“It was kind of the prince to allow you attend, was it not?” Lady Nesbitt prompted.
“Prince Sandre defines kindness in a way no other man could.” Michael’s mouth curled sardonically.
Alceste laughed, an abrupt snort of appreciation.
But when Emma glanced at her, her face was smooth, expressionless.
Michael’s cheek quirked. “House arrest under Lord and Lady Fanchere’s care could not be kinder. I have bars on the window of my room”—he challenged them with his gaze—“but I come to tea. I am under suspicion of traitorous activity, but I am allowed the services of my valet. I cannot leave Moricadia, but I attend its finest balls.”
“Sandre instructed me to allow you as much freedom as I thought reasonable,” Lady Fanchere said. “And he kindly suggested you would be entertained by our social gatherings.”
“I am wounded, my lady.” Michael placed his palm on his chest, fingers splayed. “You obviously don’t consider me a rascal or a villain, capable of stealing the Fanchere silver or, even better, absconding with a Moricadian maiden.”
The women began to giggle.
“You are absurd.” Lady Nesbitt tried to sound stern, but a smile tugged at her mouth.
“Am I so tame a creature that ladies yawn behind their fans at my appearance? Could I not conceive and execute an evil plan to change the palace guard’s uniform from blue and red to stylish mauve, or . . . or . . .” He sputtered to a stop.
The women were laughing.
“Or ride about the night-clad countryside dressed like a ghost?” Alceste joked. Then with abrupt embarrassment she slapped her hand over her mouth and gazed, eyes wide with horror, at Lady Fanchere.
Lady Fanchere gestured her forgiveness.
Michael at once stepped into the breach. “Yes! I could be the Reaper. Only a few obstacles stand in my way. My regrettable tendency toward cowardice.” He smiled at Alceste.
She dropped her hand away from her face and smiled gratefully.
He continued. “My lack of a worthy horse—my own steed is aged and plodding. The key with which I am locked into my bedroom at night. Accomplices . . .”
Everyone was smiling once more.
For reasons Emma didn’t understand, Durant and his smooth charm made her want to roll her eyes and snort. He’d been pleasant the night before. He’d tried to save her, although her own recklessness had put her on the road and her lack of direction had sent her into the forest to face a wolf and . . . a ghostly face with no eyes. She froze. The sounds in the room faded. The plates tumbled from her nerveless fingers. They fell slowly toward the floor, hit the hardwood, and shattered.
Abruptly, she could hear again, move again. One glance around the room proved that everyone was staring at her, some with disdain, some with impatience. “I’m sorry. So sorry.” She knelt and tried to pick up the biggest pieces.
Lady Fanchere said, “Emma, leave that. I’m warm.”
Taking a fortifying breath, Emma rose and removed the shawl from Lady Fanchere’s shoulders.
“Are you sure she’s from the Distinguished Academy of Governesses? She certainly doesn’t seem to have the necessary graces to be a paid companion,” Lady Nesbitt said.
Emma hunched her shoulders.
“She is exactly what I wanted,” Lady Fanchere said firmly.
“Are you well, dear Lady Fanchere?” Alceste leaned forward in concern. “First you’re chilled; then you’re warm.”
In the exact opposite reaction, Lady Nesbitt leaned back as if avoiding contamination. “You’re not coming down with anything, are you?”
Lady Fanchere placed her hand to her forehead. “I don’t know. . . .”
“You
are
looking a little flushed,” Durant said. “I heard the plague had broken out in the low town.”
His pronouncement had the effect of getting the ladies on their feet, expressing concern as they rushed to the door, leaving Lady Fanchere, Emma, and Durant alone in the study while two footmen cleared away the plates and cleaned the room.
Lady Fanchere chuckled and waved Emma to a seat. “Thank you, Michael. That was very crafty. I was growing weary. Now—I have a job for you. Would you go with Emma to gather her belongings from Lady Lettice?”
“Oh. No.” At the thought of facing Lady Lettice again, Emma wrung her hands. “There’s no need—”
“There is every need. I want you to be comfortable and have your belongings. Your clothes. Your mementos.” Lady Fanchere looked directly into Emma’s eyes. “Your medical supplies.”
