Читать книгу Explosive - Charlotte Mede - Страница 9

Blackburn listened to the crescendo of violins, distant and lilting, wafting into the candlelit boudoir just as the woman draped over the satin and lace-strewn bed peaked for the second time. He felt her body tense, the lush, extravagant curves fill his hands moments before he, accommodating as ever, lost himself in her dark depths.

Several heartbeats later dusky eyes framed by a profusion of ebony curls opened lazily. “You may love me to death,” breathed a satiated Susannah Treadwell, “anytime.” Her intense gaze—supremely satisfied and simultaneously carnal—devoured the man whose lean powerful body had just given her an encounter with Eros she would long remember. She arched her back in languid contentment, a smoothly curved arm supporting her slender neck.

“My pleasure.” He moved away with economic grace to stretch his tall frame, nakedly confident, alongside the bed. Magnificently male in a casual sprawl, his broad shoulders were an incongruous match for the fragrantly tousled ivory sheets and lace-embroidered pillows.

The Lady Treadwell was in a class by herself, a woman whose lack of inhibition and insatiable proclivities matched his—stroke for passionate stroke.

Exactly how involved she was with Le Comte and the Eroica score was, of course, another matter and did absolutely nothing to keep him from enjoying the scarlet-tipped hand which lingered so effectively on his hard torso. The hand stole upward, infinitely slowly from the indentation of his navel, to caress the sculpted chest.

“Must we attend this tedious recital, Gray?” Lady Susannah pouted prettily, intent on her pleasurable exploration of a well-delineated pectoral. “I can think of far better ways to spend our time than waiting interminably for this pianist. I do believe Le Comte has temporarily lost his mind. All this excitement over a woman playing Beethoven. I saw her just the other day riding on Rotten Row. A shriveled bluestocking. Only wonder why Le Comte has taken an interest!”

Blackburn suspected the Frenchman had told Susannah very little about Devon Caravelle. He rarely supplied details, only money, aware that her elderly husband had run through his fortune long ago. The Frenchman had paid her well to offer him up to his abductors, he was sure of it.

Blackburn’s expression revealed nothing but amusement as he settled his long frame more comfortably on the overstuffed softness of the hastily commandeered bed.

“Quite the sensation from what I’ve heard. Could it be that you’re afraid of a potential rival? The way you propelled me out of that crowded hall tonight and up those stairs was nothing short of brazen,” he said with mock amazement, shaking his dark head while noting with an expert’s eye the heavy fullness of her impressively displayed breasts.

A husky laugh punctuated his remark as her warm, spicy scent formed a web around them. “Well, darling, I knew this guest room was unoccupied,” she purred convincingly, tracing the outline of a bruise on the left side of his jaw with delightful concentration. “I must have my pleasures. You know what a bore old Treadwell can be. How can you blame me?”

“The things we do for money, like marrying well in your case, seldom come easily I suppose.” Blackburn petted Susannah’s sumptuous behind lingeringly, philosophically flexible about such comparatively trifling moral issues. His life’s experience had made certain judgments impractical.

“I’m not pleased, however, that those beastly cutthroats were working on the behest of old Treadwell,” she lied effortlessly. She made a moue of distaste. “To attack you outside my town house the other night! I’m afraid that my husband has finally seen through the haze of his senility and realized what a ridiculous cuckold he’s become.”

“Many thanks for your overwhelming concern,” murmured Blackburn with considerable irony. “Mercifully, I recover quickly.”

“I have noticed that your recovery time is enviable.” Susannah turned onto her back in one calculated seductive move. “Which has more to do with my eagerness to escape with you this evening than anything Le Comte’s new mistress could possibly have to offer.”

“Those who have heard her play maintain she’s impressively talented. Her interpretation of Beethoven is said to be masterful.”

“Since when have you developed an interest in music?” Susannah asked sharply.

Since his encounter with an icy, fiery-haired woman in a dark cell by Blackfriars Bridge.

In the next instant he was beset by the image of Devon Caravelle emerging triumphantly from the Frenchman’s bed. He stretched his arms over his head and steeled himself. It wasn’t anything he wanted to think about—who she’d sleep with and what she’d do to keep the noose from tightening around that beautiful neck. Instead of the elation he expected to feel at upending de Maupassant’s plans, he found himself sinking into a cynical torpor. He shifted away from Susannah, her physical presence suddenly cloying.

“Anything I can do, darling?” He’d forgotten how perceptive Lady Treadwell could be. “You seem preoccupied suddenly.”

He smiled distractedly. “I think we should get back to the concert.”

Every muscle in his body felt tight, his jaw locked, his mind in turmoil. The intriguing and dangerous Devon could just as easily be playing him for a fool. Money was more often the motivator than loyalty to a political cause. Or the motives might well be political in nature. He drew a long breath.

The gloves would then come off. He’d never again risk a disaster like the one involving his murdered brother.

With heavy lids and darker intentions, he observed Susannah carefully. Much as it would wound her overdeveloped sense of vanity, he thought, wrapping his wrist in a swathe of her jet hair, this seemingly spontaneous seduction had been welcomed not the least for the sexual interlude as for the information he always gleaned from their postcoital conversations.

“A female virtuoso, it’s unusual, you must admit.” He pushed carefully, positioning a pillow behind his head.

Pouting her disappointment as the subject matter turned from her, Susannah tugged away her hair with small teasing gestures before inching closer to Blackburn. “Her mother, they say, was French, one of those horrid women who became involved with the radicals during the Revolution. Her father was English but nobody seems to know anything about him. They divided their time between London, Paris, and some absurd little cottage,” she revealed cattily. “I suppose she was born on the wrong side of the sheets, hence her French surname. Some men find that sort of thing attractive, particularly in a mistress.”

“De Maupassant and she met in Paris?”

“You’ve been listening to the same gossips as I have, darling,” Susannah scolded mockingly. “One hears that Le Comte’s son was taking music lessons from her at the Conservatoire. I presume, like any other woman with very little to trade upon, Mademoiselle sensed an opportunity and planned to make herself indispensable to Le Comte, in every way.” Susannah’s dark eyes suddenly turned feline before she said in a throaty voice, “You seem very interested, darling.”

And Susannah seemed overly informed.

He shifted to a sitting position on the side of the canopied bed, the corded muscles in his arms flexing. “Interested enough that I recommend we return to the reception before the recital begins. And more important, I wouldn’t want to deprive your legion of admirers of your company.”

