about.” Leading her into the study, he closed the door. “Someone has been asking in town about Father’s death.”
She blanched. “Who?”
“I don’t know. But you need to be very cautious about what you say to people. Has anyone asked you about it?”
“Not lately, no.” She thrust out her chin. “And even if they did, it’s not as if I’m going to tell them that my son killed his father, accidentally or otherwise.”
He sighed. There were times when he wondered what his motives had been that night. Had he merely been defending Mother with that shove? Or had he acted with the full intention of killing his father?
He could never be sure, and the thought often plagued his nights. “Just be careful, all right?” he told her.
“You be careful, too.”
That took him by surprise. “When have I ever not been careful?”
“Not about that,” she said with a wave of her hand. Her gaze turned sly. “Careful about the princess.”
Crossing his arms over his chest, he said, “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean. You fancy her.”
Oh, God, now even his mother could tell how he felt about Monique? “Don’t be absurd. She’s from a royal line extending back for generations. She would never be able to marry a mere English baron, no matter what his political position.”
“Which is why I said to be careful. Because I think she fancies you, too. And if the two of you are involved—”
“That will never happen,” he clipped out. Remembering what Monique herself had said, he added, “Nothing can ever come of a . . . er . . . friendship between me and Princess Aurore.”
Again he considered telling his mother about the attempt on Monique’s life, but something held him back. There was no need to go that far; Mother wasn’t in any kind of danger. Besides, he wasn’t sure he could trust himself to discuss the situation impartially, and whatever he let slip would only fuel her suspicions concerning him and Monique.
Clearly unconvinced, she cast him a searching glance.
He knew better than to fall prey to that. “Good night, Mother,” he said firmly.
She hesitated before stretching up to kiss his cheek. “Good night, son.” Then she left.
A short while later, Gregory went off to bed himself. But he rose the next morning in a foul mood, having tossed and turned most of the night.
He’d had no luck the evening before in cornering Lady Ursula to find out why she was so fixed on the arrival of Prince Leopold, so he’d hoped to encounter her this morning. But she was still abed, and Monique and Pontalba had headed outside a while ago to choose their mounts for their ride.
Bloody hell. He had best join them before the impudent female decided to go off alone with the duke. Gregory meant to protect her from Pontalba, no matter what.
Are you jealous?
Damned right he was. He hated that. It made him behave like an ungoverned fool, which he’d fought most of his life to avoid. Yet the thought of her and Pontalba together . . .
Christ, he wouldn’t think about it. It didn’t matter.
And where the devil was Hart? He should have been back from Dieppe by now. Not that Gregory didn’t believe Monique’s tale about why she was doing this. When she’d spoken of her grandmother, her emotions had been palpable. Still, he wanted to confirm her tale.
Because when it came to Monique, his cock was definitely leading him . . . right down the garden path to hell.
Scowling, he descended the steps of the manor house to find the groom holding his horse while she and Pontalba waited for him on mounts that were clearly growing restless.
Today she was resplendent in a riding habit of brownish-purple crushed velvet, with a jaunty top hat of pink silk that had a strip of lavender gauze streaming from it.
Whoever had picked out her clothes certainly did like pink. But after last night’s discussion, he had to wonder if she’d chosen the purple gown just for him.
God, he really was becoming besotted. “Ready for a ride, I see,” he said, hoping he sounded nonchalant.
“It’s a lovely day for it,” Pontalba said. “Don’t you agree, Princess?”
“Certainement,” she said absently, searching Gregory’s face with an acute gaze that made him uncomfortable. “Monsieur, you do not look at all well this morning. Are you sure you wish to ride?”
Ride? God, yes. Unfortunately, his mare wasn’t what he wanted to ride. “I’m fine, Your Highness. Merely distracted by affairs of state involving this damned conference.”
She took his meaning at once and colored fetchingly, rousing heat in all the wrong places. “Yes, I’m sure that such matters often distract you.”
Climbing into the saddle, he muttered, “You have no idea.”
“Still,” she said, “you must be used to it by now.”
Blackmail? Impostors? His career teetering on the knife’s edge of destruction? Hardly. “Certain things, one never gets used to.” He prodded his horse into a walk. “Shall we?”
“Lead on, sir,” the duke said. “I am most eager to see your waterfall.”
The sun shone full on the lawn as they headed at a walk for the wilder part of the estate that lay past the woods. He did love his woods in autumn—the cool shadows, the flashes of evergreen and orange and red, the crisp crackle of dead leaves underfoot. A pity they could not ride through them rather than next to them, but since there was no path for it, that would be difficult.
“How far do your woods extend?” Monique asked.
