A Rose at Midnight (7 page)
This time she could move. She jumped up, knocking against the table, and her hand caught the Limoges teapot, sending if flying, with the saucer full of hot tea following suit, smashing on the floor.
“Dear me,” Blackthorne said faintly, his eyes dark with unfathomable emotion.
“Milk doesn’t agree with him,” Ghislaine said, not moving. The hot tea had soaked into her dress, scorching her skin, but she made no move to mop it up.
“A shame. And all the dishes have been smashed. I’m afraid your mistress might very well take that out of your wages. Except that your mistress is Ellen, and she’s a ridiculously soft touch.”
He glanced over at the mess on the floor. “There’s no tea left.”
Ghislaine reached down and scooped up Charbon’s body before he could investigate the stain on the thick Aubusson carpet, squeezing him so tightly he yelped in protest. “You’ll have to make do with brandy,” she said, and turned to leave.
Taverner was at the door, barring her way. There was an evil smile on his swarthy face, and he reached out and took the puppy from her.
She had no choice. She let Charbon go. She could see that Taverner’s hands were gentle on the puppy’s black coat, and she knew she was past the point where she could protect him. He closed the door in her face, and she stood there, her back to her nemesis, as she pulled the last, fraying remnants of her self-control back around her like a magic cloak.
She turned and looked at him, her face composed. Not even the sight of the brandy bottle and the half-full glass could overset her. Fate had taken a hand, and she could no longer fight it.
“You look pale, Mamzelle,” Blackthorne murmured, rising and walking over to her. She’d forgotten how tall he was, towering over her own diminutive frame. He walked with a certain menacing grace, avoiding the shattered crockery, and the brandy was in one strong hand. “I think you need this brandy more than I do.”
So be it. With any luck it would take long enough to work that he too would partake of it, convinced it was harmless. If he didn’t, she still had her knife.
“Perhaps I do,” she said, taking the glass from his hand and bringing it to her lips before she could regret her decision.
He moved as swiftly as a snake, dashing the glass out of her hand, so that the poisoned brandy drenched the front of her dress.
“Do you think I’m going to let you take the easy way out?” he demanded, catching her wrist in a hard, bruising grip. “I want answers. I want to know why you’re intent on killing me. What have I ever done to harm you?”
It was the final piece of dry kindling on the conflagration of her rage. That he didn’t even remember her, that he’d destroyed her life and her family without even feeling a pang of guilt, made her fury boil over. She jerked away from him, reaching inside her apron pocket for the knife, determined to plunge it into his heart.
It was gone.
“Taverner used to be a pickpocket,” he said, his face distant and unreadable. “He relieved you of that nasty little knife when you were too busy to notice. Who are you, Mamzelle? What do you want of me?”
She couldn’t break away. His long fingers on her wrist were close to crushing the fragile bones. Not that it mattered. They could hang her with a broken wrist as easily as not.
“I thought it would be obvious.” She spat the words. “I want you dead.”
His honest confusion was all the more infuriating. “But why?”
“Because you murdered my parents!”
There was no change in his expression. Just a faint shadowing of his dark eyes, a tightening of his thin lips. “Ghislaine,” he said, his voice flat. “I should have known my sins would come back to haunt me.”
“I don’t understand why you’re determined to leave,” Tony drawled. He was lounging in the east parlor, a glass of particularly fine claret in one large, well-shaped hand, the lace from his cuffs drifting around his fingers. “Blackthorne must have left for the continent by now if he has any brains at all, and I must say I’ve always found him to be annoyingly intelligent. So there’s no need to rush back to your house like a frightened rabbit.”
Ellen shook her head. “I can’t help it, Tony. I feel uneasy. That happens to me sometimes, an odd sense of something being terribly wrong. It happened just before my parents were killed, it happened when Carmichael and Lizzie’s first baby died. I need to get back to Ainsley Hall.”
“No one is going to die, Ellen. Besides, you have to beat me at chess before you leave. I’ve bounced you solidly these last three days. You need your revenge.”
“I’m too distracted to concentrate. Besides, I expect I win when you’re in the mood to let me win.”
