The Rake to Redeem Her Page 13

  ‘Inducements hard for any mother to refuse.’

  ‘Yes. At least, until he informed me that Philippe would not accompany us. Upon learning that, I did refuse his offer; there was no way I would leave my precious son behind in Paris.’

  She laughed without humour. ‘That insistence, I now suspect, probably sealed St Arnaud’s conviction that I was the perfect victim for his scheme. Utterly able to be controlled through my son—an easy loss to explain away to the brother who depended on him for the advancement of his career, if something happened to me. In any event, St Arnaud urged me to reconsider. It would only be for a few months, he said. I would be so busy I would hardly have time to miss the child. His sister, the Comtesse de la Rocherie, had recently lost her young son and would be thrilled to look after Philippe.’

  She rose and began pacing again, as if propelled by memories too painful to bear. ‘When I remained firm in my refusal, he told me he’d promised the comtesse I would bring Philippe to visit her—could we not at least do that? Surely I couldn’t be so cruel as to disappoint a grieving mother! And so … we went.’

  ‘He kidnapped the child on the way?’

  She shook her head in the negative. ‘We did call on her. The comtesse was good with Philippe; he liked her at once, and when she offered to take him up to the nursery to play, he begged me to let him go.’

  A sad smile touched her lips. ‘She told him she had a toy pony with blue-glass eyes and a mane and tail of real horsehair. What child could resist that? Philippe had grown restless and St Arnaud urged me to send him up to romp while we finished our tea. And the comtesse … there was no disguising the yearning in her eyes as she offered Philippe her hand. So I let him go.’

  ‘I let him go,’ she repeated in a whisper, tears welling up in her eyes. ‘The next thing I remember, I was in a travelling coach, groggy, nauseated, my hands bound, too weak even to push myself upright. Not until we reached the outskirts of Vienna did St Arnaud allow me to regain consciousness.’

  ‘Vienna!’ Will burst out, incredulous that St Arnaud had managed to kidnap, not a child, but a grown woman, and transport her hundreds of miles. ‘That’s outrageous! Did no one at any of the inns notice anything?’

  ‘I expect it was easy enough for him to spin some story about my being ill. The actions of a man of wealth and authority are unlikely to be questioned by post boys and innkeepers.’

  Realising the truth of that, Will nodded grimly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘As soon as I was strong enough to stand, I told him I was returning at once to Paris. That was the first time he struck me.’

  ‘Bastard,’ Will muttered, wishing St Arnaud would appear on the pathway before them—so he could strangle the life from him.

  ‘He told me if I loved my son and wanted to see him again, I would do exactly as he instructed. Not to waste my time trying to escape him, for he had swift messengers at his disposal and employees back in Paris. Children, like his sister’s son, were so frail, he said. Playing happily one evening, dead of a fever by morning.’

  ‘He threatened to kill your son if you didn’t co-operate?’ Will said. ‘He truly was evil.’

  She nodded. ‘He said my life, my child’s life, was nothing compared to the importance of restoring France to glory under Napoleon. When I asked what assurance I had of ever seeing Philippe again, regardless of what I did, he said he was a “reasonable man”. Reasonable! If I did my part to make sure his plot succeeded, he would provide everything he’d promised: clothes, jewels, a handsome financial settlement. I might even be acclaimed in Paris as a heroine of the Empire for helping him restore Napoleon to the throne. But if I refused to play my role … I was finished, and so was Philippe. So I did what he wanted.’

  ‘What about your brother?’ Will asked. ‘Did he not try to find you when St Arnaud disappeared after the failure of the plot?’

  ‘I don’t know. Napoleon escaped Elba within days of the assassination attempt. Maurice’s regiment, like all the French regiments, was called up as soon as the authorities learned Napoleon had landed back in France. He died at Waterloo.’

  ‘I am sorry. Did the comtesse know where St Arnaud went to ground?’

  ‘Perhaps. I don’t think she was involved in planning this. We were both just pawns in his game, me in my poverty with a young son to raise, her in her grief and need. When I was reported dead, naturally she would raise Philippe as her own.’

  ‘But you still want him back.’

