Lady Scandal (25 page)

She settled instead for picking up the
hairbrush and starting to brush her aunt's hair.

"Thank you, dear, but tea is all I
want."

"Nonsense.
We both need time to pull
ourselves together and then we can make a plan.
We are practical
Edgcots, after all, are we not?"

Alexandria looked up and gave a fragile
smile.
"Yes, dear—we are.
But Paxten is not.
And now they are going
to shoot him, just because he is a rash, impulsive hot-head!
Oh,
bother the man!"

And with that, she burst into the tears she
had never allowed herself to shed over the man she loved.

#

He lay in a cellar.
At least it smelled like
a cellar.
Musty.
Damp.
A vinegar odor of wine gone off filled the
place.
With a grimace, he lifted himself from the dirt floor.
The
guards had thrown him down the stairs.
New aches lay over old ones
now.
The burning agony in his side, however, made the other pains
seem as nothing.

Slowly, he climbed to his feet, and he
swayed.
He could see nothing in the blackness, and for an instant
the thought chilled him that he might be blind.

Then he grinned.

They'd probably shoot him soon enough and
what did it matter if he could not see his execution?

With one hand out, he eased forward, the
dirt cold on his bare feet.
He found the damp, hard touch of a
stone wall, and felt downwards to the smooth edge of a wooden
crate.
The lid lifted at his touch, so he pulled it open and put
his hand inside.
Straw crunched under and around his hand.
And then
his fingers closed over smooth glass and the narrow neck of a
bottle.

Brandy, he hoped.

He pulled it out.
But he had no means to
pull the cork.

Exhausted, he closed the lid of the crate
and sat on it.

He could crack the neck of the bottle
against the wall, breaking it.
But that sounded untidy.
And he had
no taste to drink stray bits of broken glass that might cut open
his stomach.
No, they would have to shoot him.
Or hang him.
The
longing to hold any hope for life still stirred in him.

He leaned against the wall.

Merde!
He had been an
imbécile
to let down his guard.
To think he could not be
tracked here.
They ought to have waited on the cliffs.
Or anywhere
else.
But no, he had wanted his Andria in a soft bed, and payment
now for his desire was to have dragged her into the worst danger
possible.

Would they think she had aided him?

Or perhaps accuse her of spying?

He frowned, and wished again for some means
to open the bottle.
He groped in the darkness for a nail.

As he did, wood creaked and light shafted
down into the room.
He stopped his search and squinted against the
flare of brightness.
Boots sounded against wood, and a solider
loomed before him.
An officer to judge by the amount of gold braid
on his chest.
He wore the dolman jacket of a hussar, swung by a
cord like a cape from his shoulders, the sleeves too tight to
actually wear.
And he wore the fitted breeches and boots of
cavalry.
Paxten recognized the face as well.
He had seen it once
before—when he had stolen into Andria's carriage in that village
just outside Paris.

The man certainly had the virtue of
persistence, curse him.

Glancing up the stairs, Paxten saw another
solider at the top, a lantern in one hand and a musket in the
other.

For an instant, he calculated the odds.
Could he strike this officer with the bottle and be up the stairs
before the other man could shout an alarm?
Or shoot?
He
straightened and pain flared up his side.
He winced and knew he
would be lucky to hobble up the stairs like an ancient.

He glanced at the man before him again—one
of those young, square-jawed officers, stiff with honor and gold
braid.
He could not recall if had ever heard the man's name, so he
lounged back against the wall, and asked in French, his tone
intentionally insolent, "And what is it you want?"

"You've led us on a long chase,
Marsett."

Paxten lifted the shoulder on his uninjured
side.
"I had no wish to lead you anywhere.
I had hoped that
traveling with those two women would throw you off the scent.
They
did not want to help me.
You may as well know that.
I forced them
to."

The fellow gave a snort.
"With a gun to
their heads, was it?
I think not, Marsett."

"Ah, but I needed no gun.
You see, I knew
Lady Sandal years ago.
It was easy to give her a story, and when
she wanted to leave me, to send her carriage on without her.
And to
blackmail her into aiding me by saying I should ruin her if she did
not agree."

"You're a liar, Marsett."

Paxten frowned.
He sat up.
"I tell you—Lady
Sandal and Miss Edgcot knew nothing of my being a fugitive.
They
wanted only to go home to England, and I used them for my own
purposes.
They thought I had been injured in a duel.
They should
not be held to blame, nor made accountable for any of this."

"And did you forcibly darken the
mademoiselle's hair to help hide you?
And how did you coerce them
into stopping in a town for a fair?
As I said, you have led us many
places, Marsett.
I've heard much of your stops along the way."

