A Valentine Wedding (17 page)

She walked out of the conservatory and ordered her carriage. She was behaving exactly the way she would have done in ordinary circumstances. She went to the retiring room.

Maria was still prostrate on the sofa, rather anxiously awaiting Emma’s return, which seemed to be taking longer than she’d expected. She had decided that Alasdair had wanted to have a word with Mr. Denis alone. It seemed natural to assume that the word had concerned Emma. Alasdair would not like to see Emma in the émigré’s pocket any more than Maria did.

Unable to conceal her curiosity, she asked, “I trust Mr. Denis was not offended at your leaving him so suddenly?”

“No,” Emma said. “Not in the least.”

Maria was disappointed. Surely a man who’d just been warned off would have shown some reaction. But she sensed something different about Emma. She was looking unusually distracted and seemed rather tense in her abstraction.

“Is everything all right, my love?”

Emma smiled quickly. “Of course, Maria. I own I’m a little tired though. The carriage will be here in a few minutes. Are you able to move now?”

“I feel much better.” Maria rose gracefully from the sofa, gathering up her shawl and fan. “But I’ll be glad to reach my bed, too. So fatiguing, these balls. Of course, I’m always happy to chaperone you, my dear, but sometimes I think I’d sooner stay quietly at home,” she added mendaciously.

Emma forbore to smile. She gave Maria her arm and escorted her to the street.

Paul Denis came to in the dark, deserted conservatory when the sounds of merriment had been extinguished, the last guest departed. He sat up and gingerly felt the base of his skull. The skin didn’t appear broken but the swelling was large and throbbed. His head ached unmercifully.

Who? And why?

He could come up with no answer to either question. Then he became aware that his domino and mask were lying on the floor beside him. They’d been taken off him … but why? Who could possibly have wanted them?

He could find no answers and in his present groggy condition was unlikely to. He was aware of a deep upswelling of rage both at his assailant and at himself for allowing such a thing to happen. It didn’t matter that he’d been unaware of any possibility of danger. It was his business to be alert to the possibility in even the most unlikely of circumstances.

Emma had presumably returned and found him gone. She’d wonder why. He’d have to come up with some plausible excuse.

He got to his knees, stifling a groan at the fierce stabbing pain in his head. He gathered the domino
and mask to his chest and slowly dragged himself to his feet. He stood swaying slightly, taking stock.

There were still sounds of life in the house beyond the conservatory. Servants putting things to rights after the ball, he assumed. They would be astonished at the appearance of this forgotten guest, emerging disheveled and pale from the conservatory. Paul had lived as long as he had in his chosen profession by never drawing unwanted attention to himself, not even that of the lowliest menial.

Reasoning that there would be a way out of the conservatory into the garden, he walked unsteadily around the perimeter and was rewarded with a small door at the rear. He unlocked it and found himself out in the crisp chill of early morning. The cold air revived him and cleared his head. An iron gate at the front of the garden gave onto the street. It was padlocked but the street was empty and he was able to climb over it undetected.

He walked to Half Moon Street through the deserted streets. Even linkboys had gone to their beds at this hour, and there were no hackneys plying their trade.

But it was not a long walk and he was letting himself into the house within half an hour.

Luiz was dragged out of sleep by a rough hand on his shoulder. He sat up blearily. “Eh, Paolo, what are you doing at this hour?” He examined his surprise visitor and said, “You look sick as a dog. What happened?”

Paolo told him.

“You think someone’s onto you?” Luiz shook his head in puzzlement.

“I don’t see how they can be,” Paolo said curtly. “And if they are, why not do away with me altogether?
Why just knock me cold? What could it achieve?”

“A warning perhaps?” Luiz suggested.

Paolo snorted with disgust. “What kind of amateur would give the game away like that?”

“Perhaps these English
are
amateurs.”

“Or perhaps this particular agent is,” Paolo mused. “But I still don’t understand how they could know. I’ve made no mistakes.
None.”

“Perhaps someone else made the mistake.” Luiz sounded hesitant, knowing he was propounding heresy.

“The governor, you mean?” Paolo shook his head and then winced at the sharply renewed pain.

“Perhaps there’s a spy in our own ranks.”

“Possibly.” Paolo stood at the window, glaring out at the dawn sky across the jumbled rooftops. A cart laden with produce rumbled along the street below, heading for the market in a neighboring street. The city was coming to life.

“I think it’s time to move,” he said eventually, more to himself than to Luiz. “If my cover’s blown, then there’s no time to lose. I shall have to take the woman and persuade her to talk.” His mouth took an ugly twist. “It’s so unsubtle, so clumsy, but I don’t see any alternative.”

“We could try a search of her rooms first,” Luiz suggested.

“They’re at the front of the house. There’s no way to enter them from the street undetected.”

“No, but there are glass doors opening onto the garden at the back of the house. It’s secluded. Easy to access over the wall. I did it myself.”

