In Bed With the Duke

by Christina Dodd

  “For heaven’s sake, Sandre, you’re medieval!” Lady Fanchere laughed. “It’s not as if she’s reading scandalous literature. For a female author, Jane Austen is quite respected.”

  “That’s true, and as long as a lady doesn’t muddy up her mind with serious works of literature, I can approve.” He nodded pontifically, then sighed and in a lowered voice said, “I beg you ladies to bear with me. Mr. Gillespie Cosgair and Countess Martin are walking to greet us. He’s Irish, wild, rich, and careless, and I fear you may be subjected to rough language in his presence. Also, Countess Martin is a difficult woman.”

  Aimée murmured in Emma’s ear, “Countess Martin is so well-known for her affairs. How could she not be? Her husband behaves like a maniac each and every time.”

  Mr. Cosgair was fair skinned and dark haired, with eyes as green as spring grass and the figure of a young god all wrapped up in the finest of fashionable garments. Emma could hardly take her gaze off his knee-height glossy black boots or the jacket that fit his shoulders so well and tapered to his narrow waist.

  Countess Martin was his match in beauty and fashion, and the exact opposite in coloring: dusky skin, dark eyes, and fair hair. She was also clearly a woman who exulted in her sexuality. Her hips rolled as she walked, her bosom was temptingly displayed almost to the nipples, and her lips were stained with red. She stared at Prince Sandre, challenging him with a lift of her chin.

  Again Aimée murmured in Emma’s ear: “The countess has a reputation as an oracle.”

  Emma looked at Aimée, surprised out of good sense. “An oracle? Do you mean she’s a fortune-teller?”

  “Not like someone who requires you to cross her palm with silver and then tells you you’re going to go on a long journey and find true love. She’s got marks on the palms of her hands that look like . . . like eyes, and this uncomfortable way of going all unfocused, then grabbing your arm and telling you to stay away from cliffs.” Aimée shuddered, but she rattled on as if nothing were wrong. “She was once Sandre’s mistress. She’s never forgiven him for discarding her, and she is fabulously outspoken.”

  “Ah,” Emma said. That explained Prince Sandre’s stiff demeanor.

  Lady Fanchere poked them both and glared. “Behave!”

  Mr. Cosgair bowed to the prince.

  Countess Martin did not. She trailed her black-gloved fingers across Prince Sandre’s cheek, kissed his lips, and, in a glorious contralto, said, “Greetings, my darling. Have you heard? Last night your men set a trap for the Reaper.”

  Emma froze, every muscle in her body tight, waiting . . . waiting. . . .

  “On my instructions,” Prince Sandre answered stiffly.

  “That is a tragedy.” Countess Martin laughed softly. “Have you heard what happened?”

  “I have!” Mr. Cosgair waved a hand. “Your men strung a rope across the road. In the dark, the rope was invisible. The Reaper rode up the road, looking like a cadaver, or so I understand, and these soldiers of yours jerked the rope taut. And he jumped it as if he had always known it was there.”

  Prince Sandre stiffened. “He escaped?”

  “Oh, yes, Your Highness.” Countess Martin almost purred with pleasure. “When he leaped the rope, he waved his arm and the rope broke in two.” Her gaze shifted to Emma and it seemed to Emma that she was speaking right to her. “It appears the Reaper is as magically powerful as rumor says he is.” She transferred her attention back to the furious Prince Sandre. “My darling, you have failed once more.”

  Prince Sandre rode up the steep grade to the palace, slashing at his horse until its flanks ran with blood and sweat. From above, he heard the guards shouting, “Open the gate for the prince. Open the gate now!”

  Yes, they could tell he was in a fury, and none of them wanted to be the one he took it out on.

  As he got close, the gate creaked open. He galloped into the yard, sawed at the reins, and before the stallion had even come to a stop, he leaped out of the saddle.

  He stumbled as he landed; he imagined the onlookers sniggering, and that fed his rage. The grand doors to the palace opened as he approached, and he stormed inside. “Where is he?” he shouted to his groveling staff. “Where’s Jean-Pierre?”

  In a trembling voice, the butler said, “He’s in the master guardroom, Your Highness.”

