No Regrets (31 page)

   Lucas acknowledged the red-coated infantryman at the embassy side door with a nod. He'd been here several times on business, and the guard let him in without question.

   His long stride carried him through the back hall and up a dingy set of stairs to the second floor where Audley had his office.

   He rapped once and pushed open the door to the paneled room. The sight of Audley offering tea to a bedraggled Lizzie slumped in the armchair in front of the fireplace halted him in his tracks. The liveried servant standing behind Lizzie shuffled his feet.

   "What the . . ." Lucas stopped before he uttered the oath on his lips.

   Audley glanced up, a rather relieved expression on his face. "Thank you for coming so quickly, Foxhaven."

   Lizzie swiped at her eyes with a crumpled handkerchief and gazed up at him. She had dirt on her face and a livid bruise on her jaw.

   Lucas drew in a sharp breath. A vision of Caro injured flashed through his mind. "Good God. Has there been an accident? Is Lady Foxhaven all right?"

   "Oh, my lord," Lizzie moaned. "Her cousin took her to Champagne this morning."

   A kick in the kidneys would not have winded him as much. Today Caro was to give him her answer.

   Hell. He'd felt so sure of her after their last two encounters that he'd deliberately left her and the Chevalier alone together, left Caro free to make her decision. A lump of ice formed in his chest. It slowed the beat of his heart. She'd chosen her cousin. "I see."

   He stared blindly at the plain white door. It wobbled out of focus. He wasn't sure he could actually walk through it, his legs felt so strange. But he wouldn't stay here and make a fool of himself.

   He started to turn to leave.

   "We was going home," Lizzie said.

   "What?" He blinked and stared down at her. His mind recorded her dishevelment, the stringy strands of brown hair straggling from beneath her cap, and the dirt on her tear-streaked face. "Why didn't you go with her ladyship?"

   Her lower lip trembled. "That there Chevron fellow hit me, then locked me up. He said Miss Caro would have French servants to care for her." Her lower lip quivered.

   A creeping chilly fog of fear filled his gut. Caro would never let anyone harm Lizzie. On the other hand, the maid could be a handful. "You say he locked you up?"

   Lizzie nodded. "Wait till I gets my hands 'round his neck. He hit me, he did. 'Enri got me out through the cellar window."

   "A cellar?" Lucas echoed.

   "Smart fellow, that Henri," Audley interjected.

   The lad standing behind Lizzie colored up and fixed his attention on his buckled shoes. It dawned on Lucas that the man was not an embassy servant, but wore the Valeron livery.

   A fog seemed to have filtered into his brain. He didn't understand any of this—except that Caro had left. The empty sensation in his chest that had all but disappeared returned with a vengeance. She hadn't even had the decency to tell him no.

   The walnut desk in the corner offered refuge from the three pairs of staring eyes. He slung himself into the leather wing chair behind it and leaned back, careful to keep his expression impassive. He shoved a cut glass inkpot from the center of the polished surface to one side. "If Caro wants to visit her cousin's estate, that is her prerogative."

   The words cut a swathe through his heart that he refused to acknowledge.

   Lizzie sniffed and then blew her nose on the grubby handkerchief.

   Audley handed her a clean one from his pocket.

   "My lady didn't say anything about it," Lizzie mumbled. "She went off with Mr. Rivers first thing this morning."

   "Cedric? I thought you said she went with the Chevalier?"

   "She said Mr. Rivers was driving her to your house." Lizzie glanced at Henri. "'Enri said the Chevron told the coachman they were to meet Mr. Rivers on the road to Reims."

   The skin of Lucas's scalp tightened and prickled. Cedric had been behaving rather oddly these past few weeks. But surely he wouldn't be involved in anything underhanded. "You are sure Lady Foxhaven was on her way to see me?"

   Tears streaked Lizzie's dirty cheeks again. "Yes."

   Perhaps she'd been coming to tell him she had chosen the Chevalier. The hurt intensified. He stabbed a new quill on the inkstand into the pool of black ink with a vicious twist and wished it was Valeron's guts.

   "Perhaps you mistake the matter, Lizzie," Audley said.

   "No." Lizzie shook her head so hard her cap slipped to one side. "Then, 'cause I didn't know where you lived, 'Enri brought me here. He said the embassy would know where to find you."

   "Clever lad," Audley said.

   Cedric would have made an attempt to convince her to return to London, surely? Doubt filtered through the black fog of bitter disappointment. "I should make sure this is what she wants."

   "Be careful, Foxhaven," Audley said, his face stern. "The Valerons are an important family. France may be occupied, but our government is determined to tread lightly. We want the Bourbons' good will. Business must not suffer because an irate husband chasing an errant wife turns into an international incident. Do I make myself plain?"

   Lucas tamped down his surging impatience. "Very."

   Obviously not fooled, Audley stared at him hard. "If you get into any sort of trouble, I cannot help."

   "I'm simply going to talk to her. She owes me that." He wanted to hear her decision from her mouth, see it in her eyes.

   Lizzie jumped to her feet. "I'm going with you."

   "Me too," Henri announced, then promptly turning the color of a house brick.

   Lucas rose and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Lizzie. I will travel faster alone."

   "Ho, no," Lizzie huffed. "I'm going even if I has to hire me own coach."

   No wonder the Chevalier popped her on the jaw. Lucas cast his glance up at the embossed ceiling and felt sympathy for the poor fellow as he opened his mouth to explain why she and the Valeron servant could not possibly accompany him.

Yesterday's road dust seemed to coat Caro's tongue. She swallowed what felt like a shovel full of grit and opened her eyes. Blue hangings on a white poster bed and curved white walls cocooned her.

