Rescuing the Marquise (Regency Romance): Winter Stories (Regency Tales Book 11) Read online

  “You should see this in the spring,” she said. “It comes alive with colour.”

  “I imagine,” he said, nodding. “It’s a nice place to visit, though. I like the way the icicles cling to everything.”

  “It’s beautiful,” she agreed. “I am glad you are here, Lord Markingston. Now I will have someone to spend Christmas with.” She shook her head. “If you do not already have plans of course. Sorry, that was presumptuous of me.”

  “Not at all. I would love that.”

  “That is good. These French… they do not have as many wonderful Christmastime customs as we do. It’s been quite awful.” She laughed a bit. Then, Annabelle sighed. “I do not wish to waste your time with trivial talk. I know that I indicated that I did not want to speak about the past the other night.”

  “I understand, of course.”

  “Of course.” An awkward silence descended between then. Unable to restrain herself any longer, Annabelle decided to share what the explanation that had been haunting her.

  “I have changed my mind, my lord. I would like to talk to you about what happened. You must understand, I am not trying to win you back. But the truth is, nothing happened between Sherringham and I. I was clumsy and a bit worse for wear and I fell on him. It was a stupid mistake. I was so nervous about my feelings from you that I behaved clumsily and put myself in a bad situation. He was totally innocent. I regret destroying the friendship between the two of you .”

  The Earl shook his head vigorously. “No. No. The fault lies with me. I saw something that frightened me. Instead of being a man and getting to the bottom of it and trusting my… my love and my closest friend… I allowed insecurity to warp my mind. I let my pride burn both of you out of my life, without any sort of chance at redemption. I was stupid and petty and I apologise humbly.” He looked at her, his green eyes bright and intense. “Losing you has been one of the greatest mistakes of my life.”

  She took his hand, which was icy in the cold. “I have missed you terribly. You don’t suppose… Would it be possible for us to continue our courtship?”

  “You… you could actually forgive me?” he asked. “After I abandoned you?”

  In response, she embraced him. “Of course.” He hugged her back.

  “I would very much like to start over with our courtship,” he said. “I think we have both grown quite a lot since Blairdale. It might be a bit complicated, seeing that we live in different places, but I am willing to make it work.” A thought struck him. “How would your family feel about this?”

  She laughed. “My parents adored you. They were sadder to see you go than I was, I think.” He chuckled at this. “And as for the distance, it certainly might complicate things. But I was planning to move back to England on a more permanent basis within the next year anyways. So, if you are willing to wait a bit…”

  “I will wait as long as it takes,” he said, smiling.

  “Oh, Bartholomew, this makes me so happy.” They continued to stroll, with her fair head resting on his strong shoulder. Her eyes were cast over the frozen garden, which was so much like their own love. Soon, the frost could melt and they could begin anew.

  She could not see the flash of worry in the Earl’s dark green eyes, as they continued to circle round and round the fountain.

  SEVEN

  Lord Markingston walked until he reached the garbage-strewn alleyway several houses away from Annabelle’s dwelling. She did not even realise that he had left the house. This was the location where he was supposed to check in with Williams and Stuart.

  He brought a lantern with him to light his way in the dark night. Then he waited. The two English agents were nowhere in sight.

  After what felt like hours, the pair staggered into the spot several minutes late. The Earl was alarmed — both men looked quite haggard.

  “What happened?” he asked, trying to keep fear out of his voice.

  “The mission is compromised,” Williams said.

  “It’s shot to heck, that’s what it is,” Stuart snapped, sounding hoarse. “We were just nearly ambushed by French police. We had to flee on foot. Lord Markingston, we need to get out of here now.”

  “But how? How could they have known?”

  “This whole conspiracy was set up by an agent provocateur,” Stuart said, bitterly. “We fell for it, alright. Hook, line, and sinker. Bonaparte’s treacherous government wants there to be a plot against him. It’ll inflame the people and finally allow him to crack down on dissent. Even better if they can get some Brits tangled up in the infernal thing. That’ll spark a nationalistic fever.”

