The Price of Pleasure

by Connie Mason

  “Perhaps,” Fleur hedged.

  “Name him so we can coordinate our lists.”

  “Gallard Duvall,” Fleur blurted out.

  “I’ve already considered him, but he seems harmless enough.”

  “How, exactly, is he related to you?”

  “The relationship is a tenuous one. My grandfather’s younger brother, Raymond, married a Frenchwoman and moved to France before I was born. They started a whole new branch of the family. Duvall is Raymond’s grandson. Grandmamma had him investigated, and apparently he is who he says he is. I’ve always known there was a French heir to the earldom, but it was of no concern until Jason died.”

  “Didn’t you think it odd that Duvall turned up in England when he did?”

  “Not particularly. England is a haven for émigrés. I’m not surprised Duvall found refuge here and looked us up. We are related, no matter how distant the connection.”

  The carriage rolled to a stop. “You needn’t see me to the door,” Fleur said. She accepted John Coachman’s hand and stepped down.

  “I’ll contact you after the party to coordinate our findings.” “Be careful, Reed. Breaking and entering is against the law.”

  Reed smiled, revealing that enticing dimple in his cheek. “I’m not a novice at this, Fleur.”

  Reed worked his way around to the rear to the modest townhouse Count Dubois was renting on Court Street. All the windows were dark, enforcing Reed’s belief that the Frenchman employed no live-in servants.

  Reed had hidden himself in the shrubbery earlier in the evening and waited until Dubois left his house before finding a way inside. To Reed’s frustration, none of the windows had been left ajar. It appeared that the émigré was an extremely careful man. Fortunately, Reed was an extremely talented one.

  After finding the servants’ entrance locked, Reed withdrew a slim piece of metal from his pocket and fitted it into the keyhole. It took him but a few minutes to spring the lock.

  The door opened into the kitchen. The fire had been banked, but no one was watching it. Silent as a wraith, Reed pulled a stub of candle from his pocket and placed the wick against a hot coal. The wick caught and flared, revealing a door leading from the kitchen into the main part of the house.

  Reed drew a sustaining breath and crept forward, his heart pumping furiously. Though he knew he wasn’t back at Devil’s Chateau, the pervasive darkness beyond the candlelight caused him a moment of panic. He clung to his sanity by imagining Fleur beside him, calming him.

  Reed proceeded down the dark tunnel to the main hallway. The first door he tried opened into the study. Reed stepped inside and drew the drapes. Then he lit several candles and set to work. The desk proved no problem. The drawers were not locked, but they yielded little of interest. He did, however, find a note from Gallard Duvall. Reed read the meager contents and replaced it exactly where he had found it.

  Duvall had requested a private meeting with Dubois. Since there was no date on the note, Reed had no way of knowing if the meeting had already occurred or was planned for a future date. Since there seemed to be nothing incriminating in the note, Reed dismissed it as being of little concern.

  Working quickly, he finished with the desk and moved swiftly about the room, finding nothing to indicate Dubois was anything other than what he claimed. Blowing out all the candles but the one he was holding, Reed climbed noiselessly up the stairs, opening doors until he found the master bedroom. He went through the drawers there swiftly and expediently, carefully replacing each item he examined in the same place he had found it.

  Nothing he had found so far was suspect. Then he began looking behind pictures for a safe. There was no safe in the bedchamber. He descended the stairs to the main hallway and entered the drawing room, where several pictures hung on the wall. He found the safe behind a painting of London Tower. Holding the candle close, Reed began fiddling with the combination. He’d no sooner begun when he heard a shuffling noise on the stairs.

  “Is that you, my lord?” a sleepy voice called.

  Reed blew out the candle and waited. Apparently Dubois did have at least one live-in servant. But fortunately the fellow decided not to investigate further, for his footsteps retreated, finally disappearing altogether.

  Reed returned to the safe, this time working in the dark. It took longer than he expected, but eventually the tumblers slid into place. The safe held nothing but assorted pieces of jewelry and a cache of gold coins. Reed closed it and replaced the picture. Noiselessly he crept from the drawing room and made his way down the dark hallway to the kitchen, where he let himself out the same door he had entered. He even managed to spring the lock into place with the slim tool he had used to open the door.

