Lady Scandal (2 page)

He knew that law of
dalliance.
But he'd had another woman too much in his thoughts of
late—
merde
, why
had he ever listened to the gossip?
Why had he stayed after hearing
her name mentioned?

It was, of course, only curiosity.
He had
not thought her the sort to ever leave her cozy home.
But she had
apparently come to Paris, along with so many other English.
And
with a niece, in tow.
A beautiful girl, according to those who had
met her.
Golden hair, soft blue eyes, and oh-so-English alabaster
skin.
He had smiled and nodded at the descriptions, but his mind
had filled with brown, softly curling hair that had once twined
around his fingers.
He had remembered gray eyes, and slanting,
light brown eyebrows that tipped up in the center when a smile
lifted her wide mouth.
And those slender curves and pert breasts
that fit so well into his hand...rather too like Madam
D'Aeth's.

Which was why he had used that
once-forgotten name instead of Madam's.

Stiffening, she had glared at him.

And she had screamed.
Screamed rape and
bloody murder.

He'd had time to grab for his breeches and
his coat.
He left his cravat and fled.
He had almost been over the
garden wall when the ball from the musket caught him, scrapping
across skin and muscle and rib as it etched a groove in his side.
He had felt nothing more than a sting at the time.
But as he ran,
half stumbling as he struggled into his clothes, the pain began to
burn.

That's what he got for bedding the wife of a
military man.
Other households had servants, not guards with
muskets.
And now he had best move on before they backtracked to
pick up his trail—thank God for the rain and the dark night.

Wincing, he eased his palm from his side.
Sticky wetness clung to his shirt and his fingers.
Still bleeding.
Damn!
He pressed his hand to his side and his back to the wall.

He had found temporary shelter in an alley
off the Rue de Turenne, far too close to the D'Aeth's mansion.
And
uncomfortably near the Bastille with its stench of prisoners kept
behind stone walls and iron bars.
A sign that perhaps he ought to
quit Paris—and perhaps even France.
Bonaparte's generals carried
far too much power, and no one would question the death—or
imprisonment—of one such as him.

But where to next?

Eyes shut, Paxten leaned against the wall,
soul weary, body aching.
Where could he go?
Back to Italy?
To
Venice perhaps, and the contessa with the lazy eyes and the jealous
streak?
That seemed unwise.
To the Americas, or to India?
He had
not been either place yet, but that meant a long ocean voyage.
An
uncomfortable one, too, with his funds so low.

Boot heels on cobblestones clattered near to
him.
Voices rose and receded, taking their anger with them.
Pushing
off from the wall, he pulled in a breath and winced at the searing
pain.
Shallow breaths only.
He needed something to bind the wound,
to stop the bleeding.
And a decent cognac to dull the aches.

Could he make it back to his rooms?
It was
not far to the Place des Vosges where he had taken rooms—on a whim
to stay near the square where knights once jousted to honor Anne of
Austria's marriage to a French king.
But if Madam had betrayed his
identity to the guards, as well as his presence in her boudoir,
would it be safe?

With a grimace, Paxten pushed away from the
wall and staggered into the street, his legs unsteady and his head
light.
God, how much had he bled?

He tried to weigh his options.
He had a few
coins in his coat pockets—a good thing he had won tonight at the
tables.
Did he have enough to reach the border?
Perhaps, but not in
style.
And there was the matter of transportation after that—and
lodging.
He would also need new clothes.
He hated to leave his
current ones—he had only recently had most of them made— but he had
done that before.
His mouth twisted.
What, after all, did a man
such as him own that could be of value?
No, he had nothing to leave
behind.
He never did.

That might have been different, if....

The voice, rough and using French from the
streets, came out of the darkness and broke into his thoughts, "You
there—halt!"

Spinning on his heel, Paxten sprinted in the
opposite direction up the Rue de Turenne, his hand pressed to his
side and regrets for the past cast aside in preference for
surviving the immediate present.