Susannah replied by snaking one arm around his abdomen pleasured by the sensation of finely tapered muscle. “Just five more minutes,” she whispered beguilingly, smolderingly confident that her seductive pose would have the desired effect.

Blackburn felt the sway of her pointed nipples against his back as moist lips and tongue traced a path across his broad shoulders. “Blackburn,” she growled low in her throat, “don’t ever think another woman would be any match for me.”

“I think we’ve had enough talk,” he circumvented the possessiveness in her voice, leaning over her lazily, “of Le Comte and his mistress.”

Yet her image wouldn’t leave him alone. The wide gray eyes as she faced him in the dark cell at Blackfriars Bridge, the generously expressive mouth, the controlled sensuality evident in every motion of her body swathed in brown wool. The sensuous whisper of rich silk.

Unaccountably annoyed, he shunted the memory and one of the abundant pillows aside. His hands, equally familiar with intrigue and seduction, continued to caress the silken skin of the eager Lady Treadwell, skimming over her abundant curves. He felt her lips snake persuasively over his taut stomach, narrow hips, until he forgot everything except the spasms of pleasure that racked his body—all the while de Maupassant’s concert proceeded circumspectly below.

Le Comte Henri de Maupassant barely contained his excitement behind his habitual mask of hauteur. His eyes swept the ballroom of his town house, a massive hall that had been recently regilded without thought to cost. On this night he had made sure that one thousand candles cast incandescent light over jeweled and silk-clad guests who were all holding their collective breaths between sips of the finest champagne.

All the better for him to see the Marquess of Blackburn snap the first trigger of an elaborate, and deeply satisfying, trap.

“It’s truly shocking and should not be countenanced,” he heard Lady Hester Bankfort intone, as she pursed thin lips and tapped her meager bosom with a fan for emphasis.

“And that’s precisely why we’ve all decided to attend,” reminded her daughter-in-law Belinda who, along with the two hundred or so of the cream of London society, filled the ballroom of Comte Henri de Maupassant.

“Even if she is his mistress,” allowed Lady Bankfort while giving a brief nod to Le Comte and to a knot of gentlemen already arranged in a row of exquisite Louis Quinze chairs for what was to be the London Season’s most scandalous recital. “But to parade her about shamelessly, like some kind of odalisque…”

Le Comte heard her voice trail off in a huff of disapproval. “Public performances given by a woman! The French take simply too many liberties.”

Le Comte knew the slight was intended for him, a host whose aristocratic lineage, far superior to Lady Bankfort’s, quite frankly rankled. He also knew that Lady Bankfort and the rest of his guests were conveniently forgetting the moral and material excesses of previous decades when enmity with the French loosened both fashions and mores.

He circulated with an air of entitlement among his guests, his expression faintly patronizing. Relinquishing his glass of champagne to a passing footman, he went to stand within a few feet of a gleaming mahogany Broadwood pianoforte. A hush descended as the candlelight flickered around the man for whom, gossips liked to say, libertinage was a religion. With a string of mistresses, one more beautiful than the last and, conveniently, a wife and requisite heirs permanently traveling abroad, Comte Henri de Maupassant lived as if the ancien régime had never gone the way of the guillotine.

The family history was well known, the lives lost to the Terror, and the quick escape to England with a cache of gold and jewels dating back to the Middle Ages. Le Comte had all but been raised in England save for forays to the continent to reclaim gradually the ancestral lands in France.

“That’s where he found her,” someone in the front row of the assembled guests whispered, “at the Conservatoire in Paris.”

Le Comte smiled faintly in acknowledgment of the remark, his face the detached mask of the polished host. He raised a white-gloved hand for silence and turned to the fashionable crowd who were having trouble dissembling their unfashionable excitement.

Ah yes, the right combination of scandal and titillation always served as the most delectable kind of enticement.

He was certain that Wellington, Whitehall, and the Marquess of Blackburn were all too aware of whom he was dangling right in front of their noses. What delicious irony, ensnaring England’s master spy to do his bidding at long last—and in the most banal way possible. Through the seductive allure of a woman.

“Dear Ladies and Gentlemen,” he began. The sibilant tones carried just a charming hint of accent. “My most heartfelt thanks to all of you for granting me this opportunity to introduce a remarkable sensation.” Le Comte paused deliberately for a moment, lingering on the syllables of that last word, relishing the palpable tension in the room.

“I know that many of you are truly devotees of music, worshippers at the shrine of Apollo, loyal disciples to the world’s greatest composers,” he continued with the barest trace of irony. His words drifted over the candelabra bracketing the footmen who were positioned around the alcoves of the ballroom. Only the fine murmur of expensive fabrics and hushed breaths punctuated the absolute stillness.

“And to do justice to this great devotion, I have the honor of introducing to you this evening my most recent protégée, a young woman recently arrived from France whose talent at interpreting the work of one of our greatest composers is, I submit to you, unparalleled.”

A few nervous coughs as the audience shifted in their chairs and several of the men endeavored not to lean noticeably forward, monocles raised in anticipation.

De Maupassant turned expectantly to the back of the ballroom and began again: “Dear Ladies and Gentlemen, I present to you, Mademoiselle Devon Caravelle.”

As though perfectly choreographed, a figure emerged into the light from under one of the alcoves. As lorgnettes and monocles were raised to catch a glimpse of Le Comte’s latest paramour, she glided toward the pianoforte silently, a column in a swathe of silver tissue. Her slender neck was set off by a square bodice unadorned except for a single choker of emeralds, a deliberate sign to all society of her protector’s possessiveness. Walking gracefully, she held her head high.

Le Comte watched as she reached the small podium which had been positioned in the center of the ballroom. For a moment, she stood facing her audience, her white expanse of shoulders posed against the rich brown of the Broadwood, her expression giving no ground. Her luminous gray eyes regarded her audience almost brazenly, radiating an intelligence and bravado that were shocking in the rarefied elegance of the room.

He bowed slightly as Devon sat before the pianoforte, her dark red hair a halo of fire against the purity of her profile. A few men in the front rows shifted in their evening finery, Le Comte noticed with satisfaction, hardly immune to the strikingly sensuous figure Devon Caravelle presented. She paused, hands held quietly in her lap, her slender legs still. Le Comte took his seat, pleased beyond measure as the first chords of Beethoven’s “Appassionata” were struck.

