Bride for a Night

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN



WAITING UNTIL HE heard the sounds of Harry slamming the front door of the townhouse, Jacques heaved a sigh and headed out of the study.

He intended to return to the library and finish the nasty duty awaiting him there. After all, Lord Rothwell would soon awaken. It was imperative that he had them quietly…exterminated…before they could cause more trouble.

The sooner he was finished with the task, the sooner he could have Harry returned to London and the sooner they could discover what the British military was planning.

His feet, however, refused to obey, and rather than leading him downstairs, he found himself headed for his private chambers.

Perhaps he should ensure Talia was still locked in his bedchamber, he argued with the voice of reason in the back of his mind. The last thing he desired was for her to sneak out of the room and witness the death of her husband.

It was bound to be difficult enough for her to accept becoming a widow.

Refusing to contemplate Talia’s reaction once she realized Gabriel was dead, Jacques was distracted by the slam of drawers coming from the bedchamber directly across the hall.

With a frown he pushed open the door to watch as Sophia stormed from the cherrywood armoire to shove a satin gown into a case lying open on the canopied bed.

Wise enough not to enter a room with a furious woman who had an artillery of crystal perfume bottles and heavy silver candlesticks at her disposal, Jacques instead leaned a shoulder against the doorjamb.

“You are displeased with your chambers?” he demanded.

With a small gasp, Sophia whirled to confront him, her midnight eyes flashing fire.

“I could hardly admit to being displeased when it was I who insisted it be refurbished to suit my taste,” she muttered, casting a glower about the room dramatically decorated in black and gold to emphasize Sophia’s own exotic beauty. Even the fireplace was made of black marble to contrast with the bed that was draped in a shimmering gold satin.

He briefly recalled Sophia’s pleasure as the last of the workmen had left, and they had christened the wide bed in a storm of passion. By the time they had finished, his cravat had been dangling from the gilt chandelier and trousers tossed on the window seat.

He swallowed a sudden sigh. Sacré bleu. It all seemed a very long time ago, and not for the first time he questioned his decision to bring Sophia to Calais.

After her betrayal, he had been determined to pack her off to Paris. How could he possibly trust she would not allow her emotions to overcome her common sense? Especially now that Talia was once again his prisoner.

But in the end, he’d found himself commanding her to pack her bags and join him on the short journey. He’d claimed that he desired to keep her close at hand where he could ensure her good behavior, but the truth of the matter was his motives were not so easy to comprehend.

All he knew for certain was that the thought of her walking away was unacceptable.

“Then why are you packing your bags?” he asked.

She tossed her head as she moved to the lacquered dresser and pulled out a handful of lacy undergarments.

“I should think it obvious.”

“Perhaps to you, but I will admit to being baffled.” His gaze followed her path back to the bed, her hands unsteady as she dropped her belongings on the growing pile. “Explain yourself.”

The dark gaze lifted to stab him with a smoldering glare. “You have the woman you want, do you not?”

It was a question he had not allowed himself to consider. After all, Talia was perfect for him. She possessed precisely the sort of qualities that he desired in a female. She was spirited and courageous and yet, so sweetly vulnerable that he longed to wrap her in his arms and keep her safe. And of course, only a dead man would not find her curvaceous body a source of constant enticement.

But that did not lessen his desire for Sophia. Or his fury at the thought of her packing her bags and leaving him.

“I assume that you refer to Lady Ashcombe?”

“I do,” she snapped. “Unless you have yet another female hidden in your rooms?”

He shrugged. “For the moment she is my prisoner.”

She folded her arms beneath her lovely bosom that was emphasized by the low cut of her rose-and-silver striped gown.

“Please do not treat me as if I am an idiot, Jacques.”

A delectable hunger shivered through him, making him wonder if she would spit and scratch if he tumbled her onto the wide bed or welcome him with the raw passion that always shimmered between them.

He ruefully squashed the urge to discover which she might choose, instead moving forward to block her path to the dresser.


“I was not aware that was what I was doing,” he murmured, grasping her arms and pressing her back toward the bed. “Cease this nonsense and sit down.”

Perching stiffly on the edge of the mattress, Sophia regarded him in defiance. “Now what?”

“How did you discover that Talia was here?”

She shrugged. “The entire household is whispering that you have not only captured Lord Ashcombe but his wife and friend, Lord Rothwell, as well.”

Jacques snapped his teeth together, damning loose tongues that could spread gossip faster than wildfire.

It was not that he was idiotic enough to believe he could keep his prisoners a secret, but he had hoped to be rid of Ashcombe and Rothwell before the word of their presence began to spread through the streets of Calais.

