A Rose at Midnight (13 page)

On the other hand, he was fond enough of her not to wish her the burden of guilt and gratitude. And there was always the outside chance that he might just enjoy her impossible demands.

No, better to do it in a straightforward manner. Go after the miscreants, fetch Ghislaine back, and come up with a reasonable offer for Ellen’s hand. If she demanded it, he supposed he could even manage to court her a bit. After all, she did have the most melting smile.

His man woke him at the ungodly hour of five in the morning with a mug of warm porter, a platter of ham, and fresh bread that almost made such an indecent hour acceptable. He accomplished his toilet in record time, tying the most basic of cravats, allowing his man to shave him between sips of the beer, and surveying his brightly polished hessians with a weary sigh. The rain had abated, but even in the slowly lightening morning sky he could see the clouds hovering, ready to descend once more. He was not in the mood for a jaunt to Scotland.

Unfortunately, that was where Nicholas had chosen to take his absconded female. Not that he had much choice. Assuming Blackthorne still thought Jason Hargrove would recover, he knew he’d be
persona non grata
in town. People tolerated a great deal from someone of Nicky’s dubious charms, but this time he’d gone a bit too far, and the man had the sense to lie low.

Unfortunately the Blackthorne estates were mostly gone, sold to pay gaming debts. His Uncle Teasdale’s country seat, Amberfields, had been the last to go, which left only a small manor house in the Lake District and a hunting lodge over the border in Scotland.

According to the servants at Ainsley Hall, Scotland had been their eventual destination. It could be damned cold there this time of year, and absolutely dead of company. Tony had every intention of getting up there as fast as he possibly could, fetching Ghislaine, willing or not, and haring back to Ainsley Hall.

Of course, there was always the decidedly unpleasant possibility that Blackthorne might challenge him to a duel. Blackthorne had certainly fought enough of them to have developed a taste for them. Tony only trusted that he wasn’t likely to want to kill an opponent twice within a month.

The carriage was waiting out front; Carmichael’s carriage, his horses well-fed and rested, his man and the driver perched on top, awaiting Tony’s arrival. He didn’t like the thought of being immured in that carriage for another few days, particularly without Ellen’s company but he accepted his fate with a sigh. If this was the way to win the proper wife, then he could make the sacrifice.

Hastings was about to dismount and open the door for him when Tony waved him back to his perch. “I can manage,” he said, climbing into the carriage and settling back heavily, pulling the door closed after him. It was dark in the interior, the predawn light filtering in, but there was no question that he was far from alone. He looked across, directly into Ellen’s innocent blue eyes.

“I thought I’d save you the trouble of having to fetch me,” she said.

For a moment he was too dumbfounded to say a word. Miss Binnerston sat beside Ellen, asleep as usual, and even his intended bride looked a bit weary. “Very thoughtful of you,” he said finally, as the coach started smoothly. “How long have you been waiting?”

Ellen yawned, too tired to make any pretense at covering it. “Awhile,” she admitted. “I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget your promise.”

“My promise?”

“To take us with you. We won’t be any trouble, Tony, I promise you.” She leaned forward, suddenly intent, and he could smell the sweet, flowery scent she favored. An innocent perfume, free of musk, it reminded him of spring afternoons. And Ellen. “Please don’t take us back.”

It was exactly what he’d intended. It was the pleading in her eyes and the scent of her perfume that changed his mind. “I promised, did I?” he murmured. “Then I can’t very well break my word. You’ll behave yourself, Ellie? Do exactly as I tell you?”

“Of course,” she said eagerly.

He wondered what she’d say if he ordered her to put her arms around him and kiss him. He wouldn’t, of course. He’d accepted his responsibility, and in doing so, made it impossible for him even to suggest something improper.

So he simply smiled at her, keeping his hands at his side. “I’ll take you at your word.”

“We’ll find her, won’t we, Tony?” Ellen asked, her pale face creased with worry. “Nicholas won’t really hurt her, will he?”

“I can’t imagine why he would. Any more than I can imagine why he’d abduct her in the first place. Are you absolutely certain…?”

