CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Emilie shifted on the sofa in the morning room of the consul’s residence trying to get comfortable. She pressed the waistline of her dress for the fifth time. Her stays were laced too tight, and the maid had paid no heed when she’d asked for them to be loosened. Apparently Lord Dartois preferred tight lacing and as the maid was one procured for Emilie by the Marquis, the new servant took her instructions from him.

She threw a venomous look at the maid who sat nearby before reapplying herself to reading the book in her hand.

Her mind began wandering again almost instantly.

The middle-aged woman was not only her lady’s maid. She was her guard. She had not left Emilie’s side since arriving at the consul’s residence. Any hope Emilie had retained that she might find an opportunity to escape once in London was doomed to disappointment.

While Dartois had kept his distance since coming to London and was more often than not out attending so-called business meetings, she was left to wile away the hours under the eagle-eyed stare of her appointed guard. The Marquis had told Emilie she would be welcome to accompany him to his meetings when she was ready.

No matter where she went within the residence of the consul—a portly little man who was deep in Dartois’ pocket and of no help to Emilie—she was followed by her new shadow. The breakfast room, the library, the gardens—all of them felt suffocating because of the maid who followed. Not only did she follow, but she stuck to Emilie’s side like an unwelcome fly, watching her every mood, examining the books she picked up and the embroidery she started.

What was worse, when Dartois had instructed her to shop in London for new accessories, her guard in tow, Emilie had realised how ill-equipped she was to escape.

In France she had considered leaping from the carriage or running from the Marquis’ arms, and if she’d escaped, she might have been able to muddle her way through. But this was a different country, a different city. Emilie could speak English, yet the people here spoke so fast and with accents she did not recognise. Worse, the streets and buildings were as alien to her as the people. London contained strange signs she couldn’t decipher, odd road networks she struggled to navigate, and no friends she could call on. Even the direction of the docks, to where she might run and secure a passage home, was unknown to her.

Her only ally, the Duke of Tremaine, could help her no longer. He had tried, he had tried his utmost, but he had… She pushed from her mind those awful images of him falling, wounded on the dockside. The very idea he might have succumbed to his injuries was too much to bear.

But she had not lost hope.

Not yet.

She would focus on what was in her control. She would not succumb to the initial terror she had felt upon arriving here. Emilie Cadeaux had never allowed life to simply happen to her and she would not now.

On her second day in England she had counted out the money she had. Then she had taken stock of the belongings she had managed to bring with her. Finally, she had done the same with the luggage that had followed them on from Paris.

The coins she had were few, but she might sell some of her clothes and jewels to shore up her funds. Most of those items had been gifts from the Comte de Vergelles and it was therefore unlikely that Dartois would countenance her continuing to wear them. Now she only needed to find a way to sell them.

“Abigail?” Emilie asked, looking up from the book she had not been reading and speaking to the maid who sat too close beside her.

“Yes, Miss Cadeaux?”

“Do you know where I might sell some clothes I no longer need?” Emilie carried on quickly, giving her reasons for the seemingly out of the blue question, before the maid could get suspicious. “My clothes from his Lordship will be arriving from the dressmaker soon, and I already have a selection of millinery and shawls from our trip the other day. Soon I will have more clothes than I know what to do with, so it seems sensible to get rid of some, though they’re far too good a quality to give away.”

“You wish to sell them, not hand them on?” the maid asked, clearly hoping she would have been the recipient of some of Mademoiselle Cadeaux’s dresses as many maids were of their mistress’ cast-offs.

“Yes, I think so. They’re really quite pretty and by some of the best dressmakers in Paris.”

“As you wish, Mademoiselle.” There was a blankness in the maid’s face. Either she was short on wit, or she was being purposefully unhelpful.

“Yes, I do wish it,” said Emilie. “Can you find somewhere to sell them for me?”

“I can certainly—”

At that moment the door opened, and though Emilie had been doing a credible job of making the conversation seem as inconsequential as she wanted it to appear, she coloured a little when she realised it was Dartois who was entering the room.

“Mademoiselle Cadeaux,” he said, coming in and bowing.

He had been like this since coming to London. All courtesy and gentlemanliness. No hint of the knife he had held at her throat in Cherbourg. If anything it made Emilie more on edge. He played the part of villain and the part of gentleman with such ease—and switched between them without pause—she couldn’t tell which was the truth. Nor could she be sure whether it would be the former or the latter she would encounter whenever she entered his presence.

“We are to attend Lord Peregrine’s masquerade ball this evening,” he announced.

“We are?”

“We are.” He raised his chin and stared down his nose at her in a measuring way. “I have friends attending that we would do well to meet. Friends interested in what I can offer them.”

He had stopped hiding his intentions from Emilie since taking her from Paris. He seemed convinced, for some reason unknown to her, that she would come around to his way of thinking and would partner with him in his illicit endeavours. Every time he made these assumptions and spoke this freely, she remained silent and the satisfied look on his face grew. He believed, thanks to her lack of protest, that he was winning her over.

“The new dresses I bade you order on our first day in London should arrive shortly. I paid double for the woman to have them ready in time. And you will find a matching mask has been provided as well.”

Emilie thanked God for Dartois’ words. They would go a long way to convince the maid of her story about needing to sell clothes. Hopefully it wouldn’t be long before Emilie could increase her savings by those sales and then she could devise a plan for escape.

“Very well, my Lord,” Emilie said, rising to leave. “I’ll get ready.”

On her way to the door, she passed the Marquis and her skin prickled. A few more steps and she would be free from his presence for a time. But before she could escape, her tormentor reached out, grasping her arm and making her jump in the process.

His touch did not feel the same as when he had threatened her on the dock in Cherbourg. Somehow that made it worse. Now his touch was intimate, almost tender, and the sensation made her sick to her stomach. Not for the first time since he had taken her from the Comte’s possession, he leant in and breathed in her scent, his face mere inches from her own.

Emilie recoiled from him, turning her head away, her expression one of distaste.

“I grow impatient, Emilie,” he murmured against her cheek, his breath hot on her skin.

It was the first time he had used her Christian name. The action felt like a violation. It took everything within her not to yank her arm from his grasp and run to the door.

But she knew, she felt it in her gut, that had she done so, she would have sent him over the edge. This man was unpredictable. There was no telling how far his temper would flare, nor how much he would scorch those nearby. She must not react. She must bide her time—if she wished to survive.

Inhaling slowly through her nose she willed the nausea to subside and waited for the fear to ebb. In and out. In and out.

“Forgive me, my Lord,” she murmured, her fear transforming quickly into anger at having to placate this brute.

He did not remove his grip from her arm and his stare did not abate. She racked her brains for something more to say, something which might help her to escape from this moment. Glancing around her, Emilie realised with sudden panic that the maid had disappeared from the room.

“You are forgiven,” Dartois said at last, his tone thick with desire. “Be ready for seven o’clock.”

Then he released her.

Emilie left. The sick feeling followed her, as did the imprint of his fingers on her arm, both sensations making her want to get in a copper tub and scrub herself clean. She wanted to be rid of this man, but at the moment, she could not see her way out.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Emilie guessed there were at least two hundred people attending the Peregrines’ masquerade that evening when she arrived on Dartois’ arm.

All along the painted wall, candles in ornate golden scroll sconces shone out across the crowds, their light reflecting off the polished metal disks that formed the back of the clever lighting fixtures. Above them hung glittering chandeliers, hundreds of candles alight, adding to the heat of the rooms.