Author: Anne Stuart

“I do where my sister is concerned.”

“Your sister is safe,” he said. “You may set her down, Antoine. I would suggest the bed but she would fight you. The green chair should suffice.”

She found herself settled gently into one of his chairs, and she jumped back up immediately.

“Someone restrain her,” Rohan said in an unconcerned voice. “Without hurting her,” he added, and the footmen took her arms and forced her back in the chair, careful not to be too rough. She sat back, knowing when a battle could not be won.

“Where is my sister?”

“Where I promised she should be,” he said as the two valets helped him into the rich satin coat that fit him perfectly. “She should be arriving at the château by now, and Mrs. Clarke will welcome her by taking her to her bosom. She’ll thrive in the good country air, and by the time the Revels have concluded she’ll be delighted to rejoin you and return to England.”

“Why didn’t you let me say goodbye to her?”

He smiled thinly. “Dare I say I didn’t trust you? I gather you were very delicate when you first told her what the future held, but you have a ridiculously tender heart beneath that calm mien, and I think your sister’s tears would have broken through that admirable self-control.”

“She was crying?” Elinor picked up the salient point.

“Of course she was. She just lost her mother and her old nanny, not to mention whatever meager possessions she still had, and her sister, the person she thought she could count on, has abandoned her.”

Elinor clenched her hands, hiding them in the folds of her skirt. “Why would she think I’ve abandoned her?”

“My dear Elinor, do you really think she believed that ridiculous story you told her about becoming my amanuensis? Yes, I made certain someone was listening and reported to me—no, don’t jump up again. You should have realized I would do that. It’s wise not to underestimate me.”

She did her best to hide her bitterness. “Indeed, I shall endeavor not to.”

He turned away to survey himself in the mirror. Clearly the vision met with his approval. “Your sister is much smarter than you give her credit for,” he murmured. “Right now her imagination is running riot, coming up with all sorts of wicked things you might be getting into. You’ll have to write her and set her mind at ease. And I have no doubt that Mrs. Clarke will manage to make her feel better—she could cheer up Satan himself.”

“She cheers you up?”

He laughed softly. “Oh, no, my precious. I’m not Satan. Merely one of his fallen angels.” He waved away the offer of a wig, letting his luxurious silver-streaked black hair be tied in a neat queue. He held out his hands and his servants slid rings onto his long, elegant fingers, then he cocked his head, looking at her. “In truth, I’m glad you came in search of me. I had some questions for…”

“I didn’t come in search of you,” she snapped. “I would be happy if I never saw you again. I was looking for my sister. Since she is no longer here I will repair to my room, on my own two feet. You may call off your footman.”

“Once I ascertain that your feet have healed, certainly,” he murmured. “Do you want me to undo your bandages or would you prefer to handle the honors yourself?”

She immediately tucked her feet under her voluminous skirts. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’ve already seen your bare feet, poppet,” he pointed out, the soul of reason. “And quite delightful they are. But I can assure you that unlike the Chevalier du Corvalle I find other parts of the body to be far more stimulating. Although you do have exquisite arches.”

She looked at him with clear dislike. “I should have known better than to have trusted you. We made a bargain and you cheated.”

“I would call a man out for saying such a thing.” His voice was silken. “Do not trespass on my good nature.”

“You’re not going to call me out. Indeed, I would be happy if you did. Shooting a gun couldn’t be that difficult, and I would like nothing more than to put a bullet in you.”

“I think I liked the cutting out of my liver a bit better, child,” he said critically. “Firearms are so tediously impersonal. Not to mention loud.”

She glared at him. She had been determined to keep her face and voice calm—she’d certainly had years of practice. During their slow descent into the lower echelons of Paris society she’d managed to convince her sister and indeed, the entire household, that things were not as dire as they seemed. She could lie quite handily, hide her fear and other roiling emotions. And yet Lord Rohan seemed to knock them down as swiftly as she erected them. “You truly are a despicable man, aren’t you?” she said, no longer mincing words.

His smile was charming, exquisite, as he looked down at her. “I am indeed, my precious. A true villain—you’d best remember that. As well as remembering that you had no choice when it came to your sister’s safety. If you wanted her away from here while my friends break almost every commandment then you must agree to whatever terms I offered you. It is that simple.”