  “Oh God,” the Earl replied. He had been worried something like this might happen, but he did not expect it to unravel so quickly.

  “What of the plotters? Can we get them out?”

  Williams shook his head, sadly. “No. They’re all on the run now. No one knows where they are. Only God can help them now, I’m afraid.”

  The Earl fought the urge to curse and punch the grimy brick wall he was standing against. “This is bad.”

  “Yes, we know,” Stuart said. “That’s why we’re leaving. Two nights from now. That’s the fastest we can get ourselves a decent rowboat — one that won’t sink and drown us all. Meet us at the Calais beach — you know the one? In your briefing papers, you should have gotten some sort of map pointing it out.”

  “I know the one. What are we going to do? Row across the Channel? That’s mad!”

  “It is,” Stuart admitted. “But it’s our only shot, now. This is widespread, Lord Markingston. They’re looking for Williams and me and pretty soon, once they start capturing some of the conspirators, they’ll be searching for you too. They’re also locking down all the ports and roads out of France. They’re checking every foreigner. We can’t leave by any conventional means, sir.”

  “Fair enough. In that case, I will meet you on the beach at the designated time.” His heart beat painfully in his chest.

  “I will be bringing the Marquise.”

  “The Marquise?” Williams cried.

  “Absolutely not!” Stuart huffed. “Are you out of your mind, sir? We can’t carry along some fancy woman just because you’ve decided you fancy her. I’m sorry. It’s totally against protocol.”

  The Earl stifled a smile at the man’s over-the-top outburst. “Mr. Stuart, the Marquise is an English subject.” Stuart scowled but did not contradict this.

  “As such, she is entitled to our protection. She will be brought down by this plot too. She will be arrested and guillotined. Additionally, as an English subject, she might even inadvertently spark off an international incident. Our fellow Englishmen will not take well to her execution. The French will be furious about some foreign woman being involved in the plot. The whole thing could spark a disastrous war.”

  “Very well!” Stuart spat. “Fine! But it’s very unprofessional. Completely against regulation.”

  He was still muttering to Williams as the Earl waved them away and strode back to Annabelle’s house, the lantern swinging in front of him like some kind of medieval watchman. “Can you imagine, risking our lives for some woman?”

  EIGHT

  Lord Markingston woke up the next day in Annabelle’s guest room, sweating from a horrific nightmare. In it, he had commissioned François to paint a large, glorious painting depicting the ostracism of Catiline, that wily Roman conspirator of old.

  Much to his dismay, in his dream the mobs and bloodshed on the canvas had sprung to life and swept through the Baroness’s abode. He was forced to draw his sword and do battle with ancient malcontents, especially one in a pearl-studded visor. When the dust settled from the battle, he pulled the mask away from the dead combatant, setting free wave of long blonde hair. His opponent had been Annabelle and he had stabbed her straight through.

  Queasy from the image, the Earl pondered what it could mean. He was no believer in dreams as prophetic visions, but he understood that the nightmare signified something that had been weighing more and
more on his conscience — namely, the danger that he was putting Annabelle in by not telling her about the conspiracy.

  He knew one thing for certain now. He had to get her out of the country, immediately. But how? He could not simply ask her to abscond with him. She had an established life here. If he wanted to convince her to leave, he would have to explain the whole sordid affair. She might look at him differently — as a wretched spy, rather than a gentleman. He would have to explain to her all of the things he had done in the name of duty. The lies he had told. The men he had killed. He simply was not sure if she could accept it.

  A thought struck him. He could propose and insist they wed straight away back in England. It would not be a false trick — after all these years, he did still love her.

  First, he needed to obtain a suitable ring. The Earl threw on his clothes and strode down the stairs. This early in the morning Annabelle was sure to be out at the market with her servants.