#

Alexandria traced the sobs to the dining
room.
The heavy chairs and the dark mahogany table had been left in
the high-ceilinged room, but the candelabras and the candles had
been taken and the walls had been stripped of paintings and wall
sconces.
The sobbing seemed to come from under the table.

Bending down, Alexandria glimpsed a white
apron over a rocking form.
"What in heaven are you doing there?
Come out at once—oh, for pity's sake, do stop that crying.
Diana,
can you say something in French to have her come out?"

Standing again, Alexandria moved to a side
table to search for spare candles and flint.
Diana muttered
something to the maid, the words hesitant but the accent true.
Alexandria pressed her lips tight—why had she never paid any heed
to her governess and her French lessons?

She found the stub of one half-burnt taper,
struggled with the flint pulled from a drawer, and finally struck a
spark.
Flame trembled to life as the wick caught fire.
Lifting the
candle, Alexandria bent to study the maid.

The woman crouched under the table, her
knees pulled up to her chin.
She had taken her apron away from her
face.
Fear had left her skin pale and her eyes enormous.
Alexandria
recognized Marie-Jeanne as one of the kitchen maids, a skinny girl
of fifteen or so.
A sweet girl, but rather slow.

"Well, why is she not coming out?"
Alexandria demanded, glancing at Diana.

The young woman straightened, worry
darkening her blue eyes.
"She is afraid the guard will return."

"Guard?
Why ever would they come in the
first place?"

In answer to the questions
a spurt of rapid French flowed from Marie-Jeanne.
Alexandria bent
to look under the table again.
"You must come
out—
tu viens ici
."

Alexandria noticed Diana wincing at such
mangled French, but the maid seemed at least to recognize the voice
of authority, if not the words, for she edged from under the
table.

Climbing to her feet, she stared about her,
clutching the white apron tied over her dark high-waisted dress and
looking rather like a rabbit who intended to bolt for her hole at
the first breath of trouble.

Alexandria gave the candle
to her niece and said, "Now, let us have an explanation, if you
please, Marie-Jeanne.
Only in English.
Parle anglais, s'il vous plaît
."

A rapid flow of French answered, and
Alexandria struggled to hold her impatience with the girl.
She
recognized only a few words—something about English, and
Bonaparte's name came into it.
Ruthlessly interrupting, Alexandria
said, "But where is everyone?
Diana, see if you can get some
answers.
I am going to make a quick tour of the house."

Taking the candle with her, she left Diana
with the maid, who had started babbling again in French.

In the front hall, the candle flickered in a
draft from the door and Alexandria glanced to where the footmen now
stood—Frenchmen also, for she had left her staff in charge of the
stables here.
They stood one on each side of a trunk, staring about
with worried frowns.

"Never mind the luggage.
I
want you to search the house to see if anyone else is here," she
ordered.
The footmen glanced at each other and Alexandria added,
"
Où est
—" she
broke off, struggling for the word to add with "Where is," and she
added with a wave of her hand, "everyone?"

Understanding seemed to flicker in their
eyes, for they put down the trunk, bowed and set off to search the
downstairs rooms.

Lifting her skirts, Alexandria went up the
stairs.
Gradually, the sounds of the maid's babbling and the
footmen's heavy steps faded and the house seemed to fill with
silence.
Her throat tightened.
She had never been in any house so
empty—at the least, there were always servants nearby.

Her kid boots echoed loudly on the floor.
The faint aroma of bees wax wafted up from the candle.
Damp, icy
cold hung in the hall.

She had no need to open doors—all stood
ajar.
Each room she glanced into told the same story—wild disorder,
a violent search, insulting disregard for privacy or ownership.
Clothing had been pulled from wardrobes and stolen away.
Anything
that could be carried, in fact, seemed to have been taken; even the
linens from the beds had been stripped and looted.

Anger flared in her, growing stronger with
each defilement she glimpsed.
Who could have done such a thing?
And
why had not her servants, both those from England as well as the
Parisians she had hired, not been here to prevent it?

At last she stopped at her own bedroom and
glanced inside.