Paxten's mouth twitched.
He glanced around
the room, and at the bottle, heavy in his hand.
Perhaps he should
simply smack it upside the fellow's thick head to get rid of any
notion that Andria and Diana were willing participants in aiding an
accused criminal.

He looked back at the officer.
The man
returned his regard, his stare giving away nothing.

One of those well-starched sorts who lived
by his code of honor, Paxten decided, summing up the solid build
and the clean-shaven face.
Even in this dank gloom, the man's boots
gleamed.
He probably folded his clothes every night, said his
prayers, and visited his family every Sunday that he could.
And he
probably viewed shooting a ragged, half-English criminal as a
service to France.
Which it probably was.

But it ought not to touch Andria.

Paxten's mouth pulled down.
"Look, you can
do with me as you will.
I've certainly sins enough on my soul to
merit harsh judgment—including the sin of stupidity where it comes
to Lisette D'Aeth.
But Andria—Lady Sandal is an honest innocent in
this."

"She did not look so innocent when we found
you—after you had got done with her."

Paxten rose, jaw clenched and his fist tight
on the bottleneck.
"By God, I ought to ram that insult down your
throat!
You preening conceited cockerel!"

The light at the top of the stairs wavered
and Paxten glanced up to see that the sentry had set down the
lantern and shouldered his musket.
Paxten looked back at the
officer.
He twisted his mouth into a ragged smile.
Might as well be
shot now, calling this fellow to book for his remark about
Andria.

The young officer, however, turned and said
something to the sentry.
The man lowered his weapon.
The officer
glanced back at Paxten.
"Lady Sandal and Miss Edgcot are not your
concern.
I will see them safe to Paris."

"But not to England—sweet Mother of God, why
not let them go?
They're not going to make you a general for
hauling in a pair of Englishwomen."

"No.
But I might be made a major for
shooting you." Turning, he strode away, but he paused at the base
of the stairs and glanced back.
"I can see now how you do it, how
you convince others you're a gentleman.
You must have been once.
Before you became a rapist."

He left, going up the stairs two at a time.
The light vanished behind the door and a bolt rammed home with a
thud.

Swearing, Paxten threw the bottle against
the wall.
Glass shattered and the sweet smell of champagne filled
the air.
It gave no satisfaction.
Sinking down on the crate, he
buried his face in his hands.

He had not long to wait.

It seemed only minutes later they came for
him.
Six burly fellows, three with muskets, one with a lantern, and
two to drag him up the stairs.
He let his weight sag.
Let them
think they had injured him more than they had.
He had bled, but not
enough so very much.
And, yes, he ached, but what did that matter
if he found a chance for freedom.

Only how could he leave Andria?

They dragged him out of the inn and onto the
rocky shore near the quay.
Not far from the inn.
Why exert
themselves any more over him, he thought, his mouth lifting a
little.

He glanced around him.

The sun had not yet risen.
Only the faintest lightening of the sky and the stirring breeze
signaled that dawn hovered near.
Stars and moon had faded.
The
captain of the
Mouiller
would be waiting.

Paxten glanced at the quay, at the masts of
the anchored ships, bobbing softly as the tide turned, and the
rigging creaking.
No one else in Dieppe stirred.
Yet, Paxten
thought he glimpsed movement on one of the ships.

He looked back at the soldiers before
him.

One soldier dragged Paxten's hands behind
him.
Rough rope burned his wrists.

"Is that necessary?" he asked.

No one answered him, but another solider
pulled out a black scarf.
"Blindfold?"

Paxten shook his head.
The man shrugged, but
glanced at Paxten with greater respect.
Paxten's mouth twisted up.
Courage had nothing to do with this, but the mad desire for a means
to escape did, and he would need his eyes for that.
Only he could
not see one.

They would line up and they would shoot him.
And Andria would be sent to Paris with her niece.
He clenched the
muscles in his arms as they pulled tight the ropes.

At the creek of a door opening, the soldiers
paused and looked towards the inn.

Paxten followed their stares.
He pulled in a
sharp breath as Alexandria and Diana stepped from the inn along
with that hard-faced officer who had come to him in the
cellars.

Mother in heaven, did the man intend to make
Andria and her niece watch the execution?

Taliaris walked away from his interview with
Marsett even more displeased than before he had begun.
He could
certainly see how the man had persuaded others.
Marsett had lied
just now without a quiver, without hesitation.
But the man had
lied, it seemed, to make it seem as if Lady Sandal and Miss Edgcot
knew nothing of his crimes.

Yet, Diana Edgcot had proven already with
her words that she did know.
And so had Lady Sandal.

Frowning, Taliaris strode into the small
parlor he had commandeered for himself.
Night still cloaked the
world outside this snug parlor.
Beyond the yellow glow of lamps and
fire, the stars had begun to fade.
He wanted only enough light for
his men to see well enough to shoot Marsett.
No man—not even the
lowest of English scum—should die in darkness.

