The Rake to Redeem Her

by Julia Justiss

  A murmur of commiseration followed her up the stairs. Old family retainer indeed, she thought indignantly, recognising the subtle taunt. The day was coming, Monsieur Ransleigh would soon discover, when she would be neither ‘old’ nor slavishly obedient.

  Their room tonight was on the top floor. She paused after climbing to the first-floor landing, which boasted a window overlooking the street. Weary though she was, the star-spangled sky called out for admiration.

  Just a few days’ journey ahead, Paris beckoned. And somewhere within that teeming city, she urgently hoped, was Philippe.

  Longing for him swelled within her, the ache sharper than usual. She’d been away so long, she was as apprehensive as she was excited to arrive at last and discover whether the long months of hope were justified. Whether she could find him and make him hers again.

  She immediately banished a soul-chilling fear that she might fail. Of course she would succeed, she reassured herself. They belonged together. No amount of time or separation could change that.

  With a sigh, she trudged up the final set of stairs, the starlight from the window below fading as she ascended. Five steps down into the darkness of the hallway, she was grabbed roughly from behind. The hard chill of a blade pressed against her neck.

  ‘Come with me quietly, madam,’ a voice murmured, ‘or your next move will be your last.’

  Elodie tensed, her heartbeat skyrocketing. After an instant, though, she forced back the panic, emptying herself of everything but the need to calculate the physical advantage of the man detaining her and the meaning of his words.

  Though he’d spoken in French, his accent was English; he knew she was not Ransleigh’s valet, which meant he must have tracked them from Vienna. Would he kill her, or just threaten her to force her co-operation?

  ‘Don’t hurt me, sir!’ she said, putting some of the alarm she’d suppressed into a voice pitched as low as she could make it. ‘You’re mistaken; I’m Monsieur LeClair’s valet, Pierre.’

  ‘No, you are Elodie Lefevre, implicated in the plot to assassinate Lord Wellington in Vienna last year,’ the voice replied. ‘You’re going to descend these stairs with me to the back entrance. Now.’

  Her mind tumbling over itself, looking for some means to escape, Elodie let the man push her ahead of him to the landing, stumbling as much as she dared to delay their progress. ‘You are wrong, monsieur!’ she whispered urgently. ‘Speak to my master, he can straighten this out!’

  A short laugh huffed against her ear. ‘I mean to speak to him. After I take care of you.’

  ‘Take care of me? What do you—?’

  ‘Silence!’ the man hissed in her ear. ‘Speak again and I’ll shut you up permanently.’

  The assailant knew what he was doing; he kept her arms pinned behind her as he shuffled her forwards, and the blade at her throat never wavered. Could she stumble, catch her foot under his boot and use his own weight to knock him down the stairs, ducking out of the way before he cut her throat?

  Probably not. Dragging her feet from step to step, muscles tensed and body poised to flee at the first opportunity, Elodie let her captor push her down the stairs and turn her towards the back exit leading to the stables.

  Once outside, she would have more room to manoeuvre. Her assailant knew she was a woman; perhaps she could pretend to faint. Just a moment’s opportunity and, thankfully free of encumbering skirts, she could take to her heels.

  Her assailant unlatched the door and thrust her into the deserted stable yard. Knowing this would probably be her best chance, she’d gathered herself to make a break when, out of the stillness, came the unmistakable metallic click of a pistol being cocked.

  Her assailant heard it, too, and halted. From deep within the shadows by the wall, Will said, ‘Put down the knife, or I’ll blow your head off. At this distance, I can’t miss.’

  ‘I can cut her throat before you can fire.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ A glimmer of humour coloured his voice. ‘But you would still be dead, so what would it matter? Monsieur, you will oblige me by giving over the knife and keeping your hands well in front of you. Then you will accompany me and my much-maligned valet up to our room.’

  When the man holding her hesitated, Will sighed. ‘Do not try me, sirrah. I’m not at all averse to decorating this wall with your brains.’

  With a reluctant laugh, the man surrendered his knife. Taking it, Will said, ‘Pierre, search his pockets.’

