The faraway look in the comte’s eyes, the downturn of his lips, were all too familiar. The sadness that dwarfed Mary’s mama every time her papa was unfaithful descended upon the man who only hours ago had seemed unfeeling.
She asked, “Are you happy?”
Chuckling, the comte answered, “Blah. Happiness. I have André. This is all I ask.”
“You are not bothered by her—”
“Liaisons?” He turned to face her. “Non.” The comte retrieved two cues from the corner and brought one over to her. “Prêt?”
Mary looked at the stick. Her gaze slid back to the comte, who gave her a watery smile. Something had changed. She didn’t need Lady Frances to tell her. She sensed the man’s guard had lowered. Now was her chance to prove to herself she was more than capable of aiding in the mission. Especially since it appeared Gilbert might be detained for a while.
Mary replied, “Oui. Allez.”
“Mademoiselle Mary.” The comte laughed heartily. He was no longer leering at her. Now his looks were more like those of her father. “You are naïve—How to say in Anglais—”
She wasn’t that innocent, not after the night she shared with Gilbert.
Smoothing out the slight tug at the corner of her lips, Mary pretended not to understand him. “I’m sorry. My French is as rusty as your English. Shall we play?”
The comte gathered a collection of balls in a hoop.
“In England, we play with two white balls and one red. How do you play?”
He rolled the cue ball to a dot that was midway between the sides of the table. “One point for each ball hit.”
“And how do you determine the winner?”
“Who gets fifty points.”
Mary counted the balls inside the rack. Fifteen. The game seemed simple enough. When the comte removed the hoop and hit the white ball, scattering the balls about the table, Mary released a loud sigh. Again, the comte smiled at her and waved her to the table.
This would not be as easy as she initially thought. While she could trounce her brothers, this again was altogether a new game for her. Instead of doubt and sweaty palms, she was overcome with excitement at figuring out the complex angles and probabilities that lay on the table before her.
The comte leaned against the table. “Allez.”
“Do we alternate turns?” Staring at the balls sprinkled about, Mary calculated the chance of her hitting more than one in a single strike.
“Non, you play until you miss.”
Ah, that changed her strategy. She could hit one and try to position the white to her advantage. Leaning over the table, she aligned her shot. She pulled back the cue, hit the ball square on.
Click.
Satisfied at the positioning of the white ball, she moved to reposition and take another shot.
“Advice, Mademoiselle Mary. Men do not prefer femmes that can best them at games.”
The cue slid against her chin as she lined up her shot. “Then I am content to remain a spinster.”
She pulled back, poised to bank the ball, but hesitated as Comte Boucher asked, “Spin-t-star? Is what?”
Instead of taking her turn, she stood and stared at her opponent. “A woman who remains unwed.”
The man’s cue hit the edge of the table hard as the comte bent at the waist and burst into laughter.
“What is so funny?”
Between gasps for air, the comte said, “Invraisemblable!”
“Why is that impossible?”
“Non.” He shook his head. Brow furrowed, he said, “Unlikely.”
“Comte Boucher, you flatter me. As you pointed out moments ago, men do not find my abilities all that attractive.”
His gaze roamed over her entire body. “You are— magnifique.”
Mary bent and steadied her hand as she took her shot. “Not as beautiful as your wife.”
The cue ball sailed past its intended target and sunk into the corner pocket. Blast. Comtesse was ruining her evening in every way possible.
“Oui.”
The comte’s agreement stung. It shouldn’t. Mary was fully aware she didn’t compare to the comtesse. Mary gripped the cue until her knuckles were white. Images of Gilbert in the arms of the gorgeous woman floated before her. Her stomach clenched. The room tilted as she leaned on the wooden stick in her grasp. Her nails bit into the flesh of her palm. The visions weren’t real. Evening out her short shallow breaths, she slowly relaxed her fingers, allowing the blood to rush back into the tips.
Click.
Click.
The comte scored two points.
