“There’s no tea left.”
Ghislaine reached down and scooped up Charbon’s body before he could investigate the stain on the thick Aubusson carpet, squeezing him so tightly he yelped in protest. “You’ll have to make do with brandy,” she said, and turned to leave.
Taverner was at the door, barring her way. There was an evil smile on his swarthy face, and he reached out and took the puppy from her.
She had no choice. She let Charbon go. She could see that Taverner’s hands were gentle on the puppy’s black coat, and she knew she was past the point where she could protect him. He closed the door in her face, and she stood there, her back to her nemesis, as she pulled the last, fraying remnants of her self-control back around her like a magic cloak.
She turned and looked at him, her face composed. Not even the sight of the brandy bottle and the half-full glass could overset her. Fate had taken a hand, and she could no longer fight it.
“You look pale, Mamzelle,” Blackthorne murmured, rising and walking over to her. She’d forgotten how tall he was, towering over her own diminutive frame. He walked with a certain menacing grace, avoiding the shattered crockery, and the brandy was in one strong hand. “I think you need this brandy more than I do.”
So be it. With any luck it would take long enough to work that he too would partake of it, convinced it was harmless. If he didn’t, she still had her knife.
“Perhaps I do,” she said, taking the glass from his hand and bringing it to her lips before she could regret her decision.
He moved as swiftly as a snake, dashing the glass out of her hand, so that the poisoned brandy drenched the front of her dress.
“Do you think I’m going to let you take the easy way out?” he demanded, catching her wrist in a hard, bruising grip. “I want answers. I want to know why you’re intent on killing me. What have I ever done to harm you?”
It was the final piece of dry kindling on the conflagration of her rage. That he didn’t even remember her, that he’d destroyed her life and her family without even feeling a pang of guilt, made her fury boil over. She jerked away from him, reaching inside her apron pocket for the knife, determined to plunge it into his heart.
It was gone.
“Taverner used to be a pickpocket,” he said, his face distant and unreadable. “He relieved you of that nasty little knife when you were too busy to notice. Who are you, Mamzelle? What do you want of me?”
She couldn’t break away. His long fingers on her wrist were close to crushing the fragile bones. Not that it mattered. They could hang her with a broken wrist as easily as not.
“I thought it would be obvious.” She spat the words. “I want you dead.”
His honest confusion was all the more infuriating. “But why?”
“Because you murdered my parents!”
There was no change in his expression. Just a faint shadowing of his dark eyes, a tightening of his thin lips. “Ghislaine,” he said, his voice flat. “I should have known my sins would come back to haunt me.”
“I don’t understand why you’re determined to leave,” Tony drawled. He was lounging in the east parlor, a glass of particularly fine claret in one large, well-shaped hand, the lace from his cuffs drifting around his fingers. “Blackthorne must have left for the continent by now if he has any brains at all, and I must say I’ve always found him to be annoyingly intelligent. So there’s no need to rush back to your house like a frightened rabbit.”
Ellen shook her head. “I can’t help it, Tony. I feel uneasy. That happens to me sometimes, an odd sense of something being terribly wrong. It happened just before my parents were killed, it happened when Carmichael and Lizzie’s first baby died. I need to get back to Ainsley Hall.”
“No one is going to die, Ellen. Besides, you have to beat me at chess before you leave. I’ve bounced you solidly these last three days. You need your
Ghislaine reached down and scooped up Charbon’s body before he could investigate the stain on the thick Aubusson carpet, squeezing him so tightly he yelped in protest. “You’ll have to make do with brandy,” she said, and turned to leave.
Taverner was at the door, barring her way. There was an evil smile on his swarthy face, and he reached out and took the puppy from her.
She had no choice. She let Charbon go. She could see that Taverner’s hands were gentle on the puppy’s black coat, and she knew she was past the point where she could protect him. He closed the door in her face, and she stood there, her back to her nemesis, as she pulled the last, fraying remnants of her self-control back around her like a magic cloak.
She turned and looked at him, her face composed. Not even the sight of the brandy bottle and the half-full glass could overset her. Fate had taken a hand, and she could no longer fight it.
“You look pale, Mamzelle,” Blackthorne murmured, rising and walking over to her. She’d forgotten how tall he was, towering over her own diminutive frame. He walked with a certain menacing grace, avoiding the shattered crockery, and the brandy was in one strong hand. “I think you need this brandy more than I do.”
So be it. With any luck it would take long enough to work that he too would partake of it, convinced it was harmless. If he didn’t, she still had her knife.
“Perhaps I do,” she said, taking the glass from his hand and bringing it to her lips before she could regret her decision.
He moved as swiftly as a snake, dashing the glass out of her hand, so that the poisoned brandy drenched the front of her dress.
“Do you think I’m going to let you take the easy way out?” he demanded, catching her wrist in a hard, bruising grip. “I want answers. I want to know why you’re intent on killing me. What have I ever done to harm you?”
It was the final piece of dry kindling on the conflagration of her rage. That he didn’t even remember her, that he’d destroyed her life and her family without even feeling a pang of guilt, made her fury boil over. She jerked away from him, reaching inside her apron pocket for the knife, determined to plunge it into his heart.
It was gone.
“Taverner used to be a pickpocket,” he said, his face distant and unreadable. “He relieved you of that nasty little knife when you were too busy to notice. Who are you, Mamzelle? What do you want of me?”
She couldn’t break away. His long fingers on her wrist were close to crushing the fragile bones. Not that it mattered. They could hang her with a broken wrist as easily as not.
“I thought it would be obvious.” She spat the words. “I want you dead.”
His honest confusion was all the more infuriating. “But why?”
“Because you murdered my parents!”
There was no change in his expression. Just a faint shadowing of his dark eyes, a tightening of his thin lips. “Ghislaine,” he said, his voice flat. “I should have known my sins would come back to haunt me.”
“I don’t understand why you’re determined to leave,” Tony drawled. He was lounging in the east parlor, a glass of particularly fine claret in one large, well-shaped hand, the lace from his cuffs drifting around his fingers. “Blackthorne must have left for the continent by now if he has any brains at all, and I must say I’ve always found him to be annoyingly intelligent. So there’s no need to rush back to your house like a frightened rabbit.”
Ellen shook her head. “I can’t help it, Tony. I feel uneasy. That happens to me sometimes, an odd sense of something being terribly wrong. It happened just before my parents were killed, it happened when Carmichael and Lizzie’s first baby died. I need to get back to Ainsley Hall.”
“No one is going to die, Ellen. Besides, you have to beat me at chess before you leave. I’ve bounced you solidly these last three days. You need your
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