  ‘Of course I want him back.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll help you steal him.’

  Her eyes widened, surprise and a desperate hope in their depths. ‘You’ll help me?’

  He shrugged. ‘I doubt you’ll leave France willingly without him.’

  A worried frown creased her brow. ‘It won’t be easy. He’s not a purse you can pick at a Viennese market, but a small boy. He’ll feel alone after we grab him. Frightened.’

  Remembered anguish twisted in his gut. He knew what it was to be a small child, frightened and alone.

  ‘First, I’ll need to get back into the house,’ she said. ‘Locate the service stairs, find the nursery, manage to see him again.’

  ‘How do you propose to do that? The “orange seller” is unlikely to be welcomed.’

  ‘Probably not,’ she admitted.

  Thinking rapidly, Will said, ‘We’ll go as a tinker and his wife. While I keep the staff occupied in the kitchen, distracting them with my wares and wit, you can slip up to the nursery.’

  She gave him a wan smile. ‘Have you a cart, pots, pans and fripperies in those wondrous saddlebags of yours?’

  ‘No, but I’ve the blunt to buy some. Have you another gown, one that will make you look like a respectable tinker’s wife?’

  ‘I have one more gown in this basket, yes.’

  ‘Good.’ Will held out his hand. ‘Partners again? No more disappearing at dawn?’

  ‘Partners.’ Meeting his steady gaze, Elodie clasped his hand and shook it.

  Threading his fingers in hers, Will exulted at the surge of connection, as potent and powerful as ever. It was all he could do to refrain from hugging her, so absurdly grateful was he for this chance to begin again. Abducting a child from the household of a wealthy comtesse was a mere nothing; to keep her beside him, he would have pledged to abscond with the entire French treasury.

  His heart lighter than it had been since the terrible moment he’d awakened to find her gone, Will contented himself with kissing her hand. ‘We passed a café just outside the entrance to the Place. You can wait for me there.’ He offered her his arm.

  She took it and he tucked her hand against his body, savouring the feel of her beside him as they walked together. Comrades again, as they’d been on the road.

  A few moments later, they reached the small establishment he’d noted. After he’d escorted her to a table, rather than release his arm, she held on, studying him. ‘You’re a remarkable man, Will Ransleigh,’ she said softly.

  It wasn’t exactly an apology. But it was close enough. ‘So I am,’ he agreed with a grin. ‘Give me about two hours to obtain the necessary items.’

  She nodded. ‘I’ll be ready.’

  A spring in his step, Will headed off to the market, running through his mind a list of items to procure. Having spent much time wandering around in markets in his youth, perfecting his skill as a thief, he knew just the sort of shiny objects that would tempt footmen, housemaids, cooks and grooms, and where to obtain them quickly.

  He paced through the crowded streets on a wave of renewed energy and purpose, buoyed by the knowledge that Elodie hadn’t, after all, abandoned him for another man. She’d been pulled away by a bond he, more than anyone, could appreciate: that between a mother and her son.

  That loyalty would no longer stand between them. In fact, her gratitude for his help in rescuing her child would reinforce their powerful physical attraction.

  Bit by bit, like a clever spider creating its web, fate and circumstanc
e were adding strand after strand, linking them together. Mastering this last challenge and then completing the voyage to England would take time … time to examine the many subtle threads of connection. Time to sample passion and see if it tasted of a future.

  He hadn’t solved yet the problem of how to vindicate Max while protecting Elodie from retribution, but he’d figure out something. All in all, he felt more hopeful than at any time since he’d smuggled her out of Vienna.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Three hours later, in his latest guise as a travelling tinker, Will Ransleigh was putting on his best show for a staff happy for a bit of diversion during the break between the preparation and serving of dinner. After convincing the housekeeper to allow all the employees—including the nursery maid—to come down to the servants’ hall, Will’s witty repartee, glittering wares and a magic trick or two kept his audience preoccupied enough for Elodie to slip unnoticed to the service stairs.

  Before they began their charade, he’d told her he’d give her half an hour to find the nursery, bundle up her son and get him out of the house. He’d then finalise any purchases and meet her with the cart, its contents conveniently configured to hide a small boy, on a side street a short distance away, ready to make all speed out of the city.