  Weak-kneed with relief, Elodie turned to face her attacker. She had no idea how Will had discovered them, but she’d never in her life been so relieved to see anyone.

  While Will kept his pistol trained on the man, Elodie hurriedly rifled the man’s greatcoat, removing a pistol from each pocket and holding them up. ‘That’s all.’

  ‘Good. Pierre, you go first and make sure no one else is about. Sound an all clear and we’ll follow you.’

  A few moments later, Will herded her erstwhile attacker into their top-floor bedchamber. After pushing him into a chair, he quickly bound the man’s wrists behind him, then motioned her to light a candle.

  As soon as he held it close enough to make out the attacker’s features, his expression turned from angry to incredulous. ‘George Armitage! What the deuce are you doing here?’

  ‘Trying to keep you from catching a bullet or being fitted for the hangman’s necktie,’ Armitage replied.

  While Elodie tried to figure out what was going on, Will said drily, ‘Your concern would overwhelm me … if you hadn’t been trying to carve up my valet. If I unbind you, do I have your word as an officer you’ll not threaten him again or try to escape?’

  ‘You do,’ Armitage said.

  ‘Pierre, pour some wine,’ Will directed as he set about removing the ropes.

  ‘No need to maintain the fiction; I know he’s no lad,’ Armitage said.

  ‘But the rest of the inn doesn’t need to know. What are you doing here, skulking about and attacking harmless servants? Last time we talked, you were about to leave Paris with your regiment, bound for London.’

  ‘So I was, and did. Sold out and went back to the estate, but as Papa has no intention of turning over the reins any time soon, it was bloody boring. I took myself off to London and lounged about the club, losing at cards and vying for the favours of various actresses until Locksley—you remember him, lieutenant in the 95th—talked me into joining the Foreign Office. Thought it might provide some of the excitement I’d missed since leaving the army.’

  ‘But how did you end up here?’

  ‘You were seen leaving England, bound for Vienna, barely two weeks after returning from Brussels. Knowing what had happened to your cousin Max, it wasn’t difficult to figure out what you meant to do.’

  ‘And the Foreign Office was so displeased by that, they sent a bloodhound after me?’

  ‘Though the officials weren’t too concerned when Max tried to track down Madame Lefevre, some who knew you felt you might be better at ferreting her out. I can’t believe you weren’t aware that no one, neither the English, nor the French, nor the Austrians, wished her to be found. So when I discovered they meant to send someone to stop you, I volunteered. Fellow officer and all—didn’t want to see you come to harm.’

  ‘I suppose I owe you thanks, then. I must say, though your tracking skills are acceptable, if tonight was an example of how you plan an ambush, your Foreign Office career is likely to come to a quick and violent end.’

  Ignoring that jibe, Armitage continued, ‘The Foreign Office just wants you back in England, out of this, but there are others with less charitable intentions. Once madame scarpered, according to my superiors in Vienna, several agents set out after her.’

  Will’s amused expression sobered. ‘Who?’

  ‘They didn’t say. Could be French agents, or maybe the same Bonapartists who embroiled St Arnaud, angry the plot didn’t succeed and eager to punish those who failed. I don’t suppose I could persuade you to abandon plans of bringing the lady bac
k to England?’

  As Will shook his head, George sighed. ‘Knowing your aim was to restore Max’s reputation, I didn’t think so. Now that I’ve warned you, if you’re not prepared to listen to reason, you’re on your own.’

  ‘What will you do now? Honour among old soldiers notwithstanding, I don’t imagine your superiors would be pleased to learn we had a pleasant chat and you let me go.’

  ‘No, I’ll tell them I tracked you to the inn, but you’d left before I arrived.’

  ‘You think they’ll believe that?’ Will laughed. ‘I repeat my advice about seeking another career.’

  Armitage waved a careless hand. ‘If they do give me the sack, I’ll find something else to do. I can always retire in disgrace on Papa’s land and die of boredom. What of you? Not knowing who else may be trailing you or how close they are, you’ll leave at once, I expect?’

