A Marquess for Convenience (Matchmaking for Wallflowers Book 5)

by Bianca Blythe

  She could use the vase.

  She picked it up and flung it at him. He toppled to the floor. Heavens.

  Regret coursed through her, but she couldn’t linger. She rushed outside and into freedom, clutching the sapphire bracelet in her palm.

  Chapter Eleven

  Madeline climbed from the window and glanced at the roof.

  Good.

  She strode into the garden behind the Beaulieu Palais. Her heart raced, but she forced herself to slow down. Her shoulders didn’t quite relax, and her breath would take a while to come in even bursts again, but she inhaled the scent of lavender and roses. A few couples wandered in the courtyard, and Madeline even smiled.

  Perhaps there was a reason why people in this region declared themselves so much more knowledgeable of romance than their English counterparts. In this warm weather, when one had such beautiful pieces of nature to gaze upon, how could one not believe in love?

  Noises wafted from the hydrangeas. A man and woman were murmuring—and at times, embracing. Madeline had seen people embrace before, but her body still flushed uncomfortably. The act seemed strange and overly intimate.

  And yet these people, whoever they were, could not wait to find a location of greater privacy.

  Perhaps they’d assumed no one would be in this section of the garden, and Madeline tilted her head away from them.

  Except… She knew the woman.

  The comtesse.

  But the man she was with was most certainly not the comte. He was younger, his hair was devoid of gray, and his stomach could not be described as being in possession of a paunch.

  They mustn’t see me.

  Not when they might wonder why she’d entered this private garden.

  Not when the comtesse might remember her.

  It was too late.

  “Somebody is there,” the comtesse’s lover whispered, and the comtesse swung her gaze over at Madeline.

  “Bon soir.” Madeline attempted to sound casual, as if it were perfectly natural to cavort in hydrangea bushes, as if she would likely be doing the same as them if a man were accompanying her.

  Her tone sounded the appropriate combination of sophisticated and nonchalant, and for a moment Madeline was certain she could continue past them.

  The woman’s dark eyes widened. “It’s…you. You found my bracelet.”

  “Indeed,” Madeline replied.

  “But you’re dressed—” The woman’s gaze swept over Madeline’s attire. Madeline wasn’t sure in the light if the comtesse’s eyes were narrowing, but she didn’t fail to note the suspicion in her voice.

  “Let me see your bracelet,” the man said to the comtesse. “Perhaps she exchanged it.”

  Murmurings sounded, and Madeline quickened her pace.

  Then a wail sounded.

  They’d noticed.

  “Stop,” the comtesse’s lover shouted.

  Madeline ran.

  Stopping was not a viable option, no matter how much the comtesse’s lover hollered.

  She quickened her speed and stepped off the path, hoping the grass might be effective at masking the sound of her slippers striking the stones. Delightful fragrances wafted over her, even though the night had obscured their colors, and the manner in which the branches arched toward the sky seemed more eerie.

  The azurean sea transformed to darkness, only distinguishable by the glint of the waves’ crests under the moonlight and the sound of the water tumbling against the shoreline.

  Her heart pounded, struggling to give her body every burst of energy it needed. Her lungs burned, and her coiffure became undone. Locks whipped against her face, and despite the cold breeze, sweat prickled her back and forehead.

  She entered the town, unsure whether to be thankful or worried for Antibes’s narrow, mazelike streets. She ducked into an alley, and then turned into another one.

  Footsteps pounded after.

  Is it possible two people are following me?

  She shook her head. Perhaps it was the comtesse. If so, she likely wouldn’t wander too far away from the palais. Not during a ball. Not in her finest evening attire. And certainly not with a man whom the comte probably would not like her to be seen alone with.

  The sound of pounding footsteps vanished. She hesitated, unwilling to abandon the temporary safety of the alleyway.

  But she had to return and fetch Gabriella.

