Chapter Twenty
M usic drifted out from the ballroom, mingling with the lilt of laughter and the crystalline clink of champagne glasses. Gliding past a group of guests heading to the card room, Valencia crossed the corridor and entered the gallery displaying Rochambert’s art collection, where she paused to admire a pair ornately framed paintings. Candlelight flickered across the canvases, adding a sensuous golden glow to the rich color of the pigments.
“You like Fragonard?” asked Rochambert, as he came up behind her.
As Valencia had hoped, the Frenchman had followed her. The heavy velvet draperies had fallen back in place across the doorway, muting the sounds of the sumptuous buffet being served in the main dining salon.
“Very much,” she answered. “I find the lushness of his figures appealing. As is their earthy enjoyment of the world around them.” Cocking her head, she drew out her study of the painting for a moment longer before meeting his gaze. “American art is so flat and colorless in comparison. It must be their Calvinist background.” She touched his sleeve. “They worship hard work and frugality. Enjoying the fruits of one’s labors seems to be a cardinal sin.”
“You make life in America sound very dull for a lady who appreciates art,” said Rochambert. His gaze sharpened with a speculative glitter. The predator on the prowl . Scenting his prey was ripe for the taking. “Would you care to see the paintings in my private gallery? They are even more interesting for those who have a discerning eye.”
She slid her hand to the crook of his elbow. “How can I resist such an offer?”
Rochambert led her into an alcove at the back of the ornate room, where a paneled door of polished oak was flanked by two gilded wall sconces. “Are you looking for something in particular from me, Madame Daggett?” he murmured in her ear.
“Why, an education on art,” she replied archly. “You are said to be quite a connoisseur in the field.”
A laugh rumbled deep in his throat. “I daresay my knowledge won’t disappoint you.”
“I was rather hoping you would say that.” Valencia added a a sultry laugh as she watched him slip a keyring from his coat pocket.
How interesting. It requires two keys to open the double lock.
She felt a sudden tickling at the back of her neck that had nothing to do with the hand that was now teasing down the line of her spine.
Rochambert’s art was unquestionably valuable. But enough so to require specially designed military hardware to guard against thieves? Valencia recognized the distinctive locking mechanism. Made by a small supplier in Marseilles, it was issued for use in highly sensitive areas such as a command headquarters, a cryptography copyroom . . . a munitions warehouse.
Sparks flared as the Frenchman struck a flint and lit the branch of candles set on a stone pediment inside the door.
No—on second glance, she saw that it wasn’t a pediment but an oversized penis, sculpted of pure white marble.
“Welcome to my private gallery room, Madame Daggett.” He drew her inside. “As you see, I take pleasure in being surrounded by things of great beauty.”
“Naughty man,” she scolded, taking care to sound not the slightest bit outraged.
“Come, let me give you a tour of my treasures.” Dropping all pretense of proper etiquette, he sidled closer, his touch growing bolder with every step. Already she could feel the flat of his hand creeping down her derriere . “Here are several of my most recent acquisitions. He pointed out a pair of nudes by Peter Paul Rubens. “What do you think?”
“They are magnificent. A feast for the eyes.”
“But not as magnificent as you, cherie .” His lips nuzzled the nape of her neck. “Your breasts are even more luscious. When do I get a taste?”
Valencia dodged the question. “I see you have quite a collection of allegorical paintings here.” She gazed up at the scene of Zeus shedding his disguise as a swan in order to ravage Leda. “The Greeks gods were certainly a randy lot.”
“They possessed the power to take what they wanted. Why should they play by the rules of mere mortals?” said Rochambert.
“An interesting observation, monsieur.” She moved on to the next canvas. “Do you see yourself as being above other men?”
“ Moi ?” The reflection from the gilt frame played over his face. “Like Napoleon, I believe that some men are destined to rise above their compatriots.” He winked, setting off sparks from his gold-tipped lashes. “The ladies do call me le beaux ange.
The handsome angel.
“Because you transport them to heaven?” Turning, Valencia spied a marble plinth, half hidden in the shadows of a leering sculpted satyr. On it sat a brass box, decorated with an intricate interweaving of copper and silver latticework. The design was distinctly Arabic . . .
Her heart skidded and lurched up against her ribs. Steady, steady , she warned herself.
“What an unusual pattern,” she remarked. “It looks like something out of Aladdin’s treasure cave. Or perhaps it’s Pandora’s Box. Shall we dare to have a look inside?”
“No need to bother. It’s quite empty.” Rochambert was quick to steer her away. “Indeed, it’s just an old curio left over from a trip to Cairo. I have been meaning to have it moved to cellars.” He leaned in to nibble at her earlobe.
