by Anne Stuart
“Hell, no. He can get himself out of most messes. I just like to make sure there’s no backstabbing.”
“Sounds like a most productive life for a gentleman,” she said. “I suppose you wish me to carry the tray?”
“You suppose right. Come on, Mamzelle. My master’s not going to take a bite out of you.”
She hoisted the tray in her small, strong hands. “He wouldn’t like the taste,” she said.
She followed Taverner as he made his way through the candlelit hallways, her soft shoes quiet on the carpeted floors.
“You know, you don’t sound very French to me,” Taverner said suddenly, stopping in the hallway outside the tiny, fussy ladies’ parlor.
Ghislaine felt cold inside. Only the supreme force of her will kept the tray from trembling in her hands; only the supreme force of her will kept the panic from showing on her face. She glanced at Taverner, at the ferret-like face and stained teeth, and told him what she thought of him. In ripe, idiomatic, gutter French. The language she’d learned in the slums of Paris.
Taverner looked impressed. “Yeah, that sounds French all right. Never could understand the lingo.” He opened the door, and Ghislaine realized with horror that for some reason Nicholas Blackthorne had taken up residence in Ellen’s parlor.
She had no choice. She couldn’t turn and run, not without receiving the attention she was so desperate to avoid. She would simply have to keep her head down, her tongue between her teeth, and hope he’d never remember.
For a moment she thought the parlor was empty. The fire provided the only light, and even with the pale silk-covered walls, the room was plunged in shadows.
“You ought to learn French, Tavvy,” a voice said. “Then you might be even more impressed. She called you the son of a rutting ape, lacking several necessary pieces of male equipment, and she suggested you might be better off eating donkey feces.”
Ghislaine dropped the tray.
Fortunately Taverner was in the act of taking it from her hands, clearly believing only he had the right to serve his master, and the tray didn’t fall far. She was still in the doorway, not moving, knowing the light from behind her would cast her face into even deeper shadows, and Taverner moved around her with a disapproving grunt.
He was lounging on Lady Ellen’s pink petit-point chaise. His dusty black boots had already soiled the delicate material, and he clearly had no intention of removing them despite the stableyard debris and dust that clung to them. He had very long legs, but she couldn’t have forgotten that. He’d been quite tall when he was twenty-two, and men didn’t grow shorter as they matured. His breeches were also dusty, clinging to his long thighs, and at some point he’d dispensed with his coat. The white shirt was open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves, and his long, curly black hair was mussed around his face.
She took the inventory carefully, avoiding that face, those eyes. But she could avoid it no longer. Now that she knew there was no middle-aged paunch on that flat torso she could only hope age and evil had made their mark on his once-handsome face.
Age and evil had left their mark. They’d turned a young man of almost unearthly beauty into a satyr, a fallen angel, a man of such powerful attractions that Ghislaine was shocked. She would have staked her life on the certainty that she would never again find a man attractive. And certainly not this man, who’d murdered her family and ruined her life.
The features that had been soft and pretty when he was in his early twenties were now sharply delineated. The high cheekbones, deep-set dark blue eyes, and strong blade of a nose were the same, and yet different. Lines fanned out from those still-mesmerizing eyes; lines of dissipation, not laughter. More lines bracketed his sensual mouth, and he hadn’t bothered to shave in the past day or so. His long black hair was tangled, a far cry from the carefully arranged styles most of Ellen’s male relatives cultivated, and his manner was indolent, insolent, and just the slightest bit dangerous. It had been a long time since Ghislaine had been around a dangerous man. She would have preferred it to be even longer.
“Looked your fill, Mamzelle?” he drawled, a faint smile on that haughty, dissipated face.
She wouldn’t let him see how disturbed she was. “Yes, sir,” she replied evenly, not moving from her spot in the shadowed doorway.
“I, however, haven’t had my chance to look at my second cousin Ellen’s French chef. Step closer, girl.”
She kept her face impassive as chilling panic clamped a hand around her small, hard heart. Willing herself to be brave, she stepped forward, into the murky light, and let him stare.