Chapter Ten
“I
apologize for the effort you’ve been forced to make on my behalf.” Emma sat in the small cart, gloved hands in her lap, and watched as Durant picked up the reins and urged the pony forward on the road that wound away from the Fanchere estate and toward the glittering resort city of Tonagra.
“I’m under house arrest. I have few pleasures and fewer duties, so accompanying you on this jaunt is a pleasure.” He tossed his tall hat into the corner by his feet.
She faced straight ahead with the brim of her bonnet protecting her from his gaze, but she thought she heard the echo of amusement in his voice. “I would not call it a jaunt; nor will it be a pleasure.”
“This is a lovely summer day. The setting is gorgeous.” He swept an arm around at the mountains towering above the winding road. “The company is charming. If the errand turns arduous, then we’ll have paid for our joys.” In a voice quite different from his usual laughing amusement, he said, “When a man spends a lifetime in the dark, he learns what’s important in life, and he seizes it in both hands.”
Turning her head, she observed him in surprise. Did he mean that?
It seemed he did. Before they started, he had removed his jacket and placed it in the hamper hooked on the back of the cart, and now, without his hat, with the breeze ruffling his hair, he looked not at all like a proper English nobleman. Not that Durant was improper. He held the reins with one hand, controlling the pony without effort, yet he took his ease against the seat, lounging carelessly with legs outstretched and one arm draped over the edge of the cart.
She sat with stiff attention, making sure the movement of the cart didn’t accidentally make her sway in his direction, taking care that her shoulder didn’t bump his. “What is it you would seize?”
“A sunny day. A good glass of wine. A child’s smile.” He turned to her, his green eyes serious. “My one chance at love.”
Was he flirting with her? Surely not.
Then she remembered his captivating performance during Lady Fanchere’s tea, and realized he probably was. For this English lord, flirting was apparently as necessary as breathing. So in repressive tones, she said, “Admirable sentiments. Would you not seize your chance at freedom?”
“I take what blessings I can, thank God for them, and while I enjoy my current seeming liberty, I’m intelligent enough to know that escape from even so small a country as Moricadia is impossible in a pony cart with a beast such as this pulling it.” He pointed with the whip.
Emma was forced to admit he had a point. The pony was round as a barrel, with a lethargic disposition and a pink bow in her mane. If she could gallop, and Emma saw no reason to suppose she could, her legs were so short a greyhound would pass her in the first hundred yards.
“If I were to try to escape, it would be faster on foot, and my boots are too worn for that.” With a laugh, he showed her his sole.
She was shocked to realize she could see his sock through the hole in the leather. “What? Why?”
“I was wearing them when the prince in his infinite wisdom commanded I be sent to prison, and since then, they became . . . shabby.”
She considered what inquiry to pose next.
Don’t you have another pair of boots? Can’t you have them resoled? Have you considered cutting several sheets of paper to a size larger than the hole and placing them inside?
Instead she blurted, “What did you do wrong?”
“To be arrested, you mean? Nothing. However, I was
accused
of assisting the enemies of the de Guignard regime, and I was told I would be held until I gave up the names of the conspirators.”
She remembered Brimley’s admonition about staying away from intrigue, remembered too that he had said the de Guignards never hesitated to arrest anyone they suspected of plotting treason. It was Durant of whom he was speaking. “Why didn’t you?”
“Do I
look
like the kind of man who knows any conspirators?”
She had to admit he didn’t. Any man too lazy to fix his boots or buy new ones was too lazy to bother with the messy business of insurrection. “Why did they let you out?”
“They hope I’ll lead them to the conspirators.”
“While you’re under house arrest?”
“They watch my movements, study anyone with whom I dare speak or spend time.” He smiled at her. “You should be frightened to be seen with me. Perhaps they’ll believe
you’re
a revolutionary.” “A revolutionary?” She gave a choked laugh. “No one would ever believe that of me.”
“Because you’re female?”
“No, because I’m a coward.”
“At the Thibaults’ party you were not at all a coward.”
“I swear to you, sir, I didn’t put that fish down Lady Lettice’s bosom on purpose.”
“I realize that. I was referring to your flight into the forest.”
