Chapter Twelve
Guilt soared through Arthur.
Perhaps she’d stolen, but she’d had her reasons.
Arthur should never have been dragged into this to begin with. If Admiral Fitzroy hadn’t been determined to matchmake him with his niece, he would never have been here and Madeline would have gotten away.
He refused to allow her to go to prison. Not for a crime that would never have needed to happen if the French had not ransacked and destroyed entire cities.
Madeline opened the door and Comte Beaulieu marched in. A swarm of muscular Frenchmen entered after him. A few carried muskets, and Arthur’s heart sank. He couldn’t take all these men on. If they wanted to drag Madeline away—
His heart clenched.
His heart shouldn’t ache, he reminded himself.
After all—she was a thief.
She had stolen the jewels unapologetically.
She’d even thrown a vase at him.
But he understood why she’d done all of it.
“I am charged with arresting Baroness Madeline Mulbourne for theft,” Comte Beaulieu declared in a loud voice. He glanced at Madeline. “Your landlord informed us that you are not in fact Lady Isberg. Please step forward.”
She did so.
“Where is the bracelet?” the comte asked.
She raised her chin. “I do not know what you’re speaking about.”
“Nonsense.” The comte glared at her. “My wife was wearing a bracelet with false diamonds and sapphires on it. You were standing near her. And you entered the ball under a false name.”
“That certainly does not mean I stole it.”
“Yet my good colleague ran after you. A guard saw him chasing you. He alerted me, and we were able to verify that the bracelet had been replaced.”
“A coincidence,” Madeline said.
“I doubt the courts will take your view.” The comte held up a pair of handcuffs. “My men will search this cottage for the bracelet. You will come with me.”
“Very well.” Madeline stepped forward.
The woman was amazing. Her jaw remained steady. Her fingers didn’t tremble, and her knees were in full function: she did not swoon. Tears did not run down her cheeks, and her breath did not come through in short gasps.
Arthur would not have blamed her if she’d done any of these things. All of them, in fact, would be perfectly understandable, and it would not have lessened his view of her.
Her bravery in the face of French forces impressed him, as did her utter self-sacrifice. Not that he would tell her that. He didn’t like to see her risk her life in that manner.
Still, she would never have gotten into this business if her companion had not compelled her to do so. Madeline could turn on her companion now, confident that her higher position would make her more easily forgiven when there was another person to blame.
But she was silent.
“I must commend you for your work.” Comte Beaulieu addressed Arthur. “It was truly most admirable. We are quite thankful for your services.”
Arthur cringed at every laudatory phrase. “I’m afraid you have the wrong person.”
Comte Beaulieu narrowed his eyes. “Why are you with her if not to arrest her?”
“I—I was wondering if she might know anything.”
“Ah, gossip. The female gift. But I don’t believe you,” Comte Beaulieu said.
“No?”
“A man like you would not waste time on acquiring gossip. Not about thefts. What art thief would possibly mention it to someone?” The Frenchman laughed.
“There is no motive for Lady Mulbourne to steal.”
“The bracelet is priceless,” the comte said. “That is sufficient motive. Or are their others you suspect I will find?” His eyes sparkled.
“N-no,” Arthur said. “I did not say that.”
“Then please, do not waste more of our time,” Comte Beaulieu said. “If we were to believe you were in fact collaborating with a criminal—that your motive for visiting her home was anything less than honorable—”
“No,” Madeline exclaimed. “Lord Bancroft had nothing to do with this.”
“Be quiet,” Arthur said. “Do not incriminate yourself.”
“Giving advice to a thief?” Comte Beaulieu shook his head. His eyes still glimmered, as if the occasion of ruining somebody’s life brought him the utmost joy.
“Lead me away,” Madeline said, her voice solemn.
Comte Bealieu tossed handcuffs to one of his men. “Cuff her.”
Gabriella’s eyes filled with tears, and Arthur watched helplessly as they dragged Madeline away.
Madeline.
The woman he’d once loved more than anyone.
The woman who’d decided to marry another man instead of him, and whom he had been too eager to view unfavorably.
His chest ached, and when the door slammed behind Comte Beaulieu and his men, when they’d truly removed Madeline from him forever, he would not have been surprised if he’d found that a bullet had shot him, instead of just having heard the sound of the door.
“It’s my fault,” Gabriella wailed. “I should confess. If you tell I threatened her to put her up to it—”
Arthur turned. “No. You will not do that. I will not have Madeline’s wishes ignored.”
“But—” Her lips trembled, and tears fell more quickly over her face.
“I’ll think of something.” He forced his voice to be firm.
I have to.
*
The inspector thrust Madeline into a tiny black carriage. She stumbled inside, her balance impeded by the handcuffs.
One of the Frenchmen yanked her onto a seat. They crowded into the carriage around her. Cold air swept in through the windows. No glass halted its path.
“Enjoy the fresh air,” the inspector declared. “This is the last you’ll have of it for a very long time.”
Madeline was silent.
“English,” one of the Frenchman said. “The worst race of them all.”
“We’ll make you an example,” another declared.
Comte Beaulieu smiled. “No need to worry men. We’ll accomplish that.” He directed his attention to Madeline. “Where did you hide the bracelet?”
“I never stole anything,” she lied.
She refused to confess to anything. Hopefully Gabriella would be able to take the jewels back to Italy with her.
The inspector grinned. “I think my men will enjoy making you talk. Won’t you, boys?”
His men echoed a series of ouis, and Madeline’s stomach sank, the task made easier by the stench of ale and unwashed linens.
Perhaps Parisians had a tendency to douse themselves with strong perfume but these men did not attempt to do anything to lessen the effects of heat and an evident inclination to dirty their attire.
Finally the carriage landed. Madeline was almost relieved, until she remembered her destination—prison—was only going to be more uncomfortable.
They pushed Madeline from the carriage, laughing when she fell. She must appear ridiculous in her silk gown, and mud caked the hem of the dress.
Fort Carré loomed before her, and her stomach clenched. Bonaparte had been imprisoned here. Even he, with his legion of supporters, had never been able to escape.
“March more quickly,” the inspector said.
Or at least—she thought he said that. These men mumbled when they spoke, and their accents were coarse—nothing like the polished French she’d learned from her French governesses as a child.
Comte Beaulieu ushered her into the fortress and past several cells. The single candle on his torch cast an eerie glow, the illumination less comforting than total darkness.
If there were no light, Madeline could imagine that spiders and cockroaches did not perch over the surfaces.
Now she saw them scurrying about her.
Finally Comte Beaulieu stopped before a cell. He placed a thick key into the lock.
“Your new home, baroness,” he said.
“Are you not worried that the English embassy will not approve of this accommodation? That they will find me innocent?”
He laughed. “You are quite amusing. The English government helped put you here. My men will find pleasure in interrogating you fully—very fully—in the morning.”
He pushed her inside, and she steadied herself against the wall. He unlocked her handcuffs, yanking her to the side.
Then he exited the cell, the key turned in the lock, and everything was silent.
This was fine, she tried to tell herself.
There would have to be a trial. Then people would learn what had happened to the jewels. She was only giving exposure to the cause.
She tried to cling onto the belief, but the hope seemed feeble. She settled onto the floor. There was no need to keep tears from welling in her eyes, and no need to keep them from sliding down her face. There was no one to see her, no one at all.