Loving the Earl: A Loveswept Historical Romance Page 7

  “I’ll return shortly.” If she didn’t watch it, he wouldn’t return at all. Except that was a lie and he knew it. He had no intention of leaving Claire at the mercy of Gaudet and his cronies.

  Chapter Eight

  Claire looked at the closed door in disbelief. He did not just lock her in here. Another twist of the knob shattered her disbelief. Yes, he certainly had. The despicable rogue!

  She paced the length of the sumptuous room. If he even thought she would be here when he returned, he would be sadly disappointed. She wasn’t staying in this … this luxuriously appointed brothel.

  Oh, she knew who those women were and what they were doing down there. Of all the cheeky nerve of Nathan Ferguson to lock her in such a place. Why, if word got out, her reputation would be ruined.

  Then again, if word got out that she was traveling alone with him, her reputation would be ruined. Oh, bloody hell, sneaking off to Paris alone likely ruined her reputation.

  She looked around the room, at the enormous bed covered in gold brocade with matching bed curtains and pillows. At the heavy white furniture trimmed in gold leaf. Quickly she made her way to a desk and yanked open the drawers. Quills and paper and pencils fell out but no key. Of course. She really hadn’t expected it to be that easy.

  She hurried to the window and threw up the sash to see Nathan walk out of the house.

  “Nathan Ferguson!” She didn’t care if she sounded like a fishmonger’s wife, or that the two men making their way up the front steps stopped and stared at her openmouthed.

  Nathan looked up as well.

  “You unlock that door this minute. This is unacceptable and … and … and …”

  The two men snickered and leaned on their walking sticks as if they were watching an exhibition.

  “Stay put, Claire.” Nathan hoisted himself into the coach and shut the door behind him.

  Fuming, Claire could only watch helplessly as the coach rattled off, her lone piece of luggage still tied to the top of it.

  One of the men whistled at her, the other offered several suggestions of what he could do to help her pass the time. Mortified, she ducked back into the room and slammed the window shut with enough force to rattle the panes, praying that the man didn’t follow through with his suggestions.

  She set to pacing until her legs grew tired and she collapsed into a chair so plush that she sank another few inches and feared she’d never get out without help.

  “Of all the …” Words failed her and she put her head in her hands, that all-too-familiar feeling of despair overtaking her. “How do you get yourself into these situations, Claire?” She spoke the words but they may as well have been spoken by Sebastian, who’d said them enough times that they seemed to be engraved on her brain.

  She always started out with the best of intentions but things always fell to pieces. Tonight was just another disappointment in a long line of them. All she wanted was to see Paris on her way to Venice. Was that so difficult to accomplish?

  Nathan stared at the dirty piece of paper in his hand.

  He looked around the dark, dank alley. Instead of finding his contact and finally getting some answers to his questions, he found the piece of paper. Had this been the plan all along or had something gone awry to spook his contact? Other than the business with Claire, which was completely unrelated, Nathan could think of nothing that would have scared his source away.

  Nevertheless he inspected the alley one more time. The heels of his boots clicked an even staccato, the noise bouncing off the filthy buildings. Rats scurried out of his way, some nearly across his boots, but he paid them no mind.

  He wanted to throw back his head and howl his frustration at the half moon that shed its meager light on the cobbled stones. He wanted to search the area looking for …

  He didn’t know what the bloody hell he was looking for.

  All he had was a missive sent to his home in London. A cryptic message that promised he would learn the truth about his father’s death if he traveled to the most dangerous part of Paris to a forgotten alley that boasted nothing but rotting vegetation and disgusting odors.

  He turned on his heels and headed back to the coach. He’d had to bribe the driver to wait for him and now he prayed that the man was true to his word. Nathan emerged from the shadows and to his relief noted the coach still there, the driver looking anxiously around. Even the horses shifted uneasily.