He frowned.

Why had the mademoiselle protested Marsett's
innocence?

Marsett certainly had not.

Odd, that.
Taliaris thought of the guilty
faces he had seen before this.
Human nature existed even in the
discipline of the army; men found ways to cheat, lie, steal, and
murder no matter what.
But such ones as he had known always seemed
to have excuses ready along with pleading their lack of guilt.

So why had the girl called him innocence
when the man himself would not?

That question—and his own curiosity about
Marsett—had driven him to go and meet that half-English dog.
He had
found much of what he had expected—a now-ragged man with the marks
of dissipation on his face.
A man with some charm about him, and
with even features a woman might find attractive.
A man with an
aristocratic look to him, with a strong nose and languid
manners.

He frowned.
Well, he knew at least that
Madam D'Aeth had been assaulted.
And Marsett had been shot as he
fled her rooms.
Those were facts a man could trust.

A knock sounded on the door.
Taliaris turned
from the window as one of his men entered and saluted.
He
recognized Melun as one of the two he had ordered to guard Lady
Sandal and Miss Edgcot.
He could guess what came next, but still he
asked, "What does she want now?"

Melun frowned, as if he disapproved.
"To
speak with you, sir.
That is, sir, Lady Sandal would like to speak
with you.
The girl asked us to find you and tell you."

Taliaris strode out the door, but then
stopped and asked, "How did she get you to move this time?"

For a moment, Melun's face flushed—he looked
embarrassed by what he must say, but he admitted, "The poker, sir."
Taliaris raised his eyebrows and Melun rushed on, "She threatened
to take the poker to every breakable in the room, and then to us.
That one needs a whip taken to her, I tell you!"

Taliaris glanced at the man, his eyes hard.
"How brave you'd look whipping a girl.
Don't be a fool, Melun.
I've
no doubt she asked nicely enough the first time for you to fetch
me."

The man snapped to attention.
"Sir, I did
not think the captain ought to be disturbed by the likes of—"

"Melun.
Think less and follow orders more.
And remember that Lady Sandal and her niece are to be treated with
respect and care.
Do you understand?"

He spoke softly, but Melun swallowed hard
and nodded vigorously.

Striding past the man, Taliaris made for the
taproom.
The other man—Labeau—saluted, then opened the door for him
and closed it behind him.

He did not find Diana Edgcot brandishing a
poker.
That instrument lay beside the empty hearth.
But he wished
he had seen her threatening Melun with it.
She must have looked
like one of the heroines of the Revolution.

Miss Edgcot and Lady Sandal sat next to each
other on a wooden bench, sipping tea from china cups, hair brushed
and pulled into simple chignons.
They looked utterly respectable.
Except their dresses looked from last century, and their bare feet
showed from under their skirts.

His stare lingered longer than it should on
Miss Edgcot's well shaped feet: she had small toes, he noticed, and
delicate, high arches.

Warm now, he gave the women a short bow, and
asked in English, "You wished to see me?"

Lady Sandal put down her teacup on a side
table and rose.
Her gown now lay smoothed and tightly laced.
With
her hair up instead of loose and wild, she looked a formidable
matron.
But he kept seeing her as she had been earlier—pale and
hair loose and looking ready to fight like a Paris harlot out to
defend her evening's conquest.
Now, however, she had red-rimmed and
puffy eyes as if she had been crying.
He frowned at her.

"Captain Taliaris, I have a request of you.
You have given your word already to see to our well-being."

His eyes narrowed with suspicion.
These two
had something planned.
He knew it.
"I cannot release you."

"I have not asked for that.
What I wish for
are a few moments with Mr.
Marsett, to say good-bye."

He began to shake his head, but as he did
the girl rose and came to him.
"Please, Captain.
If my aunt and I
are truly your concern, then you cannot deny this request."

Taliaris looked from one woman to the
other.

Alexandria kept her stare firm and fixed.
With a gulp of air, she tried to calm the nervous flutter in her
stomach.
This had to work.
It must.
She had seen the attraction
between Captain Taliaris and Diana—what young man of his age did
not look at Diana with that dazzled expression?
However, this young
man now seemed made of harder materials than most.
But she had
worked this out with Diana.
Now, she would have to trust her
niece's skills.

Diana stared up at the man, her eyes
imploring.
Stepping forward, she touched his sleeve.
"My aunt has
known Mr.
Marsett for a number of years, and has been in love with
him—"

"Please, Diana, that is saying too much."
Alexandria spoke the words, and wondered if they had come out too
rehearsed.
They had plotted this part as well.
She would demure—and
hope to heavens that the captain did not have such an insensitive
nature that he responded by shrugging and turning away.

