Bride for a Night

CHAPTER SIXTEEN



GABRIEL MUTTERED a vile curse as the Frenchman disappeared from the library.

He was a man who had become accustomed to being in utter command of his world and those around him. He gave an order, and it was obeyed without question and without fuss. And while Harry’s antics were a constant source of annoyance, he had been confident that his younger brother would eventually mature and put aside his reckless need to shock society.

Now, trussed up like a pig for slaughter, with his wife being held captive by a French Lothario, and his brother cast in the role of Cain, he had never felt so utterly impotent in his life.

As if his brooding frustration had managed to penetrate Hugo’s unconsciousness, the large nobleman stirred on the sofa.

“Well this is a damned fine muddle you have gotten us into,” Hugo muttered, forcing open his eyes with a pained groan.

A sharp relief pierced through Gabriel’s black mood as he watched Hugo cautiously press himself into a seated position, lifting his hand to his wounded temple.

“I can see the blow to your head did not addle what few wits you possess,” Gabriel teased.

“Not for lack of effort.” Hugo’s gaze skimmed over the vast library before taking a slow inventory of Gabriel’s awkward position on the floor. “You have the most charming acquaintances, old friend.”

Gabriel gritted his teeth. “Charming is not precisely how I would describe Jacques Gerard.”

Hugo grimaced, his face pale and his eyes shadowed with a lingering pain.

“No, me, neither.” He paused to study Gabriel with concern. “Are you harmed?”

“Nothing beyond my pride.”

“Did you locate Harry?”

A humorless smile twisted Gabriel’s lips. “Ah, I see my wife has revealed the dismal tale of my brother’s betrayal.”

“I gave her little choice,” Hugo admitted. “We had quite a battle of wills when it came time to sail to England.”

Gabriel sent his friend a disapproving frown. “A battle she obviously won despite my attempts to ensure her safe return to England.”

Hugo reached beneath his jacket to withdraw a starched handkerchief, absently wiping the blood from his face. Gabriel sent up a silent prayer of thanks that the wound seemed to have stopped bleeding, although it was swollen and bruised.

Not that his companion would be in any condition to toss himself into battle anytime soon.

Gabriel doubted his friend would be able to stand upright at the moment.

“Yes, well, you should not have wed such a stubborn minx,” Hugo accused. “She threatened to leap overboard if we did not return her to shore.”

Gabriel smiled with rueful resignation.

Only a few weeks ago he would have claimed there was nothing less desirable than a stubborn female. A proper maiden understood that it was her duty to be led by a gentleman, especially if that gentleman also happened to be her husband.

And in truth, his life would no doubt be far less complicated if Talia were the sort of woman who were content to remain quietly secluded at Carrick Park instead of tossing herself headfirst into danger.

But Gabriel felt nothing but pride at the thought of Talia’s staunch courage.

“You should have tied her to the mast,” he said, not entirely jesting.

Hugo snorted. “I doubt even that would have stopped her.”

“True.”

Silence descended before Hugo was tossing aside the soiled handkerchief and clearing his throat.

“I was mistaken.”

Gabriel lifted his brows at the abrupt statement. “You are often mistaken, Hugo. You shall have to be more specific.”

“I misjudged your wife.” His expression was somber. “She is not the shallow title hunter that I thought her to be.”

“No, she is not.”

“And she cares for you a great deal,” he continued, heaving a sigh. “Foolish woman.”

It was foolish, of course. She deserved a gentleman who would have wooed her with the pretty words and thoughtful gestures every maiden desired. Not an arrogant oaf who had ruined her wedding day and then insisted on taking her innocence before banishing her to the country.

But unfortunately for Talia, it did not matter to him how worthy or unworthy he might be. She was bound irrevocably to him. And he would never, ever allow her to escape his grasp.


“Not only foolish, but impulsive and reckless,” he said with a shake of his head.

Hugo did not bother to disagree, his gaze darting toward the doorway to ensure the guards in the hallway were not yet aware he was awake before he leaned forward and spoke in a low whisper.

“She was hidden across the street when I was captured. Perhaps she will have the sense to return to the yacht—”

“Too late,” Gabriel interrupted, his voice tight with barely restrained fury. “Jacques has her imprisoned upstairs.”

“Damn.” Hugo’s face reflected his stark regret. “Forgive me, Gabriel. I have failed you.”

“No, Talia is mine to protect,” Gabriel protested, unwilling to allow his friend to shoulder the burden that was his to bear. “I should have ensured she was safely installed at Carrick Park before returning to track down Harry.”

Hugo dipped his head in agreement, his previous distrust of Talia obviously replaced by a newfound respect. Nothing less than a miracle, considering the nobleman was notorious for his disdain toward most females.

“You did not tell me if you managed to track down your brother,” Hugo reminded him.

“I did.” Gabriel sucked in a harsh breath. “Unfortunately.”

