Chapter Fifteen
I t was Rochambert who circled back some moments later and sat down beside her. “Allow me to keep you company.”
“It is really not necessary, she said through gritted teeth. “There are no wolves on the prowl in this park.”
“No.” He lit a cheroot and blew out a perfect ring of smoke. “Only cochons , it would seem.”
“Thomas is not in the best of moods. His negotiations are not going as well as he planned, so I suppose that is why he is acting like a pig.”
“You seem to be taking it in stride.”
She bit back a laugh. “What choice does a wife have but to keep pace with her husband’s whims.”
Her companion eyed her through the scrim of smoke. “Yours is not a love match?”
Valencia exhaled sharply as she shifted against the slats. In her weakened state, she would have preferred not to engage the enemy. However, war allowed for no quarter.
“Oh, come, monsieur,” she replied, concentrating on duty rather than the stabbing fire in her thigh. “Surely you do not imagine that the reasons for matrimony in America are any different from those here in the Old World. Alliances among the haute monde —be they in a democracy or a monarchy—are usually based on money, influence and power, not some flutter of the heart.”
“Indeed.” His smile revealed a flash of teeth. “I was simply not sure how much a lady wished to admit to the naked truth of life. So many of your fair sex are hopeless romantics.”
“I prefer to take a more cynical view of the world. That way, I am rarely disappointed.”
“We are alike in many ways, madame ,” he said in a husky murmur. “Tell me then, why the match with a prig like Daggett?”
Valencia considered the question, deliberately drawing out the silence before she answered. “My family has excellent connections with the Caribbean sugar trade, which have proved useful for Thomas. He has parlayed his cleverness into considerable wealth, and is likely to rise in importance in our country. I found it suited me to go along for the ride.”
“I would have thought that you would have your choice of rich, influential men. They are, after all, the type who can afford to be attracted to beautiful women.”
Valencia fixed him with a cool stare. “Indeed. But most of them want a perfect specimen, unflawed by an ungainly limp. The offers I received tended not to be respectable ones.”
His eyes took on a speculative gleam.
“Time is not an ally for a woman,” she went on. “So when Thomas was willing to overlook my infirmity and advanced years, I decided the prospect was to my advantage.”
“You don’t sound bitter.”
“It is the law of the jungle. The strong have no mercy for the weak. Tears and tantrums would only be a waste of breath.”
“You intrigue me, madame . It is rare to meet a lady who comprehends the true nature of the world.”
She lowered her lashes, determined to fan his interest despite the fire searing through her twisted muscles. “And I appreciate the sympathetic ear, sir. You cannot know how very pleasant it is to be able converse with a like-minded spirit.”
He sidled closer, joining their bodies from shoulder to thigh. “The rest of my anatomy is at your disposal—you have only to ask.”
“Naughty man,” she whispered, managing not to gag on the scent of his musky cologne.
To her relief, the return of the others interrupted the tete a tete.
“Feeling better, my dear?” called Lynsley.
“But of course.” Valencia rose, somewhat unsteadily, and accepted his arm.
“Excellent. Levalier has just informed me that he has an important engagement in town, and I assured him we would not make him late.” It was only then that he acknowledged Rochambert’s presence. “Kind of you to keep my wife company, sir.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” replied the Frenchman. “Madame Daggett is a most interesting lady.”
Lynsley turned away without answering him and set off at a brisk clip. “Don’t dally, my dear.”
Somehow, despite several stumbles, she managed to keep up. But every step was agony. Her scar burned from what felt like the assault of redhot pitchforks stabbing along the line of puckered flesh. Beneath her fluttering skirts, her undergarments were growing drenched with sweat.
Discipline. Don’t give in pain. Valencia repeated the words like her long-ago yoga mantras, matching the silent cadence to her aching step. She was determined to match the marquess’s sangfroid.
Lynsley would likely march from here to hell with both legs cut off at the knees.
Even with such thoughts prodding her on, it seemed like an eternity before they came to the courtyard where the carriages were waiting.
The marquess took his time in thanking their French hosts, while she managed a stoic smile in answers to their solicitous questions. Whether she could keep her leg from collapsing was a close call, but finally Lynsley finished his rounds and offered a hand up into their barouche.
Valencia climbed in blindly, her limbs seeming to move of their own accord. Half crawling, half falling, she slid onto the seat.
She heard his boot scrape against the iron rungs, followed by the rap of his walking stick, signaling the driver to spring the team.
As the whip cracked, Lynsley pulled the curtain closed, then quickly lifted her legs and lay her along the length of the leather.
Valencia couldn’t hold back a cry of pain.
Dropping to his knees on the floorboards, he swept up her skirts, and suddenly his large, strong hands were skimming over her stockings. Ever so gently, he grasped her thigh.
The muscles spasmed under his touch.
“Damn, how bad is it?” he asked, slowly caressing his fingers over the scarred flesh.
“It hurts like hell,” she rasped. “But nothing is broken.”
A harsh oath slipped from his lips, and in the hazy half light, the lines of worry etched a web of black across his face. His hands kept kneaded her aching muscles.
“Sorry,” she whispered. “That was careless of me.” Every lurch of the wheels sent a jolt of fire through her injured limb. “I should have?—”
“Hush.” As Lynsley shifted his position, he touched his palm to her cheek. “We’ll review strategy later. For now, just lie still.”
Even had she wanted to disagree, Valencia hadn’t the strength to argue. She closed her eyes again, using what little strength remained to fight back tears. No show of womanly weakness, she warned herself. The marquess expected no less.