She wouldn’t, couldn’t meet his gaze. She kept her hands clasped loosely in front of her, her eyes on the fire, as she felt his eyes run over her slender body. With luck he wouldn’t notice the faint trembling that she couldn’t quite control. With luck he wouldn’t see the defiance in her shoulders and the murderous hatred in her heart.
“I wouldn’t call her a diamond of the first water, would you, Tavvy?” he drawled, sounding blessedly bored.
“No, sir,” Taverner replied, busying himself with the tray of food. “I don’t believe I’d heard that she was anything special. There’s an upstairs maid name of Betsy that’s quite a saucy piece…”
“I don’t think I’m interested.” He sounded abstracted. “Still, there’s something about the girl. Wouldn’t you say so?”
She gritted her teeth just slightly, unable to move, as the men discussed her.
“I wouldn’t know, sir. She’s not to my taste. I like ’em with a little more meat on the bones. A warm cuddle on a cold night, and all that.”
“So do I,” he said, and she could tell by the sound of his voice that he was rising from his lazy perch. Rising, and moving closer. “But there’s something about this one…”
He put his hand on her. His large, elegant hand under her chin, forcing her face around to his. And then he dropped his hand with a startled laugh, moving away. “Such anger, Mamzelle,” he said softly, in French. “Such hatred. You quite astound me.”
She wouldn’t speak French with him. She wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t breathe the same air he breathed. If he touched her again she would take the knife from the tray that she’d carried and plunge it into his heart.
“May I go, sir?” she requested quietly, eyes still downcast.
“Certainly. I have no wish to bed an angry female. At least not tonight.”
That surprised her into looking at him, her mouth dropping open in shock. There was a speculative expression in his dark eyes, one that was almost more disturbing than his brief touch had been.
“Monsieur is mistaken. I am the chef,” she said. “Not a whore.”
She didn’t wait for his reply, or her dismissal. She turned on her heel and left the room, closing the door very quietly behind her. The walk back down to the kitchens was a long one, and she moved steadily, silently, fighting the urge to run as if her life depended on it.
I am not a whore, she’d told the man who’d made her become one. And she knew, before another day passed, that that day would be his last.
Chapter 2
Lady Ellen Fitzwater wasn’t happy. She hadn’t wanted to leave Gilly behind, but she’d learned, early on in her relationship with her chef and friend, that there was no one more stubborn than a Frenchwoman. They’d had their disagreements in the year since they’d met under decidedly bizarre circumstances, and doubtless they’d have more. And Lady Ellen Fitzwater, a woman of a certain age who considered herself strong-minded, had lost every single one of those battles.
As she’d lost this one. She’d had no option but to withdraw. Not that she was afraid of a wrong ‘un like Nicholas Blackthorne. Fortunately she wasn’t the sort of woman to attract a man like Nicky. He wouldn’t offer her a carte blanche, a slip on the shoulder, or any of the other myriad insults offered to an attractive lady of a certain age.
Unfortunately the world didn’t recognize that she was safe from Nicky’s advances. Had she stayed
under her own roof she would have been branded a fallen woman. Her brother, Carmichael, would have been forced to take a stand, and if she weren’t careful she’d find herself married to someone as eminently unsuitable as Nicholas Blackthorne.
Not that he didn’t have his advantages. He was devilishly, wickedly attractive, even she recognized that. And he paid absolutely no attention to the rules of society, another salient point. She was already so bound by society’s stupid rules that she was being run out of her own house because of them. It would be marvelous to snap her fingers at the prosing old gossips.
However, there was a certain lack of harmony in Nicholas Blackthorne’s nature. A distressing abundance of scandal, close calls, and a certain mocking nature made him a most uncomfortable candidate for marriage. Here he was at almost six and thirty, past time to be settling down and begetting an heir, and what was he doing? Running away from a duel, for heaven’s sake! And if he killed his man, which was still not out of the question, then he’d be off to the continent again, for heaven knew how long.
