Clarissa bit her hand to stifle the scream building in her throat. The men were more than common street ruffians and she was sensible enough, even when outraged by the wanton destruction of her canvas, to know when to keep quiet.
Bernard regarded the painting with quiet concern. “You have my attention, monsieur.”
The two men positioned behind the Rat smirked in unison, their broad heads nodding with approval.
“You’ll leave in three days’ time for London to paint a portrait for a wealthy Canadian. There will be compensation, of course, as would be expected. And lodging …” the ratlike man paused and flicked a disdainful gaze about the cluttered studio, “… that will suit your needs.”
Bernard folded his arms across his chest. “And the comte?”
With a swift, smooth flick of his wrist, the man slashed the blade at Bernard and a thin line of blood appeared on his face. “Tell the comte what you will. It makes no difference to me.”
“And if I do not?”
“If you do not?” the Rat parroted disbelievingly. Without warning, he lunged at the dressing screen, the blade slashing the painted silk covering until all that stood was the wooden frame. “Then my employer, Durand, will kill the girl—and her mother, for good measure.”
An instinctive survival response had sent Clarissa stepping back and away from the deadly tip of the weapon. Now she was exposed by the shredded silk screen and she lunged at the swordsman, raking her nails against his cheek. “Not if I kill you first,” she spat out.
The Rat stood motionless, seemingly suspended by his utter surprise at Clarissa’s attack. The neckless pair stared at the unexpected sight of the slender woman in blue dimity attacking their superior.
Of the four men, Bernard recovered first, grabbing Clarissa and shoving her protectively behind him. “Three days, gentlemen. I trust you’ll stand by your word?”
The Rat touched his face, dabbing at the blood left by Clarissa’s raking nails before licking the red stain clean from his fingertip. “Three days. No more, no less,” he confirmed, his cold, menacing smile directed at Clarissa before he turned toward the hallway. The muscular pair of henchmen followed behind, their heavy footfalls growing more muted, until the outer door to the street below slammed and they were gone. Bernard turned, his face set in stark lines.
“Do you remember what I said regarding the fire in your heart and the sense in your head?” he asked, clutching Clarissa’s arms so tightly the skin beneath his hands turned white.
“Yes,” she answered, wincing at the pressure of his fingers, a thousand unanswered questions threatening to spill from her lips.
“I was wrong.”
Clarissa eased from beneath his hands and lifted the hem of her smock, pressing it firmly against the line of blood welling on Bernard’s cheek. “Who were those men?” she asked, unable to control the tremble in her voice.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” Bernard said grimly, his dark gaze meeting Clarissa’s wide eyes. “But I may know someone who can tell us more.”
James Marlowe detested salt water. Swimming was all well and good, but taking in repeated mouthfuls of the briny liquid was, in a word, hell. He dug his heels into the wet sand and looked out over the black water of the English Channel. A full moon rode high in the night sky, illuminating the crest and curl of the rolling waves.
He’d known from the beginning that penetrating Napoleon’s darkest of organizations, Les Moines—The Monks—would be difficult. But when Henry Prescott, Viscount Carmichael, asked, one hardly thought in terms of ease.
He spat once, then twice, grimacing when the salty taste failed to disappear. James was an agent within the Young Corinthians, an elite British government spy organization that operated outside the bounds of normal channels.
Carmichael was the liaison between the spies and those in control of British government at the highest level—and those at the top were anxious to be rid of Bonaparte. When intelligence reports revealed Les Moines’ troublesome strides toward securing Napoleon’s dreams of adding Russia and Britain to his continental empire, Carmichael was tasked with putting an end to their efforts—once and for all—by fair means or foul.
James untucked his sodden linen shirt, pulling it free of his waistband, and rolled his aching shoulders. Carmichael had made it clear that no one but himself would know the true nature of James’s assignment. He’d have very little in the way of resources other than his skill and wits. James was well aware that eventually all within the Young Corinthians would assume he had betrayed his compatriots and become a traitor to Crown and Country. It was not a role he relished, but he’d rather take it on himself than have Carmichael hand it off to one of his fellow Corinthians. Compared with others he had little to lose—and no one to care if he died while carrying out his assignment.
And so he’d agreed. It had taken over a year to secure his footing within the organization, and six months after that to prove his dedication to the cause, establishing a place in the despicable group.
Which had landed him squarely on the beach of St. Aldhelm’s Isle where he’d done battle with his fellow Corinthians mere hours before. His most recent undertaking for Les Moines had him hunting for emeralds in the wilds of Dorset. He’d managed to ensure that the jewels would not fall into Napoleon’s hands, but not without incident. The time had come to reveal himself as a traitor to his fellow Corinthian agents, and thus he’d been shot at by a baronet’s daughter while trying to board a boat. Acting on instinct, he’d sunk below the waves and swum until his lungs nearly burst. When he’d surfaced, the Corinthians were gone, leaving the world to mourn the loss of James Marlowe, traitor.
He doubted anyone would spend more than a passing moment regretting his “death.”
Out on the dark water, a light flickered, rising and falling on the swell of the waves.
He shoved himself up from the wet sand, standing as the light drew brighter with the approach of a boat that was scheduled to retrieve both James and the jewels.
There would be hell to pay for the loss of the emeralds, he thought, and his apparent untimely demise would be a nuisance. But James was well versed in the art of improvising.
“Un beau soir pour aller nager, oui?” one of the men called out, the other crewmen responding to his sally with hearty laughter as they shipped their oars.
Lovely evening for a swim, James silently repeated the man’s words in English, grinding his teeth with the effort it took to keep from snarling a reply. He walked to the water’s edge and stepped in, the wet sand sucking at his boots as he waded through the surf to the waiting boat.