  Will frowned—his expression mirroring Elodie’s concern as she followed the conversation, too alarmed by Armitage’s news to object to being treated as if she were a piece of the furniture.

  As the months after the assassination attempt had passed without incident, her worry that someone besides St Arnaud wished her dead had slowly dissipated. In time, she’d even found the presence of the guards keeping watch over her lodgings comforting. Discovering that she was being followed by some anonymous someone had just shattered that peace of mind.

  ‘As soon as it’s light enough to see,’ Will was saying.

  ‘Let’s drink a bottle, then, to friendship and the regiment. Who knows when we’ll meet again?’

  Will nodded. ‘I considered knocking you out before we left, to give you a more believable excuse for not apprehending me, but you could say instead that I drugged you. Much less painful.’

  Armitage grinned. ‘Much more civilised.’

  Will gestured to Elodie. ‘Fetch more wine from the saddlebags, Pierre. Then get some rest.’

  Chapter Nine

  They had left Armitage, who imbibed the majority of the wine, sleeping off his efforts at conviviality. During their hurried preparations to depart and the hard ride that followed, they had not had—or made—time to discuss the events of the previous night.

  Not until after mid-afternoon the next day did Ransleigh signal them to a stop. As he led their mounts into the shade of some tall trees, within sight of the main road, but far enough away that they’d not eat the dust of passing carriages with their bread, Elodie wondered if he would speak of it now.

  She shivered, still feeling the sting at her neck where the blade had nicked her.

  What would George Armitage have done with her, if Will Ransleigh hadn’t come to her rescue? He’d wanted to save his army comrade from Foreign Office scrutiny, possible danger—and from her. She warranted no such protection.

  No one, neither the English, nor the French, nor the Austrians, wished her to be found, he’d said.

  Unease clenched in her belly. Who was tracking her? Not since the earliest days after the attack in Vienna had she felt so vulnerable.

  After extracting bread, cheese and wine from the saddlebags, Will parcelled out portions and they settled to eat, making stools and a table out of a fallen log.

  Setting down his wine, Will turned to her, his eyes sparkling as they always did when he was about to spin another tale. But whatever he saw on her face made the gleam fade.

  ‘You’re wondering who else is out there and if last night’s attack is only the first,’ he said abruptly.

  She nodded, then felt a tingle of shock that he had read so much in her face. Had she been that unguarded?

  Or had he just learned her expressions too well?

  Pushing back that alarming thought, she replied simply, ‘Yes. And I should thank you for rescuing me. How did you know I was in danger, by the way?’

  ‘I heard the two of you on the stairs as I left the taproom. Since there was only one logical way for your attacker to smuggle you out and you were very cleverly delaying him, it was easy enough to slip out the front and await you in the stable yard.’

  Despite his dismissive words, Elodie knew the successful intervention had required skill and timing. Putting a hand to the scratch at her throat, she said, ‘Anyway, thank you. I don’t know what he would have done, if you’d not intercepted us.’

  Will shrugged. ‘Since it was George, probably just tied you up while he tried to talk me into turning you over to the local authorities and heading back to England.’

  Elodie had a sudden, terrifying vision of being cast off penniless and friendless, under very real threat of imprisonment. Thank heaven Will Ransleigh was so dedicated to his cousin! ‘I’m grateful for your help. But what of those who might be more dangerous?’

  ‘From what George told us, everyone from the Austrians to the British Foreign Office knows we’re headed for Paris. After failing to stop us, George will have to report where he discovered us and the identities under which we were travelling.’

  ‘Time for a new disguise, then?’ She sighed. ‘They’ll still be looking for two lone travellers, whatever new appearance we assume. If we could somehow merge with a group, it would be easier to continue unremarked.’

  ‘I’m thinking it might be better to head south and take a less direct route. They’ll be watching for us on the major posting roads now.’

  ‘They’ll be watching for us to arrive in Paris, too, however long it takes,’ she pointed out.

