Lady Scandal (8 page)

The girl had been lovely beyond words, with
the torchlight playing over that soft, round face.
With those
golden curls, and those huge, luminous eyes.
And the vibrate flash
of spirit that had caught at him.

Another mistake.

Well, it would seem that he would
meet up with the little beauty again.
For her sake, he would hope
to meet her soon.
Marsett could be a danger to her—as he had proven
to the general's wife.
And it seemed from the maid's description
that this Marsett could make himself charming before he revealed
himself as the low cur he was.

Turning to Paulin, Taliaris snapped out his
orders.
"Leave three men here with the maid.
They are to keep her
under guard.
The rest are to be ready to ride in a quarter
hour."

Paulin nodded.
"Yes, sir."

"Pick your men well for the ones who are to
stay—I don't want to learn they decided to drink up whatever is to
be found.
And make certain the fastest horse is left with
them."

"Fastest?"

"Yes, lieutenant.
If someone does come for
this Marie-Jeanne, I want a rider to bring me word of it.
For I
want these Englishwomen—and that damn Marsett—found.
Today!"

#

Dreams—they had to be fever dreams.
Restless, hot, he turned, trying to wake from them.
Alexandria
stood over him, laughing, holding a smoking pistol in her hand.
He
glanced down to see the black-edged hole in his skin—and he clawed
at it, trying to pull it out of him.

"You don't have heart enough to bleed."

He glanced up at the mocking words to see
Lisette D'Aeth now holding the gun and smiling.
"Andria?
Where's
Andria?" he muttered, twisting again, desperate to find her.

Something cool smoothed his forehead.
He
turned into it.
And the world shifted.

He stood outside a London townhouse.
He knew
it at once.
A perfect jewel of a place, tucked into a square with a
park on the edges of Mayfair.
A small house, only two floors,
square but of perfect proportion.
Iron fences marked the property.
Torches burned beside the front steps, giving an orange hue to the
white columns.
The upper windows blazed with light—Lady Sandal and
lord entertained tonight.

He hated the place.
But he had not been able
to stay away, even though he knew she was married.
Even though he
knew he was dragging them both into disaster.

He waited now as he had ten years ago,
standing on the cobblestone street outside the gates.
Only
something was not right.
What was different?
Ah, yes.
The rain.
It
had been cold that night.
Cold and wet as only England could be in
February.
A miserable night.
The coach driver huddled under his
sodden coat, and the pair of horses attached to the hired carriage
stood with their heads down and tails clamped tight.

Only he did not feel the rain—how could he,
hot as he was.
He pulled at his clothes, wanting to drag them off.
Someone murmured something and a hand smoothed his face.
But he was
still waiting.
Waiting in the rain.
Waiting.

But the door to Sandal house opened, and the
figure step out.

No!
Not again.
He did not want to live this
again.

He turned away, opened the carriage and saw
Alexandria inside—as she had not been that night.
That night she
had betrayed him.
She looked as she had then; dressed in white
silk, silver spangles glinting on her gown, diamonds around her
neck and pinned in her hair, her skin so pale under the hair piled
into curls on her head.
She leaned forward from the coach,
stretching out a hand, her arm gloved in white kid to the
elbow.

He smiled at her, but glanced back to the
house, puzzled.
Who had stepped from the house?
Sandal?

But no.
Moonlight glinted on gold braid.
Medals flashed.
A uniform?
He recognized the silver military
whiskers as General D'Aeth raised a dueling pistol and pointed the
wicked long barrel at Alexandria.

With a smothered shout, eyes snapping wide,
his heart pounding, Paxten woke.
He tried to sit up, managed to
lift his head, and that exhausted him.
The world spun, so he closed
his eyes and fell back against a feather pillow that smelled
faintly musty.

Silk rustled.
He reached toward the sound,
and his fingers closed over a slim wrist.
"Andria?"

"Hush—my aunt is resting in the chair by the
fire.
You have had us worried, Mr.
Marsett."

Prying open his eyes, he glanced up into the
face of a golden-haired beauty.
Blue eyes, a rounded, stubborn
chin, and soft cheeks.
Frowning, he stared at her.
Who was she?
Memories drifted back—fleeing Paris, the maid, the carriage ride,
and they had reached an inn, had they not?

