Page 66 of Every Rogue Has His Charm

Maxim’s skeptical reaction to those words was not feigned. “And how do you propose to get to him?”

“Oh, monsieur. I am but a humble valet, dragged to foreign shores by my employer. When I explain to your general how great your suffering had been, how you took your own life when the laudanum no longer kept the pain at bay… How, near the end, the opium loosed your lips…” Another artful shrug. “He will want to know what I know. And I will tell him just enough to persuade him to trust me, just as I once persuaded you.”

“Bâtard,” Maxim spat.

“À toi de même.” He gestured with the pistol as if it were a wineglass. “From one bastard to another.”

Blood thundered in Maxim’s ears, loud enough to drown out the constant swish and sway of the tide outside the window. But long practice made it possible to drive back the slur’s sting. For years the image that he had called to mind in such moments had been that of his sainted mother. Now, however, he could think of no one but Caro, for whom he had to remain calm and in control. He had survived far worse than this. He had survived.

Leclerc cocked his head in a listening posture and made a clicking noise with his mouth. “How unfortunate. It would seem the duchess has already returned. And I have hardly decided which will give me the greater satisfaction: to kill you first, or to watch the hope drain from your eyes as the life drains from her body.”

Maxim strained to hear the footsteps. Not Caro’s, he thought. At least, not hers alone. Then whose?

“Open the door, Monsieur le Duc, and welcome our guest. But do not think of stepping through it. I would not hesitate to shoot you in the back.”

Reluctantly, Maxim turned, bracing every moment for the searing pain of the bullet, uncertain even for whose intercession he ought to pray. Laying his hand on the doorknob, he counted to three, drew a deep breath, and opened the door a crack. Pale blue eyes met his.

“Mrs. Drummond?!”

“Good morning, Your Grace.” Despite his effort to keep her from entering the room, she slipped past and sailed inside, slicing through the tension in the air. “I hope I’m not interrupting. I had hoped to speak with the duchess before she went out, but the housemaid who answered the door told me I missed her. If it’s not too great an inconvenience, I will simply wait here until she returns.”

“I think, ma’am, it would be best…” He glanced toward Leclerc, whose face was etched in a scowl, and who was gesturing with tiny movements of his shoulders and jaw for Maxim to order her from the room. The gun had, for the moment, disappeared from view. “It would be best if you made yourself comfortable,” he finished, realizing the benefit of her presence. “I cannot say how long Caro will be gone. Shall I ring for some refreshment?”

“Not necessary, thank you.” She moved deeper into the front portion of the room, wending her way among the various groupings of chairs and sofas, though she did not sit down. With each step she took, Leclerc was forced to turn to keep his pistol hidden, until his back was to the wall, opposite the fireplace.

She knew. She must know—no one could be so lucky with her movements. And, after all, she had been sent to Brighton by the foremost expert in British intelligence, a man who did not suffer fools. Scott had seen this ability in her, had known that ice water ran through her veins.

“Is your manservant below, Mrs. Drummond?” Maxim asked, stepping away from the door and putting enough distance between himself and Mrs. Drummond that Leclerc could not track both of them easily. “I’d like his assistance in the removal of that crate. It’s too heavy for Leclerc alone.”

The supposed valet cleared his throat reprovingly, but Mrs. Drummond ignored both him and the contents of the crate, strewn across the floor behind him. “I’m afraid he is not, Your Grace. The moment we arrived in Royal Crescent, I dispatched him on another errand.”

Her expression was so impassive, he could not determine what those words might mean. He prayed the young man was fetching reinforcements or leading the others in the household to safety. He could not like the idea of keeping a woman in danger, but right now, the distraction she had provided was the only thing standing between him and Leclerc’s bullet, the only thing standing between Caro and a wardrobe of unrelieved black.

He was going to have to trust that the agents Scott had sent to keep an eye on him were capable of doing their job.

“Are you always out and about this early, Mrs. Drummond?” he asked. He had noticed, finally, how disheveled she looked. The hems of her gown and pelisse were dirty, she wore no gloves, and her hair was tumbled, far worse than it would be from the mere removal of a bonnet. And she was fatigued, too—her light eyes were underlined by shadows so dark they might have been bruises.

“Your good lady has taught me the benefit of a morning constitutional along the strand, and now I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” She gestured toward the view out the bow window but did not turn toward it. “The air here in Brighton is so fresh and clear. Of course, anything would be, in comparison to town.”

Maxim watched Leclerc fidget, still trying to pass himself off as a servant, though a true servant would have left the room when Mrs. Drummond entered. He had crossed both arms behind his back, so as not to draw attention to his attempt to hide his weapon.

“Ah, yes. You said you came from London. I had forgotten.” Maxim could feel his desperation rising, straining to listen for some sound—Caro’s return, a rescue attempt—and hardly daring to hope. Despite being knocked off balance, Leclerc still had the upper hand, and any move Maxim might make would further endanger Mrs. Drummond.

“What can you tell me about this painting, Your Grace?” She stepped toward the far wall and nodded at a framed print of a watercolor. “I have often wondered about it.”

Maxim had never even noticed it before. It depicted a stretch of the strand below, though under stormier conditions. He wondered who had purchased it for the house. His wife?

Understanding that the question had been intended to draw him across the room, he moved closer, albeit reluctantly. Mrs. Drummond might have a strategy in mind, but so did Leclerc, and lining up the man’s targets would seem to forward his plan, rather than hers.

As he had predicted, Leclerc turned too, pleased to be able to watch the pair of them more easily. The set of his shoulders relaxed, and one of his arms came forward almost to hang at his side, though his hand—the one holding the pistol—was still hidden behind his leg.

“A thrilling scene, is it not?” Maxim asked, flicking his eyes to the painting and back to Leclerc, his gaze crossing Mrs. Drummond’s in the process.

She appeared cool and collected, more so than she had since entering the room. Good God, had her assignment been to draw him into the line of fire?

“Yes, indeed,” she answered, her voice rising. “One can almost hear the crashing waves. See how the lone figure of the woman creates an oasis of calm amid the storm?”

Those words drew Maxim’s notice firmly to the painting in spite of himself. Since he had never paid it any mind before, it certainly was no surprise he had never noticed the woman, tiny against the backdrop of a wild sea, her dress and veil whipped by the wind. He thought of what Caro had told him the day before, about how she had forced herself to face the remorseless water, though it frightened her, because she had imagined it would prepare her to face him again one day. Some local artist must have managed to capture one of those moments in which she had stood, buffeted by the storm but not backing down. Her fierceness stole his breath.