Regency Rogues and Rakes: Silk is for Seduction / Scandal Wears Satin / Vixen in Velvet / Seven Nights in a Rogue's Bed / A Rake's Midnight Kiss / What a Duke Dares. Loretta Chase
Between the jolting of the carriage and the plotting how to get through the next phase of bureaucracy and Clevedon’s thrusting himself into her overworked brain when she most needed to be logical, her fitful dozes had provided precious little rest. She’d made herself eat, but they hadn’t time to wait for a proper meal. They’d snatched what they could, and it wasn’t the best she’d ever eaten. Dyspepsia did not aid the thinking process.
Jeffreys had come to her rescue, however. She’d broken a shoe tie accidentally on purpose, and burst into tears. Two officials had assisted her with the repairs. It was hard to say whether her pretty ankles had softened their hearts or they’d feared another weeping fit or they were feeling hurried and harassed, too, thanks to the tumult behind them of another late arrival. Whatever the reason was, the men had waved them on.
Had Marcelline brought Frances Pritchett with her, they’d still be in Paris.
She examined her pendant watch. “We should depart soon,” she said. “I’m going up to take a turn about the deck.”
“I should have thought you’d want to fall into bed,” Jeffreys said. “I certainly do, and I had a great deal more sleep than you did.”
“I need to breathe the salt air and calm myself first,” Marcelline said. “It’s very pretty at night, watching the lights of the town retreat. You ought to come. We arrived from London in broad day. It’s so different at night.”
Jeffreys gave a little shiver. “You’re a better sea traveler than I,” she said. “I hope to be asleep before we set sail. I was sick most of the way coming here. I should rather not be sick on the way back.”
“Poor girl,” Marcelline said. “I’d forgotten. It was dreadful for you.”
“It was worth it, madame,” Jeffreys said firmly. “And I should do it again. I shall pray, in fact, to do it again.” She laughed. “But you go, and enjoy yourself.”
Marcelline left her, and made her way to the deck. the officers and crew were preparing to set out, and the passengers were settling down after the flurry of finding their places and seeing about their belongings. There was a good deal of noise, and a great many people. Night had fallen but the stars were out en masse, along with a bright half moon.
She had no trouble making out the tall figure at the rail, and even before he turned, and the moonlight and starlight traced his features, her heart was racing.
Between the first week in April, and the last in November, Steam-Packets run daily, weather permitting, from their Moorings off the Tower of London to Calais, in about twelve hours; and likewise from Calais to London, in about the same time. Carriages, horses, and luggage, conveyed by Steam-Packets, are shipped and relanded free of expense.
Mariana Starke, Travels in Europe, 1833
She stood completely still, but for the feathers and lace of her bonnet shuddering in the wind. Out-wardly Clevedon was as still as she was, while his heart leapt with an excitement growing all too familiar.
He strode toward her. “Surprise,” he said.
Her eyes narrowed. They were deeply shadowed, and he doubted that was merely the moonlight’s effect. She was fatigued, and no wonder. He was amazed at the speed with which she’d quit Paris. She couldn’t have slept at all after the party. Then, to reach Calais so soon, she couldn’t have stopped for more than the change of horses on the way.
He wondered how she’d done it. Getting all her papers signed in the middle of the night must have cost a fortune in bribes—paid, no doubt, from the money she’d won at roulette and cards.
Even he, for all his great rank, had not had an easy time getting through officialdom, and he’d set out hours after she did, when the bureaucrats were awake at least, though not all of the offices had been open.
Had he not been the Duke of Clevedon, and furthermore, had he not thrown his full ducal weight about, the packet would have sailed an hour ago, and he’d be in Calais watching it retreat across the Channel while he cursed himself for a fool.
He was a fool, and he was cursing himself now, but to little effect.
In any event, she was angry enough for the two of them.
“Surprise?” she said. “There’s an understatement. Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Yes.
“I was worried about you,” he said. “When you left Paris so suddenly, I thought a catastrophe had occurred. Or a murder. Have you murdered anybody, by the way? Not that I would dream of criticizing, but—”
“I left Paris to get away from you,” she said.
“Well, that didn’t work.”
“How in blazes did you do it?” she said. “How did you know? How did you—but no, I won’t ask how you got through French officialdom. You’re a duke, and they haven’t cut off any noble heads this age. Still, one would have thought they’d learned how useless aristos are, not remotely worth indulging.”
He smiled. “But you need my noble head, Madame Noirot. You need me to pay the bills.”
“How did you know I was leaving?” she said.
“You are single-minded, I notice,” he said.
“How did you know?” she demanded, hands clenched.
Though he felt his face heat, he answered carelessly, “I sent my porter to spy on you. He was loitering about your hotel in the small hours of the morning when you and your maid departed from it, in a fiacre. At first he assumed you’d merely set a shockingly early hour for meeting Mademoiselle Fontenay. Then, when he counted the number of portmanteaux being stowed in the vehicle, he grew curious. From one of the inn servants, he learned that you had quit the hotel. Your destination, he discovered, was the posting office, and you were traveling to ‘visit a relative.’ In point of fact, I should be asking how you contrived to get out of France. You left hours before any of the officials who must approve your exit were even awake.”
“It didn’t occur to you that I might have made my arrangements previously?” she said.
“Did you?” he said.
“Ah, your spying porter didn’t find that out,” she said. “What a pity, because I’m not going to satisfy your curiosity. I’ve been traveling for a day and a half over wretched French roads, and I’m tired. Good night, your grace.”
She dipped the barest of curtseys and walked away from him.
He fought the urge to follow her. He’d behaved absurdly enough as it was. For what? What did he think he’d achieve aboard a steam packet mobbed with travelers? He was lucky this was an English boat, or they would not have delayed its departure for him. As it was, he’d paid massive bribes to change places with other passengers. Even so, had he been a man of lesser rank, he’d be waiting in Calais for the next vessel.
Staying in Calais was what he ought to have done. No, he ought not to have left Paris at all. Six more weeks of freedom, and he’d thrown them away—for what?
But he’d done it, and having spent a day and a half racing over abominable roads, he was hardly likely to stand tamely on the dock, watching the packet sail away.
His behavior was lunatic—but never mind. In truth, Paris was growing wearisome, and a mad race to Calais was better excitement than anything he’d done in recent weeks, perhaps months. Certainly it had been worth it, simply to see Noirot’s shocked expression when she caught sight of him.
Surprise, indeed. He doubted anybody or anything