CHAPTER 17
T he night was fine, the sky filled with stars and a silver half-moon shining down upon the lush lands of Haynesdale. Esmeralda had collected the favor that Mrs. Emerson said was owed to her: earlier that afternoon, Mrs. Oliver had called at Southpoint with her maid, insisting that she wished to be away from the bustle at the big house on the night of the ball. Ophelia had remained there, in the guise of Mrs. Oliver, after helping Esmeralda to dress as herself.
She wore the blue gown and the choker of pearls, the valuable sapphire brooch at her throat. Her dark hair was twisted up and studded with small glittering pins that looked like stars, and though the pistol was heavy in her pocket, it could not be discerned. She loaded it before descending to the carriage, set the safety, then put it away. The weight of it against her thigh was more than welcome.
It felt good to dress as herself again and leave Mrs. Oliver behind, if only for the moment. She could not help but be flattered at the reaction of her host and hostess when she descended the stairs. Compliments were exchanged, for Captain Emerson was dashing in a navy coat that showed his trim figure to advantage. Mrs. Emerson was lovely in pale blue, her happiness giving her a radiance no gown could provide. They entered the small carriage together, Esmeralda having established that these two would not be swayed from their determination to arrive with her at Haynesdale Manor.
It was refreshing to meet someone who cared more for their own inclinations than their reputation.
Ahead of them was the carriage from Addersley, carrying the viscount and his wife and mostly likely Lady Dalhousie to the ball. There was already a queue to the entrance of Haynesdale Manor and the great house glowed with candlelight at every window.
“It is a shame the construction is not completed,” Eliza said. “It will be so warm that some might have liked to take refuge there, and the new plan for the terrace and gardens will make it most inviting.”
“The guests will not abandon the bounty of your brother’s hospitality so readily as that,” Emerson said. “It looks as though they will be numerous.”
“So numerous that the duke could not have composed the guest list,” Eliza said wryly and her husband nodded agreement. “How clever of him to host a fête when he is not even in residence.”
“One must wonder if he planned it that way,” Emerson replied and they all smiled, for Damien’s dislike of large gatherings was well established.
“If nothing else, his agreement has given Maman a welcome distraction from the pending disruption of the gardens. The only thing she loves almost as much as her roses is the planning of a party, and I have no doubt that she will excel herself in introducing Mlle. LaFleur to those of influence,” Eliza said.
“Praise be that Haynesdale can afford it,” Emerson murmured and his wife laughed at him.
Esmeralda’s gloved hands were carefully folded together in her lap, but she felt as taut as a bowstring despite her apparently composed demeanor. She knew Jacques had arrived in Nottingham. She could fairly smell his menace. The weight of the pistol in her skirt was a reminder of her cold intent, and she prayed that all would proceed as planned.
When the carriage was halted in the line and a hundred feet from the stairs, she could bear it no longer. “I will walk,” she said. “I will walk to the door and arrive alone, lest you carry the stain of my reputation.”
“But,” Eliza began to protest.
“Are you certain?” Emerson asked her.
“I cannot bear to sit still any longer,” she confessed when she knew she should not have done. Immediately his eyes narrowed and he became more alert.
“What will happen this night?” he asked softly, and Eliza’s eyes widened.
“I cannot say, but all will be resolved one way or the other, and I am glad of that.”
“Does Haynesdale know of this?”
“I cannot say.”
The married pair exchanged a long look, proof that those whose hearts were as one could communicate without words. Emerson then rapped on the roof with authority, and sprang to open the door. He handed Esmeralda down, his gaze falling to the unusual movement of her skirts with an understanding she should have anticipated. “Be careful,” he said to her softly when her feet were on the ground.
She rapped her fan on his shoulder. “I am always careful, sir,” she replied, a laugh in her voice, but he did not smile. He stood, watching her, and she felt the weight of his gaze upon her as she stepped toward the entry to the house. She waved at those who peered out the windows of their carriages at her, and laughed at comments and greetings. She was, once again, the most celebrated courtesan of London, able to charm the birds from the trees, a delightful companion and one who gave no hint of the deadly intent in her heart.
As much as Esmeralda might have wished for an ally, some responsibilities had to be fulfilled alone. She glimpsed a figure on the roof, a fleeting silhouette, as if a person peered down at the arriving guests and she almost waved to her old adversary.
Instead she turned, letting the light fall upon the gem at her throat and her face, giving him a clear view of the prize he obviously sought. She laughed loudly then continued to the doorway. There was a queue on the stairs of guests waiting to be introduced, and the house looked splendid. Those guests openly admired it as they waited, though conversation faded to silence in Esmeralda’s immediate proximity.