She didn’t bother to argue. He had the upper hand, which was both unsettling and infuriating. Fighting against him got her nowhere, and he probably enjoyed it. She needed to plan her battles more wisely. She took a deep, calming breath, forcing her hands to release their tight grip.

“So tell me, how are you feeling after the death of your dear mother? I expect the sense of relief is almost overpowering.”

She glared at him. “You are such a despicable man,” she repeated.

“Give it o’er, child,” he said wearily. “She was in the midst of dying a protracted, painful death. I would have said this was God’s mercy if I believed in mythical creatures. You can’t expect me to believe you truly mourn her.”

“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” she said calmly, looking around her. The large, hulking footman had remained in the room during their conversation, and she signaled for him to come forward. “You may take me back to my room, Antoine,” she said, having learned his name the day previous. “I’ve finished with his lordship for the time being.”

She’d hoped to see Rohan’s eyebrows snap together in anger. Instead he merely smiled. And Antoine made no move in her direction. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you? Neither have I. I’ll have the servants lay for both of us and we can set forth the rules of our little truce.”

“I’d prefer to return to my room and eat there.”

“But I’d prefer you to join me,” he said in the sweetest possible voice, with absolute steel beneath it. “Antoine, you may transport Miss Harriman to the green salon.”

“Oui, milord,” Antoine said, coming forward to scoop her up again.

She fixed him with a look, and Antoine halted, clearly torn. “Touch me and you’ll regret it,” she snarled at the poor boy. He looked so frightened she almost took pity on him, but that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

“Terrorizing the servants, my dear? You’re learning from me.” He waved an elegant white hand in Antoine’s direction. “You may leave, boy. Clearly the lady would much rather I carry her myself.”

She had played piquet in the past, and recognized herself outplayed by a master. “Repique, monsieur,” she said. “Antoine, you may assist me.”

Antoine didn’t move until Rohan gave a slight nod. “You disappoint me, ma belle,” he murmured. “You’re no featherweight, but I’ve managed to carry you on more than one occasion, and I believe I’m up to the challenge. But if you prefer young Antoine, so be it.”

Antoine had already scooped her up with due deference. “When have you carried me?” she demanded.

“Out of your burning house, my sweet. And when you fainted in my hallway.”

“I’ve never fainted in my life,” she protested.

“You needn’t worry, poppet. I carried you into your bedroom and for the most part the servants undressed you. Your virtue was safe with me.”

“For the most part?” she said in an icy voice. “I remember none of this.”

“Just as well,” he said airily. “Take her away, Antoine. I have a small bit of business to conduct. I’m certain she’ll manage to entertain herself well enough while awaiting me. Make certain you see to it.”

In other words, keep her prisoner. There was nothing she could do. She was well and truly trapped, and she’d put herself in his hands. At least his interest in her seemed as base and uncomplicated as a cat playing with a mouse. He would let her escape, just a bit, and then slam his paw down on her to hold her there.

But mice didn’t snarl and fight back. As she most assuredly would. He wanted entertainment, and respite from boredom? She would provide it. So thoroughly that he’d be afraid to go to sleep at night, for fear she’d stab him.

She could play games as well. She wasn’t strong enough to challenge him to a duel, she had no resources. But she had every belief that she could make his life a living hell.

And she had every intention of doing just that.

Mr. Mitchum was a troubled man. He dealt with estates and finances, not the cruder business of trials and criminals, and he’d been fortunate enough to spend most of his busy life dealing with the émigré population of Paris. To be sure, young men of quality were a feckless lot, and it had been his duty to ensure that their spendthrift ways didn’t land them in a French prison, but by and large it had been a good living.

Until this recent case. Clients lied to him all the time, he expected it. But he was unused to full-out fraud, to attempted embezzlement, to crimes on a scale quite unexpected. So unexpected that he had no notion what to do about it.

He could scarcely turn the man over to the French authorities. He had the Englishman’s distrust of the French, combined with a nationalistic shame over one of his countrymen perpetuating such a lie. He was certain that once he confronted the gentleman the situation could be handled with diplomacy and tact. The impostor would simply have to withdraw his claim and disappear.