In Bed With the Duke Read online

“As a lesson to all?” Jean-Pierre asked.

  Sandre thought of Eleonore and shook his head. “I won’t have trouble in the family. But she must be a lesson to others who put their hopes in a royal family that the de Guignards defeated long ago.” He gazed at the guards, sending a message to them, their friends, and their families.

  They didn’t cower. Instead, they looked stoically back.

  They had hope—a hope that would have to be quashed.

  If his theory was right, Jean-Pierre was just the man to do it.

  Chapter Eight

  The next morning, Emma’s eyes opened wide. Her heart beat fast; her breath labored in her lungs; she was trapped in the twisted sheets, damp with her fear and sweat.

  She’d been dreaming. Of the Reaper. A nightmare of confused images—of a forest with branches that clawed her like fingers, a wolf with glowing white eyes and a ghoul without eyes. Of apprehension and pain and . . . and . . . what? She didn’t know.

  Sitting up slowly, she freed herself from the panic and her voluminous nightgown.

  The nightmare must have been caused by yesterday’s news, overheard in a private moment between husband and wife. The Reaper had murdered Lady Fanchere’s cousin, hanged him by the neck until he died.

  Poor Lady Fanchere had been shocked, but she hadn’t forgotten her responsibilities. She had ordered Emma to stay in bed, had Tia return to watch over her, and every time Emma woke she was served small meals designed to tempt a deprived palate.

  So yesterday’s frailty was vanquished. To dwell on a nightmare was foolish, and she was not foolish. She had been given a chance to make a different life for herself, and she wouldn’t fail. This would not be like last time, when she had left England as a companion to Lady Lettice, wide-eyed and enthusiastic at the idea of seeing foreign lands and historic monuments. Instead, she had found herself trapped in one hotel room after another, waiting in dread for Lettice’s return.

  Emma could serve Lady Fanchere flawlessly—she knew she could—and so she climbed out of bed, steadied herself, then looked around.

  The morning was far advanced, the sun shining, and she saw today what yesterday had escaped her attention.

  For a servant’s chamber, the room was large and well-appointed, and she wondered if, now that she had recovered, she would be sharing it with other serving women. Walking to the window, she looked out at the back of the estate. A sweep of well-tended lawn dropped down to a cliff, precarious in its nature, and there, clinging to the edge, stood a small, old castle—the dowager house that imprisoned Michael Durant. The stones looked cold, but Emma had no doubt that Lady Fanchere had made him comfortable within.

  Clean clothing had been hung in the highboy in the corner: undergarments, petticoats, and an attractive blue cotton gown, and on the floor, a pair of simple black leather shoes. She dressed quickly, attaching the white, starched collar and cuffs, finding the waist a little large, the hem a little short, but the material good and—she peeked into the small mirror placed atop the bureau—the color flattering. Her complexion, except for the abrasion on her jaw, glowed like alabaster lit from within.

  Abruptly, she stood up straight. She had no reason to be vain. She had always been thin, and her sojourn in Europe had pared off more weight. Her hair was so intensely brown it was almost black, freakishly dark against her fair skin. Her face was oval, starting with a widow’s peak in the middle of her forehead and ending in a chin pointed as a witch’s, so Lady Lettice said, and Lady Lettice said she had a deplorable habit of allowing her emotions to kindle in her changeable eyes—and those emotions had not been complimentary to Lady Lettice. For that, Emma had paid, and more than once.

  A tray of sliced bread, cheese, and fruit had been left on the bureau, and she ate a quick, satisfying meal, then walked briskly to the door. Opening it, she found a flight of stairs that descended to the second level. She stood there uncertainly, not knowing whether to turn right or left, when a stately gentleman came around the corner.

  A second look proved she was wrong. Not a gentleman, but the butler dressed in formal black and white. Middle-aged, tall, and stout, he carried himself with such palpable dignity she identified him as English even before he spoke.

  “Miss Chegwidden, I presume.” He bowed. “I am Brimley. You’re seeking Lady Fanchere?”

  She curtsied. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Brimley. If you could give me direction, I would be most appreciative.”

