To Ruin a Gentleman Read online

  Hugh reluctantly agreed, not just because staying at the château made more sense but because he had promised the Marquise de Beauvais he would do all in his power to bring her sister out of France. Hugh had bathed, eaten, and attempted to nap, but he could not sleep. Too restless to read, he’d joined the house party on the lawn for croquet and now archery. He supposed a boating party was next, as it appeared the servants were readying rowboats near a large pond just past the lawn.

  After the tumult of Paris, Hugh felt as though he’d stepped into another world. No one but him was in any way concerned about the unrest in Paris. No one else seemed to hear the ticking clock, counting down the hours, perhaps minutes, until the bomb exploded. These pampered men and women really did not seem to realize they were in mortal danger, and every time he brought the issue up, someone made a witty rejoinder and the conversation moved on. But he hadn’t given up on the comtesse yet. He still had the rest of the day and the evening to convince her to leave with him.

  Hugh looked down the straight shaft and loosed the arrow. It flew true, landing just to the right of the not-so-angelic comtesse’s arrow and perfectly in the center of the target.

  The polite applause was subdued as was the comtesse’s tone. “Well done, monsieur.” She looked at the other guests and smiled brightly. “Shall we partake of refreshments?”

  Hugh blew out a breath. It seemed the fairy tale continued.

  She led them toward the tables nearby, set with china and silver and attended by liveried footmen in wigs. As Hugh started away, the duchesse his hostess had been speaking to earlier put her arm through his and walked beside him. She was blond and unremarkable except for the enormous ostrich plumes on her hat and the large jewels on her ears, throat, and fingers. She was in her mid-thirties, so comparable in age to himself.

  “I hear you have just come from Paris, Monsieur le Vicomte.”

  “Please call me Daventry,” he said.

  She made a sound in her throat that seemed to sum up what she thought of this and of all English in particular. “Daventry, then. And tell me, how was Paris? My husband has business interests there and his managers report work is at a standstill.”

  “I can well believe it, madame. Travel in and out has been restricted, and when I was there, riots broke out on the streets.”

  She put a hand to her jeweled chest. “Goodness. Riots? Whatever for?”

  Hugh steeled himself and called on his last reserves of patience. “As I understand it, the people of France are starving.”

  “Well, then they should cease rioting and go back to work. No wonder they are hungry.”

  They had reached the refreshment tables, laden with all sorts of delicacies. The men and women took plates with small cakes and tarts, nibbling them sparingly while sipping sparkling wine. In the house, a string quartet began to play, the lovely strains of Mozart wafting over the perfectly manicured lawns. It was not difficult to see why the duchesse did not understand the realities of life for the poor in the Faubourg of Saint-Antoine.

  Hugh refused a plate, but accepted a glass of wine, drinking it down quickly.

  “I shall tell the duc to replace those managers with others. Laziness among the lower classes cannot be tolerated.”

  A few of the other guests glanced at the duchesse, but conversation continued.

  “I would urge you not to take such measures, madame. If the workers stay home, it is because the streets are not safe. The men and women your husband employs have families as well, and they must feel compelled to stay home and protect those they love.”

  “Good lord. You sound like that American ambassador. What is his name?”

  “Jefferson.”

  “Yes. He goes on and on about equality. Quite tedious, really.”

  “I assure you I am no revolutionary. I lost a brother and a cousin in the American war. But even if talk of equality is tedious, surely compassion is always a welcome topic.”

  “Compassion! Those peasants reproduce like rabbits. Surely losing a few to hunger or disease will ease the strain on the country’s resources and be better for all of us.” She bit into a frosted morsel of cake.

  “If that is how you really feel, then I suppose you deserve what is coming.”

  She arched a brow. “And what is that?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but the comtesse was immediately at his side. “Daventry, would you accompany me in the boat? I need a strong man to row.” She smiled up at him, but her deep blue eyes were icy.

  “Of course, Comtesse.”

  She drew him away from the others, steering him toward the pond. She smelled faintly of apples and champagne, and he placed his own hand over hers, feeling the heat of her skin through their gloves.

  “My lord, I thought we had agreed at breakfast that no more should be said on the topic of Paris.” She said this lightly, but her eyes were fierce.

  “I don’t recall agreeing to that. In fact, to do so would be irresponsible. Your friends should be apprised of the situation. They would do well to protect themselves and their families.”

  Her hand on his forearm tightened, and he looked down at her slim fingers encased in white gloves. “My friends do not want to be warned. They want to have an enjoyable outing, and as this is my first house party since my husband’s death, I ask that you not ruin it with your dire pronouncements.”

  Hugh stopped and turned to look directly into her face. His mouth went slightly dry at the fierceness of her expression. She had strength and courage, misplaced as it was. “Comtesse, I know you have been in mourning. You have been in seclusion. Perhaps you do not fully understand the situation in your adopted country. You and the rest of your class are in danger. I cannot say it more clearly. Your sister and mother are in London. They wish you to join them. Why not go to them until this unrest quiets?”