“All the way to the main road. They provide the firewood for the estate. We’ve got alder, ash, and oak. Some birch. They’re also stocked with pheasant and partridge for hunting.”
“We should have gone hunting today!” the duke exclaimed. “I do enjoy such sport.”
“It’s not the season for it,” Gregory lied. He wasn’t about to give his guests firearms and hope that no one took the opportunity to shoot Monique “accidentally.”
“Well, your woods are very green,” she said blandly, obviously referring to their conversation yesterday, and Gregory shot her a sharp glance.
The duke said, “Not really, my dear. Just the evergreens and the oaks. They’re more orange and brown than anything.”
It took all Gregory’s effort not to laugh outright.
With a roll of her eyes for Gregory’s benefit, Monique pointed to a spot at the end of the woods. “And what is that in the distance?”
“An Ionic temple Mother had built for effect,” Gregory said. �
�To be honest, I’ve never understood the appeal of follies that do nothing but look pretty and enhance the grounds. A pavilion that one can use is fine. An elegant little chapel, for those who are very religious? Fine. But anything else seems pointless and a bit absurd.”
“Yet you don’t mind gardens,” Monique said, a hint of laughter in her voice. “Even though they too only look pretty and enhance the grounds.”
He smiled at her. “Perhaps I like the green as much as certain people I know.” When her cheeks pinkened, he added, “Besides, gardens are useful. You can take your exercise in them, grow flowers to cut for the house, and provide herbs for Cook. But what do you do with an Ionic temple?”
Pontalba was watching them in confusion. “If you dislike such ornamental creations, why did you approve the building of this one?”
He shrugged. “Mother needs her little projects to entertain her out here in the country. She isn’t much for town, so I don’t mind indulging her.”
Feeling Monique’s gaze on him, he glanced over to find her regarding him with an enigmatic expression. “You’re a good son.”
“I try to be.” He couldn’t prevent the edge sharpening his words. “Though, according to my mother, I don’t always succeed. If she had her way, I’d be here whenever Parliament isn’t in session.”
The glint of pity in Monique’s eyes, showing that she clearly remembered yesterday’s conversation, made him grit his teeth and look away. What in God’s name had prompted him to tell her about Father and John?
It was the way she listened, no doubt. She didn’t comment or judge. And that seemed to pull things out of him that he kept secret from everyone else.
The conversation petered out then, and for a while the three of them rode in silence.
Then Monique said to Gregory, “If you don’t mind, monsieur, I should like a more vigorous ride. Race you to the temple?”
Gregory was about to say it wasn’t a good idea when Pontalba said, “Yes, indeed!” and urged his horse into a canter.
Then he and Monique were off, bolting down the edge of the woods, laughing as they vied for first place.
Bloody hell. The woman would be the death of him yet.
Gregory spurred his own horse into a gallop, determined to stay close to her. He had nearly caught up to them when he heard a noise and saw Monique’s pink hat go flying off. Only when her gelding broke into a panicked run did he realize the noise had been a gunshot.
With a sick roiling in his stomach, he goaded his mare into a run, too, determined to reach her before her damned horse threw her. At least she didn’t appear to have been hit by the shot. She was crouching low in the saddle and keeping her seat remarkably well. Still . . .
He choked down panic. He had to keep his head about him and pray that he could catch up to her. His mare was the quickest, but her gelding was frightened, and fear lent wings to a horse.
As Gregory went thundering past the duke, another shot sounded from close by. He had to get to her!
Pontalba cried, “I’ll go find the bastard!” and peeled off, headed for the woods. Gregory had no time to wonder about that, no time even to look back for telltale signs of smoke. He was coming up on Monique now. As he got even with her, he reached over and jerked her onto his mount.
Just in time, too, for a third shot rang out and her gelding went down. The bastard had shot the horse, damn him! Monique gave a little cry, and for a moment he feared she’d been hit. Then she maneuvered herself better onto the saddle between his arms, and he realized she hadn’t been.
But that didn’t quell his terror. She was still in danger, and if he couldn’t get her away . . .
He dug his heels into his mare’s sides, desperate for more speed. Monique was shaking, her breath coming in quick, desperate gasps. Like his. He leaned over her, hoping to shield her with his body. Then, with his heart knocking in his chest, he steered his mare toward the temple. At least they could find shelter there.
And he’d heard no more shots. Belatedly, it occurred to him that he shouldn’t have let the duke go into the woods alone—Gregory was responsible for Pontalba’s safety, too, after all—but right now he could only focus on getting Monique out of danger.
Moments later, they reached the temple. They both slid to the ground. Grabbing her by the hand, he yanked her behind a pillar. The building had no entrance—it really was just for show—but the columns were large enough to block the view of anyone in the woods, and he was certain that was where the shots had come from.