Strong, wild, and tempestuous, the notes filled every corner of the great space, feeding the growing excitement and disapproval of the assembled guests. It was astounding, scandalous, a woman playing Beethoven when everyone was expecting, at best, Bach. And the choice of music, the “Appassionata.” Everyone knew it had been inspired by the composer’s young mistress.

A totally inappropriate selection, yet how astonishingly and ardently she played. Her supple hands coaxed from the instrument emotions both voluptuous and controlled, her beautiful gray eyes closed to all but the music within her. Dynamic chords set the finale, dissipating to a subtle and haunting conclusion.

She finished to a stunned and thundering silence before launching into the first movement of the Waldstein, an unleashing of demoniac forces that swept the ballroom like the strongest gale. She played with an abandon immodest in its intensity and no man could tear his eyes from the young pianist, her movements a seductive invitation into a world mysteriously closed to them.

Devon played with no respite until the last echoes of the “Sonata in C Major, the Waldstein, slowed to greet another astonished silence from the audience. The lit tapers had burned down with the approach of midnight and Le Comte watched as Devon rose from the bench as if awakening from a deep reverie. The slightest pink tinged her cheekbones, and the emeralds around her throat winked in the candlelight. Her gaze swept the ballroom briefly, but she acknowledged neither her benefactor nor her audience. Cool and distant, without saying a word, she rested a pale hand on the gleaming rosewood of the pianoforte. Then a small, enigmatic smile tilted the corner of her full lips as she stepped away from the instrument and dissolved from the ballroom like a goddess slipping into the night.

But Le Comte knew better. Devon Caravelle was no goddess. She wasn’t slipping away into the night’s ether but toward a hard and inescapable reality in the form of the Marquess of Blackburn. Not even the threat of a torturous death for his brother had brought the proud and incorruptible Marquess to his knees, his self-control and iron will impenetrable.

The Broadwood piano gleamed under the light of the flickering candelabra. He now had the Marquess exactly where he wanted—under the spell of Devon Caravelle. Together they were an unmatchable combination, the only combination that would deliver into his hands the formula for a weapon that would make him the éminence grise of the most powerful emperor the world had seen since ancient times—Napoleon Bonaparte.

By resurrecting Napoleon from St. Helena and by unleashing the terrifying prospect of destruction upon Europe and beyond, Le Comte would reclaim a hundredfold the power, riches, and prestige lost by his family during the Revolution.

Just bring him to me, Devon, the one man who stands in my way.

His fingers gripped the fine stem of his crystal glass in obsessive anticipation.

Devon glanced over her shoulder in the shadowy hallway outside the ballroom, looking for Blackburn—before he came looking for her. The corridor stretched in front of her like a board game with its neatly formulated black and white marble tiles. She stifled the urge to run from all of this, damning the thinness of her gown, the delicacy of her slippers, the parody of a recital. Unlike the usual feelings of euphoria that floated over her after a concert, she felt ready to jump out of her skin. From the sense that the Broadwood was tuned slightly off-key to the loose piano pedal that had vexed her like a pebble in a shoe throughout the concert, she was relieved that at least one concert was over for the night.

Act Two involved a performance for the Marquess, albeit from a script that she had yet to compose. Feeling uncharacteristically agitated, her nerves on alert, she could sense somehow that he’d already arrived. She pictured him in her mind’s eye, his broad-shouldered form moving through the crowd, his dark blue eyes hunting her down. Hunting her down for that elusive, potentially explosive score.

Which she didn’t have.

Seduce Le Comte, Blackburn had ordered. Leaning onto the cool wall for support, she squeezed her eyes shut at the horror of the thought, her throat constricting in panic.

But then again, what would it feel like to hang? Unconsciously fingering the emeralds lacing her neck, she cursed both the Marquess and Le Comte for the tenth time that day.

From the top of the stairs, the cringe of hinges and a door opening and closing. She made herself deliberately small, observing from the corner as a tall man strode down the stairs, his face thrown into sharp relief by the glare of light from the crystal chandelier overhead. Devon would have recognized that strongly etched profile anywhere and, pulse accelerating, she grabbed the gossamer of her skirts, holding her breath, wondering if he would pass by. It was as if, ridiculous notion, they had somehow catapulted into one another’s orbit, destined to collide.

The flicker of recognition was immediate, a lightning charge in the quiet corridor. Dark and supremely elegant in his evening clothes, Blackburn unerringly found his way to her side, like a bullet to a target. His hair was disordered, slanting over his ears and forehead, and his formal dress did absolutely nothing to conceal the breadth of his shoulders, the lean musculature of his body. Her nerves rattling, Devon tried to deny that in addition to being lethal, the man was stunningly, disastrously handsome.

“Mademoiselle Caravelle.” The low words were a growl. His smile wasn’t a nice thing and sent fingers of awareness tripping up her spine.

“I was searching for you,” she tried, her voice a low whisper. Her blood pumped fiercely at the prospect of his dragging her from a London ballroom to a prison when he discovered that she didn’t have the Eroica. “I thought that I might find you here.”

“In a shadowed hallway?” His eyes were a cold blue and locked into hers. He was standing so close that she could breathe in his warm scent. It was an outrageous thought, but if she reached out she could trace the faint lines bracketing his wide mouth, stroke the hard line of his jaw. She was mesmerized, on the brink of a strange madness.

“You do have a marked preference for the dramatic I’ve noticed in our brief acquaintance, Mademoiselle.”

“Believe me, not by choice.” She tried to keep her voice calm, and as an outlet for her nervousness, she took a look over his shoulder and down the still deserted corridor.

“I don’t believe you. In any case, the truth is rarely helpful in these instances.” His eyes skimmed her body. “Although I’ll admit you’ve chosen well—an out of the way spot to hand off the score.” His glance took in her scantily clad form, lingering on the emerald choker around her neck. “But it’s obviously not on your person.”

“A brilliant deduction,” she said defensively, studying the blinding whiteness of his cravat to slow her pulse. They were entirely alone and it would take nothing to have him haul her off to some dank cell at Newgate to await the hangman. She was seconds away from full-blown panic.

Swallowing the lump in her throat, she had to remind herself to keep breathing, the air was so thin between them.

“Look, I don’t have the score…” The words left her lips in a rush and she wished desperately that he wouldn’t stand so close to her. She felt his incredible heat as he leaned in toward her, saw his nostrils flare, and heard his indrawn breath. She found herself staring into his dark eyes and, inexplicably, a sense of female boldness filled her, a form of insanity, she was convinced, almost obliterating her panic.

