Jo Beverley - [Malloren] (16 page)

Rothgar went with Madame de Couriac, on guard but also curious to know exactly what she and her husband were up to. The countess could be right in thinking they were after his documents, but equally correct in thinking they were after his life.

If the latter, it would be another mathematical point. He suspected D’Eon of involvement in the duel with Curry. If the de Couriacs were up to mischief, it was all likely linked to the French.

He smiled over Lady Arradale’s sharp wits and swift action. Admirable, but not particularly welcome when she must play the part of the perfect lady—the sort who would be blind to plots and politics. A lady who would scream at a mouse, faint at a shock, and react to danger by throwing herself into the arms of the nearest male.

Not by trying to rescue him.

The next weeks were likely to be even more difficult than he’d anticipated.

But interesting.

Monsieur de Couriac was lying on top of the bedclothes,
groaning. The extent of his undress was an undone waistband and a loosened shirt.

“You have sent for the doctor, you said?” Rothgar asked.

“Yes.” Madame de Couriac put her hand to her head. “At least, I think so … I am so frightened …” She moved close, and he obliged by putting his arm around her. She turned to press her face into his chest. A knock at the door didn’t even make her twitch.

So.

He put her aside and opened it.

“Doctor Ribble,” the young man there said. Slim and serious, he at least seemed likely to play his part properly.

“Come in, Doctor. You see your patient. I am Lord Rothgar, serving as translator if needed.”

The doctor’s sharp look said he recognized the name, but pleasantly, his demeanor did not change. He went over to the bed and asked questions, which Rothgar translated, then examined the patient.

In the end the doctor said, “I can see no reason for the pain, monsieur, though there is some tenderness. All I can suggest is rest. Often these things pass of themselves and medicines can make them worse.”

Rothgar approved, but Madame de Couriac stiffened. “And you think we
pay
for that!” she snapped in her imperfect English. “You must do something!”

“Madame, there is nothing—”

“You are a … a
charlatan!
” She turned to Rothgar. “How do you say?”

“Exactly that, madame. Charlatan. However, the good doctor is probably correct. It is doubtless something your husband ate.”

“But you, but I, we ate the same! I insist on treatment, or me, I will not pay.”

Tight-lipped, Doctor Ribble opened his bag and took out a bottle, pouring some dark liquid into a glass. “There, madame. If you give him a teaspoonful of that in water every hour it might soothe him, and it will do no harm.”

“So,” the lady declared, magnificent dark eyes flashing, “
first there is nothing. Now there is something. Me, I think you hate the French! You want us all to die!”

“Not at all, madame. That will be five shillings for the visit, and a further two for the medicine. If you need more, you can send a servant to my house for it. However, do not hesitate to summon me if your husband’s condition worsens.”

Madame de Couriac extracted a silk purse from her pocket and passed it to Rothgar with a faltering hand. “Please, my lord. I am too distressed … Please find the coins for him.”

As she staggered back to hover over the bed, Rothgar obliged, resisting the urge to share a smile with the doctor. He would remember Doctor Ribble if he ever had need of a physician in this locality. He was sure the medicine was a harmless syrup with some herbs to make it taste unpleasant. Who, after all, would believe in a pleasant medicine? Perhaps even a touch of opium to send the patient to sleep.

When the doctor had left, he turned to find Madame de Couriac tenderly feeding some of the medicine to a resistant husband. The man saw Rothgar watching and said in French, “It tastes foul, my lord.”

“Such things usually do, monsieur. I advise you to take it, however. The doctor seemed to know what he was about.”

De Couriac drained the glass then shuddered.

“Now,” cooed his wife, “get under the covers, my darling, and rest. Soon, I am sure, you will be completely well again.”

Though he had no reason to stay, Rothgar did, intrigued to see what happened next. His journey had been no secret. His night here had been arranged in advance. He’d be flattered to think Madame de Couriac was taking extreme measures to get into his bed, but it was more likely to be another attempt on his life.

The interesting question was, why? Why were the French so desperate to dispose of him? He had influence with the king, and was known to advise the king to stand firm against them. He was urging limits on exports of anything that would help them rebuild their fleet, and the speedy destruction of the fortifications at Dunkirk.

