by Laura Parker
A cryptic smile curved his firm mouth. “You flatter me, madame. There is no need. We have not, I think, met before. But I sensed your—dilemma.” With a nod of his elegantly dressed head he indicated the path taken by the duke.
“Oh, I see,” Cassandra said softly. “Then I must thank you, monsieur. The gallantry of your countrymen is well known.” She turned immediately away, aware once more of the marquess’s eyes on her, this time in disapproval.
The touch of the Frenchman’s hand on her arm made her gasp and it fell away immediately. “Pardon, madame. I startled you. I mean no disrespect. There is a matter, a delicate matter, of which I must speak.
”Cassandra did not look up at him, not wanting to see the same smirking flirtatious look that had been on the florid duke’s features. “I think not,” she said coolly and took another step.
“Are you not at all interested in word from your husband?”
Cassandra turned back to him so quickly she nearly collided with him, for he moved toward her at the same instant. For a moment she was close enough to see the shadow of a beard beneath his smooth cheek and the tangy odor of vetiver made her nostrils quiver. “Nicholas? You have word for me from Nicholas?” she asked faintly, her honey-dark eyes rising to meet the single blue eye gazing down at her.
“Perhaps madame would like to discuss this in more privacy?” the Frenchman suggested, his low tone a warning in itself.
“Yes, of course,” Cassandra replied enthusiastically. At last, her heart sang, word from Nicholas. And tonight, of all nights, she needed the reassurance that he cared. “The parlor,” she suggested, hardly able to keep the smile out of her voice.
“Certainement, madame,” he replied, but there was a frown between his brows as he followed her out of the hall.
The paneled walls of the room appeared more intimate and friendly then the formal hall, but Cassandra felt strangely disquieted when the comte closed the doors behind himself and turned to her. For a moment neither of them spoke and, once again, Cassandra was aware of his intense scrutiny. This time she gave her unease voice. “Have I trod upon my hem and torn it, monsieur?”
He blinked as his gaze shifted from a stare to polite perusal. “Forgive me, madame, but you are the real Lady Briarcliffe?”
“What?” Cassandra responded in surprise.
With an elegant gesture the comte withdrew a jeweled snuffbox from his coat pocket and flicked open the lid. As he helped himself to a tiny pinch of the tobacco his eyes did not leave her face. “I phrased that badly,” he said blandly. “I’m afraid Nicholas led me to expect someone quite … different.”
Cassandra accepted this statement with a tiny shrug. “I was a child of fifteen when I wed, monsieur. Perhaps Nicholas’s memories have not aged with me.”
“Perhaps,” the comte replied in a noncommittal voice.
Stung by the doubt in his answer, Cassandra took a more aggressive tack. “How well do you know my husband?”
The comte smiled now and replaced the snuffbox in his pocket. “I left him at four o’clock in the morning three nights ago. He held a promising hand of cards, two kings and two jacks and a deuce, if I recall. I had offered to act as his emissary for the christening to take place tomorrow.”
“He knows? I—I mean, he knows we expected him,” Cassandra stammered, trying desperately to recover from her surprise at learning that Nicholas was openly admitting the birth of her child. Too late, she sensed a trap closing about her.
“Did you expect him?” the comte inquired politely.
“Of course,” Cassandra snapped back, her every sense alert for further revelations.
The comte looked away, his gaze following the contours of the room as he said, “That makes my position difficult. For, you see, I am informed that the child to be acknowledged as the marquess’s grandson and new heir is a bastard.”
He glanced sharply at her to find her eyes dilated with fear. “Oui, madame. Nicholas believes you are an impostor hired by his father to bear him an illegitimate heir. It would be so simple, would it not? His real wife is not known by any of the marquess’s circle. In truth, most believed till now that the rumor of Nicholas’s marriage was false or else the bride so ugly and stupid … But then, one could hardly credit Nicholas Briarcliffe with making such a match. It’s to your credit that you are not ugly or stupid. The alternative is to assume that you are his wife and a willing partner in this scheme to strip my friend of his rightful inheritance.”
