Chapter Seventeen
“ I am tired of bed rest,” muttered Valencia
“That may be, madam,” replied her maid. “However, my orders from Mr. Daggett are quite specific. You are not to be allowed up and about until the morrow. Shall I bring you some hot chocolate and cakes?”
“No, thank you.” Nothing could sweeten the situation. She felt like a schoolgirl of old, confined to quarters for some petty infraction. “Tyrant,” she muttered under her breath.
“I am just doing what I am told,” said Perkins.
“Not you. Him .” Valencia scowled. “Kindly ask the master of the house if I might have a word with him.”
“Yes, madam.”
She sat up, fuming at the indignity of being treated like a child. Orders be damned. If he didn’t show up soon, she would storm straight into the lion’s den and confront him. Questioning his authority would come as no surprise.
The door opened with hardly a whisper. “You are feeling better, I hear,” said Lynsley
“Quite,” she snapped, belatedly realizing that her bedsnarled hair and crinkled nightrail did not present a pretty picture.
He, on the other hand, was attired in an impeccable set of evening clothes, the faultless folds of his cravat framing his firm jaw and the elegant, aristocratic nose. His lips, however, betrayed a tiny twitch.
Which only set her nerves more on edge.
“I am glad to hear it,” he replied. “By the morrow you should be strong enough to rise.”
An unladylike word floated up from the tangle of linen and lace.
“It appears that you are not going to be spending the evening shackled to a bedpost.”
His brow lifted. “As far as I know, such entertainments are not on the schedule. But in here Paris, the city of fleshly pleasures, I suppose anything is possible.”
“You are on your way to a brothel?” she asked slowly.
He hesitated a fraction before answering. “Our party is gathering for supper at the Salon d’Etrangers and then going on to an evening of gambling at the Palais Royal. But Levalier did make mention of heading on to a certain establishment in rue de Rivoli afterwards.”
The idea of Lynsley spending the night frolicking with a voluptuous whore did not improve Valencia’s mood.
“Have a care not to catch the pox,” she said sarcastically. “Perhaps you should ask your hosts for a condom—the French invented them.”
“Thank you for your concern,” he replied gravely. “I shall exercise caution, in case at some point in my life I should wish to procreate an heir.”
“Enjoy your evening,” she muttered, plumping up her pillows with a punch.
His face remained expressionless, but a hint of laughter danced in his eyes. “As I said, by the morrow, you should be well enough recovered to be allowed out of bed.”
“The only thing keeping me confined to quarters is your order,” she retorted. “Perkins won’t let me move a muscle without your approval.” Flinging back the covers, she waggled her leg, uncaring that the movement exposed a good deal of flesh. “As you see, I am perfectly fit.”
His gaze went opaque, shutting her out in the blink of an eye. That dratted stone Sphinx face. The statue had apparently tiptoed on its giant cat’s paws from Luxor to Paris.
“I suppose we can relax the rules a bit for this evening,” he said. “I shall inform Perkins that you are allowed to take a turn to the library if you so desire.”
“How kind of you to give me your blessing, my lord,” she said acidly. “Any other pronouncement from on high?”
“You need not wait up,” he said calmly. “I will likely be late.”
How easily he assumed that aristocratic air of bored arrogance. As if mind and body were in another world. It was ingrained, of course.
And infuriating.
When he looked like that, some demon deep within seized hold of her and she couldn’t help wanting to provoke a fight. Anything to bring the blood to his cheeks.
“Or maybe you won’t be home at all,” she sneered. “After all, a brothel offers far more amenities than this mansion—warmed sheets, perfumed pillows, breakfast served in bed.”
He turned without responding to her childish taunt. The door latch closed with a discreet click.
Valencia picked up the book by her bedside, restraining the urge to throw it at the polished panels.
But Merlins don’t make a scene, she reminded herself.