   A tower. She remembered François speaking of a tower as he helped her in from the carriage.

   Light streamed through a tall window behind her head. White muslin drapes fluttered on a country-fresh breeze. Beside the bed, her spectacles lay on a night table next to a goblet of water. She sat up and put them on. The water appeared innocent enough, but after yesterday's coffee and a second dose of laudanum from François' silver flask last night, how could she be sure?

   Water. It looked so inviting. She lifted the glass and sniffed. No smell. The stuff she drank yesterday had a definite smell and a bitter taste. Her heart pounding too hard for comfort, she touched her tongue to the liquid. No taste.

   She took a wary mouthful and swallowed, and her throat eased. The rest went down in cool, greedy gulps.

   Feeling more the thing, she pulled back the sheets and swung her bare feet to the floor. She vaguely remembered a pert dark-eyed maid helping her make ready for bed after François had dragged her up here last night.

   She frowned. She'd left Paris with Cedric. He'd tricked her, the traitor, and somehow she'd arrived at the Chateau Valeron with François.

   She cast her mind back to the foggy events of the day before. At least, she presumed it was yesterday. They had arrived in the late afternoon. The sandstone had glowed candle-flame yellow, and the chateau had seemed to float in shimmering heat like a fairy-castle.

   "This is your new home," François had said, guiding her faltering steps to the front door.

   Thickheaded and her tongue clumsy, she'd answered him boldly. "I am going home to England with Lucas."

   His skin had looked sallow, his expression careworn. "In three days you will marry me. This will be your home."

   A flutter of panic beat in her sluggish blood. "I'm married to Lucas." She spoke slowly to avoid jumbling the words together.

   François shook his head. "Cedric is taking care of that little detail."

   "Lucas is coming here?"

   François raised a brow. "No."

   "I need to tell Lucas I don't want an annulment."

   François chuckled low in his chest. "I'm afraid it is too late." Then he had pressed his lips together and had refused to answer any more of her questions.

   What on earth did he mean, too late?

   She staggered to the window. The air cooled her cheeks and helped clear her wool-stuffed head. Pulling the casement wide, she stepped out onto a small balcony, the tile cold beneath her bare soles. If she could think, she might be able to figure out what to do next.

   A golden sun peeped over the horizon, casting long shadows from the low wall across a dewy lawn. No one seemed to be about. It must be very early.

   Beyond the wall, a phalanx of vines in green and purple uniforms followed the contours of the land into the distance. A silver ribbon of mist hung in the valley, winding through the hills. The scent of ripening fruit wafted on soft air.

   François had spoken with deep pride about this estate. Seeing it from this vantage point, Caro understood his devotion.

   If he married her, this was his, with or without a child. Tante Honoré had said it often enough. A bitter taste filled her mouth. Another man who wanted her only for what she brought to the wedding. At least Lucas had been honest about it. Her heart stumbled. Lucas would think she had left with François because she intended to go through with the annulment. He would depart for England and leave her behind.

   She had to get back to Paris, now, today.

   She ran back into the bedroom and flung open the wardrobe beside the chamber door. Inside, she found all of her clothes. Someone had brought them from Paris.

   A sinking sensation stilled her. In some hopeful corner of her mind, she had wanted to give Cedric and François the benefit of the doubt. It was a misunderstanding—an impulse. But this proved otherwise. They had planned her abduction.

   Haste turned her fingers to sticks as she clambered into the most practical thing she owned, her green riding habit and boots. The wide skirt allowed for freedom of movement. Now if she could find a horse, she would show François a clean pair of heels before he awoke.

   While she dressed, she tried to remember her geography. Which direction did Reims lay from Paris? She shook her head in impatience. Don't worry about such trivialities. Ask for directions on the road.

   To her great relief, the chamber door opened when she tried the handle, and she found herself on a narrow landing. A spiral staircase led down. The pounding of her heart drowned out all sounds as she stepped onto the first step. She took a deep breath. Don't panic.

   One damp palm on the cold granite pillar, she wound her way down. She peered around each curve, ready to run at the slightest noise.

   The stairs gradually widened and then opened into a passageway at the bottom. Left or right? With the night before a barely remembered nightmare, she chose right and ran along the hallway on tiptoes. An archway at the end of the long passage revealed the grand entrance hall. She released her breath and edged her way to the double mahogany doors and freedom.

   The door refused to budge at her frantic pull. Dash it all—she was trapped. She spotted a large iron key hanging on the wall and grabbed it. It turned in the lock. With one hard tug, the door swung back.

   She peeped outside. Now where to go?

   In front of her, a long drive swept away and ended up at wrought iron gates flanked by a gatehouse. The gates were closed and probably guarded.

   She slipped out of the door. The carriage she had arrived in had continued around to the back of the house after she and François had alighted. She went that way, and the acrid smell of manure guided her to the stables on the far side of a cobbled courtyard.

   On silent feet, she glided through the barn's double doors. Even if the master of the chateau slept in, the servants were bound to be about their chores.

   A faint light filtered through a high window at the barn's gable end. From the stalls came the odd stamp of a horse's hoof and the occasional snuffle. Her nose filled with the smell of horse and leather and liberty. She forced herself to breathe. A few more minutes, and she'd be on her way to Paris.

   The first stall held a fearsome bay stallion—not her first choice for a mount. Nor did she fancy the four carriage horses stabled next to him. Almost ready to turn back to the stallion, she discovered a white mare in the last stall. A little fat and out of condition, but calm enough.

   Caro located a lady's saddle in the tack room at the end of the barn and heaved it off its shelf. A soft noise behind her caused her to swing around, the saddled clutched against her chest. She peered into the gloom. Nothing.