The Bachelor's Bargain (17 page)

He had not considered that possibility. Might the woman he had married love another man? A footman or a gardener? Despite her assertions to the contrary, maybe she had attached herself to the gamekeeper. Ruel had been told of the man’s pursuit of her. Did she return his affection?

“It was in Paris that I heard again the beloved name of Chouteau,” Walker was saying. “Then I knew I had hope. I made arrangements to meet this man, Etienne Chouteau, uncle of Auguste, who is friend to the Little People. Etienne Chouteau is a great man, very wise and very, very old. He had me brought in a carriage from the prison to his grand house on the Champs-Elysées, and there he told me that he had two brothers.”

Ruel nodded. Yes, yes, he knew the story. There were three of them—sons of Raoul and Marie Chouteau of France—Etienne, Laurent, and René. Etienne lived in Paris and was a grand patron of the aristocracy. Laurent had traveled to England, where he assumed the family’s duchy of Marston, married the Englishwoman Beatrice, and produced five daughters and two sons, the elder of whom was Ruel himself. René had married Marie Therese and journeyed to America to seek his fortune. He became the father of Auguste Chouteau before separating from his wife and fading into anonymity.

The story was as familiar as any nursery rhyme. Ruel was much more interested in the slender woman who had vanished into a copse in the arboretum. Perhaps she was only a commoner, a housemaid, a criminal’s daughter—but she was his wife. She certainly owed her husband the pretense of faithfulness. If she were attending a lover’s tryst, could she not at least conduct her rendezvous away from the grounds of Slocombe House?

The thought of Anne folded into the arms of another man sent a stab of anger through Ruel’s chest. The image of her lips pressed against another man’s mouth . . . of someone placing his hands around her waist . . .

“Do not touch me,”
she had said.
“Promise me
.
”
Of course she could not bear for Ruel to touch her! Of course she denied him the marriage bed. She was in love with someone else. Why had he not seen it?

Because he had been too busy arranging for her father’s defense and sending seamstresses and milliners to clothe her in silk and feathers! Too wrapped up in his own plans and too absorbed in investigating the mystery that swirled around in his head, he had missed the truth in front of him.

“It was Etienne Chouteau who helped me escape to his brother Laurent, in England,” Walker continued, as if he were speaking to a rapt audience. “Here in Devon, though I knew I would never be welcomed as an equal, I was given a home and a trade and treated as a man. I am grateful to your father for saving me from a life in the prisons of France. That is why I shall never go back to that country. Not even for you.”

Ruel scowled at the window. Where had she gone? He had a mind to walk straight down to the arboretum and publicly disgrace her and her ill-bred lover. She was his wife, for heaven’s sake. She had promised allegiance. Did he not have the right to expect a degree of faithfulness?

“Did you hear me, Blackthorne?” Walker asked. “I told you I will never go to France.”

“Dash it all, Walker, you have to come.” Ruel swung around. “Someone is trying to kill me.”

The Indian stared at him. “Kill you? Why?”

“Any number of reasons. Wimberley believes himself cheated of his fortune. Barkham blames me for the seduction of his wife. Droughtmoor claims I ruined his sister.”

“You loved these women?”

“Of course not. They were mere amusements. Any man in my position can be expected to have engaged in various dalliances.”

“But now you are a married man. You will be faithful to your wife, will you not?”

“Well, I . . . I . . .” Ruel glanced out the window. Anne was nowhere to be seen. It had not occurred to him that if he expected faithfulness of her, he would be held to the same exacting standard himself. Could he be loyal to only one woman for the rest of his life? Hard to imagine. Yet the thought of wanting any woman other than Anne . . . that was difficult to imagine also.

But she did not want him. Refused to have him in her private chamber. Would not allow even his hand on hers.
“Do not touch me.”

“If you are settled with a wife and children,” Walker said, “why would these enemies pursue you for revenge? Surely what happened was many years ago when you were barely more than a boy. Among the Osage, a peace gift is given to the one wronged. Why not present these three men with a small measure of your wealth, Blackthorne, as we do among my people?”