She had brought her jewels and her cosmetics
with her to the château, but the clothes she had left behind were
now gone.
The large maple wardrobe stood open and empty.
The room
had been stripped of its velvet curtains and even of the carpet.
The mattress had been slashed and feathers pulled out, as if
someone had been searching for hidden items.

Glimpsing a fragment of something white on
the bare wood, Alexandria moved into the room, her cloak, dress and
petticoats rustling.
Bending down, she picked up a fragment from a
china figurine.
It had been a favorite—a rearing white horse, its
mane flaring out and one leg lifted as if celebrating its freedom.
She had treasured that figurine.
For being a symbol of something
she had never had.

Her fist closed on all that remained—the
lone leg.

Such senseless vandalism!

She would lodge a complaint at once with the
authorities.
The British Ambassador would....

Would do nothing, she realized.
Lord
Whitworth no longer resided in France.
He could not listen to her
complains and demand results from Bonaparte's government.

A chill swept over her skin.

Turning, Alexandria left the room and ran
down the stairs, the candle flickering as she hurried.

She found the maid and Diana in the main
hall.
Marie-Jeanne now sat on the large trunk that had been brought
in by the footmen.
Her eyes still seemed huge, and in the dim light
her skin shone unnaturally pale, but she at least seemed to have
lost that edge of hysteria for she no longer babbled.

Diana turned to Alexandria, and Alexandria's
heart tightened at the hint of fear in her niece's eyes.
"What is
it?"

Diana wet her lips and answered,
"Marie-Jeanne—she says...she says that England has declared war on
France.
Bonaparte has ordered the arrest of all English citizens.
The soldiers who came here—they came for us."

"That is preposterous!" Alexandria said.
But
she glanced around her again and held back the rest of her
protests.
She had been about to say that not even Bonaparte could
be so uncivilized as to order the arrest of women and children, but
the man obviously allowed his troops to behave in this outrageous
fashion toward civilians.

In the faint glow from the single flickering
candle, she turned to stare at her niece, her thoughts as
crystalline as the drops of the chandelier that hung over them in
the hall.
With the clarity came the sharp bite of guilt, like the
clamp of teeth at her throat.
She ought to have taken Diana back to
England months ago, when rumors of diplomatic strain first began.
Her instincts had urged caution.
But she had spent so long ignoring
her feelings, pushing them away, that she had done the same as she
always did.
She had permitted herself to be persuaded.

Heavens, how many times she had allowed
that?

Lips pressed tight, she straightened.
A drop
of wax slid from the candle onto her glove, warming her skin
through the thin leather.
She ignored it.
The situation required
level-headed control, not hand wringing over a past that could not
be changed.

Voice clipped, she asked, "When did the
guards arrive?
And where is everyone now?"

Turning to the maid, Diana repeated the
questions in French.
Marie-Jeanne returned hesitant answers, the
sobs gone from her voice, but her tone uncertain, as if she feared
the reaction that her words might bring.

Diana listened, nodding, smiling at the girl
in encouragement.
She had put back the hood of her traveling cloak
and the candlelight glinted on her golden curls.
Turning to her
aunt, she said, "Poor thing.
She has no idea how long she hid under
the table.
It seems that the French guard burst in without even
knocking just as the staff had begun dinner preparations for a meal
for our return.
She said that the man in command—a sergeant—seemed
to think the butler was lying about our not being here and that no
Englishman lived with us.
He questioned everyone, and when he did
not get answers he liked, he ordered the house ransacked and those
who were English arrested.
Everything fell into a panic then.
Some
fled, or at least she thinks they did.
She hid under the table, so
they would not drag her away.
She had an aunt who worked for a
count and was sent to the guillotine during the Revolution."

Alexandria glanced at the maid—no wonder the
girl had hidden herself.
Remorse stirred in her for Fenwick and the
other servants she had brought with her—they had been in her care
and she had failed them.

The footmen came back into
the hall, lifting empty hands as if to show the lack of anyone else
in the house.
Diana began to untie the strings to her cloak, and
that set the maid into a new round of nearly hysterical
French.
"Non.
Non,
mademoiselle!"