  She shook her head. “I may be part English, but I am also part French. My husband was French. I have land and responsibilities here. It is my country, and I will not flee like a puppy with her tail between her legs. The king and the Palace of Versailles are less than a mile away. I assure you, we are quite safe here.”

  She wasn’t safe, and he didn’t know what more he could do to sway her opinion. He would have liked to pick her up, toss her over his shoulder, and carry her away. But as enjoyable as that would be, he was supposed to be a civilized man, and she was an independent woman.

  “Then you will not come with me to Calais in the morning?” he asked.

  “No. I will stay here and defend what is mine and my family’s.”

  He changed direction, pulling her into the shade of a tree and thus out of the view of the other guests. She stepped away from him, her back to the tree trunk. Hugh leaned close to her, boxing her in. It was the sort of thing he wouldn’t normally do to a woman, but she left him little choice. “And how do you think to defend yourself?” The scent of apples and pine tickled his nose, making him even more aware of her. “Do you suppose your servants are loyal to you? You are afraid to speak freely in front of them. Do you have an army hiding somewhere we cannot see? When the mobs of Paris march on the palace and Versailles, how will you defend yourself?”

  “It will never come to that, monsieur. The unrest in Paris will be put down, and all will be well.” She gave him a small shove backward and gestured toward the lake. “Now, which boat shall we take?”

  Hugh took her hand in his and lifted it to his mouth. He paused, lips brushing over her glove, his eyes meeting hers. Her breath hitched slightly, and he watched her throat work as she swallowed. “Forgive me,” he murmured. “I’ve had enough of rowing in circles for one day. Excuse me.”

  He dropped her hand and took long strides back toward the château.

  Three

  Angelette had hoped not to see Daventry again. She’d hoped he would stay confined to his chamber until such time as he could arrange transport to Calais. She was not so fortunate. First, he attended dinner, where he insisted on discussing what he’d seen in
Paris with the Marquis de Caritat. Angelette had managed to steer the conversation away, but she was growing quite weary of the viscount’s dire prophecies. She was not fully able to control the conversation, however, as she was distracted by her staff. She had instructed her butler she wanted one footman to serve each guest at dinner. Instead, several guests had to share a footman and thus had to wait at times for their requests to be granted.

  Between dinner and the ball, she’d had to change hastily into her scarlet ball gown as the butler had requested a moment of her time to tell her several of the male servants had become ill and had taken to their beds. It was all quite strange as everyone had seemed perfectly well earlier in the day.

  And then the string quartet had been a trio. The cellist had gone home to see to an emergency. Angelette found herself in the position of having to apologize to her guests yet again. The house party was to go on two more days, and she could only hope this would be the last of the inconveniences. Still, after all of Daventry’s dire predictions, she couldn’t help feel that the servants’ absences felt suspicious. Was she blind to what was really happening?

  It didn’t help that she’d been distracted by thoughts of the viscount all afternoon. How had he managed to make a kiss on the hand—her gloved hand—so erotic? For the first time in months and months she’d felt the heat of attraction and arousal. She’d tried to convince herself it was because he was a novelty, someone new among the same group of powdered and stuffed men she usually surrounded herself with.

  But she feared there was more to her attraction than just a fresh male face...and figure.

  She was drawn back to the ball when her first dance partner, the Duc de Limousin, claimed his dance. He was graceful, if not clever, which meant she did not have to worry about her toes but did have to work hard at making conversation. As he led her through the forms of the minuet, she could not help but watch Daventry lead the Duchesse de Limousin in the same steps. He was not graceful nor did his attire draw the eye. In fact, in his black and silver silk coat, silver waistcoat, and black breeches, he looked positively funereal. With his broad shoulders and imposing height, he seemed to take up much more of the large ballroom than he ought. By right, she should have been the center of attention, but it was clear most of the onlookers watched him. Angelette could hardly fault them when she did it too. She couldn’t stop herself from studying the way his hand touched the duchess’s and remembering the way he’d held her hand, pressed his lips to her glove. She could imagine him peeling that glove off and pressing a kiss to her palm, her wrist, sliding his tongue up her inner arm...

  “Are you feeling quite well?” the duc asked. “Your cheeks are flushed.”

  She dragged her gaze from the viscount. “I can’t think why.” Her voice was breathless. “I suppose it’s because I haven’t danced in so long.”

  “You must miss your late husband terribly,” he said, his painted lips turning down in sympathy.

  “I do.” Perhaps that was the problem. She had loved Georges when she wed him and continued to love him for the two years they had been married. He was a good man, kind and pleasant. In the eighteen months since he’d died of a fever, she had missed his companionship. Perhaps if they’d had a child together, she might not have been so lonely, but though they’d tried, she had failed to conceive.

  Now, looking at Daventry, she accepted another reason she missed her husband. She would go to bed alone tonight. For the first time since Georges had died, her body ached for the touch of a man. She wanted to be held, to be kissed, to be caressed in the dark. She couldn’t say why Daventry should arouse these emotions in her. She did not like the man...and yet her gaze strayed again to his hands and she imagined them once again on her bare skin.

