So in Love (26 page)

Lassiter had still not returned from his assignment, but a tall young footman had taken his place. He opened the door and bowed too deeply as Douglas entered.

“Is there any news?”

“No, sir, nothing.”

Douglas walked into his library and closed the door behind him. For a moment he simply stood there before walking to the fireplace. He looked up at the portrait. The curtains were still closed but a shaft of light from between them struck the fortress of Gilmuir, almost making it seem inhabited. The glow made Margaret’s eyes sparkle and once again he realized how much his daughter resembled the picture of his grandmother, Moira MacRae.

“Wherever you are, Margaret,” he said solemnly, “be safe. Be safe.”

He couldn’t tolerate the thought that she might be in danger, or that she might be hurt somewhere or ill. The idea that someone might have taken her was one that he couldn’t bear to entertain. There are some thoughts that a parent was not meant to have.

Suddenly he needed to be with Jeanne. He needed to understand how she had endured nine years of uncertainty. How had she made it through one day? One week?

He should have protected Margaret more assiduously. He should have ensured that the lock on the window was stronger. Or that there was a guard posted at night.

His thoughts stopped. There were some things he could never prevent; he knew that well enough. He gave himself the illusion of safety within the walls of his home, but even that had been breached. Yet he’d done everything he could to provide a secure and safe place for his daughter. The fact that it had been violated not only angered him but made him feel culpable.

A moment later, he was knocking on Jeanne’s door. When he received no answer, Douglas turned the handle only to find that room was empty. The armoire door was wide open, and a few of her garments were in disarray, but other than that there was no sign of her.

He pulled on the bell rope, greeting the tall footman with a question when he arrived a few moments later.

“Where is Miss du Marchand?”

“I don’t know, sir. Shall I ask the staff?”

“Do that,” he said impatiently.

Douglas went back to the armoire and hung up her garments neatly, stacking her much-darned stockings in the bottom. Her clothes smelled of lilies and he wondered why that was. His fingers trailed across the sleeve of one of her two dresses before he finally closed the door.

He’d never investigated her chamber as he did now, violating her privacy in a way that he knew was wrong but could somehow not prevent. She had few possessions, nothing more than could be packed in a small valise. There was something intrinsically wrong with that fact. She’d come from an old family, a wealthy, respected name in France, but she had less than the poorest inhabitant of Edinburgh.

Who Jeanne was could be found in her eyes, not in what she owned.

On top of the nightstand was a book and resting on the red leather cover were her spectacles.

He held them in his hand. Her fingers had spread the hinged temples wide and placed the ribbons around her ears. She had pressed the covers of the book apart and read the words printed there. He opened the red leather book at random and only then realized that it was a journal.

He closed the book, holding it between his hands for a moment before opening it again. Half of the book was blank and he searched for the last page where she’d written something. It was a day ago, the handwriting appreciably
different from her earlier script. This writing was not so effusive; there were not so many curls and swooping letters.

“Sir?”

He turned and glanced at Betty. Slowly, he returned the book and the spectacles to the top of the nightstand.

Something shiny caught his eye, and he bent to pick up the locket.

“Has Miss du Marchand gone looking for Margaret?” he asked before she could speak. He threaded the necklace through his fingers, wondering at the fear that suddenly speared him.

“I don’t think so, sir. When I came back a few hours ago, I knocked on the door, and she wasn’t here.”

He stared at the nurse and behind her the footman.

Douglas felt his temper edge up one more notch at their blank expressions. “Is there something strange about this house? Is there a magic cave beneath the stairs where people disappear? Why is everyone suddenly missing?”

Betty’s eyes widened.

Douglas pointed his finger at the footman. “How long have you been here?”

“At the door since two, sir,” he said, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.

“And when did you get back?” he said, pointing at Betty, the gesture having the effect of making her eyes even wider.

“About the same time, sir,” she said, bobbing a curtsy.

“So you don’t know how long she’s been gone?” He’d
left the house about eight, which meant that Jeanne could have been missing for hours.

He rubbed his hand across his forehead.

An unwanted thought struck him, one that seemed perfectly plausible. What if they were together? What if she had left him and taken Margaret? It would be a punishment he probably deserved. But there was something wrong about that idea.