Not that an absentee husband might not be quite pleasant, Ellen mused. But even a day spent with someone as unsettling as Nicky would be more than her temperament could handle.
It would be just as well for everyone if Jason Hargrove did cock up his toes. She’d only met him once, and she hadn’t liked him a bit. A slimy piece of goods, he was the sort of man who stood far too close, whose hands lingered, whose mouth was always wet. And he cheated at cards, or so Carmichael said.
It was no wonder that his wife turned to someone a little more prepossessing. It was just unfortunate that Jason Hargrove had happened to catch Nicky, in flagrante delicto it was rumored. A duel was unavoidable, but Nicky didn’t have to make it a killing affair.
Until Hargrove recovered or succumbed, all Nicky could do was bide his time in the country, out of reach of Bow Street Runners and the authorities. It wouldn’t have been so bad if this were his first duel. In fact it was his seventh, and if his bad luck held, it would be his second fatality. Even his more sober family connections couldn’t keep him from the consequences of his current misdeeds.
She’d told him so, too. She’d gone into great detail about his lack of manners and judgment, complaining bitterly about being evicted from her pleasant home because of his imprudence.
He’d simply opened one eye and stared up at her from his lazy perch on her chaise. “You never used to be such a prig, Ellen,” he observed.
“Did you have to mortally wound him, Nicky?” she responded with some asperity. “After all, you were in the wrong. Shouldn’t you have deloped?”
“And gotten my head blown off for the trouble? I’m not such a fool.”
“As a matter of fact, he did,” Taverner announced.
Ellen had jumped, startled. She could never get used to the fact that Nicky’s valet seemed to consider himself an equal, joining into any conversation that suited his fancy. Not that she didn’t try to treat Ghislaine the same way. But Gilly kept erecting walls as fast as Ellen tried to tear them down.
“What do you mean, he did?” she demanded irritably.
“He means I deloped, more fool me,” Nicholas murmured. “Every now and then I have a noble moment. Jason Hargrove didn’t choose to be amenable and accept the token apology. If I hadn’t ducked we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
“You needn’t sound so surprised. I mean, you are supposed to be killing each other when you fight a duel, aren’t you?”
“Not necessarily. In Hargrove’s case I assumed he’d be satisfied with my apology, or failing that, first blood. Instead the man tried to murder me.”
“Murder you?” she echoed, confused.
“His first shot went wild,” Taverner offered. “Blackthorne bowed and turned his back, assuming honor was satisfied and all that rubbish. And then he shot again.”
“At your back?” She was aghast.
“At my back,” Nicholas said. “Not only that, he had another pistol in his greatcoat, and was reaching for that. I had no choice. I was fortunate his bad timing and abysmal lack of skill had saved me twice. I couldn’t count on that happening again.”
“So you killed him.”
“That remains to be seen. Last I heard he was still clinging to life with remarkable stamina. Don’t you know that only the good die young?”
“That accounts for your advanced age,” Ellen said with some asperity. “But what does it say about me?”
“Only that you might not be such a starched-up prig after all.” Nicholas was eyeing her with new, dangerous interest. “Maybe you should throw caution to the wind and stay here after all. You can’t expect to experience life if you don’t take a chance or two.”
“Don’t even think it.” Her voice was severe. “You’ve known me since I was in leading-strings, and you should have enough sense to realize that we shouldn’t suit.”
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. “I wasn’t suggesting marriage, Ellen. I have no intention of getting leg-shackled, ever. That doesn’t mean that I can’t introduce you to a few more… physical pleasures.”
“Put a damper on it,” she replied, much pleased with herself. She wasn’t tempted, not even for a moment. Though she almost wished she were. “I don’t care what Carmichael says—I want you to leave as soon as possible. In the meantime, don’t cause trouble for my servants. Don’t harass the butler—he’s too old for your tricks. Don’t chase my chambermaids—they’re hard to find. And leave my cook alone!” This was said with unbecoming ferocity, and the moment the words were out of her mouth she knew she’d made a mistake.
“The famous female chef?” Nicholas Blackthorne suddenly looked a great deal less drunk than he had moments before. “I would have thought she’d travel with you.”
