A Daring Passion (11 page)

And of course for Philippe, it meant a tidy fortune in rewards and the gratitude of a king.

No, not a bad bargain at all.

“Our friend understands your concern and will do all in his power to ensure that Jean-Pierre is kept safe and as comfortable as possible,” the man in the carriage was saying through the narrow opening of the window. “There can be no question of a pardon, however. Not while it is rumored he is a part of a conspiracy against the Crown.”

Philippe appeared casual even as he kept a careful watch on his surroundings. “All I ask is to be given an opportunity to prove his innocence.”

“I will ensure there are enough delays and complications to give you time. But it cannot last forever.”

It was as much as Philippe could hope for. “I understand and I thank you.”

“One more thing, Gautier.”

“Yes?”

“You asked for any rumors concerning a Frenchman who revealed an interest in your family.”

“You have something for me?”

“There have been rumors from the Cock and Bull down near the dock that such a Frenchie was overheard boasting that an ancient Egyptian curse was about to be unleashed upon those who dared to betray him.”

Philippe clenched his hands at his sides.
Meu Deus.
It had to be the man. If he could get his hands upon him…

“Is he still there now?”

“Highly doubtful, but you might wish to visit the taproom and discover if there is anything more to learn.” The window began to rise, indicating the end of the meeting before it paused. “Gautier, don't go alone. The patrons of the Cock and Bull are not the finest of our London natives. They'll slit your throat for a farthing.”

“I will take care,” Philippe promised, his icy determination edging his voice.

“Good. Our friend has not forgotten the services you have done for him.”

“Nor have I.”

The man gave a soft laugh before the window closed and the carriage began driving away.

 

R
AINE SQUEEZED HER EYES
closed as Philippe left the room wearing nothing more than a wicked smile. Not that it helped matters. She did not doubt that every hard line and angle of his body was irrevocably branded into her memory.

She listened as the door closed and then heard the unmistakable sound of a chair being scooted and wedged beneath the knob.

Just for a moment she considered pulling the blanket over her head and returning to sleep. Obviously she was trapped in the room and nothing could be gained from pacing the floor and cursing the man who held her captive.

In the end, however, she forced herself to leave the dubious warmth of the bed and dressed herself in her borrowed jacket and breeches.

If she remained in bed she did not doubt her dreams would be plagued by Philippe. The few minutes of rest that she did manage to snatch had included vivid memories of the annoying man and the skillful way he had coaxed her body to a fever pitch.

Not that such dreams were entirely bad, she had to concede. She did not regret the night of passion nearly so much as she should. In truth, she found it difficult to dredge up any regret. Her introduction to passion had been…glorious.

His touch had been so tender, so utterly devoted to giving her the greatest pleasure. She doubted that many other women could boast finding such delight when losing their virginity.

But that did not mean she intended to give in to Philippe's casual assumption that she become his mistress.

Good Lord, she would never place herself at the whim of any man. Let alone a man with Philippe's arrogance. No matter how much she might ache for his touch, he would be utterly impossible to live with.

At least for a woman of her temperament.

Besides, she had not lied when she said she was desperate to return to her father. By now Josiah would be frantic with worry. Perhaps frantic enough to do something entirely foolish.

Squaring her shoulders, she turned to push the narrow bed against the far wall. Once it was in place she stepped onto the mattress until she could see out of the narrow window.

Below her there was nothing more than the kitchen garden and a low wall that marked the alley. Nothing that offered any hope.

Not until she glimpsed a young man strolling down the alley attired in rough clothing. No doubt one of the endless flood of poor lads who were hired to clean cisterns or deliver coal or haul away rubbish.

Fumbling with the lock, Raine managed to push open the window far enough to stick her head through.

“You. You there,” she called loud enough to capture the man's attention. “Stop.”

Grudgingly slowing his pace, the man turned his head toward the house. “What yer want?” He stumbled to a halt as he caught sight of Raine leaning from the window. “Blimey.”

Raine was not at all above using her effect on the opposite sex for her own purpose. Why not? It was not as if she had an overabundance of options at the moment.

“Please come closer. I need your help.”

“Me?” The lean face was coated in dust, but there was no mistaking the sudden wariness. “Oh, ay. This is some sort of swindle. You lure me close and then conk me over the noggin. Well, I ain't no pigeon.”

“No, please. I assure you that there is no trick.”

“Then wot yer doing up there?”

Raine swallowed a hysterical urge to laugh. The poor man would never believe her if she told him the truth.

“Do you know who owns this house?” she instead hedged.

“'Course I do.” The man removed his battered hat to scratch at his head. Raine hid a grimace at the sight of his matted brown hair. “Some toff by the name of Gautier. A foreign gent who ain't have no wife or sisters. So wot you doing there?”

Philippe Gautier.

Yes. It somehow suited him.

She swiftly searched her mind for some feasible lie. Something that would convince the man to risk entering the house to rescue her.

“I arrived with Monsieur Gautier last evening, but I fear I have made a dreadful mistake. I wish to return to my father, but…”

She deliberately allowed her words to trail away with a dismal sniff.

The man instinctively moved to the wall. “But wot?”

“I have been locked in. I need you to sneak into the house and remove the chair that is blocking the door.”

“Nay. I ain't in no hurry to have some gent put a lead ball through me heart.”

