Page 52 of Lord Carlisle's Enticing Lure
With fevered hands, she pulled on what he’d thrown at her.Dress, Giselle. Dress, she said in her head like a prayer, then, struck by an idea, paused when she realized the very dress he’d thrown at her was the most valuable one—the one she’d sewn coins into long, long ago. The gown raised her spirits. Gave her hope and a sense of command. She would survive this. And them. She would!
“Shoes, stockings,” she demanded of him.
“Oui. Where?”
“The top drawer,” she told him, her shock gone, replaced by a stance that she bet looked like defiance.
Franchot narrowed large blue eyes at her. Assessing her with a curve to his lower lip, he stayed silent as she tugged on her clocked stockings and slipped on the pair of walking shoes he had fished from the bottom of the closet. “Where’s your cloak?”
“Folded. Blue.” With coins sewn in the pockets and hem, too. “In the chest over there.”
He tipped his head in that direction. “Hurry. We get it and leave,” he said to her before he turned to Maurice and another conspirator joined them to leer at her. That third man pulled from the back of his breeches a pistol and waved it at her.
She’d not seen that before—and it shocked her as much as their first attempt to put hands on her. She swallowed hard.
“No need for that, Paul.” Franchot had a look of disgust on his jowly face. “She’s ours. Her man is down, oui?”
“Knocked him out, I did. In there.” He nodded toward the sitting room.
Clive! Clive, I will get revenge on these three, too.
“Get her cloak, Paul. That chest there, oui. The blue one. Oui. Put it on, madame.”
And keep it close I will. I will!She whirled the heavy cloak around her, then secured it at her throat with the embroidered frog.
“Now tie her hands,” Franchot ordered Maurice. “Not behind her, idiot. Oui, now, let’s go.”
As they strode into the sitting room, her heart crashed to the floor. On his side lay Clive, his handsome face battered and bleeding, his banyan torn and stained, his calves already turning garish colors showing the signs of their brutality. To add insult, they had tied his hands behind him. Even his feet were bound. As she approached him, he struggled to open his eyes. His gaze found hers. They’d stuffed his mouth with a rag and tied it around his head.
His eyes fell down her form, and he blinked, acknowledging that she was dressed. She wondered if he’d heard any of the exchange in the other room.
She licked her lips, wishing she might give him something, anything as encouragement. Yet all she could conjure was a sad, sweet smile that she hoped conveyed how dearly she loved him.
“Madame!” Franchot urged. “Now!”
She pointed toward the large storage chest. “My reticule,” she said, pointing to the bag upon a cabinet.
“Non. You will not need it,” Franchot said with churlish delight.
“But I do! I have supplies in there. Women’s things, you understand, for the time of the month. I need them now!”
Maurice curled his lip and wiped his fingers on his breeches. “Putain.I almost touched her!”
She glared at him. At least that man would stay away from her for a few days.
“Bring the bag here, Paul.”
The third man loped over and brought it to Franchot.
Dumping the contents on the carpet before them, Franchot bent at the waist. His fingers drifted through the hairbrush, comb,etui, white cloths tied together in a big, pale-pink ribbon and a pouch that jingled when he jiggled it. He wrinkled his nose. “Put it all back in there, Paul.”
They waited while Paul threw it all back inside and Giselle held her breath.
“Maurice, you first.Je vous en prie, madame!” Franchot waved her toward the door. “Bon soir, monsieur le marquis. Happy dreams.”
Cur.Giselle gave one last, loving glance at Clive. Then she followed her captor.
Out into the hall and down the staff’s narrow wooden stairs they hurried. Maurice. Then she. Paul behind her, carrying a pile of her latest drawings of Brighton—and her reticule, filled with her necessities for her hair, her perfume, and the while strips of cloth she did not yet need but would soon declare she did.