  She’d nodded agreement. She just hadn’t told him that she might not be bringing her son. Her gut twisting at the very thought, she ran up the service stairs, heart pounding in anxiety and anticipation.

  As she hurried up, she recalled with perfect clarity every detail of her visit to this house that infamous day eighteen months ago. Please, Lord, she begged silently, let this day not end as that one did, with me leaving without my son.

  The comtesse had told her the nursery was on the third floor. Exiting into the hallway, she peeked behind several doors before, beyond the next, she found a small boy playing with soldiers.

  His eyes fixed on the toys he was meticulously placing in assorted groups, Philippe didn’t look up as she stealthily opened the door. Taking advantage of his preoccupation, she studied him, her heart contracting painfully with joy at seeing him, with sorrow for the years together that had been stolen from them.

  He was a lithe-limbed, handsome little boy where she had left a toddler just out of babyhood. He had her eyes, her lips, his now pursed in concentration as he positioned the soldiers just so, Jean-Luc’s nose and sable hair that always fell over one brow and his long, graceful fingers.

  Just then he looked up, his bright blue eyes curious. ‘Who are you? Where is Marie?’

  ‘Down in the kitchen. She asked me to come stay with you while she looked at some fripperies my man is selling.’

  ‘“Fripperies”? Is that something to eat? I hope she brings me some!’

  She smiled; Philippe obviously still loved his sweets. ‘No biscuits or cakes, I’m afraid. Things like hair ribbons or lace to trim a collar, glass beads for a necklace, or a shiny mirror.’

  Suddenly his eyes narrowed and he frowned. ‘You were selling oranges in the Place today. You’re not going to grab me again, are you? I don’t like being grabbed.’

  The wariness in his eyes lanced her heart. ‘I won’t do anything you don’t like, I promise.’ Trying to buttress her fast-fading hopes, she said, ‘What nice soldiers you have! And a pony, too.’ She gestured towards the infamous glass-eyed toy horse against the wall behind him.

  ‘I’m too big for it now,’ Philippe said, seeming reassured by her pledge. ‘Maman says this summer, she’ll get me a real pony. I love horses. I shall be a soldier, like my papa.’

  If you only knew, Elodie thought. ‘Is your maman good to you?’

  Philippe shrugged. ‘She’s Maman. Whenever she goes away, she brings me a new toy when she comes back. And reads me a story before bed at night.’ He giggled. ‘She brings me sweets, too, but you mustn’t tell! Nurse says they keep me from going to sleep.’

  Elodie pictured the comtesse in her elegant Parisian gown, sitting on the narrow nursery bed, reading to her son, ruffling his silken hair, kissing him goodnight. Tears stung her eyes. It should be me, her wounded heart whispered.

  ‘I won’t tell,’ she said.

  Philippe nodded. ‘Good. I don’t like storms. When wind rattles the windows, Maman comes and holds me.’ His eyes lit with excitement. ‘And in summer, when we go to the country house, she lets me catch frogs and worms. And takes me fishing. But she makes Gasconne put the worms on the hook.’

  Each smile, each artless confidence, drove another nail into the coffin of her hopes. Anguished, frantic, she said, ‘I could take you to the bird market, here in Paris. They have parrots from Africa, with bright feathers of green and blue, yellow and red. Wouldn’t you like to see them?’ She held a hand out to him.

  His smile fading, he scuttled backwards, away from her outstretched hand. ‘Thank you, madame, but I’d rather go with Maman.’

  She’d frightened him again, she thought, sick inside. ‘Can I ask you one more thing? Will you look very closely and tell me if I remind you of anyone?’

  Obviously reluctant, he focused on her briefly. ‘You look like the orange lady from the park. Will you go now? I want Marie.’

  He scuttled back further, seeming to sense the fierce, barely suppressed instinct screaming at her to seize him and make a run for it. Keeping a wide-eyed, wary gaze on her, he clutched two of his soldiers to his chest … as if hoping they might magically spring to life and defend him from this threatening stranger.

