LITMIR.BIZ

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you have the money, madame? Especially if you mean to travel. I could take these to her tomorrow. She’s been so pleased with all the other gowns you’ve done, I’m sure I could press her for a truly handsome sum.’

      ‘Press her as hard as you like, but keep the money for yourself. It’s little enough beside my debt to you. I’ve something else, too.’

      Reaching down to flip up the bottom of her sewing apron, Elodie picked the seam open and extracted a pair of ear-rings. Small diamonds twinkled in the light of the candles. ‘Take these. Sell them if you like, or keep them … as a remembrance of our friendship.’

      ‘Madame, you mustn’t! They’re too fine! Besides, you might need to sell them yourself, once you get to Paris.’

      ‘I have a few other pieces left.’ Elodie smiled. ‘One can’t say much good of St Arnaud, but he never begrudged me the funds to dress the part of his hostess. I can’t imagine how I would have survived this year without the jewels and finery we were able to sell.’

      The maid spat out a German curse on St Arnaud’s head. ‘If he’d not been in such a rush to leave Vienna and save his own neck, he would probably have taken them.’

      Elodie shrugged. ‘Well, I am thankful to have had them, whatever the reason. Now, let me tell you how my departure has been arranged.’

      Half an hour later, fully apprised of who she was to meet, when and where, Clara hugged her and walked out. An unnerving silence settled in the rooms after her footsteps faded.

      Though she supposed there was no need to work on the gowns the maid had left, from force of habit, Elodie took the top one from the basket and fetched her embroidery silks.

      Along with the sale of some gems, the gowns she’d worn as St Arnaud’s hostess, re-embroidered and sold back to the shop from which she’d originally purchased them, had supported her for six months. At that point Madame Lebruge, pleased with the elegance and inventiveness of her work, sent new gowns from her shop for Elodie to embellish.

      Letting her fingers form the familiar stitches calmed her as she reviewed what had transpired in the last few hours. Clara was right to be suspicious; she had no way of knowing for sure that Will Ransleigh would actually take her to Paris, rather than murdering her in some alley.

      But if he’d wanted to dispose of her, he could have already done so. Nor could one fail to note the fervour in his eyes when he talked of righting the wrong she’d done his cousin. She believed he meant to take her to London—and that she’d convinced him she’d not go there unless they went to Paris first.

      She smiled; he’d immediately suspected she meant to escape him there. Just because he was Max Ransleigh’s cousin, and therefore nephew to an earl, it would not do to underestimate his resourcefulness, or think him hopelessly out of his element in the meaner streets of Paris. He’d tracked her down here, most certainly without assistance from any of the authorities. He’d not been shocked or appalled by her idea of escaping in disguise, only concerned that she couldn’t carry off the deception. He’d then proposed an even cleverer disguise, suggesting he was as familiar as she was with subterfuge.

      Perhaps he worked for the Foreign Office, as Max had, only in a more clandestine role. Or maybe he was just a rogue, as the unpredictability and sense of danger that hung about him seemed to suggest.

      He’d been born on the wrong side of the blanket, he’d said. Perhaps, instead of growing up in the ease of an earl’s establishment, he’d had to scrabble for a living, moving from place to place, much as she had. That would explain his housebreaker’s skill at scaling balconies and invading rooms.

      The notion struck her that they might have much in common.

      Swiftly she dismissed that ridiculous thought. She sincerely doubted that he had ever had his very life depend on the success of the disguise he employed. Nor should she forget that he’d sought her out for a single purpose, one that left no room for any concern about her well-being. Still, depending on what happened in Paris, she might consider going to London as she’d promised.

      She would give much to right the wrong she’d been forced to do Max Ransleigh. After studying the background of all of the Duke of Wellington’s aides, St Arnaud had determined Max’s well-documented weakness for and courtesy towards women made him the best prospect among those with immediate access to Wellington to be of use in his plot. He’d ordered her to establish a relationship with Max, gain his sympathy and learn his movements, so he might be used as a decoy when the time was right.

      She’d been instructed to offer him her body if necessary, but it hadn’t been. Not that she found Max unappealing as a lover, but having learned he’d already taken one of the most elegant courtesans in Vienna as his mistress, she judged him unlikely to be tempted by a tall, brown-haired woman of no outstanding beauty.

      His attentions to her had been initially just the courtesies any diplomat would offer his occasional hostess. Until one day, when she’d been sporting a bruised face and shoulder, and he’d figured out that St Arnaud must have abused her.

      She’d told him nothing, of course, but from that moment, his attitude had grown fiercely protective. Rather ironic, she thought, that it had been St Arnaud’s foul temper and vindictive spirit, rather than her charms, that had drawn Max closer to her.

      In fact, she’d be willing to bet, had the moment not occurred for St Arnaud to spring his plot, Max would have tried to work out an honourable way for her to escape her cousin.

      But the moment did occur. As little choice as she’d had in the matter, it still pained her to recall it.

      The night of the attack had begun with an afternoon like any other at the Congress, until Max had casually mentioned that he might be late arriving to the Austrian ambassador’s ball that evening, since he was to confer briefly in private with the Duke before accompanying him to the festivities. It was the work of a moment for Elodie to inveigle from him in which anteroom that meeting was to take place, the work of another that night to intercept Max in the hallway before he went in.

      She waylaid him with a plea that he assist her on some trumped-up matter that would call down on her the wrath of her cousin, should she fail to speedily accomplish it. Despite his concern for her welfare, so great was his impatience to meet his commander, who had a well-known intolerance for tardiness, that she was able to delay him only a few minutes.

      It was long enough. St Arnaud’s assassin found his target alone, unguarded, and only Wellington’s own battle-won sixth sense in dodging away an instant before the stranger bursting into the room fired his weapon, had averted tragedy.

      To the Duke, anyway. Captured almost immediately, the failed assassin withstood questioning only briefly before revealing St Arnaud’s, and therefore her own, connection to the plot. Assuming the worst, St Arnaud had dealt with her and fled. She’d been in no condition afterwards to discover what had happened to Max; she assumed that, disgraced and reprimanded, he’d been sent back to England.

      Dear, courteous Max. Perhaps the kindest man she’d ever known, she thought, conjuring up with a sigh the image of his face. Odd, though, that while he was certainly handsome, she hadn’t felt for him the same immediate, powerful surge of desire inspired by his cousin Will.

      An attraction so strong it had dazzled her into forgetting, for the first few moments, that he’d invaded her rooms. So strong that, though he’d coerced and threatened her, she felt it still.

      It had also been evident, even in his ill-fitting breeches, that the lust he inspired in her was mutual. Elodie felt another flush of heat, just thinking of that sleek hardness, pressing against his trouser front.

      Such a response, she suddenly realised, might be useful later, when she needed to escape him. A well-pleasured man would be languid, less than vigilant. And pleasuring Will Ransleigh would be no hardship.

      Eluding him in Paris, however, would be another challenge entirely.

       Chapter Five

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