Not only was it going to be a difficult enough task to haul two corpses and a petulant Harry Richardson onto a ship that he had commanded be docked just north of the town without attracting undue attention, but he had not lied to Harry when he’d said there were several hundred French soldiers outside the city walls. It would take very little to provoke them into a frenzied thirst for English blood.

Especially if that blood happened to be that of an English aristocrat.

“My household should concentrate on their duties and not on gossiping about matters that do not concern them,” he growled.

“You cannot fault them for their interest,” she sniffed, her eyes flashing fury. “It is, after all, believed that you intend to slay Lord Ashcombe in order to make the lovely Talia a widow and mistress of your household.”

He dropped her hands, his spine stiffening at the implication in her low words.

Certainly he had taken pleasure in taunting Ashcombe with the threat of making Talia a widow, but he would never murder a man simply to acquire a wife. No matter how much he might desire her.

“My decision regarding Lord Ashcombe has nothing to do with Talia,” he said in harsh denial.

Her brows rose in disbelief. “Non?”

“Non. I am doing what is best for France.” He frowned with impatience. “Even you must admit that having the Earl of Ashcombe as my spy rather than a mere younger brother is preferable.”

She stubbornly refused to admit the truth of his words. “You were not so eager to be rid of the current earl until you were bewitched by his beautiful bride.”

He muttered a curse, the temptation to press Sophia back onto the mattress and drown his troubled heart in the pleasure of her soft, satin skin nearly overwhelming.

What would it matter if he pushed aside his unpleasant duties for a few hours and indulged himself in the sensuous delight Sophia offered?

Then, with an effort, he pulled back, hoping the space would return his fading sanity even if his body was hard and restless with unfulfilled need.

“Harry was a suitable partner until our tidy arrangement was exposed. Now the government will be even more vigilant and it will take more than a bribe in the proper hand to receive the information we need.” He shook his head in disgust. It was infuriating to have lost his contact in the Home Office. The information he had been receiving might very well have made the difference in winning or losing the war. “Besides, it was too risky to attempt to kill Lord Ashcombe while he was in England. A nobleman of his wealth and status is forever surrounded by servants and sycophants.” He shrugged. “Now, however, there is no one to protect him.”

A strange expression fluttered over her lovely face. Something that might have been regret. But why?

She did not know the Earl of Ashcombe well enough to mourn his death. Could it be she feared what the toll would be on Jacques’s soul for commanding the death of an aristocrat?

“What of his brother?” she asked.

“As always, Monsieur Richardson’s only concern is for his own selfish needs,” Jacques muttered in disgust. “I truly believe he would barter his mother if he thought it necessary.”

“And Lord Rothwell?”

Jacques did not allow himself to hesitate. “He will share his companion’s unfortunate fate.”

“But not Lady Ashcombe,” she pressed.

His brows snapped together at her ridiculous question. Did she truly believe he had become the sort of man who would slay a vulnerable maiden?

“There is no need for her death.”

“Of course not.” There was a long, uncomfortable silence before she tilted her chin and regarded him sternly. “Do you intend to make her your wife?”

He shifted in sudden discomfort. Mon Dieu. Surely a man was not expected to discuss his future wife with his current mistress?

It was…unsavory.

“Is that not rather presumptuous?” he hedged. “I have not yet made her a widow.”

“But that is your wish?”

“Who can say?” With a burst of impatience he paced across the floor, uncertain when his life had become so complicated. He almost wished he could turn back the clock to when he was still the idealistic young man who had first returned to France, determined to dedicate his life to his country. “It is enough to concentrate on each day as it unfolds, is it not?”

A wistful smile curved her full lips. “That was what I once told myself.”

Jacques ignored the sensation, perilously close to guilt, that tugged at his heart.

“And now?”

“Now, I must consider my future.” Her gaze shifted toward the bag lying open on the bed. “I am no longer a young maiden, after all.”

“What do you intend to do?”

“For now I shall return to Paris.”

“Will you resume your career on the stage?”

“Perhaps.”

He came to an abrupt halt, a scowl marring his brow. “Do you have a gentleman awaiting you?”

Sophia was gracefully on her feet again, moving to the armoire to take out the last of her gowns.

“There are always gentlemen.”

Sheer fury at the thought of her going from his arms to another man seared through him.

It did not matter that she was a courtesan. Or that he had barely acknowledged her presence since bringing Talia to France. She was…a part of his life. And she had no right to leave him.

“Sophia, quit this foolishness,” he snapped as she dumped the dresses atop the pile in her bag.