Blackburn crossed his arms, his face wiped clean of expression save for a cynical curve to his lips. “That’s not what I came to hear. You really leave me with no choice.” His voice was dark and Devon waited, shivering with dread and a strange, unwelcome desire.

“I tried…” she said, turning away.

One step and he had her, pulling her up rough and hard against his chest. “Trying’s not good enough, Devon.” His intense scrutiny was a slow burn on her skin. Shadows glanced across the bridge of his nose, his wide mouth, and the angle of his jaw.

“Give me more time, then.”

“Time was never an option.”

She was unyielding, stiff in his arms and he waited a moment to see what she would do. From what seemed a long distance away came the chime of crystal and laughter. Devon glanced furtively over her shoulder, the black and white tile swimming before her eyes, before she returned to Blackburn’s suffocating gaze and embrace. “This isn’t the right time or place for this discussion,” she said pushing away from him.

He let her go, but she could see the effect of her words in the darkening of his eyes, his mood dangerous. “I’ll make myself clearer, then. I’m not interested in further discussion and there’s no use putting off the inevitable, Mademoiselle.” His smile was deadly as he took her by the bare arm as if they were about to engage in a quadrille. His hard palm burned her bare skin and she sucked in a startled breath in response, attempting to pull away. A moment later he thrust her under the light of a wall sconce, his gaze ruthlessly searching her face.

“You may not have the Eroica in your possession right now, but you damn well know where it is.” In an insulting glance, he took full stock of her trembling form in her wretchedly revealing dress. His eyes locked onto hers, refusing to let her look away. “You’re a beautiful woman—there’s not much Le Comte would deny you.”

“I already told you that I don’t have it.” She was exposed to his merciless gaze in the unsparing glare. His long fingers didn’t tighten on her arm, but they didn’t have to.

“Then we’re going to have to do something about that—but not here.”

Devon braced herself against the wall. Protest was stillborn on her lips as Blackburn’s hard palm slid from her arm to around her waist, his long fingers spanning her hipbone through the thin fabric of her dress. She tried to retreat backward, but that only brought her once again flush against the hardness of his chest.

Very deliberately, his hand slid around her neck, the contact squeezing her heart. His gaze caught hers and held. “Such a lovely, slender throat.” He stroked her softly, feeling the coolness of her skin against the contrasting heat of his palm. “What a shame it would be to see you hang, Devon.” The caress stopped for a moment before he resumed the mesmerizing rhythm again, and then his hot hand slid down her neck to rest on her back, an inch away from her breast.

Devon stopped breathing, a new, wilder rush of dread invading her senses. “What do you want me to do?”

The words were a strange combination of boldness and vulnerability.

He didn’t answer, his hand burning through her rib cage, the pressure searing and light at the same time. Devon couldn’t breathe as he studied her with the intensity of a wild animal before he lowered his head toward her, obliterating the world around them.

She closed her eyes—just as a sultry voice floated toward them.

“There you are, darling,” gushed Susannah Treadwell emerging in a fragrant cloud of burgundy damask and heavy musk.

Devon’s eyes snapped open, Blackburn’s face a fraction from her own.

Over his broad shoulder, she watched as Susannah took the last steps of the stairs with sinuous grace before tucking an errant black curl into her elaborate chignon. Her eyes narrowed with disapproval as she absorbed the intimate scene.

Recovering herself immediately, she cooed, “So sorry we missed your little concert, Mademoiselle Caravelle. Time just seemed to slip away for the Marquess and me as we managed to find vastly more amusing entertainment elsewhere. Didn’t we, darling?” she asked, draping herself around Blackburn before confidently placing a possessive hand on his arm.

In what seemed like slowly infinite degrees, Blackburn relinquished his hold on Devon, transforming it into a light caress. Which wasn’t lost on Susannah.

He flashed her a tight smile. “I’m surprised you haven’t made your way to the ballroom, Lady Treadwell. You wouldn’t wish to miss the evening’s many diversions.”

Devon’s stomach pitched at her narrow escape. And yet looking at the Marquess and Lady Treadwell together, her fear coalesced into a flare of outrage.

England and Europe could disappear in an apocalyptic conflagration, her father’s work could be exploited for malevolent purposes, and she could hang—all the while Blackburn disported himself in bed with one of London’s most amoral and avaricious women.

He seemed quite comfortable with Lady Treadwell who had nestled herself beneath his shoulder and he had the arrogance to look completely unaffected by her coyly delivered revelation about their earlier encounter.

For a moment she thought she couldn’t move. Her body was stiff, her thinking scrambled. Blackburn’s hands on her body, and around her neck. Her defenses were wearing thin.

She turned to Lady Treadwell, but the words were meant for Blackburn. “I believe we’ve concluded our discussion.” Her voice echoed along the corridor.

“Of course, you’re finished,” agreed Lady Treadwell in dulcet tones.

Another heavy silence before Blackburn stepped back, the shadows in the hallway hardening the lines of his face.

“Discussion is not on the agenda, Mademoiselle. It never was.”

They waged a silent battle, a contest of wills. But he made no move toward her.

“My apologies for intruding on your interlude.” Devon deliberately addressed Lady Treadwell. She refused to meet those dangerous eyes, her arm still tingling from his large hand at her throat, her body resonating shamelessly from just being near him.

Squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin, she simply turned and walked away, Blackburn’s gaze scorching her bare back.

Opportunities for escape were narrowing, the noose slowly tightening around her neck. Her tightrope walk had just become more dizzying.

When Blackburn moved in for the kill—and it would be tonight—she had a long way to fall.

The ballroom was ablaze with candles and loud whispers.

“Good riddance! I think that instrument is one of those monstrosities that Broadwood had designed expressly for Beethoven, for extra volume, in the hope that the deaf musician might be able to hear it better,” sniffed Lady Hester. “Furthermore, women’s finer sensibilities do not equip them for such indecorous public displays,” she added, eagle-eyed, as the Broadwood pianoforte was moved into storage by several of Le Comte’s blue liveried servants.

“Never knew a woman to be either particularly sensitive or sensible,” groused Lord Treadwell, raising his quizzing glass to better see his much younger wife, Susannah, surrounded by a clutch of admirers. She hung possessively from the Marquess of Blackburn’s arm who, it soon became patently clear, was having no small difficulty keeping his intense gaze from Le Comte and his mistress.

