Adele Ashworth (38 page)

Natalie couldn’t respond to his last remark. Her mind had gone numb; her body shook from bewilderment and shock at the impassioned intimacies he’d shared with her that she never expected to hear from his lips, but that yes, she believed because she wanted so desperately to. He frayed her sensibilities to the edge with his smile, his light caress, his deep, velvety voice that resonated longing and desire and his own devotion to something new and marvelous.

And then Jonathan moved to the left of her a little, leaving her in plain view of those approaching. She had imagined the evening to be taut with an excitement of its own, and she’d been looking forward to it with rational thought, hoping to surprise Jonathan with her appearance in his priceless jewels, and she knew she’d accomplished at least that. He’d been most definitely surprised to see her, had looked even astounded if one could describe his facial features exactly, and that alone had filled her with self-assurance and pleasure.

Then he’d stripped it all away in minutes with his gentle tongue and caressing words, to leave her feeling dreadfully exposed in the presence of the comte d’Arles and others who sought to alter history with the sale of the emeralds clasped around her neck. Her only protection now was Jonathan because her mind had crumbled to nothing with his oddly timed confession of love. She wanted to hit him. She wanted to cry. She wanted to wrap herself in his embrace and never leave. Instead, she poised herself for the impending confrontation and wiped her cheeks with her white gloved fingers, glad to note her eye color hadn’t rubbed off as feared.

Suddenly the two of them were surrounded by several angered Frenchmen, and Madeleine, who had carefully moved in to place her body protectively on Natalie’s right. The count’s side whiskers flared from clenched teeth, and his black eyes bore into hers for a long, static moment before he lifted them to Jonathan.

“Monsieur Drake,” Henri began in a controlled but frigid voice, “how coincidental that we should see you here at my Parisian home tonight. And with your wife who is wearing my jewels. You found them, I assume, and are returning them to me?”

Someone coughed within the small, hovering crowd at the offensive implication that the Englishman had more correctly stolen them. Abruptly Natalie realized how stupid it had been for her to wear them here. She and Jonathan stood against a wall, encircled by Legitimists who wanted their king dead and would use the emeralds to fund his murder, and who would also go to extremes for their cause. Only two things could come of this: the deceitful men in front of her would physically rip the necklace from her throat, or she would have to hand it over to them. Either way Jonathan would lose, and for the first time, as the fog in her head began to clear, she wondered why he hadn’t been cross with her for her lack of judgment.

Someone in a far corner of the room yelled, “Death to Louis Philippe!” while others cheered in response. A low rumble filled the hall, and Madeleine, standing between Natalie and Henri, was the first to react civilly to the count’s question, gingerly touching his arm with a hand encased in black satin. “I’m sure you didn’t mean to be so abrasive, Comte—”

“Please stay out of this, Madame DuMais!” the man bellowed in French. “I did not ask for your opinion.”

Madeleine pulled her hand back, having the good graces to appear startled, although Natalie knew she probably expected such a reaction to her comment.

Jonathan cleared his throat to speak at last, and, still clasping her fingers, squeezed them in reassurance. “I believe there has been a grave misunderstanding on your part, Monsieur Comte.”

Natalie stiffened at his boldness. His tone was firm and forthright, though not unkind, as he subtly returned the insult without any obvious awareness that he did so.

The count blinked, temporarily stumped by the reply as spots of red appeared on his puffy cheeks. His body, clothed in dove-gray superfine, stood out like a shield, and his expression was murderous. If she were alone with him like this she’d be frightened.

The tall man with the droopy eyes who had been so forward and enraged in Marseilles reached in between the count and Madeleine and clasped the emeralds around her throat with long, bony fingers.

Natalie gasped and pulled back a little. Jonathan reacted just as quickly by grabbing the man’s wrist.

“I wouldn’t do something unwise,” he warned through clear eyes and a dangerously dark voice.

Madeleine took the cue. “Indeed, Monsieur Faille, that is quite enough. We should at least allow the Englishman to explain himself.”

“Explain himself?” he seethed, looking from Jonathan to Madeleine and then to Natalie. He reddened, and the muscles in his neck stood out against his black cravat, but he jerked his wrist free of Jonathan’s grasp and dropped it awkwardly to his side again. “How can he explain his stupidity in allowing his wife to be seen here tonight in these?”