Cassandra stared at him, stunned by the accusation. “You—you’re despicable! Your accusations loathsome! Nicholas never sent you to spread such lies.”
The Frenchman’s gaze moved to her left hand that rose instinctively to her throat. “Where is your wedding band, madame?”
“What?” Cassandra gasped.
“The ring you wear. The configuration of emerald and sapphire is most unusual, certainly, but it’s not a wedding band. The gift of an admirer, perhaps?”
Cassandra took a deep breath and squared her shoulders, staring her contempt for the man she had so recently hoped would be a friend. “You’re either mad or a fool. Nicholas would have no traffic with you in either case. Address your slander to the marquess, if you dare. I’m leaving.”
“Non, madame,” the comte said softly and reached out to take her by the shoulders. If he felt her cringe in fear he did not react. “Stay a moment. It’s your husband’s belief that your adulterous behavior was a plot to make a beggar of him. Is this not so?”
Instantly there flashed through her mind memories of the dank foul odor of Newgate, the slime and filth and rats, the terror of the dark, and the ugly leering features of the gaoler. “If only you knew,” she whispered.
The plaintive note in her voice seemed to touch the Frenchman, for his hands, once hard on her shoulders, gentled till they cupped them in a warm caress. “Have I misjudged you? Is there some explanation I can carry back to your husband that will explain this farce?”
Cassandra shook her head, struggling against the tears that stung her eyes.
The comte’s hand moved on her shoulders, shaking her slightly. “This will not serve, madame. I need reasons. What would you say to your husband, were he here?”
Cassandra raised her dark honey eyes to his face, forgetting for the moment that he was a stranger, perhaps an enemy. “I would say, ‘Why, Nicholas, did you never return for me? I waited two years, till desperation drove me to seek you.’ ” Her voice faltered, but her gaze never moved from the face of the man before her. “ ‘You ask me for my wedding band. I sold it a year ago to pay for coach fare that was to bring me to London, to you, Nicholas. But it bought me, instead, the death of a friend and a nightmare journey through Newgate Prison.’ ”
Some unreadable emotion flickered in the comte’s face. “You were in Newgate?”
Cassandra stiffened, the spell of the moment broken. “That amuses you, monsieur?”
The comte did not rise to the bait. “When were you there?”
Cassandra’s expression hardened as she decided that he wanted her complete humiliation. “Would you have the very hour? The month was October, the hours numbered twenty-two. I counted each and every one in terror for my life.”
The answer drew the man’s black brows into a thoughtful frown. “Why did you not seek your husband’s help?”
A thread of hysterical laughter erupted from Cassandra. His interrogation was worse than the marquess’s had been. “Don’t you think I would have, could I have remembered my own name? Lord! The tragedy of that journey. The coach was attacked and overturned. I was thrown free and must have injured my head. I remembered nothing until the early hours of the next morning. By then, I had spent a night in Newgate.” She looked away from him. “Rescue, when it came, was too late.”
Swallowing the bitter bile of memory, she again accosted him with an angry gaze. “I had no part in the marquess’s scheme. The child I bore was the fruit of a Newgate rape.”
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br /> The comte dropped his hands from her arms, his mouth compressed into a thin line, and Cassandra felt the thrill of confounding an enemy. “Does my frankness embarrass you? Then I must beg your pardon, for I fear I shall begin to scream the walls down unless you leave me this instant.”
“I’m afraid I must agree.” The marquess stood in the half-open door, his glacial gaze taking in Cassandra’s tear-ravaged face and the comte’s look of consternation. “Cassandra, my dear. The guests begin to inquire after you. One of the servants heard voices …”He let the sentence trail as his eyes narrowed dangerously on the comte. “My daughter-in-law is unaccustomed to the attentions of worldly admirers, Comte,” he said coldly. “To lure her away for a tête-à-tête was ungallant.”