“Your people!” Ruel took the man’s shoulder. “You admit it. The Osage
are
your people, Walker, and they always will be. Come to France and America. Help protect me.”

“I cannot.”

“You must. On a roadway in Missouri, I was attacked, stabbed, and left for dead. At sea I was beaten senseless and expected to die. Neither time was I robbed. Both incidents were investigated, but no perpetrator was found and no motive revealed. Three weeks ago, someone shot me through the left shoulder, six inches from my heart. When I fell, the marksman vanished. Who was it, Walker?”

“People said it was the gamekeeper, a spurned suitor of Lady Blackthorne.”

“William Green was drinking ale at the Boar’s Head Tavern in Tiverton at the time of the shooting. A number of reliable witnesses attested to that fact. Who wants me dead so badly he would see me tracked to the ends of the earth by his hired assassins? And if this murderer is so determined and so deceitful that he would send someone to ambush me rather than challenge me to a duel himself, how am I to defend my life? Walker, you have always been loyal. You were the one I came to as a boy when I was frightened, sad, or angry. Indeed, you are the only man I can trust. Help me now. I need you.”

The Indian looked away, his expression troubled. “You ask much of me.”

“Please, Walker.”

His focus on the ground, Walker nodded. “Very well, then. I shall go with you to France.”

“It is not for me alone.” He glanced out the window. “Anne was almost killed by that ball, Walker. She has no idea I am a marked man, and I shall not have her wounded in this way again.”

The Indian lifted his head, surprise written in his brown eyes. “You love her then?”

“Nonsense. Love is for dandies and fluff-brained ladies. I merely want the woman protected . . . for business reasons as much as anything.” He put his hand on the Indian’s arm and turned him toward the door. “Come now, Walker, you had better shut down the smithy and pack your things. We leave for London in the morning.”

As Walker nodded farewell, Ruel stepped to the window again. At that moment the arboretum gate swung open, and Anne slipped out of the shadows onto the path. She wrapped her shawl closely about her shoulders as she hurried toward the house. Ruel wondered if only the evening breeze had chilled her—or if perhaps a man’s fiery kisses had made her shiver.

Four carriages emblazoned with the crest of the Duke of Marston drew rows of spectators as they rolled into London. Ragged boys chased after them while little girls in patches waved from the windows of houses. The curious stares made Anne shrink into her seat. The city was enormous, gray with soot, and so very crowded. Though trees had leafed out in small gardens and flowers bloomed in clay pots, dirt lay heaped in corners, soggy newspapers littered the sidewalks, and the smell . . . oh, the smell. She lifted her handkerchief to her nose and drank in the scent of the lavender blossoms in which the linen fabric had been stored.

“Ah, London,” Ruel said. “Cesspool of England. Home to harlots, actresses, fishwives, and other countless squashed cabbage leaves.”

Anne eyed him. For some reason Ruel was angry, and the closer they drew to town, the darker his mood grew. Now he looked a veritable volcano, smoldering inside his black traveling coat and high, starched collar. His eyes flashed a steely silver gray as he observed the city through the carriage window.

“Armpit of the Thames,” he said under his breath. He had spent the journey discussing one thing and another with his brother. They had talked politics, world affairs, business. Though Anne and Miss Prudence Watson were the only others in the coach, they might have been tufts of horsehair protruding from the seat for all the attention the men paid them. At the coaching inns where the travelers stayed each evening, Ruel played cards, wagering and usually winning large sums of money before he retired to a room alone.

She should have been grateful. Clearly her husband was honoring his promise to keep his distance. All the same, the situation grated.

Anne deplored gaming. She disliked bumpy roads. And she was growing to despise her aloof spouse more than ever. She supposed his ill temper had to do with her insistence that he make a vow of restraint. Too bad. The longer she had thought about their conversation in the arboretum, the more thankful she was for having the presence of mind to extract his promise. The fact was, she did not trust herself.