She pretended not to notice.
She wondered where she would find Sylvie and her grip tightened on her reticule.
“Miss Esmeralda Ballantyne,” she said to Farrell at the entry to the ballroom, who gave no sign of realizing that she had been staying in the house as Mrs. Oliver. His eyes rounded slightly and his expression became disapproving, but he turned and announced her all the same.
Esmeralda sailed into the room, searching for Sylvie. Instead, she found the dowager duchess before her, that lady’s smile knowing. “How interesting to finally meet you, Miss Ballantyne,” she said. “And I had no notion you had been invited tonight.”
Esmeralda smiled. “If I waited upon invitations, Lady Haynesdale, I should spend many evenings alone. When I heard of this ball, I could not suppress my desire to see your famous gardens. I hope I do not offend.”
“Of course not, though you will see little of them at night.”
“An oversight on my behalf, to be sure.”
The dowager duchess considered Esmeralda. “How curious it is that I feel I have met you before,” she mused. “Though that surely cannot be.”
“Surely not. We do not move in similar circles, most of the time.”
“True enough, but there is something about your eyes, Miss Ballantyne, that puts me in mind of a recent guest of my son’s.”
“Truly?” Esmeralda feigned surprise.
“Truly. Though as much as I might welcome the opportunity to introduce you to Mrs. Oliver and assess the similarity myself, she has made her regrets on this night.”
“She no longer is your guest?”
“No. She was to leave tomorrow, but confessed that she found the preparations for the ball to be disturbing. She departed today instead and stays with my daughter on this night. It was a decision hastily made, so her maid will pack her belongings for the morning and follow her mistress. I hope my son will not be disappointed that his guest left before his return.”
“I daresay the duke will overcome any disappointment in that direction.” Esmeralda realized that her tone had hardened when she saw consideration dawn in the older lady’s eyes.
“He may, Miss Ballantyne,” she said softly, then leaned closer. “But you should acknowledge the possibility that he may not.” Their gazes clung for a moment, as if Lady Haynesdale would impress her view upon her guest. Then she smiled and glanced over the line. “Goodness, I am remiss in greeting my guests. I hope that we will speak again later, Miss Ballantyne.”
“As do I, my lady.”
“If you truly have an interest in the gardens, I believe Lady Dalhousie has just gone onto the terrace with my son’s ward, Mlle. LaFleur. I have no doubt that is their destination, and you might have company for your perusal of the roses.”
Esmeralda curtsied deeply. “Thank you, my lady.”
The wretched ball.
Damien had not precisely forgotten about it, but neither had he concerned himself with it – not until he found the road ahead of him crowded with conveyances, a line of carriages and coaches with the obvious destination of his own house. His mother must have invited all of England.
The only mercy was that he had chosen to ride from Colchester. The horse was not his own, but it was a fine beast, young and filled with a need to run. He urged it to the side of the road and gave it rein to race toward Haynesdale Manor, leaving the carriages behind. No small number of their occupants leaned out the window after he passed, striving to identify the rider whose mission was so urgent.
And it was urgent. He had a growing sense of doom, one that could not be dismissed. As soon as he had heard the tidings of DesJardins’ escape, he had guessed that villain’s destination. What would DesJardins do if he arrived first? How far would Esmeralda go to defend her sister? Damien could guess and he knew he had to intervene in time.
There was a lane that turned off the road and made its way through a patch of forest to the stables. Damien took it, trusting the horse to find a sure footing even in the shadows. The path was beaten down from years of steady use, and kept cleared on either side.
If there was surprise at his sudden appearance at the stables, it was hidden well. The ostler strode forward to take the horse’s reins, running an admiring hand down the neck of the beast. “He is from the coaching inn at Colchester. I believe he does not take well to the coach and they despair of him for that task.” Damien dismounted, jumping from the saddle. He only realized when he was on the ground and the ostler was considering him with a measure of surprise that it had been a long time since he had done as much on impulse.
“He might make a fine addition to your own stables, sir.”
“That he might. He will remain here a few days, during which time you might assess him better.”
“Not on this night, my lord,” the ostler said with a smile. “We are beset.”
“To be sure.” He raised his hands. “And I am late.”
The ostler grinned, then led the horse away as Damien strode toward the house. He went immediately to his rooms, ringing for Townsend as he entered. He could not make an appearance without changing his mired boots at the very least. He tapped at the door to Esmeralda’s room, only to have no reply. He unlocked the door and found the chamber both dark and empty.
