Page 15 of My Lady Melisende (Ladies Least Likely #6)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“ D on’t let them see.” Melisende wrapped her hand around Philip’s wrist, the hand he’d tangled in her fallen locks of hair. He looked as stunned as she felt, charged with the bright, hot energy from the attack, of euphoria from their kiss, and that same dazed sense of dangling in midair, the earth and all its planets having shifted.

He hadn’t handed her over to the thief. In the attack, he’d fought to protect her.

As usual, Philip was quick to collect himself. With one hand he plucked his cape from about his shoulders and drew it around her, his other hand pressed near her collarbone to stop the bleeding.

“Are you hurt elsewhere?”

“I don’t think so.”

She leaned against him and he slipped an arm around her back. She winced at the pressure on her old cut, and now she had new ones to match. She must look like a flayed hare, her costume gaping at the bodice, blood smeared everywhere like an ancient sacrifice.

Philip had seen her in this state before, but not all these people. Her father pressed a hand to his throat, his face as white as the knot of lace tied there. Voronsky, the traitor, looked as if he might faint. Lady Cranbury made small yelping sounds. Lady Bess frowned. A couple in imperial purple, the Aldthorpes, gaped in astonishment. More faces peered in from the door and in the hall beyond, murmurs leaping through the crowd as fast as a Christmas pudding set ablaze. Dear heaven, this was a circus, and she, in this undone state, was at the center of it.

Melisende pressed a hand to her bosom, and not just to ensure her breasts weren’t on full display. She had the key. She would allow no one to take it, under any circumstances.

Philip’s arms curved around her, as solid as a shield, a wall against the world. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d felt so sheltered. Everyone saw him holding her, but she couldn’t bear to push him away.

“The thief Bruyit is holding attacked us.” She must push steel into her voice, into her backbone. They couldn’t see how shaken she was. She marched up to the man who had cut her, though her nerves screamed a warning. Philip came with her, as if they were bonded now, like twins born attached to one another.

“Bruyit, how did you know?”

“Poked around belowstairs,” Bruyit rumbled. “Saw the forced window in the storeroom.”

“That weren’t easy,” the thief muttered.

Melisende faced him. His scarred, misshapen face was burned into her mind’s eye; she would see that face in her nightmares, looming above her, the glint of the knife as he swiped it toward her. The cold, astonishing burn as it sliced her skin. Twice now.

“You,” she bit out. She fisted her hand around Philip’s, holding his cloak around her for protection. “Who are you?”

He snarled, showing blackened teeth, some missing. “John Fish, at your service , my lady.” He sneered as if he saw how she trembled.

“It’s not his name that matters,” Philip murmured. “Who paid you to attack her?”

“M’just here for the book,” the man whined. “Din attack anybody. Hear that?” He twisted his head, as much as he could with Bruyit’s hand at his throat, and addressed the count and her father. “Weren’t here for her. Only here for a book. Din hurt a flea.”

“You stabbed her, you?—”

“Dinnit!” The man writhed, wrapping his hands around Bruyit’s wrist. The bigger man held him as if he were a cat. “The cove here,” he called to the watchers. “This fancy cove, he attacked the lady. Tried to slice the lambskin right outta her togs.”

“You cur. You filthy liar. You?—”

Philip looked for his sword, but Bruyit simply tightened his grip. The man clawed at his fingers, gagging. “A’ight, a’ight! Foreign fellow. Accent like a mouth full o’rocks. Posted the smelts to get me ’ere and promised me yellow boys when I brought ’im th’ book.”

“Who?” her father asked shakily. “Who was this man?”

“Aye, got ’is name and pedigree, din I? ’Ad a right proper jabber, we did. Let go, ye big gollumpus?—”

“His name!” Melisende barked as Bruyit shook the man.

“Dunno ’is name!” the thief roared. “Din see his physog neither.”

“How did he find you?” Philip demanded.

“The Saucy Dame. A flash panney in Dark Lane. Right place ain’t that, and the laced mutton’s hellish fine—argh!” He sputtered as Bruyit shook him again. “Met me there. Laid out the job. Said I’m to come back to the Saucy Dame when I’ve got the plate an ee’d give me th’ ribbin.”

