St. Raven (34 page)

Tris couldn’t help it; he laughed. “Bravo!”

Not sure where the next throw would take them all, he turned to Crofton. “My cousin, Jean-Marie Bourreau,” he introduced, “whom I was visiting on family matters.”

“Cousin?” Crofton exploded.

“Cousin. My uncle’s son on the wrong side of the blanket. I suggest you leave, Crofton, and take your detritus with you. Kindly pay the innkeeper for damages as you go.”

Crofton’s eyes shifted around. “Not until I know what Miss Mandeville is doing here with that statue. We have only her word that there was one at her father’s London house. I think the whole set was at Stokeley Manor, which means that is one of the ones the Crow stole. And that,” he said, confident enough to meet Tris’s eyes, “proves that your ‘cousin’ is the Crow, and that Miss Mandeville is in league with him.”

Tris could almost hear the gears of Crofton’s mind turning. “Would I be completely mistaken, St. Raven, to think that particular statue is the one that your bit of Turkish delight expressed such an interest in?”

Tris worked at not showing any effect, and inspected the statue again through his quizzing glass. “It is perhaps similar enough to serve. Is it for sale, Miss Mandeville?”

She curtsied. He hoped her pink cheeks could be seen as natural in this outrageous situation. “Certainly, Your Grace. I came to offer it to Monsieur Bourreau, as he was recommended to me as a collector of such items. As you know, Lord Crofton,” she added with false sweetness, “my family has need to sell everything that is not essential to survival.”

She was a queen among women.

This damnable scene, however, was hammering nails into their coffin. All these men, despite drink, would remember this encounter and talk about it. Her being here was unfortunate but not ruinous. It was, however, a springing point to hell if anyone decided that Cressida resembled St. Raven’s houri.

Tris glanced at Crofton. He looked baffled, and no wonder. He had a string of events that seemed to suggest an unholy alliance. On the other hand, who was going to believe an illegal connection between a French highwayman, a virtuous provincial lady, and a duke? Especially when the virtuous lady was the image of propriety in her dull clothing, tidy bonnet, and spectacles.

Jean-Marie strolled toward Cressida and took the statue, turning it in his hands. “An excellent example of erotic temple art from Kashmir, Miss Mandeville, zough not, I am desolate to say, of great rarity.”

Tris wondered if he had a clue what he was talking about.

“I could offer you no more than thirty pounds for it. What a shame it is not a pair.”

“It was a set of ten, monsieur. We do have some other Indian artifacts, though, alas, most passed into Lord Crofton’s hands.”

“I am only interested in—your pardon, mademoiselle—ze erotic art.” He returned the statue to her. “Let me know if you wish to sell.”

“Allow me to offer first, Miss Mandeville,” Tris said. “As Lord Crofton mentioned, I have someone in mind who would like that piece.”

Most of Tris’s attention was on Crofton, however. The man was thwarted and thus dangerous, and a hint of humor in Jean-Marie was not helping.

Crofton glared at Jean-Marie. “I still say you’re the Crow, Froggy, and that you raided my house last night. I’ll search this hole before I leave, and no one’s going to stop me.”

Good
, thought Tris. I
still might have a chance to batter him to bits
. “You forget, Crofton, Monsieur Bourreau is my uncle’s son—and thus under my protection.”

“Protection,” Crofton snarled, his face reddening. “Let’s talk about protection! That woman”—he jabbed a finger at Cressida—“who looks so prim and proper, was your companion at Stokeley Manor, dressed to suit her nature. And she’s a known cohort of Le Corbeau—”

“I most certainly am
not
!” Cressida cried.

Tris raised a hand again and turned his quizzing glass on her, looking her up and down. He dropped all the acid disbelief he could into his words. “Crofton, I think you are mad.”

Crofton turned to his followers. “You saw St. Raven’s houri!” he yelled. “That’s her. That’s
her?
And the little bint had the nerve to act so prim and proper with me. No wonder she let herself be snatched by Le Corbeau. It was a setup!”

“You’re raving,” Tris said.

He was, too, flecks spitting from his mouth.

“St. Raven’s houri?” It was Pugh, staggering in, clutching his head. “Where? Want a go at her.”

Tris didn’t let himself serve Pugh as Jean-Marie had served the tiger. Instead, he indicated Cressida. “Lord Crofton thinks that this Miss Mandeville was with me at his party.”