Hugo narrowed his gaze. “He was the bait for the damned Frenchman’s trap?”

Gabriel hesitated, torn between the cynical voice in the back of his mind that whispered Harry was proving to be capable of any sin, and the fierce need to believe he would never deliberately lure Gabriel into the hands of his enemies.

“I do not think that he realized what Jacques intended.”

Hugo made a sound of disgust. “You still defend him?”

Gabriel shrugged. “No, but his surprise was as great as my own when Jacques made his appearance at the bordel.”

“You were at a whorehouse?”

“Where else would I find my brother?”

A hint of amusement simmered in Hugo’s golden eyes. “You might wish to avoid mentioning your precise location when you discuss this with Talia.”

Gabriel gave an impatient shrug, even as he tucked away the sage warning. Hugo was right. It probably would be best to keep that bit of information to himself.

“My point is that I do not believe he even realized I was in France until I cornered him.”

Hugo appeared far from convinced. “If Harry was not a part of the plot, then where is he?”

Gabriel leaned his aching head against the column, the thought of his brother a raw, aching wound in the center of his heart.

“I am not entirely certain.”

“But he is aware that you are being held captive?”

Gabriel shifted his gaze toward the massive globe made of ivory and gold that was situated beneath a bay window.

“Yes.”

“Gabriel, what are you hiding?”

For a long moment Gabriel found himself reluctant to reveal Jacques Gerard’s ruthless plot. Why?

Did he hope that by ignoring the hideous threat it would make it less of a possibility? Rather like warding off the evil eye, he wryly admitted, inanely wondering if Talia’s gypsy grandmother would approve.

Or was it simple shame?

After all, no gentleman of honor wished to admit their own brother was not only a despicable spy, but that he might very well be plotting his death.

In either case, he owed his friend the truth.

Hugo had been willing to risk his neck to rescue his friend. He deserved to know the danger they both faced.

With an effort, Gabriel forced his gaze back to his friend.

“Jacques Gerard just left the room after informing me that Harry is about to become the next Earl of Ashcombe.”

“Impossible—” Hugo began, only to suck in a sharp breath as he realized that there was one means to make it possible. “Damnation.”

“Precisely,” Gabriel agreed in clipped tones. “And I fear you are to be sacrificed along with me to elevate my brother to the title.”

Hugo breathed a few choice curses, his contempt for Harry etched into his expression.

“And Harry has agreed to this plan?”

Gabriel wearily shrugged. “I pray he has not, but in truth…I do not know.”

As if sensing Gabriel’s reluctance to discuss Harry’s potential for fratricide, Hugo narrowed his gaze with a sudden surge of determination.

“Well, it does not matter,” he announced firmly. “Neither of us is going to be sacrificed.”

Gabriel smiled wryly. “Agreed.”

The golden gaze shifted toward the doorway where two soldiers were standing guard.

“Now we just need to discover the means to avoid our imminent death.”



JACQUES DID NOT allow himself the opportunity to consider his bold decision as he headed to the private study at the back of the townhouse.

It was his favorite room in the house that had once belonged to the Comte de Devanne.

Although not as large as the library, it was a spacious chamber. Gilt-wood armchairs with teal velvet covers matched the curtains covering the windows overlooking the back garden. A pair of lacquer cabinets framed a Brussels tapestry along the far wall while the heavy oak desk was set to face the white marble fireplace veined with gold.

He had removed the ornate figurines and porcelain plates that had littered the room before he had claimed it as his own, replacing them with the precious sculptures his father had completed before his untimely death.

It was his private domain that no one dared enter without his specific invitation.

Or at least no one with any amount of sense, he corrected, anger flaring through him as the door to the study was thrust open and Harry Richardson strolled in as if he were a welcome guest rather than a necessary pest.

“Harry.” Carefully sealing the letter he had just completed, Jacques rose from the desk and crossed toward the side door that opened into the connected antechamber. “I do not recall issuing an invitation for you to join me.”

An all too familiar sullen expression marred the younger man’s face.

“I need to speak with you.”

Gesturing to the soldier who stood guard in the antechamber, Jacques handed him the folded note. Despite the lateness of the hour, he wanted his emperor to be fully aware of his change in plans.

Not that he doubted Napoleon would protest his scheme. He was ruthless in his quest to conquer Europe. And perhaps the world.

There were no sacrifices too great to fulfill his ambitions.

“See that this is delivered to the emperor without delay,” he commanded.

“Oui.”

With military precision the guard turned on his heel and rushed from the room. The letter would be in Napoleon’s hands within a few days.

Strolling back to his desk, he settled on the corner as he sent his companion a mocking gaze.

“You see how a good soldier is capable of obeying orders?”

A flush crawled beneath Harry’s pale skin. “I am not one of your damned soldiers.”