Valencia allowed herself to be distracted.
“You have the most exquisite eyes,” he murmured. “They are a compelling, shade of green—like liquid emeralds, shimmering with the depth of a seagreen ocean.
She slid a teasing hand around his neck, and let it trail down his spine to his derriere. “La, and you, sir, have a golden tongue. Tell me, are all Frenchman such lyrical poets as well as incorrigible flirts?”
“Oh, I think you will find that I am quite unique.”
“You are very sure of yourself,” she said, tapping a finger to his chin.
He caught it and slowly suckled its tip. “ Oui , and with good reason.”
“What a provocative answer.” She rubbed her thigh against his, and then pulled away with a breathy sigh. “I should like to hear why, but alas, we had best return to the other guests. I wouldn’t want to provoke my husband into making a scene.”
“Should I be afraid of the old man calling me out? Sabers at dawn?” Rochambert’s laugh was a low, leering scoff. “In a show of swordsmanship, Monsieur Daggett would not show to advantage.”
Valencia hid her disgust with a flutter of her lashes. “You consider yourself quite a dashing blade?”
“The best on the Continent,” he replied. “I have cut a rather large swath through the boudoirs of Europe.”
“Leaving a trail of broken hearts, no doubt,” she murmured. Not to speak of severed throats and shattered limbs.
His mouth pursed to a preening purse. “What can I say? Women seem to find me irresistible.”
“Some might call that arrogance, Monsieur Rochambert.”
“Perhaps.” He stepped closer and captured his wrist. The feel of his bare flesh made her skin crawl. “But I assure you, ma belle Valencia, a night in my bed would be well worth it.” The champagne sweetness of his breath was growing hot and heavy with lust. “The word ‘pleasure’ does not begin to describe what you would experience in my arms.”
Indeed, it did not. For an instant, she saw naught but a scrawl of red letters spelling out ‘revenge.’ However, they disappeared in the blink of an eye.
Redemption. A chance to prove herself worthy of Lynsley’s trust.
Yet it took all of her resolve not to recoil when Rochambert pulled her hand down and pressed it against his arousal.
Forcing a suggestive smile, she tittered. “You make quite a convincing case for yourself, monsieur?—”
“Pierre,” he interrupted. “Seeing as we can consider ourselves intimate friends.”
“Pierre.” Valencia mouthed it softly, hoping it sounded seductive, rather than as if she were spitting out a mouthful of rancid wine.
“The next time you say it, ma cherie , you shall be panting, pleading for me to pleasure you.”
Teasing her palm along his length, she inched back. “Let us return to the main gallery I have an idea of how to deal with my husband.”
Rochambert looked loath to delay his seduction, but gave a tight smile. “Do it quickly, cherie . I am not used to waiting for what I want.”
Valencia gave him another teasing caress. “La, be assured you will soon get what you so richly deserve.”
“I shall hold you to that promise,” he said, stopping to seize her in a long and lush kiss.
As he pawed at her breasts, Valencia feigned a moan of pleasure—and eased the key from his coat pocket.
“Ah, there you are, m’dear.” Lynsley stumbled slightly as he entered the private gallery. “My, my, m’dear, you’ve taken quite an interest in art lately.” His words were badly slurred. “And it appears that French figurative painting has become a particular favorite.”
“Really, Thomas. There is no need to make a scene,” replied Valencia coolly. “Mr. Rochambert was merely showing me his collection of Baroque paintings.”
“Ballocks,” snarled Lynsley. “The man was all but mounting you in full view of anyone who cared to look into the room. I warn you, I won’t allow your wanton behavior to ruin all I have worked for.”
“Perhaps if your lovemaking was as finely honed as your greed, your wife would not have to look elsewhere for companionship.” Rochambert cocked a malicious smile as he looked from the marquess to her. “By the by, did you know your husband is selling your country’s secrets to me? So any lecture on honor from his lips isn’t worth a dribble of spit.”
With a roar of rage, Lynsley lunged for the Frenchman.
“Stop it!” Darting in between the two men, Valencia grabbed the marquess by the shoulders and forced him back. “For God’s sake, none of us wishes a sordid scandal.”
“Quite right,” said Rochambert. “A duel with a diplomat would displease the Emperor. So I shall refrain from handing you your prick on a platter, Monsieur Daggett.”
Lynsley answered with a foul-mouthed curse, but made no move to resume his physical attack.
“Please, Pierre,” she warned in an undertone.
“Pierre, is it now?” growled Lynsley. “Does the intimacy extend to letting the mongrel shove his paws up your skirts?”