A logical point, Natalie considered, and it left Jonathan in a difficult position. She felt his warmth beside her, his fingers wrapped firmly around hers, sensed his annoyance at the situation they now faced. But surprisingly he conveyed no concern or even nervousness in his stance. He was smooth in voice and confident in bearing.

Ignoring Faille, Jonathan looked squarely at Henri to divulge his secrets at last. “These emeralds weren’t stolen from you—”

A thunderous cheer erupted in the hall, followed by several angered shouts, causing his words to be cut off. Two or three in their vicinity turned spontaneously at the noise, but both Natalie and Jonathan kept their eyes on the count who glowered at them in bright fury, his thick body stiff, forehead perspiring, eyes bloodshot from drink and the heavy tobacco smoke saturating the air.

Jonathan stood relaxed, waiting for his moment to strike. Natalie knew this as she knew him. He was poised, prepared, and knew exactly what he was doing. She trusted him.

“Indeed, Comte,” he continued as the ruckus died a little. “These are not emeralds at all. This is a paste necklace I had made for my wife in Paris only several days ago. She admired the one worn by your daughter at the ball in Marseilles, and I consequently saw fit to indulge her.”

Natalie stilled and slowly turned her head to stare at him.

His mouth twisted into a caustic smile for Henri alone. “Stealing precious emeralds is risky, Comte. Likewise, only a fool would risk letting his beloved wear priceless, stolen jewels in public. What my wife wears now is green glass worth only a trifle less than the pearl-studded pin in your lapel.”

Natalie bristled beside him, her feet rigidly set, body like cold stone. The revelation registered like a blow to the gut, clarifying everything—the lies, the deception, the humiliation and hurt. For two weeks he’d allowed her to think she’d bested him, only to play her for the fool in the end. He didn’t look at her but he felt her reaction because he curled his fingers around hers even tighter, refusing to release them.

Commotion ensued between those in their general vicinity. Someone in the hall stood on a table and, raising a glass that sloshed with amber liquid, began a lengthy, drunken exchange regarding the politics of the current government and those of a better time. Many yelled back in agreement, others stood atop chairs and countered. Natalie had never seen anything like it, and anywhere else she would have been fascinated to observe gentlemen, and even some ladies, behaving so shamelessly. But at this moment her attention stayed riveted on those directly in front of her—on the comte d’Arles and his fellow Legitimists. On Madeleine, and Jonathan—the world’s most crafty liar.

“I don’t believe you,” the count spat in deadly calm. “Both your credibility and my imagination and tolerance cannot be stretched that far, Monsieur Drake.”

Faille moved closer, blocking light from the large chandelier with his head.

“He is lying, Henri,” said another stout Frenchman. “Nobody could produce paste so perfectly in less than a fortnight.”

Quite possibly true. Still, Jonathan disregarded them all, glaring subtly at Henri. “And yet I assure you this necklace is a well-crafted forgery.”

Natalie shuddered, enraged at his arrogance, the devious use of his cleverness. But through it all she believed him. The jewels around her neck were glass. This was the Black Knight at his best—shocking everyone with daring and unforeseen disclosures. And yes, she’d play her part brilliantly because he’d asked her to. He wouldn’t have done so unless he trusted her not to spoil his life’s work in a loud, crowded banquet hall in Paris. She would never do that to him, and he knew it.

Natalie angled her body so that she moved a step forward, in front of the artful thief of her insane desire. She rubbed her thumb across his knuckles to assure him, and with that wordless gesture, he finally let her go.

“Goodness, gentlemen, such a misunderstanding where there is no cause,” she reasoned as a woman intolerant of foolish men. With a forced smile she placed her palm on Henri’s arm. He flinched, but she pretended not to notice. “Please, monsieur, I insist you have these.”

“Natalie, darling,” Jonathan pleaded, aghast.

She sent him an icy grin. “It’s quite all right, my darling. Proof is needed now, and under the circumstances, we can’t expect to leave here tonight with them.” Her eyes melded with his in feigned sweetness. “You’ll buy me lots and lots of others, I’m sure.” For a second she thought he would break his character and laugh.