Getting a grip on her wayward emotions, she drew a deep breath and settled down to read. The library had yielded several books on travel to the Orient. But she soon found herself too restless to concentrate on tales from the Silk Road. The printed words seemed to twist and turn into a strange blur, as if challenging her to read between the lines.
She couldn’t quite put a finger on it, but something was rubbing her wrong. Something more chilling that a flare of ill-temper. In the past, she had learned to trust her intuition. But her sense for impending danger was likely dull from disuse.
“Don’t be a peagoose,” she muttered aloud. Melodrama belonged on the pages of a novel. Only ink and paper heroines acted like idiots.
Snapping shut the volume, she rose and began to pace the perimeter of her room. The enforced bed rest had her itching for action, that was all. Her nerves were wound too tight. Another few strides . . .
But try as she might, Valencia couldn’t outrace a growing feeling of unease. A darkness seemed to shadow her steps. The hairs on the back of her neck were suddenly standing on end.
No doubt because they were desperately in need of a brush or comb. However, sarcasm didn’t silence the stirring of intuition.
“Bloody hell.” The whispered oath punctuated the heated debate taking place in her head.
Orders were orders, scolded Reason.
But Lynsley had not given her a direct order to remain in the residence, retorted Rebellion.
It was implied, reminded Reason
It was left unsaid, snapped Rebellion. And a soldier was not dutybound to obey an unspoken command.
She made her decision, damning the consequences.
It took only a few minutes to don her dark trousers and shirt. A hooded cloak hung in her dressing room, and beneath it sat a soft-soled pair of shoes. Moving quickly, she stole into Lynsley’s bedchamber. The pistols he had purloined from the American consul were in the top dresser drawer. After adding a packet of extra powder and bullets to her pocket, she unlatched the casement window and stepped out to the window ledge.
Bathed in pearly starlight, the graceful spires and ornate rooftops of Paris looked sublimely beautiful. But beneath her feet lay a tangled web of dark streets, a reminder that a misstep could be deadly.
No matter how skilled, an agent in enemy territory could always use a back-up. Someone to watch his back.
She must not let her imagination run wild. Lynsley had far more experience than she did in foreign places. However, Valencia did not allow that fact to slow her down. Without a backward glance, she climbed down the copper drainpipe and traversed the alleyway.
Deciding that a hackney would draw too much attention, she hurried on foot through cobbled streets, keeping to the shadows. The rattle of metal and muskets helped her duck a patrol of soldiers. As for the other pedestrians, they paid her little heed in their own haste to complete their journeys unscathed. Even in the fancier parts of the city, Paris was dangerous after dark.
From her study of the maps, Valencia knew every passageway of the area by heart. After a small detour to avoid a group of brawling drunks, she had no trouble finding the right street.
With glittering lights ablaze in the shops and arcades, the Palais Royal stood out as a beacon of raucous activity amid its silent neighbors. Idlers loitered along its length, trading ribald taunts with ladybirds who paraded up and down the street, their plumage of mock diamonds and pearls waving brazenly in the night breeze.
Valencia climbed to a rooftop vantage point on one of the warehouses facing the main entrance. It was, she decided, rather entertaining to watch the arrivals of the carriages. Men brimming with hubris descended for a date with the vingt et rouge tables in the gambling salon, while others hurried straight for the upper floors, which housed a nest of high-priced doves.
The amusement pinched from her mouth as those who had exhausted their luck at the tapis vert stumbled out in the throes of drink and despair. To chance everything on the turn of a card or the roll of dice was something she found hard to comprehend.
But then again, she, too, was a gambler—and playing for even greater odds.
On that sobering thought, Valencia spotted Lynsley strolling through the vaulted arcade with a group of gentlemen. His step was firm, his laughter controlled.
She doubted that the marquess ever took wild risks. Even when forced to play a high stakes game, he kept his head and did everything possible to make the odds in his favor.
A strumpet sidled up to Lynsley and rubbed herself up against his thigh. She was quite pretty, and he took a moment to look down at her décolletage—which even at a distance appeared to cut clear down to her navel. Then politely shook his head.