He pinned her against the pillar, wishing he could surround her completely with his body. He barely resisted the urge to run his hands over every inch of her to make sure she was all right. “You’re not hurt, are you?”
“Non,” she whispered, and laid her head against his shoulder.
“Thank God,” he said fervently, and pressed a kiss into her hair. “When I saw your hat fall . . .”
He couldn’t bear to think what he would have done if that shot had hit home.
They stood there frozen a long while, hardly daring to breathe. But as the moments ticked by and no more shots came, they both began to breathe more easily. He glanced around the edge of the pillar but saw nothing except her horse lying in the field, obviously dead. Damn that villain. Gregory would hunt him down just for that alone.
“Do you think it’s safe now?” she whispered.
“Probably. No doubt the duke frightened the shooter off.” He drew his head back behind the pillar. “But I’m not taking any chances. We should remain here a while longer.”
She nodded. More time passed before she ventured, “Why are they doing this? Who is doing this?”
“I wish I knew.” His voice hardened. “I’ll tell you one thing, though—it wasn’t local ruffians shooting recklessly. They were bloody well aiming for you.”
“I know.” Fear darkened her eyes as she gazed up at him. “You must have some theories about who would want Aurore dead.”
He thought about telling her of Lady Ursula and her suspicious—possibly romantic—interest in Prince Leopold. Then it dawned on him that the lady-in-waiting had supposedly been in bed when they’d left. She could have been waiting for them to leave the house before following them.
Then there was Pontalba’s eagerness to go after the shooter. What if he’d hired someone to do the deed and, when the shots hadn’t hit their mark, decided that he’d better silence his accomplice?
“I have a few ideas,” he said, “but I would rather investigate them before I speak of them to anyone.” He kissed her brow, his frenzied pulse having slowed only a little. “First, however, I must see you safe inside the house.”
The sound of hooves approaching made both of them tense up, and instinctively, he tightened his grip on her.
“The damned fellow is gone,” Pontalba said from beyond the pillars.
Gregory stuck his head out to stare at the duke, who looked the worse for wear after tramping through the woods. “Are you sure?”
Grim-faced, Pontalba nodded. “I followed the last plume of smoke just in time to see a chap running through the woods for the road. By the time I reached the road myself, no one was there. He must have had a horse waiting, because I saw a spot where the grass was trampled and eaten.”
“Did you get a good look at him?” Gregory moved from behind the column, and Monique followed him.
Pontalba shook his head no. “He was wearing a green jacket and a brown hat. That’s all I noticed.”
Just like the man who’d shot at her in the park. A chill swept down Gregory’s spine. The assassin had followed her to Kent? That didn’t bode well for keeping her safe.
“So it could have been anyone,” Gregory said.
“Anyone who could access the estate from the main road, yes.” When Monique clutched Gregory’s arm, Pontalba added, “Is something going on here that I don’t know about?”
Feeling Monique freeze beside him, Gregory shrugged. “Someone shot at me in London.” No point in alarmin
g more people than was necessary. Or handing the duke fodder for his argument that his candidate would be the best choice. “I thought it was a random occurrence, but apparently not. I do have enemies, you know.”
Pontalba cursed under his breath. “Well, keep your enemies well away from me. They could have hit me or my horse as easily as they hit the princess’s.”
“Indeed,” Gregory said. “Which is why I shall have men posted along the road. With any luck, the show of force will be enough to scare the fellow off.” He stared down at Monique. “All the same . . . forgive me, Princess, but I fear this will mean no bonfires on the estate tonight. I simply don’t have enough servants to protect every part of my land that adjoins the road.”
“Certainly not,” she murmured. “You must keep your guests safe.”
He must keep her safe. “Precisely. Which is why we should all return to the house now.”
“Absolutely,” Pontalba said. “I must change out of these clothes, anyway.” Pasting on his usual courtly expression, he turned to Monique. “If you prefer to use my mount, Your Highness, I don’t mind walking.”
“She’ll be riding with me.” Gregory wasn’t sure Pontalba was involved in the attempts on her life, but he wasn’t taking any chances. “No need to wait for us. With two riders on one horse, it will take us a while to return.”
Pontalba bowed, then jumped back into his saddle and rode off. Clearly, he wasn’t as eager to act the part of gentleman with a gunman possibly still roaming the woods.
“Do you think it’s safe to return?” Monique asked him.
“Probably. Though we should take a different route.”
She nodded.
He headed over to where his mare grazed contentedly near the temple. His pulse had slowed to a normal pace, but every time he thought of how close she’d come to death . . .
“Gregory?” she said behind him.
The Secret of Flirting Page 19
