Read Online The Prince of Midnight by Laura Kinsale - Free Book Online Page B

painfully stilted French.
    Her husky voice sounded blatantly feminine to S.T., but the other two
appeared to accept her for what she seemed. "I prefer to stand."
    "But you are not of this country!" The count cried delightedly. "English. You
are English. We were just speaking of the English. I forbid you to be anything
else!"
    She agreed quietly that she was English. S.T. drew a card and turned his head
just enough to see her. She looked pale. He had to restrain himself from
suggesting that she lie down before she fell down.
    "Where are you bound, Monsieur Strachan?" the count demanded. "Where's the
rest of your party? Do you make a grand tour?"
    There was a short silence, and then she said, "I'm not traveling with a
party. I will be returning to England directly. As soon as I secure
transportation to the north."
    S.T. lost his trick.
    "But you needn't seek transport!" the count cried. "I can see that you're a
gentleman; you're young; you're alone! You have had misfortunes, perhaps. No,
no, you mustn't be left to travel on some washerwoman's ass." He threw down his
cards in the midst of the next deal and stood up. "Impossible. You must ride
with us. We're for Grenoble, should this ten-times useless valet of mine ever
succeed in making our coach free. What news from below, Latour? I'm tired of
piquet."
    He walked away from the table. S.T. looked down at the half-dealt deck in his
hand and tossed it on the table, turning toward the others with a frown. "That's
it?" he demanded. "You fold?"
    The count waved his hand. "Nay, let us simply forget the game entirely. You
won't begrudge my livres, will you, my friend? The louis are yours." He sat down
on the couch. "I would rather talk to Monsieur Strachan. We must discuss our
travel plans. You will come with us?"
    "You are kind," she said in a disinterested tone. "If 'twill not discommode—I
shall."
    He grinned and leaned toward her. "I look forward to it. We can talk. I have
a curiosity about the English." His hand closed on her forearm and his voice
rose to an eager note. "The English vice, do you know what I mean?"
    S.T. swung around sharply and frowned at him through a surge of dizziness.
Just at that moment, a chorus of enthusiastic shouts rose from below. The count
leapt up and strode to the balcony.
    "Vive le diable!"
he howled. "We're free!
Venez,
Latour,
bring his portmanteau and let us be gone!" He stopped long enough to flip back
his coattails in a deep bow in front of Leigh, and then caught her wrist and
pulled her bodily to her feet. She made no resistance to this extraordinary
familiarity, simply informed him that she had no portmanteau, only the cloak
bag.
    "Wait a moment," S.T. said. He started to rise, but she walked out of the
room without glancing at him. "Wait," he shouted. "You can't just go off with—"
    The valet bowed briefly to him, retrieved the count's gold-headed cane and
plumed hat, and followed the others.
    "—strangers!" S.T. finished savagely. He took a step toward the door,
stopped—and sat down again.
    He fingered the cards, shuffled and cut and stacked the deck over and over as
he listened to the echoing sounds of departure from the cobblestoned street
below. The slam of a door, the sharp calls of a postboy to the horses, the cries
of advice and warning amid the sound of iron-shod hooves and wheels grating on
stone faded into the indiscriminate noise of conversation as the chaise backed
from under the portcullis.
    S.T. pressed his thumbs against the arch of the deck and sent it exploding
across the table with a curse.
    He got up and poured himself a drink, staring down at the clutter of cards.
Just as the fuss from below was dying away, the street filled again with the
sound of horses. He turned toward the balcony, listening with his good ear. He
could make nothing of the new shouts and shrill cries of the women, and
abandoned all pride at last, striding to the balcony to see if they were
returning.
    It was