Shutting his eyes, he muttered, "The niece
with the edge to her pretty cots.
Dovecotes.
A sweet dove.
Where's
Andria?"

"You are babbling.
But the doctor said we
should expect as much.
Your fever got dreadfully high.
Here, can
you drink this?
It is nearly dawn, but you and my aunt would both
be better for a few hours more sleep."

An arm slid under his head and a glass
pressed to his lips.
Liquid—cool and faintly bitter slipped into
his mouth.
He drank it, greedy for anything wet.
He managed two
swallows before he pushed her hand and the glass away.

"What is it?" he asked, and he heard the
slurring in his words.

"An opiate and something else—broth of some
sort.
Chicken or oxtail."

He made a face.
"A tail to tell.
Throw it
out and bring me water—or tea.
Strong tea.
I dislike the dreams
that gives me."

Cool fingers touched his face again.
Twisting his head, he opened his eyes and stared at her.
She
smiled—Mother Mary, what a beauty.
Far more so than her aunt.
But
that smile brought out a family resemblance.
The girl's mouth was
not as wide, but something about how the brows arched, and how the
expression lit her face from within reminded him of Andria.

Or of how she had once been.
Could she still
smile like that, with such innocence and life?

His glance slid to the fireside.

Alexandria had fallen asleep in an enormous
wing chair, its brocade upholstery worn into shades of brown.
Her
long legs stretched out to the dying embers in the fireplace, and
her skirts had ridden up so he could see a pair of trim ankles.
She
had always had lovely ankles, slim and set off by calves made
shapely from her love of walking.
They had once walked miles
together.
Her head had tipped to the side, and her arm dangled over
the chair, loose with sleep.

Something tightened in his chest.

Closing his eyes, he turned away.
"She still
snores."

"I beg your pardon!
My aunt is too refined
for that.
She is—well, that is merely the deep breathing of one
fast asleep.
And she has earned her rest.
She was up most of the
night with you—you are not a good patient, you know.
Twice we had
to call in the landlord to keep you in bed.
You were raving."

Lead weights now hung from his eyelids, but
he pulled open his eyes to stare at the girl.
"I was?
About
what?"

"Just nonsense." Relieved, he closed his
eyes again, but she added, "You did go on and on about a Lisette.
Who is she?"

"Ah,
ma petite fille
, the opiate must be
clouding my mind—did you ask something?"

"I did.
And if you do not answer, I suppose
I can have my aunt ask you tomorrow."

His mouth twisted.
"A
threat,
ma fille
?
Never wise—it makes you no friends and tells an enemy your
plan."

"We are not enemies, I hope.
And that was
not a threat—a threat would be to say that I shall give you some of
the other noxious concoctions the doctor left for you, which smells
vial, and is made with watered wine and a raw egg."

She spoke with such loathing that Paxten
gave a dry chuckle.
He winced at the dull throb of pain along his
side.

He heard a scrape of a chair on the wooden
floor and more rustling fabric.
And a voice, deliciously low and
soft, begged, "Well, if you will not tell me about Lisette, then
why do you not tell me how is it that you know my aunt so
well?"

He did not answer, but Diana knew he had
heard for one side of his mouth lifted with a rather cynical smile.
She had almost asked if he and her aunt had been lovers, and now
she was glad she had not.
Bad enough to have that mocking smile.
It
would have been unbearable to have him laughing at her for asking
prying questions, as if she knew nothing of the world or how to
judge the level of intimacy between a man and a woman.

Twisted smile or not, he was shamefully
handsome—in a rough sort of way, with dark stubble shaping a strong
jaw, and him lying there, chest naked above the fresh bandages and
well-muscled arms bare above the counterpane.
An intriguing scar
angled across his left shoulder in a short, jagged mark.
A dueling
scar, perhaps?
Or had he been a highwayman?
Or something else
equally dashing?
She could see him as such.
And she could see how
her aunt might be attracted to him.

But had they been lovers?

Something certainly lay between them.
Only a
child would be unaware of the tension that crackled.

However, she had little time now to ask
about it.
His regaining his senses gave her the opportunity, but
with him conscious again she doubted she would be allowed again
into his room.
Certainly not without a maid, or her aunt, as a
chaperon.

To judge by the look of him, she was not
entirely certain she cared to be in his rooms with him fully awake
and no one else nearby.
That rough quality to him—the scar, the
hard muscles, and even the fact that he had thought to hide in
their carriage—quite fascinated, but left her wary.
All considered,
he could not really be very much of a gentleman.