“I trust there won’t be a scene.” Lady Hester raised her own lorgnette to take in the view. “The whole situation is unsavory to begin with. Let us not have to witness a contretemps over some ridiculous foreign creature.” She surveyed the Marquess critically. “I simply do not see what either Le Comte or the Marquess might find attractive about this Mademoiselle Caravelle.

You would if you were a man, thought Lord Treadwell, leaning heavily on his cane. Devon Caravelle had every gentleman in London under the age of eighty smoldering, while rendering every other woman in the ton all but invisible.

“I do believe the Marquess is hoping to see if her dance card is filled,” Lady Hester huffed in disapproval. “The rogue—as though half of London’s eligible and ineligible women were not enough.”

Lord Treadwell did not seem to take offense that his wife was included in the latter group.

The violin ensemble, pressed into service once again, began with a lively gavotte just as the Marquess disengaged himself from Susannah.

“The effrontery,” Lady Hester said to no one in particular. “This will certainly not endear Blackburn to our host.”

“I don’t think he’s worried on that score,” added Treadwell, watching, along with at least half of the other guests, as the Marquess of Blackburn offered Devon Caravelle his arm to lead her onto the ballroom floor.

Across the room his wife’s face darkened like a thundercloud, a beautiful woman supremely unaccustomed to such a blatant show of male indifference. Tossing back her champagne and with a swing of her hips that had seduced scores of men, Susannah sauntered toward Le Comte who stood momentarily alone, an island in a sea of tulle and silk.

The Frenchman’s pale eyes narrowed at her approach and he bowed cursorily over her hand before Susannah flicked open her fan and plunged in without preamble.

“What are your plans for the Marquess and that French tart, Monsieur, if I may ask?” Her usually sultry tone was strained despite the coquettish tilt of her head.

“As a matter of fact, you may not ask, Susannah.” Le Comte clasped his hands behind his back as his eyes followed the couple in question on the dance floor. “And please don’t tell me that you’re actually jealous. You’re far too old and experienced for that sort of thing.”

Susannah’s eyes flashed fire at the multiple affront so casually delivered. Her smile tightened as she saw old Treadwell look their way over the heads of swirling couples entranced by the strains of Scarlatti. Useless codger. She wondered, uncharitably, why she couldn’t have Blackburn sharing her bed permanently rather than a man three times her age.

“Quite right, Henri, I have become older and more experienced under your tutelage,” she admitted, closing her fan with a decisive snap. “I also learned from your example never to forget an insult, although for just this moment I shall try.”

Infuriatingly, the Frenchman kept his eyes glued on the dance floor.

Throwing back the last drop of champagne, Susannah suddenly found it bitter. She followed Le Comte’s gaze and watched Blackburn and Devon trade partners twice before the two of them were brought together again by the music. She was unwilling to account for the instant and insistent desire for the Marquess, the one man she was learning she couldn’t live without. There was absolutely no way she would allow Devon Caravelle to become a problem and, quite definitely, that little scene she’d tripped upon in the hallway still galled.

“I can imagine why our Marquess would be of use to you, Le Comte, but that French slattern? Why are you so intent on bringing these two together?”

Still surveying the ballroom floor, Le Comte’s thin mouth tightened at her venomous tone. “It’s not for you to know, Susannah, alas.” His tone was dismissive.

“Condescension has always been your strong suit, although increasingly, I find that you don’t always apply it wisely, Monsieur.”

Reluctantly, Le Comte turned to her with an assessing glance. “I wouldn’t become overly involved, Susannah.”

“You mean with your plans or with the Marquess?”

“Either—because if you do, you will be interfering in something of the utmost importance to me. And that wouldn’t be prudent, would it now?”

Not easily dissuaded, Susannah raised her now empty glass to her lips, showing sharp, white teeth. “It all depends on your definition of prudent. What I do know is this—that you and the Marquess are after the same thing, and I’m not talking about that shriveled pianist. She’s simply a convenient pawn.” She tilted her glass in imitation of a toast, suddenly confident. “This situation has everything to do with that episode concerning Blackburn’s brother which didn’t turn out well for either of you, as I recall.”

Le Comte’s response was sharp. “I wouldn’t believe every bit of information you pick up on your travels.”

“Indeed, pillow talk is a wonderful thing. That’s something else you taught me, Le Comte, remember?”

Only Susannah knew that the almost imperceptible tic below the Frenchman’s left eye signaled his intense displeasure with her. “I’m warning you, Susannah. Leave off. This is a race to the finish involving only the Marquess of Blackburn and myself.”

Susannah smiled slyly. “And may the best man win, naturally.”

“I shall prevail.” Le Comte dismissed her with a wave of his gloved hand and a curt nod. “Very soon you will see your Marquess following my every command slavishly.”

Susannah raised her perfectly plucked brows in astonishment. “Come now, I find that difficult to believe. Blackburn is his own man if nothing else.”

“That’s a luxury he will soon discover that he can ill afford.” He fixed the lithe figure of Devon Caravelle in his crosshairs. “I’ll give the Marquess three days. After which, if he and I can’t come to an understanding, he will find himself reprising that unfortunate business with his brother. Except this time, it will be our lovely pianist who will serve as the sacrificial lamb.”

Le Comte gave a small nod to a passing trio of acquaintances before adding cavalierly, “That should keep you happy, Lady Treadwell, non?”

“He is looking at us.”

Blackburn gazed down at the woman he held in his arms, a woman who was playing a dangerously unwise game with him.

“That’s the least of your problems right now, Mademoiselle.” He executed a required bow before taking Devon Caravelle back into his arms. The high curve of her breasts rose out of a layer of exasperating silver ruching, her fine profile turned deliberately away from him.

“Why don’t you just waltz me right out of this room and into Newgate, then?” she challenged coolly.

A short silence. “I won’t ask you again for the Eroica, Devon.”

She lifted her chin. Bravado was all she had left. “What good would I be to you imprisoned or dead? You need me, Blackburn.”

His expression was grim. “I wouldn’t make that mistake.” He was a man who’d never needed anyone in his life.

“You threatened me.” She returned his bow with a low dip. “My goal was simply to secure your cooperation in deciphering the score.”

“Your definition of cooperation is a curious one. I didn’t think opiates, violence, and a prison cell exactly constitute persuasion.”

“I have no control over the behavior of Le Comte’s men.”

“I’m pointing out that you set the tone of our association.”

“Which gives you the right to threaten me with hanging?” Her voice was ragged. Glancing up at him from beneath a sweep of thick eyelashes for the benefit of onlookers, she made certain that her words belied her flirtatious expression. “You are asking me to take on a deception of monstrously dangerous proportions—with no guarantees.”

