Page 70 of Avenging the Earl's Lady
He sat down in the chair and began removing his shoes.
Charles went down on one knee next to him.“Let me take on this battle tomorrow, Father.”
“A man of my age, Charles?Really?And as I recall, Bakeley is far better with a sword than you.”The second shoe came off.“Do not worry.Unless I’m knocked down on my way there by some fool in a speeding phaeton, I don’t plan on dying tomorrow, either.”
Charles gazed at him, his face uncharacteristically solemn.The boy had his mother’s coloring, her lighter brown hair and amber eyes.Charles was, in many ways, the child he was closest to, given the boy’s stint on the Continent digging up secrets for the Crown.
“If Penderbrook won’t die, nor will you, does that mean Payne-Elsdon will?”Charles got to his feet.“Unless…do you need him alive?”
“I doubt he has anything of value to offer us.But, he will leave the field alive.As it turns out, the Duquesa has a use for him.”
Charles’s mouth dropped open, and then he laughed.“Or her father does.I am glad I ended with her on friendly terms.”
“As am I.”Charles had pretended to be the Duquesa’s lover, passing messages through her to her father, a powerful Spanish count, and no friend to the lady’s husband.
“Have you fought duels before, Father?”He swiped a hand through his hair.“Oh, what am I asking?Of course, you have.”
“I’ve fought too many times to count, but not gentlemanly affairs.”He’d sparred with sharp stilettos in Italy, brawled with fists and feet in the alleys of Paris, and discharged pistols at Bonaparte’s agents at close range and far.And those were the physical confrontations.
“It’s no gentleman we’re dealing with tomorrow, Father.How can I help?”
Guignard sat across from her,clothes neatly pressed, neck cloth starched, hair pomaded.The rest of him—hollow cheeks, sad eyes, gnarly hands—was rumpled with age and rascally living.
“My lady,” he said.“It is not that I am trying to keep secrets.”
It had been thus since his arrival in Madame’s parlor, after she’d waited impatiently for hours during histoilette.
She eased in a breath and reached deeply into her nest egg of patience—which after so many years of withdrawals, was almost bankrupt.
Quiet footsteps on the stairs signaled Madame’s approach.Perhaps Madame could lean on her cousin to tell Jane where the painting was hidden.
She wasn’t leaving this room until she knew where to find it.She needed to know the painting was safe, that she could sell it or copy it, or otherwise profit from it.
She needed to know she wasn’t being tricked or betrayed by this man also.
“Keeping secrets is exactly what you are doing, Monsieur Guignard,” she said.
“I assure you, it is safe.”
“I thank you.Now, please tell mewhereyou are safeguarding it.”
“The knowledge might endanger you, my lady.”
“Good heavens.I carried the painting all the way from Yorkshire.Just tell me.”
The door creaked open with a wisp of a draft, but she kept her gaze pinned on the little Frenchman.
“Tell her, Guignard.”
Heart thumping wildly, Jane fought for a breath.
Shaldon was here.