The comte gave the older man a sardonic smile as he bowed slightly. “In defense of the lady, I must tell you she has acted with the greatest circumspection. And now,” he added, turning back to Cassandra, “I will leave you in the capable hands of your father-in-law, Lady Briarcliffe. Our interview was most enlightening.”
“What did he want?” the marquess demanded when the Frenchman had gone. “Damme! To be closeted with the Comte de Valure is the utmost folly. Your reputation could be ruined.”
“Yes, you’re right, of course,” Cassandra voiced faintly, managing a weak but scornful laugh. Her reputation could not be in any greater danger than it had been for months.
Annoyed by her answer, the marquess struck his cane on the floor. “Moreston’s asking for you again. Told him you must have gone into the garden ahead of him. The great bloody fool’s out there thrashing about calling for you. You’re to go and find him and accept his invitation to accompany him to London.”
Cassandra turned to her father-in-law, a strange smile upon her pale face. “If I should accept the duke’s invitation, it would only be because I want to go and see Nicholas.”
“If you reach London, my lady, you may seek anyone you wish,” the marquess agreed pleasantly.
It was not the answer Cassandra expected, and the realization of it frightened her. “You say ‘if,’ not ‘when.’ Don’t you expect me to reach London?”
The marquess shrugged away her question. “I care not whether you see my son. I’ve sent word to him of what I intend. Dominic will inherit. Nicholas gets nothing!”
“Was that not reckless, my lord? Why, I could—” Cassandra began, only to fall silent under his icy stare.
“You could what? Tell Nicholas what he already knows, that the child is not his? You won’t,” he said smugly. “Dominic will be in my care. If my plans are ruined there’ll be no reason for me to keep your fatherless whelp. You’ll do nothing. Stupid girl. You never learn.” He turned away, leaning heavily on his canes.
“Please!” Cassandra ran after him, catching his sleeve at the door so that he turned his head to look at her. “You’ll swear not to harm my son if I keep silent?”
The marquess looked down on the tiny girl, using all his command not to sweep her back with a brutal blow of his cane. “Dominic has nothing to fear from me,” he said slowly as his colorless gaze fell frigid as snow upon her. “But you, Lady Cassandra, you had best go upstairs at once. I see now that you are not well. Perhaps ‘tis more than fatigue. Perhaps ‘tis a chill or a fever. You’d best take care. Fevers have carried away many a young mother.”
He means to be rid of me!
The thought rose instantly in her mind. It did not seem possible that he could so brutally and callously deprive her of her son, yet it would put an end to the only uncertain element in his plot. It came to her quickly, in a flash, that she must get away and take Adam with her. But first, she must confound her enemy.
Cassandra closed her eyes and pressed a fist to her forehead, swaying slightly as if she might faint. “Perhaps you are right. I am so tired. I need complete peace. Yes, that’s it,” she said, letting her voice die away as she moved slowly toward the door.
The marquess watched her go. For an ugly moment he had believed she would see through his thinly veiled excuse to be rid of her. But she was like all weak beings, allowing a tiny fright to overshadow deeper concerns. One way or another, he must rid himself of the only unaccountable in his scheme to best Nicholas. Only she could swear in a court of law that the child she bore was a bastard. The marquess smiled. With his silly little daughter-in-law out of the way, nothing would prevent his plot from succeeding.
Cassandra did not draw breath until she had closed the door to her sitting room. As she lifted her hand from the latch she heard the scrape of the key in the lock. More annoyed than alarmed, she realized she had been followed and locked in. It would be Hannah’s doing, of course. An instant later dread washed over her. Adam!
She ran and flung open the connecting door between the rooms, halting just in time in the shadow of the doorway to see the hall door to her son’s room being pulled shut by Hannah. A moment later the lock clicked into place.
Cassandra took a deep breath and rushed to the bassinet. When she saw the beloved outline of Adam’s dark head against the pale sheets, her heart turned over in relief. In the brief interval between the door’s closing and the sight she wondered if the marquess had deliberately distracted her while one of his servants slipped in and made off with the boy.