Slowly but surely, the spasms subsided. His touch was gentle, yet firm and strong. Lud, he had wonderfully skillful hands. Pressing, probing, they seemed to sense intuitively just where to knead away the knots of tension. Through haze of pain, she was aware of his constant closeness. It was . . . comforting.
“Better?”
“Much,” she murmured. Curling on her side, she pressed her face against his chest. Through the starched linen, she could feel the warmth of his body and salty prickling of sweat. Strange, but his heart seemed to be beating even faster than hers.
And yet, its martial cadence was calming. Thud, thud, thud. The marquess’s inner music. Listening to its steady drumming, she fell into a fitful doze.
As the carriage approached their residence, Lynsley eased himself up and smoothed her skirts back into place. “Valencia,” he whispered.
Her eyes opened, and though it took a moment for them to snap into focus she quickly drew herself into a sitting position
“Sorry,” he murmured, steadying her shoulders against the squabs. “I must play the unfeeling prig again in public.” He brushed a tendril of hair from her face. “Can you endure the pain for another few minutes?”
Valencia nodded. “Of course I can.”
Despite the quickness of her reply, she could not quite disguise the catch in her voice. A fleeting, fragile tremor. But he knew she would die before admitting she could not soldier on.
His jaw clenched. Is that what he had demanded of the Merlins? An unyielding, impossible dedication to duty. A notion of honor too lofty for any individual to live up to?
In ancient myth, Icarus had plunged back to earth on melted wings when he tried to soar too close to the sun.
Hating himself, and the whole sordid world of deception and lies, Lynsley held her close for another few moments. The scent of her new perfume, now edged with the sour tang of her suffering, stirred a welling of impotent rage in his chest. He wanted to lash out—to smash his fist again and again into some hard object.
Preferably Pierre Rochambert’s face.
In the instant after Valencia’s fall, their gazes had met and the Frenchman’s half smile had been chilling to behold. A cold-blooded bend of his lips. And his eyes had been reptilian as well—utterly opaque and devoid of emotion.
A snake’s eyes.
There was only one way to deal with a poisonous serpent. Cut off its head before it could strike again.
Lynsley gripped the brass door latch and drew a deep breath before throwing it open. One thing was now sure—one of them would be a dead man before this mission was over.
“Summon Guillaume and help madame from the carriage,” he barked at the footman who came out to meet them. “She suffered a slip during our outing and needs assistance up to her room.”
“ Oui, monsieur .” The servant called for assistance as he scrambled to set the wooden steps in place.
“Do hurry,” said Lynsley, punctuating his gruff growl by tapping his boot impatiently on the cobblestones. “The air is growing damp and I don’t wish to take a chill.”
He forced his gaze to his gloves as Valencia, leaning heavily on the two footmen, slowly made her way up the marble landing. It took all of his considerable willpower to keep his hands from shoving aside the servants and sweeping her up in his own arms.
“Ring for madame’s maid,” he called to the new major domo. Tossing down his hat, he took his time in peeling the leather from his fingers. “The woman will know what to do.”
“Shall I send one of the footmen for a physician, monsieur?” asked the man in some concern.
“Not necessary,” replied Lynsley curtly. “Madame simply needs to lie down for a bit.” He took up the letters lying on the silver salver and started up the stairs without a backward glance.
That should set the servants to gossiping about what a hard, unfeeling man the American consul was. The French, for all their faults, always behaved with great gallantry toward a lady.
Closing the door to his own bedchamber, Lynsley leaned back against the heavy oak and squeezed his eyes shut.
Damn. Damn. Damn.
He must find a way to get to Rochambert without using Valencia as bait. He had known it would be difficult, seeing her matching wits with her nemesis. But the full force of it had not hit him until now.
He realized his hands were shaking. Fear or fury? A little of both, he decided.
But logic must override all emotion. Ranting or raving accomplished nothing. It was far too late for dwelling on right and wrong. He must make the best of a bad situation.
The sounds of activity in the adjoining suite distracted him from his thoughts. He waited for the French servants to withdraw, before letting himself in Valencia’s chamber.
“Order a hot bath,” he snapped at her maid.
“Aye sir, I’ve done that,” said Perkins. She had already helped Valencia to lie down on the bed. Her mud stained gown had been stripped off and replaced by a light lawn nightrail and duvet coverlet. Framed by the fringe of delicate lace, her face looked cold and pale as carved marble.
“Arnica salve will help with any inflammation,” he said softly. “And a tincture of laudanum will ease the pain.”
“I don’t need opium.” Valencia opened her eyes and tried to sit up, but the dullness in her eyes belied the assertion. “A strong draught of willowbark will be sufficient.”
“For god’s sake, Valencia, don’t try to be a hero.” Concern added a sharp edge to his voice. “Lie still and rest.”
“I will send one of the servants to the apothecary,” said Perkins in a low voice.
“Don’t fuss over me, Thomas,” added Valencia, mustering a show of her usual spirit. She drew in a deep breath. “You may leave me to Perkins. I assure you, I will be up and ready for duty in the morning.”
“The hell you will.”
Her jaw set. “It’s just a twisted muscle. Trust me, I suffered through this sort of injury before and know how to handle it.”
Lynsley hesitated, loath to sap her strength by arguing.
“It always seems bad at the beginning, but with a good night’s rest I will be fine.”
He turned to retreat to his room. “Let us do our best to avoid any more unfortunate accidents.”
“It wasn’t an accident,” she replied. “I was pushed.”