She sighed and turned her attention back to the count, who now seemed genuinely taken aback by her suggestion, that she could be so easily swayed. Actually they all appeared uncomfortable as it occurred to them that by her offering to hand over the faux jewels without argument, the Frenchmen had been wrong in their assumptions and had insulted an influential Englishman and his innocent wife in the count’s Parisian home. Natalie concluded this at once and played upon it by patting Henri’s arm in a small measure of condescension, expressing a silent understanding toward the absurd complexities of the male ego.

Then without further response, she raised her fingers to her neck and unclasped the necklace, pulling it forward and holding it out to the count.

Dazzling emerald green and gold glittered under candlelight—a magnificent forgery she loathed losing.

Henri took it from her with thick fingers, clutching it, his heavy brows knit together as he turned it over to study its structure. “For a woman, you are indeed”—he cleared his throat—“astute, Madame Drake. And you are also honest.”

“So is her husband,” Madeleine interjected with a tactful drop of her chin.

That was the final offense. The count and other distinguished noblemen had acted disgracefully toward her and Jonathan, and that acknowledgment had come from a Frenchwoman. A splendid touch. Natalie felt the air grow thick with embarrassment and triumph.

Someone shouted obscenities, and they all turned.

And then she heard the pops, two of them, followed by screaming and a sudden mass of confusion.

Jonathan grabbed her wrist and yanked her to the ground, her feet tangling in petticoats and yards of blue taffeta as she tried to steady herself. She heard yelling in the distance, wailing. Madeleine shouted something in French from behind her, but she couldn’t understand it. The count pivoted unsteadily, knocked in the back by several people pushing through the crowd. Faille snatched the necklace from Henri’s hands and sprinted along the edge of the buffet table toward a side entrance, tripping twice over his gangly legs before he reached it.

The yelling continued, disarray grew, then another pop exploded above the noise, which Natalie now registered to be a pistol shot. Jonathan pushed her to the edge of the buffet table so that she couldn’t see much of anything but him and scattering feet. He said something to Madeleine in French, then turned back to her, grabbing her face with firm fingers.

“Madeleine’s getting you out of France—”

“I’m not leaving!” she blurted angrily without clear thought attempting to steady her unbalanced figure so she wouldn’t topple over and crash into the table.

He gritted his teeth. “The authorities will be here soon, maybe even the National Guard if things get uglier.” He tightened his hold on her cheeks. “You can’t get arrested, understand?”

She grimaced at his hardened features, fuming from his determination. Someone fell against the table knocking over their discarded glasses of champagne and whisky, causing the contents to splash over the side and down the front of her gown.

The noise grew. A chair, heaved across the floor, crashed through a window twenty steps away from her, and Natalie started to tense in fear. “I’ll leave, but you’re coming with me—”

“I can’t,” he argued, looking directly into her eyes. “I have to tell somebody in authority about tomorrow.”

“Madeleine can do that.”

He shook his head. “No one will believe her. She’s French and a woman, and they’ll either suspect her involvement or disregard her. I will probably be taken seriously but that means I can’t leave until tomorrow at the earliest. She can get you out tonight.”

“We must go while people are still disoriented!” Madeleine interrupted in a shout above the roar, kneeling behind Jonathan.

Natalie refused to look at the woman or give in so easily. “I’ll stay at the hotel with her until you come for me—”

“Dammit, Natalie, no! You—” He stopped, releasing her cheeks, then raking the fingers of one hand harshly through his hair to calm himself. “If these people attempt to assassinate the king, the streets will ring with unrest, and you might not get out at all. Things are already dangerous enough. You did a marvelous job for me, sweetheart, but it’s over. Go home
now.
”

She glared at him and hit a fist against his chest. “I
hate
you, Jonathan.”

He gave her a sheepish grin. “I know. Now go.”

He turned toward Madeleine, and Natalie grabbed his coat sleeve. “Do
not
die.”

The shouting grew louder, the whimpering shrill.

He rolled his eyes in exasperation. “I would never deprive you of the pleasure of killing me yourself.”