The Houseparty (23 page)

"What is going on here?" Elizabeth exploded once she had caught her breath. "What in the world are you up to? Is Rupert a traitor too?
And my brother?"
Her voice was high-pitched with anxiety.

"There is no need to get hysterical,"
Fraser
said in a repressive voice. "And you might as well resign yourself to the fact that I am going to tell you exactly nothing. I would strongly suggest you go inside and spend your time pursuing some improving activity. And keep out of the way. If you're a good girl, I'll explain it all to you tomorrow." He gave her a little push.

"If I'm a good girl?" she echoed, infuriated. "I'm going to stop you, Michael
Fraser.
I'm not going to let you get away with whatever it is you're doing, and I'm not going to let you drag Rupert and Jeremy down with you."

"And what," he inquired casually, "has convinced you that I am such a villain? Has it ever occurred to you for one moment that I might be on the side of the angels?"

"No," she snapped. "I know you far too well."

"After two days? I take leave to doubt that. However, my sweet termagant, you'll have a chance to remedy that before long. In the meantime, go back inside. I have some thinking to do."

"With pleasure," she said icily, flouncing away. Keep out of the way, she fumed. Oh, you'd like that very well, my fine Captain
Fraser.
But I am going to do no such thing. I am going to find General Wingert and tell him exactly what is going on. And then we'll see who's so clever.

But then I might be betraying Jeremy, she thought belatedly as she let herself into the deserted ballroom from the terrace. I don't dare do that, and well Michael knows that. He knows that I daren't trust anyone, that I have no choice but to do just as he tells me. The only person I can turn to is
myself
. The thought was scarcely reassuring.

Stepping out into the hallway, she started for the stairs. The general and his compatriots would be deep in their schemes for some time yet. Most of the ladies, with the possible exception of the
Contessa
of Billingsgate, would be much too involved in their own business to come in search of her. But the
contessa
had drunk a formidable amount of wine with lunch, and there was little doubt she was at that moment reposing sleepily by the fire, her heavy lids drooping over her usually sharp eyes. Michael would be too caught up in his chicanery to keep an eye on her while she snooped.

Please let it be all right, she prayed silently as she crept along the deserted corridor. Jeremy couldn't be a traitor!
Sweet heaven, don't let Rupert be betraying his country and leading his oldest and dearest friend astray.
Let him be on Jeremy's side. And oh, dear God, let Michael
Fraser
be on his side, too. Or I shall kill him with my own bare hands, she promised grimly.

As Elizabeth had suspected, there was a large mahogany desk in the center of the small sitting room that opened onto Sir Maurice's bedroom. The top was littered with papers and broken pens and several books open at various strategic passages. The curtains were drawn against the cloudy day, and she didn't dare pull them back to allow any more light into the room. She leaned over the desk, peering at the papers, her face screwed up into a frown as she tried to make sense of the various dispatches, notes, reports, and the like, hoping against hope that she'd find the answers to the thousand questions that were racketing around in her brain. It was beyond her. There was nothing that could help her decide just how villainous the men she loved most were.

So engrossed was she in trying to decipher the contents of one particular missive that she failed to hear the door open, failed to notice the large, menacing figure that crept up silently behind her. She heard the faint creaking, and then a heavy object crashed down on her head, and she collapsed with a small sigh into a graceless heap on the red Turkey carpet, leaving her assailant staring down at her with mixed emotions.

It was dark and cold, and Elizabeth was extremely uncomfortable.
For one thing, her wrists and ankles were tied together with ruthless bonds that felt as if they were made of ground glass but doubtless were in actuality rough hemp. They had seen fit to tie her onto a chair, placing a gag in her mouth so that she couldn't scream for help once she regained consciousness. She tried to wriggle but found herself unable to move. As the pain in her head suddenly made
itself
known, she decided quickly that she preferred not to move or even breathe as long as that shattering pain continued.

Her memory, along with her thinking processes, was a trifle hazy. It was with great effort that she remembered standing over Sir Maurice's desk.
And then, nothing.
Not even a flash of blinding pain, though her head was now busily making up for its original
forebearance
. She could see nothing and wondered if they had put a blindfold over her eyes. She squinted but could feel no cloth across her face. Indeed, as she became accustomed to the dark, a faint glimmer of light appeared in the direction of where her feet should be. Moving her aching head backward, she felt rough wool suspended over her
head,
and against her cheek the faint coolness of a metal button.
Someone's closet, then.
The question
was,
whose?

But more important, thought Elizabeth, shedding easy tears of pain and exhaustion, was ridding
herself
of this demonic headache. With a snuffle and a small sigh, she shut her eyes again and fell asleep.

The voices woke her. By this time the thin ribbon of light beneath the closet door was fainter, and she vaguely wondered what time it could possibly be. Surely someone would miss her before long and come searching for her? She could only hope she had been placed in the closet of an occupied room, though the coats hanging above her seemed to suggest she need have no fears on that score. If someone had trundled her off into one of the uninhabited bedrooms, she might not be found until . . . The thought was quite horrid, and Elizabeth began struggling at her bonds with renewed vigor. She wasn't about to submit tamely to being bludgeoned and trussed up like a capon, she thought furiously, ignoring the pounding of her poor abused skull. As soon as she found out who dared to assault her, she would . . .

Suitable revenges danced pleasurably in her mind as she applied herself to her bonds, which were proving not quiet as incapacitating as previously.

The voices came again, and Elizabeth halted her struggles. The first voice was unfamiliar to her ears. The second one she recognized with a cheerful gnashing of teeth and renewed fervor toward her bonds.

"May I help you, sir?" It was an upper-class servant's accent.

Fraser's voice came back in clipped businesslike tones. "I don't think so, Holmes. I was merely checking to see if I left a dispatch on the general's desk. I don't seem to find it, however."