He said, “On the surface.” Hunched over the table, he waited for Mary to meet his gaze. “But you. You, mademoiselle, are radiant.”
Heat rose on her cheeks at the compliment. “I’m sorry we are leaving tomorrow. I think I would have enjoyed spending more time in your company.”
Click.
Another point for the man. “After tonight’s festivities, everyone must go.”
Mary rounded the table to assess his next shot. “Are you ready to be rid of all your guests so soon?”
“Oui. I have much business to attend to.”
“Your wife mentioned you were responsible for managing a great number of trade lines throughout the Continent.”
“Non. Matters—” His lips thinned. “Affairs I’ve neglected. Things must change.”
The ball whizzed by and missed by a hair.
Pretending to not have heard him, Mary moved into position to take her turn. “You are lucky you have André to assist you.”
Click.
Click.
The two points put her back in the lead.
Comte Boucher scowled at the balls that remained scattered. “André is still young. But he will learn quickly. I’m sending him to visit your homeland, England.”
“How wonderful. I can introduce André to my father, the Duke of Seaburn.”
Click.
At this rate, it would take many hours for her to accumulate the necessary points to win.
“Mademoiselle Mary, do you know Lord Wharton?”
Mary stood and refocused her attention on the man speaking to her. Why was he inquiring about Lord Burke’s son?
“I believe Lord Wharton might be acquainted with my older brother Thomas, Lord Roxbury.” She had the comte’s full attention.
“Rumor, he is— le gaspilleur, true?”
Mary repeated, “Le gaspilleur?” She wasn’t familiar with the French term. Where was Lady Frances when she needed her?
The comte was waiting for an answer. His lips formed a deep frown. “Wharton— pas bien.”
“Pas bien. Not good.” Mary’s shoulders stiffened. “Are you asking about Lord Wharton’s character?”
The man’s eyes rounded. “Oui.”
“I’ve not met Lord Wharton. However, I’d be happy to make inquires for you.”
The comte nodded and waved at the table. Apparently done with the conversation, he ordered, “Allez.”
Realizing that it would take the rest of the game for her to ascertain the man’s motives, she would win the game by accumulating one point at a time.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Blinking, Gilbert let his eyes adjust to the darkness.
Since the moment he laid eyes on Mary in the exquisite gown, the image of her had been burned into his mind and appeared every time he closed his eyes no matter how brief. The woman was constantly on his mind.
He inhaled a deep breath. Unable to comfortably fit in the narrow passageway, he sidestepped through the passage until there was a sliver of light at his feet. He flattened his hand against the wall, searching for a latch or some mechanism to enter.
Hadfield whispered, “Lower.”
Bent at the knees, Gilbert resumed his search until the pads of his fingers came across the seam in the wall. Inching his hand over, he finally found the latch.
Hadfield was on his tiptoes, peeking through a hole. “This is the room.”
Secret passageways. Peepholes. The estate was riddled with evidence that the comte was involved in some rather strange dealings. It was good that they were to leave in the morning. Gilbert didn’t want to reside on the estate any longer than necessary.
He slid through the door. Sounds of a woman’s moans and the rustling of clothing came from the adjoining chamber. He put out a hand to stop Hadfield from following him.
Hadfield pushed his arm out of the way and barged through the door. “Get out of my way.”
“We cannot go in. There is someone in the room next to us.”
“Sounds like they are too busy to investigate any noise we make.” Hadfield made his way to the candle burning near the entrance. As he peered into the room, his whole body stiffened. “I was mistaken, this is not the correct room.” Hadfield replaced the candle and marched over and pushed Gilbert back toward the door they just entered from.
“Wait. You said you wished to search Valois’s chambers. Why?”
“Now is not the time for discussion. Let’s just go.”
Gilbert planted his feet and refused to budge. “What did you see?”
“Nothing— I was wrong about our location.” Hadfield used his shoulder to try maneuver toward the passageway.