Valencia let out a breath. Only to draw a harsh gulp as the whore moved on to the man behind him. The marquess’s movement revealed gold glimmer of hair.
So, Pierre Rochambert was part of the party.
Lynsley had failed to make mention of that. He had let her carp on about condoms and brothels, all the while knowing he would be spending an intimate evening with their enemy.
Damn his lovely, lordly eyes.
Did he think her too weak to help? Too inept?
Valencia sat for the next two hours, seething in silent frustration. The cold crept up through the rope soles of her shoes, curling her toes, numbing her legs. Would that it could dull the ache in her chest. Clenching her arms across her breasts, she hunched closer to the stone parapet. She wasn’t sure whether to feel angry or hurt.
It would serve him right if she left him to fend for himself. Here she was freezing her arse, while he was likely warming his . . .
By some perverse magic, Lynsley suddenly appeared, strolling out of the inner courtyard. Exiting the Cour d’Honneur , he waved off a hackney cab and began walking.
Valencia swore under her breath. He ought to know better than to venture anywhere on foot. Parisian streets were notoriously dangerous after dark.
The sense of foreboding was now like a sliver of ice skating down her spine.
Pushing back from the sooty stone, she crossed to the adjoining roof. As the marquess turned down the side street, she spotted a man stepping out from between two buildings, Tugging down the brim of his hat, he set off in the same direction.
It might be coincidence, but she was taking no chances.
Snaking through the chimneypots of slumbering shops. Valencia followed along, keeping her eye on the street below. Halfway down the block, the stranger was joined by two other shadowy shapes. Gangs of desperate men were rampant throughout the quartiers, many of them former aristocrats or priests reduced to robbery to survive.
Valencia allowed no more than a small twinge of pity. They were violent, vicious thieves, who would slit a man’s throat for a sou .
The marquess seemed blithely unaware of the peril stalking his steps. His pace was leisurely, as if out for a Sunday stroll. Too much to drink? Or too sated with sex to be aware of his surroundings? He had never before appeared so careless.
She debated whether to call a warning, but decided against alerting the raggle-taggle ruffians on his trail.
Swinging up and over the ledge of a private townhouse, Valencia catwalked across the slate roof tiles and dropped lightly down to the top of a garden wall. Moving in a low crouch, she hurried along its length. She was now abreast of the three men. They had spread out across the cobblestones, in readiness to angle an attack on the unsuspecting figure ahead.
They moved swiftly, silently, eyes intent on their quarry. The only sounds echoing off the buildings was the soft slosh of the sewage stream and the yowl of an alleycat.
She gauged the distance and jumped.
Thump .
Rolling with a feral quickness, the ruffian slashed out with his knife but she easily dodged the blade. A hard knee to his groin drew a scream as he dropped headfirst into the ooze. She darted back as the second man spun around and aimed a kick at her head. Her hand caught his boot and jerked him off his feet. He fell with a bellowing curse. His pistol clattered to the cobblestones and fired. Smoke and sparks erupted as the bullet ricocheted off the brick, sending up a shower of shards.
“Bloody hell.”
Valencia looked around to see that third attacker lay motionless at Lynsley’s feet, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. Vaulting the body, the marquess rushed to her side.
“Dammit, we must be gone this instant.” Swearing another oath, he grabbed her arm. “You can’t be seen.”
He looked around grimly. The shot had already set off several cries of alarm.
She seized his sleeve and pushed him into the sliver of space at their back. “Follow me.” From her study of the maps, she had memorized the way back to their quartier through the maze of alleyways.
After coming out on the adjoining street, they raced on for some minutes through the sharp twists and turns, ducking low, squeezing sideways, scrambling at a dead run over walls of refuse. She didn’t care to think what was squishing beneath her feet.