"I'll tell him you were looking, sir."

The voice was sepulchral and ever so faintly threatening. Elizabeth leaned back, digesting the information as she listened to the two pairs of footsteps move away, the door open and close, and then the silence closing in once more. So she was in General
Wingert's
bedroom, just off the sitting room. Her assailant hadn't been able to carry her farther than the nearest closet. Perhaps there were advantages to being taller and more generously endowed than most women.

A moment later the door opened again, quietly, surreptitiously, and a single set of footsteps entered the room. There was the quiet sound of opening and closing drawers, the rustle of papers, the creak of the bed, and then loud voices from out in the hall. The footsteps in the room moved quickly, directly toward the closet.

The dusky light of evening blinded her as the door was flung open, and then a figure blocked it out, tripping over her in his haste to conceal himself and in the process giving her a nasty thwack on the shin. The door shut behind him, and she was trapped in the closet with a nefarious stranger.

She was in no way surprised when Fraser's explosive whisper came to her ear. "So there's where you got to," he said coldheartedly. "Who had the good sense to tie you up and toss you in here?"

Her response was a muffled "
mmphnn
" before his hand reached over her gag and silenced her. "Be quiet," he whispered, "or you may not live to make another sound if those two should hear us."

It was the same servant's voice from before. "I have no idea what Captain
Fraser
was doing in the room, sir. You told me he'd have no reason to go through the contents of your desk without you present, and yet not five minutes ago I found him, cool as you please, sorting through that pile of papers there."

"I don't know if I quite trust the good captain, Holmes," General
Wingert's
high-pitched voice came back to the two eavesdroppers. "He came highly recommended, but I somehow doubt his loyalty to me. He's the only one who knows enough to cause any difficulty tonight. Since he hasn't accompanied Sir Henry on his little ride, we may have to do something about him.
If not this evening, then in the next few days.
A riding accident, perhaps?"
There was a meditative tone to his girlish voice.

"Would you like me to see to it, sir?" Holmes inquired in the tone of voice one would use to inquire whether the stockings were suitable for evening wear.

"Perhaps.
We shall see how this night's work goes. He may have a chance to demonstrate his loyalty to me. Which direction did he go in?"

"I believe back downstairs. That nosy Traherne girl has disappeared. No doubt he'll be trying to find her."

"Excellent! Leonora and Adolphus are busy in a mad flirtation, and
m'sister-in-iaw
is sound asleep by the fire. I gather that bone-headed vicar is off trying to make up with the Irish chit, and
Hatchett
and the others have headed off by now. We should have only
Fraser
to worry about. And since he's clearly besotted with the Traherne wench, he should be no problem at all. If he is, I'm sure I can count on you to back me up if I need assistance."

"Certainly, General Wingert.
Were you planning to retrieve the list now?"

Elizabeth drew an involuntary gasp of breath, and she felt Fraser's hot breath on her cheek. "Don't make a sound, Lizzie," he breathed, his lips brushing her skin. She squirmed in protest, moving closer to him. He seemed to take that as a sign of encouragement and continued to move his mouth along her cheek, down her neck, leaving a trail of burning kisses that completely distracted her. All the while he was listening intently to the general's treasonous plans.

"There could hardly be a better time. We're due to leave tomorrow morning, and I don't fancy wandering around the battements at two o'clock in the morning. Besides, Leonora might choose this night of all nights to spend the entire time in my bed, and then what would I do? I don't trust the trollop further than I could throw her. She and Adolphus will make an excellent pair.
The fat fool."
The first pair of footsteps moved across the room. "Where's the coat, Holmes? I want the pouch in the lining. You'll take it to France yourself this time.
LeBoeuf
couldn't have chosen a worse time to get himself killed. We'll have to be doubly careful this time."

"The gray coat, sir?" he inquired anxiously, and with mounting horror Elizabeth heard his shuffling gait moving directly toward the closet.
Fraser
gave her a tiny little bite on the collarbone before continuing with his demoralizing little kisses. He began to undo the buttons at the back of her neck.

"Not in there, fool! Do you think I'd leave it in the closet for anyone to find? I told you I didn't trust
Fraser.
It's in the bottom drawer of the blanket press. That's the ticket." The tone of satisfaction was evident, and Elizabeth breathed a little sigh of relief. Fraser's mouth moved across her throat.

"That's it, then." There was a curious note in the old man's voice, both of exultation and of nervousness. Like a bride on her wedding night, Elizabeth thought as Fraser's mouth edged lower.

She made a small protesting noise as she moved closer to his commanding body, her movements hampered by the chair attached to her trim ankles. A small, silent laugh shook
Fraser,
and deft fingers reached up and slipped the gag from her mouth. She had scarcely a moment to draw a breath before his hot, hungry mouth covered hers. And then everything faded from consideration: the list, Jeremy, the traitorous general. There was no reality but the velvet darkness and his mouth on hers as time and space ceased to exist.

The door closed into the hallway with a decisive snap, and the sound of the general's brisk gait faded in the distance. Before Elizabeth could begin to divine Fraser's intention, that questing mouth left hers, the door was flung open, and the tall, cadaverous figure of Holmes, the general's valet, was lying on the floor, knocked unconscious by Fraser's speedy deftness and a handy Sevres vase. He turned back to Elizabeth, his expression unreadable in the dimly lit room.

"Sorry, darling. I think I'll leave you there where you won't cause any more trouble," he said lightly. Before she could open her mouth to protest, he had slipped the gag back over her. "There," he
said,
a note of satisfaction in his voice. "That should keep you until I return." She cast him a mute, furious glance out of her sherry-colored eyes. He moved back to her side, kissed her on her freckled nose, and smiled down at her beguilingly.