She glared at him. “You are such a despicable man,” she repeated.
“Give it o’er, child,” he said wearily. “She was in the midst of dying a protracted, painful death. I would have said this was God’s mercy if I believed in mythical creatures. You can’t expect me to believe you truly mourn her. ”
“I don’t expect you to believe anything,” she said calmly, looking around her. The large, hulking footman had remained in the room during their conversation, and she signaled for him to come forward. “You may take me back to my room, Antoine,” she said, having learned his name the day previous. “I’ve finished with his lordship for the time being. ”
She’d hoped to see Rohan’s eyebrows snap together in anger. Instead he merely smiled. And Antoine made no move in her direction. “You haven’t eaten yet, have you? Neither have I. I’ll have the servants lay for both of us and we can set forth the rules of our little truce. ”
“I’d prefer to return to my room and eat there. ”
“But I’d prefer you to join me,” he said in the sweetest possible voice, with absolute steel beneath it. “Antoine, you may transport Miss Harriman to the green salon. ”
“Oui, milord,” Antoine said, coming forward to scoop her up again.
She fixed him with a look, and Antoine halted, clearly torn. “Touch me and you’ll regret it,” she snarled at the poor boy. He looked so frightened she almost took pity on him, but that had gotten her into this mess in the first place.
“Terrorizing the servants, my dear? You’re learning from me. ” He waved an elegant white hand in Antoine’s direction. “You may leave, boy. Clearly the lady would much rather I carry her myself. ”
She had played piquet in the past, and recognized herself outplayed by a master. “Repique, monsieur,” she said. “Antoine, you may assist me. ”
Antoine didn’t move until Rohan gave a slight nod. “You disappoint me, ma belle,” he murmured. “You’re no featherweight, but I’ve managed to carry you on more than one occasion, and I believe I’m up to the challenge. But if you prefer young Antoine, so be it. ”
Antoine had already scooped her up with due deference. “When have you carried me?” she demanded.
“Out of your burning house, my sweet. And when you fainted in my hallway. ”
“I’ve never fainted in my life,” she protested.
“You needn’t worry, poppet. I carried you into your bedroom and for the
most part the servants undressed you. Your virtue was safe with me. ”
“For the most part?” she said in an icy voice. “I remember none of this. ”
“Just as well,” he said airily. “Take her away, Antoine. I have a small bit of business to conduct. I’m certain she’ll manage to entertain herself well enough while awaiting me. Make certain you see to it. ”
In other words, keep her prisoner. There was nothing she could do. She was well and truly trapped, and she’d put herself in his hands. At least his interest in her seemed as base and uncomplicated as a cat playing with a mouse. He would let her escape, just a bit, and then slam his paw down on her to hold her there.
But mice didn’t snarl and fight back. As she most assuredly would. He wanted entertainment, and respite from boredom? She would provide it. So thoroughly that he’d be afraid to go to sleep at night, for fear she’d stab him.
She could play games as well. She wasn’t strong enough to challenge him to a duel, she had no resources. But she had every belief that she could make his life a living hell.
And she had every intention of doing just that.
Mr. Mitchum was a troubled man. He dealt with estates and finances, not the cruder business of trials and criminals, and he’d been fortunate enough to spend most of his busy life dealing with the émigré population of Paris. To be sure, young men of quality were a feckless lot, and it had been his duty to ensure that their spendthrift ways didn’t land them in a French prison, but by and large it had been a good living.
Until this recent case. Clients lied to him all the time, he expected it. But he was unused to full-out fraud, to attempted embezzlement, to crimes on a scale quite unexpected. So unexpected that he had no notion what to do about it.
He could scarcely turn the man over to the French authorities. He had the Englishman’s distrust of the French, combined with a nationalistic shame over one of his countrymen perpetuating such a lie. He was certain that once he confronted the gentleman the situation could be handled with diplomacy and tact. The impostor would simply have to withdraw his claim and disappear.
Author: Anne Stuart
Really, it was astonishing that he had gotten as far as he did, and he thought less of his colleagues back in London that they hadn’t noticed something irregular in the situation. Had it not been for his own diligence the man would have gotten away with it, a notion that chilled Mr. Mitchum’s legal soul. He believed in the sanctity of marriage, the superiority of the British race and the infallibility of British law. That someone would attempt to contravene it was a blow to all he held most dear.
He’d sent his clerk home for the day. The fewer witnesses to the man’s disgrace the better. He sat behind his desk and waited, patiently, as the snow fell outside. He was going to be late getting home, and his dear wife would scold, out of worry rather than temper, and he would drink a glass of burgundy and tell her, just a little, of what had been troubling him for the last few days. And she would kiss his forehead and tell him he was a good man and he would feel better.
The man finally showed up, half an hour later. Mr. Mitchum despised tardiness, but he had a moment’s sympathy. Though he couldn’t quite make the leap and put himself in the gentleman’s position, he thought it likely that if he’d been caught in wrong-doing he would be reluctant to face his accuser.
He glanced outside his window. A storm was brewing—indeed, the winter and late spring had been unusually harsh. The sooner he got home the better.