Don't Tempt Me

Page 5

“His heart.”
His movements stilled. She heard him exhale. “I could contract you, Marguerite. I could reduce our . . . arrangement . . . to terms of goods exchanged. You might feel safer then.”
“Or I might feel like a whore.”
“Which is exactly why I have not suggested such a thing until now.” His hands settled atop her shoulders, then exerted pressure to turn her around. He stared down into her upturned face. His was agonized, his dark eyes roiling with emotions she could not name.
“What can I do?” she asked in a whisper. “How can I fight, when I do not know what I am fighting against?”
“Can you not leave this to me?” He pressed his lips to her forehead. “I do not believe, even partly, that this matter has anything to do with our relationship. Not so long ago, de Grenier was suggesting that I step aside completely and Desjardins was very close to agreeing with that sentiment. Their sudden change of heart does not sit well. There is an ulterior motive at work here and I will learn what it is.”
“Je t’ aime,” she breathed, hating the fear that dampened her palms.
Her lower lip quivered with her distress and he licked across the curve, then deepened the contact into a melding kiss. He stole her breath with his expertise, leaving her panting and clinging to his hard body.
“As I love you. I will not lose you,” he vowed, pulling her tight against him.
This time, it was Marguerite who led the way. With his hand in hers, she tugged him toward the bedchamber, where they could forget their troubles for at least a few hours.
The Comte Desjardins entered his cellar and stopped in the same spot he was ordered to occupy every time L’Esprit called upon him.
“I do not believe de Grenier was successful in luring Mademoiselle Piccard away.” L’Esprit’s grating voice scraped down Desjardins’s spine and made him shiver.
“It is too soon to tell.”
“No. I watched him leave. He appeared dejected, not hopeful. She has forsaken everything for her affair. She has only one thing left to lose.”
“Saint-Martin.”
“Exactly.” There was a smile in L’Esprit’s rasp. “She will not leave him for her benefit, but I believe she will leave him for his.”
Desjardins shook his head. He had no notion of what Saint-Martin had done to anger L’Esprit, but he pitied the man. Desjardins suspected L’Esprit would not rest until everything Saint-Martin held dear was stripped from him. “What would you have me do?”
“I will see to this task myself,” L’Esprit said. “I do not want him dead. That would be too kind.”
“As you wish.”
“You will hear from me if I have further need of you.”
Turning away, Desjardins opened the cellar door and climbed back up to the kitchen. He jumped as he heard the slamming of the portal L’Esprit used as a shield.
It was fitting that the man came from the bowels of hell.
There was fury in L’Esprit and madness. The comte deeply regretted ever being lured into associating with him.
A pretty bauble for his wife, no matter how costly, was not worth his soul.
With his thoughts firmly directed toward Marguerite, Philippe was too distracted to admire the beauty of the Parisian afternoon. He was lost in his private musings, unaware of anything but the sense that he was missing the obvious. His horse cantered toward Marguerite’s home without direction, the steady clopping of hooves lulling its rider into a thoughtful trance.
Around him pedestrians milled, creating a feeling of safety in numbers.
But he was not safe. Had he considered, for even a moment, that he would be used against Marguerite rather than the reverse, he would have been more circumspect. As it was, he turned the corner and took the devastating blow to the chest without any attempt at self-defense.
Thrust backward while his mount moved forward, Philippe was unseated and tumbled to the ground on his back. The air was knocked from his chest, leaving him dazed and unable to move.
The sky above him darkened as men swarmed around him. A booted foot connected to his side. As Philippe’s rib broke under the assault, a grotesque cracking sound rent the air. More kicks. Shouting. Laughing. Pain.
Agony.
Philippe prayed for the strength to roll to his side and curl, but his body would not heed his command. The violence escalated. His vision dimmed.
Then mercifully went black.
“The afternoon’s post, mademoiselle.”
Marguerite looked up from the dining table, where she was perusing the week’s meal plan, and found the butler standing in the doorway. She gestured him in and pushed the menus to the side.
“Thank you,” she murmured, reaching for the topmost envelope on the silver salver as it was placed before her.
She went through the marginal task with only partial attention, her mind on Philippe and how withdrawn he had appeared over the last few days. She was a veritable prisoner in her own home, barred from even the swiftest of trips into town. Additional servants had been retained to protect her. The sparse amount of correspondence she received was the only contact she had with anyone beyond the walls of her house.