Pugh stared, then shook his head. “Man’s mad. Suspected it for a while. That houri was a tasty morsel.”

Tris saw spots of color bloom deeper on Cressida’s red cheeks and wished he could reassure her that she was the tastiest morsel imaginable.

He turned to Crofton. “Since Miss Mandeville seems to lack male protection and you have linked her name to mine, it is for me to defend her honor. Do we need to take this any further?”

Sir Manley Bayne was sober enough to grab Crofton’s arm. “Must be mistaken, Croffy. I remember that bit of Turkish delight. Really, Croffy, no resemblance. Look at all those bobbling curls, and the glasses, and the tight little mouth. Remember that bit with the cucumber?… No, really.”

Crofton turned to look at Tris, and Tris saw pure hatred. A duke was untouchable by this, but Cressida…

Cressida, with her longing for peaceful, conventional Matlockian propriety. Tris knew how small towns worked. They were worse than London. A touch of scandal was like leprosy. A person was never clean again.

And such gossip couldn’t be stopped, not even with a pistol ball. Especially gossip as juicy as this, involving both a duke and a romantic highwayman. Killing Crofton, dammit, wouldn’t help. Her only safety was if there was never any believable connection between Miss Mandeville and the wicked Duke of St. Raven.

He gave her a slight bow. “Miss Mandeville, I deeply regret that due to a coincidence your name has been linked with mine in a distasteful connection. I doubt that the slander will be repeated, but if you should experience any repercussions, please inform me, and I will take care of it. As for that statue, I am still in the mood to purchase it.”

Her eyes met his, and he saw she had made the same grim, logical journey as he. But perhaps she had been too sensible to ever be teased by hope.

“Monsieur Bourreau valued it at thirty pounds, Your Grace.”

“Then allow me to make it fifty to compensate for this encounter. You will take my note for payment at my London house?”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

He pulled out his tablet and scribbled the promise, then gave it to her, taking the statue in return. He had no idea if it was the one with the jewels or not, but it would be safer in his hands.

If she didn’t have the jewels, that was still to do.

He couldn’t stop a touch of hope. This adventure would not then be over.

He turned a frigid stare on Crofton and the invaders. “I cannot imagine why you are still cluttering this room.”

They began—even Crofton—to back out the door. He followed to make sure the innkeeper was paid for the damage. At that belated point, the local magistrate turned up with reinforcements.

Tris left Crofton to deal with him, though he knew it would all be smoothed over with a little talk and some money. A viscount was almost as immune to the law as a duke.

But Crofton swung back. “There’s a noose in this somewhere, St. Raven, and damme but I’ll find it.”

Tris’s patience broke so completely, he was surprised no one heard it snap. “Even bring yourself to my attention again, Crofton, and I will crush you like the insect you are.”

It sounded like his uncle, but for once Tris didn’t mind. He enjoyed the way Crofton blanched, and the way his friends hurried him away, though not so much as he’d have enjoyed his fists crunching bones.

As the corridor emptied, he took a moment to cool down. They’d won this round, but that still left the war. Crofton would not openly repeat his accusations, but the other men would describe this encounter. Cressida couldn’t escape gossip about that. He was sure Crofton would find other ways to drip his acid, ways that could never be traced directly back to him.

His first move had better be a preemptive strike. Hasten back to London and start another story circulating. One about Crofton’s base behavior and idiocy here, and about poor Miss Mandeville, insulted when she’d been trying to scrape up some money to save her family from the poorhouse.

He returned to Jean-Marie’s rooms to find his cousin and Cressida alone in the parlor, talking. Tris hoped she wasn’t being too confiding. Jean-Marie might seem an ally, but he was a scoundrel and a blackmailer and didn’t need any new weapons.

“Your model?” he asked.

“Is dressing and will soon be gone. I thought perhaps we needed time and privacy.”

“Undoubtedly, but there’s no excuse for Miss Mandeville to linger, and I must take her home.”

Cressida stared at him. “You can’t. How would that look?”

“As if I am a gentleman,” he snapped. “What else is the Duke of St. Raven to do with a stray lady he befriends at an inn?”

“Put her on a coach?”

“No.”

Into silence, Jean-Marie said, “A houri at an orgy?”

Tris turned on him. “No.”