  He hurried through his morning ritual and dashed out of the townhouse. On the walkway to the street, something caught his eye, glistening on the ground. He bent down and picked it up. It was a pearl-studded pin, just like the ones Annabelle wore in her hair at parties. She must have dropped it. He pinned it into his sleeve and continued on, his tall, black boots crunching on the frosty ground as he marched.

  Up ahead, he noticed something unusual. A glossy, green carriage had clattered to a halt in front of the house. A well-dressed gentleman paced around it, looking frustrated. He waved at Lord Markingston as he approached.

  “Ah, sir! Thank goodness. My name is Joseph Fouche.” He had a pale, pinched face with unruly sideburns. “Could you help me? I am afraid my carriage has broken down. Where is the nearest carriage-maker, I believe I will require his assistance.”

  Lord Markingston raised his eyebrows, moving closer to the cart. “I am sorry, sir. I do not live around here. In fact, I am only visiting. If you stop by any of the local shops around here, I am certain they will be able to point out the right shop to you.”

  Joseph Fouche — that was the name of Napoleon’s minister of police. He needed to get out of there. As soon as he made that realisation, the Earl was seized from behind.

  A rag was tied over his mouth and a hood covered his head. He struggled, but his arms were pinned to his sides and he was hustled into the carriage. He fell with a thud on the wooden floor as the vehicle clattered away. When he tried to sit up and escape, his unseen assailants clobbered him over the head with a blunt object and bound his hands and legs. Then he felt them rip open his jacket and go through his pockets.

  He lay there, dazed and completely in the dark, listening to them flip through his papers.

  “This is the Earl of Markingston, for sure,” one of the men said. “He’s a spy, for sure.”

  “All of the conspirators said he was responsible for the whole thing,” said someone else. “It’s a wholly English plot against Napoleon, they were just dupes.”

  One of them viciously kicked him in the ribs. The Earl had to stifle a cry as he felt the splintering pain ripple through his chest.

  The hood was ripped from his head. The Earl squinted up at the well-dressed gentleman, who was now holding a lit candle in his face and wearing a ghoulish smile.

  “I’m sure you want to claim that this was all some simple misunderstanding. I do not think there has been any kind of mistake, my dear fellow. You came here to plot the assassination of Napoleon Bonaparte with a group of traitorous revolutionaries. And now you will suffer the consequences.”

  ***

  The men — who Lord Markingston now realised were all members of Napoleon’s fearsome secret police — eventually stopped the carriage, untied his legs, and dragged him out, across a barren yard into a large stone tower that they used as a base.

  They then shoved him into a dimly lit room, sat him against the cold, clammy wall, and chained him there, slapping on cold manacles and passing the chain through an iron loop hammered into the stonework. The well-dressed man named Joseph Fouche ended up serving as the chief interrogator. To start out his talk with the Earl, he slapped him straight across the face, then ripped the rag from his mouth.

  “We know everything, Lord Markingston,” Fouche said, his voice silky. “We know exactly what you have done. We have already seized all your little co-conspirators and they have implicated you and admitted to everything. All that is left to do is to receive your side of the story.”

  The Earl was not about to fall for that trap.

  “I am a subject of England. As such, I wish to consult with a representative of the English ambassador.”

  “I am afraid that, as a spy, you have forfeited that right,” Joseph Fouche snapped. “Besides, you know very well your government has not had any representative in France for the last 3 years, ever since Baron Malmesbury. Now, do not be difficult, my lord, or we will be forced to use more unsavoury measures. What was England’s role in this devious plot to assassinate the sovereign ruler of France? Is this plot a scheme that originated in England itself, or did your country simply take advantage of it?”

  “Let me make myself perfectly clear, monsieur,” the Earl said, his green eyes darkening. “I will not tell you anything. You are wasting your time here right now.”

  “We know all about your involvement with the conspiracy,” Fouche sneered, rolling his eyes. “Confess and we may spare you.”