“Merriment not from you, Marlowe?” the man asked in broken English as he offered James his hand.
James hauled himself up into the small skiff, the boat rocking as he took a seat near the bow. “The emeralds are gone,” he growled in French, hardly having the patience for Morel’s butchering of his mother tongue.
“Oh,” Morel replied matter-of-factly in his sailors’ patois. “They’ll likely kill you, then. It was a pleasure knowing you.”
A second rousing chorus of laughter broke out as the men lowered their oars and began to row. Morel pounded James on the back with a beefy hand. “I am joking, of course. Dixon and his men will see to the emeralds.”
James knew Morel was wrong. There was no way the traitorous Dixon could retrieve the emeralds—now that they were in the possession of the Corinthians. Still, James saw no benefit in answering the man either way, so he simply nodded and looked out toward the waiting ship that would take him to France.
“Still, if I were you,” Morel suggested, “I would give some thought to explaining yourself. Your aristocratic English face will get you only so far.”
As if on cue, Morel’s motley gang erupted in rough laughter once again.
“How long is the crossing to France?” James asked, ignoring Morel’s comment.
“Twelve hours. Anxious to be rid of your country?”
James deducted
twelve hours from the coming months it would take to bring down Les Moines. The sale of the emeralds had been intended to fund Napoleon’s fight. With the jewels now in safe hands, James was that much closer to slapping the hell out of the organization.
“Something like that.”
* * *
“Clarissa, do sit down.” Isabelle Collins, daughter of the Comte de Tulaine, the estranged wife of Robert Collins, the Marquess of Westbridge, and Clarissa’s beloved mother patted the space next to her on the gold settee.
“Mother, please,” Clarissa groaned. She pressed her forehead to the cool glass panes of the window. Below, Parisian society strolled past 123 rue de la Fontaine, blissfully unaware of the tempest of emotion within Clarissa and Isabelle’s home. “How you can sit still is beyond me.”
“I am hungry and thirsty. Now, do come and sit, chérie.”
Clarissa lifted her head and turned, taking in her mother’s somber face. “We are in danger—Bernard is in danger,” she began, sitting down and taking the offered cup of tea. “I’ve been to the studio, his home. He is nowhere to be found.”
“Not even at the café?” Isabelle asked in a whisper.
Clarissa reached for a fourth sugar cube and pitched it into the cup. “No,” she replied grimly, “not even the café.”
“I feel sure Monsieur St. Michelle would not want to involve you further.” Isabelle patted Clarissa’s arm reassuringly, though her darkened eyes betrayed her concern.
Clarissa returned her cup to the silver tray with a snap, the sweetened brew sloshing over the sides and onto the plate of biscuits. “But I am involved—we are involved, Mother. Those horrible men threatened both of us. I’ve no idea how, but they knew I was there, as if they’d been watching Bernard’s studio.”
Isabelle traced the rim of her delicate cup with the tip of her forefinger, frowning in thought. “Chérie, could they not have heard your footsteps?”
“Even so, how did they know of you?” Clarissa countered.
“What young woman does not possess a mother?”
Unable to sit still, Clarissa rose from the settee and began to pace the plush carpet. Her muslin skirts swirled about her ankles, echoing her agitation. “Mother, this is all too coincidental. I cannot believe their knowledge can be explained so easily.”
Isabelle gently set her cup and saucer on the tray, then cleared her throat. “Clarissa, chérie, there is no need to be so dramatic.”
“On the contrary—this is hardly my emotions at play,” Clarissa countered, clasping her hands behind her back as she stalked the length of the room and back.
She was afraid. Deep within her bones, she was terrified, and for good reason. Her mother’s response, however, was hardly surprising. Before they had left London to live in France, Isabelle could not have been a more doting mother, loving wife, and caring friend. Her beauty and charm were matched only by the love she lavished on all those fortunate enough to be in her life.
And then her husband’s flagrant affair came to light. The other woman was never identified, nor would Clarissa’s father deny or confirm, but the damage was done all the same. Isabelle shut tight her heart and escaped into herself, choosing existence over emotion, the safety of distance over the danger of involvement.
Her father’s betrayal had destroyed Clarissa as well, though her response could not have been more different from her mother’s. She was enraged. She was embittered. She craved revenge.
For Clarissa, the betrayal was twofold, with the most important men in her life disappointing her in the worst way. For just as her father had set light to the happiness and security of her well-fashioned world, James had seen fit to burn it to the ground. James Marlowe, younger son of Baron Richmond, the love of Clarissa’s life, had destroyed her world as surely as her father had set fire to Isabelle’s.
“My dear,” Isabelle said in a controlled tone, interrupting Clarissa’s thoughts. “Let us not quarrel yet again on this point.”
Clarissa stopped pacing and moved quickly to her mother, dropping to her knees next to Isabelle. “Maman, we are different, you and I—this you know all too well. You find weakness in love. I find my strength. I love Bernard, for he’s been both mentor and dear friend to me here in Paris. I owe him far more than I can ever repay. Therefore I must ensure his safety. I simply could not do anything else. Can you understand?”
Isabelle took Clarissa’s hand and kissed it, holding it to her cheek as though it were the greatest of treasures. “I do, chérie, I do. But what is to be done? It seems that St. Michelle does not want your help. And do not forget: You are one woman against three ruffians. Hardly enviable odds.”
“True enough,” Clarissa agreed, “though perhaps not insurmountable.”
The Angel in My Arms: A Regency Rogues Novel Page 27