He lit a candle, noting that her trunk was there. All of her belongings were arranged in its vicinity, as if she was interrupted in the act of packing. The pages of her book were no longer in the desk, but he opened the trunk and found them there, bound with ribbon.
He also found a well-crafted wooden box, of a size and shape that he recognized well.
No. She could not possess such a thing. Who would sell a pair of dueling pistols to a woman? No, he had to be mistaken. The box had to be for some other purpose.
But when Damien opened it, needing to be sure, he discovered that he was right.
Worse, one pistol was missing.
He seized the other, loaded it and left the chamber, extinguishing the light as he went. He found Townsend awaiting him but strode past the astonished valet. There was no time to change his boots.
He had to find Esmeralda as soon as possible.
He did not even have time to offer an explanation to Townsend before he heard a scream.
“From the garden, my lord,” Townsend said, reaching the French door first and unfastening it. “Will you have a lantern, sir?”
“No,” Damien replied. “No, thank you, Townsend. This quest will be best accomplished in darkness. You might locate Pearson and Tate and tell them where I have gone, and Captain Emerson if he has arrived.”
“Very good, sir.” Townsend’s words went unheard, for Damien had already vanished into the darkness of the gardens.
Esmeralda had only just stepped onto the terrace when she heard a woman’s scream. The lady was clearly at some distance from the house, for the sound of her dismay was not overly loud. Esmeralda glanced back but none of the other guests appeared to have noticed the cry. There was no one else on the terrace at this early hour, but she could not risk taking the time to summon help. The hair prickled on the back of her neck.
Had it been Sylvie or Lady Dalhousie who cried out?
Esmeralda raced into the darkness, glad she had a notion of how the garden was arranged thanks to her time in the house. Where would Jacques go? The house was built in the shape of a U, with the ballroom and entrance in the middle section. The terrace was nestled inside that U, and the gardens surrounded it, extending beyond the furthest rooms on each wing. The rose garden was to the right, where the wing of the building sheltered it from the north wind. The kitchens were at the end of that wing, and beyond them were storehouses and a small road that wound its way to the main road. If Jacques wished to avoid being seen, that road would offer the best opportunity for him to put distance between himself and the manor unobserved.
She wondered if he might have arrived that way. He might have left a carriage or a horse there, one that would be overlooked in all the bustle of deliveries being made for the ball. She turned her steps in that direction and strode quickly through the shadowed grounds.
Her eyes widened when she realized there was a form on the ground ahead of her, a fallen figure touched by moonlight. Esmeralda dropped to one knee beside the victim before she realized it was Lady Dalhousie. She caught her breath when she saw the dark gleam of blood on her temple. Such a savage assault upon an older lady could only have been done by one man.
“Lady Dalhousie,” Esmeralda whispered. Lady Dalhousie stirred but did not awaken. Esmeralda felt warm blood soak her gloved fingertips when she checked the wound, and her gentle touch made the older lady flinch.
Lady Dalhousie inhaled suddenly and seized Esmeralda’s hand in a fierce grip. “He took her!” she whispered in dismay, then collapsed to the ground again. She closed her eyes as her tears flowed. “The fiend,” she said softly and shook her head.
“I will find her,” Esmeralda vowed and the older lady gave a sob.
“That pretty child,” she whispered, leaving no doubt who she meant. “He means her ill, I am sure of it.”
Esmeralda shared that conviction. She straightened and pulled the pistol from its hiding place, checking it once again. Her heart thundered.
“Good,” Lady Dalhousie whispered. “ Good . Go. I will be fine. Help that poor girl.”
Esmeralda shared a nod with the older woman then moved past her, walking silently through the deserted garden. She held the pistol at her side, knowing it would be disguised by the shadows and her skirts. She peered into the darkness and listened with every step.
It would have been prudent for Jacques to flee before his presence was revealed, but she knew him too well to believe that. Who had taught her that men always desired more? It had been the insatiable Jacques. His plan would be to leave with Sylvie and with the pearls. Did he mean to take Esmeralda along or leave her dead?
She was determined to ensure that his scheme was foiled. Only one of them would survive this encounter.
She made steady progress, if slower than might be ideal, moving past the rose garden. At the end of it, there was a path between a number of large and well-established rhododendrons. The shrubs were covered with blooms that would be of various colors in daylight. They encroached on the strip of lawn that wound between them, each at least twice as tall as Esmeralda, growing in great lush mounds. Shadows clustered around them.
Esmeralda rounded one and glanced back, realizing that the terrace was hidden from view by the shrubbery. She could barely see the lights of the house through the foliage, and the kitchens were similarly hidden. The air was hushed and still, and she had the sense that she had stepped into a trap.
