In Bed With the Duke

  If Jean-Pierre could feel amusement—and he was beyond that—he would have felt it now, watching Sandre squirm under Eleonore’s gentle reproach.

  “Yes, of course. I wish her Godspeed, too.” Sandre delivered that line with a little too much fervency.

  Every minute, Jean- Pierre’s men were out searching feverishly, looking in every cave and every hovel, dragging the sick and injured out of bed to see if they had been shot, because every minute that ticked by brought them closer to Sandre’s deadline and the moment when someone’s wife or child would have to be shot. By him. By Jean-Pierre.

  Meanwhile, the guests circulated, the champagne flowed, and in the gambling halls, travelers lost their wallets to Sandre’s dealers.

  So as far as Sandre was concerned, all was right in the world. And for everyone in Moricadia, that was all that mattered.

  Lady Fanchere patted Sandre’s cheek. “You’ll see Miss Chegwidden in three days at the Petits’ afternoon tea. You can wait that long, can’t you?”

  “If I must.” Sandre bowed gracefully.

  But Sandre’s eyes glowed with a peculiar combination of love and lust that meant Miss Chegwidden would suffer for every moment Sandre had to wait, and if Jean-Pierre had had any pity to spare for anyone but himself, he would feel sorry for Miss Chegwidden.

  They were both caught in the claws of a monster.

  “Bring them in. Bring them in.” Sandre waved to the mercenaries he’d hired to protect him from his own guard. “Don’t dawdle. I’m a busy man.”

  Jean-Pierre stood, his back pressed against the wall in the guardroom, and watched as the families of his men were herded inside. Women. Children. Sobbing quietly or loudly or standing white faced. Mothers with babes in their arms and one old lady, Taverese’s mother, because Taverese had no other family for Sandre to hold hostage. She was a goodhearted soul, and even before this, she’d been nice to him. In the last three days, they’d all been nice to him, offering him food, service, sex if he would only spare their sons, their daughters.

  They were like cattle to the slaughter.

  And he was the killer.

  Behind the line of mercenaries, the guard watched the scene.

  Sandre had had them searched before he let them in. The revolution was not going to start here and now, he assured them.

  No one—not the guard, not the women, not the children—could look away from the pistol Jean-Pierre held in his hand.

  He’d searched long and hard for this pistol. It held small bullets, mere specks of round iron, the kind, he hoped, that would do the smallest amount of damage to muscle, bone, and nerve.

  But he was gazing at a lineup of three-year-olds, of gawky adolescent boys and women who looked fragile from overwork. A small bullet . . . that could still kill, especially if he weren’t skilled. If his aim was off.

  “Line up against the wall.” Sandre sounded brisk and cheerful.

  Of course. Sandre had been looking forward to this for three days.

  Jean-Pierre wanted to close his eyes and shoot. But he didn’t dare. He might kill somebody. A kid. A wife.

  Instead, he picked his target carefully. He pulled the trigger.

  Taverese’s mother slammed into the wall, blood pouring from her arm.

  Taverese shrieked and cursed, and had to be restrained by the other guard from attacking Jean-Pierre.

  And Jean-Pierre knew Sandre was right.

  Jean-Pierre would never dare sleep again.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Another two nights of searching with no sleep and no success made Jean-Pierre want to shout at the brightly gowned, gregarious, and cheerful crowd at the Petits’ afternoon tea. Did they not realize the gravity of the situation in Moricadia? The prince was insane, the Reaper was unfound, and Jean-Pierre had one more night and one more day before he had to shoot another one of his guards’ family members—and there were no more old ladies to sacrifice in place of a wife or child.

  Jean-Pierre took a long drink of absinthe. The old lady was still alive, but if Jean-Pierre shot somebody’s kid, he didn’t know how much longer he would be.

  Hey, look. Here was Sandre, swaggering over in his uniform, come to ask if Jean-Pierre had yet to see his little flower blossom, Emma Chegwidden. And here were Lord and Lady Fanchere, dressed in their afternoon finery, headed to intercept the prince—and Miss Chegwidden was nowhere in sight.

  Here was trouble.

  Jean-Pierre moved into position to overhear the conversation.