“Certain,” Ellen said firmly. “She never would have gone with him willingly. I have great faith in you, Tony. We should have her safe by nightfall.”

“Considering they have a two days’ head start, I fear you’re being slightly optimistic,” Tony drawled. “But we’ll find them as soon as we can.”

“I know you will. You know, Tony,” she said, her fine blue eyes sparkling in the murky light, “we’re going on a splendid adventure.”

Tony thought longingly of his comfortable bed in London, his sybaritic pleasures, compared to life on the road with a pair of females. “Splendid,” he echoed faintly. And he wondered how long it would take him to get rid of Ellen’s chaperon.

She could smell the fire. Hear the flames licking through the old wood structure, the screams of the servants still trapped inside. The roar of the angry mob, demanding vengeance, taking it on innocent people as they hauled her parents away.

Ghislaine had stood on the edge of the forest, Charles-Louis’s hand clasped in hers, too numb to worry about whether they would be seen or not, as Sans Doute, the home of the de Lorgnys for three hundred years, burned to the ground.

Her mother’s clothes were ripped half off her body as she was shoved and mocked. Her father was bleeding from a gash in the side of his head as he stumbled after his wife, helpless to protect her. And in the background, the screams from the servants trapped inside Sans Doute, the smell of the fire, the stench of burning flesh, the horror that left the two children rooted to the ground, until sanity finally prevailed and Ghislaine tugged her brother into the woods, away from the horrific sight.

At least her parents weren’t dead. They hadn’t been butchered, or left inside the burning chateau to die a hideous death. She’d heard the crowd shouting something about Paris. If her parents survived that long, they would be taken and tried. There was little doubt as to their eventual fate. Madame La Guillotine had already begun her foul work.

But as long as they were alive there was still hope. And Ghislaine was young enough then to nourish that hope, for her young brother’s sake as well as her own.

The trip to Paris was an endless nightmare. Her satin embroidered slippers, made for nothing more strenuous than dancing on parquet floors, were shredded by the second day, Charles-Louis was sullen and weeping, unwilling to understand the catastrophe that had overtaken their lives, instead demanding his nursemaid Jeanne-Marie and his tutor.

Mr. Coteaux had been trapped inside the burning chateau—Ghislaine had seen him illuminated in a flame-filled window. And sweet, maternal Jeanne-Marie had walked behind their mother, shoving her into the dirt when she stumbled.

She traded their silk clothes for rough peasant garb and some stale bread and cheese on the morning of the second day. Charles-Louis complained that the rough cloth hurt his skin, the wooden shoes hurt his feet, and his stomach was empty. Ghislaine controlled her sisterly temper and promised him bonbons when they reached their uncle’s house in Paris, iced cakes if he was silent when they hid from the roving bands of angry peasants, new silk clothes if he could just walk another few steps.

It took them a week to reach Paris, a seventeen-year-old and a twelve-year-old, and two greater innocents had never been on the streets. By the time they reached their uncle’s elegant town house, his body hung from the lamppost outside.

Ghislaine shuddered, trying to block the memory from her sleep-drugged mind. She hated the nightmares, hated reliving the past. Why couldn’t she remember the happy times, the years at Sans Doute, her parents smiling at her, her little brother innocent and warm and loving? Why did she always remember death and despair?

“Bad dreams,
ma belle?”
a familiar voice drifted in from the front room. For a moment Ghislaine was disoriented, knowing that voice, for a brief, mad instant welcoming it. And then she remembered where she was, and who held her prisoner.

She sat up in the lumpy bed, breathing a quiet sigh of thanks that she had slept alone. It was morning—a sullen light filtered in the windows, presaging another gray, rainy day. “It is my present existence that is the nightmare,” she said.

She should have known better than to goad him. She could see him by the fire, sprawled in the chair, an empty decanter beside him. She watched as he rose, graceful, lethal, and came toward the open door.

She wanted to pull the covers up to her shoulders, but she resisted the impulse. If she gave him any sign that he unnerved her, he would use that knowledge. He already had most of the weapons in their unholy battle—she wasn’t going to put another in his long, elegant hands.