  Once the comtesse told the comte, and he put the whole force of his men toward finding her…

  Madeline’s stomach lurched uncomfortably, and she hurried toward the cottage. She moved through the alleys, taking care to walk parallel to the sea front, noting the direction of the sound of the waves.

  *

  Arthur scrambled from the floor. The baroness had thrown a blasted vase at him. He brushed water and flowers from his attire. The last time he’d been caught off guard like that—he shook his head. He could call the others. That was his duty. He could round up all of Comte Beaulieu’s men and have her arrested, and then he would go back to London and receive Admiral Fitzroy’s commendations. Perhaps the admiral might even laud him right here in Antibes.

  But it was Madeline, and despite everything, he couldn’t do that.

  Her companion.

  She would have gone to fetch her. They must have rented a place here. And likely soon they would be off to Venice.

  She would need to return home first.

  Well.

  Arthur could certainly follow her.

  He considered calling the others. That was his duty, blast it.

  He dismissed it easily. He knew Madeline. Clearly not as well as he’d thought. But he wasn’t going to put her in a French jail.

  Madeline was not the first female criminal he’d encountered. France had a habit of directing sultry female spies his way. They were easily distinguished by their practice of introducing themselves to him and their penchant for elaborate scarves, as if the latter conjured a sufficient disguise.

  He hadn’t expected to find her doing such behaviors.

  Clearly he’d been revoltingly naive.

  The woman had no concept for danger.

  The things he’d seen—

  His heart thudded in his chest. He didn’t want Madeline to encounter any of it. She shouldn’t be locked in a cell, possibly executed. Not for a crime done from good intentions.

  Damnation.

  He scurried down the building and ran through the town: he needed to get to Madeline.

  *

  Madeline rushed to the cottage and banged on the door.

  Gabriella opened it at once.

  “I have it.” Madeline dangled the bracelet from her fingers. The sapphires and diamonds glimmered.

  Gabriella clapped her hands together. “Magnifico.”

  “Yes.” Madeline allowed herself a small smile.

  It was wonderful.

  It was the culmination of so much planning.

  The set was complete. The Costantinis would be given some justice, finally, after all these years.

  “There’s no time,” Madeline said quickly. “Somebody saw me.”

  “Oh.” Gabriella rushed to the other room and grabbed two suitcases. “The carriage is ready. I hooked up the horses.”

  “Wonderful.” Relief emanated through Madeline.

  We are going to be fine.

  She clutched the bracelet in her hand.

  Fierce knocks sounded on the door, and Gabriella and Madeline stilled.

  She moved slowly, but the floorboards creaked beneath her feet.

  Gabriella sent her a horrified expression, and any hope she had diminished further.

  “Perhaps you can hide,” Gabriella whispered.

  Madeline considered locations. Under the bed? In a wardrobe? Could she sneak out one of the upstairs windows?

  But each one seemed either too obvious or too exposed. Venturing out of the cottage from a window that faced the street seemed ineffective as an escape goal.

  The banging
continued. “Lady Mulbourne! Lady Mulbourne!”

  Heavens.

  It was Arthur.

  He must have followed her. The man must be an expert at trailing people.

  “I’ll answer it.” Madeline hurried to the door and swung it open.

  “Lady Mulbourne,” Arthur said icily and stepped inside. He frowned when he saw Gabriella, but he still bowed. “Miss Costa. Or perhaps I should say…Miss Costantini.”

  Heavens.

  “You could have gotten yourself killed!” Arthur’s voice shook, and he glowered at Madeline. “Or me, for that matter.”

  Madeline inhaled. Tension soared within her, as if transforming every part of her into brittle rock. “Someone was following me—”

  “I was following you,” Arthur said impatiently.

  Banging sounded on the door.

  Again

  “Dio mio,” Gabriella murmured.

  Madeline’s chest tightened and she glanced at Arthur. “What have you done? You led them here!”

  Arthur’s face was white. “I didn’t intend to do so. I swear.”