Valencia tightened her grip on the marquess’s lapels. “Do get a hold on your temper, Thomas,” she counseled. “You know you are wont to overreact when you have too much to drink.”
“Hmmph.” He relaxed slightly.
“That’s better.” She patted his chest, coyly winding the tail of his cravat around her little finger. “Come, let me take you back to the supper table. I daresay a little crème caramel will sweeten your mood.”
Lynsley’s voice ratcheted up to a querulous whine. “I need another glass of champagne.”
“Yes, yes, and I shall see that you have it.” Slanting Rochambert an sidelong look, she mouthed the word “later” as she slipped her arm around Lynsley’s waist.
His mouth curling in contempt, the Frenchman nodded.
“This way, darling.” A harried sigh covered the whisper she breathed into his ear. “The key to the door is in your pocket. There’s a brass box in here. I think it holds what we want”
Lynsley swayed against her. “Are you sure?” he asked in the same hushed tone.
Valencia hesitated a heartbeat before replying. “Yes.” Raising her voice, she uttered a sharp oath. “Pierre, help me get him out of here, before he pukes all over your priceless Oriental carpet.”
“Merde . ” Rochambert grabbed the marquess’s other arm and hustled him none too gently toward the main door of the side salon. Lynsley hung like a dead weight between them, somehow managing to tangle legs with the Frenchman just as they reached the threshold.
Rochambert struggled to keep the marquess’s flailing feet from soiling his immaculate fawn-colored trousers as they hustled Lynsley iut into the alcove of the salle. “One spot and you are a dead man, regardless of the Emperor’s ire,” he muttered, jerking Lynsley upright.
Valencia quickly nudged the private gallery door closed with her hip. She, too, could improvise. Lynsley’s playacting was proving a powerful diversion. A last little maneuver on her part should keep the Frenchman distracted.
“I can try to hold him if you need to find your key.” She knew that the La Chaze locks snapped shut on spring loaded mechanisms. “But please hurry. I fear he is drooling on my new satin slippers.”
“ Non , not necessary.” The Frenchman grunted in disgust. ““Here, let me try to rouse him.” A sharp slap punctuated his words. “ Alors , Daggett. Listen carefully—to avoid an unpleasant scene, I suggest you depart by the side stairs. One of my servants will summon your carriage.”
Lynsley’s eyes fluttered open. “Leaving my wife to seek solace in your arms?” Wrenching free, he staggered sideways and threw a wobbly punch that missed Rochambert’s chin by a mile. “You, sir, are a scoundrel. And you, madam, are a slut.”
His shouts were beginning to attract the attention of the other guests. Several people were already gathering to observe the commotion.
“Daggett, you go too far—” warned Rochambert.
“As far as I’m concerned, I can’t go far enough to escape from the two of you.” Weaving an erratic path, he staggered out to the main corridor and disappeared into the darkness of the side stairwell..
“ Cochon ,” muttered the Frenchman. “Your pig of a husband is playing a dangerous game, cherie . He has no idea who he is dealing with.”
“I hope you will forgive me for allowing Thomas to spoil your soiree.” Valencia pinched her voice to a note of sharp resentment. “He will sleep for two days, then wake and act as if nothing happened.”
The anger in Rochambert’s eyes flickered to a different sort of heat. “That gives you ample time to apologize for your husband’s bad manners.”
“I daresay I can come up with a show of suitable contrition.” She flashed a sultry smile. “Send your guests home quickly and give the servants the rest of the night off.”
Lynsley crouched in the shadows of the side portico, watching the guests file out to the waiting carriages. So far, so good. The plan of ending the party early seemed to be going as scheduled. But the idea of Valencia alone with a murderous miscreant had him counting the seconds.
To rush would be a grave mistake, he reminded himself. She was tough, and trained to handle any threat. She was a Merlin.
Still, his hands were shaking as he checked that the small equipment bag was strapped snugly to his back. He had stripped off his evening clothes and was now clad all in black—dark shirt, dark trousers, a loose jacket fitted with a number of hidden pockets. And weapons, of course.
Not that he wouldn’t kill Rochambert with his bare hands if need be.
Flexing his fingers, he knotted a pirate style scarf around his head and tugged the silk low on his brow. Lordly scruples were under wraps from here on. Like a bloodthirsty buccaneer, he would give no quarter.
No mercy.
The front door of the mansion closed, and the faint scrape of a bar being slid into place signaled that the last of the party had taken their leave. Shaking out a thin coil of rope, Lynsley tossed the iron grappling hook up to the steeply pitched slates of the mansard roof. It caught in the decorative stonework, and after testing its hold, he rose, swift and silent as a hawk.
