A Rose at Midnight (26 page)

For a moment her confronter’s face softened with a sympathy that for some reason wasn’t offensive.
“Pauvre petite,”
she said. “How long have you been wandering around in misery? It’s only ten o’clock. Long past your bedtime. Climb down from there,
cherie,
and come with me. I am Ghislaine.”

Ellen cast a last, longing look at the swift-flowing river. It smelled terrible. For some reason that decided her. She didn’t want her death to be a smelly affair. She wanted romance; her pale, tragic corpse draped in white, surrounded by roses, with everyone feeling very, very sorry they’d treated her so shabbily. The muddy promise of the Seine was far too rank.

“Much better,” the woman who called herself Ghislaine said when she climbed back down onto the cobblestone street. “No man is worth it.” She came up to her, and Ellen noticed absently that she was tiny, much shorter than her own admittedly statuesque height, and her hands were small, well-shaped, and very clean. She reached up and pulled Ellen’s fur-trimmed cape around her. “You’re lucky someone didn’t take the decision out of your hands,” she said frankly. “To walk around the streets of Paris, dressed in a cloak that would feed a family for half a year, is not a clever thing to do. When did you last eat?”

“I… I don’t know,” she stammered.

“I will take you to the inn where I work. I’m a cook, a very good cook. You won’t be able to resist my ragout. I will feed you, I will listen to your woes, and I will give you a talking-to such as your own mother should have done.”

“My mother is dead.”

Ghislaine had shrugged. “So is mine. That doesn’t mean you need to make any haste to join her. Come with me, mademoiselle, and I will put strength in you.”

And the miraculous thing was, she had. With a combination of stew, fresh bread, bullying, and sympathy, Ghislaine had helped Ellen move from paralyzing self-pity to a new determination. It was close to five in the morning when she’d sent Ellen home in a hired carriage, and she was absolutely right. Even then the streets of Paris were far from deserted.

Ellen had gone back, of course, surprising Ghislaine, surprising herself. She’d gone back for beef ragout and baguettes, for common sense and a friendship such as she’d never experienced. And when it was time for her to return to England, she’d begged and pleaded for Gilly to accompany her.

It was a joyful surprise when she’d accepted. A disappointment when she insisted on coming as a servant only. During the past year she’d tried to keep those barriers in place, but Gilly talked to her as no one else ever had; frankly, honestly forcing her to see things as they were. She owed Gilly her life. The very thought that she’d been ready to destroy herself over someone as insignificant as Alvin Purser, for something as shallow as pride, was an embarrassment. Never again would she allow her emotions to overset her.

Finally she was being given a chance to repay her monumental debt. She had no idea why Nicholas would have absconded with Gilly, but she knew full well that it was against her will. Gilly had been constant in her distrust and dislike of the male sex—even a dangerously attractive rake such as Nicholas Blackthorne wouldn’t be able to break through her defenses.

It was icing on the cake that repaying her debt included spending time with Tony. These last few days had been heaven, sheer heaven, and its own kind of torment. Sooner or later Tony would find some pretty delicate miss, fresh from the schoolroom, and marry her. And she would attend the wedding with Carmichael and Lizzie, and she would smile.

She would do it, of course, never betraying that her heart was broken. Just as she had survived the past few days with her armor intact. Not by any lingering glance, or sigh, or wayward thought would she betray the vastly distressing truth she’d just discovered. That she still loved him as much as she always had.

And that brought her to her present predicament. To be sure, day after day of being tossed around in her brother’s well-sprung carriage made her bones ache, her teeth rattle, and her temper become sadly disarranged. But that was more than balanced by the fact that she was with Tony. Once she left the carriage she’d be leaving him, and this brief, mad period would never come again. She was astonished that she’d gotten away with it so far. Even more astonished that God had seen fit to remove Binnie’s stultifying presence. For now, for today, Tony was all hers. And she had every intention of enjoying him to the fullest.

Odd, though, he’d looked very disgruntled when she’d reassured him about her lack of romantic notions. She would have thought he’d be glad to hear her well-crafted reassurances, which were, of course, arrant lies. Instead, he’d seemed almost offended.

