A Rose at Midnight (6 page)

“A mountain.” Carmichael, whose diminutive height was a sore point with him, sniffed, even as he pumped Tony’s hand with enthusiasm. “It’s good to see you, Tony.”

“Good to see you, Carmichael. And especially good to see Ellen,” he said, reaching down his large hand and tucking it under Ellen’s chin, tilting her face up to his. “How’ve you been, chickie? I haven’t seen you in town these ages.”

“I’ve been rusticating, Tony. Town’s no place for me nowadays. There are too many people still looking for husbands. I don’t want to crowd the lists.”

“Lord, Ellen, next thing I know you’ll be wearing little lace caps and sitting in the comer gossiping with all the old maids,” he said, shaking his head. “Promise me you’ll never go that far.”

“I promise,” she said, smiling up at him. He was right, he was a mountain. A huge, loose-limbed giant of a man, he was taller than almost everyone on the London scene, with the possible exception of Harry de Quincy, and Harry didn’t count because he was all fat. Tony hadn’t a spare ounce of flesh on him, and every part of him was solid, implacable muscle. He needed no padding in his exquisitely tailored waistcoats, no sawdust in his clocked stockings. He was just a great deal of very solid, very handsome, very indolent male. His waist beneath her arms felt warm and hard, and she was suddenly self-conscious again.

This time he let her go, with only a quizzical glance in her direction as she sat down on the garden bench again, pulling her shawl around her shoulders. His face was a fitting complement to his body. Handsome, somewhat lazy, with a defiant beak of a nose, strong chin, marked cheekbones, and curiously dark eyebrows at odds with his golden-blond hair. Since he almost always had a smile on his wide mouth, he seemed the gentlest of men. If Ellen had the thought that he could be anything but, she had nothing on which to base that suspicion. Just instinct, and an occasional intense expression in his otherwise limpid, smiling gray eyes.

He took a seat beside her. “So why have you come to visit Carmichael? Just an overwhelming longing for your dear brother’s company?”

Both Ellen and Carmichael snorted in unison. “I had no choice in the matter, Tony,” she said, pleating her orchid-hued skirt. “Carmichael decided to let Nicholas Blackthorne stay at Ainsley Hall while he waited to see whether his latest duel was a killing affair. And he refused to let me stay. It’s absurd, when a woman reaches a certain age, that she’s still considered compromisable, but Carmichael decided to be stuffy.”

“Thank heavens for that,” Tony said lazily. “You are still eminently compromisable, Ellen, and you probably will be when you’re in your dotage. I hope you’re not about to race off the moment I arrive. I’ve brought you presents.”

“Presents?” she demanded, her old childhood greed returning full force. When she was young her brother’s friend Tony had never appeared without a box of French chocolates and a pile of books for her. As she grew old the chocolates remained, but the books were now French novels, filled with slightly risqué romances.

“Gunter’s best chocolates. This time I brought you two boxes. I missed your birthday.”

“At my advanced age birthdays should be missed. Besides, I think I’d do better without too many chocolates.” She looked down disparagingly at her plump curves. “I’m always asking Gilly to cook something slimming, and she keeps serving me sauces that are so delicious I can’t resist them.”

“Let us hope she continues to do so,” Tony said, stretching his immensely long legs out in front of him. “You’re perfect as you are, chickie. A plump, delicious little partridge. I’d hate to see you wasting away.”

“That’s not likely,” Carmichael announced with brotherly tact. “What’s the news from town? Any scandals? Any deaths? Any engagements?”

“Sophia Parkinson is going to marry the Earl of Hampstead,” Tony said, picking an imaginary piece of lint off his yellow satin waistcoat. Tony was a bit of a peacock, fond of rich colors and richer fabrics, and his clothes were impeccable.

“You’re not serious!” Ellen said. “I thought she was going to manage to bring you to heel. She certainly chased after you long enough.”

Tony shrugged. “Even the most determined young ladies eventually give up on me. They know my heart is already given.” He grinned at her. “To you, sweeting.”

“Of course,” Ellen scoffed. “What else?”

He hesitated. “Good news for you, bad news for me, I’m afraid. We have both a scandal and a death.”

“Jason Hargrove succumbed?” Carmichael guessed.

“Indeed. His widow is already proving herself a merry one indeed. I imagine Nicholas Blackthorne will be heading for the continent the moment he receives the news.”

“And I can go home,” Ellen said, as relief flooded her.

