feet tripped on something, and the tray almost went flying. Taverner righted her in time, his ham-hand beneath her elbow, steadying her. “Wouldn’t want this fine dinner to smash on the floor, would we, miss?” he said with an evil grin, showing his discolored teeth.
“No,” she said faintly. “We wouldn’t.”
She didn’t want to watch him die. She told herself it was simple common sense on her part. If she had any intention of escaping, of getting away with meting out her own rough justice, then she needed to be as far away from Nicholas Blackthorne when he met his maker as she could manage.
Besides, she’d seen enough people die. Perhaps she ought to watch Blackthorne in the throes of agony, as recompense for the loss of her parents, the loss of her innocence. But she no longer wanted to. His death would be solace enough.
He was still in Ellen’s favorite pink salon. Dressed just as negligently as before, he lounged in one delicate satin chair, his white shirt open at the neck, his embroidered silk vest unfastened, his breeches almost indecently tight. He was in stockinged feet, and his curly black hair was disheveled. She allowed herself to meet his gaze. He was paler than when she’d last seen him, and his dark eyes were shadowed with a banked kind of rage, for all that he was smiling that damnable, seductive smile.
“Don’t be shy, Mamzelle,” he said, his voice a silken thread, pulling her into the room. “I promise I’m no longer at death’s door. I’m needful of some company, and the housemaids all giggle and stammer. I expect you, with that politely shielded hostility, will prove much more interesting.”
The door had closed behind her, Taverner had disappeared. It seemed that tonight he had no interest in serving his lord and master. It would be up to Ghislaine—with her own hands she’d have to hand him the cup of tea that would kill him.
Her hands didn’t tremble as she set the heavy tray down on the dainty gate-leg table that usually held Ellen’s embroidery silks. Ellen was an execrable needlewoman—disasters from her clumsy hands decorated the sitting room. Ghislaine tried to concentrate on one particularly ugly pillow, supposedly a representation of a heron that more closely resembled a donkey digesting itself, and it took all her concentration to pour the man a cup of herbal tea.
She backed away, toward the door, when Blackthorne’s eyes impaled her. “Don’t leave yet, Mamzelle. Surely you want to see me enjoy this estimable repast?”
“I… I have work to do…” She found her self-possession wasn’t quite what she had hoped for. She pulled it back around her with steely strength. “I have my duties, sir,” she said more firmly.
“At this hour everyone must be fed. Besides, your first duty should be to your betters, not your fellow servants, is that not true? Sit.”
She flushed at the deliberately insulting tone of his voice, and the ice in his final command, but she couldn’t bring herself to sit. The door opened behind her, one of Taverner’s heavy hands clamped onto her shoulder and shoved her, with astonishing roughness, into the chair before handing Blackthorne a shaggy black bundle.
It was a full moment later that she realized what that squirming black bundle was, and the horror of her situation came home to her.
“A most charming dog,” Nicholas said, holding the furry little creature up to his face, and for a moment his harsh features softened, gentled, and Ghislaine remembered a boy in his early twenties, a boy who still possessed a heart. “Taverner told me you had a pet in the kitchen. My father wouldn’t allow me to have a dog. Filthy creatures, he called them. I’ve always been rather fond of them myself. What’s this fellow’s name?”
“Please,” she said, she who never begged, never asked; she who was indomitable.
“His name?” Blackthorne repeated with utmost icy patience.
“Charbon.”
His long fingers stroked Charbon’s
“No,” she said faintly. “We wouldn’t.”
She didn’t want to watch him die. She told herself it was simple common sense on her part. If she had any intention of escaping, of getting away with meting out her own rough justice, then she needed to be as far away from Nicholas Blackthorne when he met his maker as she could manage.
Besides, she’d seen enough people die. Perhaps she ought to watch Blackthorne in the throes of agony, as recompense for the loss of her parents, the loss of her innocence. But she no longer wanted to. His death would be solace enough.
He was still in Ellen’s favorite pink salon. Dressed just as negligently as before, he lounged in one delicate satin chair, his white shirt open at the neck, his embroidered silk vest unfastened, his breeches almost indecently tight. He was in stockinged feet, and his curly black hair was disheveled. She allowed herself to meet his gaze. He was paler than when she’d last seen him, and his dark eyes were shadowed with a banked kind of rage, for all that he was smiling that damnable, seductive smile.
“Don’t be shy, Mamzelle,” he said, his voice a silken thread, pulling her into the room. “I promise I’m no longer at death’s door. I’m needful of some company, and the housemaids all giggle and stammer. I expect you, with that politely shielded hostility, will prove much more interesting.”
The door had closed behind her, Taverner had disappeared. It seemed that tonight he had no interest in serving his lord and master. It would be up to Ghislaine—with her own hands she’d have to hand him the cup of tea that would kill him.
Her hands didn’t tremble as she set the heavy tray down on the dainty gate-leg table that usually held Ellen’s embroidery silks. Ellen was an execrable needlewoman—disasters from her clumsy hands decorated the sitting room. Ghislaine tried to concentrate on one particularly ugly pillow, supposedly a representation of a heron that more closely resembled a donkey digesting itself, and it took all her concentration to pour the man a cup of herbal tea.
She backed away, toward the door, when Blackthorne’s eyes impaled her. “Don’t leave yet, Mamzelle. Surely you want to see me enjoy this estimable repast?”
“I… I have work to do…” She found her self-possession wasn’t quite what she had hoped for. She pulled it back around her with steely strength. “I have my duties, sir,” she said more firmly.
“At this hour everyone must be fed. Besides, your first duty should be to your betters, not your fellow servants, is that not true? Sit.”
She flushed at the deliberately insulting tone of his voice, and the ice in his final command, but she couldn’t bring herself to sit. The door opened behind her, one of Taverner’s heavy hands clamped onto her shoulder and shoved her, with astonishing roughness, into the chair before handing Blackthorne a shaggy black bundle.
It was a full moment later that she realized what that squirming black bundle was, and the horror of her situation came home to her.
“A most charming dog,” Nicholas said, holding the furry little creature up to his face, and for a moment his harsh features softened, gentled, and Ghislaine remembered a boy in his early twenties, a boy who still possessed a heart. “Taverner told me you had a pet in the kitchen. My father wouldn’t allow me to have a dog. Filthy creatures, he called them. I’ve always been rather fond of them myself. What’s this fellow’s name?”
“Please,” she said, she who never begged, never asked; she who was indomitable.
“His name?” Blackthorne repeated with utmost icy patience.
“Charbon.”
His long fingers stroked Charbon’s
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