"No, Aunt Alexandria, the captain should
know," Diana insisted, playing her part with passion.

The captain frowned.
"Know what?"

"My aunt never had the chance to tell Mr.
Marsett of her feelings.
And if she is denied that now—well, sir, I
fear it is possible that it might put her into a decline that could
well end her life."

Alexandria tried to look pitiful.
She knew
she must have the pale skin for it, for her skin seemed cold as the
barren hearth.
And she had the frightened eyes—she did not have to
act the anxiety that twisted inside her.
"Please, Diana.
We have
made our request.
If the captain cannot see to allowing me this
small favor...."

She allowed the words to fade and she turned
away.
What would she do if he denied her this?
She had to see
Paxten.
What if even now they were preparing to shoot him?
Her skin
chilled even more.
Oh, what if she heard the shots echo and knew
only by that sound that she would never hold him again.
Never have
his hand touch her face.
Never hear his voice call her name.

Something thick lodged in her throat.

I never told him I loved him.

She shut her eyes.
A tear slid down her
cheek.
She dashed it away, and realized she ought to have used
it.

She looked back at the captain.

He stared at her for a moment, and glanced
down at Diana again as the girl stepped closer to him.
"I would be
deeply in your debt if you could do this.
For my aunt.
For me."

Diana looked up at the captain, her lips
parted.
She willed him to believe her.
She put on what she hoped
might be her most seductive gaze—and an odd thing happened.

As she stared at him, he gazed back, his
brown eyes open and searching.
Shame for her deception warmed her
cheeks, but she could not look away.
She dared not.
Too much
depended on luring him in.
She struggled to maintain her arch look,
but it suddenly seemed not to matter.

He had the most amazing eyes.
Deep brown.
A
true, solid brown.
Like dark tea.
She stared at him, her knees
loosening and her breath quickening.
She wanted—what did she want?
She could not think with him staring at her in that fashion.
As if
no one else existed in the world.
As if nothing but thoughts of her
filled his mind.

He leaned closer.

He had thick, dark lashes.
Long lashes that
curled slightly.
And dark eyebrows, expressive ones that quirked or
flattened with his moods.
They lifted just now with the faintest
inquiry, as if he wondered if she would protest a kiss.

Her pulse quickened.
Would he dare such a
thing in front of her aunt?

A moment later, the look vanished and he
straightened.

She put her shoulders back
and blinked.
Disappointment burned hot in her chest.
She looked
away and told herself not to be silly.
It's only your pride he's hurt.

She frowned at herself.
Of all the absurd
things—to be infatuated for a moment by a pair of brown eyes as if
she were a country girl with no experience of the world!

Well, she was not, and she would not be!

So why did this ache well in her?

All brusque tone now, the captain turned to
Alexandria.
"If this is some way you use to gain your freedom and
his, I warn that it is my duty to bring justice to him.
No matter
what."

Desperation welled in Alexandria.
"I swear
to you, sir, on my honor and on my son's life that I do wish to
speak to Mr.
Marsett.
I must.
Please?"

His scowl deepened.
"Do I have your promise
that you will not attempt escape—that you do nothing to attempt to
liberate Marsett?"

Alexandria drew herself up.
"Captain, you
know that would be foolish.
And I have my niece to consider.
I vow
to you, I would do all possible to keep her safe from danger."

He nodded.
The uneasy look did not leave his
eyes, but he stepped back and opened the door for them.

Alexandria hurried forward before he could
change his mind.
And she prayed it would not occur to him until
later that she had not actually promised not to attempt escape.

With Diana a step behind her, she hurried
into the chill, pre-dawn air.
Clutching her arms, she shivered and
wished for stockings and shoes and a warm wrap.
The sight of Paxten
drove away such trifling concerns.

He stood ten or fifteen yard from the inn,
his ragged figure easily recognized against all the stiff uniforms.
His shirt hung open, showing the bandage around his chest, now
stained and dirty.
He seemed to have his arms behind him.

She hurried towards him, but her steps
slowed as she neared.
Her heart twisted.
A new bruise—purple and
swelling—marred his cheek.
A cut ran diagonal across his chin under
the shadow of his beard.
Other bruises, barely visible under his
tattered shirt, marked his shoulder.
And his hands seemed to be
tied.

Throat tight, she ached to reach out and
sooth each cut and to pull loose those wretched ropes.

She looked up and met his stare.

He scowled at her, as if he did not want her
here.

Of course, he would not.

Turning, she clutched at Diana as if for
support.

"You must be brave now, Aunt," Diana
said.

Alexandria glanced at her niece and saw in
the girl's eyes that she was ready to carry on with the rest of
their plan.
Her mouth lifted.
Had not Paxten said he always seemed
to give her so few choices?
This seemed the only one now.