He even seemed intent on ignoring her, so
she asked, impatient with him, "You are not going to answer me, are
you?"

The opiate she had given him thickened his
voice into an even deeper rumble.
"Answer what—nonsense with
nonsense?
How is it anything happens?
The wrong turn taken, the
wrong place arrived at.
Perhaps it is just that fate is not done
with me any more than I am done with your aunt."

His eyes opened to narrow slits—dark eyes,
framed by hard lines.
And he yawned.
Thick lashes drifted closed
and his face relaxed, easing the lines, giving him a deceptive
innocence.

Frowning, Diana folded her arms.
She did not
like how he had spoken just now—not done with her aunt, was he?
Sitting back in her chair, she glanced at her aunt and back to the
sleeping man again.
Was he to be trusted?
She doubted it.
Which
meant she must have his secrets out.

She muttered to him, "If you are going to be
good for my aunt that is one thing, but if you are not...." Leaning
forward, she hoped that even in his sleep he might hear her.
"If
you are not, I shall make very certain you regret it!"

#

For the second time in two days, Alexandria
woke with a stiff neck and an aching body.
She dragged her eyes
open, took in the cold, black grate of the fireplace with its
charred bits of wood, and the chill in the room.
Straightening, she
stretched.
Muscles pulled in her back and something popped in her
neck.
She had fallen asleep in a chair—and left the bed she had
paid for unused.
What waste!
Putting a hand to her curls, she
dragged her fingers through tangles.
Standing, she smoothed her
gown and went to Paxten’s bedside.

At the sight of him, tension eased from her
shoulders.

His chest rose and fell with even breaths
and his skin held a hint of normal color—not that hectic flush of
last night.
She touched the back of her fingers to his forehead.
Only slightly warm.

Voice soft, she murmured, "You wretch—how
very like you to give me palpitations."

He said nothing in reply.
Still sleeping,
thank heavens.
She ought to go to her room and tidy herself.
But
still she watched him.
The doctor had bled him last night, and had
left something to help him sleep and something else for him to take
today when he woke.
The man, elderly and jovial, had seemed to
think the wound—a deep, red gash across Paxten's ribs—would heal
well enough.
The ribs had been bruised but not broken.

Last night, when Diana had translated what
the doctor had said, Alexandria had been relieved.
But fever had
set in.
She had nearly sent for the doctor again.
However, he had
already warned them to expect a bad night.

The sound of horses now in the yard below
drew her attention and she hurried to the window, her brow tight
with worry.
She relaxed when she saw only a farmer and his wagon
outside, apparently here to sell produce to the landlord.
No
soldiers.
Nothing to alarm.
No one had found them.

But how long until someone did come after
Paxten?
She would be foolish not to assume the worst—whoever hunted
Paxten would eventually figure out that he had escaped in her
coach.
Which meant they would soon be searching for her
carriage.

Turning away from the window, she went back
to Paxten's side.
She smoothed the blanket over him.
She had
promised Diana a day—and that had been spent already.
She could not
afford to waste more time.
She knew exactly what needed to be done
to keep Diana safe.
Which meant that she must act.

Quietly, she let herself out of Paxten's
room.
She would need to speak to Diana after she had washed her
face and seen to her own needs.
Then there was the carriage to
order, and the trunks to see to.
So much to do.
But at least she
would not be leaving Paxten at death's door.

#

The hard crack of a carriage whip jolted
Paxten from his nightmares, and had him bolting upright in bed,
clutching his side before he actually identified that sound was not
the shot fired in his dreams.
He glanced around, aware of the
narrow bed under him, of sheets tangled around his naked legs.
And
of the pressure of something around his throbbing ribs.
He glanced
down at the white bandages around his middle, and rubbed a hand
across his face.
A day of stubble scrubbed his fingertips.

The memories trickled into place.
The
doctor.
The medicines poured down him.
Ah, yes.
But had he dreamed
of talking to Alexandria's niece last night, or had that really
happened?
He certainly had dreamed of Alexandria.
And of too many
other things from his past.

Outside in the yard, carriage harness
jingled.
Curious, he rose, padding across the bare wood.
He reached
the window in time to see Alexandria's coach—fresh horses attached,
the coachman up front and the footman standing at the back—as it
rounded the bend in the road that led away from the village.

