“But you will now pay for it dearly,” went on the comtesse, a note of ugly anticipation in her voice as she flecked the point of her lethal-looking dagger back and forth through the air.
“How did you discover that we knew?” asked Anna.
“Never mind that,” snarled Verdemont. “Come with me, Davenport. If you do as you’re told, the girl won’t get hurt.” A nasty grin. “But I’d hurry if I were you. Marie-Helene sometimes likes to amuse herself with her blade if she grows bored with standing guard.”
“Surely you can see that your plans have run amok,” said Devlin, feeling a chill skate down his spine. “If you’re wise, you’ll flee while you can.”
“Be quiet,” ordered Lady de Blois. “We are far more clever than you and that silly little chit you’ve chosen to take up with.”
A sound rumbled in Anna’s throat, but he shot her a warning look that silenced any retort.
“You were a fool, Davenport,” she added. “You should have been satisfied with having a pleasant little dalliance with me—and be assured, you would have been very well satisfied. But no, for some reason you felt compelled to poke your nose where it didn’t belong.”
“Aren’t you curious as to why?”
A flicker of doubt shaded the comtesse’s gaze.
“It doesn’t matter,” snapped Verdemont. “Now move—slowly and around the far end of the table—unless you want to see Marie-Helene get angry. She has a very violent temper.”
Damnation. He was too far away to make a lunge at the vicomte. There seemed no choice but to obey and hope to escape once the two of them were alone.
As for Anna…
A desperate idea suddenly came to mind. It was risky, but he had no illusion that their captors had any intention of releasing them.
“Just behave like an automaton, Anna,” he said, hoping she would understand the cryptic message. “You heard what the vicomte said—everything will be fine if we obey orders.”
Anna watched Devlin follow the vicomte’s directions and edge slowly toward the door. He turned for one last look but she had only a chance to flutter her lashes once before the vicomte jammed the pistol barrel in his ribs and made him move on.
Think! If ever there was a time to be as bold and resourceful as her pen and ink heroine, it was now.
“Ha!” Lady de Blois let out an evil laugh as soon as the outer door closed. “Men are such trusting creatures, but you and I know better, don’t we, Miss Sloane?”
Anna answered with a girlish whimper.
The comtesse curled a look of contempt. “What a spoiled, lily-livered little chit you are. It’s a pity, really. It’s far more interesting to best a worthy opponent. But you…” She ran the blade of her dagger lightly over her thumb. “I’ve known lambs with more fight than you have.”
“Lord Davenport is right. Your plans have been foiled.” It was worth a try, decided Anna, to try to rattle her captor’s composure. “Lord McClellan knows everything.”
“We’re aware of that,” snapped the comtesse. “But you see, the key to being truly clever is knowing how to improvise.” Her mouth now formed a mocking smile. “As we speak, Pierre is taking Davenport to the prince’s chambers. Two shots and voilà! What a scandal—an English peer murders a relative of the English King, but not before being mortally wounded himself. Pierre will say he heard the fight, but arrived too late to help poor Gunther, only to hear the dastardly Davenport’s confession of being an agent for the French.”
It was a diabolically clever plan. Given Devlin’s awful reputation and the rumors of how badly he needed money, the story would be believed by most people.
“What about m-me?”
“Alas, you were also a victim of the deranged marquess,” answered Lady de Blois. He had seduced you, but had grown weary of your tearful demands that he marry you. When you came here this morning and threatened to make a scene, he had to silence you.”
Anna didn’t need to muster much acting ability to appear frightened. But the fear bubbling up inside her was for Devlin. There wasn’t much time, and the seconds were slipping away with each step.
Feigning a swoon, she moaned and let her knees buckle.
The comtesse laughed as Anna caught herself on the table and slumped forward, arms outstretched as if begging for mercy.
Steady, steady. Her fingers slid over the waxed wood, feeling for the chamois. A touch of soft leather, then blessedly hard metal.
“It is pitiful how you weak English roses wilt,” taunted the comtesse. But her mirth pinched in mid-breath to a strangled snarl as she found herself looking down the shiny barrel of a bejeweled pocket pistol.
“Drop the dagger,” ordered Anna coolly as she snapped upright.