Tonight or Never

  There was no reason for her to be pleased that he practically ordered her to stay away from the French counts.

  In any case, she had gone to sleep, leaving him to stew in more ways than one.

  Another new experience for him, thanks to Chloe.

  Sexual frustration.

  Whoever said abstinence was good for the soul? His fingers drummed the desktop. He didn't care for it much and he certainly didn't feel good!

  When he woke this morning—still painfully aroused—he had reached for her, only to discover that she was already gone. "Picking violets," her note had said.

  He sighed. This was an odd twist of events for him: the Lord of Sex with no sex. And no substantial relief without his wife.

  He passed a hand over his face.

  The thing was, he couldn't figure out how he got into this labyrinthine situation in the first place. But since he had, he didn't see why he should have to suffer.

  Dejected, he opened up another ledger, staring blankly at the page. He noticed the majority of the entries were in the flowery script of the Countess de Fonbeaulard. As he scanned the columns he noted a section where she had put several question marks in the margins. This area was followed by a bold, brash style that John recognized as his uncle's.

  He smiled, immediately figuring out what had occurred. There had been some discrepancies and Maurice had straightened out the problem for her.

  The two of them had watched out for Chloe so well, taking care of the estate for her with meticulous care. The later entries, he saw, were done in a neat, precise imprint along with his uncle's. Maurice had been teaching Chloe how to keep the books.

  He was like a grandfather to her…

  Which made it all the more amazing that he actually entrusted her welfare to John, a man he knew to be a notorious rake.

  Why did everyone trust him so much?

  Now they were actually looking to him for guidance! It baffled him completely.

  Idly, he examined the ink entries.

  She had the most winsome nose. It crinkled when she laughed. Sometimes he liked to tease her by kissing the tip—

  What was he doing?

  He needed to see to these ledgers! He focused on the small figures in dark blue ink. Almost violet, really.

  Like her eyes…

  He could drown in those eyes.

  John slammed the book shut. Later. He would look at the books later.

  He rested his chin in the palm of his hand. Perhaps he should write a letter to his solicitor, requesting any information the man might be able to find on the Sexton heirlooms.

  Yes, that sounded like a good idea.

  He opened the desk drawer, taking out paper, quill, and ink. A tiny lock of carroty hair, tied with a pink ribbon, rested in a corner of the drawer.

  He removed it, smiling faintly. Chloe's baby hair.

  His finger stroked the soft lock. He remembered when her hair had been this fine. A little girl he treasured.

  Now a wife he cherished.

  Where had that thought come from? A film of sweat broke out across his brow. He did not want to deal with entanglements in his life. Chloe was—

  Outside the French doors, he heard the faint voices of the Cyndreacs, "… un… deux… trois!" followed by what sounded like a squeal of delight. He shook his head, going back to his thoughts.

  She was—

  "… un… deux… trois!" This time he heard a definite shriek and identified it as Lady Sexton's exclamation.

  He bolted out of his chair and raced to the doors, throwing them wide.

  There on the lawn in front of him, the Cyndreacs had his wife in the middle of a sheet and they were tossing her up in the air as if she were a new toy or a playful little trinket for their diversion.

  He stormed out onto the lawn. "Put her down at once!" he roared.

  They all gave him similar looks of stupefaction mixed with a dollop of fear. Fortunately they kept their hold on the sheeting, as Chloe was in the process of tumbling through the air.

  She landed in the center with a whump!

  "Did you not hear me?" His voice was very low and very threatening.

  The seven brothers let go of the sheet and took off.

  Chloe sat in the center, surrounded by violets, which were scattered over her, over the cloth, and on the ground. Her hands were planted firmly on her hips, a frown of disapproval gracing her lovely face.

  She was not pleased.

  "John, whatever is the matter with you?"

  "Have you no sense? They were flinging you in the air!"

  "So what?"

  "So what? You—you could have… they shouldn't…" Not sure exactly what he wanted to say, but positive he needed to say it, John crossed his arms over his chest and scowled.

  A huge grin spread across Chloe's face. "Come here, John." She patted the spot next to her.

  He raised an eyebrow, reluctantly joining her on the sheet. "What?" he muttered.

  Her dimples deepened. "Are you jealous?"

  He snorted. "Don't be ridiculous."

  "You seem jealous to me." She smoothed out the material beneath her hand in a laissez-faire attitude.

  He placed his hands on her shoulders, commanding her full attention. "No more jealous than you were last evening over the countess."

  Chloe looked him right in the eye. "Then you are very jealous."

  A gust of air escaped his lips. She had surprised him again. "Chloe…" He hesitated; then his expression darkened. "Don't play with me—I don't like it. Not from you."

  "I'm not playing with you, my lord." She moved closer to him so he could feel her heat.

  He stared at her silently.

  "I wouldn't play with you, John." She smoothed a lock of his hair back off his forehead. "Unless you needed it," she clarified.

  This was more than he could handle. There had never been these kinds of games between them.

  He grabbed her wrist, stopping her intimate action. His jade eyes sparked down at her. "Do not look for trouble, madam," he responded in a clipped tone, "for you shall surely find it."