“She refuses to go. You keep away from her, Nicky or I’ll…”
“The only cooks I’ve known have been mountainous creatures, walking advertisements for their skills. I hardly think I’m going to develop a taste for lumpish ladies at this point in my career.”
“She isn’t…” Ellen had the sense to stop. “See that you don’t change your mind,” she said instead.
But drunken Nicholas Blackthorne was far sharper than she had hoped. “I take it your cook isn’t mountainous?” His voice was silky, dangerous.
“Leave her alone, Nicky. For once in your life, do the decent thing.”
She was shocked by the expression on his face. A sudden bleakness washed over the charm and attraction. “I never do the decent thing, Ellen. It’s part of my charm.”
“Nicky…”
“Shall I recite to you my sins? Maybe then, in your so conventional goodness, you can absolve me. Shall I tell you about the tavern maid who drowned herself when she found she was pregnant by me? About my mother, who wasted away when my older brother died, knowing that in me she had nothing left to live for? About the de Lorgny family, who went to the guillotine because I refused to help them? You know the family history—madness and evil abound. I could tell you about the boy I killed in a duel ten years ago. A simple boy, innocent, who had just made the grave mistake of losing his fortune to me at the gaming table and then accusing me of cheating. He was green, not much more than a child, really, and his family’s pride. And I snuffed out his life when I was too drunk to do more than notice. Shall I tell you more?”
“No, Nicky,” Ellen said faintly.
The bleak expression left his face, and he suddenly looked years younger, and alarmingly attractive. “And don’t think you can save me from my demons,” he said casually. “Other women have made that mistake, only to be brought down with me. Run away, Ellen. Tell your cook to keep safe in her kitchen, tell your chambermaids to hide in their attics, tell the fathers to lock up their daughters. The despoiler of virtue has arrived, and no one is safe.”
“Don’t be absurd, Nicky.” Ellen’s voice was gentle.
He looked at her then, and she realized the bleakness hadn’t left after all. It had sim
ply settled in his dark, unfathomable eyes. “Don’t you be absurd, Ellen. Run away.”
She’d done just that. Run, without even bothering to pass along Nicky’s warnings. In Ghislaine’s case it would have done no good. Ghislaine never listened to warnings, never seemed to listen to a word Ellen said. It was a wonder they were friends.
She also, however, kept her distance from men, and from the world abovestairs. She allowed her mistress to be her friend, but only on her terms.
When visitors were around, Gilly remained in the kitchen. When Ellen was alone in the house with only the half-deaf Binnie for companionship, Ghislaine would join her.
If only she didn’t have this miserable sense of foreboding that leaving Gilly at Ainsley Hall had been tantamount to sealing her doom. It was ridiculous, of course. Of all the women Ellen had known in her life, no one was more able to take care of herself than Gilly. She had secrets, Ellen knew. Dark, terrible secrets, that put the shadows in her eyes and the little catch in her laughter. Those were secrets she wouldn’t share, not with anyone, even a friend who wanted to lighten the burden.
But those secrets would also protect her against the Nicholas Blackthornes of the world, and worse. Ghislaine had looked into the face of hell at one point in her life, and she hadn’t flinched. She’d make mincemeat of anyone who tried to harm her.
Besides, there was something to be said about an enforced stay at her brother Carmichael’s seat in Somerset. She truly liked her sister-in-law, Lizzie; she doted on her nieces and nephews; and, best of all, Carmichael’s best friend, Tony, was due for an unexpected visit.
She adored the Honorable Sir Antony Wilton-Greening; there was no other word for it. Thank heavens he was too indolent to notice. Or if he had, too kind to make fun of her. She’d trailed around after him when she’d been an awestruck child of eight and he’d come home from the university with her older brother. She’d talked his ear off five years later when she was going through her horse-mad period; Tony was an acknowledged whip and prime expert on all kinds of horseflesh. And she suffered through the agonizing, embarrassing pain of puppy love when she was seventeen and he danced with her at her first ball.