  The hair on the back of Nathan’s neck prickled and he quickly looked behind him. There was nothing there save the light fog that hugged the damp ground. Still he peered closer, sure that someone had been watching him. Was it his contact? Or had something nefarious happened to the letter writer?

  He turned back toward the carriage. “Back to the Marquis de Marchant’s residence,” he instructed before entering the coach and collapsing inside.

  The conveyance lurched forward as Nathan smoothed out the wrinkled parchment, reading it by the lamplight one more time. It gave no clues other than an address in Cannaregio Sestiere, one of the many Venetian neighborhoods.

  In a way he shouldn’t have been surprised that he was going to Venice. It was, after all, the last city his father visited before returning home, and the playground of England’s wealthy. And yet he was surprised. Surprised and frustrated. Why bring him all the way to Paris when Venice was the real destination?

  Or was it?

  He drew out the original missive and compared the handwriting. Exactly the same. Even the cheap parchment was the same.

  He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. Should he do it? Should he travel to Cannaregio Sestiere as the second letter said? And what if he arrived to find another letter? How long was he willing to let this game go on?

  He opened his eyes and peered out the window, uneasy with the thought that someone might have been watching him in that alley.

  He pulled out his flask to take a deep drink then looked at the two papers lying on the seat beside him. Who was he fooling? He wasn’t ready to abandon this game.

  Nathan entered Gaudet’s home, the feeling he was being watched still with him.

  Gaudet greeted him with a big smile, pounded him on the back and handed him a drink. Automatically Nathan took it and sipped, the fine champagne traveling smoothly down his throat.

  “There is a good game of faro in the card room,” Gaudet said. “High stakes. Just as you like, no?”

  Nathan looked toward the room Gaudet referred to. This was what he needed—good wine and a card game with enough high stakes to take his mind off his troubles.

  “I must check on Lady Chesterman first.”

  Gaudet waved his hand in the air and made a dismissive sound. “She is well. Locked safely in her room and undisturbed, just as you have ordered. She will sleep the night away and you will play cards with us. Like old times, eh?” The lure of the game called to Nathan. He looked at the steps, then at the room where he could hear the cards being shuffled. That was how he knew it was a serious game, by the near silence that came from the room. Even the ladies of the night steered clear of the goings on in there.

  “Let me check on her first.” He handed his glass to a passing footman and bounded up the steps, the desire for the game nearly drowning out his other thoughts. He didn’t need the money anymore, but that didn’t mean the cards weren’t in his blood. It was what he was good at, what he excelled at. And what he loved above all else.

  He stopped outside Claire’s door and listened for any movement on the other side. He didn’t know what he was expecting. Incoherent weeping? No, Claire probably wasn’t one to weep. Rather, she’d come after him with some sort of weapon, which made him hesitate to open the door.

  Not hearing anything, he tried the knob and found the door still locked, which had him breathing a sigh of relief. He looked toward the stairs, then the door. It was far past midnight. In a few hours morning would burst forth. No doubt Claire was sleeping soundly.

  Still, he had to see for himself.

  He f
ished the key out of his pocket and unlocked the door. He opened it slowly, cautiously, expecting the unexpected. The room was doused in shadows. A lone candle flickered by the bed, revealing a large lump in the middle of it.

  Claire, fast asleep on the bed. Just as he suspected.

  Conscience cleared, he headed for the gaming table.

  Claire thought she heard the door latch but when she arose from the too-comfortable chair and turned around, the door was still closed and, much to her disappointment, still locked. Blowing out a frustrated breath, she made her way to the bed and straightened the pillows she’d tossed about in a fit of rage. It wasn’t Gaudet’s fault she was trapped in his home, and she wasn’t about to punish his servants by making them clean up after her childish tantrum.

  Once that was finished, she looked about the room for something to do. There was nothing. No books to read, no newspapers, although she doubted she could read the French newspapers, no embroidery, even though she despised any sort of stitching work.