  Chloe flinched, taken aback by his brusqueness. It was a side of John that not many saw. The determined strength of him, the shutter that closed over him when something scratched the surface of his feelings.

  This was the first time she had attempted it and it was the first time he had ever shut her out. It hurt her deeply.

  Tears filled her eyes and she pulled away from him.

  John felt instant remorse, along with a peculiar tightening in his chest.

  Placing his hands on her shoulders, he pulled her back to him. "I'm sorry, Chloe-cat; I didn't mean that the way it came out."

  Although shocked at his apology, Chloe immediately realized the leap he had just taken. Sniffing, she peeked up at him. "How did you mean it?"

  He opened his mouth but couldn't seem to find the right answer. "I'm not sure," he finally admitted.

  Chloe viewed him curiously. John was starting to have the most wonderfully confused looks on his face. To her, it was a picture lovelier than the finest Fragonard!

  Confusion was excellent.

  She cupped his mutinous chin, placing a soft kiss on his mouth. "Let's forget it for now, John," she whispered. "Anyway, I think I should like to take a nap." She faked a yawn, sending him a burning look from under her lashes.

  Lord Sexton brightened immediately.

  "Napping" was an excellent topic for him.

  And a safe one, too.

  Chapter Ten

  The Rose Reappears

  Several days later, the Duc de Montaine; his daughter, Baronne Dufond; and several other expatriated French showed up at the door of Chacun à Son Goût.

  All with the same story.

  They had been saved from the guillotine by the Black Rose. John did not find it odd that they landed on his doorstep; he found it downright suspicious.

  He also began to suspect that he was harboring the Black Rose in his household.


  His conclusion was based on several factors. One, many of those who had been rescued were personal friends of the Fonbeaulards; two, once one saved these people, one needed to have a place to deposit them.

  The location of Chacun à Son Goût, in Southern England between Dover and Portsmouth near Brighton, made the estate an excellent base of operations.

  A man could easily cross the channel from here, landing in Calais if he crossed at Dover, or not landing at all, simply crossing the channel to Le Havre and sailing up the Seine to the heart of Paris. If he went strictly by water, then he would have to contend with the vagaries of wind currents. In some cases, the wind might aid him and he could choose such a route.

  The land route, from Calais to Paris, was the most popularly traveled and would pose the risk of discovery. A better route would be from Brighton in England, crossing the channel to Boulogne, then from Boulogne on land to the city of Paris. The land travel would be quicker going, for one wouldn't have to fight against the river current en route to Paris.

  Of course the more time he spent on land, specifically French soil, the greater risk of discovery. And then, the Black Rose would have to be sure to have fresh mounts along the way, not to mention someone he trusted aiding him in hostile country.

  John was betting that the man crossed into Boulogne or thereabouts and sailed back with his liberated souls—for he would not chance being on French soil longer than necessary, especially with his aristocrats in tow.

  Considering the fact that the Cyndreacs and the Zambeau had been rescued with some haste, it meant that the man knew how to ride like hell, fight like the devil, and sail like the wind.

  The rumor Percy had told about the man being a pirate might not be far from the truth.

  John tried to think back as to who was present on what occasions and who was absent. It was very difficult, since there were so many guests in the house and, at the time, he hadn't been paying attention. At least, not paying attention to that. As he recalled, most of that week had been spent almost exclusively with Chloe. The few times they did join the rest of the household, there had been plenty of time in between for someone to come and go.

  Case in point, the new group that had arrived this morning.

  Several of them had mentioned that they weren't brought directly to the house, but secreted for the night in an old shed on the outskirts of some village, the location of which they did not know. Then they were escorted to Chacun à Son Goût.

  Since the man who saved them always appeared in disguise, they did not even know if it was the same man who brought them here from France.

  John believed sometimes it was and sometimes it wasn't. He also believed whoever it was might, on occasion, return to the house a day prior to the arrivals to allay suspicion. It all depended on what kind of help he had; something John had no way of knowing.

  The Black Rose, safely encamped in the house once again, would wait with the rest of them for new French visitors, showing the appropriate surprise when they showed up.

  Now who could it be?

  John went down a list of possible suspects in his mind.

  The interesting thing was that Maurice, Percy, and Deiter had all been called away for the past few days on various excuses.

  Maurice had gone to check out his estate, having received a message that a fire had broken out in one of the wings of his homes. He returned yesterday with the story that no fire had broken out and no one knew who had sent the message.

  John would have liked to believe his uncle, but he knew for a fact that Maurice had been somewhat wild in his younger days, and he wouldn't put it past the Frenchman to see it as his obligation to rescue his fellow countrymen.

  Deiter had not shown up for two days and when questioned had claimed someone had drugged him and he had slept for two days straight without anyone checking up on him—a fact he seemed extremely disgruntled over. He seriously asked John if no one thought it strange that he had slept all that time.

  John couldn't very well say the truth, which was no, not really. Deiter was something of an enigma; however, John had a hard time picturing the grim Bavarian in such a dashing role.

  Then there was Percy. The fop had decided to visit a friend of his in the next township for a few days, and Lord Sexton was not about to interfere with that fine decision. As far as him being the Black Rose, that was difficult to fathom under any circumstances, so he moved on to the next candidate.