“What foolishness?” She refused to glance in his direction. “Leaving you?”

He waved aside the blunt question. “It is too late to travel to Paris tonight.”

“Then I will leave at first light.”

“Non.”

Now she did lift her head to look at him, her expression hard as she met his frustrated gaze.

“The decision is not yours to make, Jacques.”

With three long strides he had his hands clenched around her upper arms.

“You are mine to protect.”

Her dark eyes flashed a brazen challenge at his possessive tone.

“Protect me from what?”

“Napoleon has attempted to bring order to the masses, but we both know that his efforts are not always successful.” He latched onto the first thought that came to mind. “With so many soldiers roaming the streets a woman on her own is always at risk.”

She appeared unimpressed with his logic. “The streets of Paris have never been safe, chérie, which I discovered at a very young age.” The edge in her voice hinted at the high cost of her survival. “Thankfully, I am no fragile flower. Unlike your precious Talia, I have learned how to depend upon my own wits.”

Jacques was wise enough not to inform his mistress that Talia had proven she was more than capable of depending upon her wits. Instead he shifted his hand to cup her cheek, his thumb brushing the sensuous curve of her bottom lip.


“I do not doubt your ability to fend for yourself, Sophia, only the need to do so,” he gently corrected. “You will always have a place in my home.”

“As your mistress?”

“As my…” He hesitated, irritated by her refusal to simply accept his offer of protection. What did she want from him? “As my friend.”

Without warning she yanked herself from his grip, the candlelight shimmering off the hint of fire in her dark curls.

“You might wish to discuss my position in your household with Talia,” she retorted in biting tones. “There are few women who would desire a previous lover beneath her roof.”

“I have more than one home. You may choose to live wherever you please.”

His reasonable suggestion was met with a furious hiss as Sophia turned to slam down the lid of her case.

“Ah, a female for every establishment,” she taunted. “How terribly convenient for you.”

His own temper flared. Was he not doing everything in his power to ensure she was kept in luxury when any other gentleman would have tossed her into the street after he’d finished with her? She should be showering him with gratitude, not hissing at him like a wounded cat.

“You are deliberately attempting to misunderstand me,” he charged.

“Non, I understand perfectly. You no longer desire me, but you cannot bear the thought I might find another gentleman who does. Admit the truth, Jacques.”

He stiffened, refusing to consider the accuracy of her words.

If she desired to play the role of the martyr, then who was he to thwart her tragic exit?

“Very well. You have obviously made your decision.” He offered a stiff bow before heading toward the door. “I will have a carriage at your disposal.”



GABRIEL DID NOT attempt to smother his groan of relief as Hugo at last managed to loosen the ropes that had cut deep furrows into his wrists.

“Damn,” Hugo breathed, frowning as Gabriel pulled out his handkerchief to wipe away the crusted blood. “Those wounds will be infected if they are not properly cleaned.”

“A worry for later.” He tossed aside the soiled handkerchief, turning his attention to his companion’s ashen face. “How is your head?”

“Aching.” Hugo grimaced, straightening before he headed directly for the brandy bottle set on a walnut sideboard. “Although I believe this should help ease the pain.”

“Shh,” Gabriel murmured. “We do not want to alert the guards that you are awake and that I am free.”

“What does it matter?” Hugo took a swig of the spirits directly from the bottle, his features tight with pain. “Without a weapon we have no hope of getting past the soldiers.”

Gabriel struggled to his feet, stretching his cramped muscles even as he sent his companion a warning glare.

“I have no intention of leaving without Talia.”

Hugo lifted a slender hand. “Be at ease, Ashcombe, it never occurred to me that we would leave without your wife.”

“Forgive me.” Gabriel pressed the heel of his hand to his throbbing temple. “It has been a trying few days.”

Hugo took another swig of the brandy. “I should say it has been a trying few months.”

“True.” Gabriel heaved a rueful sigh, moving to cast a cautious glance out the window. He counted two guards on the front balcony and another near the gate that opened onto the public street before returning his attention to his companion. “My life has not been the same since Silas Dobson blackmailed me into marrying his daughter.”

Setting aside the bottle, Hugo leaned against the side table, obviously still weak from the blow he had taken to his head.

“I am not certain whether to envy you or thank God I have no infuriated father forcing me down the aisle.”

Gabriel sympathized with his confusion.

It was not that he regretted having Talia as his bride. Hell, she was nothing less than a miracle. Who could ever have imagined that she could fill his life with a joy he had never expected, let alone deserved?

But he knew deep in his heart that a part of her would never forgive or forget his boorish behavior during the days leading to their farce of a wedding and the manner in which he had neglected her for weeks after they had become man and wife.