None of it seemed justification for murder. There was always the chance that Madame de Couriac could shed some light on matters.

When the woman had her husband settled to her liking she turned to Rothgar, a picture of grateful womanhood, and ran forward to seize his hands. “How can I thank you, my lord? You have been so kind, so gracious …” Then she swayed. “Oh, I feel … Oh.”

He caught her against his body as he was clearly expected to. So tempting at such moments to step aside, leaving the lady to tumble to the floor. He’d done it a time or two.

This time, however, he tenderly supported. “Madame, please. Come to my dining room for a little cognac. We must let your husband sleep.”

“You are too kind,” she whispered, limp against him. His role now was to sweep her into his arms, but he merely supported her toward the door and down the stairs. On the lower floor he glanced at Lady Arradale’s door, expecting to see her peering out. He was sure she would be if she’d known just when he’d return.

He sympathized with her curiosity, but hoped she’d not interfere before he discovered exactly what was going on.

He guided the Frenchwoman into the dining parlor, and to the chaise, slipping off her shoes and raising her feet so she was reclining. Having made it impossible for him to sit beside her, he poured cognac—his own reserve, carried with him—for both of them.

She sipped, sighed, and said, “You are extraordinarily kind, my lord. I am so grateful. I find many of your countrymen are not so sympathetic.”

“Our nations were so recently at war, madame.”

“Alas. But you?” Eyes on him, she drank from her glass with an exaggerated pursing of the lips, pressing her lower lip down with the glass as she slowly drew it away. A whore’s trick. “Do you,” she purred, “still feel enmity toward the people of France?”

“I try not to let my feelings for a nation affect my feelings for individuals, madame.”

“So,” she said with another enticing sip and a sliding look
from under her long, darkened lashes, “you do not feel enmity for
me
?”

“Assuredly not.”

“I am so glad,” she murmured, holding out a hand. When he took it, she curled her legs and predictably drew him down to sit on the chaise beside her feet. “I feel no enmity toward you, Lord Rothgar. None at all …”

“Why should you, indeed?”

That seemed to disconcert her for a moment, but she put aside her glass and pressed her stockinged feet against his thigh, flexing her toes there. “Quite the reverse, in fact …” She held out both hands, swaying closer. “Oh, my lord, this is a madness … But … I cannot resist you. All evening I have wanted you!”

Agile as a cat, she was on him, her arms snaked around his neck. “Take me!”

He obliged, and at least took her hungry, perfumed mouth, though he was not at all fond of patchouli. Her hands began to work frantically at the buttons of his waistcoat.

He seized them. “Slowly, madame, slowly. I am a man who likes to drink pleasure’s cup one sip at a time …”

Sitting bolt upright on a chair in her bedroom, Diana seethed with restlessness. What was going on? What should she do?

She’d set her own servants to watching, and knew the doctor had visited, found nothing particularly wrong, and left. She also knew that the marquess had taken the Frenchwoman, swooning, to his private dining room.

Why? She could guess. In his place, she too would want to find out exactly what the de Couriacs were up to. A little part of her, however, still worried that he’d been sucked into the viperous woman’s coils. The urge to rush to interrupt was almost uncontrollable, but she did control it.

She had a man watching de Couriac’s room who would tell her if the Frenchman began to stir.

It was surely folly to think that the marquess was putting himself in danger, especially after her warning, but she couldn’t just ignore it and go to bed.

She was
not
, she told herself, upset at the thought of what might be going on in the dining room next door. Not at all. She didn’t deny curiosity—she’d give a great deal for a hole in the wall—but that’s all it was.

Not jealousy. She could never be jealous of a creature like Madame de Couriac.

At that moment her footman knocked and came in. “There’s some noises from the Frenchie’s room, milady. He’s likely dressing.”

At last! She leaped up. “Go back to the bottom of the stairs. Here.” She thrust a heavy book into his hands. “If he starts to come downstairs, drop it. Go!”

She left the door open and stood there, ears straining for the thump though she knew it would be loud enough to hear through the closed door.