“We stage a break-in,” Paolo mused. “Once in, it will be simple to find her chamber at the front.”

“And if you find nothing, then you take the woman. We go prepared with ropes and a gag. We bring her here and you can get what you want out of her where no one can hear.” He shrugged as if to indicate how simple the whole process would be.

Paolo frowned. Absently he touched the swelling at the base of his skull. The ugly twist to his mouth became more pronounced. He would not be defeated. They’d shown their hand. Always a mistake. He turned to Luiz and gave a curt nod of agreement.

Chapter Eight

Emma closed the door of her bedchamber and gave a sigh of relief. Thank God she’d sent Tilda to bed. The fire still glowed in the grate, and there was a tray with milk and a plate of macaroons on the dresser with a little oil lamp over which she could heat the milk if she chose.

There was something so wonderfully ordinary and comforting about the idea of hot milk. It carried all the reassurance of the nursery.

She threw off her clothes, casting them onto the chaise longue beneath the window, and poured water into the ewer. It was still hot, so she guessed that Tilda had only recently gone to bed. She washed herself carefully, aware of the slight soreness, the stretched feeling in her groin. It had been so long since she’d last made love, her body had become tight, almost virginal again.

Had Alasdair noticed?

Emma dropped her nightgown over her head and lit the little oil lamp. She set the pan of milk over it and watched it dreamily until the first bubble appeared. She poured it into the cup, put a macaroon into the saucer, and climbed into bed. A wonderful feeling of lethargy flooded her limbs as the deep feather bed nestled around her. She sat up against the pillows, the cup of milk resting on her stomach, and at last allowed herself to consider what had happened.

But all the consideration in the world couldn’t make sense out of it. Alasdair had been waiting for her. He’d taken Paul’s place, dressed in Paul’s domino. He hadn’t spoken, hadn’t looked directly at her. And yet he could not have imagined that she wouldn’t know him. Surely he couldn’t have believed he could deceive her with his body? Had he thought she was going to make good her promise to take a lover and substituted himself?

Or had it been some kind of revenge? Some way of proving to her that she couldn’t do anything without his approval?

But Emma knew that revenge had not been in Alasdair’s mind. He had made love to her, not assailed her with vengeance or malice. And she? She had let it happen. Had reveled in it. It had been so right. So absolutely right.

She dipped the macaroon into the milk and carried the soggy morsel carefully to her mouth. She savored the milky almond sweetness. Every sensation seemed heightened. The warmth and softness of the bed, the brush of lawn against her skin, the honeyed taste in her mouth.

What had happened to Paul Denis? Had he given up his domino and mask at Alasdair’s request? Ridiculous!
Why would he do such a thing? She was
his
prize. And there was no vanity attached to that acknowledgment. He wanted her money, and if he enjoyed her company and found her attractive, then that was merely a bonus. Emma had no illusions. But he wouldn’t step out of the lists at the request of another man. Not Paul Denis. He was too strong, too determined, too self-assured to stand aside tamely.

So what had Alasdair done with Paul Denis?

Interesting though that question was, it was nowhere near as vital as the issue of what was to happen now between herself and Alasdair. Would he acknowledge that explosion of passion? Could he possibly fail to? And if he didn’t, should she?

And once again she wondered, what in the name of Satan had been his motive? If he had intended to show her that they remained somehow inextricably connected, then … then he’d succeeded.

There was no point denying it. But she didn’t have to like it. Didn’t have to accept it meekly. Had anything changed?

Everything.

Emma lay back, gazing up at the ceiling, watching the flickering shadows thrown by the candle on her bedside table. She’d sworn to have a lover by the feast of Saint Valentine. Alasdair had made sure she was not forsworn.

But it had completely defeated her own purposes. Instead of freeing her from Alasdair, it had tied her to him with a Gordian knot.

She set her empty cup on the bedside table and leaned over to blow out the candle. Then she lay, still wide awake, listening to the hiss and pop of the fire, enjoying the soft golden light it threw.

She would have to wait and see what Alasdair did. And she would have to follow his cue.

He was the most infuriating, damnably unpredictable, totally controlling man! He’d engineered the whole situation so that she was somehow hopelessly entwined in his coils, forced to dance to his tune. And his damned tune was the most irresistible music.

Plus ça change, plus c’est la même chose.

Her eyes closed beneath an inexorable wave of sleep.

Alasdair rode up to Mount Street the next morning, at the correct hour for visiting. The elation that had followed loving Emma was still with him. He couldn’t wait to see her. To see how she was. Of course, she had known it was him. His little game of an incognito lover had never been intended to deceive her, only to heighten the experience for both of them. He knew Emma so well, knew that the risk of discovery, the exotic situation, the aura of mystery, the silence of the encounter, would have fueled her passion and given her the excitement she craved. And he had no intention as yet of bringing the game to a close.