After a sprint across a deserted square and yet another darting traverse of a narrow lane, Lynsley finally showed signs of easing the pace. Hugging close to the crooked walls, he slowed to a walk, then suddenly stopped in a pool of shadows. Above the wheezing of her own lungs, she heard the growl of his breath scrape against the stone. He didn’t sound winded at all. There was a rougher rasp to his tone.
Anger?
“Of all the bloody, bloody, reckless stunts . . .”
Lynsley wasn’t angry. He was absolutely furious.
“For the love of God, how dare you risk your neck and the mission like that?”
Her mouth dropped open, but she was too breathless to answer.
Just as well. Words might have goaded him to violence. As it was, his fury so palpable, she could feel it quivering in the air. Great waves, like stormtossed seas, buffeted her flushed face. In the next instant, it crested a rumbled oath. He grabbed her and shook her like a terrier toying with a rat.
“Bloody hell, what made you do such a damn foolish thing!”
“ You !” cried Valencia without thinking. “In case you hadn’t noticed, I was saving your damn neck, you ungrateful odious man.” She tried to break free but to no avail. His grip was like an iron band around her wrists.
As she struggled, her hip hit up against the limestone wall. She sucked in her breath at the sharp pain. Tears prickled her eyes, blurring her vision.
“Let. Me. Go.”
But rather than accede to her demand, the marquess flattened against her, pinning her to the wall. Trapped between the mortared stones and his unyielding body, she reacted on pure instinct, lashing out with her knees, her elbows.
Lynsley gave a grunt, and then suddenly his mouth was covering hers in a bruising kiss.
Her lips parted to protest, but as his tongue slipped inside her, all coherent thought dissolved in a low, wordless sigh. Valencia felt her muscles melt. His heat was overpowering, a sweaty, savage masculinity that left her shaken to her very core.
“Don’t ever do that again,” he growled, his whiskered jaw abrading the sensitive skin of her neck. His hands speared through her tangled hair as he brushed his lips to her earlobe. His teeth nipped her flesh, sending a surge of conflicting sensations through her limbs.
She slumped a touch lower. Their eyes met, and through the haze of her own shock she saw that he, too, looked surprised as hell.
The sound of hobnailed boots shattered the silence. A patrol of soldiers was approaching.
“This way.” Lynsley was the first to recover.
She followed along blindly, stumbling, speechless and near limp with shock.
When at last they emerged near a busy café, Lynsley waved down a passing hackney cab and shoved her inside. After calling a curt order to the driver, he followed suit and slumped back against the squabs.
Lynsley didn’t trust himself to speak. Didn’t trust himself to think. Sliding to the far side of the seat, he turned to stare out the window. But in the fogged glass, he caught only a self-mocking glimpse of his own brooding reflection.
It was the last thing on earth he wished to see. The guilt was great enough without seeing it writ plain on his face.
Bloody hell. Perhaps the sad truth was that he wasn’t fit for active duty anymore. He had lost his head in the heat of the moment. Allowed fear to overwhelm reason. Seeing a blade flash so close to her flesh struck terror in his heart.
Even now, his body was still shaking.
Clenching his teeth in disgust, he quelled the urge to bury his head and in hands. Likely it was unrequited lust sending the spasms through his limbs. That momentary kiss had only ignited a far baser urge. Had the soldiers not saved him from perdition, he might have well have shucked off her breeches and taken her right up against the wall.
Damn him for a devil. Damn him for a fool.
As the hackney clattered through the maze of streets, Lynsley felt utterly lost. He was perilously close to losing command of the moment. Of the mission. Somehow he must master his mutinous mind and body.
Make them obey orders.
Duty, duty, duty . . . The drumming of the wheels against the cobblestones finally skidded to a stop in front of their mansion. Thank god he given the servants instructions not to wait up. Surely his self-loathing was etched in every line of his face.
His key clicked open the lock, and he motioned Valencia to hurry inside. Her steps slowed and he heard her turn in the unlit foyer.
But before she could speak, Lynsley slid the door bolts home and stalked for the stairs, taking them two at a time.