Traitor in Her Arms

by Shana Galen

  “It will be quite the event,” Violet added, unaware of Diana’s distress. “I heard the Scarlet Pimpernel will be there as well.”

  Gabrielle dug her nails into the arm of the chair, but before she could scream in frustration, Diana said testily, “I don’t believe in the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  This was not news to Gabrielle, but Miss March gasped and Violet was struck silent—something Gabrielle had not seen happen before. Even Mrs. Cheever, usually content to sit in her daughter’s shadow, raised a brow.

  “What do you mean?” Miss March asked, breaking the silence. “How can you not believe in him?”

  “She thinks someone made him up,” Gabrielle explained. “It’s not an outrageous idea. If he’s a myth, he’s something that keeps us all occupied so we don’t think too hard about what’s really happening in Paris.”

  “H-he’s not a myth,” Violet finally sputtered, obviously so shocked that she forgot whom she was speaking to. “He’s a real person. A brave, honorable man, rescuing those poor souls from certain death.”

  “Exactly!” Miss March said passionately. “I would give my life for the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  “Or her virginity anyway,” Diana muttered so only Gabrielle could hear.

  Gabrielle put a hand over her mouth to hide a smile. She didn’t care if the Scarlet Pimpernel was real or a myth. She knew Cleopatra’s necklace was real, and she knew Sedgwick had it.

  Miss March frowned at Diana. “But, my lady, what about all the French émigrés he’s rescued? They all tell the same story.”

  Diana shrugged. “Their stories are vague and embellished at every new telling.”

  Gabrielle nodded. “You must own that the story of the Scarlet Pimpernel carries prestige. An émigré can dine on it for a year.”

  “Oh.” Violet looked disappointed. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “Well, I think he’s real,” Miss March declared. “And one day I’d like to meet him and express my undying gratitude for all he’s done. I would tell him—“

  “Oh dear. Look at the time,” Diana drawled. “We simply must be going.”

  Gabrielle jumped up, quite aware of their impolite behavior and not at all regretful. She had the information she needed, little as Diana liked it. Gabrielle’s mistake with Sedgwick the night before already meant Diana would not be able to attend Winterbourne’s ball. She would not further inconvenience Diana by keeping her here any longer.

  “Good day, Violet. Mrs. Cheever. Miss March,” Gabrielle said.

  “Lord Winterbourne’s ball will be my first town ball, and I’m ever so excited!” Miss March exclaimed. “Will you be at Lord Winterbourne’s ball, Lady Diana? Lady McCullough?”

  “It doesn’t look that way,” Diana said through her clenched jaw. Gabrielle put a hand on her friend’s arm.

  “I will,” Gabrielle answered

  “I do hope to see you there,” Miss March said with a smile. “Together we can search for the Scarlet Pimpernel.”

  “Oh,” Gabrielle sighed. “I can’t wait.”

  Chapter 4

  “Here.” Lord Leasham offered Ramsey another glass of champagne. “Drink up, old boy.”

  Ramsey held his full glass aloft. “I haven’t finished this one.”

  Leasham frowned. “You’re behind, old chap.” Leasham downed his and snatched another from the tray of a passing footman. The two stood in Lord Winterbourne’s ballroom amid the overgrown foliage, arranged to resemble a jungle in Africa. The ladies who entered oohed and ahhed over the decorations, but Ramsey was unimpressed.

  The room was hot, the orchestra just slightly off-key, and he was bored. Not, apparently as bored as Leasham, who had now drunk half a dozen glasses of champagne. But then the dissolute younger son of the Duke of Hartford was always thirsty, be it for champagne, gambling, or women. He was exactly the kind of privileged peer Ramsey had always despised, but he was easy company, even amusing when he wasn’t foxed. And loathe as he was to admit it, Ramsey knew he was no pillar of virtue.

  “Ah, now there’s the filly I’ve been waiting for,” Leasham said, eyeing the new crop of ladies entering, their heads craned to get a better glimpse of the vines hanging from the chandeliers.