And that no matter how readily she might respond to his touch or how loyal she might be to him and their relationship, she would always keep her heart protected. How could she not when he had destroyed her trust?

“Only a fool would envy either of us at the moment,” he said wryly.

“In that we agree.” Hugo paused, folding his arms over his chest. “Of course, if you would be reasonable, then there might be a solution to our current dilemma.”

Gabriel was shaking his head before his friend even finished speaking.

“No.”

Hugo pushed away from the side table, his brows lowered with irritation.

“You have not even heard my suggestion.”

“There is no need,” Gabriel assured his companion. “I am well enough acquainted with you to know you are about to make some ridiculous offer to distract the guards while I rescue Talia and escape to my yacht.”

Hugo squared his shoulders, preparing for a fight. “It is the only logical plan.”

Knowing it would be pointless to convince the man it was too risky, Gabriel instead heaved a deep sigh.

“Really, Hugo, martyrs are so tediously boring.”

“Not a martyr, a gambler,” he argued, his chin set to an aggressive angle. “Once you have escaped, the odds are in my favor that the soldiers will charge in pursuit of you and I shall be able to stroll away unnoticed. In truth, I will be in less danger than you.”

“No.” Gabriel once again shook his head. “If anyone is to offer the distraction, it will be me. It is my fault you were captured.”

“I make my own decisions, Ashcombe,” Hugo growled. “And if anyone is to be held to blame it is your brother.”

“You would, of course, assume I am guilty,” an unexpected male voice drawled from behind them. “You never did like me, did you, Rothwell?”

Gabriel whirled on his heel. His brother was standing in a hidden doorway revealed by a narrow portion of the bookshelf that had just swung inward.

For an explosive moment Gabriel stared at Harry in disbelief, half expecting the sight of the slender young man with tousled brown hair and pugnacious expression to be a figment of his imagination.

Hugo charged past Gabriel in a gust of fury, clearly intent on pummeling the man he held fully responsible for their current troubles.

“You bastard.”

Not allowing himself the opportunity to consider the insanity of stepping in front of the large nobleman intent on murder, Gabriel wrapped his arms around his friend’s chest and struggled to bring him to a halt.

“Wait, Hugo,” he ground out, his muscles straining at the effort of keeping the man from escaping.

“Why?” Hugo demanded between clenched teeth. “He deserves to be skinned alive, like those damned natives do in the colonies.”

“I need to speak with him before you do any permanent harm.”

“Fine.”

Muttering his opinion of craven rats who should be shot on sight, Hugo stepped back, although the tension in his large body warned it would take little provocation to shatter his control.

Gabriel turned back toward Harry, grimly hoping he was not making a mistake in bringing a swift end to the reunion      .

“What the hell are you doing sneaking up on us?”


Harry shrugged. “I would think that it was obvious. I did not want Jacques or his guards to know I have returned to the house.”

Gabriel narrowed his gaze. “How did you know about the hidden doorway?”

“I have had a fortnight to explore the house while waiting to hear from Jacques.” Harry glanced over his shoulder at the dark emptiness that stretched behind him. “I stumbled across the secret tunnel a few days ago. I assume the previous owner dabbled in smuggling.”

It was a reasonable assumption. Calais had long been the primary port for smuggled goods from England. There was, no doubt, any number of homes built with hidden tunnels.

Hugo snorted. “Why am I not surprised you would have found a means to sneak about?”

Harry stepped out of the tunnel, regarding Hugo with a mocking smile.

“Should I be like you, Rothwell?” he demanded. “Strutting about as if I own the damned world and expecting the lesser folk to worship at my feet?”

“Can we finish this squabble later?” Gabriel interrupted, his attention never wavering from his brother. “Where does the passageway lead?”

“To the cellars.”

Gabriel nodded, the faintest hope stirring in the pit of his stomach.

Was it possible they might slip past the guards unnoticed?

“Is there a way out of the house?”

“Yes, there is a coal chute that opens in the back garden.” Harry grimaced as he glanced down at his expensive jacket that was marred with black streaks. “Which explains why my once pristine coat is now ruined beyond repair.”

“Is it guarded?”

“No.” Harry brushed a clinging cobweb from his arm. “So far as I can determine no one has been in the passageway for years. I doubt Jacques is aware that they even exist.”

“Does one of the passages lead upstairs?”

Harry frowned at the abrupt question. “I have not inspected them that far.”

Without warning, Hugo had moved to grasp Gabriel’s arm, his expression rigid with disbelief.