Jeanne didn’t possess his capacity for cruelty.

“W
hat are you going to do?” Jeanne asked her father.

“Do not think that, because of our attachment, you have any right to speak to me in that tone.”

“What you don’t understand, Father,” she said, talking despite the pain in her throat, “is that I gave up any fear of you a long time ago. There is nothing you can do to me that you haven’t already done.”

“A pity that your punishments didn’t teach you anything, then.”

“Oh, they taught me a great deal. Shall I tell you what they taught me?”

“The journey will hopefully not be that long, Jeanne,” Nicholas answered, “that I will be forced to espouse an interest in a subject that would, essentially, bore me.”

For a moment she didn’t say anything, merely studied him.

“You’re not going to let me go, are you? Do not pretend otherwise, Father. I wouldn’t believe you, regardless.”

“You might have been a source of pride, Jeanne. But,
like most women, you’re ruled by your emotions. It made a whore of you.”

“At least I am not willing to sacrifice everything for the sake of my name. Edinburgh is littered with people who used to be important, whose names were ancient in France. But they’re still going hungry.”

He looked at her with derision. “I have no intention of being reduced to hiring myself out.”

“Your actions have brought more shame to the du Marchand name than anything I’ve done. What type of man wants to kill a child?”

“Bastards do not litter our family tree.”

“No,” she said in contempt. “Only murderers.”

Eyes closed, Douglas pressed his thumb and forefinger to the bridge of his nose. He was getting a headache. His library, usually a sanctum, felt almost like a prison at the moment. Standing, he left the room, making his way to the rear of the house only to be hailed by the officious footman.

“Lassiter is back, sir. Would you like me to get him for you?”

He turned and stared at the footman. “Let Lassiter rest.”

“Can I help you, sir?” the footman asked.

“Unless you can saddle a horse, then no,” Douglas said shortly. “Return to your post.”

He was halfway to the stable when he was hailed again. This time he stopped, took a deep breath, and prayed for patience before answering. But it was Lassiter this time, still dressed in his workman’s clothes.

“Sir!” Lassiter called.

“You should be resting,” he said when the older man reached his side. His majordomo wasn’t a young man, but Douglas was willing to bet that he’d worked as hard as one today.

“Sir, this just came for you.” Only then did he see the envelope in Lassiter’s hand.

He took the envelope, slipping a finger beneath the flap. “Who brought it?”

“One of the street boys. He’s waiting in the foyer.”

“He probably doesn’t know anything,” Douglas said, scanning the words. The message was succinct.

He crumpled the letter in his hand, obscuring the signature of the Comte du Marchand.

“I took the liberty of questioning the boy myself. I believe you’re right, sir. He was given a coin to bring the envelope to you and to direct you to an entrance to Mary King’s Close. It’s not a place I would recommend you go alone.”

“My daughter’s been taken, Lassiter, and now Jeanne. I don’t have a choice.”

There had been occasions in his life when he had been surfeited with rage: the rescue of his infant daughter, seeing Jeanne in Robert Hartley’s home, and now.

He wanted to hurt the Comte du Marchand. He wanted to kill him, slowly, and watch as the breath left his body. Only then would he feel a sense of vindication. Not only for Margaret, but for what the man had done to Jeanne.

“Shall I accompany you, sir?” Lassiter asked. “I have some acquaintance with fisticuffs.”

He smiled at his majordomo. Lassiter looked like he would blow away in a high wind, but there was a fierce look on his face that warned he was not to be taken less than seriously. Only today, he’d demonstrated how loyal and determined he was.

“You continually surprise me, Lassiter.”

“A man is not solely his occupation, sir.” The major-
domo bowed slightly and smiled, the fierce look on his face softening only somewhat.

“I appreciate the offer,” Douglas said. “I’m not such a fool as to go into a lion’s den without reinforcements.”

The fact of the matter was that there were few men left to accompany him. Everyone else in his employ was scattered throughout Edinburgh, which left the young footman or Lassiter. Of the two, he’d choose Lassiter.

“Then shall we go, sir?” Lassiter straightened his workman’s jacket, adjusted the pitch of his cap, and squared his chin.