He stopped at the doorway, lounging negligently. He needed a shave and fresh clothes, he needed a decent night’s sleep and abstinence from the brandy decanter. She watched him, keeping her face completely blank, and wondered how long this was going to keep on.

“What do you want from me?” she asked abruptly, aware of the fact that this was hardly the best time to confront him. Not while she sat in bed dressed in nothing more than one of his fine cambric shirts.

Nicholas simply smiled a small, cool smile. “What do you think I want?” he countered.

She forced her hands to remain still on the coverlet. “I won’t make the mistake of thinking you want me,” she said calmly. “You certainly don’t have to abduct women if you’re desirous of a tumble, and I’m certain a willing female would be greatly preferable.”

“Usually,” he agreed, not moving from his spot in the doorway.

“So that leaves revenge. But it would have been much simpler to turn me over to the local magistrate. If it were your word against mine, they would of course have taken your word.”

“Perhaps. Unfortunately my reputation is not unknown around Ainsley Hall. They might just possibly have believed you after all. Not that there was much you could have said. You did try to feed me poison, didn’t you?” He sounded no more than casually interested.

“I did.”

She half-expected him to react with rage. Instead the narrow smile reached his hypnotic eyes. “I rather thought you’d admit it,” he said. “And I suppose that would have been the honorable thing to do. Hand you over to the local authorities and go on about my merry way. The problem is, the local authorities might very well have decided that anyone who tried to kill me probably had just cause.”

“If they had any sense,” Ghislaine said flatly.

“And I couldn’t have that, now could I? Because if they chose to let you go, even treated you as a heroine as certain outraged fathers might, then you’d turn up again, wouldn’t you? You’re not going to simply accept defeat and promise never to come near me again. You’re not going to rest until you manage to stick a knife between my ribs.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I could always shoot you,” she said.

“That would require a certain knowledge of firearms, which I doubt you possess.”

Ghislaine said nothing. Her knowledge of weapons was not extensive, but she had no doubt whatsoever that she could manage to blow his head off at twenty paces, given half the chance. “Or there’s always poison,” she added.

“Indeed,” he said, moving into the room with that graceful indolence. “So I intend to keep you by my side until I figure out a way to render you harmless.”

“The answer is obvious,” she said, watching him carefully. “You could kill me. Then I wouldn’t trouble you again.”

He sat down on the foot of the bed, lifting his legs to stretch them out beside her. She didn’t squirm away, much as she longed to, and she could feel the heat of his leg against her body. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he said lazily. “I don’t believe they hang the upper classes, but in my case they’d probably be willing to make an exception.”

“You might get away with it.”

He looked at her, and while a smile hovered on his thin, sensual mouth, there was cold bleakness in his midnight-blue eyes. “And then I’d have your ghost to haunt me. No, thank you. I have enough ghosts, enough regrets in my life to last me several centuries. I prefer you alive and brimming with hatred. I prefer watching my back to peace of mind. Particularly since I wouldn’t recognize peace of mind if I were ever so blessed as to receive it.” He leaned forward across the bed, and his long fingers touched her tangled hair. “Besides,
ma belle,
you don’t really want to die, do you?”

Ghislaine stared at him, feeling the warmth of his fingers so close to her face. It had been ten years since she stood alone on the small bridge in the heart of the city, ready to hurl herself into the icy, murky depths of the Seine. Ten years since she had turned her back on death, and chosen life instead. Chosen the pain of going on over the sweet oblivion that had beckoned.

She glanced down at his hand. There would be a certain satisfaction in meeting death at those white, elegant hands. Hands that had been responsible—from a safe, clean distance—for the death of her family, the death of her innocence. It was only right that he learn to bear the final responsibility.

His hand moved up to her exposed throat, and there was steely strength in his fingers. “I could, of course, change my mind,” he murmured. “It wouldn’t take much to snap your neck. Such a small, frail neck. One that managed to avoid the guillotine, unlike the rest of your family. Tell me, is that your problem? Do you hate me because you somehow managed to survive, and you feel guilty that you didn’t perish with your family? You can’t blame yourself, so you blame me.”

She didn’t blink, didn’t move as his finger tightened. “Do it,” she said in a fierce voice, waiting for death.