  “Follow me, and while we walk, I’ll apprise you of the situation in the household.”

  “Thank you.” He wanted to put her in her place, to impress on her her station here. She didn’t mind; as Lady Fanchere’s companion, she had become an important cog in the Fancheres’ home, and he, as butler, was responsible for keeping that home running smoothly.

  Leading her along another corridor lined with closed doors, he said, “You and I are the only two English people in the household. Are you at all familiar with Moricadia?”

  “I’m afraid not. I arrived less than a week ago with Lady Lettice, and as you have probably heard, that employment did not end well.” She hunched her shoulders and waited for Brimley to make it clear he would not allow any occurrences such as that in the future.

  But he had other information he wished to impart. “I’ve been with the household a little over three years, and found the differences here in Moricadia to be both puzzling and intriguing. As you know, the country is a French protectorate, exotic in its isolation and almost feudal in its society’s divisions. Unfortunately, the de Guignards deposed the Moricadian king by hanging him—they are quite fond of hanging. The de Guignard family, led by Prince Sandre, has turned it into an international destination for the noble and wealthy. The poor are so very poor; the rich are so very rich; there are no native merchants or storekeepers; all money-making ventures are owned by the de Guignards, who rule with an iron hand. I, of course, do not recall the circumstances that led up to the revolution in France, where they beheaded their king, but I do believe the de Guignards have created that situation here. There are no nobles except for the de Guignards and their relatives. There is no parliament. Here, civilization seems to have stopped its progression.”

  “A harsh assessment.”

  “Yet true. During my tenure here, I have tried, time and again, to gain the trust of the servants working here. Yet the Moricadians are clannish, distrustful people. Given the betrayals of the past and the dreadful consequences for any perceived traitor to de Guignard’s rule, this is perhaps justified.” He walked on toward a dazzling light at the end of the corridor.

  Emma followed him into the gallery overlooking the massive foyer, and caught her breath in awe and amazement.

  The marble floor was one level below, an intricate mosaic of pale peach, gray, and black. The ceiling rose with cathedral-like magnificence to the third level, held erect by pillars of white marble that ended in gold-painted finials. A crystal chandelier glittered. The two front doors were tall and covered in bronze. The multifaceted windows faced south, overlooking a rolling green lawn and neat gardens. Beyond that, the vista opened to reveal the long valley where, Emma knew, a river ran wildly and the old capital brooded in the shadows of the Pyrenees.

  The house was rich beyond her wildest imagining. The view was glorious, breathtaking, overwhelming. She turned, wide-eyed, to Mr. Brimley.

  “Yes, it is grand.” He lowered his voice. “But what I’m trying to tell you, Miss Chegwidden, is that although we live a life of privilege in a spectacular setting, at any moment the powder keg on which we sit may explode.”

  Chapter Nine

  At Brimley’s warning, Emma’s heart quailed. All she wanted from life was employment caring for someone quiet and subdued, perhaps an older woman. Emma could read her stories, look after her in the fading years of her life. . . . When she got back to England, she would ask the Distinguished Academy of Governesses for that kind of position.

  When she went to work for Lady Lettice, she had wanted adventu
re. But not danger. She had never been foolish enough to want danger. If danger existed, she should leave this place.

  Then she heard voices from below, ladies’ voices, and the clatter of crockery. She heard Lady Fanchere’s voice and thought of her worrisome pregnancy, and knew she couldn’t leave. She was needed here. Smoothing her skirt, she looked into Brimley’s eyes. “Perhaps that is true, Mr. Brimley. Perhaps I will live to regret my decision to stay, but, you see—I have nowhere else to go.”

  His brown eyes warmed. “I thought that was what you would say. The English do not run from a challenge.”

  A “challenge”? He considered a revolution a “challenge”? She stared at him with wide eyes. Obviously, Brimley was constructed of stern materials.

  He moved toward the stairs. “Lady Fanchere likes her servants to be well treated, and since I am in charge of this household, I urge you to come to me with any needs or concerns.”

  She hurried after him. “Thank you, I will.”

  At the top of the steps, he turned to face her and lowered his voice. “However, you are a young person and undoubtedly love intrigue and adventure.”