He had wedged a shim in the salle de manger window, preventing the brass lock from catching. A flick of his knifepoint would allow him entry. From there, he had mapped out a route to the art gallery using his knowledge of the floorplan to take advantage of all the nooks and shadows. By now, he knew every square inch of the mansion by heart.
Including the master bedroom suite, replete with a bristling array of whips and chains.
No—he would not allow his mind to go there.
Valencia had unequivocal orders not to enter that room. Lynsley prayed that she would obey. She had given him her word, but in the heat of battle, resolve sometimes gave way to a far more primal emotion.
A thrust of his blade opened the latch.
After closing the casement, he ducked under the long table and cracked open the door. Silence shrouded the darkened corridor. A single scone flickered at the far end, casting swirling patterns over the ornate carvings of staircase. The only other sign of life was a sliver of light showing from under the door of the main salon.
Lynsley forced himself to pass without a pause.
Timing was key. There was not a moment to lose. The plan called for Valencia to spend no more than half an hour alone with Rochambert before withdrawing to the appointed rendezvous spot.
But as an experienced agent, he knew all too well how plans could go awry.
“Ah, alone at last.” Valencia perched a hip on the arm of the sofa. “Pour us a glass of cognac.”
“I would rather taste your honeyed sweetness on my tongue.” Threading a hand through her hair, Rochambert pulled back her head and covered her mouth with a bruising kiss. “And that is just the beginning of all the ways I shall take pleasure in your flesh.” His voice was rough as he released her. “I’ve a book in my bedchamber from India. A manual of all the exotic positions a woman can use to satisfy a man.”
“The Kama Sutra —oh, yes, I am familiar with it.” Valencia watched his lips curl into a wolfish smile. “ But what’s the hurry? As you know, one of the little lessons in its pages is that anticipation adds to the climax.”
“I have waited long enough,” he rasped.
“A little longer won’t kill you.” She slipped free and danced to the sideboard. “Let us toast to the coming night.”
“You like to tease?”
“Most men find the chase heats the blood.” She poured a splash of spirits and lifted it to her lips. “Do you?”
Rochambert sauntered over and drained his drink in one gulp. “Oh yes, I enjoy the hunt.” His hand flattened on her back and slide like a snake down her spine. “There is a powerful thrill in moving closer and closer, knowing that your quarry has no chance for escape.”
“Some ladies might find the idea frightening.” She sidled back with a saucy swoosh of her skirts. “What if I screamed?”
“My servants are trained to ignore any such noises.” His laugh quickly died to rumbled growl. “You see, I like it when a woman moans and begs. And in my bedchamber, I’ve a number of interesting implements to encourage such cries.”
“It sounds intriguing.” Valencia hid her disgust behind a titter. “Do tell me more.”
As he launched into a lengthy boast of his sexual prowess, she listened with only half an ear, her mind working furiously to devise ways to draw out her teasing. She was well aware that she was walking on a razor’s edge. Rochambert’s lust was honed to the point of snapping. The smallest misstep would be fatal.
Her cut crystal glass cast a dancing of light over the gilded sideboard. A decade was a long time to be out of practice. Perhaps her skills had grown sluggish, hobbled by crippling memories of old mistakes. Even at her best, she had slipped at the critical moment.
Doubt could cut deeper than any knife. And yet, Lynsley had faith that she was up for the task. A small smile played on her lips. Perhaps it was time to leave the ghost of the past behind.
Spinning around, she began a flouncing walk around the perimeter of the room. “Why don’t you go get your book and bring it here? We’ll whet our appetite for the coming night with its pictures and another bottle of champagne.”
Rochambert rose and followed her with a slow, stalking step. “I’m hungry enough already, cherie .” He caught her wrist and turned her around.
“Just a tiny taste, now,” she murmured, kissing the corner of his mouth. “Trust me, I have some very sweet ways of stimulating your senses.”
His hand slipped down to her hip. “So far, I’ve had little to sink my teeth into.
“I promise, you not be disappointed.”
Valencia was about to sidle away when he suddenly shoved her against the wall, his forearm pinning her throat with crushing force. Before she could react, he yanked up her skirts, the ruffled silk skimming over her knees and her thigh. His nails dug into her scar, tracing its jagged length.
“Alors, what have we here? His fingers shifted, finding the slim stiletto held by her garter. “Enough of your coquettish games, cherie .” Whipping the weapon from its sheath, Rochambert pressed the point to her jugular. “Who the devil are you?”