  From her. From a desperate need to be together that was her desire, not his any longer.

  Agonising as it was, she couldn’t avoid the truth. With her own eyes, she could see her son was healthy, well dressed and well cared for. From his own lips, she’d heard that the comtesse was an attentive, loving mother. One who could afford to give him a pony, who had a country manor probably as elegant as this town house where they could escape the disease and stink of the city in summer.

  He was loved. Happy. Home.

  Her breath a painful rasp in her constricted chest, she stared at him, trying to commit every precious feature to memory.

  A patter of approaching footsteps warned her the nursery maid was approaching. Though her mind couldn’t comprehend a future beyond this moment, she knew she didn’t want to risk being thrown into a Parisian prison.

  Even so, only by forcing herself to admit that fear of her lurked behind the mistrustful stare of her son, only by repeating silently the plea that had stabbed her through the heart—will you go now?—was she able to force her feet into motion.

  ‘Goodbye, Philippe, my darling,’ she whispered. With one last glance, she sped from the room.

  To Will’s surprise, Elodie returned to the kitchen well before the thirty minutes he’d allotted her … and alone. Pale as if she’d seen a ghost, eyes staring sightlessly into the distance, she took a place at the back of the crowd, not meeting his gaze. Wondering what new disaster had befallen her, Will wrapped up his cajolery with a few short words, curbing his impatience as the customers he’d enticed took their time purchasing laces, ribbons and shaving mirrors. At last, he was able to pack up the remaining merchandise and bundle them both back outside.

  As soon as they turned on to the small street bordering the Hôtel de la Rocherie, he halted and turned to her. ‘What happened? Is the child ill?’

  ‘Oh, no. He’s in excellent health.’

  ‘Then why did you not seize him?’

  She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t.’

  ‘Ah, too difficult in full daylight?’ he surmised, well understanding her frustration. ‘No matter. You know the lay of the house now. We’ll come back tonight. It’s clouding over, so the sky will be—’

  ‘No,’ she interrupted. ‘We won’t come back.’

  Will frowned at her. ‘I don’t understand.’

  Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself, as if standing in a cold wind, though the summer afternoon was almost sultry. ‘He was playing with soldiers. Very well made, thei
r uniforms exact down to every detail. His own clothing, too, is very fine. He summers at a country manor, where there are streams to fish and ponies to ride.’ A ragged sigh escaped her lips. ‘I can’t give him any of that.’

  ‘What does that matter?’ Will asked, his gut wrenching as from the depths of his past rose up the anguished memory of losing his own mother. ‘You’re his mama!’

  ‘I used to be,’ she corrected. ‘I’m just the “orange lady” from the park now; it is the comtesse that he calls Maman. She dotes on him, reads him stories, even takes him fishing. All I could offer is love, and he already has that, along with so many other things I could never provide.’

  ‘Besides …’ she turned to face him, her expression pleading, as if she were trying to convince him—and herself ‘… bad enough that stealing him, tearing him away from everything familiar and comforting, would terrify him. The comtesse married into a powerful family; she would very likely utilise all her contacts to track him down and drag him back, putting him through another round of terror and uncertainty. He’s only four and a half years old! I can’t do that to him.’

  ‘So you’re just … giving up?’ Will asked, incredulous.

  Elodie seemed to shrink into herself. ‘He doesn’t need me any more,’ she whispered.

  Abruptly, she turned and moved away from him down the street. Not trying to escape him, he realised at once. There was nothing in her movements of the purposeful stride that had taken her from the Hôtel de la Rocherie this morning into the Place Royale, or even of the frenzied tramp around the pathways that followed her first rendezvous with her son.

  This was the aimless walk, one plodding foot in front of the other, of someone with no goal and no place to go.

  When he had obtained the cart and goods necessary for their current reincarnation as tinkers, Will had also provisioned them for a rapid flight to the coast. Avoiding the usual crossing points at Calais or Boulogne, he intended to engage a smuggler’s vessel from one of the smaller channel ports to ferry them over to Kent, where several easy days’ travel would get them to Denby Lodge, Max’s horse-breeding farm.