“He is taking your safety more seriously than you are, Douglas. Do you know that he asked me if he could hire his nephew, said he could pound in a nail with his bare fist. Of course I said yes. We now have another footman and guard. This Remie stands watch between midnight and three A.M., then Robert until six A.M.”
Douglas fetched a bottle of brandy and poured each of them a glass. “I have thought and thought about this. I swear to you, Alex, I can think of no one who hates me enough to go to all this trouble-it’s all so dramatic, this revenge scheme, if revenge is indeed what this is all about. Georges Cadoudal-I’ve certainly seen him several times over the years once we left him in Etaples in 1803. Since he couldn’t seem to assassinate Napoleon, he set his sights on several of Napoleon’s top generals and functionaries. He killed at least six of them during the last years before Waterloo. But that was over fifteen years ago, Alex. Fifteen years. He died just after Waterloo, sometime in early 1816.”
“When will we find out if he had children?”
“Soon, I hope.”
“I’ve been thinking, Douglas. Remember that special mission you went on in early 1814? All you told me was that it wasn’t dangerous, that you were bringing someone to the safety of England.”
He suddenly looked much younger and very pleased with himself. “Yes, I did manage to keep that from you, didn’t I?”
“Who was it, Douglas?”
“It was a gentleman who had enough money and offered enough information to the War Ministry to earn him safe haven in England. I swore never to divulge his name.”
“So he would have no reason to hate you. You saved him.”
“That’s it.”
“Did Georges have anything to do with this man you brought out from France?”
“My lord, Remie is now on duty.”
Douglas nearly dropped his brandy. He whirled around, his hand already in the pocket of his jacket ready to pull out the derringer, only to see Willicombe standing at sharp attention inside the door.
“How the devil did you get in here without our hearing you, Willicombe? Good God, man, I could have shot you.”
“You would have to hear me first, my lord, and that, I daresay, is well nigh impossible because I am almost a shadow, exactly in the manner as Hollis. I daresay as well that if you had felt my presence, you would have been flooded with warmth and well-being. Never would you have shot me, my lord.”
Alexandra smiled. “You’re right, Willicombe. Hollis couldn’t have moved more quietly than you. Where is Remie stationed for the night?”
“He roams, my lady, roams from the attic to the basement and out to the stable. He lurks in the shadows along the walkways and even slips into the park. He sees all, hears all. He is worth every groat you pay him, my lord.”
“Well, that is reassuring. Go to bed, Willicombe.”
“Yes, my lord. Have you found out any more information about the villain who seeks to shorten your life, my lord?”
“No, not yet. Go to bed, Willicombe.”
When Willicombe walked on cat’s feet out of the library, gently closing the doors behind him, Douglas turned to his wife. “Did I tell you that you looked quite fetching tonight, save that half of your breasts were on display to every lascivious debaucher in London?”
Alexandra looked at him beneath her lashes. “It is a remarkable thing to have a husband who still remarks with such earnest attention upon one’s personal parts.”
“It isn’t funny, Alexandra. I was forced to take myself off to the card room, else I would have shot a good dozen of those lechers.”
She smiled, hugged him, went up on her tiptoes, and said against his cheek, “Did you remark upon how very lovely Corrie looked this evening? The gown you selected for her was quite flattering.”
“Isn’t it amazing? I had believed her quite flat-chested. I fear though that there was too much of her showing as well.” Douglas’s lips thinned. “I told her and Madame Jourdan-you will stop laughing at me, Alex, or I will make you sorry.”
“I had no idea she was so pretty, Douglas. Her smile makes you want to smile back at her.”
“Yes, yes, who cares? Come along now. I’m an old man and it is after midnight. I have very few miracles left.”
“Oh, yes, you do,” his wife said as she walked up the stairs beside him.
Very few men care to have the obvious pointed out to them by a woman. MARGARET BAILLIE SAUNDERS
“You’re being a moron, James Sherbrooke. Go away before I knock you in the head with that fireplace poker.”
“No, I will not.” He caught her arm before she could grab the poker. He even shook her. “You will answer me now and truthfully, madam. I want to know exactly what happened between you and Devlin Monroe last night.”
She stepped toe-to-toe with him, tilted back her head, and said, a lovely sneer lacing her voice, “Nothing happened that I didn’t want to happen.”
“You drank too much of that champagne punch, didn’t you? I knew after I tasted it that a score of girls would lose their virtue last night.”
“Nonsense, James. Most girls have much harder heads than you give them credit for. Yes, I drank two glasses of that delightful brain-numbing punch, but Devlin was a perfect gentleman. Do you hear me? A perfect gentleman. Can a vampire be a gentleman? No matter. Now, I am going riding with him in the park this afternoon at exactly five o’clock, if it doesn’t rain, which it looks like it might.”
He took a step back, otherwise he might grab her and throw her over his legs and wallop her again, though he doubted she’d feel it. “How many petticoats are you wearing?”
“What?”
“How many petticoats do you have under that gown?”
A man’s mind, she thought, an astounding thing. “Well now, let me see.” She tapped her fingertips against her chin. “There are my drawers, then my chemise-you know, it’s nearly down to my knees with really pretty lace around the neck, a soft, white muslin-what is this? Your eyes are crossing? You asked-”
“Tell me only about petticoats, not all the rest of it. For God’s sake, Corrie, you don’t talk about your drawers, much less about the soft white muslin chemise, particularly in front of a man.”
“All right, I suppose I don’t want to know about what you’re wearing beneath your breeches either. Now, where was I? There’s the flannel petticoat, just one, to keep me all toasty even when it’s already hot. Then there are four cotton ones, and on the very top is this very pretty white lawn petticoat that, if my gown happens to flip up in the wind, will show even the most critical of ladies that I am well-dressed beneath my clothes. As for what the gentlemen would think, well, you will have to tell me the answer to that, won’t you? There, are you happy now? Why the devil do you want to know about my petticoats?”
“I liked you better in breeches. I could see exactly what was going on with you.”
“Just what does that mean?”
“I could see your bottom. Well, not really; those damned breeches were so loose.”
This was her aunt’s drawing room. Uncle Simon was hunkered down in his study not more than twenty feet away. Her Aunt Maybella, goodness, she could be right outside the door, listening.
“You are not to speak of my bottom, James. Surely that isn’t the thing.”
“It’s not. I apologize.”
“Well, forget my breeches too. You always made fun of them in any case. Don’t you like my gown? Your father selected it. It’s very white, all virginal, don’t you think?”
“You hang around Devlin Monroe much longer and you won’t have a virginal thought in your head. Not to mention the rest of you.”
“Now you’re accusing me of taking off my clothes with a man I scarcely know? Stripping off all those wretched petticoats?”