“Are you accusing me of cheating? I could call you out for that if you were a man,” he murmured, stretching his long, long legs in front of hint and admiring his lavender hose. Carmichael had taken one look at those lavender silk stockings and roared with laughter, but as usual Tony was unruffled by Carmichael’s amusement. He’d simply informed his friend that they were all the crack, and Carmichael was too much of a country bumpkin to recognize fashion.
Ellen herself had her doubts about the lavender hose, but she had to admit Tony had superb legs. She forced herself to concentrate. “But I’m not a man,” she pointed out.
“I’ve noticed,” he said dryly, an odd expression on his face.
“And besides, you only cheat to lose. That’s hardly a grave insult.”
“Any irregularity in matters of gaming is deemed worthy of a duel.”
“But you don’t fight duels.”
“There’s always a first. Do you want me to vanquish Nicholas Blackthorne if he’s still in residence? I could call him out, put a bullet in his black heart, and finish the business there and then.”
She felt an odd little start of panic. “Don’t be absurd, Tony. He’d be much more likely to kill you.”
“I didn’t know you cared.”
“Who would bring me chocolates?” she demanded with a mischievous smile.
“Or naughty French novels? Very well, I’ll keep myself safe. I cannot talk you into remaining a few more days?”
“You cannot,” she said, stifling the pang inside.
“Then at least let me escort you back to Ainsley Hall. The roads are dangerous nowadays, with highwaymen and the like. And if Nicholas hasn’t departed I can at least speed him on the way.”
“I won’t be able to offer you any hospitality,” she warned him, much pleased by his offer.
Tony waved an airy hand. “I wouldn’t expect it. Does that mean I’m considered as great a threat as Blackthorne? What a compliment.”
“Any man is considered a threat. And it’s entirely ridiculous. Are you certain you want to accompany me, Tony? After all, you’d be curtailing your own visit as well. I thought you planned on staying a fortnight.”
Tony smiled at her with particular sweetness. “I find my reason for being here to have disappeared. When you leave I’ll be more than ready to leave too.”
He didn’t mean what she thought he did. She was wise enough to realize that. Nevertheless, she was too cowardly to ask exactly what he did mean. On this rare occasion, ignorance was indeed bliss.
“When would you care to leave?” Tony continued, obviously unaware of the troubled direction her thoughts had taken.
“As soon as possible. Tomorrow morning, at first light. I simply can’t rid myself of the feeling that something quite terrible has happened.”
Tony drained his claret. “And I’ll be more than happy to prove to you that nothing at all is amiss. Your wonderful French chef can provide me with a splendid meal, and I’ll spend the night at the local tavern. Does that sound acceptable to you?”
“Perfect,” she said. “As long as…” She let her voice trail off in confusion. She was about to say as long as Gilly was still there. But there’d be no reason for her to have left. She certainly wasn’t going to fall prey to Nicholas Blackthorne’s wiles.
“As long as what?”
She managed a bright smile. “As long as you let me beat you at chess again.”
“Done,” he said, a curious warmth in his very gray eyes. “You have only to ask and I’m your obedient servant.”
She was used to polite phrases from gentlemen who never meant them. Tony was being just as glib. It was only her fault that she half-believed he meant them.
Nicholas Blackthorne leaned back in the chair, a cool cloth held against his face. He was winded, damnably weak, and cursing. Not cursing as much as the female now lying facedown on the bed in the next room, neatly trussed and tied by Tavvy and him when the fight finally ran out of her.
She’d managed to inflict a fair amount of damage. He’d only said her name and she went wild, obviously wanting to kill him with those small, hard, painful hands since he’d deprived her of any weapon. He wouldn’t have thought such a tiny creature could be quite so dangerous, but it took all his compromised strength to subdue her. He ended up sitting on her in the middle of the room, hoping she wasn’t being cut by the shards of crockery she’d smashed earlier.
It was absurd to be concerned. She was determined to kill him—why he should worry about her well-being was beyond nonsensical.
If he had a decent bone in his body he’d simply decamp, leaving her in her ignominious position until one of the other servants found her. He’d overstayed his welcome, and since he’d had no word on Jason Hargrove he could pretty much assume the old dog was going to recover. He and Tavvy should head back to London and the opprobrium of their friends, head back to the gaming tables and the fine claret and the unpoisoned brandy.