A strange moment to feel amusement, but it faded just as quickly as Douglas rounded the house and nodded to the boy who’d been sent as his guide.

“He won’t come,” Jeanne said, her voice still hoarse.

“You had best hope he does, my dear,” Nicholas said, putting the lantern on the small table. The room in which they sat was made of four brick walls and an opening, and was small enough that it could be called an alcove. The man who had abducted her had led them down to this dark and damp place and then disappeared as soon as her father paid him a few coins.

“Or you’ll do what?” she asked. “Kill me? Justine isn’t around to carry out your orders, Father. Have you someone else to do your bidding?”

“The convent changed you,” he said. “I’m surprised; I would have thought you less courageous, not more so.”

“Freedom does that,” she said. “Tell me, did you ever regret your decision to send me there?”

He seemed to consider the question for a moment.

“No, you shamed the du Marchand name. I considered that you were simply receiving a justly deserved punishment.”

She could not fault him for his honesty or for his consistency. “Tell me where Margaret is.”

Instead of answering, he leaned back against the chair and regarded her with some interest. “You remind me of your mother, Jeanne. I find the resemblance quite extraordinary. My dearest Hélène wasn’t quite as…English as you’ve become, however.”

“How would you define being English?” she asked.

Nicholas raised one eyebrow but he answered nonetheless. “A certain arrogance of speech,” he replied. “A lack of tact, perhaps.”

“A certain independence of spirit?”

“Exactly.”

“Perhaps I’m Scot.”

He sent her a disgruntled look before moving the chair back into the shadows. He then adjusted the wick on the lantern until the light was barely enough to illuminate the space. Sitting again, he rearranged his walking stick so that the blade was drawn from its holder just enough to allow him to use it quickly.

“You’ve overestimated my worth to Douglas MacRae,” Jeanne said.

“I don’t think so. I think MacRae values you very highly. After all, does he not remember you from Paris?”

Surprised, she clasped her hands tightly together, trying not to reveal any emotion at all. “How did you know?”

“I made it my point to discover the father of your child. I might have demonstrated the extent of my irritation with that young man had he not left France so soon.”

“When you have the ruby, will you go back to France?”

His expression turned sour. “Not now. Perhaps after the madness has eased, when a man is recognized once more for his lineage.”

She was grateful for being able to see him as he truly was, a man of middle years who had been privileged from birth. Circumstances had stripped him of his rank and fortune but he still clung to the notion that he belonged to a rarefied group, that he was unique and somehow blessed above other men. Commonsense rules and normal behavior had never applied to the Comte du Marchand. For that reason, he could send his granddaughter to her death and imprison his daughter and never feel a pinch of contrition.

“So, will you kill me, Father? Or simply leave me here?” She stared at the rats huddled in the corner, their black and shiny eyes looking like tiny shards of ebony. They appeared avaricious and hungry. “And allow them to do the job for you.”

“Now, that would be a solution, would it not?”

She turned at the sound of footsteps, thinking to shout and warn Douglas that it was a trap. She knew her father had no intention of letting him leave this place alive. But to her surprise, it wasn’t Douglas at all, but the goldsmith, Charles Talbot.

“I knew you would cheat me,” he said.

“What are you doing here?” Nicholas asked, standing.

“A question I might ask you, Count. The kidnapping was planned for tomorrow.”

“I changed my mind and didn’t see the necessity of informing you.”

“You’re going to sell the ruby without me, aren’t you? Have you already lined up a buyer?”

Jeanne looked from one to the other. How had Charles Talbot become involved in her father’s plans?

“Where is Margaret MacRae?” she asked, jerking away from her father.

Both men turned to her, anger etched on their faces.

“What have you done with her? You have me; you no
longer need a child. If you let her go, I’ll get the ruby for you.”

Talbot raised his hand and sliced it through the air as if to cut off her words. “I don’t know anything about a child. All I know is that your father is a French weasel. He’ll cheat anyone.”

“Am I supposed to feel badly because you have a low opinion of me, Talbot?” Nicholas asked dismissively. “If so, you’re wrong. An insult from you is indeed a compliment.”