  Scarcely interested, Ramsey gave the group a passing glance and then looked at his pocket watch. He wondered why he had come and how long before he could leave. At least this was something to do besides sit at home and wait for Madame Fouchet to send for him. There had been no outcry about the theft of the necklace. Ramsey had been listening for the slightest stir. Either the Duchess of Beaumont hadn’t realized it was missing or she didn’t want it known the piece had been stolen.

  In the meantime, it sat in Ramsey’s safe. He wanted it gone, but selling it, even to the most discreet buyer, wouldn’t solve his problem. He needed Madame Fouchet.

  “She’s not wearing black tonight,” Leasham was saying. “Perhaps she’s finally out of mourning. The blue suits her.”

  Still distracted, Ramsey looked up and followed Leasham’s gaze. At first he couldn’t place the woman, who was indeed drawing stares from most of the men in the room. And then the haze seemed to clear and he felt his jaw drop.

  Gabrielle.

  He couldn’t remember her looking so ravishing. She’d always been a beauty with that lush dark hair and those blue eyes. But tonight in the stunning blue gown she looked regal. It helped that she was tall—some might have called her statuesque. Her height and the color of the gown made her easy to spot among the other ladies.

  “Lady McCullough,” Ramsey said finally.

  “Oh yes.” Leasham tossed back his champagne. “Let’s go say hello.”

  Ramsey shook his head. “No.” Speaking with her was not wise, not after what had occurred at the Beaumonts’ ball.

  “Very good, old fellow.” Leasham slapped Ramsey on the back. “That means I have her all to myself.” And he set off across the ballroom.

  Ramsey watched his friend make his way through the crush toward Gabrielle and told himself it was for the best. He didn’t think Leasham would interest her—and if Leasham did capture her interest, what was it to Ramsey? She wasn’t his. They’d shared two…no, three kisses, and the encounters had haunted him. Tonight was his chance to finally rid her from his blood.

  He should leave. Walk away and put her behind him.

  But he couldn’t make himself move. He couldn’t seem to drag his gaze from Leasham, who was even now bowing to Gabrielle, while she curtsied and smiled prettily.

  Ramsey narrowed his gaze. Was that a real smile or a polite smile? He thought it was polite, but Leasham could be quite charming. He might be a dissolute rake, but he wouldn’t be such if he didn’t have blunt and good looks. Women found him dangerous and irresistible…for a time. Until they realized the only thing dangerous about him was that he’d fall asleep at dinner from indulging too heavily in drink.

  As Ramsey watched, Leasham pointed across the room, and Gabrielle’s gaze followed. With a jolt, Ramsey realized Leasham pointed at him. With another shock, he realized the two were strolling toward him. For a moment, Ramsey considered turning on his heel and walking the other way. But that would be the sane, rational thing to do.

  Instead, he stood rooted in place and downed the rest of his champagne. “Lady McCullough,” he said with a bow when she and Leasham neared.

  She smiled—definitely a polite smile—and curtsied. Now that she was close, he saw her gown was embroidered with silver thread in some type of curlicue design. She had silver ribbon threaded through her dark hair, and it glinted in the lights from the chandeliers. The current style was to wear the hair somewhat frizzy, but Gabrielle’s hair was sleek with a few seemingly haphazard curls falling over one shoulder and sprinkled with silver.

  “Lord Sedgwick, how good to see you again.”

  He arched his brows. “Really?”

  Her mouth tightened, and she turned to Leasham, who had yet to take his eyes from her breasts. Ramsey could hardly fault
the man. The gown was low cut, and without any lace at her throat, her breasts were quite exposed. Not that he minded the view, but Ramsey did rather have the urge to flatten Leasham at the moment.

  “Lord Leasham, would you mind fetching me a glass of champagne? My throat is terribly dry.”

  Leasham looked up from her breasts. “What was that?”

  “Champagne,” she said patiently. “Would you fetch me a glass?”

  Leasham frowned, uncomprehending. Ramsey supposed he wasn’t often dismissed from a beautiful woman’s presence.

  “Thank you, Lord Leasham.” And Gabrielle turned away from him and focused on Ramsey.

  Still in a daze, Leasham meandered away. Ramsey watched him go, wishing he hadn’t finished his glass of champagne.