  “Eleonore, you promised me Miss Chegwidden would attend this party. Don’t tell me she didn’t.” Sandre didn’t sound princely. He sounded petulant.

  “No, Sandre, I’m sorry.” Lady Fanchere did look apologetic.

  “Because of Aimée? She’s not here because of Aimée ?” His voice rose when he said her name.

  “That’s not it at all,” Eleonore said in a soothing tone. “Aimée took her maid and went to her house alone, for I was told one of our staff was injured and Miss Chegwidden was forced to stay back to care for him.”

  Sandre breathed heavily, clearly angry, yet restraining himself in front of his cousin . . . and the other guests. A few tourists and their servants had been roughly handled by the guard. Amid rumors of instability, a steady stream of travelers was leaving Moricadia, taking their wealth with them. Sandre couldn’t afford to offend any more by throwing a royal temper tantrum. “I hope, Eleonore, your servant’s injury is not serious enough to inconvenience you.”

  Jean-Pierre finished his drink and found a tray of fresh absinthe thrust under his hand. He didn’t glance at the footman. He didn’t care who he was. All he cared about was the answer to his question. Stepping forward, he asked, “Who was hurt?”

  “I don’t know. I didn’t ask.” She pressed her hand to her stomach. “Lately I’ve found myself squeamish when faced with the sight of blood.”

  “So it was serious?” Jean-Pierre exchanged his empty glass for a full one.

  “I believe so,” she said. “But why?”

  Jean-Pierre looked around. “Where’s Durant?” He hadn’t been in the inner circle two years ago when Sandre imprisoned Michael Durant, but he well remembered that Durant had been cocky, laughing, dashing, charming the women, outfighting the men, and winning every gamble—just the kind of man to take on the role of the Reaper.

  “The last ball was too much for his voice, poor fellow.” Suddenly she seemed to comprehend the direction of his questioning. With a reproving glance at Jean-Pierre, she turned to Sandre. “My prince, when he is not in our company or, with your permission, at a party, Michael Durant is locked in the dowager house, watched by our servants and guards.”

  “That is true, Your Highness,” Fanchere said.

  Jean-Pierre raised his eyebrows. It took a lot to move Fanchere to speech.

  “You trusted me with his custody,” Fanchere said in his slow, precise voice. “I’m not fool enough to fail you.”

  Precise and to the point, Jean-Pierre judged. In two sentences, Fanchere reminded Sandre that Sandre had faith in him, and subtly suggested Fanchere stood in fear of the prince and his brutal reprisals. Which, Jean-Pierre now knew, he should.

  “Quite right,” Eleonore said. “We all know who holds my husband’s trust. In addition, before night, Aimée will return to our home and be there as chaperone to Miss Chegwidden, and of course, Miss Chegwidden would never do anything that she believed was wrong.”

  Sandre laughed. He actually laughed. “That Michael Durant could be the Reaper might have occurred to our cousin Jean-Pierre, but I know that pitiful aristocrat. He cowers at the sight of me. And I assure you, he would not approach the woman who interests me.”

  “But you put him in the dungeon because you believed he had information about the revolutionaries,” Jean-Pierre said.

  Sandre turned on him impatiently. “Yes. So?”

  “You never got that information from him. So he either didn’t have it, or he’s held out on you.” Jean-Pierre saw
Eleonore flinch. He glanced at her.

  She was looking at Sandre as if she could see him all too well, and didn’t care for the view.

  “That has nothing to do with this,” Sandre said in a savage undertone. “I have no worries about him and Miss Chegwidden. Even if he dared, out of spite, to court her, no woman wants a broken man.”

  The footman was still there, holding the tray, and Jean-Pierre put his glass down and quietly turned away.

  Everyone knew the English were fools for the underdog, and Emma was an independent Englishwoman with the ability to heal the sick, living in a house full of Moricadian servants itching for revolution who were led by an English butler. And housed under their roof was an English nobleman who had already been involved with the revolutionaries and most certainly desired revenge.

  He was glad Sandre thought Durant had been reduced to a shadow of his former self. Jean- Pierre wasn’t so sure.

  Someone shook Emma’s shoulder and whispered in her ear, “Miss Chegwidden. The prince’s man is on his way.”