  Sandre wheeled and turned into the ancient part of the palace, where the decor was centuries old, the servants were housed, and his personal guard ate and drank in their off-hours. As he walked, his riding boots echoed loudly on the stone floors, his spurs jingled, and his temper rose with each step.

  No one waited at the entrance to the guardroom. He paused, then pushed against the door enough to open it slightly and peer within.

  His loyal men lounged on benches, leaned on tables, drank wine, and laughed. Laughed!

  With a grand gesture, he slammed the door against the wall.

  Everyone froze, turned. And cowered.

  But Jean-Pierre, the traitor who should have run, who should have hidden himself, stood before the fire and stared as if he didn’t comprehend what awaited him. And maybe he didn’t. Maybe he was such a big fool, he honestly didn’t.

  Sandre stalked across the floor, measuring each step, using his innate sense of drama to guide his actions. “You. You dare look me in the face?” In a sudden move, he lifted his arm and slashed at Jean-Pierre.

  He caught his cousin by surprise. The skin broke across Jean- Pierre’s nose, across his cheek, across his jaw, in one giant, bloody slice. For one moment, he looked murderous.

  Sandre raised his whip again, the murderous expression vanished, and Jean-Pierre did what he should have in the first place—he lifted his arm to protect his face. “Your Highness! Stop!”

  “Stop? You dare tell me what to do? After you humiliated me in front of the whole country? In front of the world?”

  Jean-Pierre retreated across the room.

  The guards scattered like cockroaches.

  “I gave you a plan to rid me of this Reaper. And what did you do with my plan? You ruined it, and at the same time, you built his reputation.” Sandre slashed and slashed.

  Jean-Pierre ducked and ducked.

  “They’re talking. Everybody’s talking.”

  “Who?”

  “The whole country. About how the powerful, superior Reaper leaped the rope in the dark and broke it with a wave of his hand. You fool! Did you check the rope before you placed it? Did you watch to see which of these men, of my guard, sabotaged it in favor of this Reaper?” Sandre stopped, chest heaving. His arm dropped.

  One of the guards actually dared to speak. “No, Your Highness, we would never betray you.”

  “You believe that the Reaper is the ghost of King Reynaldo, come to take revenge on the de Guignards. You want everyone to believe the Reaper is the harbinger of the king’s return. And you want the ignorant to believe it, too.”

  “I’ll find out who did it,” Jean-Pierre said.

  “Don’t bother.” In a cold, clear voice, Sandre said,

  “Twelve lashes each.” He looked at Jean- Pierre. “You administer the whip. Do it now. Do it before you care for your face. Maybe that way, every time you look in the mirror, you’ll remember what it costs to fail me.” He strode away, leaving shock and silence behind him. At the door, he turned. “Get me the Reaper, Jean- Pierre. Get him soon, and don’t fail me again. The gibbet is high and hungry, and I love to watch a man dance as he hangs.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  For Emma, the week that followed was oddly pleasant, a time out of mind.

  Prince Sandre had walked away from the scene in the assembly room, and he hadn’t returned. Word, via Countess Martin, claimed that he’d returned to the palace to direct Jean-Pierre and his men in the capture of the Reaper.

  Every day, a gown arrived from Madam Mercier for Emma to wear, and while part of Emma was appalled to be so indebted to Lady Fanchere, the other part, the part that had never been indulged . . . that part wa
s thrilled each time she donned a new gown of green velvet or one of chocolate brown silk.

  Lady Fanchere ate, took her naps, and went to bed early, and Emma’s belief in her ability to carry this child grew with every passing day. When the next six months were over, Lady Fanchere would present her husband with a healthy child; Emma felt sure of it.

  Lady Fanchere and Lady de Guignard refused to allow Emma to return to her role as paid companion. They treated her like a young relative in training for her first season, and introduced her to members of international society staying in Aguas de Dioses. Such was their cachet that Emma was courteously treated by almost everyone—everyone except old Mrs. Mortensen, who offered her a position as her companion and snorted rudely when Lady Fanchere said Emma was no longer working as a common girl. “Once a commoner, always a commoner, I always say,” Mrs. Mortensen had said. “Blood will tell.”