She spun to look ahead, just as she heard a slight gasp.
“ Bon soir , Esmé,” a familiar voice said and her blood ran cold. “I knew we should meet again.” Jacques stepped into the moonlight. He held Sylvie before himself, as if she were a shield, and Esmeralda saw the glint of the knife blade at the younger woman’s throat. Sylvie was clearly terrified, but she remained silent and still, even as a trickle of her blood ran over the blade. “You know what I desire, Esmé. I will have what is mine.”
Esmeralda wondered if he had seen the pistol. She kept it by her side and lifted her other hand to the brooch at her throat. “I will trade you the brooch for the girl.”
Jacques laughed. “I will have the brooch, or she will die.”
Sylvie caught her breath as the knife blade dug deeper. Jacques smiled at Esmeralda’s predicament and she despised him a hundred times more than she ever had.
“You see how it is, Esmé. Always I win, and you only make matters worse when you fight me.” He lifted Sylvie. “I could cut her face and she would remember me each time she looked in a mirror.”
“You would not, for that would mar her beauty,” Esmeralda countered. “What would be her value to you then?”
He chuckled darkly. “She is too soft for my purposes. Non , her value lies in your need to defend her.” His tone turned taunting. “What will you offer to see her safe, Esmé? You are not so aged as yet to be without admirers. There are a few more years that you might keep me in comfort. And you know as well as I do that there are men who care more for a whore’s willingness to indulge their urges than her age or appearance. You might do well with such clients even in your dotage. They would not even care about the bruises.” His smile flashed. “I am not the only one who likes that you are filled with fire and will fight to the end.”
Outrage filled Esmeralda, for she would not be sold into abuse by this man or any other. “Alas, the interval in prison has doused my fire,” she said, offering a shrug.
“ Non .” Jacques shook his head with confidence. “You are here, Esmé. You will defend this child, regardless of the cost to yourself. Your passion still burns. Come with me and I will leave her here, untouched.”
Esmeralda’s anger cooled to a fire of resolve. “You will never leave her, not now that you know of her existence. You will haunt her as you have haunted me, until you possess her and destroy her.” She tore the brooch from the choker of pearls. “Take what you came to retrieve, and leave us both.”
“Leave? I will not leave unsatisfied!”
“Nor will I,” Esmeralda replied. She flung the brooch to one side, and it landed gleaming on the grass. Jacques swore and lunged toward it, dragging Sylvie with him. His attention was fixed on the gem and Esmeralda lifted the pistol.
She hesitated, though, even to injure so foul a man as Jacques.
And in that instant, there was a shot from another weapon.
Jacques roared with pain as the bullet tore into his right shoulder, sending him spinning backward. Blood flowed from the wound and he swore as Sylvie twisted hard against his grip. He swore again and strove to seize her, but she jabbed her elbow into his ribs hard. She kicked at his feet in the same moment and he stumbled, though his knife blade drew a fine line across Sylvie’s shoulder.
As soon as Sylvie was free of him, Esmeralda braced the hilt of the pistol with her other hand, just as she had been taught, and took her aim.
Jacques crawled the last increment to claim the brooch, his right hand closing over it. She knew no injury could keep him from such a treasure.
Then he turned a livid gaze upon her.
“You will not do it, Esmé,” he snarled. Alas, he was not dead, merely injured and enraged, which did not bode well for either of them. “You are but a woman, with a woman’s weaknesses, and your defender has spent his shot.”
He smiled then and rose to his feet with some difficulty, clutching the gem. His gaze flicked to Sylvie then to Esmeralda as he retrieved his knife and his grin widened. “I will return,” he said darkly, then spun and raised his hand to fling the knife at Sylvie.
Esmeralda did not even think. She fired without hesitation once he threatened Sylvie thus. This bullet tore through Jacques’ chest with deadly power. His eyes widened, as if he was astonished, both knife and brooch fell from his fingers, and he fell to his knees. He wavered there as Esmeralda watched, the pistol in her shaking hands.
“Esmé,” he whispered, as if she had betrayed him, then tumbled forward onto the grass.
Even in the moonlight, she knew he would never move again.
She exhaled and caught Sylvie close as the young girl began to sob on her shoulder. To her surprise, the Duke of Haynesdale strode out of the rhododendrons, looking disgruntled. He held the partner of her dueling pistol in his grasp. He bent over Jacques, nudging the corpse with a mired boot, then nodded once.
Esmeralda knew he had to be dead, but having the duke confirm the truth made her knees weaken with relief.
Jacques was dead.
Her ordeal was over.