  A crash sounded and she glanced toward the doors to the ballroom. The servants were supposed to be bringing in refreshments for later. They had undoubtedly dropped something. She hoped her guests would be forgiving, as it was her first ball out of mourning. Just as she began to give some excuse to the duc, she heard shouting and another crash.

  The musicians ceased playing and her guests began to murmur.

  “Excuse me,” she said. “I shall see what the matter is. Please, continue dancing—”

  The door to the ballroom burst open and a barefoot man dressed in a dirty white shirt and trousers stumbled inside. For a moment he appeared stunned at what he saw, but when the nearest footman challenged him, he raised the shovel he carried and struck.

  Angelette screamed. The duc shoved her behind him, but she could still see the rise and fall of the shovel.

  Several of the male guests started toward the peasant, but when more peasants rushed in after him, brandishing shovels and picks, her guests skidded to a stop. Shouts of “What is this about?” and “Get out!” and “Put down your weapons” resounded. Angelette knew she should do something. This was her château. She had to stop this. She pushed away from the duc, coming forward, only to have her arm seized violently and her entire body wrenched away.

  She stumbled back, colliding with Daventry. “Come with me,” he said, pulling her whether she wanted to go or not.

  “But you are taking me in the wrong direction.”

  He was dragging her toward the French doors that opened into the garden. “I’m trying to help you escape.”

  “But I have to see—”

  A woman screamed and Angelette looked back to see more peasants had entered.

  “You can thank me for saving your life later. Now, run!” He pulled her, and she was forced to follow him, whether she wanted to go or not. Another scream pierced the room, and Angelette stopped resisting. Lifting her skirts, she ran beside Daventry. Together they flung open the doors and ran onto the terrace. Light spilled from the ballroom onto the paving stones, but beyond was darkness.

  “Which way to the stable?” Daventry asked.

  “That way.” She pointed.

  “We’ll ride to the palace and request assistance.”

  “Yes.” The king’s guards would come and take the attackers into custody. She might not like Daventry, but she could acknowledge he was no fool. She followed him into the shadows, down the steps, and along the path toward the stable. Behind her came the shouts of men, the clang of metal on metal, and the screams of women. She shivered, though the summer evening was warm.

  “You couldn’t do anything to help,” Daventry said as though reading her thoughts. “If you were still there, you would be dead too.”

  Bile rose in her throat as she realized everything Daventry had tried to warn her about was true. The pieces fell into place; the missing servants, the sick footmen, the rumors. Then she thought of her friends lying dead or injured in her ballroom. She should not have abandoned them. This was her home. She had invited her friends, and she felt responsible for their safety. They needed to summon the palace guards as quickly as possible.

  Daventry had released her hand, but now as they neared the edge of the house, he grasped her wrist. “Stay close.”

  “You think there are more of them outside?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  Angelette’s heart beat fast as they moved into the open area between the house and the stable. It was still early evening and the moon had not yet risen high enough in the sky to give any light. She knew her way well enough, but the slippers she wore were not made for walking on the gravel path. Sharp stones stabbed the soles of her feet and she moved carefully, wincing every few steps.

  “That’s it,” she said when the stable came into view. Light flickered in one of the windows, making the stable look welcoming. She had a spare pair of riding boots inside, and she could change into those before starting for Versailles. Normally, she would have balked at the prospect of arriving at the palace in old riding boots and a ball gown, but fashion didn’t seem to matter any longer. She rushed ahead of Daventry, eager to reach the light and the safety of the stable.

  “Madame, wait!” he called.

  She
turned to look over her shoulder, to assure him she was fine, and when she looked back it was just in time to avoid colliding with the man who had stepped into the path. Angelette screamed as he raised something long and metallic-looking. She ducked quickly, feeling the whoosh of air past her ear as the weapon just missed colliding with her head. A jagged stone dug into her foot, but she ignored the pain and focused on righting herself. If she stumbled and fell, she would be dead. She moved to the side with little grace but managed to stay on her feet and to back up and out of the attacker’s reach.

  “One of them is trying to escape!” the attacker called in French.

  “Get out of the way,” Daventry ordered. The attacker brandished what looked like a poker at the viscount.

  “Make me, English scum.”

  With growing horror, Angelette realized the man blocking their path to the stables was no peasant. He wore her blue and gold livery. In fact, she knew him to be one of her footmen.

  “Exactly what do you think you are doing?” she demanded. “Get out of my way.”

  He sneered at her. “I don’t answer to you anymore, Angelette.”

  She didn’t know what shocked her more. His insolent tone or the fact that he dared use her Christian name.

  “All men are equal, and I’ll kill every last one of you aristos if that’s what it takes.”

  “You’re mad,” she whispered. She gave the stable a fleeting look, and the footman struck again. This time she would have been hit, but Daventry moved quickly, grasping the attacker’s arm and wrenching it back up.