Her heart leaped in alarm, and she turned on him. “What do you know about that?”
He leaned away from her, looking surprised. “I know that you have a propensity for getting lost, and that you were put out on the road and weren’t seen again by any of the guests leaving the party, so I assume you turned the wrong way and got lost.”
“Oh.” For the first time on this drive, she relaxed against the seat. “I’m sorry; I don’t quite remember what happened.” Pressing her hand to the bump on her head, she closed her eyes and tried to conjure up the scene in the woods. There was a wolf and something that frightened her even worse than the wolf. . . . a face . . .
“You don’t remember?” He sounded astonished, even avid. “You don’t remember how you got from the wilderness to the Fancheres’ doorstep?”
Opening her eyes, she stared straight ahead. “I know I sound insane, but truly, until this incident, my memory was excellent.”
“Well.” He shrugged. “Your arrival is a fortuitous mystery, then.”
“Yes.” Her gaze fell to her hands, clenched into tight, white-gloved fists.
She didn’t want to talk about it anymore.
The road wound along the long ridge that ran through woods and meadows and almost the length of the country. Off to the right and above was a string of grand châteaux like Lord and Lady Fanchere’s, sumptuous in their excesses, overlooking a series of valleys below. As the pony cart rounded a bend, another view came into sight. Here the cliff disintegrated into a series of stair steps, the foundation of Tonagra, the capital city. Here the finest hotels, spas, and eating establishments existed for the sole purpose of attracting the moneyed wanderers who traveled Europe to see its culture and taste its wonders.
Here Lady Lettice had taken her rooms in the Hotel Moricadia, and Emma shivered at the thought of confronting her. “Maybe she won’t be in,” she said.
Durant followed her train of thought without problem. “Maybe not, but I do hope she is. I would like to justly compensate her for her treatment of you.”
In alarm, Emma said, “Sir, I do not seek vengeance.” Suddenly uncertain, she added, “I mean, if that is what you intend.”
“Vengeance is a very strong word, and certainly I wouldn’t dream of hurting Lady Lettice in any . . . meaningful way. But I hate bullies.”
Emma chewed on that, trying to decide if he meant that he intended to create a scene more awful than the one she imagined, or she was making more of his words than he intended. She glanced at him and found his gaze fixed darkly up and slightly behind. The road had turned away from the valley and toward the upper elevations, and, following his gaze, she saw a sight that had escaped her before.
Elevated on a gray pinnacle, set higher and separated from the rest, a medieval castle grew from the rock. It was tall and craggy, primal as a hunting hawk, with spires and crenellations like claws tearing at the bright blue sky. “What is that?”
He brought the pony to a halt outside the massive iron gates opening onto a rolling estate. “That is the royal castle of Moricadia and long the home of the Moricadian royal family . . . and now of Prince Sandre.”
“It looks as if it could withstand a siege right here and right now.”
“Absolutely. No guests uninvited by Prince Sandre can reach the castle. The road to the drawbridge winds up and down and around that pinnacle, and at any point, he could easily repel an assault. Of course, in this modern age, no one tries to assault the castle, but even for so simple a thing as to attend a party, the road requires a team of good horses to pull the carriage.”
“And that’s the only way up?”
“There’s a path up to the postern door, too, where the shopkeepers bring the supplies for the kitchen . . . and the bodies are carried out.”
“Bodies?” She laughed uncertainly.
“Below the kitchens are the dungeons. They aren’t a pleasant place.” He smiled, a stretching of his lip muscles to show his teeth.
She watched him in fascination. Never had she seen a man so nakedly show his fear and loathing. “That’s where they kept you?”
“Yes.”
“Did they hurt you?”
Now he looked genuinely amused. “No. Of course not. I’m a subject of the British Empire. They wouldn’t dare.”
His assurance comforted her, helped her settle back once more.
He slapped the reins against the pony’s back and it trotted on, indolent and genial.
The breeze blew in her face. The air smelled of forest and grass. The sun was warm on her shoulders. This would be the ideal drive . . . “If only . . .”
Again he followed her thoughts. “I assure you, I won’t let Lady Lettice hurt you—which I think she has done, has she not?”