Hadfield’s left eyebrow twitched. The man was lying.
“Wrong or not, we should search the room. I still don’t trust the man.” Gilbert glanced about the room. “I’ll keep a lookout.”
“Very well, move out of my way so I can begin.”
Gilbert turned to his side to let Hadfield pass. Quiet as a mouse, Hadfield began to meticulously search every nook and crevasse of the room. Perhaps the man wasn’t as inept as he had led Gilbert to believe. Which would mean Gilbert wouldn’t have to venture back to Comte Boucher’s rooms. The sooner they were done, the sooner he could seek out Mary.
A deep masculine groan came from the other room followed by soft moans of a woman.
Gilbert tiptoed over to the doorway.
The sparkle of jewels in the candlelit room brought his attention to the pool of dark blue velvet that lay upon the floor next to the bed—Mary’s dress.
His gaze rose to fall upon luxurious brown mahogany tresses flowing down a woman’s creamy back. Locks that swayed back and forth against her skin as she rocked back and forth, riding the man beneath her.
Gilbert’s vision blurred.
The deep voice of Valois reached Gilbert’s ears. “Plus lent, ma chérie—.”
Slower! Ma chérie! Valois had used the endearment with Mary many times before.
Gilbert inhaled as his mind raced. Stars appeared behind his eyes that were clenched tight.
Images from his dreams—breasts pert at attention, skin flushed in places lips had ravished the skin, the sway of soft brown curls appeared before him. Gasping for air, Gilbert reached out to lean against the doorframe.
Another pleasured moan from the woman had his fingers digging into the wood casing.
A rush of blinding jealousy and anger roared through his veins.
Gilbert jumped as Hadfield’s hand landed upon his shoulder. His eyes flew open. Hadfield’s lips were moving, but his brain wasn’t registering what the man was saying. Inhaling a deep breath, he attempted to focus. His preoccupation with Mary was obscuring his logic.
They were in Valois’s chambers, and woman riding him had to be Comtesse Boucher—they had assigned Valois to keep an eye on the she-devil. Then why was his blood boiling with jealousy?
Hadfield gave him a good hard shake. “Did you hear me? I have the information we need. Everything. The list of names and Boucher’s plans for Lord Burke’s demise. Time to go.”
Gilbert peeked into the room once more.
Hadfield tugged Gilbert back away from the doorway. “What the devil is wrong with you? We are trying to avoid detection.”
He met Hadfield’s deathly serious glare but quickly lowered his eyes. Gilbert’s hands shook at his sides and his chin dropped to his chest. How could he have entertained the outrageous thoughts of Mary being in the other room with Valois?
“You fool!” Hadfield pointed to the other room. “Tell me you didn’t think for a moment that the woman in there was Lady Mary.”
Gilbert was no liar and was terrible at hiding his thoughts. These constant hallucinations of Mary were muddling his brain.
“I should box your ears for even thinking the woman you love would do such a thing.”
Hadfield was right. He deserved a beating. Mary wanted a man who had complete and utter faith in her, and he had failed.
“We need to find Lady Mary and ensure she is safe.” Hadfield released a sigh. “She has been in the comte’s company long enough. Do you want to search for Lady Mary, or shall I?”
He wanted to be the one to go and find Mary, but her keen senses would detect his guilty feelings immediately. “I’ll take care of the papers and make arrangements for our departure at first light.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Slowly sliding her hand under her pillow, Mary reached for her dagger. She wasn’t sure what had prompted her to sleep with it tonight, but she felt it necessary. She was glad now that she had. A shadow slipped across the room where no shadow should be. She wrapped her fingers around the cold steel.
The mattress sank beneath the intruder’s weight. It was no shadow but a man. Her heart wailed against her ribs, but she swung the blade toward him in a confident arc.
The man caught her, twisting her wrist painfully. She dropped her weapon with a curse, searching for another escape, another means of attack.
“Lady Mary, it is I. Hadfield.”