  Having found nothing to indicate Dubois was the traitor, Reed was convinced of the Frenchman’s innocence and more certain than ever that the traitor came from within the organization.

  While Reed searched Dubois’s townhouse, Fleur made the rounds at the Gibboney party, asking subtle questions of the émigrés attending. Monsieur Barbeau was there, and so was Gallard Duvall. Duvall joined Fleur and Dubois near the refreshment table.

  “Are you still a regular visitor at Hunthurst?” Fleur probed.

  “Oui. I find the ladies delightful. I understand there might be a happy announcement soon.”

  “Announcement?” Fleur held her breath, waiting for Duvall’s answer.

  “Haven’t you heard?” Duvall said, agog. “Lady Violet is anticipating a proposal from my cousin. The dowager is very pleased with the match.”

  Fleur felt as if someone had shot an arrow into her heart, even though she knew she had sent Reed straight into Violet’s arms.

  “How . . . wonderful,” Fleur said, pasting a false smile on her face. Pushing aside her heartache, she decided it was an opportune time to probe Duvall for answers. “I understand you arrived in England in time to help Helen through her difficulties after her husband’s death.”

  Duvall clucked his tongue. “Such a sad time. I was present when the former earl passed, you know.”

  Fleur’s attention sharpened. “No, I didn’t know. What brought you to England? Most of your countrymen had already fled France during the Reign of Terror.”

  Duvall shrugged. “I had no one in France. I lost most of my family and decided it was time to meet my English kin. I am the last of my line in France and was curious about my grandfather’s people.”

  “Enough of this interrogation, I find it excessively boring. Duvall’s story is no different from mine or any other Frenchman’s,” Dubois scoffed.

  “I wasn’t prying, my lord, merely curious,” Fleur said.

  “I find the countess delightful,” Duvall insisted. “Perhaps she won’t mind answering some of my questions.”

  Fleur became instantly wary. “What do you wish to know?”

  “What kept you in France after your husband’s death? Why didn’t you flee to England after his passing?”

  That question seemed to interest Dubois as well, for he cocked his head and said, “I wondered that myself, Countess.”

  Fleur searched for an answer that would satisfy them. “I fled our chateau after Pierre was imprisoned in the Bastille and went into hiding. I had no opportunity to leave the country until just recently. I was an Englishwoman in a country whose government was unfriendly with England. There was so much turmoil that I stayed in hiding until I thought it safe to flee.”

  “Before I left, I heard whispers about a woman who helped English spies escape prison,” Duvall confided. “She was known as the Black Widow. Why didn’t you seek her help?”

  Totally flummoxed, Fleur could do little more than gape at Duvall. Was he trying to tell her something?

  “Ah, oui,” Dubois concurred. “I, too, heard of the woman. I often wondered about her identity.”

  Fleur pretended surprise. “Why, I never heard such a thing. How could a woman be so bold?” She waved her fan furiously in front of her face. “I wouldn’t have the courage.�
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  How could these two men know about the Black Widow? Fleur wondered. Unless . . . unless they were French spies in search of information. She was looking for a way to change the subject when Barbeau joined the group. Fleur excused herself and headed toward the ladies’ retiring room. Her heart was beating furiously as she collapsed into a chair.

  Once she had gained her composure, she rejoined the party. Soon after, the guests started leaving. Fleur and Dubois joined the exodus.

  “I enjoyed the evening, Count Dubois,” Fleur said as they settled into his carriage.

  “I believe we have known each other long enough to dispense with titles,” Dubois said. “Please call me René and I shall call you Fleur. How is it that you were given a French name?”

  “It was my great grandmother’s name. She came from France as a small child and settled in England with her parents.”

  “So you have French blood flowing through your veins.”

  “A very small amount.”

  “What prompted you to wed a Frenchman?”

  “I met Pierre during my first season and fell in love with him. Business brought him to London.”

  “How romantic,” Dubois remarked.