  Countess Martin drifted by and said, “Miss Chegwidden is a direct descendant of William the Conqueror. Her blood is purer than yours, Mrs. Mortensen, with a strong Danish influence.” And she drifted away.

  “Humph!” But Mrs. Mortensen said nothing more.

  Countess Martin had repeated a much-treasured Chegwidden family tale. Emma didn’t ask how she knew.

  She didn’t ask because nothing that happened in the daytime mattered very much. What mattered were the nights, when the Reaper appeared in her bedchamber. He didn’t come for information; with the prince gone, she had none to give him. He came for her.

  He appeared silently in a gust of wind, and once, in the distance, thunder growled. She ran to him, flung herself into his arms, and they kissed, passionately, yearning, touching each other with ever-increasing boldness. He caressed her ears, her shoulders, the base of her spine, and the peaks of her breasts. He pressed her against the wall, holding her there with his body, while they grew ever more frantic with need.

  But every night, despite her invitation, he left her alone to dream deeply of him and a passion so bold her dull life was transformed.

  She worried about his safety, of course, but she began to think he truly was a phantom, capable of slipping past guards and into her arms.

  So when, on the morning of the eighth day, Lady Fanchere and Aimée knocked on her door, she opened it eagerly.

  The maid Emma had been assigned was there, standing behind the ladies.

  Lady Fanchere was smiling.

  Aimée was not.

  To the maid, Lady Fanchere said, “Pack Miss Chegwidden. Pack her up! We’re leaving today!”

  “What?” Emma’s bright mood evaporated in an instant. “We’re leaving here? Now? Why? Where are we going?”

  “We’re going home. To prepare.”

  “For what, my lady?”

  Lady Fanchere handed her a stiff piece of paper, folded and sealed with purple wax.

  Emma broke the seal, opened the paper, and read, To Miss Emma Chegwidden: Prince Sandre of Moricadia requests your presence at a ball in the royal palace. . . . She looked up at the ladies. “But this is tomorrow night!”

  “Yes, isn’t it wonderful? I thought Sandre had gone back merely to capture the Reaper—and I’m sure that has been his primary focus; he is very concerned about our safety. But he also arranged for an event wherein all Moricadia can meet you!”

  Emma looked between the two ladies, seeking some kind of reassurance when she knew there was none, when she should be glad to be back in touch with Prince Sandre so she could spy for the Reaper.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” Lady Fanchere said confidently.

  “I doubt that,” Emma replied.

  “But I already spoke to Madam Mercier, and she has your wardrobe ready, all except your ball gown, and she’s throwing all her resources into that. She’ll deliver it herself tomorrow.” Lady Fanchere turned to Aimée. “Have you decided? Are you going to return with us?”

  “Isn’t she going to the ball?” Emma asked in alarm.

  “I didn’t receive an invitation.” Aimée smiled tightly.

  “She’s so recently a widow, it wouldn’t be proper for her to attend so frivolous an event as a ball.” Lady Fanchere wrapped her arm around the obviously un-grief-stricken Aimée. “But Fanchere would be glad to host her if she wishes to remain here among the beauties of Aguas de Dioses.”

  “I believe it would be safer to come with you,” Aimée said.

  “Aimée!” Lady Fanchere glared reproachfully. “You aren’t still imagining that Sandre—”

  “Yes. So I’ll return with you and help Emma to prepare for her debut into Moricadian society.” Aimée sounded weary and quite unlike her usual cheerful self.

  “That would be lovely, Lady de Guignard. I would appreciate your support,” Emma answered honestly, truly wanting Aimée’s kindness. Yet at the same time, she wasn’t really thinking of the ball or Lady Fanchere’s hopes or Prince Sandre’s courtship.

  She could think of only one thing—when she disappeared from Aguas de Dioses, would the Reaper be able to find her?

  Chapter Twenty-two

  “You’ve returned.” Lord Fanchere helped the ladies out of the traveling coach. As he kissed his wife, he said, “You appear to be blooming.”

  Lady Fanchere laughed and returned his kiss. “It was a wonderful retreat. Aimée no longer feels burdened with grief.”

  Lord Fanchere kissed Aimée’s forehead and nodded as if he had never believed that to be an issue. “I was almost glad to hear the prince had ordered a ball, knowing that would bring you home to me.” His gaze shifted to Emma, and he nodded brusquely. “And with a new project.”