Her focus sharpened when she came to the missive sealed with thick black wax.
Very few people corresponded with her. Her mother and father had disowned her. Her sisters wrote only sporadically and briefly. Yet it was her name on the exterior of the envelope, not Philippe’s.
Prying it open carefully, she read the bold scrawl with mounting confusion.
Saint-Martin has two choices. Choose you or choose his life. I know how he will decide. The question is, how will you?
L’Esprit
Marguerite frowned, then called out for the butler. When the servant appeared, she asked, “Who delivered this?”
“A groomsman brought it in. I will ask.”
She nodded and waited, rereading the cryptic words and examining the odd seal.
Several moments later, he returned. “He does not recall.”
“Hmm . . .”
“A courier is at the door, mademoiselle, requesting to see you.”
An apprehensive shiver coursed down Marguerite’s spine. She carefully refolded the note before leaving it atop the polished wooden tabletop. As a footman pulled her chair back, she stood and ran her hands carefully down her muslin skirts. Hesitating. She had been on edge for days. The odd happenings of this day only worsened her unease.
Rounding the table, she exited out to the hallway and moved toward the visitors’ foyer.
Every step weighed heavier and heavier. The hairs on her nape stood at attention. She was being threatened directly now. As disquieting as that was for her, she knew it would be more so for Philippe. If only they could ascertain what the root of the problem was . . .
“Mademoiselle Piccard.”
She tilted her head in acknowledgment of the courier’s greeting and drew to a halt by the main staircase, which was several feet away from him. “Good afternoon.”
“Comte Desjardins sent me.”
Her stomach knotted. “Yes?”
The man’s shoulders went back. That telltale sign of nervousness stiffened her spine. There were other concerning indicators, as well—the damaged and dirty state of his clothing, spatters of some dark liquid on his tan breeches, his disheveled hair.
“The Marquis de Saint-Martin was attacked just hours ago,” he said grimly.
“No . . .” She stumbled as her knees weakened under the weight of her greatest fear. Reaching out, she caught herself by gripping the baluster.
“He was gravely injured. He has since been moved to his home, where he is being attended, but his situation appears dire. Comte Desjardins wanted you to be made aware.”
The room spun and Marguerite gasped for air, fighting a tightening in her chest that threatened to rob her of consciousness.
“Made aware,” she repeated, her thoughts on the letter sitting on her dining table.
Every instinct screamed at her to go to Philippe, to be with him, hold him, nurse him back to health.
Which was not possible. His wife would care for him, as was her right.
Dear God . . .
Marguerite sank to the marble floor in a puddle of yellow skirts, her vision distorted by hot flowing tears. The butler hurried toward her, but she halted him with an upraised hand. “Is your cousin still employed at the Saint-Martin residence?”
“Yes, mademoiselle.” Understanding lit the servant’s pale blue eyes. “I will send someone to learn what they can from him.”
“Urge them to haste.”
As the courier backed away as if to leave, her attention returned to him. Fury gave her the strength to rise to her feet.
“As for you,” she said coldly, stepping toward him with fists clenched. “Return to Comte Desjardins and give him a message for me.”
“Mademoiselle?” He shifted uncomfortably.
“Tell him that if the marquis does not survive, neither will he.”
He bowed and departed, leaving Marguerite with a life in shambles. For the space of several heartbeats she stood in place, hardly breathing.
How would she survive without Philippe?
A hand touched her arm tentatively. Marguerite turned to find Celie standing beside her.
“What can I do?” the maid asked.
“What can anyone do?” Marguerite replied in a hoarse voice. “Everything is in the hands of God now.”
“Perhaps the Vicomte de Grenier can be of assistance?”
Marguerite frowned, startled by the suggestion. She had no one to whom she could turn for help. Her sisters, perhaps, but they had nothing to offer and would most likely believe that such was the fate of fallen women.
“Why would he help me?” she asked.
Celie shrugged and winced.
“Send someone,” Marguerite ordered, thinking he would already know about the day’s events, regardless.
The maid curtsied and scurried off.
It was a few hours later before de Grenier arrived. He entered the parlor behind the butler looking windblown and handsome, despite the tightness of his mouth and the grimness in his eyes.