  ‘True, but after another week, when they could reasonably expect us to turn up on our present course, they’ll be less vigilant. There must be hundreds of people entering Paris every day. The guards can’t scrutinise every one of them … especially if we enter in the early morning, with the rush of farmers bringing goods to market.’

  She smiled, trying to envision Will Ransleigh in a farmer’s smock, driving a herd of pigs. He’d probably do it expertly and look dashing. ‘After we travel south, should we purchase some livestock?’

  ‘Yes, valet Pierre should probably become farmwife Paulette.’ From the saddlebag, he extracted a map and consulted it. ‘If we turn due south towards Bavaria, skirt around the edges of Switzerland and proceed from Strasbourg towards Nancy, we could head west straight to Paris.’

  She shook her head. A map! She tapped the saddlebag. ‘Hair-blacking, spectacles, canes, wigs—I almost expect there’s a flock of chickens hidden in there, too. Is there anything you do not carry in that bag of deception?’

  He grinned. ‘I like to be prepared.’ The smile fading, he continued, ‘We shouldn’t underestimate the pursuers. The other parties to the affair seem to want to forget it happened, so the most serious threat might be posed by St Arnaud’s confederates. He can’t have been working alone; if his partners discovered that, contrary to what St Arnaud assured them, you’d not been silenced, they might want to correct his lapse.’

  ‘Quite possibly,’ she agreed. The thought was dismaying, but it was useless to panic. It was hardly the first time her life had been in danger. If they were being trailed by forces who wanted to eliminate her, there was nothing she could do but take all reasonable precautions—and keep going.

  ‘Well, today seems the very breath of early summer, with wildflowers blooming under a gentle sun and the sky blue as the Mediterranean. This bread is fresh and crusty, the cheese piquant, the ham savoury, and the wine delicious. I don’t intend to allow whoever might be out there to steal my enjoyment of it. So, tell me another story.’

  Instead of obliging, Ransleigh remained silent, studying her. ‘You are remarkable, you know,’ he said after a moment.

  ‘Remarkable?’ she echoed, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘You’ve been threatened by me, forced to leave your only friend, hauled out of Vienna, attacked at midnight at knifepoint and acknowledged that everyone from the British Foreign Office to Bonapartist agents may be looking to snuff you out. Yet all you ask of life, of me, is a story.’

  She shook her head, a little mystified by his intensity. ‘All we can ever ask of
life is the joy of this moment. There are no promises about the next.’

  ‘The joy of this moment,’ he repeated. ‘Ah, yes.’ Before she could imagine what he meant to do, he reached over, tipped back her hat and kissed her.

  Elodie couldn’t have stopped him if Talleyrand himself were holding a pistol on them. For days, she’d been unable to tear her eyes from the play of those lips as he spun his tales … from imagining how they’d feel and taste pressed against hers.

  Their touch was hard, demanding, flavored of the wine he’d drunk. The taste of him intoxicated her, as if she’d drained the whole of the wineskin. She heard small mewing noises of encouragement and was shocked to realise they came from her, while, driven by a hunger long denied, she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and plastered herself against him.

  His tongue probed her lips, opening her, and plunged deep. It chased hers in fiery dance, then encircled and suckled, pulling her deeper, unleashing a maelstrom of desire so intense her sole imperative was to have all of him.

  She fumbled at the waistband of her trousers, desperate to open herself to the sleek hardness pressed against her, to feel it invade her body as his tongue had conquered her mouth.

  Suddenly, in a shock of cold air, he pushed her away. In a tumult of clashing sensations—desperate need, impatience to continue, dismay that he had stopped—she finally heard it: the clatter of jangling harness, a murmur of voices as travellers approached down the road.

  At least she had the solace of knowing he felt the same desire and disappointment. As he backed away, he grabbed her chin and, one last time, his mouth captured hers. Then, before refastening the single button she’d managed to unloose in her trouser flap, he slid a hand through the opening and stroked his fingers swiftly across the hot waiting flesh.

  Just that glancing touch to the sensitive nub jolted through her like a lightning bolt, the sensation so powerful that, had it lasted a touch longer, she would have reached her release.