“Have you taken leave of your senses?” he barked. “You cannot mean to trust him.”

Gabriel scowled. “You believe this to be a trap?”

Hugo growled in disgust. “I think Harry would happily lead both of us to the slaughter if it meant him becoming the next Earl of Ashcombe,” he cruelly reminded Gabriel. “It is what he has always desired.”

“Dammit,” Harry burst out, appearing unbearably harassed. “Why would anyone believe that I would want your stupid title?” He waved his arms in a motion that nearly sent a carved crystal chess set tumbling from the pier table to the ground. “It is nothing but tedious duty and responsibility that I have sought to avoid my entire life, not to mention an endless parade of folks constantly demanding one thing or another. I should rather toss myself in the sea than be burdened with your position.”

Hugo’s laugh cut sharply through the library. “I could assist you into the sea…”

“Hugo,” Gabriel wearily muttered.

His friend had always taken great delight in antagonizing Harry, but now there was an added edge of violence he could barely constrain.

Harry, of course, did nothing to ease the tension. Indeed, the sardonic curl of his lips was a deliberate attempt to goad the large nobleman.

“Well, Gabriel,” he prodded. “Do you believe I am here to lead you into a trap?”

Gabriel’s lips twisted. “You have not made it easy to trust you, Harry.”

A flush crawled over Harry’s narrow face, making him appear young and oddly vulnerable.

“I may be a debauched scoundrel who has betrayed his country, but I have never wished you harm, brother,” he insisted, his voice harsh with sincerity. “Never, ever that.”

The two brothers stared at one another, the years briefly falling away to when they had been just two carefree lads running about the massive estate and causing mischief whenever they could slip away from the nursery. That had been before the old earl had determined it was time for Gabriel to begin his training as the heir apparent and Harry had been left in the hands of his overly indulgent mother.

When they had been…brothers.

The fragile connection was broken as Hugo’s fingers dug into Gabriel’s arm with obvious irritation.

“He may not have wished your death, but you may be certain that if Jacques gave him the choice between his life or yours, he would choose his own every time,” he gritted.

“I was already given the choice, you arrogant ass,” Harry snapped. “I was told to turn a blind eye and allow you to be sacrificed or Jacques will put a bullet in my heart.” He squared his shoulders. “I am risking as much as you by being here.”

Gabriel turned a deaf ear to the squabbling, instead concentrating on the vague plans that were formulating in the back of his mind.

He understood Hugo’s reluctance to trust Harry. Christ, he didn’t trust his brother. But for the moment their only hope of escape lay in the hidden passageways, and he was not going to allow his doubt to prevent him from grasping the unexpected opportunity.

What the devil did they have to lose?

“Harry, I wish you to lead Hugo to the cellars.”

His brother frowned at the abrupt command. “What of you?”

Hugo shook his head, already suspecting Gabriel’s plan. “Dammit, no.”

Harry stepped forward in puzzlement. “What the devil is happening?”

Gabriel did not allow his attention to stray from Hugo. If his friend refused to cooperate, then his hasty scheme would be ruined before it could be given an opportunity to succeed.

“I have already warned you I will not leave without Talia,” he reminded the nobleman.

Hugo shrugged. “Then we will all go together to rescue her.”

“No, I will not argue.” Gabriel stubbornly refused to consider the offer. “You will accompany Harry to the cellars and wait for us there. If we do not arrive within half an hour, then the two of you will escape to the yacht.” He pointed a finger in Hugo’s face. “And this time, old friend, you will ensure that it sails.”

Hugo stiffened in outrage. “I most certainly will not.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Harry snapped. “We are all going to end up dead if we stand here like a gaggle of fishwives.”

“You would be eager to save your own neck,” Hugo muttered.

Harry stabbed him with an exasperated glare. “As any man of intelligence would be, but it is my familiarity with my brother’s arrogant belief he was born for the sole purpose of ordering others about that resigns me to the inevitable.” He pointedly glanced toward Gabriel, who made no effort to hide his stubborn determination. “Our choices would seem to be standing here and arguing or heading to the cellars so Gabriel can go in pursuit of his wife.”

“He is right,” Gabriel said, pushing his friend toward the opening in the bookcase. “Go with Harry and I will join you as swiftly as I can.”

“Fine.” Hugo reluctantly headed toward the passageway, glancing over his shoulder to reveal his disgruntled expression. “But, I make no promises that I will not have strangled your charming brother by the time you arrive.”

Gabriel paused long enough to snatch a candle from the nearby candelabra before following Hugo and his brother into the musty tunnel.

“Just so long as you do not alert the guards.”