“Would you know him if you saw him again?” Philip asked grimly.

“To be sure, guv,” the man sneered. “’E looks like your moth?—”

Bruyit growled, cutting off the rest. Philip wheeled to face Melisende’s father.

“Has someone called the constable? We’ll throw this bully into the watch house and see if his memory improves.”

“Attacked?” Lady Cranbury recovered her voice and the use of her arms. She waved them, flapping her ruffled sleeves as if she were attempting to take flight. “In your home, Voronsky? Here?”

“Yes, here.” Melisende scowled at the count, who looked from his fallen displays and the spatter of broken glass to the ruined desk with bewilderment and dismay. No doubt recalling the blackmail material he had stored there, and wondering what he could salvage.

“I had hoped it would not come to this,” Voronsky said plaintively. He sent a look of appeal at Melisende’s father. “Albrecht—you must know I tried to prevent this.”

“You took the key,” Melisende said, but Philip squeezed her in warning, gently.

The Earl of Aldthorpe gaped at Melisende, his long face more equine than ever. “You took our book, too, did you not?”

“You are fortunate we did,” Philip said. “This man would have been in your house, looking for it.”

His wife gave a little yelp and stepped closer to Aldthorpe, clinging to his arm. “Horace, let us not pursue it. Not now.”

“I will return it,” Melisende said steadily, holding the earl’s gaze. “I know what it means to you. But at the moment, sir, it means more to me.”

“It will be…intact, I hope?”

The burn in her shoulder turned to a sharp ache as the numbness of shock wore off and her body took stock of the damage. Melisende set her jaw. “That is my intention, yes.”

Bruyit shouldered out of the room, herding his prey before him. Satisfaction rippled off his enormous shoulders; he was quite pleased to have finally put his skills to use. The Aldthorpes followed behind, shutting the door on the curious crowd. The latch snicked like the rasp of a door on a cell.

Lady Cranbury collected herself and drew the obvious conclusion, curse her meddling ways and all-seeing curiosity. “You were alone in here,” she said. “You two. Together.” Her dark eyes glittered within her white painted face, decorated with a pair of black silk patches, an affectation she would likely take to the grave, as Melisende guessed they hid smallpox scars.

“Not alone, as it turned out,” Melisende said. The hair on the back of her neck rose in warning. She had to deal with the count, and her father’s distress; he stood with one hand clutching the lapels of his coat as if a robber would dart back at any moment and fall upon him, too. The perplexity and worry in his eyes cut Melisende worse than the knife had. She didn’t have time to deal with Lady Cranbury’s niceties, and Lady Bess—what did her ladyship think of all this?

“You are practically naked, Melisende,” Lady Cranbury cried. “Look at you. This man—did all this?”

“Philip protected me,” Melisende said steadily.

“He has ruined you, child.” Lady Cranbury turned to Melisende’s father. “Your grace—everyone saw. The gossip is spreading as we speak.”

“It does not look well,” Lady Bess murmured.

Cold brushed Melisende’s skin again, at the same time her heart gave an odd hitch.

“Nothing happened, Vati . Nichts ist passiert .”

Her father massaged his chest as if his heart, too, were misbehaving. “Something obviously happened, M?useb?r ,” he responded in German. He tried to gentle the truth with her childhood nickname. “And everyone has seen. They will talk.”

“I am so sorry, Melisende,” the count whispered. “Es tut mir sehr leid. ”

“You.” Melisende’s voice shook. Rage pummeled her body. At least it dulled the pain of her injuries. “You set us up.”

The count dared give her a look of reproach. “I did not.”

“You took the key from Arendale House. From the Viscount Rudyard. You?—”

“He is making an offer of marriage, I hope.” Lady Cranbury broke in with English, adding a disdainful sniff to convey her thoughts at the foreigners speaking in their own tongues.

Melisende sucked in her breath. Beside her, Philip went still. “That isn’t necessary,” she said. “I was attacked, and Phil—Mr. Devlin protected me. My father will reward him as courtesy requires.”

“My dear, he was in the room alone with you for some time,” Lady Bess said gently. “And everyone in the house knows that by now.”