An outpouring of protests followed this, and
when the maid seemed to run down, Alexandria asked, "What has upset
her now?"

Diana turned from comforting Marie-Jeanne.
"She seems to think the soldiers will come back—that it is not safe
and we ought to leave at once."

"I doubt they will return tonight—we cannot
be of that much interest, and I imagine they have their hands full
with other English visitors." Alexandria frowned.
Had the
Fairchilds left Paris in time, or had they and their English staff
been taken up?
She had so liked plump and chatty Mary Fairchild.
And what of the Aldersons?
And the Bentleys?
And a dozen others
whom she had met?

She pushed aside such worries.
What mattered
now was to see Diana out of this.
The last outbreak of hostilities
had dragged on for nearly a decade.
She could not risk that Diana
might spend who knew how many years of her youth trapped as a
prisoner of war.
And she did not trust that Bonaparte would only
arrest Englishmen and allow women passage home, nor that he would
give his prisoners the respect due their station.

The one glimpse she had had of the man,
actually, had given her the impression of a dynamic personality,
but also of a man unconcerned with anyone other than himself.
She
certainly knew far too much about such gentleman.

Once Diana was safe, however, she could see
to her responsibilities to her servants who had been arrested.
For
now, all that mattered was her niece.

Turning she gave a last look at the Paris
house.
She had brought not just her staff with her but her china,
and the good linen from home, the ones embroidered with the Sandal
crest of interwoven holly and oak leaves.
And she had brought some
of her favorite paintings and furnishings, for she had seen no
reason not to travel in comfort.
Now, what had not been taken
already must be left behind for other thieves.
But she had her
jewel case in the coach—and they had the clothing that they had
taken to the château.
Still, they had traveled light for it had
been but a short visit.

She would hope it would also be a fast trip
to the coast.

Focusing on plans helped her ignore the
faint edge of fear that shivered on her skin.

Calais gave the shortest crossing of the
channel, but Dieppe lay closer to Paris.
Or they could choose a
port between and make for Boulogne.
But first priority must be to
leave Paris—if they could.

Turning her back on the nearly-empty house,
she ordered, "Diana, tell Marie-Jeanne to go to the coach.
We leave
at once.
You two, take the trunk back to the carriage—oh, they are
giving me that blank look again.
Diana, dear, see if you can make
them understand that we are leaving Paris again."

"Do we return to the Chateau d'Esclimont?"
Diana asked.

Alexandria shook her head.
"Laval is a
military man, and if orders are now indeed that all English must be
detained, we cannot put him in the position of having to arrest his
guests.
So we shall leave as we arrived tonight—through the north
gate, past Montmartre—and then start for the coast."

And they might also be better off burning
their passport papers and relying more on Diana's beauty and a good
amount of bribery, she thought.
She kept such plans to herself.
But, of all the absurd things, her stomach rumbled, protesting the
lack of a regular dinner.
She pressed a hand to it.
What a bother
this was—why must these Frenchmen make everything into a grand
production?
In England, before such an action as this occurred, the
word would have gone out through unofficial channels so that
everyone could have a chance to leave in proper order.
Bonaparte,
it seemed, had to make this into a theatrical display of his power.
Bother the man!

Diana finished relaying the orders in
French.
The footmen moved forward to take the trunk back outside to
the waiting coach—they would have to travel slow to make the team
last, Alexandria decided.
She wanted as few stops as possible to
lessen the risk that they might be exposed as English visitors and
arrested.
The maid hurried out behind the trunk, glancing to either
side as if she expected soldiers to jump from the shadows.

After snuffing her candle, Alexandria came
to her niece's side and put a comforting arm around her.
"Do not
worry—I shall see you safe home."

"Worry?" Diana turned bright eyes to her
aunt.
"Why this is the most exciting thing to ever happen!
Just
think—we are being swept up by history.
We are in the very center
of a critical juncture of fate—and we are seeing it all unfold
before us.
Are you certain we could not stay—perhaps there is
something we could do to find Fenwick and the others and free
them?"