  Gabrielle tucked her arm through his and led him toward one of the palm trees in the corner. “So, Lord Sedgwick, we need have no pretenses, I think. How is my necklace?”

  “Your necklace?”

  “Yes.” She pretended to admire the trunk of the palm. “The one you stole from me.”

  Her tone was light, but he could hear the undercurrent of annoyance in it. She had quite a musical voice—warm and melodious. He’d heard her sing, once or twice, and her soprano enraptured him. But he couldn’t afford to be swayed by her voice or her beauty. Keeping his eyes on the tree, he said, “Actually, I stole it from the duchess, then you stole it from me, then I stole it back.”

  “And why, exactly, did you find it necessary to steal a necklace?”

  He turned to her. “Why did you?”

  Looking at her was a mistake. She stared at him, those cornflower-blue eyes, fringed with dark lashes, dominating her face. He tried to look away from them and settled on her mouth. But then his gaze was drawn to the small freckle by her upper lip. He stared at it as he used to, longing to kiss it, run his tongue over it…

  “If you tell me,” she said, and he couldn’t drag his eyes from her lips, “I’ll tell you.”

  With effort, he moved his gaze to her nose—a small, straight, uninteresting nose. He kept his gaze trained there. “I already surmised why you need money.”

  “Did you?” She looked away, pretending to scan the room. Why was she talking with him? She was obviously wishing she was with someone else.

  “I was friends with McCullough,” Ramsey said to the back of her head. “I know how much he gambled.”

  She didn’t move, and he couldn’t see her expression, so he wasn’t certain if he’d hit the mark. When she turned back to him, she smiled. “George did love his cards and dice. As do many.”

  Ramsey frowned. Not many enjoyed the games as much as McCullough. But he decided not to pursue the subject of her late husband. “If you need money, why not marry again? I can’t imagine it would be difficult to find willing suitors.”

  “Is that a compliment? How unusual for you.”

  She opened her blue and silver fan and fluttered it in front of her face several times. The small tendrils of hair at her temple fluttered delicately.

  “Perhaps I don’t care for marriage. Perhaps I prefer my independence.”

  “I don’t doubt it. But I hate to see you resort to theft.”

  One of her brows winged upward. “I hate to see you resort to theft.”

  He made no comment, and she turned to survey the room again.

  “My lady, if you’d rather join another party—“

  She turned back to him, grabbing his sleeve. “No. Will you dance with me, Lord Sedgwick? I hear the gavotte.”

  He shook his head. What was she about? One moment she seemed to want to escape, and the next she clung to him. “It’s customary for the man to ask the woman,” he said.

  She waved her hand as though she never followed custom. “I can’t wait all night.”

  He laughed, wishing he didn’t like her so much. Stepping back so her hand fell from his sleeve, he said, “I never dance, Lady McCullough.”

  “Oh. Yes.” She actually looked disappointed. “I remember.”

  He saw Leasham making his way back to them with two glasses of champagne—undoubtedly the second was for himself, though Ramsey felt he could sorely use it. “Why don’t you ask Leasham to dance? He dances quite well when he’s not completely foxed.” Ramsey didn’t particularly want her to dance with Leasham, but he wanted to see the man’s face when she asked him.

  “I don’t want to dance with him. I…” She paused as Leasham neared. He bowed and held the glass of champagne to her.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Your wish is my command, my lady.”

  Ramsey plucked the other glass from Leasham’s hand. Over Leasham’s protest, he said, “Lady McCullough was just telling me how much she adores the gavotte.”

  Her eyes shot daggers at him. Ramsey sipped Leasham’s champagne and waited for Leasham to step into the trap.

  “My lady, I’d be honored to dance with you.” Leasham offered his arm.

  For a moment, Gabrielle stood there. Ramsey could see her mind working, searching for an escape. Ramsey knew she was resourceful enough to find one, so he plucked her glass from her hand and said, “Go ahead, my lady. I’ll hold your champagne until you return.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “You’ll be right here?”

  “Of course.”

  “Very well.” With a sigh, she handed him her glass and accepted Leasham’s arm.

  As soon as they stepped away, a footman approached holding a silver tray.

  “Lord Sedgwick?”