  “No!”

  Brimley paid her no heed. “Let me caution you against involving yourself in anything resembling conspiracy. Stay away from those Moricadians who appear to be plotting anything. The de Guignard family is ruthless when it comes to maintaining their hold on the country, and they would not hesitate to incarcerate you, Miss Chegwidden. You might be English and female, but they have dared more than imprisonment in the pursuit of those plotting this revolution.” He indicated the foyer. “Do you see him?”

  A man dressed in a proper black suit made his way across the marble floor. His reddish blond hair was precisely trimmed, and she thought, from this angle, his face looked as if he were perhaps twenty- five or at the most thirty. Yet he moved like an old man, his gait crablike, and one dark sleeve was pinned up, concealing the stump where a hand and arm should be.

  “That is Durant’s valet. He’s Moricadian, and twelve years ago he was accused of assisting a boy to play a prank on Prince Sandre. The boy escaped. Rubio did not.” All too vividly, Brimley was showing her the consequences of unwise action. “The de Guignards tortured him on the rack.”

  “That’s medieval!” She watched Rubio disappear into a long corridor.

  “Exactly. Before, he walked with confidence wherever he wished. Now each step is agony.”

  “And his arm?”

  “They mangled it so thoroughly that gangrene set in, and to save his life, amputation became necessary.”

  “Poor man!”

  “He’s a competent valet, but nevertheless, most gentlemen would not use him. It’s kind of Mr. Durant to do so, for if he did not, Rubio would be begging in the streets, and charity is hard to come by in Moricadia.”

  Fervently, she said, “I understand, Mr. Brimley, and I assure you, I am the last person on earth who seeks anything resembling exciting activities.”

  “Very good.” He led her down to the foyer. “Also, I would appreciate it if you would forget we had this conversation.”

  “Of course, Mr. Brimley.”

  “If you would follow Henrique”—he gestured to the uniformed footman moving at a stately pace, tea tray balanced in one hand—“he will guide you to the ladies’ tea party.”

  “Thank you.” Henrique led her through the conservatory, a glass- roofed structure filled with roses and their heady fragrance. Here, white roses twined around the gray marble pillars, while red blossoms covered the shrubs clustered around their bases. Down the middle of the room, pink roses climbed on arches surrounding the avenue that led to a sitting area of small tables and dainty chairs where eight elegant ladies spoke in explosive bursts.

  “The ghost of King Reynaldo . . . he’s come back for revenge.”

  “He’s a harbinger of doom for everyone who sees him. . . .”

  “Lucretia laid eyes on him and she’s been half-crazy since....”

  “Always half-crazy anyway . . .”

  “Silliness, all those rumors, he’s nothing but a criminal who should be captured, drawn and quartered, then ...”

  “A murderer who’ll kill us all in our beds!”

  Emma stopped at the entrance, unsure whether to proceed, but Lady Fanchere, obviously desperate for a distraction, caught sight of her and gestured her forward. “Emma, come and assist me.”

  The talking stopped as Emma hurried to do Lady Fanchere’s bidding.

  An older woman with a monocle examined her from head to toe, then turned to Lady Fanchere. “My dear, isn’t that the girl who put the fish down Lady Lettice’s bodice?”

  “I’ve hired her as my companion.” To Emma, Lady Fanchere indicated she was chilly.

  Emma gathered the shawl off the back of Lady Fanchere’s chair and drape it over her shoulders.

  “Are you mad?” The lady dropped the monocle. “If the chit will put a fish down Lady Lettice’s bodice, what will she do to you?”

  “Lady Lettice was impertinent,” Lady Fanchere said.

  “A loutish woman,” the older woman agreed.

  “Exactly, Lady Nesbitt, and she deserved her comeuppance. The fish idea was mine.” Lady Fanchere’s smug smile both challenged Lady Nesbitt and put Emma in awe of her falsehood, and of the panache with which she delivered it.

  Lady Nesbitt first looked shocked and offended, then reluctantly laughed. “I fear our Moricadian society will never be held in respect by other nations while we allow—nay, encourage—vulgarians like Lady Lettice to join our inner circle.”