“Lord Hadfield?” Mary rubbed her wrist. “What are you doing here?”
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you. You were to remain with Comte Boucher until we found you.”
Still foggy from sleep, Mary blinked and then stared at the man before her.
“Waterford is seeing to the arrangements for our travel tomorrow. We are to leave at first light.”
More likely, Gilbert was still preoccupied with the comtesse. Pushing aside the absurd disappointment that it was Hadfield who was in her rooms instead of Gilbert, Mary said, “I entertained the comte as long as I could. I played countless rounds of cards until I emptied the man’s pockets. After I trounced him at billiards, he declared he was off to seek other entertainment—the kind I was not willing to provide.”
“I’m sorry for not arriving sooner, but we—”
“No need to apologize. Did you obtain the details you were searching for?”
Lord Hadfield nodded, but his gaze remained lowered as he said, “We did.”
“I know you mentioned you were dubious about the comte’s motivations, but after my discussions with him tonight, I believe he is an ally, not a foe.”
He looked at her sharply. “What led you to this belief?”
Lord Hadfield’s intense stare settled deep into her bones and disconcerted her. What it didn’t do was set her heart aflutter.
Shaking her head, she said, “Comte Boucher wants André to locate Lord Burke’s son. He wants to determine if the rumors about Lord Wharton are true. His informants alluded that Wharton is not at all what the gossips say and is in hiding, waiting, plotting against his own papa.”
“The evidence I found tonight would support your claim that Boucher is privy to such sources and that he is indeed an ally rather than the enemy.”
“Would you have believed me if you hadn’t found proof of Boucher’s ties?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
She stared at Hadfield.
Nothing.
No tingles, no rapid pulse, no anticipation. What was wrong with her? Hadfield was a jewel among gentlemen—titled, with healthy coffers. But she remained cool and steady around him. “Waterford would have asked me questions or required me to explain myself further.”
“I am not Waterford. But I, like him, will protect you and your honor.”
“Lord Hadfi
eld, I do appreciate the offer. However, I’ve learned over the past week that I am capable of many things and possess a multitude of talents I never knew prior.”
“You are an amazing woman. It would be an honor if—”
She raised a hand, preventing him from continuing. “Lord Hadfield, you are a wise man, and it is very generous of you—” Mary stared into his eyes. Remorse. She didn’t need Lady Frances’s assistance in this instance to deduce that the man’s heart belonged to another. Clearing her throat, which was constricted with empathy for the man before her, Mary continued to say, “As I informed Gilbert, I will only marry a man whose belief in me is unwavering.”
“Unwavering, you say.” Lord Hadfield’s lips pressed together in a slight grimace. “Did you share this requirement with Waterford?”
She had lain in bed for hours waiting for Gilbert to find her so she could ask him directly if it had been him in the hall. But after her emotions ceased to volley about, she had rationally contemplated what she had spied in the hall and had concluded that Gilbert would never betray her.
Mary considered Lord Hadfield’s posture and tone and was overcome with doubt. “Yes. Gilbert knows it is my wish to marry a man who is willing to place his trust in me. Why do you ask?”
Lord Hadfield inhaled deeply and released his breath ever so slowly, postponing his answer. “While we were searching for the documents, we came across Valois. He was being— entertained by a woman. From Waterford’s vantage point, the lady appeared to be—” Hadfield’s brow creased as he took another deep breath before continuing. “Well, one could have assumed it was you in the room. I know it was not you but the comtesse. Valois agreed, like you, to entertain our host until we obtained what we needed.”
Relief flowed through her that it was her cousin whom the comtesse had managed to corner and not Gilbert. She had rationalized earlier that she must have been mistaken.
“The dress. The hair. One might have confused you with the comtesse at first glance.” Lord Hadfield reached out to take her sore wrist and rubbed it with the pad of his thumb. It was a soothing gesture, and again she was disappointed it wasn’t Gilbert.
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