  Emma opened her eyes and looked stupidly at Elixabete. “What?”

  With increasing urgency, the child said, “Jean- Pierre de Guignard is on his way here.”

  Durant’s fever had finally broken last night. He would recover, and after spending the night putting water down his throat and helping Rubio change the sweaty sheets, Emma had fallen asleep on his bed with him. Now she was tangled in his arms, staring at Elixabete, trying to make sense of what the child was saying. She eased herself free of Michael’s embrace and quietly asked, “How do you know this?”

  “The servants at the palace heard what was said, realized what he intends, and they delayed him while one of the stableboys rode to warn us.”

  So the servants in the palace hated and feared Jean-Pierre, and dared what they could to thwart him. And they dared even more to protect the Reaper?

  Yes. Probably only a few knew the truth, but those Moricadians who did would help if possible. “Why is Jean-Pierre coming?” Emma asked.

  “He’s searching for the Reaper. He heard you’re a curadora and that you’d canceled two parties this week, so he became suspicious.”

  Emma pushed her hair out of her eyes. “How do you know this?”

  “Mr. Brimley has his ways.”

  “Our esteemed butler has some sort of network? Never mind. What are we going to do?” Emma looked down at the still-sleeping Michael.

  “Mr. Brimley says he’ll take care of everything. But he sent me after you. You need to come in, change and clean up, and be ready to tell the story he has concocted.”

  “Yes. I will.” She slid out of bed and ran with Elixabete to the house.

  Tia grabbed Emma’s hand as soon as she walked into the house and tugged her toward the stairs. “Mr. Brimley says I must help you to look calm and radiant.”

  “All right.” Emma already thought she looked calm, but perhaps after a fearful night of caring for Durant, she looked less than radiant.

  They rushed to her bedchamber. Tia removed Em-ma’s crumpled dark blue gown. Emma washed her face and hands and pinched her cheeks to bring the color up. Tia pulled a light blue gown over Emma’s head—“Mr. Brimley specifically said you were to wear the light blue gown; it turns your eyes a trustworthy blue”—and buttoned it. Emma loosened her hair and ran a comb through the tangles, and sat to allow Tia to form it into a soft swirl at the base of her neck. “Mr. Brimley said it should look slightly mussed.”

  Apparently, Brimley had thought matters through.

  They rushed back toward the staircase, but before they reached it, Tia stopped her. “Wait here.” She tip-toed toward the gallery. “Is it safe?” she called softly toward the top of the stairs.

  Elixabete was on guard. “Yes. Come on.”

  Now they all raced down to the main level, then down more stairs to the lowest level.

  The kitchen was hot, and crowded with sobbing serving girls and grim- faced footmen. Cook had her apron pressed to her mouth. One of the scullery maids was passed out on the floor while another fanned her with a paper fan. A path opened to let Emma through, and Brimley called, “Miss Chegwidden, I have need of your services.”

  For all the seeming madness that permeated the room, Brimley’s voice was calm, as always.

  But it also seemed to make the serving girls sob harder.

  Emma hurried toward the long wooden table where he was seated . . . and slowed as she took in the scene.

  All around him were rags and towels covered with blood. He was covered with blood, his formal white shirt and collar splattered with it as if he’d stood too close when Cook wrung a chicken’s neck.

  A meat cleaver rested beside his right hand.

  “If you would, I requested that your medical bag be brought here for your use, for this is bleeding a little more than I expected.” He lifted his left hand. “Additionally, we haven’t a lot of time to make this look as if it happened earlier.”

  Brimley’s little finger had been severed.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  Emma examined the finger. It was a clean cut, done decisively, leaving only the joint closest to Brimley’s hand.

  The footman, Henrique, held the medicine bag open for Emma.

  She removed a thin, clean rag, wrapped the rag around the base of the finger, and tightened it to form a tourniquet. “Mr. Brimley, what happened?”