He didn’t want her—surely he wasn’t arrogant enough to expect her to long for him when he didn’t reciprocate? Gilly had warned her most men would. She’d always thought Tony to be above that sort of thing. Now she wondered.

Because there was only one other explanation for his patently disgruntled reaction when she’d set out so tactfully to reassure him. And that explanation was fraught with its own emotional impact. Surely he couldn’t really want her after all, could he?

She dismissed that notion as quickly as it entered her brain. He was lounging in the seat opposite her, staring out the window as they moved as swiftly as the wretched highways allowed. Their silences, as always, were companionable, and the long time they’d spent in each other’s company since they’d first left Carmichael’s home hadn’t changed that. He was still Tony. Tall, loose-limbed, elegant, and a little proper. He could have anyone he wanted. All he had to do was smile his sleepy smile, look at a woman from his beautiful gray eyes, and she’d be lost forever. As Ellen herself had been for the past ten years.

“Tony,” she said, her voice shy and hesitant.

“Yes, love,” he said, more alert than she would have guessed.

“I’ve enjoyed myself tremendously these last few days.” She had to say it, before she was too cowardly to do so, before she lost her only chance.

His wide, mobile mouth curved in a gentle smile, and she wondered, for one brief, self-indulgent moment, what that mouth would feel like, pressed against hers. The mouth of Alvin Purser had been soft and dry and flabby, his kisses few and chaste and respectful. She’d never been kissed with any ardor. She would go to her grave without being kissed with ardor.

“How can you say so?” he protested. “Thrown around in a coach for days on end, a succession of only mediocre posting inns, with the sleepy Miss Binnerston and your humble servant for company? I wonder you aren’t ready to scream from boredom.”

A sudden worry struck her. “Have you been bored, Tony?” she asked naively.

“Never for a moment.”

She believed him. Foolish on her part, wishful thinking, but she wanted him to enjoy being with her. As long as they were friends, at least she’d retain that portion of his life, to keep close to her heart and cherish.

“How will you survive without your valet?” she asked.

“I believe I’m more than capable of dressing and shaving myself,” he drawled, accepting her change of subject. “How will you do without Miss Binnerston to serve as your abigail? Assuming we fail to retrieve Ghislaine before nightfall.”

“Is there any doubt?”

“This entire enterprise is fraught with doubt. When you deal with someone like Nicholas Blackthorne, there are no certainties whatsoever. I’m hoping we’ll settle things by tonight, but there’s no guarantee.”

She accepted that, simply because she had no choice but to do so. “I’m sure I can prevail upon one of the maids at the inn to assist me.”

“Or I can assist you,” said Tony blandly.

She darted a look at him, wishing she could read what lay behind that smooth expression, those clear gray eyes. He might have been suggesting canary instead of claret for dinner, so innocent did he seem. And if he truly did see her in the light of a sister, his suggestion probably wasn’t as shocking as it first appeared to be. Was it?

“Thank you, but I think I can manage by myself,” she said, keeping her voice even.

He shrugged, and his smile was slight. “As you wish. If you change your mind, I’ve had a certain amount of experience helping ladies out of their clothes.” He leaned back again, looking lazy and dangerous. “Close your mouth, Ellen.”

Ellen closed her mouth.

The rain began by late afternoon, a steady, heavy downpour that turned the late spring highways into a sea of mud. Even Carmichael’s excellent equipage had a hard time navigating the road, and Tony watched his carefully laid plans dissolve in the downpour.

He viewed this with a fair amount of equanimity. His own coachman was a talented whip—there was no question but they’d be safe if the heavens opened completely. The slow progress was a necessary evil. Ellen had drifted to sleep, lulled by the steady beat of the rain on the roof of the carriage, and he’d tucked a lap robe around her, controlling his completely dishonorable and totally overwhelming urge to smooth it over her rounded breasts. The hour would be much advanced by the time they reached Blackthorne’s estate. While he had no very great faith in Blackthorne’s being reasonable, he also knew that the man was a rakehell, a care-for-nothing, and if by any chance he had absconded with Ghislaine against her will, it wouldn’t take much for him to relinquish her.