“I never offer guarantees when there’s enough money involved to mitigate the dangers.”

Devon looked as fragile as blown glass and yet he suspected he was holding finely tempered metal in his arms, a woman fully capable of bartering what was left of her integrity, of selling herself to the highest bidder. His hand tightened on her waist, reminding himself that, in the end, he was hardly any better.

“There are no guarantees for me either, Mademoiselle, not that you should give that thought any consideration,” he said as his hand joined hers briefly. He felt the cold fingers through the fine silk of her gloves. “Your loyalties, if you have any, are hardly transparent, and it’s probably not particularly auspicious for me to be dealing with a woman who plays the roles of mistress, pianist, and spy with such remarkable ease. You are without doubt an unusual woman.”

“I won’t take that as a compliment.”

“None intended.”

“And I’m not an agent—no matter what you’ve been led to believe.”

Not for the first time, Blackburn resisted the inexplicable urge to pull Devon closer. Too tempting, too erotic, the connection between them a lightning rod. His hand brushed her shoulder, the silkiness a potent reminder.

“Is Le Comte still looking our way?” she interrupted his thoughts, whirling into his arms and then away again.

Blackburn glanced across the room where the Frenchman was holding court, bowing gallantly over Susannah’s small plump fingers, so different from Devon Caravelle’s slim, talented hand. Blackburn noted the strange expression passing over the Frenchman’s face, one that he knew far too well.

“You’re better off taking your chances with me.” His arm tightened momentarily around her narrow back.

“You mean risking the gallows?”

He ignored her question. “What exactly is the nature of your agreement with de Maupassant? Is it money? The promise of notoriety?”

Devon turned her head sharply to look up at him, absorbing the stark lines of his face, the wide mouth above the strong jawline. She pivoted gracefully in his arms, holding herself stiffly as though more conscious than ever of a confused upsurge of unwelcome sensations, of fear and desire. Blackburn felt her invoke her steeliest reserve.

“My relationship with Le Comte has nothing to do with us.”

“He has everything to do with us,” Blackburn muttered. “He’s thrown us together quite deliberately. And he’s prepared to give you access to the Eroica, despite your denials,” he said just as the orchestra struck up a lively minuet.

“It’s not that easy.” Her mouth was set in a firm line. “I don’t want or need your offer of money, or anybody else’s for that matter.”

“Don’t take me for a fool, Mademoiselle. And I won’t take you for the innocent that you pretend to be,” he said in a softly uttered threat. “You know how to play Le Comte for a puppet, and you know exactly how to convince him to relinquish the score to you.”

The confusion and embarrassment clouding her eyes was a fine bit of acting, he thought, looking at her drift away from him a few steps, in perfect time with the music’s rhythm.

“Tell me, is Le Comte sparing with the purse strings?” he continued ruthlessly as his strong arms propelled her back toward him. “One should think those emeralds around your lovely neck would keep you satisfied. Or are you trying for diamonds?”

“Stop it,” she whispered under her breath, then in the next instant lifted her gaze to him boldly as though changing her mind. “Rubies, actually,” she said with a brittle voice. “I’m trying for rubies, if you must know.”

He didn’t like the answer or her bravado. “Then perhaps we should turn up the heat.”

She gave him a mockingly sweet smile, for his benefit or for their audience, he wasn’t sure. “And how do you propose we force Le Comte’s hand?” she asked.

“With the utmost discretion, of course,” he said, fooling neither her nor himself. “As strategies go, you of all people must know how potent the combination of seduction, jealousy, and deception can be, Mademoiselle,” he explained, his voice rough velvet as he led her from the center of the ballroom to the protective shadows of a grouping of leafy plants.

She was a tall woman but he still towered over her, backing her into a corner. In the wavering candlelight, he thought he glimpsed uncertainty and fear in her eyes as she refused to lower her gaze, staring steadily, courageously into his face. Vulnerability was difficult to feign and for a moment, Blackburn questioned his own powers of observation. He watched the tip of her tongue slide from her lips, the gesture deliberate, which he didn’t know. All he knew was how his body reacted with a blast of heat.

As though to make it easier for her, his shadowed face moved fractionally closer as he slid his fingers deep into the mass of her hair to tilt her face upward. It was just one way to fight the battle, he persuaded himself, before taking her face in both palms. Her mouth trembled beneath his, moist, pliant, and intensely female.

The tension eased out of her by slow degrees as his lips brushed lightly against hers. Instead of drawing away, Devon drew unconsciously closer, her lashes lowered, closing her eyes. He teasingly nipped her lower lip, his tongue licking inside. She surrendered her mouth, opening to the voracity of his deepening kiss while the strains of violins and the protective covering of fronds receded in the distance.

More insistent and demanding, the pressure of Blackburn’s lips increased in a velvety heated stroking as his tongue suggestively explored, caressing her sweetness, tasting her mouth with a lazy greed. Slow and inexorably consuming, his mouth devoured hers until she gasped for breath. He heard her groan as she pressed her breasts against him, oblivious to the sharp edges of the pilaster biting into her back, sighing against the succulence of their hot, ravenous play.

“We should have done this from the very first,” Blackburn whispered roughly, and plunged again for her pliant tongue as his hands stroked their way down her back and to the sides of her breasts.

Against his mouth, she whispered, “This makes no sense…” But she wound her arms around his neck, shuddering at the feel of his palms molding her breasts. She sank into his kisses, long, leisurely, wet incursions that left her so weak he had to hold her up in his arms.

As if he had all the time in the world, and as if a good number of Le Comte’s guests had not spied their impromptu rendezvous, Blackburn traced a voluptuous trail along her parted lips, her smooth cheek, the curl of an ear, the highly sensitive, he discovered, curve of her neck. He moved his mouth to the softness of her shoulder and felt Devon shiver at the touch of his mouth, his teeth, the soothing stroke of his tongue.

No longer distant nor in complete control of the encounter, Blackburn felt himself become harder, tauter, his body contemptuously mocking his attempt at detachment. Her skin was like rich cream beneath his lips, her body sinuously lush as it melted into his. She drew a shuddering breath and, against his will, his hard fingers slid from her breasts to the back of her head where they tangled in her thick hair. His mouth, a hot brand, closed over hers once again.