Ever since that afternoon, she had found herself thinking about the marquess, remembering the way he had held her so tightly beneath the trees, recalling the warmth in his eyes and the scent of his breath. She had wanted him to kiss her then. No matter how misguided that desire, she was not capable of preventing it. Worse, she still wanted his kiss, and each night as she fell on her knees in prayer, she thanked God she would never know it.

What would become of her if she allowed the man his spousal rights? She would become pregnant, of course. She would bear a child, outlive her usefulness to Ruel in the lace venture, and be cast into the streets like the poor women he termed “squashed cabbage leaves.”

“The house on Cranleigh Crescent should be opened by now, but just barely.” His low voice against her ear startled her. Lifting her head, she realized that Sir Alexander and Prudence were deep in conversation—hidden artfully behind her open fan. Having worried about a growing attachment between the two, Anne would have liked to eavesdrop. But Ruel had chosen the moment to confer privately with her.

“The servants should have aired out the rooms and put things right,” he remarked. His shoulder pressed against hers, and his warm breath stirred the hair over her ear.

“How nice,” she managed.

“For appearances’ sake, you will take the suite next to mine.”

Anne dipped her head in acknowledgement. If she intended for the marquess to keep his part of their agreement, she must keep hers and pretend to be his loving wife. If they slept in different wings, every footman and maid in the house would know. Gossip in the great houses ran rampant, as Anne well knew, and what a maid from one family whispered to a maid from another was soon common knowledge in Society.

“Miss Watson will be returning to Trenton House, of course,” Ruel continued. “I understand her elder sister is expected home at any time from a journey abroad.”

“Indeed, as Prudence herself has informed me. Although she has not received a letter from Mr. and Mrs. Locke in several weeks, she learned of her sister’s whereabouts in
The
Tattler
. My friend and I are among Miss Pickworth’s most avid readers, you know. Nothing in Society—whether rumored or factual—escapes our intelligence.”

Anne watched Ruel’s left eyebrow lift as he regarded her. In truth, she had little use for Prudence’s devoted appetite for every tidbit of information dealt out by the mysterious Miss Pickworth. As a minister’s daughter brought up in Nottingham, Anne was unfamiliar with the names of London’s
ton
and cared not a whit for their intrigues and assignations.

But she had learned to appreciate Miss Pickworth’s column in
The Tattler
for another reason. Once the gossip was dispensed, the anonymous writer answered questions put forth by her readers. So impassioned were the queries—and so sensible Miss Pickworth’s answers—that Anne had come to eagerly anticipate the arrival of the newspaper each afternoon. Indeed, she had even considered setting her own dreadful situation before Miss Pickworth in hope of some response that might lead to a happy resolution.

“I shall be most disheartened to lose my friend’s companionship,” Anne said. “Perhaps if your brother had not so hastily engaged himself to a Frenchwoman, Miss Watson might have continued in my presence a great deal longer.”

Ruel studied the two whisperers for a moment and then returned his attention to Anne. “As it is a short walk across the green, I imagine you will have ample opportunity to meet with Miss Watson while we are in London. We shall take callers, give dinner parties, and attend balls.”

“How delightful.”

His expression darkened. “Lady Blackthorne, you will behave as Mrs. Davies instructed you, and your manners will be impeccable. No matter what is said of you, you will hold your head high. You will remember that you are the daughter of a minister, the heiress to a duchy, and the wife of a marquess.”

“A man with whom I am deeply in love,” she added. “And how long are we to continue our charade before Society, Lord Blackthorne?”

“Until the time is right.”

“This pretense is all about France, is it not? You are waiting for something to happen in Paris.”

“Insightful, as always.”

Anne drew away and fingered the fringed curtain on her window. Then she leaned into him again to whisper her concern. “Do you expect that little emperor to do something to make your lace venture more profitable? Surely he will not permit the aristocracy their fripperies. The common people fought far too hard against such luxury.”