“You must marry him, Melisende,” the count said. “It is the only way to leave this room with your dignity. You realize that, Albrecht, nyet ?”

Her father nodded miserably. He labored for breath, no doubt overcome by shock. Melisende had never shamed him, never. She had been discreet about lovers, she had devoted her life to his cause, she had promised to marry Rudolf if nothing else worked?—

“I am not free to marry.” Melisende swayed on her feet, clutching the fabric of Philip’s cloak. It held the warmth from his body, and his scent. She wished she could be surrounded with that rich heat always, held up by it. “I am affianced to my cousin Rudolf, remember?”

“There is no formal betrothal.” Her father shook his head. “And to be caught like this, if you were betrothed? How does that look, my darling?”

“It is a masquerade,” Melisende said. “Half a dozen couples are going to be caught tonight with someone they oughtn’t be seen with. A round dozen, at least.”

“I stand ready to do whatever is necessary.” Philip straightened his shoulders. The muscles in his arms grew taut, a cage about her.

Melisende glared at him. He was supposed to be on her side. He ought to be as appalled by the suggestion as she was, fighting useless British propriety and the fearsome dames who brew its bounds and held them as if they were battle lines girding a nation.

But it wasn’t just British propriety at stake, she knew that. This gossip would follow her to other courts, the tale that she’d been caught alone at a party with a man of Devlin’s ilk. Her reputation would be as shredded as her costume. Queens might refuse to receive her—Marie Antoinette, for all her silliness, was known to snub women of ill repute. And her own people, when she returned to Merania—for she must return, now she had the key—what would they say when this tale of their grand duchess reached them? How far would her authority stretch if she were seen as a ruined woman?

Her knees turned watery. She leaned against Philip, which didn’t help matters. She had to deny him to protect herself, to make them all see the truth…and she couldn’t bring herself to step away from the shelter of his arms. Something stronger than sense bound her to him.

No . That could not be. She would not allow it.

“How fortunate this has turned out for you, hasn’t it, Mr. Devlin?” Lady Bess remarked.

“Fortunate, madam? The lady was attacked. We fought with a thief.”

“Not at all what you expected when you brought her in here. Alone,” Lady Bess returned.

“Indeed, how convenient to let yourself be caught embracing a grand duke’s daughter.” Lady Cranbury sniffed. She glanced at Melisende’s father. “I warned you about him, your highness.”

Her father looked around for a place to sit, reaching a hand toward a nearby arm chair. Melisende, forgetting herself, rushed forward to help him. Philip’s cloak slipped from her shoulder, exposing the cut, now clotted. Lady Cranbury gave a faint scream. Her father’s expression was worse.

“I don’t—it is nothing, Vati .”

“He,” the count sputtered. “He did this?”

“Not Philip. I told you, he fought off the man,” Melisende said fiercely. Too late it occurred to her what the use of his name implied. “Mr. Devlin, I mean. He acted in my defense, as much as Bruyit did.”

“Yes, I’ve no doubt he made himself completely useful,” Lady Bess said. “Your highness.” She stepped forward and laid her hand on the arm of the chair where Melisende’s father sat. “I will do my best against the gossip, but I can only do so much.”

“Of course he will marry her,” Count Voronsky said. “We will ensure it.”

Lady Cranbury shook her head, casting one final, deprecating gaze at Philip. “What will your mother say? And Miss Maplethorne, who had hopes of you. And here I thought you reached too high when you danced with Earl Payne’s daughter?—”

“Come, Bertha. We must ensure the tale is known about the thief. Try to make Mr. Devlin look like a hero, and not a cad.”

Melisende’s throat dried to a rusk as Lady Bess led out Lady Cranbury, who continued to mutter dire imprecations. A candle guttered in one of the candlesticks. Music struck up from upstairs. A carriage rolled by on the street, and the voices of a pair of drunk young bloods passed beneath the window, singing a ribald tavern song. Time swirled in an endless moment, the last before the sword dropped.

Melisende turned on the count. “You knew Rudyard had the key. How did you know that? And how did you know I needed it?”

The count raised his hands. He looked as if he’d sustained a knife blow, too. “Your father told me.”

“I didn’t tell him,” Melisende snarled.