His eyes closed in self-defense and he immediately saw her naked beneath him, warm and soft and ready. He groaned against the tidal wave threatening to overtake them both. Her open and ardent sensuality startled him like nothing had in a very long time, and he had drunk from the very depths of decadence, manipulating, controlling the most sophisticated of carnal games.

He forced his eyes open, pulling back and releasing her by slow degrees with small kisses, erotically tugging at her lips, willing himself to ignore the clamoring of his heated blood, willing his erection to subside. She was just another of de Maupassant’s women. His pulse slowed, he tensed and ice water began to replace the blood in his veins.

The objective was to have her secure the Eroica, at whatever cost.

Blackburn looked at the woman in his arms, his body responding all out of proportion to those full lips, ripe and parted in longing, at the eyes widening in alarm as she intuitively realized his intent. She made a small sound at the back of her throat.

This was a woman who could destroy a man.

He felt the iron rod of his erection mocking him.

He would give her one more night with her lover.

Blackburn’s hands tightened on her waist, struck from nowhere by the thought that he would not be able to pry his hands from her body. He couldn’t let himself imagine her lying naked beneath him, open to the incredible pleasure he’d give them both.

Anger washed over him, fresh and raw. “Go to him, Devon,” he growled softly.

Devon spared him a frantic look, allowing him to remove her clutching hands from his shoulders. He firmed his resolve, blocking out any feelings bleeding around the edges. With this woman, he needed every advantage he could get.

“I’ll give you one more night.” His tone was simultaneously ferocious and cold and, sensing her shock, he wanted to make sure there were no more misunderstandings.

Her hands fisted by her sides, her body taut in rebellion. “This is absolutely barbaric,” she whispered, searching his face for explanation.

“Dispense with your pretense of bourgeois morality, Devon.” A slow burn ignited in his stomach. “You clearly have no problem sharing your favors with me, so what’s your problem with de Maupassant? The fate of Europe and England hangs in the balance while you’re busy playing ingénue.”

“I am fully aware of the implications,” she said, her voice quavering slightly. “It’s not that simple…you don’t understand.” She drew a breath, diverting his attention to the smoothness of her shoulders and to the perfection of her breasts rising like offerings from the shimmering fabric of her dress.

The need for her was strong. His erection strained against his breeches and he swallowed, giving himself a hard mental shake. “Tonight, Devon.”

She licked her lips, her eyes wide and vulnerable, testing his resolve. Then she wrapped her arms around herself.

Before he could respond, he heard the voice, as he expected he would, the sibilant tones of Le Comte de Maupassant.

“My, my—what an intimate scene.” Aware of the frozen tableau of people behind him, Le Comte impaled Blackburn and Devon with the aristocratic hauteur of eight generations. His look was pure triumph—and something else.

Blackburn knew that he’d just raised the stakes in the contest that Le Comte had started years ago. Well, so be it. He’d just thrown Devon Caravelle to the wolves, the most vicious of the lot.

And he couldn’t afford to care.

Susannah seethed. That French bitch had simply brazened it out after launching herself at the Marquess of Blackburn. She’d probably enjoyed the stares of Le Comte’s guests who were this very instant digesting the incident with their usual salacious appetites.

Susannah surveyed the banquet hall glittering with crystal and silver, the air redolent of rich delicacies. No sign of Blackburn, Le Comte, or that little trollop. Her sixth sense told her that Devon Caravelle seemed to have gotten under the Marquess’s skin. And Susannah didn’t like it. The Marquess was hers, she decided with haughty fiat, secure in her beauty and seductive prowess. She felt the warmth of the room close around her and her bones melted, her breasts straining simply at the thought of Blackburn. Her unparalleled lover, and she had sampled many.

Cooling herself with her lacquered fan, Susannah thought about their interlude just a few hours before. What had first started as just another bout of intrigue, for a handsome pay packet of course, had developed into a gnawing need, a fire in her womb. How could the Marquess remain impervious to her charms and leave her stranded in the middle of a soiree to consort with that Frenchwoman, and so publicly?

She pursed her lips. The situation was positively humiliating. And frankly untenable. It was a wonder de Maupassant didn’t call Blackburn out, the ton would probably say tomorrow afternoon as they gathered at their clubs. Probably had less to do with the fact that it was bad form to defend the honor of one’s mistress and more to do with the fact that the Marquess could drill a sovereign at twenty paces. And as rumor had it, the two men already shared a bad history.

What Susannah desperately needed was another drink. Her mouth was parched from all the drama, she thought sourly. Just in time, she spied one of Le Comte’s factotums, standing alone staring morosely into space, oblivious to the dull roar of chatter around him.

She strolled over to the tall, thin man who reminded her of a scarecrow or, on better days, a particular species of undertaker. Fortunately, his demeanor didn’t mean that he was immune to her charms.

“Bertrand, mon amour, you look entirely too preoccupied,” she trilled at his side, one hand splayed over her capacious bosom. “You look in need of fortification, as a matter of fact. Le Comte has a way of enervating one, would you not agree?”

Deep in thought, his brow furrowed, he blinked twice before finally recognizing her. He gave her a belated bow. “Lady Treadwell. What a pleasure. But of course, refreshment, immediately.”

Moments later Bertrand Lacan was staring moodily at her décolletage in between sips of champagne and deepening sighs. Guests were beginning to drift from the room like colorful autumn leaves and Susannah shrewdly used the opportunity to create a feeling of burgeoning intimacy. It was almost one in the morning, but a man could still dream that the night was young, she thought strategically, trailing her fingers over the deep valley of her bodice for added impact.

“So tell me, Bertrand, you who know everything,” she encouraged with a little pout. “Do explain for me the main performance of the evening: That Frenchwoman throwing herself at the Marquess of Blackburn.”

Lacan raised his watery blue eyes to hers and in their depths was a flicker of anger. “It is an ugly situation, Madame.” His mouth snapped shut as though unwilling to say more.

“Precisely how nasty, Bertrand?” cajoled Susannah, linking her arm with his encouragingly.

Lacan was reluctant to be swayed, holding himself stiffly away from temptation. “I do know some details,” he supplied, trailing off and nervously catching the eyes of several guests making their way from the banquet hall to the ballroom.

Susannah awarded him with a brilliant smile designed to recapture his attention. “I’m sure you do, Bertrand. You are so close to Le Comte, after all. But what of his entanglement with that Frenchwoman?” Susannah could be like a pampered terrier with a bone.