  The Earl did not care about their offers of mercy for him — he knew these were mostly lies. His whirling thoughts kept going back to one person.

  “The Marquise, is she in custody?” he asked.

  “Not yet,” the police minister told him. “But do not worry, my lord. She will be joining us very, very soon.”

  “Please, leave her alone,” Lord Markingston said, through gritted teeth. “You know she had nothing to do with the plot. She is innocent in this whole mess.”

  “We know,” one of the agents admitted, with a bitter laugh.

  “Listen, I will… I will confess,” the Earl sighed. “I will admit to the whole thing. I will make it sound like you lot stopped the biggest conspiracy since the Gunpowder Plot — because that is what you want, right? The acclaim? Promotions from your leaders? I understand. I just ask one thing — leave the Marquise out of this.”

  “Ah, my lord, you old romantic,” the lead interrogator chuckled, shaking his head. “If I did not know better, I would guess that you are quite in love with this ill-fated Marquise. I’m afraid any hope for her completely out of the question at this point. You see, she’ll provide the people with a memorable villainess. An English rose turned murderous against the supreme ruler of the very country she infiltrated? Quite a story, don’t you think? It’ll make for some excellent talk throughout the country. Every good conspiracy needs a famous monster to fan the flames of the people. Very sad. She seems to be quite a pretty flower, after all.”

  This made the Earl so furious that he tried to struggle to his feet — and failed, due to the manacles. “So you would condemn a good and kind person to death, just to achieve some sort of scandal? Do you want to spark war between our countries?”

  “Perhaps,” the smiling man said, shrugging. “Sometimes, it’s better to have fighting between countries, rather than within.” He stood up and strode to the door. “You should get some rest, my lord. You’re going to seriously need it within the coming days, trust me.”

  The Earl wilted a bit once he was alone. The situation looked quite hopeless. But he was not quite ready to give up just yet. He had one last trick hidden up his leave — quite literally.

  Slowly, Lord Markingston managed to drawn the pearl-studded pin from his own cuff. He had stuck it there hours earlier, intending to return it to Annabelle at some point.

  Grasping it tightly between his fingers, he began stabbing it through the lock securing the manacle around his right wrist. The work was painful, tedious, and terrifying. If he dropped the pin from his frozen hands, all might be lost.

  Hour
s passed. The Earl’s trapped arms began to fall asleep. He thought he had finally picked the lock several times, with no success. He was becoming so frustrated that, at times, he felt like simply giving up on the escape attempt altogether. Resigning himself to his terrible fate seemed somehow less agonising than holding out for hope of survival.

  But, no — he steeled his mind against such thoughts. This was not just about him anymore. This was about Annabelle. She was going to be dragged into this whole dangerous messed — probably executed along with the other plotters. And it was entirely his fault for not warning her, all for the sake of duty and his mission. He cursed the fact that he had ever put duty — really, his own pride — above the safety of the woman he loved.

  He had to make this right. He had to escape. He had to save Annabelle.

  With one final, desperate flick of his wrist, the Earl jabbed the lock with the pin once more. Something clicked within — the cold, metallic sound was like music to his ears.

  The manacle around his right wrist came loose, allowing him to slide it through the ring bolted to the wall. Freed, he stood up and picked up his combination sword cane, which his captors had carelessly left behind in the room after they walked out. Easily picked the thick lock on the door using the same technique. With a cuff still hanging on his left wrist, he exited the door and began to run. The prison was largely empty. He found a steep, winding stone staircase and ran down it. At the foot of the steps, he nearly ran straight into the chief interrogator, Joseph Fouche.

  He drew his sword and held it to the scowling man’s throat before he could scream. “Take me to a horse and carriage. Now!”

  “You will never escape,” the minister of police growled, as they hurried out to the yard outside. “All of France is looking for you and your beloved Marquise. You won’t get out of here alive.”