“Peace, child. Frau Gamper did,” her father whispered, his voice strained.

Philip led Melisende to another chair and she sank into it, her knees folding against her will. “I told you they were not loyal,” he said.

“Of course she is loyal.” Her father pressed his hand against his chest, wincing as he circled his shoulder in his coat. “She told me everything you were planning, including that you planned to search Vadim’s library.”

The count startled. “You could have told me .”

“If you knew he had the key, why didn’t you simply demand it?” Melisende cried. “Have you both set us up?”

“I wanted you to find it in his possession.” The grand duke turned to his companion. He straightened his back, suddenly looking more regal than the other man. “I wanted him to look me in the eye and explain.”

“I want an explanation, too,” Melisende said through her teeth.

Philip stood beside her, a pillar of strength and heat. She didn’t let go of his hand. She needed the support. She couldn’t allow herself to be chained to him in marriage—not him, not anyone—yet the thought of releasing his hand made her heart tear like old lace.

The count slumped in his chair. “I know you will not believe me, Albrecht, but I took the key to protect Melisende. After the attack in Angel Court, I knew your rival was getting desperate to stop you.”

“ You ordered the attack in Angel Court,” Melisende said coldly.

The count reared his head. “I never did. Child! Do you suppose I meant to harm you? I feared how far this man might take things. How determined, how ruthless he might prove to be. I wanted him to come to my house, try his tricks here, and not in your home. I thought, once you knew I had the book, you would confront me. Demand it from my face, and I could explain. I never expected you would sneak around my home.” He looked affronted.

Melisende slumped in her chair, admitting a stab of embarrassment. “I couldn’t trust you. I thought you were working against us. Besides,” she flared, glancing at the overturned desk, “you know a great deal about sneaking. Did you mean to use the key to blackmail me? Or simply offer it for a great price?”

Philip, who’d remained quiet and watchful— too quiet—spoke then, his eyes locked on the count’s face. “He meant to sell it to you, I imagine,” Philip said.

“I would never.” The count lied with all the dignity and outrage he could muster.

Philip’s shoulder was near, broad and firm. Melisende laid her head there, her skull aching. “Rudolf. It must be Rudolf behind this. The thief said the man who hired him had an accent.”

“I can find him,” Philip said. “I can go to the Saucy Dame posing at this man. Take the book as bait.”

Her father shook his head. “I doubt you’ll be able to trace him.” He pinched his lips together, still rubbing his chest. “If he’s clever, like his uncle, he won’t want to be caught in the cellar with the corpse.”

Philip lifted his eyebrows in alarm.

“A German expression,” Melisende assured him. “I’m sure he doesn’t intend to actually kill me. It would reflect badly on him if word got out.” She touched the blood above her cut, drying now, and sucked in air at the surprising pain.

“What will he do when Melisende marries another?” the count asks. “For her husband would be his challenger for the throne. He must know that.”

Her father let his head fall back on the wooden edge of his chair. “This began when we turned him down, M?useb?r . The letter that reached us in France, remember? He insisted you return home to arrange your betrothal to him. We came to London instead, and somehow he discovered how close you are to finding all of the books.”

“He didn’t turn any of our people.” Melisende lifted her head, still reeling at the thought that Frau Gamper had kept none of her secrets. All the time she’d spent with Philip—did her father know of that, too?

She risked a glance at Philip. His blond hair was tousled, dark with sweat above his temples. He seemed so very large as he sat beside her, leaning forward in his chair. No, it wasn’t bulk that lent him a sense of danger; it was the sense that he lay in wait, a lethal strength coiled in the lean, muscled shape of him, the broad shoulders and flat stomach, those legs. He was a powerful man, though the power was leashed at the moment.

A thrill crawled along her body, inside and out. She might be forced to marry him. Bound to him. His possession, in the eye of the law.

And his burden. He would hate the trap, and hate her for it.

She would not have him this way. She would not take him forced.

Philip turned his face toward her. His jaw was a hard slope of granite, his lips a thin slash. She couldn’t read the expression burning in his eyes.

“Your cousin would only need have you watched to know you were searching for the volumes,” he said. “And he’s been asking around to determine how far you’ve gotten. Someone talked to the Duchess of Hunsdon, and Cadmus knew about the treasure, recall.”