  Before Brimley could respond, Cook took the apron down from her mouth and started talking. “He comes down, calm as can be, and announces we’ve got to have a serious injury to show, because that grandmother-murdering bastard, Jean-Pierre de Guignard, was on his way to find the Reaper. And we Moricadians, we know what’s what out there in the dowager house, but we didn’t realize Mr. Brimley did. Once we figured out he knew, we thought . . . well, we thought . . . He’s so good at assigning work, and we thought he’d decide on which one of us should do ourselves an injury.”

  Emma gazed at him, aghast that the Moricadians knew about Michael, aghast that Brimley knew about Michael, aghast at the deed Brimley had performed to save them all. “You picked up the meat cleaver and cut off your own finger?”

  He steadily gazed back. “I would never ask my staff to do something I would hesitate to do myself.”

  And this was why English butlers were the backbone of civilized society.

  “Get me icy cold water,” Emma told Cook. “Mr. Brimley, do you still have the rest of the finger?”

  “Yes.” He pulled a bloody handkerchief from his breast pocket and offered it to her.

  “We’re going to put it back on,” she said.

  “Won’t it rot?” One of the skinny message boys was wide-eyed and gruesomely fascinated.

  “Probably,” she told him, “but it’s an effort worth making. If it doesn’t succeed, we can always amputate later.”

  “If you put it back on, how will that prove anything to that baby-killing swine Jean-Pierre de Guignard?” one of the gardeners asked.

  “We’ll unwrap it very carefully and show him.” She plunged Brimley’s hand into the basin Cook placed beside them. “All of you act as if this Jean- Pierre is worse than the prince.”

  “De Guignards are all devil’s spawn. But this one has eyes so light they’re almost white.” Cook shivered, a huge mound of flesh quivering like jelly. “He’s shooting his own people in the palace. He’s a spooky one, he is.”

  “Everyone!” Brimley twitched as if he wanted to clap his hands to get their attention. “De Guignard will be here at any moment. Get this mess cleaned up. Put the bloody rags in the trash right here; don’t throw them in the rubbish heap outside. Should he look for them, we need them close as proof that this happened. I appreciate you young ladies crying over my little finger, but it was, after all, only a little finger, and I am, after all, only British.”

  In a choked voice, Tia said, “Not anymore, Mr. Brimley. Now you’re one of us.”

  The maids started wailing again.

  His hand tw
itched. “I appreciate the sentiment, but enough of that! If you must cry, go to your rooms. We must appear to be back to normal. Now, scatter! Go do your jobs, and if you can’t, when de Guignard appears, stay out of sight! Remember, the Reaper’s safety depends on you.”

  Within a minute, the kitchen was empty except for Cook, her three assistants, and the two scullery maids, all working in harmony on their preparations for the evening meal. One of the assistants was sniffling, for which Cook rewarded her with a slap on the cheek. One of the maids came over to the table with a bucket of sand, wet rags in hand, ready to scrub away the crimson stains. She took one look at the stump of Brimley’s finger, still slowly oozing blood, turned away, went to the slop bucket in the corner, and unloaded her dinner.

  Emma sympathized and dried his hand.

  “I should have thought of a tourniquet ahead of time,” Brimley said. “Of course, we did want to maximize the bloody display.”

  “We didn’t have to use yours. There are animals aplenty in here, Mr. Brimley,” Cook called from the stove.

  “I should have thought of that, too,” he said.

  “Perhaps you were distracted by your intentions.” Emma carefully placed the severed finger back onto the joint. “I’ll sew it later when I have time. For now, we’ll wrap it.” Which she did, taking care that the two parts would touch within the bandage.

  Henrique ducked in the door. “De Guignard is riding up the drive.”

  Brimley nodded. “Young man, remember what I’ve taught you. You are a proud representative of the Fancheres, and as such, you move slowly and with dignity.”

  Henrique returned the nod in exact imitation of Brimley’s stately manner, turned, and paced up toward the foyer.

  “Henrique will go far.” Pride rang in Brimley’s voice. “Now, Miss Chegwidden, if you would go to the library, seat yourself in an obvious location, and appear to be reading, I believe that would be the correct strategy.”

  “You should be in bed, Mr. Brimley,” Emma said.

  “I find my legs are surprisingly unsteady”—and he did look surprised—“so if Cook will fix me a cup of tea, I believe this placement will have to suffice for our confrontation.”