Perhaps the Frenchman had just been finding the chamberpot. If not, he was either preparing to search through the marquess’s papers, or more likely, to burst in and issue a lethal challenge.

Come on. Come on.

If Monsieur de Couriac did not come downstairs she’d have no excuse to interrupt the marquess and the Frenchwoman. That would be a shame both for her curiosity and her jealousy.

No. She would
not
be jealous or she’d go mad. Doubtless London was full of the man’s lovers, including the mysterious scholarly poet—

Thump
.

Diana jumped, then with a deep breath, followed her plan. She walked briskly along the corridor and into the dining room without knocking, ready with her exclamation of shock.

“Oh,” she said, finding the marquess sitting on the chaise with one of Madame de Couriac’s slender stockinged feet in his hands. He appeared to be massaging it, and the lady had been lounging back languorously.

Madame had given a little scream, however, and sat up. Now she was staring at Diana in befuddlement. Clearly not whom she had expected. She pulled her foot free even so,
and swiveled to sit straight and put on her shoes. “So soothing, my lord.”

“Indeed.” He rose, expression unreadable. “You require something, my lady?”

You could rub my feet
, she thought, but said, “Cognac.”

“The servants are not available? I must speak to them about it.”

Was he annoyed? Impossible to tell. However, he poured some cognac into a glass, and turned to pass it to her. The door burst open and a disheveled Monsieur de Couriac staggered in.

And stopped.

“Monsieur,” said Lord Rothgar at his most benign, “you are recovered. How wonderful. Cognac?”

After a frozen moment, Madame de Couriac leaped to her feet and ran over to her husband. “Jean-Louis,
cheri
. I am so happy! But come back to bed and rest. You cannot be completely well.”

After a furious, frustrated glare, Monsieur de Couriac allowed himself to be led out.

The marquess walked over and shut the door, leaving Diana alone with him. Her nerves twitched. He was angry? How could he be angry? She might have just saved his life!

He put the glass of brandy into her hands. “Perhaps we have some confusion, Lady Arradale, as to who is guarding whom.”

He
was
angry. How typical of a man. Warming the cognac between her palms, she said, “Are you saying you wanted to be caught, my lord?”

“Massaging the lady’s feet? Unusual, but hardly more than that. Especially when she was so very distressed about her poor husband’s illness.”

“
I
couldn’t know you would be doing that.”

He sipped and made no comment.

Diana tasted the cognac, then warmed it some more. “So, you were deliberately avoiding anything more scandalous?”

“It seemed wise.”

Should she apologize? Damned if she would. Damned,
too, if she’d be dismissed without knowing what was happening.

“Very well,” she said, sitting on the chaise still warm from Madame de Couriac’s body, and even carrying a ghost of her suggestive perfume. “What are they up to?”

He came and sat at the other end, as he’d sat with the other woman except that three feet of blue damask stretched between them, uninvaded. “Perhaps it is as it appears, Lady Arradale. She is wanton, he is ill.”

“Perhaps.”

“You doubt it?” He put his glass aside. “Put your foot in my lap.”

Diana stared at him. “Why?”

“I am in the mood for rubbing feet.”

He was in a strange and possibly dangerous mood, but she longed to know what it felt like. She slipped her left foot out of her shoe and shifted so she could place it on his thigh. That alone required a mouthful of fortifying spirits. He put both hands around her foot and began to rub her instep with his thumbs.

She suppressed a moan of pleasure. “She may be wanton,” she said as steadily as she could, “but he is not ill.”

“He likely is somewhat after the potion the doctor left. But no, you are fundamentally correct.”

“So, what are they up to?”

His thumbs were working now along the base of her toes. She could not help but relax back and feared she must look as limp and languorous as the Frenchwoman had.

“They could have been after my documents,” he said, thumbs working magic, but eyes on hers, “but then de Couriac would have gone to my bedchamber, not here. Therefore …”

“Therefore,” she supplied, “he was hoping to force a duel. Are you further ahead for knowing that?”

“A little.”

“He could have demanded a duel anyway. You were alone with his wife.”

“Who had asked for my help and been seen in distress. No, he could not have insisted on a duel.”