  Lady Fanchere tucked her hand in his arm. “I can’t wait to tell you all about it.”

  “I’ve heard rumors,” he said, and led her into the house and up the stairs.

  Brimley directed the flow of trunks into the house.

  Emma curtsied to him.

  He seemed not to notice.

  Aimée and Emma entered the grand foyer. Servants flowed around them, carrying garment bags and hat-boxes and everything new from Madam Mercier.

  As they removed their hats and handed them to a maid, Aimée drooped with discouragement. “Now I have to decide what to do. Countess Martin spoke to me again, and warned me to stay away from cliffs and high places. Look around!” She gestured out the window. “All of this country is cliffs! Nowhere is safe for me. Except here. I never want to leave. As long as I’m with Eleonore, he doesn’t dare hurt me. But I can’t stay forever!”

  “You’re speaking of Prince Sandre?”

  “Yes. As long as I stay in Moricadia, my life is in danger. I know Eleonore doesn’t believe me, but it’s true. Sandre is going to kill me.”

  “I believe you.” On the ride back, Aimée’s unhappiness had become increasingly apparent, and Emma had pondered her plight. “If I understood correctly, when you married Rickie de Guignard, you had a fortune.”

  “I was an heiress.”

  “Do you know, is the fortune intact?”

  “I don’t know anything about it. He never allowed me that knowledge.”

  “Perhaps you could ask Lord Fanchere to find out, and if there is a fortune, you could ask him to help you send funds ahead so you could go to Greece, or England, or anywhere beyond Prince Sandre’s reach.”

  Aimée stared at Emma, dumbfounded. Slowly, a sparkle grew in her eyes. “I could do that, couldn’t I? I’ve always wanted to go to Italy.”

  “You have no children to hold you here. Why not go and spend the winter wrapped in sunshine?”

  “He would help me, I know he would, and that is the exact right solution!” Aimée embraced Emma.

  “You are the smartest, kindest girl in the whole world! I’m not even going to unpack, and when Fanchere is finished greeting his wife”—she winked—“I’ll speak with him!”

  Emma watched her trot up the stairs, and drew in a sigh of relief. At least she knew she’d done one thing right. Removed from Prince Sandre’s influence, Aimée would live a long and
happy life.

  “Miss Chegwidden?” A young girl of perhaps eight or nine curtsied before her. She was a pretty thing in a miniature maid’s costume, with a white mobcap too large for her small head, and a large white apron tied around her waist twice.

  Emma couldn’t place the girl until she saw the sling that bound her arm against her side. “Elixabete! How good you look. How clean!” Perhaps not the most tactful thing to say, but without the grime that had encrusted her, Elixabete was a handsome child, if still far too thin.

  Elixabete wasn’t offended. She grinned, showing strong white teeth.

  “Lady Fanchere employed you, then?”

  “Yes, ma’am, and Mr. Brimley has been most solicitous of my injury.”

  Remembering the spy who had reported her visit to the city, Emma asked, “Is your mother well?”

  “She is most well, thank you, and she told me to tell you something.” Elixabete glanced around and lowered her voice. “If ever you need help with anything, call me. I will do anything for you. You saved me, my mother, and my sister, and we pay our debts.”

  Emma stared at the child. She was so young, so small, and yet she understood the need for subterfuge, for secrecy, and most of all, she understood loyalty. Emma wanted to assure her that she would never need anything, and yet . . . she was involved, so involved, in the troubles of this country. Someday, perhaps she might need to pass a message or send for help, and although her conscience might prick her, she would do it . . . to save the Reaper. “Thank you, Elixabete. I will remember that.”

  “You’re back!” Michael Durant stood in the door of the library. His voice was low, scratchy, but he projected it across the breadth of the entryway.

  “My lord, how good to see you.” Emma folded her hands primly before her.

  “You look well.” He surveyed her from head to toe, noting her new garments. “You look very well. Aguas de Dioses must have agreed with you.”

  “Yes, thank you, it did.”

  “Go on, Elixabete.” Durant pointed toward the servants’ quarters. “Before someone sees you speaking with Miss Chegwidden. You know it’s better if you appear not to know her.”