  “It’s my fault,” Gabriella said. “I’ll tell them I did it. I’m so sorry.”

  “Nonsense,” Madeline said firmly. “That is so very sweet of you. But they saw me at the ball, and not you. Please, please don’t say anything. I could not bear anything to happen to you. Just…hide the bracelet,” Madeline told her companion.

  Gabriella’s face was stricken, but she disappeared with it.

  Madeline rose.

  It was over. It was all over.

  She’d been so hopeful she could arrive in Venice with all five jewel pieces.

  And now the Costantini family would be left without a single one.

  Tears prickled her eyes, but she held her head high. It had been a risk. She’d always known it.

  Arthur swallowed hard, and his worry seemed to sweep over her. “I’ll do everything I can.”

  Madeline closed her eyes. “There’s nothing you can do.”

  This was real. She was going to go to prison.

  Chapter Twelve

  Guilt soared through Arthur.

  Perhaps she’d stolen, but she’d had her reasons.

  Arthur should never have been dragged into this to begin with. If Admiral Fitzroy hadn’t been determined to matchmake him with his niece, he would never have been here and Madeline would have gotten away.

  He refused to allow her to go to prison. Not for a crime that would never have needed to happen if the French had not ransacked and destroyed entire cities.

  Madeline opened the door and Comte Beaulieu marched in. A swarm of muscular Frenchmen entered after him. A few carried muskets, and Arthur’s heart sank. He couldn’t take all these men on. If they wanted to drag Madeline away—

  His heart clenched.

  His heart shouldn’t ache, he reminded himself.

  After all—she was a thief.

  She had stolen the jewels unapologetically.

  She’d even thrown a vase at him.

  But he understood why she’d done all of it.

  “I am charged with arresting Baroness Madeline Mulbourne for theft,” Comte Beaulieu declared in a loud voice. He glanced at Madeline. “Your landlord informed us that you are not in fact Lady Isberg. Please step forward.”

  She did so.

  “Where is the bracelet?” the comte asked.

  She raised her chin. “I do not know what you’re speaking about.”

  “Nonsense.” The comte glared at her. “My wife was wearing a bracelet with false diamonds and sapphires on it. You were standing near her. And you entered the ball under a false name.”

  “That certainly does not mean I stole it.”

  “Yet my good colleague ran after you. A guard saw him chasing you. He alerted me, and we were able to verify that the bracelet had been replaced.”

  “A coincidence,” Madeline said.

  “I doubt the courts will take your view.” The comte held up a pair of handcuffs. “My men will search this cottage for the bracelet. You will come with me.”

  “Very well.” Madeline stepped forward.

  The woman was amazing. Her jaw remained steady. Her fingers didn’t tremble, and her knees were in full function: she did not swoon. Tears did not run down her cheeks, and her breath did not come through in short gasps.

  Arthur would not have blamed her if she’d done any of these things. All of them, in fact, would be perfectly understandable, and it would not have lessened his view of her.

  Her bravery in the face of French forces impressed him, as did her utter self-sacrifice. Not that he would tell her that. He didn’t like to see her risk her life in that manner.

  Still, she would never have gotten into this business if her companion had not compelled her to do so. Madeline could turn on her companion now, confident that her higher position would make her more easily forgiven when there was another person to blame.

  But she was silent.

  “I must commend you for your work.” Comte Beaulieu addressed Arthur. “It was truly most admirable. We are quite thankful for your services.”

  Arthur cringed at every laudatory phrase. “I’m afraid you have the wrong person.”

  Comte Beaulieu narrowed his eyes. “Why are you with her if not to arrest her?”

  “I—I was wondering if she might know anything.”

  “Ah, gossip. The female gift. But I don’t believe you,” Comte Beaulieu said.

  “No?”

  “A man like you would not waste time on acquiring gossip. Not about thefts. What art thief would possibly mention it to someone?” The Frenchman laughed.

