Page 19 of A Proposition for the Comte
‘Are you threatening me, Monsieur le Comte?
‘With such a small and private warning, Lady Addington? Hardly.’
The double meaning of his last rejoinder made her stiffen as he carried on explaining.
‘It seems the Viscount’s death was barely recorded by many. The funeral was a small one. Some say his wife might have even been relieved?’
‘Grief is a private thing. No one can know the very extent of another’s sorrow.’
‘Relief is the same. And retribution? Have you ever been to Paris?’
Her head began to throb, the bandage tightening over the drumbeat. Could he know some of the things she had found out about Harland? Or were these queries just conversational, almost languid, each hiding a wealth of knowledge?
‘Is Douglas Cummings a man you know well, Lady Addington?’ His tone was sharper now, less laconic. ‘You held his hand most tightly in the dance.’
The constant change of subject set her off balance and worried her. ‘I know him mostly because he works at the Home Office along with an old family friend, Mr Charles Mountford. Cummings is one of the secretaries there and has an unblemished reputation.’
He laughed then, softly. ‘It is a rare man who lives his life without complaint or criticism.’
‘I am not certain I understand you, Comte de Beaumont.’
‘Do you truly not, my lady?’
She felt the blood leave her face as her mouth formed a denial, but he was already standing.
‘Can you tell me how you came by the gold statue sitting on the mantel in your downstairs salon?’
‘I do not know which one you mean. There is a large collection of art in that room, for Harland held a taste of beautiful things.’
She felt her skin blanch, the blood draining away in shock at the unintended double meaning of her words, but when she did not speak further he smiled in a way that was almost sad, his fingers lifting to twist the heavy ring off one finger.
‘This is in repayment for your help.’ He set the piece down on her bedside table. ‘Buy yourself a ticket to somewhere far away from here for at least a month and disappear. It will be safer.’
‘For you or for me?’
‘For both of us, perhaps.’ Reaching forward, he took her hand, placing a kiss on the opened palm. She felt his warmth and the roughness of stubble on her skin and leaned in to it. Then he was no longer there.
Could he know of her connection with the French gold and, more important, if he did, what would he do about it? Why had Aurelian de la Tomber appeared out of nowhere with his insinuations and his questions and his hard and desperate beauty?
The ring was heavy when she lifted it, his warmth still imbued in the metal. Tipping it into the light, she saw the punched stamps inside were readable despite the age of the piece. The flower marks of Paris indicated the purity of the carats and a crowned and scripted letter gave a date. Seventeen forty-five or forty-six, she guessed, and ran her finger across the maker’s mark. A fadedVin a circle.
Her father’s jewellery business had led her to an interest in gold. She had always seen the beauty and age of its handcraft as the gift of an ancient art. A mark of responsibility, too, and a true establishment of location and worth. In her shifting world of blame and guilt such things seemed unearthly pure and unchangeable, the one permanent truth in a world of deceit.
She no longer trusted anyone. Even herself, for in the conversation with Aurelian de la Tomber in the darkness she had wanted to reach out and touch him, to keep him safe and unharmed. She’d wanted much more than that, too, if she was truly honest, but those thoughts were better left alone.
She would need to change the locks on all her doors for sturdier ones if the Comte de Beaumont could so easily access her town house.
Leaving London and running was out of the question. She had not faced her problems before and because of it nothing had ever changed or improved. This time she needed to be present and certain. This time she would cower to no one.
With care, she reached over and rang the bell on the other side of her bed and waited until the maid came in.
‘Send up a footman to me first thing in the morning, please, Edith. I need to have something delivered promptly and safely.’
‘Yes, my lady. Mrs Hamilton said I was to wake her if you stirred...’
‘Pretend I did not and go to bed yourself. I have no need of company until the morrow.’
When the door shut, she pushed back the covers and sat on the side of her bed until she felt the dizziness lessen. After another moment or so she stood to walk to her writing desk. Extracting paper and pen and a book to press on, she scurried back to the warmth of the blankets.
