Page 29 of Cora
“Is it a possibility?”
“Anything is possible with my mum,” Archie said, and flopped into a wingback chair beside an ornate fireplace. The fire itself was gas, but the mantel was elegantly carved marble and had clearly been retained for character. “Except death. Probably. I hope. Lord knows I would rather finish school than deal with all of this.”
A crumb of pity for the young man wormed its way under Gideon’s skin. Archie was clearly in over his head and struggling to manage his mother’s complicated affairs.
The boy took up Gideon’s untouched brandy and sipped thoughtfully. “I was supposed to return to university this semester, but instead I’m dealing with a bunch of feuding women.”
“They can be quarrelsome,” Gideon said mildly, thinking of the fight he intended to pick with Cora when he arrived home. His cock stirred with ill-timed interest. He had beat a hasty retreat from her bedroom on their wedding night. Too hasty. He ought to have held his ground. The way the silk hugged her curves…
Gideon bit his own knuckle.
“Are you hungry?” Archie asked, perplexed. “I can have a tray prepared.”
“What?”
“You’re eating your own hand.”
“I was momentarily distracted.” Gideon clasped his hands behind his back to prevent further thoughtless incidents. He didn’t ordinarily telegraph his thoughts so readily. He was on tenterhooks, needing his wife so badly and yet denying himself the satisfaction to which he was entitled. “If you are unwilling to sign the document, then I must leave you to your female troubles.”
“I am not unwilling. I’m notpermitted.There is a difference.”
“I would take the risk.” If the countess objected for some inexplicable reason, almost any court would uphold the legality of a man’s signature while stepping in to manage her affairs. It remained unclear to Gideon how a woman had acquired such independent wealth in the first place. Her French husband hadn’t had a pot to piss in, as he understood matters. The money came from Belladonna’s time as a courtesan, amplified by Wilder’s shrewd investments. Not only in this scandalous enterprise.
“I, however, am not. My mother’s business dealings with Wilder are not to be trifled with.”
Gideon stifled a sigh.
“Please do let me know immediately when she returns.”
Archie’s expression transformed into one of great concern. “I shall. I am worried for her safety. It isn’t like her to disappear, but I don’t know who to turn to for help. Scotland Yard is no use. You have a connection to Queen Victoria. Would you be so kind as to ask for her assistance?”
Good lord, the boy was sincere. Gideon had to stifle the urge to laugh. The Queen? Intercede on behalf of the most scandalous countess in London?
Unlikely.
Unfathomable, really.
Still, if he wanted this stupid bank merger finally done and dusted, he needed Countess Oreste’s signature. Which meant that someone needed to find her. Quickly.
* * *
Meanwhile, in France…
Light slicedacross Bella’s tired eyes. She blinked rapidly.
Heavy footfalls on the wooden steps reached her ears. Gibface. She tensed, suddenly awake.
“You stink.” He kicked an empty wooden bucket closer to her.
“Happens when one is denied proper bathing facilities or clean clothes,” she answered tartly. If he was impressed with her pluck, the brute didn’t show it. He unhooked her from the chain. Her arms dropped to her sides like lead, connected with a dirty, fraying rope looped around each wrist. It wasn’t easy to gather her skirts and use the bucket, but she was grateful to have the freedom of not soiling herself for once. A measure of her former pride seeped in. She didn’t care whether the great oaf witnessed her hiking up her skirts or not. He, apparently, did not care to see her in this condition, for he stomped back upstairs and left the door open.
Grimly, she took stock of her situation. There was no point in screaming for help. She had tried that, to no avail. From time to time during her captivity, she thought she had heard a woman’s voice. She spoke French, this unknown woman. Although Bella had never been able to make out distinct words, she recognized the cadence and tones.
She was still in France, then. In the countryside. Somewhere she could be left alone for hours or days at a time without a guard.
Somewhere no one would ever think to look for her.
Her captor returned, carrying a second bucket. By now, Bella’s eyes had adjusted to the low light. She had spent untold weeks memorizing the patterns of Gibface’s comings and goings. This was her one chance.