Jacques flicked a dismissive glance over the man’s rumpled clothing that had no doubt cost a small fortune. The conceited peacock was precisely the sort of hedonistic aristocrat that Jacques had always detested. “Non, I would never depend upon you to protect me in the midst of battle. You would be fleeing in terror from the first shot.”

The dandy stiffened in ridiculous outrage. “Are you calling me a coward?”

Jacques shrugged. “Do you deny the claim?”

“Would a coward risk death to become a spy?”

“There is no honor in what you have done,” Jacques said, sneering, readily turning his vile temper on the fool before him. He had known from the moment he had tossed his lot with Napoleon that there would be difficult decisions to be made. War was not the noble business of a young man’s fancy. Too often victory demanded that a man make sacrifices that he would never willingly choose. And certainly it forced unsavory alliances. But that did not mean he had to be pleased with the loss of his conscience. “You became a spy because you are a self-indulgent coxcomb who was willing to betray everyone and everything you supposedly held dear for money.”


Not surprisingly Harry blinked in astonishment at Jacques’s brutal honesty. For years Jacques had courted and wooed the insolent pup, encouraging his reckless dissipation even as he whispered constant reminders of how unfair life was to have blessed Gabriel with so many riches while Harry was forced to live on a beggar’s allowance.

It had all been so terribly simple.

“You were not so disdainful when you suggested that we become allies,” Harry said, pouting. “In fact, you implied I was a hero for my daring.”

Jacques gave a lift of his shoulder. “I had need of you.”

Harry frowned. “And now?”

“Now you have need of me,” he said, folding his arms over his chest, his pitiless gaze never shifting from the younger’s man’s face. “Or more precisely you have need of what I can offer you.”

Although not nearly so intelligent as his elder brother, Harry was not entirely stupid. He was forced to accept that his brief fantasy as a dashing adventurer was coming to a painful end.

“I have requested nothing more than a place to remain hidden from our mutual enemies,” he muttered. “You owe me that much.”

“I owe you nothing.” Jacques smiled. “But fortunately for you, I intend to offer you your deepest desire.”

Harry licked his dry lips, his hands clenched at his sides. “And what would you know of my deepest desire?”

“It is obvious to anyone who knows you, mon ami, that you are consumed with lust for your brother’s position.”

He paled, shaking his head in pointless denial. “That is absurd.”

“I agree,” Jacques mocked, sickened by the thought of placing this cowardly ass in a position of power. “You are a nasty toad who is unworthy of the title. Unfortunately, the current Earl of Ashcombe is a formidable gentleman of honor and ruthless integrity who I might have admired if he had not been standing in the path of what I most desire.” He shrugged, refusing to contemplate the fact he was about to order the cold-blooded murder of a nobleman. “You, on the other hand, are without pesky morals, which suits my needs perfectly.”

If possible, Harry lost even more color, leaving his skin ashen.

“Even if I was fool enough to want the title, it is not a damned bauble that can be passed from one person to another,” he rasped.

Jacques’s lips flattened at the bitter memories of his childhood spent on the fringes of French aristocracy. There had been no need to explain that as a son of a mere artist, no matter how talented Jean-Luc Gerard might have been, he would always be considered inferior to the prissy dandies who sashayed the streets of Paris.

“I am well aware of the laws of heredity,” he snarled. “Laws that I intend to ensure are destroyed in France.”

Harry waved an impatient hand. “You may do whatever you bloody well want in France, but in England there are very precise rituals that must be observed to inherit a title.”

“And?”

“I cannot simply appear among the House of Lords and demand the Lord Chancellor proclaim me the next Earl of Ashcombe just because my brother has disappeared.” Growing agitated, Harry paced across the room, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. “It will take years before they will agree to declare Gabriel dead. You know damned well how they all dote on him. No doubt the entire nation will be expected to go into mourning. And it will be years more before the Letters Patent would ever be offered to me.”

“There will be no need to have your brother declared dead,” Jacques assured him.

Coming to a halt, Harry regarded him with an insolent expression that made Jacques long to thrash him.

“You believe they will take my word for his untimely demise?”

Jacques straightened from the desk, his expression grim. “They will so long as you have his lifeless corpse to show them.”

“A corpse?” Harry blinked, his mouth hanging open as the implication of Jacques’s words sank through his thick skull. “You cannot…”

“Oh, come, Harry, there is no need to pretend such outraged shock,” Jacques drawled.

Snapping his lips together, Harry glared at him with impotent fury.

“It is no pretense, you bastard.”

“Of course it is.” Jacques arched a brow. “You must have known from the moment your brother discovered that you had bartered your soul to Napoleon that he would have to die.” He deliberately paused. “If you did not, then you are an idiot.”

“You have him captured. He is no threat.”