“Monsieur Gautier is not here, nor does he intend to return for hours. You will be perfectly safe.” The man continued to regard her with suspicion. Raine gritted her teeth. “And I promise to reward you for your efforts.”

At the promise of a reward the man crawled over the wall to stand directly beneath the window. “Let me see, then.”

“See?”

“Are ye daft, give me a peek.”

“Fine.” Raine cursed beneath her breath as she turned her head to frantically search the room. Her gaze landed on Philippe's discarded clothing still piled on the floor, and scrambling off the bed, she grabbed his superfine jacket. Hastily she searched the pockets until she pulled out a tiny antique locket that was hidden in the inner lining. It was a decidedly odd piece of jewelry for a man to be carrying, but at the moment Raine's only concern was that it was clearly made of a fine gold. Tossing aside the jacket, she climbed back on the bed. “Here.” She held her hand out the window to reveal the necklace. “'Tis worth more than you can earn in a month.”

The mud-brown eyes narrowed as a nasty smile twisted his lips. “True enough, but I was thinking on a more intimate sort of reward, if yer know what I mean.”

Raine shuddered in revulsion. She would remain locked in the nursery for the rest of her life before she allowed the man to so much as touch her.

Thankfully she possessed enough faith in her ability to outwit most men. They were so tediously predictable in underestimating women.

“Of course.” She forced a smile to her lips. “I assure you I can be very, very generous.”

He gave a last leer before he was disappearing into the shadows of the house. Raine leaped off the bed and hastily stuffed her hair beneath the crimson hat and wrapped her cape about her.

There were a few minutes of panic as she waited for her rescuer to arrive. For all she knew Philippe was still somewhere within the town house. Or if not him, then at least his servants. And with her current streak of ill luck she would not be the least surprised to have her brief chance of escape snapped from beneath her nose.

At last, after what seemed an eternity, she heard the unmistakable sound of footsteps and then the scrape of the chair being moved.

Not waiting for her rather grimy Galahad, Raine pushed open the door and darted past his lanky body. She ignored his muttered curse and was oblivious to the fact that he was following closely in her wake. Her entire concentration was centered on making her way down the hall and the narrow stairs without being caught.

Only when she was slipping out of a back door into the garden did she breathe a faint sigh of relief.

It was a relief that was short-lived as a bony hand reached out to grasp her arm in a tight grip.

“This way.” The man tugged her toward the back wall.

Raine allowed herself to be led through the gate, but she dug in her heels when he attempted to pull her down the alley.

“No.” She wrenched her arm free. “My horse is in the stables.”

“Blimey, yer going to get us sent to the gallows,” the man muttered, but he did not try to halt her as she crossed to the stables and cautiously peered through the door.

Raine carefully scanned the shadowed interior of the stables, not daring to move until she was certain that the building was empty.

She didn't know where the cantankerous Swann or lethal Carlos might be hidden, and at the moment she didn't care.

“No one here, thank God,” she whispered as she entered the door and moved toward the stalls.

“Aye,” the man behind her rasped. “All alone.”

A pair of arms abruptly grasped her shoulders and pushed her face-first against one of the stalls.

“I believe I'll have a taste of me reward.” His foul breath brushed her cheek as one of his hands impatiently ran over her jacket. “I've never had me a woman dressed as a man.”

Raine resisted the urge to fight his rough touch. Instead she searched the stall for a weapon as she tried to distract her attacker.

“There is no need to rush,” she said in what she hoped was seductive tones. “There is no one near.”

“Aye, I heard that fancy women like it slowlike.”

Raine spotted a shovel set in the near corner of the stall. “Oh, yes, very slow,” she urged as her arm slipped over the gate.

She grimly shut out the feel of the man's hand as it slipped beneath her jacket. He could do what he liked as long as he remained distracted while she curled her fingers around the handle of the shovel.

His free hand shifted from her shoulder to the waistband of her breeches. Sending up a silent prayer, she tightened her grip on the shovel and, half turning in his arms, she swung the shovel over her shoulder.

It was an awkward swing and it was more luck than skill that allowed her to strike the odious man directly on the temple. He dropped to the floor with a crash and spinning about, Raine was pleased to discover he was dead to the world.

Or perhaps just dead, a tiny voice whispered in the back of her mind as she noticed the deep gash on the side of his head was seeping a worrisome amount of blood.

She bit her lip as guilt stabbed through her. Lud, she had never intended to mortally wound the man. She had only been determined to knock him senseless.

Her stomach briefly heaved before she was sternly squaring her shoulders. The man had been attempting to force himself on her. She would not regret taking whatever means necessary to halt him.

Swallowing her nausea, Raine forced herself to step over his body and moved down the line of stalls. She was too close now to hesitate, she told herself sternly.

Finding her mare at the very back of the stables, Raine reached out her hand to open the gate. It was only then that she realized she still clutched the golden locket in her hand.

She gazed down at it blindly, wondering how the devil she had managed to hang on to it during her struggle.

For a moment she considered dropping it on the floor. She needed no tangible reminders of the past hours. The Lord knew that it was going to be difficult enough to rid her dreams of her brief time in London.

Besides, the necklace had been tucked in a hidden pocket, as if it held a great deal of value to Philippe. Surely a value that was sentimental rather than monetary.

Perhaps a reminder of a lost love who had broken his heart.

With a grim smile, she closed her hand around the locket.