More likely he’d simply managed to entice her. Women had informed Tony, Ellen included, that Nicholas was a very enticing fellow, that a streak of madness and danger only added to his allure. By this time he’d doubtless grown tired of her—he wasn’t known for his long-term affairs. The news that Hargrove had succumbed ought to put all other considerations out of his mind.

Probably Ellen would insist that Ghislaine share her room that night. Probably Nicholas would put up a protest. Things were drawing to a rapid close, and it was past time for Tony to make his move. If anyone was going to share Ellen’s bedroom tonight, it was going to be he.

Tony could picture it now—the paneled bedroom, a warm fire blazing, a huge bed with clean white sheets. Thank God Blackthorne had his own house up here. Tony had gotten heartily sick of inns.

He glanced over at Ellen. Her tightly bound hair had begun to come loose from its pins, the golden strands framing her soft, pale face. The time for circumspection was past. By this time tomorrow they’d probably be heading back toward London. He needed to make certain she knew she was coming with him.

Clearly she’d forgotten the shy, tender feelings she used to hold for him in her heart. Clearly he needed to remind her. Gentle flirtatiousness had availed him nothing. It was time to raise the stakes.

Chapter 16

Tony had long lost track of the time. It had been dark for hours, the rain still coming down at a dismal rate, when the coach lurched to a sudden, abrupt stop. He couldn’t quite be sorry for it, since it sent Ellen hurtling across the carriage to land against him in a delightful, sweet-smelling heap. He caught her instinctively, holding her tight against him, telling himself he needed to protect her in case the carriage overturned. But the feel of her heart pounding through their various layers of clothes, the soft delight of her breasts against his chest, were decidedly distracting. She looked up at him out of startled, vulnerable eyes, her lips parted in breathless wonder, and he began to consider whether she actually saw him in the light of an uncle after all. It would be a simple enough matter to find out. Simply drop his mouth the few inches to hers and see how she responded. If she didn’t shy away in horror, he might even consider using his tongue.

She was watching him, mesmerized, as he slowly closed the distance between their lips, when the carriage door was yanked open, effectively destroying the moment.

His coachman, Danvers, was the most discreet of men, and if he noticed that Lady Ellen Fitzwater was lying on top of his master, about to be thoroughly kissed, he made no mention of the fact. Nor would he ever. “We’ve got a problem, Sir Antony,” he announced.

Tony released Ellen without the faintest show of reluctance. “So I gathered,” he said in his pleasant voice. “What’s the difficulty?”

“Left leader strained his hock. It’s too dark to tell how bad it is, but he’s not going any farther tonight, that I can tell you. We passed a farmhouse a ways back. I can see if they’ve got a spare horse, though I’m doubting they’ll have one trained to work in a foursome. At least they could offer us hospitality, or a ride to Blackthorne’s place. By my reckoning it’s not more than a mile away, perhaps less.”

“Just our luck,” Tony said grimly, staring past his coachman as he stood framed in the door. The rain was coming down in torrents, making the night impenetrable. “We’ll await your return. See if you can bring some warm blankets for her ladyship when we convey her back to the farmhouse.”

Danvers nodded and shut the door behind him, but not before Ellen said in a very calm, very determined voice, “I’m not going to the farmhouse.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You heard what your coachman said. Ghislaine is less than a mile away. If you think I’m going to spend the night at a farmhouse, knowing she’s in reach, suffering…”

“We haven’t ascertained that she’s suffering in the slightest. As a matter of fact, our arrival at this time of night might be decidedly
de trop.
We’d be much better off availing ourselves of the hospitality of the farm we just passed, and move on to Blackthorne in the morning, when we’re rested, and when this damnable rain has stopped.” Frustration was making him less than discreet with his tongue, but he decided he’d been around Ellen enough that he didn’t have to worry about an occasional
damn
here and there.

“No, Tony,” she said, pulling her cape more closely around her and lifting the hood over her head. For a moment he was too astonished to do anything but watch as she reached for the door handle, but then his wits returned, along with his reflexes, and he caught her slender wrist and yanked her back with little regard paid to gentlemanly behavior.

“You’re not going wandering off in a downpour alone, dressed like that,” he said, his voice growing sharp in the dark and damp. “You’d end up in a bog, or something equally distasteful.”