“I have already discovered not to underestimate your brother. So long as he lives, he will be a threat,” Jacques muttered with a grimace. “Besides, did you not just assure me that it would be impossible for you to take his place without a proper funeral for the current earl?”

Harry hunched his shoulders, as usual unwilling to accept that his choices had a cost that must be paid.

“There is no need for me to be the Earl of Ashcombe to discover another contact within the Home Office. I shall return to London…”

“Non.”

“What?”

Jacques heaved an impatient sigh. “Have you forgotten you are currently embroiled in a nasty scandal after having abandoned your bride at the altar and taken off with her dowry?”

He did not even possess the grace to appear guilty as he waved a dismissive hand.

“It will have passed now that my brother has wed Talia.”

Jacques rolled his eyes. Harry truly believed his sins had once again been swept beneath the carpet by his brother.

“And how do you intend to explain their mysterious disappearance?”

Harry was momentarily stumped by the perfectly reasonable question. But with the skill of a born prevaricator, he offered a ready lie.

“It must be known by Gabriel’s servants that Talia was kidnapped by you and that he traveled to France to rescue her,” he pointed out. “It will be assumed that he is still searching for her or he is captured.”

“Which will ensure that I am hunted by every British soldier in France.” Jacques shook his head. “Non, I thank you.”

The younger man scowled, predictably indifferent to the notion of Jacques being pursued by the entire British army.

“Then I will say that they have returned and have traveled to my brother’s estate in Scotland to recuperate from their ordeal.”

“And they took Lord Rothwell along as a chaperone?” Jacques scoffed.

Harry hissed with impatience, his face drawn with believable tension. Had Jacques not been so sadly familiar with the selfish cad, he might have been convinced Harry truly cared whether his brother lived or died.

“We can conjure some tale that will satisfy society.”

“I am not willing to risk our profitable arrangement on the hope you can deceive those who are already inclined to distrust you.” His lips twisted into a humorless smile. “And you cannot deny that your position as the Earl of Ashcombe would be worth a great deal more to me than a scapegrace younger son.”

Harry returned to his furied pacing, his jaw clenched and the sweat dripping down his narrow face.

“Dammit, I do not want the title,” he growled.

“Is that a jest?” Jacques demanded, watching the nobleman’s restless motions with a narrowed gaze. “You have spent your entire life consumed with jealousy.”

“I will admit that I have resented being forever found inferior to my perfect brother, but that does not mean I wish to step into his shoes,” Harry muttered. “And I most certainly do not wish to have him murdered.”


Jacques made a sound of disgust. “I could almost believe you if I had not spent hours listening to your drunken boast.”

His accusation brought Harry to an abrupt halt, his expression suddenly wary. And for good reason. Who had not been in Harry’s company and not had to endure his tedious complaints of the injustice of the world in general and his elder brother in particular?

“What drunken boast?”

“That the title of Earl of Ashcombe was wasted on a humorless prig who should have been drowned at birth,” he reminded his companion in sardonic tones. “That you would have been a far superior heir had fate not been so cruel.”

“A man will say anything when he is in his cups,” Harry said with a peevish frown.

“Oui, and almost always it is the truth.”

“No. I do not want this.” Harry tugged at his rumpled cravat, as if it was choking him. “You ask too much.”

“I do not ask, Harry,” Jacques corrected in soft, lethal tones. “I am informing you what is to occur.”

Harry’s throat convulsed as he struggled to swallow his swelling panic.

“You cannot force me to take the title,” he blustered. “If you kill my brother I will refuse to return to England.”

Jacques gave a grunt of disgust. “I notice you do not threaten to expose yourself as a traitor to your country. That, of course, would put any end to my hope of using you as a spy, but then you would have to face the consequences of your sins, would you not?” He watched the fear darken Harry’s eyes, sensing that he had the fool precisely where he desired. “Something you have never been willing to do.”

“Say what you will, I refuse to become the Earl of Ashcombe,” Harry warned, but his swagger had been reduced to a childish whine.

Jacques stepped close enough to grasp the lapels of Harry’s tailored coat, his expression merciless.

“Careful, mon ami, the moment you cease to be of use to me is the moment I lodge a bullet in your heart.” He smiled at the sound of Harry’s tortured struggle to breathe. “And make no mistake the pleasure it will give me to rid the world of your worthless presence.”

The pale eyes glittered with hatred. “Damn you.”

Jacques thrust Harry toward the door, weary of the sordid business.

“Return to your foolish entertainments while the men tend to business, Harry,” he commanded. “I shall let you know when I have need of you.” He waited until the Englishman had stumbled across the room. “Oh, and Harry,” he drawled.

Grasping the doorjamb, Harry glared over his shoulder. “What?”

“Do not stray far.”

He jerked as if he had been slapped. “I am a prisoner?”

“Calais is surrounded by French soldiers who are eager to spill English blood.” Jacques grinned. “Only a fool would willingly become their target.”