“Not if he couldn’t feed him,” Cassandra murmured and hugged herself with joy. That was it! He told her he’d hired a wet nurse, but she wasn’t due until morning. The marquess was not so mad as to risk his grandson’s health even for a night. Until then only she could give Adam the nourishment he demanded.
She bent and touched the soft black curls over one small ear as she whispered, “We must flee, Adam. We must find a way.”
Every sense was alive in her, the tiniest movement would have caught her eye. The sight that met her vision as she turned from the crib brought her up with a small cry of dismay. Standing near her was a tall shadow outlined by the open window. For one wild instant she thought she would be killed, stabbed, or strangled by the marquess’s assassin. Even as she gathered breath to scream, the figure moved, straightened, and came toward her, and the scream died unborn in her throat.
“Comte!” she whispered faintly.
“Do not fear me, madame. I came only to see your child. Have you incurred the marquess’s wrath on my …?” He fell suddenly quiet as footsteps sounded in the hallway.
In one fluid movement the comte reached into his pocket and withdrew a pistol. For a long moment he stood motionless in the dark until the footsteps retreated. Only then did he move to the door, whispering an oath. He turned to Cassandra. “You realize we are locked in?”
Cassandra nodded slowly, aware now that this man could not have come into the room by any normal means. She turned her head to stare at the open window.
“Oui. Your nurse was most accommodating.” A pleasant low chuckle came from him. As he retraced his steps across the room Cassandra realized that he had exchanged his black silk coat for a chamois riding jacket and his dancing pumps for boots.
“I am prepared for travel,” he continued in his low soft voice. He walked past her, bent over the sleeping boy, and, to Cassandra’s astonished ears, she thought she heard him coo.
“Your son?” he inquired. At Cassandra’s nod he came to stand before her. Gently cupping her chin, he turned her face to the faint light from the next room. She heard him suck in a quick breath before he ran a gentle finger over the lush fullness of her lower lip. “You’re lovely, madame. I envy the man you love.”
For a long moment there was nothing but the sound of their breathing in the room as Cassandra studied the painted pale face with a black patch on its right cheek. She nearly laughed. This man no more resembled Merlyn Ross than the marquess did. Yet she felt no more fear of him than she had of the other, and she knew she’d found an ally.
“You would flee the marquess?” he asked at last.
“Yes,” Cassandra whispered. “And if you will help me, you’ll earn
a small fortune. I can pay you well,” she lied desperately, hoping he would be as much in need of cash as most aristocrats were rumored to be.
The tall man before her seemed to consider this before he said, “If I take you away, it’s a promise you won’t be bothered by the marquess.”
Cassandra realized he had come to a decision when he turned and reached down to pick up her child. “You must do as I say with no questions asked.”
Cassandra nodded once, watching fearfully as he wrapped a blanket about her child. “Go and fetch your cloak; the night will be a long one and there will be no warm hearths until we reach our destination.”
Cassandra did as she was bid, rejecting the idea of changing clothes as he had done. It would take precious minutes to remove the corsets and lacings, time they could not spare. When she came back into the nursery, he had taken the sheet from her bed and was making knots in the corners. Before her astonished eyes, he fashioned a sling and put Adam into it.
“Come here,” he directed and slipped it over her head, so that the baby hung suspended on her back. Reaching around her, he tied the ends about her waist. Next he took a handkerchief from his pocket and wound it quickly about her wrists, binding them together.
“What’re you doing?’ she protested faintly as he bent and picked her up, an action that brought her close to his warm body, so that the exotic aroma of vetiver teased her nose a second time.
“No questions, madame. You promised.” He set her on the window casement and climbed up after her. Only then did Cassandra notice the heavy rope ladder attached to the stone.
“I climbed in this way when I was told the marquess had left orders with your nursemaid that your son was not to be disturbed,” he explained as he reached out and placed her bound arms about his neck. “Take a deep breath and hold it, chérie.”
