Really, it was astonishing that he had gotten as far as he did, and he thought less of his colleagues back in London that they hadn’t noticed something irregular in the situation. Had it not been for his own diligence the man would have gotten away with it, a notion that chilled Mr. Mitchum’s legal soul. He believed in the sanctity of marriage, the superiority of the British race and the infallibility of British law. That someone would attempt to contravene it was a blow to all he held most dear.

He’d sent his clerk home for the day. The fewer witnesses to the man’s disgrace the better. He sat behind his desk and waited, patiently, as the snow fell outside. He was going to be late getting home, and his dear wife would scold, out of worry rather than temper, and he would drink a glass of burgundy and tell her, just a little, of what had been troubling him for the last few days. And she would kiss his forehead and tell him he was a good man and he would feel better.

The man finally showed up, half an hour later. Mr. Mitchum despised tardiness, but he had a moment’s sympathy. Though he couldn’t quite make the leap and put himself in the gentleman’s position, he thought it likely that if he’d been caught in wrong-doing he would be reluctant to face his accuser.

He glanced outside his window. A storm was brewing—indeed, the winter and late spring had been unusually harsh. The sooner he got home the better.

His client was all charm and apologies for his tardiness when he arrived, shaking the snow from his hat. If he had any idea what was troubling Mitchum, he didn’t show it.

After a moment, not wanting to waste time with conversational niceties, Mitchum forged ahead. “I’m afraid,” he said, “that I’ve come across a grave problem, Mr. Harriman. Your papers are forged. You are no more the heir to Baron Tolliver’s estate than I am.”

Marcus Harriman was a handsome, affable man and he smiled at Mr. Mitchum. “I think you must have made some mistake, Mitchum,” he said pleasantly. He’d refused a seat, and was standing near the window, looking out into the gathering storm. “Has someone been slandering me? Who knows of these accusations?”

Mr. Mitchum drew himself up, all offended dignity. “I believe I know how to be discreet, sir,” he said with a sniff. “So far I have passed my suspicions on to no one. I thought it only fair to give you a chance to right the situation.”

“Only fair,” Mr. Harriman echoed in his warm voice. “I do appreciate the chance to set things right, Mitchum. Perhaps you might show me where in the papers you find a flaw?”

Mr. Mitchum was well prepared, and he spread out the various proofs of identity on his desk as Mr. Harriman came round behind him. “Here,” he said, pointing to one clear forgery. “And here,” he added as Mr. Harriman leaned over him.

Mitchum saw his blood first, before he felt a thing, and he put his hands to his neck in a vain attempt to stanch it. There was no pain, a blessing, he thought. His wife’s face swam in front of his vision. A moment later he slumped forward, dead.

Marcus Harriman wiped the blade of his knife against the old lawyer’s coat, then slid it back under his waistcoat. He moved swiftly, scooping up the blood-soaked papers and stuffing them in the fire. He waited while they burned, then took the small shovel and scooped up some of the bright red coals, sprinkling them over the rug and the wood floor. The fire caught almost immediately.

He took a step back, admiring his handiwork. He hadn’t dared stay long enough in Rue du Pélican after he’d set the fire—it had been a rush attempt and in the end it had failed. This would be easier.

He glanced back at the lawyer. His wig had slipped from his head and landed in the pool of blood. He looked ridiculous, and Marcus laughed softly. Served the old fool right.

And a moment later he let himself out the door, closing it, and the fire, behind him.

19

Rohan moved through the candlelit hallways, threading his way around entwined couples. He knew he looked exquisite—he’d spent many hours on his toilette, and everything was as it should be. From the top of his perfectly curled and powdered wig, down the front of his gray satin coat encrusted in black pearls. His clocked stockings were made from the finest silk, and his evening shoes had diamonds on the high heels to match those on his fingers and in his ear.

He was of mixed feeling about those shoes. They were quite magnificent, and had cost a small fortune. One of many he could afford to waste. They matched his evening dress perfectly. And the heels added to his already considerable height, making him taller than any member or guest of the Heavenly Host. The problem was, he’d never managed to master the perfect, mincing walk. He had too much a tendency to stride, and half a lifetime living in the scented drawing rooms and bedrooms of France hadn’t been able to change that.