His cousin hastily raised an apologetic hand. “Quite! Impossible, of course.”

“Miss Mandeville and I have only just met.”

Jean-Marie rolled his eyes, but shrugged.

Tris was aware that he was letting his icy rage spill, but he seemed unable to stop it. Then he remembered other aspects. “You invaded Crofton’s orgy and stole from him?”

“But, why not?” Jean-Marie switched into French. “I hear about this so wild party, and I think that such things go on for days, and that those few who linger will not be in a state to oppose me and my friends. And they are not. Not many valuable trinkets on the guests, alas, but so many interesting items! Some statues such as the one you have just bought from Miss Mandeville. Do you care to explain that?”

Tris saw a trap and thought quickly, but Cressida spoke first, in adequate French.

“It is simple enough, sir. As you will have gathered, my father lost nearly everything to Crofton at cards. Then I learned that you had stolen one of the statues from someone leaving the party. I took the idea of stealing it from you. A tiny part of the whole, but something. These things represent my father’s memories of India.”

“But how,” Jean-Marie asked gently, “did you know that I was Le Corbeau? I am assumed innocent.”

Tris stepped in. “I knew better, and in a fit of folly, I brought her. There’s no need to dance around this. All we need is to make sure there’s no scandal.” He met his cousin’s irreverent eyes. “If I agree to your terms, Le Corbeau will cease to fly, and you will return to France and stay there. Yes?”

“Terms?” Cressida asked, looking between them.

“My cousin has created a situation where it would be… convenient for me to share some of my good fortune with him.”

“I can’t allow that!”

“This is nothing to do with you. Truly, Cressida. This all predates your adventures.”

“True,” said Jean-Marie. “I decided that as the old duke’s only son, I was owed something by fundamental right and justice. Perhaps even the dukedom itself.”

“What?” Cressida gaped at them.

Tris took her arm. “As you said, we mustn’t linger. I’ll explain it all to you another time.”

“Another time?” she echoed faintly.

“At least this outrageous encounter gives me an excuse to visit you. I will need to assure myself of your recovery from the overwhelming shock and distress.”

“You think me too calm?” she snapped. “I could faint if it would please you.”

Jean-Marie laughed. “A woman of spirit! You should seize her, cousin.”

Tris looked at him.

“Ah. A shame…”

Cressida’s mouth threatened to quiver, and she pulled it in—then remembered Crofton’s disgusting associate sneering at her “tight little mouth.” She snatched off her forgotten spectacles and put them in her pocket, but that didn’t change her unflattering clothes, her plain face, or her tight little mouth.

Bourreau lifted the lid of the bench and pulled out the winkler. “A most resolute bit of thievery,” he remarked, opening the chest. He looked at her. “I am fortunate that you only had time to take one before you were interrupted.”

He suspected something, and her strength was close to exhausted. She didn’t know how to counter this.

Tris moved forward and looked into the chest. “A set! I wish to purchase all of this. Any payment goes to Miss Mandeville, of course.”

“But this is the reward of my labor, cousin.”

Cressida saw the power of the look that Tris sent to the Frenchman. “Fundamental right and justice?”

Bourreau shrugged and smiled at her. “I give you a present of the set, Miss Mandeville, and the rest of the Indian treasures I took from Stokeley Manor. Your father’s property, his sentimental souvenirs. It is right and just that it return to him.”

Cressida worried that there were hidden traps here, but she could see nothing to do but to say, “You’re very kind. Thank you.”

Tris and his cousin were looking at each other, the family resemblance clear more in manner than in looks. “You will have it all delivered to Miss Mandeville’s house?”

“On my honor as a Frenchman.”

Tris nodded. “Then you could call on me, too, to arrange the final details.”

The Frenchman nodded, with a strange, almost regretful expression.

Cressida still worried that in some way Tris was buying her safety, but she had no energy now to pursue it. She let him guide her out of the room.

Once in the corridor, however, she halted. “Tris… St. Raven. Truly, I would rather return to London by coach. It would be safer, and I can’t…”
Can’t bear the long farewell
, she thought, but could not say.

He closed his eyes briefly. “Very well. As you argued before, you’ll be safe enough.”

He escorted her to the staging inn and purchased a ticket for her, giving an excellent impression of a duke doing his duty by a lowly dependent. As he gave it to her, however, he asked softly, “The jewels?”