  “There is no motive for Lady Mulbourne to steal.”

  “The bracelet is priceless,” the comte said. “That is sufficient motive. Or are their others you suspect I will find?” His eyes sparkled.

  “N-no,” Arthur said. “I did not say that.”

  “Then please, do not waste more of our time,” Comte Beaulieu said. “If we were to believe you were in fact collaborating with a criminal—that your motive for visiting her home was anything less than honorable—”

  “No,” Madeline exclaimed. “Lord Bancroft had nothing to do with this.”

  “Be quiet,” Arthur said. “Do not incriminate yourself.”

  “Giving advice to a thief?” Comte Beaulieu shook his head. His eyes still glimmered, as if the occasion of ruining somebody’s life brought him the utmost joy.

  “Lead me away,” Madeline said, her voice solemn.

  Comte Bealieu tossed handcuffs to one of his men. “Cuff her.”

  Gabriella’s eyes filled with tears, and Arthur watched helplessly as they dragged Madeline away.

  Madeline.

  The woman he’d once loved more than anyone.

  The woman who’d decided to marry another man instead of him, and whom he had been too eager to view unfavorably.

  His chest ached, and when the door slammed behind Comte Beaulieu and his men, when they’d truly removed Madeline from him forever, he would not have been surprised if he’d found that a bullet had shot him, instead of just having heard the sound of the door.

  “It’s my fault,” Gabriella wailed. “I should confess. If you tell I threatened her to put her up to it—”

  Arthur turned. “No. You will not do that. I will not have Madeline’s wishes ignored.”

  “But—” Her lips trembled, and tears fell more quickly over her face.

  “I’ll think of something.” He forced his voice to be firm.

  I have to.

  *

  The inspector thrust Madeline into a tiny black carriage. She stumbled inside, her balance impeded by the handcuffs.

  One of the Frenchmen yanked her onto a seat. They crowded into the carriage around her. Cold air swept in through the windows. No glass halted its path.

  “Enjoy the fresh air,” the inspector declared. “This is the last you’ll have of it for a very long time.”

  Madeli
ne was silent.

  “English,” one of the Frenchman said. “The worst race of them all.”

  “We’ll make you an example,” another declared.

  Comte Beaulieu smiled. “No need to worry men. We’ll accomplish that.” He directed his attention to Madeline. “Where did you hide the bracelet?”

  “I never stole anything,” she lied.

  She refused to confess to anything. Hopefully Gabriella would be able to take the jewels back to Italy with her.

  The inspector grinned. “I think my men will enjoy making you talk. Won’t you, boys?”

  His men echoed a series of ouis, and Madeline’s stomach sank, the task made easier by the stench of ale and unwashed linens.

  Perhaps Parisians had a tendency to douse themselves with strong perfume but these men did not attempt to do anything to lessen the effects of heat and an evident inclination to dirty their attire.

  Finally the carriage landed. Madeline was almost relieved, until she remembered her destination—prison—was only going to be more uncomfortable.

  They pushed Madeline from the carriage, laughing when she fell. She must appear ridiculous in her silk gown, and mud caked the hem of the dress.

  Fort Carré loomed before her, and her stomach clenched. Bonaparte had been imprisoned here. Even he, with his legion of supporters, had never been able to escape.

  “March more quickly,” the inspector said.

  Or at least—she thought he said that. These men mumbled when they spoke, and their accents were coarse—nothing like the polished French she’d learned from her French governesses as a child.

  Comte Beaulieu ushered her into the fortress and past several cells. The single candle on his torch cast an eerie glow, the illumination less comforting than total darkness.

  If there were no light, Madeline could imagine that spiders and cockroaches did not perch over the surfaces.

  Now she saw them scurrying about her.

  Finally Comte Beaulieu stopped before a cell. He placed a thick key into the lock.

  “Your new home, baroness,” he said.

  “Are you not worried that the English embassy will not approve of this accommodation? That they will find me innocent?”