“You can go home,” Tony agreed. “Though I rather hope you won’t.”

“Why not?” She glanced up at him in surprise.

“Because I haven’t seen you since Christmas, and on that occasion you trounced me twice at chess. Now, I consider myself a more than adequate chess player, and to be beaten twice by anyone, particularly by a snip of a girl, is a blow to my monumental self-esteem. You have to give me a chance to redeem my honor. I’ve been practicing.”

She was torn. Hours spent with Tony over a chessboard had to account for some of the most peaceful, happiest hours of her life, even though she suspected he let her win. Her worry over Ghislaine and Ainsley Hall, however, had been driving her sorely. “I really should get back,” she said, hesitating.

“But why? Nicholas Blackthorne will be long gone, and you have a very competent staff. There’s no reason why you should hurry home.”

She considered it. Tony was absolutely right—it was Blackthorne’s presence that worried her. Once he was gone, out of the country, she’d no longer have any cause for panic. If he had run off with the silver, or the footman’s daughter, it would be too late to do anything about it. Besides, Tony was her best, dearest friend. When he was around she no longer felt plump or shy or awkward. She blossomed, and every few months she needed the powerful sun of his personality.

“I’ll stay,” she said. “Long enough to convince you that I really am the superior chess player.”

A secretive smile lit Tony’s handsome face. “Ellen, my dear, prepare yourself for a long siege.”

This must be what it felt like, Ghislaine thought with a noticeable absence of emotion. To walk down the hallway at the prison in Paris, to climb into the tumbrel and be borne through the streets. This must be what it felt like, to walk to your doom, bravely, head held high, prepared for horror. Prepared for death.

She gripped the tray tightly in her small hands, ignoring the valet following close behind her. She knew what lay beneath the silver covers. Solid, unexciting British fare, the sort to appeal to a man like Blackthorne. An egg custard, in deference to his compromised digestion. Hot scones, slathered with fresh butter, and a wedge of pork pie. A slice of apple tart. And a pot of hot herbal tea, made from camomile for the stomach, comfrey for the blood, and arsenic for long overdue justice.

She had the knife in one pocket of her capacious apron. It was not as large a one as she would have preferred, but the butcher knives were too big. The weasel-eyed Taverner would have noticed it clanging against her trembling knees. Nicholas Blackthorne might very well disdain something as bland as herbal tea. So she’d dosed the brandy bottle as well.

Her slippered feet tripped on something, and the tray almost went flying. Taverner righted her in time, his ham-hand beneath her elbow, steadying her. “Wouldn’t want this fine dinner to smash on the floor, would we, miss?” he said with an evil grin, showing his discolored teeth.

“No,” she said faintly. “We wouldn’t.”

She didn’t want to watch him die. She told herself it was simple common sense on her part. If she had any intention of escaping, of getting away with meting out her own rough justice, then she needed to be as far away from Nicholas Blackthorne when he met his maker as she could manage.

Besides, she’d seen enough people die. Perhaps she ought to watch Blackthorne in the throes of agony, as recompense for the loss of her parents, the loss of her innocence. But she no longer wanted to. His death would be solace enough.

He was still in Ellen’s favorite pink salon. Dressed just as negligently as before, he lounged in one delicate satin chair, his white shirt open at the neck, his embroidered silk vest unfastened, his breeches almost indecently tight. He was in stockinged feet, and his curly black hair was disheveled. She allowed herself to meet his gaze. He was paler than when she’d last seen him, and his dark eyes were shadowed with a banked kind of rage, for all that he was smiling that damnable, seductive smile.

“Don’t be shy, Mamzelle,” he said, his voice a silken thread, pulling her into the room. “I promise I’m no longer at death’s door. I’m needful of some company, and the housemaids all giggle and stammer. I expect you, with that politely shielded hostility, will prove much more interesting.”

The door had closed behind her, Taverner had disappeared. It seemed that tonight he had no interest in serving his lord and master. It would be up to Ghislaine—with her own hands she’d have to hand him the cup of tea that would kill him.

Her hands didn’t tremble as she set the heavy tray down on the dainty gate-leg table that usually held Ellen’s embroidery silks. Ellen was an execrable needlewoman—disasters from her clumsy hands decorated the sitting room. Ghislaine tried to concentrate on one particularly ugly pillow, supposedly a representation of a heron that more closely resembled a donkey digesting itself, and it took all her concentration to pour the man a cup of herbal tea.