Early influences were often the strongest, he knew. And the first decade and a half of his life had been spent alternating between his father’s vast estates in Cornwall and his grandfather’s lands in Scotland. Cities were virtually unknown to a young boy with far too much energy, and he’d roamed the countryside, coming in each day covered with mud, an equally filthy spaniel or two by his side, sometimes with a brace of pheasant, sometimes with a string of trout from the nearby stream. He would dream, at times, of stretching out by that stream, his line in the water, a spaniel snuffling in the grass nearby, and he would think he was back in that well-nigh-perfect time in his life. And then the water would turn red with blood, and men were dead and dying all around, and he’d be holding his brother in his arms, trying to staunch the flow of life’s blood as Simon’s eyes slowly glazed, when he saw the pike just as it was thrown, and there was no way he could duck.

He’d wake up screaming, covered in sweat. It had been a great many years since he’d had that reaction, and the blessing was he’d never been sharing his bed with anyone who might ask questions. He’d come to the reasonable conclusion that if he was able to exhaust himself with the soft form of a woman the nightmares would keep their distance, and he’d acted accordingly.

It was a good thing he hadn’t gone the way of Elinor’s mother. Though in fact the English disease, as well as other, lesser misfortunes, were easy enough to avoid if one was careful in one’s choices. When in doubt he simply walked away—he’d never wanted someone enough to put himself in danger. There was always someone just as charming with a more trustworthy history.

He was willing to change that careful plan, however. He had no idea exactly who and what had occasioned Miss Harriman’s deflowering, but in truth it didn’t matter if she’d been raped by a boatload of infected sailors. He wanted her. It was that simple. And there were contraptions to avoid illness, envelopes made of sheep guts or linen soaked in chemicals. He’d never used one, but for the sake of partaking of Miss Elinor Harriman he’d be willing, and he’d sent his valet to procure a goodly number. He had the strong suspicion that once was not going to be enough with his charming, so-unwilling houseguest.

In truth they ought to be available to the Revels of the Heavenly Host, but proper caution was such the antithesis of “Do what thou wilt” that he imagined his fellow members would ban them. There were times when their games seemed remarkably foolish.

The formal start of the Revels was not till tomorrow night, but members had already begun to arrive. Including the new applicants. There was one of them who interested him mightily, though he pretended to have no knowledge of him. Marcus Harriman, Lord Tolliver, had been brought to their gatherings by Sir Henry Pennington, which was far from a recommendation. Sir Henry was an annoying little toad with a particular affection for the giving of pain, but he had enough friends in their close circle that Francis simply chose to ignore him. But the Harriman name had caught his eye, and he was most curious to meet the heir whose inheritance had forced Elinor into his wicked toils. Not that he would see her. He had every intention of keeping Elinor well out of sight of the Heavenly Host. Still, he would have to find some way to express his gratitude.

He’d had word from Mrs. Clarke. Lydia had settled in well enough, as he’d no doubt she would. If Elinor stopped to think about it she’d know that giving Lydia over into Mrs. Clarke’s tender care was a boon worth any sacrifice. Her warm, practical affection could heal any sort of wound.

He’d been three years into his exile in Paris when she’d simply shown up, husband and infant daughter in hand, and proceeded to dig him out of the dark, wretched place he’d retreated to. She hadn’t been able to bring him all the way back. No one could, not after the things he’d seen. It was of no consequence. She helped him keep his life neatly partitioned, and when the dubious pleasures of the Heavenly Host grew too wearisome he could always escape into the world Mrs. Clarke had created for him.

That was what Miss Lydia needed right now. Fate had not been kind to her, but then, fate was a fickle jade. If her sister was determined to provide her with some kind of happy ending the cards were stacked against her.

Interesting, that his poppet might even consider that a happy life was possible. She certainly didn’t think one would be available for her, and he once more considered Etienne. He was a humorless bore, but Elinor had the ability to charm even one as world-weary as he. After a few years perhaps she could get Etienne to laugh.

One thing was certain: Etienne was not going to get his wish. He was not going to have Miss Lydia Harriman, no matter how sweet she was to him. He expected Charles Reading would be seeing to that.

And Etienne was not going be inheriting the title of Comte de Giverney, along with the considerable estates, until Rohan chose to die, and he had no intention of doing so for quite a long time. No intention of reproducing, so Etienne would most definitely end up as a wealthy count. And Elinor a comtesse. Would she like it? He’d have to be dead for that to happen. Would she think of him, and what he’d given her?

It was a great deal too bad that Mrs. Clarke’s civilizing influence hadn’t extended very far. Etienne had presented his lawyers with a simple way to turn over the estate and the title. He’d inherited it on a fluke, and if Etienne had had the money he could have contested it, and chances were the French king would have favored his own countryman over the exile. After all, they’d driven the Young Pretender from their shores in record time, once he became a liability.