  He reached over, grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. Fleur flinched and tried to extract her hand from his grasp, but he refused to release her.

  “Have you changed your mind about taking another husband?”

  “No, Count, I . . . ”

  “René, please.”

  “I have no intention of wedding again . . . René.”

  “You are young, too young to dismiss passion from your life. Since you don’t wish to wed, will you take me as your lover, Fleur?”

  Fleur’s breath hitched. What had she done to give Dubois the impression that she was interested in taking a lover? If she couldn’t have Reed, she would settle for no one.

  “I’m not ready to talk of such things, René. I am still mourning Pierre.”

  Dubois laughed. “I doubt that, but I won’t press you.” Fleur breathed a sigh of relief when the carriage drew to a halt. The coachman opened the door and pulled down the steps.

  “You don’t have to see me to the door, René.”

  “It will be my pleasure,” Dubois said smoothly. He stepped out and handed her down.

  When they reached the front door, Fleur fumbled in her reticule for her key. She was so startled when Dubois reached for her and pulled her into his arms that she dropped her reticule, spilling the contents onto the doorstep.

  “Wha . . . what are you doing?”

  “I don’t think a kiss is out of order, my dear. You already know my intention to wed you or become your lover, whichever you prefer.”

  Fleur started to protest but was forestalled when his mouth seized hers with brutal thoroughness, his unwelcome kiss and thrusting tongue nearly gagging her.

  Abruptly he released her, his arrogant smile almost as sickening as his mouth had been. “That is just a taste of what we will enjoy if we become lovers. Good night, ma petite.”

  Too stunned to react, Fleur watched Dubois climb back into his carriage and disappear down the street. Taking a deep breath, she dropped to her knees to search in the dark for her key amidst the scattered contents of her reticule.

  “Is this what you’re looking for?” a deep voice asked from behind her.

  Startled, Fleur fell back on her bottom with a thump. Reed stood over her, her door key dangling from his fingers. “Reed, you frightened me. Where did you come from? Were you spying on me?”

  Reed gave a bark of laughter. “Why would I spy on you and your would-be lover when you clearly want nothing to do with me?”

  He stretched out his hand. Fleur grasped it, and he pulled her to her feet.

  He peered closely at her. “Are you hurt?”

  She brushed the dust from her skirt. “I’m fine. What do you want?”

  Reed fit the key into the lock and opened the door. “Shall we go inside? This is too public a spot for our discussion.”

  Fleur entered the house. Reed followed on her heels and closed the door behind them. “I thought you might want to know what I discovered in Dubois’s townhouse tonight.”

  “You completed the search?”

  “Indeed.” He picked up the branch of candles Updike had left for Fleur and escorted her to the study.

  “Did your search go well?” Fleur asked once the door closed behind them. “Did you find anything to suggest that Dubois is our spy?”

  “I conducted a thorough search of his house and found a safe hidden behind a picture in the drawing room.”

  Excitement colored Fleur’s words. “Did you find anything incriminating?”

  Smiling at her enthusiasm, Reed studied her profile in the flickering candlelight, noting the slight tilt of her nose, the graceful arch of her neck and her ripe, slightly parted lips as she waited for him to speak. Her midnight hair was arranged artfully atop her head with a pair of loose curls curving over each shoulder. Her skin looked soft, luminous and luscious enough to taste. His fingers twitched with the powerful urge to touch her.

  As their gazes met, he felt slightly off balance and struggled to keep his emotions in check. He was here to discuss his progress and nothing more.

  “Reed, did you hear me? What did you find in the safe?”

  Reed reined in his wayward thoughts. “Not a bloody thing that would help our investigation. The safe held jewelry and gold and little else. Your potential lover is a wealthy man. He should be able to keep you in comfort. I know from experience that he will be pleased with your talents in bed.”

  Reed knew he had crossed the line and wasn’t surprised when Fleur hauled her hand back and slapped him. He wanted Fleur and couldn’t bear the thought of another man possessing her.

  “Forgive me, Fleur. I had no right.”

  His heart nearly broke when he saw moisture gathering in her eyes. He’d give anything to take his words back.