The late hour and more than a few drinks contributed to Lacan’s lowered defenses. He straightened contemptuously, his face mottling with resentment. “Bah,” he spat dramatically. “Frenchwoman! Devon Caravelle is a traitor to France, like her father and mother before her, fomenters of the Revolution and the overthrow of the king.”

“A rather nasty piece of work by the sound of it.”

“More than you could ever imagine, Madame!”

“My imagination is quite fertile, Monsieur; not to worry.”

Susannah had clearly hit a nerve. Requiring less prompting now, Bertrand Lacan continued on his rant. “And yet, Le Comte is willing to reward her for her disloyalty.”

“‘Reward her for her disloyalty’—I don’t quite understand.”

“Devon Caravelle has many talents that Le Comte is willing to put to use,” Lacan pronounced, his disaffection boiling over. He gesticulated for emphasis. “Not for the gloire of France, malheureusement, but in the service of that tyrant, Bonaparte.”

Susannah tilted her head closer, prepared to be the beneficiary of Bertrand Lacan’s simmering discontent. “But you were more than willing to set her up with the Marquess of Blackburn the other evening, Bertrand,” she reminded. He was the one who had given her the opiates and the directive to lace Blackburn’s drink.

“I had no choice,” he said, with a shake of his head.

Susannah nodded understandingly, patting his arm. “But what service could the Marquess and the Frenchwoman together possibly supply?” she pushed gently, keeping her voice low.

Only a few guests remained, despite the fact that the banquet table still groaned under the weight of artfully arranged delicacies that footmen continued to replenish. Le Comte had reveled in the lavishness of the display, no doubt, thought Susannah.

She turned her attention back to Lacan, her eyes narrowing seductively at her quarry. Suddenly suspicious at being the focus of Susannah’s undivided attention, Lacan momentarily blocked out both her obvious bounty and his acute displeasure with Le Comte. “I can’t possibly reveal that,” he said. Relinquishing his glass on a table behind him, his hands twitched nervously at his side.

“And why not?” Susannah asked prettily, trying to keep the sharpness from her gaze, aware of the fact that the room was emptying quickly, with couples sailing from the hall to find their generous host. “You are loyal to Le Comte, no matter what. And I am loyal to Le Comte, no matter what. There’s absolutely no problem with your unburdening yourself to me, Bertrand.” She gave a throaty chuckle. “We are, after all, comrades-in-arms, are we not?”

Lacan ran a hand through his rapidly retreating hairline before sighing. “I don’t understand why Le Comte would do anything to support that bâtard, that tyran.”

“Indeed,” concurred Susannah. “Le Comte comes from one of the oldest families in France. It makes no sense that he would throw in his lot with Napoleon, defeated and exiled on St. Helena, a man with nothing left…”

“We can only hope that he has nothing left,” Lacan mumbled, crossing his arms defensively. “Unless, that is, Le Comte gives him the power that he needs, that the tyrant craves!”

“Truly all this intrigue—it’s quite exciting.” Susannah’s cheeks flushed pink and she edged in closer. “What could the source of that power be, do you suppose?”

Finding his anger dissipating in a miasma of musk, Lacan’s shoulders descended two inches as he breathed in her intoxicating scent like a drowning man. Susannah raised her heavy lashes and looked deeply into his watery eyes. “You always know everything, Bertrand.” She pretended to adjust the neckline of her dress, pushing it a fraction lower. Political intrigue forgotten, Lacan was mesmerized.

“I really shouldn’t, Madame.”

“Whyever not, Bertrand?” Susannah was at her coaxing best, a skill honed by years of whispered conversations in darkened boudoirs. “Our discussion will go no further. And besides, what harm could there possibly be? For some time now Le Comte and I have shared just about everything, as you well know.”

Her sultry murmur offered him all manner of possibilities. At that moment, with his nose a whisper away from her cleavage, he could withhold nothing. The dam burst forth. “It’s all about the cipher, in the Eroica,” he muttered, as Susannah placed a delicate hand on his chest, playing with his cravat as reward.

“The Eroica?”

“Beethoven’s symphony, the original manuscript.”

“But I don’t understand, Bertrand,” she mewed, her fingers making dizzying patterns that burned through the fabric of his shirt. “How does that involve the Marquess and the Frenchwoman?”

“Together, they’re the only ones who know how to decipher it.” Bertrand didn’t dare move for fear of losing his superb view of Susannah’s trembling breasts.

“And why is that of such importance to Le Comte?” she whispered with an intimacy that held Lacan in thrall.

He hesitated for just a moment. Reading the signs of capitulation like the seasoned warrior she was, Susannah closed the gap between them, her breasts brushing Bertrand’s shirt front, achingly close, but not close enough. His hiss of indrawn breath was her reward.

“There is great suspicion that it is a new type of explosive.” The words tumbled from his mouth as he closed his eyes at the sensation of pure Susannah.

“You mean like gunpowder?” Her tone was still entirely provocative.

“Only more powerful—a thousand times more powerful.”

“I see.” She slid a hand down between Bertrand’s shirt front, a teasing barrier. “But what makes Le Comte so sure that once the Marquess and the Frenchwoman have decoded the cipher, they won’t run to Wellington with what they’ve discovered—before he has a chance of getting it to Napoleon’s supporters?”

Susannah could see Bertrand’s prominent Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallowed hard. “He has a letter which contains the final piece of the puzzle. Whatever they discover is only useful if all the pieces link together.”

“You are so clever,” purred Susannah, allowing herself to sink into his chest. She could feel the shallow breathing inspired by pure lust. “But there’s just one last question bothering me…”

Aware that they had been entirely alone for the past five minutes, save for several footmen, Susannah took Lacan’s silence for complete surrender. “Why the urgency? Why does Le Comte need this resolved in such a short time?” As added incentive, she stroked his chest sinuously, promising better things to come.

Susannah felt the shudder travel from the cavernous torso to the soles of his boots. As though he had no control over his movements, Lacan lowered his head to hers. “Napoleon’s escape from St. Helena depends on it.”

At that moment, and with those words, Susannah Treadwell knew that she was the most seductive, beautiful woman in Britain and on the continent combined.

She had the power and she would guarantee that it was only a matter of time before the Marquess of Blackburn and Le Comte knew it, too.

“My, my—that is urgent,” she breathed into his chest before staring up into the rheumy eyes. “I’m sure we’ll be able to help each other in the near future, Bertrand.”

She smiled up at him brightly. “In the interim, will you keep your sights on the Frenchwoman for me, mon amour? I don’t want her getting too close to the Marquess and, as it turns out, neither do you.”