  Or candidates, as the case might be, that being the Cyndreacs. Or one of the Cyndreacs, to be precise.

  This was John's best guess. But which one was it? They were very hard to keep track of, and since they looked so much alike, unless they were all together it was almost impossible to tell if one was missing.

  They were young, brash, and foolishly brave. Impersonating different characters while taking on the citizen army would be exactly the thing that would appeal to a young count bent on adventure.

  Come to think of it, it could be more than one of them… except that Zu-Zu had said she had seen them in prison and he believed her. He also believed that she saw six Cyndreacs, not seven. The seventh saved her from a beheading, then went back and liberated his brothers.

  And he was still doing it.

  Now, with so many in the house, it was almost impossible to keep track of who went where. Last night they had to move into the large banquet hall. Some came to dinner, some didn't.

  It was a perfect foil.

  John was determined to find out who it was, though. He resolved to keep an eye and ear out, and do some espionage of his own. He could be very good at subterfuge, if need be.

  Even so, he knew there would be one person he would soon have to discuss this with. Chloe. It would not be long before she intuited something amiss. The carrottop had always been sharp.

  So he was not overly surprised that night when they got into bed and Chloe asked him, "Have you noticed an odd pattern happening with the—"

  "Yes."

  Her brow furrowed. "Who is it, do you suppose?"

  "I don't know yet, but I will tell you this…"

  "What?"

  He took her in his arms, snuggling her close to him. "It is not Baronne Dufond."

  Chloe giggled. The widow had been annoying everyone with her impossible whiny demands since she arrived. Her father, the due, was even worse. Only Jean-Jules seemed able to put up with her, often defending her, much to the bafflement of his brothers.

  "Do you have any guesses?" she asked, rubbing her face against the warm skin of his chest. John always felt wonderful and smelled even better. Grandmere had once devised a scent just for him, and gave him soaps and cologne made with the woodsy fragrance every Christmas. He seemed to favor it, as he used it almost exclusively, albeit sparingly.

  "Yes, I do." He stroked her hair absently. "I think it's one of the Cyns."

  "The Cyndreacs?" She wrinkled her nose as she thought about it.

  John bent down and kissed the tip.

  "Why a Cyndreac?"

  He told her his reasoning.

  "Hmm… I don't think so, John. For one thing, they seem too young to accomplish such daring exploits."

  "Some of them are older than you, and youth is often flamboyant."

  She raised one of her brows. "Then what is your excuse?"

  "That is not humorous, Chloe-phant."

  "I hate that name."

  He grinned. "I know."

  "I still don't think it's one of the Cyndreacs." Her lower lip pouted as she thought the situation over.

  "Why?" He captured that lower lip between his teeth and suckled on it.

  Reluctantly, he released the delectable morsel so she could answer him. "Well, Percy did remark that the Black Rose was believed to be a pirate, and none of the Cyndreacs have ever taken up such a profession—so that rules them out."

  "No, Percy said it was rumored. That doesn't mean the Black Rose actually was a pirate."

  "I'm not convinced."

  "Then who
's your guess?" His hands stroked down her back, massaging as they went.

  "I think it is someone we don't know… someone not a guest in the house, who knows we are French aristocrats. He reasons that we would be sympathetic to his cause and certainly would never turn away a fellow countryman from our door. He might even be posing as one of the servants, for all we know."

  "I disagree."

  Chloe placed her palms on his chest to lever back from him. She gazed up at him. "Why?"

  "Because"—John brought her in close again—"he knew who your friends were and he made it a point to save them."

  "All right, then he is a house servant—that would explain his knowledge."

  He shook his head. "It just doesn't seem right."

  Chloe peeked up at him through her lashes. "Shall we wager?"

  He raised one eyebrow. "To see who's right?"

  She nodded, two mischievous dimples popping into her cheeks.

  "Very well, madam. What do you propose to wager?" His voice drawled with wicked possibilities.

  "I wager…" She stopped to think about it a moment. "That if I am proven correct, you will have to do whatever I say for one night."

  John looked up at the ceiling, shaking his head in disbelief. He met her perplexed expression with a teasing smile and twinkling eyes. "Chloe, Chloe, Chloe, remember what I told you in the bath that time? You must choose a forfeit that one would not welcome wholeheartedly."

  She pouted again, realizing her error.

  He snickered. "However, I'll gladly accept your terms, sweet." He rubbed her nose with his own.

  "Good." She beamed, already getting excited over the prospect of having John at her mercy for an entire night. "We need to come up with a plan as to how we can track him down."

  "That shouldn't be too hard, actually."

  Chloe gave him a questioning look.

  "Now that we are aware that he's operating in and about Chacun à Son Goût," he explained, "all I have to do is monitor the front of the estate in the wee hours of night. Most of the 'deliveries' have been in the early morning hours. Something tells me, though, that any future ones will be in the middle of the night."

  "Why do you think that?"

  "He's too sharp to take unnecessary risks. He would have to assume that one of us would now be on to him. Night allows the cover the darkness to protect him."