He glanced at Jeanne. “You’ve been rattling on about that brat for hours now. I don’t have her, but if I’d known you had such fondness for the girl, perhaps I would have planned differently. But you’re going to give up the stone easily enough, daughter. As I recall, you’re not too fond of pain.”

She stared at him, feeling as if someone had stopped her on an Edinburgh street and introduced himself, claiming a fatherly bond. She didn’t hate her father but neither did she like him. She didn’t know him. Nor did she want to. He was a travesty, an aberration, a monster that she was somehow related to by blood. It was worthless to wish that her mother had been unfaithful and that she was the daughter of another, when she and Nicholas, Comte du Marchand, shared the same features—the same color eyes, the same shaped nose, the same half smile.

Talbot glanced in her direction. “Do you have the ruby, Miss du Marchand?”

She shook her head. “Not with me. But I know where it is.”

“Don’t tell him anything else,” her father commanded.

She ignored him and edged closer to Talbot. “If you release Margaret, I’ll give it to you.”

“I regret that I don’t know what you’re talking about. But perhaps we can come to some kind of arrangement.”

She’d sooner bargain with a snake, but Jeanne kept a smile on her face.

Behind her, Nicholas moved along the wall toward Talbot, so slowly that she wondered if the goldsmith noticed. Or did he see that her father held his walking stick behind his back like a club?

She felt a frisson of horror knowing what her father was going to do.

“You never intended to let me sell the ruby for you, did you?”

“Of course I did,” Nicholas said. “However, contrary to what you believed, it was not going to benefit you.”

“You’re a damned fool, Count, if you think I’ll let you cheat me.”

“You’re impertinent, Talbot. A base merchant.”

The lantern illuminated Talbot’s smile, one that did not quite reach his eyes. They were narrowed as they looked at her father. “This isn’t France, Count. And I’m not one of your flunkies.”

“A pity, that,” Nicholas said. “I would have you killed if we were in France.”

The goldsmith didn’t have a chance to answer. Her father’s arm arced over his head. Jeanne screamed out a warning as she heard the hiss of a blade.

Shockingly, a gunshot reverberated in the small space, the sound ringing in her ears.

Her father twisted around, a look of surprise on his face. Slowly, he fell, landing heavily at Jeanne’s feet.

Douglas heard a gunshot and then the sound of Jeanne’s scream, felt his heart catapult in his chest, experiencing fear like he hadn’t known since those early days of Meggie’s life. The steps were slippery but he barely noticed them as he half tumbled, half flew down the steep staircase.

His blood chilled as Jeanne screamed again, and then his heart seemed to stop as he entered the doorway and saw her. Her attacker was a man of middle years, a stranger to
Douglas. When he raised his arm to strike Jeanne again, Douglas threw himself on the man.

For a moment he was insensate, incapable of rational thought or reasonable action. All he wanted to do was to destroy the man who dared raise his hand against Jeanne. He felt the touch of a hand on his shoulder, pulled away, and then felt it again.

“Douglas.”

Only then did sounds begin to penetrate. He heard the gasping wheeze of the man on the ground beneath him, the soft pulpy sounds of his fists repeatedly striking the man’s face, and above it all, the sound of Jeanne’s soft, imploring voice.

“Douglas.” Just his name, and like a siren’s call it had the effect of pulling him back from madness.

Rational thought came slower. He was atop the body, his knees braced on either side of the older man’s chest. And he was beating him senseless.

Douglas took a deep, steadying breath, forcing himself to calm. Jeanne’s hand on his cheek was a cool, soft touch. He turned toward it and looked up at her. She knelt beside him and framed his face.

“It’s all right, Douglas,” she said, her words seeming to come from very far away. It wasn’t, of course, but he somehow managed a half smile and was rewarded for his effort by her gentle kiss on his lips.

She stood then, holding out her hand for him. He placed his own bloody fingers against her palm, allowing himself to be led away from the silent, recumbent form on the stone floor.

“Have I killed him?”

A moan a second later reassured Douglas that he had not.

“He hurt you,” he said, taking her in his arms. He felt her tremble against him, breathed into her hair, exhaling as he fought down his anger.