She backed away, toward the door, when Blackthorne’s eyes impaled her. “Don’t leave yet, Mamzelle. Surely you want to see me enjoy this estimable repast?”

“I… I have work to do…” She found her self-possession wasn’t quite what she had hoped for. She pulled it back around her with steely strength. “I have my duties, sir,” she said more firmly.

“At this hour everyone must be fed. Besides, your first duty should be to your betters, not your fellow servants, is that not true? Sit.”

She flushed at the deliberately insulting tone of his voice, and the ice in his final command, but she couldn’t bring herself to sit. The door opened behind her, one of Taverner’s heavy hands clamped onto her shoulder and shoved her, with astonishing roughness, into the chair before handing Blackthorne a shaggy black bundle.

It was a full moment later that she realized what that squirming black bundle was, and the horror of her situation came home to her.

“A most charming dog,” Nicholas said, holding the furry little creature up to his face, and for a moment his harsh features softened, gentled, and Ghislaine remembered a boy in his early twenties, a boy who still possessed a heart. “Taverner told me you had a pet in the kitchen. My father wouldn’t allow me to have a dog. Filthy creatures, he called them. I’ve always been rather fond of them myself. What’s this fellow’s name?”

“Please,” she said, she who never begged, never asked; she who was indomitable.

“His name?” Blackthorne repeated with utmost icy patience.

“Charbon.”

His long fingers stroked Charbon’s black curls. “A little piece of coal, eh? Your mistress loves you very much, young fellow, doesn’t she?”

Ghislaine was no longer capable of saying a word. She heard the door close behind her, and knew that Taverner had left them alone once more. She watched, trying to pull herself into that safe, secret place inside, where nothing could reach her, as Blackthorne continued to murmur to her beloved pet.

“Some people don’t approve of feeding animals at the table,” he murmured. “But then, this isn’t really the table, is it, Charbon? We’re much more casual than that, and I know a lively fellow like you would appreciate your mistress’s good cooking. What about a taste of this egg custard? Your mistress isn’t saying a word, though she looks quite pale. Do you suppose she’s jealous?”

She tried to pull herself together. “I’d really rather you wouldn’t feed him. He’s too fat as he is.”

Blackthorne’s midnight-blue eyes blazed into hers, full of cold, icy rage, as his mouth curved into a charming smile. “But I’m not interested in your wishes, haven’t I made that clear?” He broke off a piece of the pastry and held it in front of Charbon’s tiny black nose. The dog devoured it, wagging his tail in pleasure, and Ghislaine wanted to scream.

“You liked that, did you?” Blackthorne murmured. “I’ll have to try some myself, then,” and he popped a piece in his mouth. “I’m probably being foolish. What agrees with a dog’s constitution might not agree with mine. Would you like to try a piece of apple tart? Delicious, isn’t it? Your mistress is a wonderful cook.”

She wanted to scream, but her throat had closed up entirely She tried to find that safe, cold place, but it eluded her, leaving her raw, aching with pain. Surely revenge wouldn’t require this sacrifice too? She’d lost too much. She couldn’t lose the only creature who depended on her, trusted her, loved her without question.

And who was this handsome, smiling monster who’d calmly sit there and poison a helpless, affectionate little puppy who’d never harmed him? A puppy foolish enough to wag his tail and lick Blackthorne’s long fingers.

He couldn’t, wouldn’t, feed a dog herbal tea or brandy, Ghislaine finally realized. Charbon was safe. She wasn’t—there was no way Taverner would let her escape now that somehow, some way, Blackthorne knew.

Charbon had finally devoured everything on Blackthorne’s heavy silver tray. Everything but the tea and the brandy. Blackthorne’s dark eyes moved from Charbon’s wiggly little body to Ghislaine’s pale, set, face. “It all seemed to agree with him,” he murmured, setting the puppy down on the floor.

Charbon immediately raced over to Ghislaine, dancing in pleasure. She wanted to reach down and pick him up, to pull him close to her body, but she felt stiff, frozen, awkward. Before she could catch him he danced back to the man who’d fed him so well and stroked him so nicely, clearly ready for more attention.

“A sweet dog,” Blackthorne murmured. “You need something to drink. Now I know you don’t fancy tea much,” he said as he poured some of the richly scented mixture into a saucer, “but if I add a great deal of milk I expect you’ll find it palatable. You’re…”