Ruthless (The House of Rohan 1)

“Care to join us, Francis?” a woman’s voice lured him. Juliette was lounging on a sofa, a man kneeling beneath her voluminous skirts, and her eyes glittered in the candle light.

He shook his head, so as not to disturb the young man servicing her. He was guessing by the sight of his rump that it was milord Valancey, who was a good fifteen years younger than her most recent bed partner, and he allowed himself a small smile. She was indefatigable. It was good that she was choosing a young man bursting with energy. She would be less likely to come looking for him.

He heard the shrieks of laughter coming from the smaller ballroom. At least, he assumed those whooping noises were amusement. Whatever they were, they were not his concern. Right now he was going to visit his captive princess, to see if he could convince her to let down her hair.

There was music playing, a recent conceit of his. He’d discovered the surprising pleasure of coupling whilst listening to music, and the habit had spread among the members of the Host. A small quartet played in what he preferred to call the evening room. Long ago it had been a morning room, complete with a chaise for a young lady to recline on, a desk at which to write her letters. There were no young ladies in his household. The chaise was still there, and had seen much vigorous usage, but the desk was gone, and the east-facing windows were covered with black cloth, to keep the curious from peeping inside.

He moved past the gaming room, resisting the urge to play a few hands of piquet. The focus was not on the game, and he was ever a man who preferred to do one thing at a time and do it extremely well. Besides, it was far too easy to win when people had other things on their minds, and he found winning under those circumstances to be an utter bore.

He climbed the flight of stairs to the second floor. The numbers of guests would reach above this one, filling most rooms on this floor and the next, with even some in the east wing that had previously held Miss Lydia Harriman. Of course, he’d lied about their previous occupancy—he’d had no interest in letting Elinor spend too much time with her sister.

The luncheon they’d shared had been…interesting. She’d watched him like a wary fox, certain he was about to attack. And he’d been his most amiable self. Any other woman, and she would have been put entirely at ease. Which was why he didn’t want any other woman. Elinor simply watched him out of her warm, brown, skeptical eyes, waiting for him to cross the line.

He didn’t, of course. The sturdy Antoine carried her back to her bedroom, where, in her absence he’d had books and sweetmeats delivered, and since then he’d heard nothing. Reports came that she had asked for a light supper, but apart from that she was entirely self-sufficient in her apartment.

He was about to change all that.

Paris was a noisy city at the change of the hour—bells from every part rang in the cold night air, and as he approached her door the hour of eleven o’clock announced itself. To his astonishment he could feel his arousal stirring. While his body parts worked perfectly and reliably, no matter what he demanded of them, it had been many years when anticipation had caused a reaction. An anticipation that might not be met.

Eleven o’clock. A lovely hour. The girl he’d assigned to be her maid was sitting in a chair outside her room, wise enough to be awake at his approach. “You may go,” he said softly.

“Where, milord?” she asked, startled.

“Do I look as if I care?” he said, caustic. “Far enough away that you won’t be listening to every bit of our conversation, close enough that you will arrive if she calls for you. ”

“Yes, milord,” she said, ducking her head quickly. She scurried off, and he watched her go, impatient.

The door was locked from the inside. The key was still in the lock, keeping him out, and he suspected there might be a chair in front of it as well. He laughed to himself, and the pleasant tension in his body grew. He liked to play games.

There were two doors to the suite where he’d had Elinor placed, as well as two covert entrances. The rooms had once belonged to his great-aunt, whose appetite for lovers had astounded even the jaded French. There was always a way for an enterprising man to make his way inside the fortress.

She’d found the first one and blocked it, and his interest grew by measurable accounts. It was a panel in the hallway that would slide open if one touched the right part of the cherub that perched on the molding. Tant pis, he thought, moving on. There was one more entrance, this one through a cupboard in the adjoining room, opening up beside the massive, curtained bed. If she’d found that one he’d simply call for Antoine to beat down her door.

The adjoining room was still and quiet. In the daytime the damask covers on the wall were a peaceful gray-blue, while the faint light from his candle rendered everything into shades of black and gray. It was a large apartment, almost as large as his own, and he made the sudden decision to have some of his clothes moved in here.

The moon was almost bright, filling the darkened room with enough light to see his way. He blew out his candle, opened the cupboard door and reached for the latch.

There was a satisfying click. He pushed open the door and moved into her bedroom, as silent as a ghost.

She was sitting on the chaise, a candle by her side, a book in her lap. And the same, lovely little pistol pointed directly at his black, black heart.

“How in heaven’s name did you manage to regain that nasty little weapon?” he murmured, moving into the room.

“Charles Reading returned it to Jacobs. He thought we needed protection, living where we lived. And where is Jacobs?”

“Who, may I ask, is Jacobs?” He strolled across the room. The pistol didn’t waver.

“Our coachman. ”

“You had no coach. ”

“Don’t be pedantic,” she said briskly. “At one point we had any number of coaches. He came with us to France and stayed with us over the years, looking out for us. ”

“Ah, the larcenous coachman. May I point out that his caretaking abilities fell short?”

“He did the best he could. Where is he?”

“I rather believe he’s accompanying your mother and your nursemaid’s bodies back to England for burial. ”