  “So true. English noblemen come to Moricadia to gamble and indulge in other, insalubrious activities, yet their noblewomen stay well away. It is only English women of Lady Lettice’s inferior quality who visit for a chance to do those activities they would not dare while in England.”

  As the women in the room nodded and murmured their agreement, Emma took up her position at Lady Fanchere’s right shoulder.

  Lady Fanchere continued. “Since Lord Fanchere was most desirous that I have a companion to tend to my needs, and I discovered Emma had been recommended to Lady Lettice by the Distinguished Academy of Governesses . . . You do know of the Distinguished Academy of Governesses, do you not, Lady Nesbitt?”

  “I don’t know that I do, Lady Fanchere.” Lady Nesbitt looked annoyed as only a woman who liked to be on the cutting edge could be.

  Lady Fanchere smiled and toyed with the fringe of her shawl. “In 1839, the Distinguished Academy of Governesses was founded by three gentlewomen with the intent to educate and place other impoverished young gentlewomen in positions as governesses to respectable families. When those three women married well—married very well—they sold the academy to Adorna, Lady Bucknell, who as you know is above reproach in every way.”

  The ladies nodded, mesmerized by Lady Fanchere’s recitation.

  “Lady Bucknell . . . works?” Lady Nesbitt pursed her lips in disapproval.

  “Lady Bucknell holds such an exalted position in English society she does as she wishes, and that includes the expansion of the Distinguished Academy of Governesses into other careers suitable for young women of exceptional birth.” Lady Fanchere placed her hand on Emma’s arm. “Women like my dear companion.”

  Emma was equally mesmerized by the realization that Lady Fanchere not only knew about the Distinguished Academy of Governesses and its fabled patroness, but that in this group of women, Lady Fanchere held such a position of respect that no one questioned her absurd tale of how she acquired Emma’s services.

  “Are there other companions from the Distinguished Academy of Governesses in Moricadia?” one of the younger women asked.

  “No, Alceste, but they’re getting an international reputation for quality help, and I’m sure you could send to England. . . .”

  Alceste was shaking her head even before Lady Fanchere finished her sentence. “Yves would be most displeased at the extravagance. He is a good man, but he squeezes the g
old eagle tightly enough to make it squeal.”

  The conversation shifted to the subject of husbands and their stinginess.

  Really, Emma thought, it was better to leap at once into her duties. She wouldn’t have time to brood about the loss of her belongings left in Lady Lettice’s hotel room. She knew full well Lady Lettice would never consent to give them up, and it wasn’t as if any of them had any value other than sentiment. The miniature of her father. The worn copy of Pride and Prejudice owned by the mother she didn’t remember. The small glass figurine of a spaniel she had bought in Venice, broken in one of Lady Lettice’s rages and now minus a leg. The wool shawl woven by the ladies in Freyaburn and given to her as a going-away present. Her bag of tools and medicines . . .

  She realized she was blinking away tears, and wondered when she had become such a cowed creature as to cry at the loss of a few meager possessions. Had Lady Lettice and her cruelties really made her so feeble?

  “Michael!” Lady Fanchere’s voice sounded with quiet delight. “I’m so glad you chose to join us.”

  Emma looked up to see a tousled, genial Michael Durant posed in the doorway with all the careless grace of Adonis before his worshippers.

  “My dear Lady Fanchere.” He strode forward to kiss the extended hand. “And my dear Lady Nesbitt.” Another hand. “Lady Alceste.” Another. And so on through the room, showing clearly that he had spent the time of his house arrest ingratiating himself to the females in Moricadian society.

  Emma watched as each lady smiled and fluttered under his admiring gaze, and again Emma fiercely and silently condemned an Englishman too lazy to escape this luxurious prison, a man who renounced his own family to lounge about in a foreign society.

  Briefly his gaze brushed Emma, and it was as if the night before had never been. He bowed briefly, then took the chair at Lady Fanchere’s side.

  Henrique brought a fresh tray of pastries.

  Emma began to disperse delicate china plates, and offered linen napkins embroidered with a white “F.”