A chill scraped the back of her neck. He was so cold now, when in her arms, only moments before, he’d been all fire as he kissed her.

“I suppose Rudolf needed me to find the books, but planned to take them from me before I could discover what lay within them. Much good may it do him.” The bitterness seeped through her tone. “I understand Ladin, and he does not. He spent his childhood being raised at the court in Vienna.”

The reason that the Habsburgs and the Austrian government had not bestirred themselves when her uncle stole their throne. Her uncle Emmerich had spent his adult life currying favor with Venetian officials and aristocrats, while the rightful grand duke had been in Merania, fighting to protect and prosper its people.

And Melisende was fighting to return. She wouldn’t stay here in Britain as a wife, much less a wife he didn’t want. She had meant to taste Devlin and then be done with him.

He tasted of rum and sugar, burningly sweet, devastating. She would crave that taste for always.

“Lady Cranbury is correct, Melisende,” the count said gently. “You cannot leave this room without a betrothal.”

Melisende lifted her chin. Philip beside her was ominously still, yet she sensed the alertness in him.

“I won’t have him forced to marry me. I won’t be forced to marry, come to that.”

“ M?useb?r, ” her father pleaded.

“You know I am right, Vati. How would it look if I return to Merania with a husband I’ve left behind in Britain? For I am going back. I have the map.” She glared at Voronsky, her faithless friend. “I have the key.” She had shed her own blood to retrieve it, and hopefully could decipher the symbols through the stains. “If I am already married, you have no bargaining power to win allies once you are reinstated. We can’t depend on Magret and Carinthia to support us. Every time I make a decision, some objector will be asking, where is her husband?”

Philip stirred. “I would come with you,” he said.

Her heart squeezed, her breath pooling high in her lungs. Come with her and claim the throne as her consort?

Of course. This was what he wanted all along.

Hadn’t she been warned he was aiming high?

She’d drawn him in her mind as the idle rogue, the feckless philander, the wastrel and gambler and spy. A roué who wore and discarded women like cravats. A chameleon who could work his way into any room.

A lesser son of his household with no prospects, not as an Irishman, not as a Catholic, not as the youngest of his house. He could not advance in Britain.

But abroad…

Her chest seared as if she’d been sliced again, deeper this time.

Abroad, in a Catholic country, the son-in-law of a grand duke, he’d have much, much better prospects.

In Merania, he’d have a coronet, an ermine cloak, his own chair of state with its canopy. He would have control over her personal property. He would have the power to overrule her decisions.

He would have access to her bed, whenever he wanted, and by law she could not deny him anything.

Had she been a dupe all this time? His next mark? And had she fallen so easily, so neatly, into his trap?

“I want to decide the course of my life.” Her voice came from far away. “Me. Not Lady Cranbury and English gossips.”

“That time is past, myshka. You are on the back foot, as these English say, and you must repair things as well as you can. If you are going back, you must leave behind good accord with these English.”

The count switched to Russian, Melisende guessed so Philip would not understand him. Her father spoke in the same language.

“If he travels with you, Liebchen , he can provide some protection. All Europe knows the strength of this country.”

“And, once you are reinstated, if he gets in your way, or does not suit your purpose…” Voronsky shrugged. “Your mountains are very high. Or, Russia has very dark prisons.”

“Vadim!” her father said on a gasp.

Melisende widened her eyes on him. “You wouldn’t be suggesting I dispose of my husband when he is no longer of use to me, Count?”

The Russian widened his eyes back at her, pinching lips together. “Did I say as much? But if you did…” He shrugged again. “Such has been done before by women of your station. Many, many examples come to mind.”

Philip shifted in his chair. It occurred to Melisende that while he might have led her to believe he didn’t understand Russian, or German, that could be a pretense. The man was a spy. He lied for a living.

What lies had he made her believe?

“Your father,” Philip murmured to Melisende.

The warning came a second before Albrecht, his face frozen in an expression of horror, pitched sideways in his chair. Melisende lunged forward, but Voronsky reached him first, catching the stiff, lifeless form of the grand duke in his arms.