  She made her way to the window and leaned her head against the pane. Nothing of interest was happening outside. It was too early for people to start heading home. In fact, for most of the revelers, she suspected the night was still young.

  If only Lord Blythe would return soon.

  She lifted her head, squinting to get a better look out the window. Was that …? Certainly it couldn’t be …

  Yes, it was most definitely their carriage. She would recognize her trunk anywhere. He was here, the blighter! He was here and he hadn’t come to fetch her like he promised.

  She spun around and headed for the door. If he was waylaid because of some card game, she would drag him out by his ear. See how he liked to be ushered about and told what to do.

  Claire grabbed the doorknob and yanked, pulling up short before she slammed into the still-locked door. With a cry of frustration she balled her fist and hit the thick, heavy wood. Pain shot through her fingers and down her wrist but she paid it no mind. Fury built inside her until she feared she would burst with it.

  She turned back to the room. There had been many times she’d been angry and frustrated with her husband, but not nearly as angry and frustrated as she now was with Blythe.

  Nathan Ferguson was not about to get the best of her. She merely had to bide her time.

  After all, he couldn’t leave her in here forever.

  Chapter Nine

  Eventually the lock on the door clicked and the knob turned. Claire bounded from the chair and rushed to the door, arms raised, a cudgel clutched in her sweaty hands. Well, not really a cudgel but the next best thing. Gaudet would be very unhappy to see that she was using the beautiful vase from atop the mantel. She’d pay him back. Somehow.

  The door opened a fraction then stopped as if someone were peering in. Claire waited, not willing to act too soon. Yet acting too late would be a serious mistake as well. She had to wait for the perfect moment, when Blythe would be inside the room but not so far that he would see her.

  He would never know what hit him.

  The door opened farther and he shuffled in. Claire swung with all her might, putting every bit of muscle into it, like all those times that she and her brothers played with sticks and balls in their mother’s garden.

  The vase whistled through the air and landed on Blythe’s skull with a solid thunk.

  He went down to his knees, stayed there for what appeared to be a long time, then slowly fell forward. A tray dropped from his hand, dishes scattered every which way. Food splattered. Tea spilled.

  Claire dropped her weapon and quickly closed the door. The man—who was most certainly not Lord Blythe—was wearing the red and silver livery of the Marquis de Marchant.

  “Oh dear. Oh my. Oh no. Oh. Oh.” She knocked out a servant.

  She dropped to her knees to place a hand on the man’s head and felt a large lump forming behind his ear.

  “Oh my goodness.” She closed her eyes in mortification. The poor man. All he was doing was bringing her food and drink and she struck him.

  She stood, looked down on him, looked at the closed—unlocked—door, then back at the man. She bit the corner of her lip. Well, it couldn’t be helped. He was already unconscious and the door was open.

  She yanked the bedsheets from the bed and grabbed a few pillows. Gingerly she rolled him over, relieved to see that he was breathing normally and his eyes were fluttering beneath closed lids. Hopefully that meant he was coming around. But not too soon.

  Carefully she lifted his head and cushioned it with the pillows, wincing when he bled on the expensive fabric. Then she covered him with the blankets. Standing, she looked down at him, hands on her hips, and nodded. He appeared to be sleeping peacefully.

  On the floor.

  In the middle of the room.

  With a broken tea service scattered around him.

  Claire chewed on her lip some more, then turned and walked out of her prison. Quickly she made her way down the hallway and descended the steps, following the sound of voices. She wasn’t quite sure how she was going to make it to the front door without being noticed. Then again, she was only concerned about being noticed by Blythe—damn his miserable, gambling, drinking hide—and Gaudet. Blythe would no doubt be involved in some card game, which left Gaudet as the only threat.

  She hurried across the open expanse of the entryway, past the naked statues doing unspeakable things, with her breath held, eyes forward, ears tuned, but all she heard was the laughter of the ladies of the night in the room to her right and the low murmur of the men in the room to her left. It was that room that she was most concerned about.

