Page 62 of Never a Duchess
“Of course, madame.”
Lord Denton took that as his cue to escort Ailsa to the blue velvet chairs near the gilt counter. She could hear the couple exchanging jibes. For some reason, they enjoyed antagonising each other.
Dounreay told Monsieur Baudelaire what they knew so far. “Valmary and his employees blame ye for the poisoning. Yer men insist the opposite is true. We’re told yer conquests are legendary. That ye and Valmary are love rivals.”
The Frenchman glanced at Lillian, the glint in his grey eyes like that of a wolf sizing his supper. “We are not rivals. That would suggest we play the game on an equal footing when my success rate is legendary.”
And yet Madame Delafont chose Lord Sheridan as her lover.
“That might have been the case,” she said, keen to put him in his place, “before Mr Valmary let Lord Sheridan play the game. Despite your generous gifts, Madame Delafont preferred to bed a man with a title.”
Monsieur Baudelaire’s eyes widened. Not because he felt threatened or inferior to the peer. “You intrigue me, Miss Ware. Rarely does one meet a woman who speaks so freely. While some men might seek to trap you in a gilded cage, such a creature should be allowed the freedom to stretch her wings and soar.”
Monsieur Baudelaire made her skin crawl.
He was as slimy and as slippery as an eel.
Dounreay stepped forward, his puffed chest broader than the Frenchman’s, his height giving him full advantage. “Put the lady out of yer head. She’s nae a pawn in a game. Rest assured, I would kill any man who sought to hurt her.”
Lillian looked up at him, her heart aching with a tenderness she had never known, the sting of tears building behind her eyes.
The duke was confounding.
He would kill for her but not share a meal.
She might remind him he was leaving for Scotland, but the thought brought a profound sense of despair she refused to address.
Monsieur Baudelaire inclined his head respectfully, yet the flicker of mischief in his eyes said Dounreay had as good as dropped the gauntlet.
“Then ask your questions, Your Grace. I shall tell you all I know.” He noticed his men had stopped working and barked something to them in French.
Lillian caught the assistant’s terrified gaze. Christian, the man who’d served them on the day MacTavish sniffed the contaminated perfume, looked away sharply and continued loading bottles into a crate.
She would mention it to Mr Daventry, have an agent follow the employee and see what he had to hide.
“Did ye tamper with Valmary’s perfumes?” Dounreay said.
“I enjoy stealing his women, not his customers.”
“But ye think he poisoned yer perfume?”
The Frenchman shrugged. “Who else had a motive?”
“Madame Delafont,” Lillian said.
Monsieur Baudelaire laughed. “We let Lord Sheridan think he’d won. In truth, neither of us wanted her.”
Like the sludge lining the gutter, this man turned Lillian’s stomach. “More reason for the lady to plot your downfall.”
“This is true, yet she has not visited the distillery. If she had visited the shop, I would know. So I do not see how she managed to poison my perfume.”
“Perhaps your staff are disloyal.” She didn’t dare glance Christian’s way. The assistant might lose more than his job if he’d betrayed Monsieur Baudelaire.
The Frenchman’s cold eyes turned almost predatory. “A wise man rules with an iron fist, madame. No one other than Valmary would dare to cross me.”
Dounreay folded his muscular arms across his chest. “If ye’re considering making an enemy of me, know poison is nae my preferred weapon. I’ll nae sneak about in the dark. I shall look deep into yer eyes when I press my blade to yer throat.”
Baudelaire batted the comment away like a summer fly. “All is fair in love and war. Some of us prefer different tactics.”