  “Yes?” Ramsey stared at the folded white parchment with his name on it.

  “This came for you just now, my lord.”

  Ramsey lifted it, broke the seal, and scanned the contents. With an oath, he shoved the parchment into his coat pocket set the champagne on the tray, and strode away.

  —

  Dreadful man! Gabrielle thought as she stepped and then hopped to the gavotte. Leasham’s hand in hers was wet with perspiration, and her other hand was held by a man she did not know and who had been only hastily introduced. She hadn’t paid attention because she’d been searching for Sedgwick.

  Oh, she’d known he wouldn’t stay where he was! And now she had no idea if he remained at the ball or if he’d left to return home. It was far too early. Diana and Cressy would still be at his residence. She had promised to keep him at the ball until midnight. It was barely quarter past eleven now.

  The gavotte seemed interminable, and it was twenty to twelve by the time she extricated herself from Leasham. He had insisted she make a circuit of the ballroom with him, and Sedgwick was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he was in the card room, she thought as she made her way out of the too-warm ballroom and into the supper room, narrowly avoiding being spotted by Violet Cheever and Miss March. She ducked hastily into the room and out of sight. The servants were setting out food, as the meal was to be served at midnight. But other than the servants, the supper room was empty. Most of the guests were enjoying the dancing. She hoped Violet and Miss March were dancing.

  Gabrielle wasn’t certain where the card room was located, and she stepped out of the chamber and eyed two doors, both closed. Just then Lady Blakeney opened the door on Gabrielle’s right. The two women curtsied, and Gabrielle cursed inwardly. Diana would be even angrier when she realized that not only had she missed viscomte Marsan, she’d also missed seeing her idol.

  Known as the “cleverest woman in all of Europe”—and after her marriage to the rich but insipid Sir Percy Blakeney, one of the most fashionable—Lady Blakeney certainly lived up to her image tonight. She was dressed in a short-waisted classical gown that was sure to become quite the fashion, and her red-gold curls, lightly dusted with powder, were tied at the nape of her neck with a large cream bow. She looked at once charming and beautiful.

  “Lady McCullough, is it?” Lady Blakeney asked. Her voice was sweet, like the tinkling of a bell, and Gabrielle knew this was because she’d trained it for years on the stage. She’d been an actress in France be
fore her marriage, and some said she harbored revolutionary sympathies.

  “Yes, Lady Blakeney. How good to see you.”

  “And you. Where is your friend Lady Diana? I do so enjoy her wit.”

  “She is at home tonight, my lady. But I will tell her you asked after her.”

  Lady Blakeney pressed her hand into Gabrielle’s. “Yes, do.” She looked about the deserted corridor. “Are you looking for someone?”

  “The card room, my lady.”

  Lady Blakeney smiled. “It’s this door. Go right inside.”

  “Thank you.”

  Lady Blakeney opened the door for her, which surprised Gabrielle, but she entered and immediately thought there must be some mistake. This was not the card room. It was dark and quiet. It must be the library. She turned to exit and inform Lady Blakeney of her mistake, but the door closed in her face, and when she tried the handle, it was locked. Something behind her rustled, and Gabrielle stilled. Oh, please, God, don’t let it be a rat! She had nightmares about being trapped in rooms with rats.

  “A moment of your time, Lady McCullough,” a voice said from the far side of the room. It was a man’s voice and low as though in disguise. “No, don’t turn around.”

  Gabrielle froze and shivered when new fear skittered up her back. “Who are you?”

  The man chuckled. She could hear him moving and thought he might be standing near the heavy draperies. She surmised that behind the draperies French doors opened onto a terrace. Since the door before her was locked, the French doors were her only escape. She was trapped. Was he one of George’s creditors? How had he gained entrance to this ball? And how would she get away? If she had a little light, she could pick the library’s lock, but her eyes had yet to adjust to the gloom in the dark room.

  “I think the better question,” the man said, “is who are you?”

  She frowned. He made no sense. “You know who I am. You said my name.”

  “I know quite a bit about you, especially your particular skills.”

  Dread pooled in the pit of her stomach, and a bead of perspiration worked its way slowly down the back of her neck. “I don’t know what you mean,” she said slowly.