Frowning, Alexandria took her niece's arm
and steered her to the door.
"What we can do is see ourselves
safe—and then I shall see if I cannot at least ransom my staff
through whatever channels remain open.
This is all the adventure I
want, thank you."

With four already fatigued horses they made
slow time retracing their route from the city.
As the carriage
wheels rumbled along the ancient, narrow streets, Alexandria
noticed the strained silence that filled the coach.
Marie-Jeanne
huddled in a corner, while Diana sat on the edge of her seat,
peering out the window and obviously hoping for more excitement
than was wise.

Alexandria battled her remorse.
Would
Fenwick and the others be decently housed and fed?
She could not
imagine they would end in the dungeons of the Bastille.
But what
could she do for them from England?
Would she even be able to get
Diana home again—or would they end up imprisoned with their
staff?

Pushing such thoughts away, she tried to
focus on making lists of things to do.
But the trick that had
served her well in past years failed now.

At the city gates, the guards seemed
suspicious to see a coach which had passed through in the other
direction only an hour ago.
Alexandria found her lack of mastery in
the country's language frustrating, but Diana smiled, fluttered her
eyelashes and—from what Alexandria could make out from the French
she understood—invented a story of sudden illness in the
family.

The guards seemed reluctant to accept such a
story, but after staring into the coach—which left poor
Marie-Jeanne pale faced and even more withdrawn—and muttering with
each other in low voices, a guard lifted the gate lifted and waved
them through.

Alexandria let out a breath.
But it still
seemed a very long way to the Channel.
She was glad now that they
traveled in a black coach without the Sandal crest upon its doors.
She had borrowed the carriage from her brother, for he had only
just bought it and she had appreciated the modern steel springs and
the touches of luxury he had bought.
If their luck held, his coach
and his daughter would be back with him within the week.

Not two miles later, their luck ran out.

#

Providence arrived in the form of a carriage
and pair.

His side aching, Paxten ran for the
slow-moving vehicle.
No footman stood up behind the coach, so he
caught one of the handholds and swung himself up on the back step.
He clung to the swaying coach, wondering how far it might take him.
The steady clop of hooves replaced that of booted feet on the
cobblestone.
The mist—not so heavy as to soak him, but enough to
dampen his hair and chill his face and hands—left him wishing for a
heavy cloak at the least.

Unfortunately, the carriage did not go
far.

Just the other side of
the
Fountaine des
Innocents
, the ancient vehicle turned a
corner and slowed.
Not wanting to wait until it halted—he did not
need questions about how he came to be hanging on in place of any
footman—Paxten jumped off.
Turning up the collar of his coat, he
put his head down and started back towards the fountain.

His stride long, his side aching, he turned
away from the Marais district—and General D'Aeth's mansion.
He was
not far from the Palais Royal, that den of sin and debauchery which
housed prostitutes, gambling hells, and every other known vice.
Or
at least all the vices he knew.
But he did not intend to stay and
partake.

The diversions of the Palais Royal were just
starting—the night, and the hours for sin, had barely begun.
Even
so, a few gentlemen already the worse for too much drink staggered
from the once-royal buildings.

Paxten watched them, and settled on one
portly fellow—the one who staggered the most.
Following the man to
the stables in the mews behind the building, Paxten waited for his
chance.
The smell of straw and horse filled the damp air.
A thin,
ragged stable boy led the portly man's horse—a sway-backed gray—to
him and helped the man into the saddle with a good deal of
grunting.
Paxten waited in the shadows.

Sure enough, not two doors down the street,
the fellow sagged as Paxten had hoped.
The horse stopped and the
portly man slid from the saddle and into the gutter.

With a glance behind him, Paxten slipped
from the shadows and slid the reins from the drunkard's loosened
fingers.
He started to put his foot in the iron stirrup, but
glanced back at the man who lay passed out in the street.
What if a
carriage passed this way, traveling at too fast a speed to see a
body lying across the way?