He pressed one palm against the window.

She had gone.
Left him.
An ache tightened in
his chest.
He shook his head.
What a smart woman she had become—so
very good at looking after herself.
But she had always been
sensible about these things.
And utterly capable of parting company
with him—any of number of times it seemed.

He forced a crooked smile.
Ah, but what did
it matter.
So this ended his plans.
That was all.
If she had gone,
she'd gone.
It left him...irritated, that was all.
Yes, annoyed
that she had outfoxed his schemes.
Well, so it went.
He would
encourage the touch of relief that she had taken away the
temptation to do his worst with her and to her.

With a hand pressed to his sore side, he
made his way back to the bed.
Rising fast had left him light-headed
and he was glad enough to lie down.
Had she left money for his
room, or was he on his own there?
No matter.
He had survived worst.
That winter in Russia for one.
Their parting a decade ago for
another.

Closing his eyes, he decided to worry about
all of it later.

But the door creaked open and clicked close,
a bustle of skirts came closer, and the pungent aroma of hot tea
washed over him.
So she had left someone to look after him—a comely
tavern maid he would hope.

He opened his eyes to see not the maid he
expected, but Alexandria, putting a wooden tray on the seat of
chair that stood next to the bed.

He stared at her.
It could not be fever
dreams still.
Could it?
His eyebrows snapped tight along with his
temper.
"If you are here, then where's your coach gone?"

She offered a calm smile.
"To Calais.
Do you
still take milk in your tea?
I managed that, but no sugar." She
poured dark tea into a pottery mug and served him as if using fine
porcelain, not mismatched bits of china.

Easing himself up on one elbow, he took the
mug and sipped.
Realizing his thirst, he drank it back, the liquid
going down warm and easy.
It lacked only a splash of brandy.

"More?" she offered.
"It took forever to
teach the landlord's wife how to make a decent pot.
She simply did
not understand that one must leave the water on long enough to boil
properly."

He smiled at her as she filled his mug again
and added milk from a small, chipped pitcher.
"I suppose I should
not say this, but I thought you had abandoned me to my fate.
What
did you do—send your niece on without you?"

She glanced at him, those elegant, light
brown eyebrows arching with surprise.
At what?
That he would
confide the truth to her, or that he would think she might part
company with her charge?
"I sent my coach on with the landlord's
cousin and her two daughters—and you may repay me for the amount it
took to bribe them to make the trip.
Are you hungry?
The doctor
left word that you might eat gruel today."

He made a face.
"Spare me.
But you may have
a beefsteak sent up."

"I think not.
The goal is to have you able
to travel soon and not be down with fever again.
Gruel and tea
today.
Tomorrow you—"

"Tomorrow I shall be up and
ordering my own meals, and will be well able to travel.
As to
repayment—
ma chére
, my pockets are to let, though that may change if my luck
shifts and if you care to stake me some coins.
But how are we to go
anywhere now you've stranded us?
What were you thinking,
Andria?"

She had poured herself a mug of tea and now
she sipped from it and studied him over its rim.
Amazing how little
she had changed—a few lines more about those wide, gray eyes, and a
less slender figure.
But he had once thought her too thin—unhappily
thin.
How very long ago that seemed.

"I was thinking," she said, "that the doctor
said at least three days of rest or you may risk an infection.
And
if whoever is after you thinks you might be in my carriage, why not
send it along and give them something to chase.
My brother will not
be happy that I have lost his coach.
But I suspect I should not
have been able to get it across the Channel anyway, and I kept most
of our luggage.
And some of Gaston's clothes—he was one of my
footman, and while his clothes will be too large for you, they look
more respectable than your own."

He raised his mug of tea to her.
"I am
impressed."

"Please do not be.
Expertise in deception is
nothing admirable.
However, since you have involved me—and my
niece—in your troubles, I should like to know exactly who we are
attempting to avoid.
Those soldiers did not seem interested in you
as just another Englishman to arrest."

Paxten sipped his tea and began to sift
through what lies he might tell, but Alexandria surprised him again
by stating bluntly, "Spare yourself the trouble of any inventions.
I have already guessed this involves a Madam Lisette.
And, no, I
have not become a mind reader.
You muttered the name last night
when the fever had you."