  Apparently Fleur decided to ignore his apology and change the subject. “Am I to assume your lack of evidence proves that Dubois is not the man we are looking for?”

  “It certainly makes his involvement less likely.”

  “I learned something tonight if you’re interested.”

  Reed’s attention sharpened. “Damn right I am. Something to help our investigation, I hope.”

  Fleur shrugged. “Make of it what you wish. Dubois, Barbeau and Duvall discussed the Black Widow with me tonight. They seemed to know everything but her identity and questioned me about my whereabouts during the years after Pierre’s death.”

  A cold sweat broke out on Reed’s forehead. “Remove yourself from the investigation at once! You are no longer safe. I shall inform Porter immediately that you are off the case.”

  “No! I’m going to see this through. Even if my identity is compromised, I see no reason why that should matter. My work in France has ended. I am a threat to no one.”

  Reed walked to the window and stared out into the darkness. “Now we’re back to square one. If those men have knowledge of the Black Widow, any one of them could be a French spy.”

  He whipped around. “Why did you let Dubois kiss you? Have you feelings for him?”

  Fleur gave a huff of exasperation. “He surprised me; I couldn’t stop him.”

  “Did you enjoy his kiss?”

  Fleur wrinkled her nose. Reed nearly burst out laughing. Fleur’s face was so expressive it didn’t take a genius to figure out that she’d hated Dubois’s kiss.

  “That’s none of your business,” Fleur snapped.

  Reed flashed his dimple. “Your face says it all, love. You prefer my kisses to his.”

  “Conceited wretch,” Fleur shot back.

  He reached her in two long strides. Extending his hand, he stroked her cheek with the back of his finger. The satiny texture of her skin was nearly his undoing. “Do you miss me, Fleur?”

  “I . . . ”

  “It’s no use, my sweet; your ey
es tell me you do. I miss you, too.”

  “You have Violet.”

  “Do I?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Reed. We can’t be together.”

  Reed’s dark brows shot up. “Do you really think so?” His expression turned serious. “I meant it when I said you’re no longer a part of this investigation. I’m sure Porter will agree with me. Take Lisette and rusticate in the country until this is over.”

  Fleur’s chin rose defiantly. “I’m involved too deeply to quit now. Please leave, Reed. I’m exhausted.”

  Reed didn’t want to leave, but he knew that Fleur would never agree to what he did want. He knew he could slake his lust with Violet, but the thought of bedding her or any other woman made him physically ill. What in bloody hell had Fleur done to him?

  Sending Reed away was the hardest thing Fleur had ever done. God help her, but she wanted him. He looked so handsome tonight, casually dressed in a black cloak, black breeches, black boots, and a white shirt open at the neck. No wonder she hadn’t seen him hiding in the shrubbery.

  Fleur didn’t dare look into his eyes, for she knew what she would see and wasn’t sure she could resist his seduction. Together they were magic.

  “Very well, I’ll leave if that’s what you wish.” His words came to her through the fog of desire building inside her.

  She walked away from him but didn’t get far. Reed pulled her around and into his arms. He stared into her eyes for the length of a heartbeat, then lowered his mouth to hers. Unlike Dubois’s kiss, Reed’s was intensely arousing as his tongue delved deeply into her mouth. Fleur groaned. She was shattering slowly from the inside.

  Abruptly he broke off the kiss and stepped away. Staring at him, she touched her lips.

  “Compare that to Dubois’s kiss,” he drawled. “Don’t bother to see me out—I know the way.”

  Fleur didn’t move until she heard the soft click of the door. As if in a dream, she moved slowly to the door and locked it. Reed’s kiss made her realize it was far from over between them. Indeed, it had just begun.

  The walk to Hunthurst was a short one. Reed let himself into the house and locked the door. The mansion was dark; everyone was abed. He walked into his study, threw off his cloak and poured himself two fingers of brandy. He swallowed it in one gulp, poured another and sank down in a chair in front of the fireplace. The soft glow of the dying flames played over his rugged features, revealing the anguish twisting his insides.