  A shriek from one of the ladies had Claire quickening her pace until her hand was on the knob to the front door. She looked around furtively then yanked the door open and stepped outside.

  The cold, spring air nipped at her heels as she hurried down the stone steps toward the carriage. Claire hadn’t planned this far ahead, but if she was anything, she was ingenious. After all, her brothers told her so on numerous occasions.

  She stopped at the carriage and looked up. The driver was asleep, his chin resting on his chest, rising and falling at regular intervals. She rubbed her chilled arms and cleared her throat but that didn’t elicit any response. She cleared her throat again, louder this time, and shot a nervous glance at the house.

  It would be some time before Blythe discovered she was missing. It would be sooner than that before the staff realized one of their servants was missing. When they discovered him lying unconscious in her room, a hue and cry would go up, alerting Lord Blythe to her disappearance.

  She shifted from one foot to the other. “Excuse me.”

  Nothing.

  With a sigh she climbed up onto the box, bunching her skirts in one hand while she pulled herself up with the other. The conveyance rocked to the side and still the driver slept on.

  She poked him. “Excuse me.”

  Goodness, the man could sleep through anything.

  She shook his shoulder.

  “Huh.” He jerked, snorted and looked around with bleary eyes, his hat askew, one corner of his mouth wet with drool.

  “My apologies for waking you, but we’re ready to leave now.”

  He looked around him, twisted and looked behind him, then pierced her with a red-eyed glare. “Where’s the gent?”

  “You mean Lord Blythe? He’s in the carriage.” She leaned close and wrinkled her nose. “Inebriated, I fear.”

  “Ah.” The driver cleared his throat and unhooked the ribbons. “Well then. Get on in. Where’re we going?”

  “Um.” Good question. Where were they going? “Place Dauphine.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Place Dauphine? ’Tis the middle of the night. ’Tweren’t nothing to be open now.”

  “Don’t be silly,” she said. “It’s nearly morning. Something will open soon.”

  A shout erupted from the house. She looked at the driver, panic climbing into her throat. He looked back suspiciously
, heavy brows drawn over skeptical eyes.

  “One more thing,” she said. “Lord Blythe … Well. He cheats sometimes at the gaming table. So if someone chases us, continue driving and don’t stop for anyone.”

  Quickly she climbed off the box. The carriage took off. Claire had to grab hold of the door handle and hoist herself in or be left behind. Before she shut the door, she looked at the house. Men were emerging, pointing at the carriage.

  Oh, this was not good. Not good at all.

  One broke away from the pack and took off running after the conveyance. Claire folded her hands in her lap and prayed to the carriage driver god that the man would take her at her word and drive like the devil was after them. Because, Lord knew, the devil was after them.

  “Hurry, hurry, hurry,” she chanted, closing her eyes, not willing to see how close Blythe was.

  People began shouting and Claire opened her eyes. Sure enough there was a crowd following the carriage, led by Blythe himself. For such a large man, he certainly could run fast.

  He came within feet of the conveyance. Claire resisted the urge to pound on the ceiling and plead with the driver to urge the horses faster. After all, Blythe couldn’t possibly outrun the horses.

  He leapt. Claire squeaked. He grabbed on to the door handle and pulled himself up. Claire lunged for the lock, too late realizing that she hadn’t even thought to secure it. Before she could fully engage the lock, the door was jerked open and Blythe tumbled in, landing in a very large heap at her feet.

  He leaned halfway out of the carriage to grab the door and slam it shut before he lurched to the opposite seat and collapsed into it, his chest heaving, his glare ominous.

  Several heartbeats of silence passed. Claire began to fidget until she finally blurted out, “I told you I was going to escape.”

  “That you did. You didn’t tell me you were going to render Gaudet’s servant unconscious in the process.”

  She looked away and chewed on her lip for a moment. “I thought he was you.”