But he wasn’t going to do that. If he simply left, Mademoiselle Ghislaine de Lorgny might very well count her blessings and behave herself. But he didn’t think so. He’d never seen hatred so intense before. She would follow him, and he’d end up with a knife between his shoulder blades when he least expected it.
No, he would leave Ainsley Hall, all right. But he wasn’t going to London and his warm, comfortable rooms. He was going to Scotland, to the tumbled-down hunting lodge that was part of his entailed inheritance, a place he hadn’t seen since he was ten years old. A place he’d once loved.
And he and Tavvy weren’t going alone.
Ghislaine was cold. Miserably, achingly cold, her entire body trembling with it. She must have gotten soft in the last year, living in the fat English comfort of Ainsley Hall. She’d prided herself on being impervious to minor discomforts like the weather, and here she was, shivering.
Fear had nothing to do with it, she told herself, squirming around on the too-soft bed. She was afraid of nothing on this earth. She’d faced the worst, and survived, whether she’d wanted to or not. Fate couldn’t send her any more cruel blows.
He’d tied her wrists too tightly, but then she already knew he was a conscienceless bully. She’d been stronger than he was, a fact which gave her no small pleasure. She’d worked hard for a living, and her muscles were strong, while Nicholas Blackthorne was nothing more than an indolent fop, intent on dissipated pleasures. It was no wonder he was nearly bested by a woman half his size and weight.
His recent bout with rat poison might have something to do with his weakness, she admitted reluctantly. If he hadn’t spent the last two days near death, he could have defeated her a great deal more handily. It had been a long time since she’d had to use her limited strength to protect herself, and she’d gotten out of the habit. She was soft, dangerously soft.
She rolled over on her side, grimacing in the darkness. She could hear their voices drifting in from the other room, and she wondered with a kind of emotionless curiosity just what they had planned for her. Whether she was about to be handed over to the local magistrate, or whether Blackthorne had a more immediate, personal revenge in mind. The local authorities wouldn’t take kindly to her—for one thing, she was a foreigner, and she’d learned all too well the insular English distrust for foreigners. For another, she’d tried to kill a gentleman, an undisputed member of the upper classes. To be sure, he was the blackest, most disreputable gentleman ever to set foot on British soil, and he deserved to die a lingering, painful death, but she doubted the magistrate would agree.
She felt cold and sticky. The brandy had dried and stiffened on the front of her dress, and her clothes had been torn during her furious assault. Her hair hung around her face, and she must have looked like all the furies combined. It hadn’t even daunted Blackthorne. He’d laughed at her, laughed at her rage. For that alone she wanted him dead.
But she’d lost. She’d half-expected to, from the moment she knew he’d arrived at Ainsley Hall. Her course had been set in motion, and she’d had no choice but to follow it, even knowing it was doomed to failure. Her only regret was that she hadn’t been able to bring him down with her.
She ached all over. Her head throbbed, and she remembered his hand crashing into her as she’d tried to scratch his eyes out. He didn’t have any gentlemanly scruples, at least she could grant him that. If he had, he might not be alive now.
She rolled onto her back, staring up at the ceiling, struggling to catch her breath against the tightness of her bonds. The shadows from the firelight flickered against the ceiling, casting ominous shapes overhead, and she wondered how long she had to regain her strength, her determination. How long before she had to fight again.
The door opened wider, and she held herself very still, already prepared for a renewal of the battle. And then she heard the familiar scrabble of paws on the parquetry floor and an anxious yip as Charbon hurtled himself at the bed. It took him a number of attempts to breach it, and then he was pouncing all over her, licking her anxiously with his rough little tongue, making a soft whining noise in the back of his throat.
They hadn’t gagged her. There was no need—who would have paid the slightest bit of attention if she called for help? “Poor baby,” she whispered, her voice a soft caress. “I’m all right, I promise you.” Her voice sounded rough, even to her own ears, and the dog wasn’t placated. He whimpered again, placing his cold wet nose against her cheek, licking anxiously.
“You can’t imagine how it gratifies me to hear that,” a hateful voice drifted to her ears from the open door.
