Chiding herself for her faltering courage, Venetia tied up her skirts to free her legs. Then, taking a deep breath, she climbed backward over the ledge and started to lower herself down.
She had miscalculated how taxing it was to hold on to the rope with the friction burning her hands, though. Gritting her teeth, Venetia summoned her last reserves of strength, but after only a few more feet, she lost purchase on the linen fabric and was forced to let go.
Her fall was about ten feet, and she landed mostly on her feet, but the descent jarred her. Feeling a sharp pain in her left ankle, she barely stifled a cry.
Turning awkwardly, Venetia began hobbling toward the rear garden gate, which seemed so far away in the dark. Someone must have heard her fall, for a door opened behind her and a man shouted after her.
Her heart slamming, she tried to sprint along the path, to no avail; moments later she was tackled to the ground, the wind knocked out of her.
Her attacker then rolled her onto her back and wrapped his fingers around her throat. Briefly glimpsing his face in the dim light, Venetia recognized Armand before he shoved her head against the flagstone and tightened his grasp on her throat.
He meant to choke her, she realized. Seeing stars, desperate for air, she struggled to pry his fingers away. She was only vaguely aware of another shout, but then thankfully, Armand’s grasp loosened and his weight shifted off her.
Venetia rolled onto her side, gasping and coughing reflexively. She heard Montreux snapping orders in French. Then Armand hauled her to her feet.
Feeling faint and nauseated, she could barely stand, so he half pulled, half carried her into the kitchen and through the house to a small parlor.
Having followed close behind, Montreux was livid—as much at his servant as at her, it seemed. While Armand tied her to a chair, her arms wrenched behind her back, the compte let loose a tirade in French at them both, finishing with a final warning to her: “I told you, I don’t want you harmed until Traherne can witness it!”
Montreux barked more orders at Armand and sent him back to the kitchen to finish eating, then directed his fury at her again.
“Attempting to escape was extremely foolish, madame. Did you not consider that my house is surrounded by my loyal men? Now I shall have to watch you myself.”
With a sound of disgust, he drew out both pistols from the dueling case and set them on the tea table in front of him, then settled down to finish his supper while Venetia suffered.
At the completion of his meal, he appeared to have calmed down somewhat. Taking a sip of wine, Montreux glanced across the parlor at her. “A pity you must spend the night here, secured to a chair, when you could have enjoyed a comfortable bed.”
Venetia didn’t have the heart or the voice to answer. Her misery was complete. The strain on her shoulders was excruciating, the rope cutting into her wrists. Her head and ankle both ached as well. And her throat was raw and dry as dust, which only magnified the pain when she coughed intermittently.
But the chief cause of her discomfort was fear compounded by guilt. She had failed. No doubt the moment Quinn arrived, Montreux would shoot him.
No, Venetia screamed silently. She had to make one last effort to dissuade him from his course.
“Mon…sieur le compte…” The words came out as a broken squawk. Her voice was so hoarse she could barely speak.
Venetia cleared her throat and tried again. “It seems…that you mean to…kill me in front of my husband,” she rasped, “and then kill him.”
“Oui.”
“The least you can do…is tell me why you want him dead.”
Montreux took another sip of his wine.
“If I am to die,” Venetia pressed, “then it does not…matter if I know. Is it for revenge?”
After a moment, he nodded. “In part.”
Venetia hoped for a more complete explanation. “I believe I know why. If Quinn’s mother, Angelique, had wed you as planned, you would have been an enormously wealthy man, with all the power and legacy her family connections would have brought you.”
Montreux’s mouth curled with contempt. “Instead I was forced to endure exile and poverty for years, w
ith only scraps from Angelique and her noble husband, Lionel Wilde.” A note of bitter hatred laced the compte’s voice as he glanced around the small parlor. “Angelique quite generously provided me with this hovel. Have you any notion how humiliating it is to accept charity from the woman you should have wed?”
She had some inkling, yes, since she’d had to rely on Cleo’s generosity for years, even though Cleo was a beloved friend.
Montreux was still spitting venom. “This farm is where I suffered my exile from my country while Angelique lived like a queen at her palace. This is also where her son will meet his demise. There is a measure of poetic justice in choosing this place, would you not say?”
At the relish in his tone, fear squeezed the breath from Venetia’s lungs. She closed her eyes, trying to remain calm, and forced herself to continue prodding Montreux for details.