Chapter Fourteen
Footsteps sounded outside, and then a key turned in the lock.
Had Comte Beaulieu decided to have her interrogated now after all?
Several guards stormed into the room.
“Rise. Vite,” one guard barked.
Madeline stumbled to her feet.
Her heart hammered. Surely being rushed into another room couldn’t be a good sign. She was depending on the courts to give prominence to the despicable art thefts during the Napoleonic Wars.
But no judge or jury would see her now. Courts didn’t meet past midnight.
She trudged up winding stone steps.
Voices sounded from another room. She wasn’t certain if the comte joined by people would be an improvement or not.
The guard swung open the door.
Was he opening the door for her? It was not the act she associated with people working with prisoners.
She entered the room.
The comte was not alone.
Arthur was there. Admiral Fitzroy, a man she knew only from London circles, stood beside him.
Comte Beaulieu cleared his throat. “You should be pleased to learn that I have decided to free you.”
“You’re letting me go?” She must have misheard.
The man did not start to laugh, and he did not order his guards to drag her back to her cell.
Perhaps… Perhaps it was actually true.
She glanced at Arthur for confirmation.
The marquess gave her a crooked sort of smile. For some reason he didn’t seem to want to meet her gaze.
Had he done something to free her? She glanced around. If he had coerced Gabriella to confess on her behalf…
“What brings this change?” she asked carefully.
“We know the truth,” Comte Beaulieu. “Have no fear, baroness.”
“Indeed?” She croaked.
“But,” Comte Beaulieu gazed at her sternly. “I must admonish you on your behavior. It was abominable. Absolutely abominable.”
That sounded more like what she’d expected.
“But I’m free to go?”
“Ah, yes,” Comte Beaulieu said. “Though I expect you to rectify the deficiencies of your lifestyle.”
She blinked.
“Marriage,” Admiral Fitzroy said, “is vital. You know it, you were married before.”
“And we’ll make certain you marry again soon,” the comte said. “We can’t have men running to strange homes in the middle of the night.”
This time she truly did look at Arthur.
The man’s expression was pained.
What had he told them?
“The love this man shows you is clear,” Admiral Fitzroy said. “He dragged me out of my home in the middle of the night.”
The admiral did look bedraggled. She suspected that untied cravats were not a new part of the British uniform, no matter what sort of austerity budget they might be on.
She gazed back at Arthur. He had arranged for her to be free. Even after everything she’d done. The man was so kind. Joy coursed through her.
“Let them kiss,” the admiral said.
“Kiss?” Madeline squeaked.
“After the fright the marquess experienced, I’m sure he deserves one.”
“I really am fine,” Arthur said hastily. His cheeks were definitely redder than normal.
“You do not want to kiss?” Comte Beaulieu asked.
Arthur’s eyes widened.
Perhaps he’d heard the note of suspicion in Comte Beaulieu’s voice as well. She’d hoped she’d imagined it.
Arthur’s gaze hardened, and her heart sped. Would he confess the deception to them?
He stepped forward, and her heart thudded. In the next moment he clasped her into his arms. She was vaguely aware of broad shoulders and a firm chest, and that scent, that delightful masculine scent of cotton and pine needles.
He crushed her against him, and she exhaled. Her bosom pressed against his chest, and she was very aware that only thin pieces of cloth and silk separated them. He didn’t seem to mind clasping her against his white shirt, even though she’d spent the past two hours or so in a damp and dingy prison cell. His nose didn’t wrinkle, and he didn’t grimace as he touched her torn and dirtied gown.
For a moment it seemed like his eyes softened, but that was probably for the benefit of Admiral Fitzroy and Comte Beaulieu.
One didn’t get sent by the government to work on certain jobs without some ability to act.
His head dipped toward her, and in the next moment she fluttered her lids shut. His lips parted hers. The sensation was heavenly, and energy soared through her.
She clasped hold of his back as he continued to kiss her. She had the horrible suspicion that she must be moaning right there in his arms, before the other men, before…him.
Finally he released her. She stepped back uncertainly, nearly stumbling, as her body fought to grow accustomed to other things in the world besides the feel of his lips, his tongue, against hers.
Comte Beaulieu laughed. “Are you certain you’re not French? Leave, you two.”
*
The kiss still sent fire flitting over his lips.
Arthur clasped hold of Madeline’s hand and nearly dragged her from the prison. A guard opened the heavy wooden door of the fort, and they traversed the narrow bridge. The salty scent of the sea and the squawks of seagulls had never been more welcome.
Torches flickered from the star-shaped fort, illuminating the thick, sharply angled walls that towered over them. Arthur’s heart continued to quicken, but he forced his strides to remain even, despite the rockiness of the steep parkland that bordered Fort Carré.
At any moment Comte Beaulieu and Admiral Fitzroy might abandon their romanticism for logic, and Arthur didn’t desire Madeline to be anywhere near their presence if they did so. He refused to permit her to be hauled back inside the fort.
They needed to flee France.
They hurried down the jagged terrain, avoiding thick trees and passing horses tied to posts. Unfortunately stealing one of the guard’s horses likely would not endear either of them to Comte Beaulieu and would subject them to deserved scrutiny.
“Do you have a carriage at your cottage?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
“Good. Amble normally,” Arthur said, keeping his voice low. “But when we reach the harbor, let’s run to your cottage. Grab your companion and any possessions.”
“Very well.” Her voice wobbled with obvious strain, but she retained a steady pace.
Guards marched over the top of the fortress and shone bright torches. Their gruff voices carried in the still of the night.
Arthur’s heart quickened, as if already sprinting, but he forced himself to stride with every semblance of calm.
They reached the bottom of the woodland, and he surveyed the street. Dark water lapped against the dock, and boats, the night obscuring their exact forms and color, bobbed.
Thankfully no people were present, and when the fort disappeared from view, Arthur and Madeline stormed over the cobbled streets to her cottage.
They arrived at the cottage, and Miss Costantini peaked out. Her eyes widened when she spotted Madeline, and she flung the door open. “You’ve returned!”
They hurried into the cottage.
“We need to leave at once,” Madeline said. “Get the jewels.”
“Perhaps we should return them,” Arthur suggested.
“Nonsense,” Madeline said sharply.
Arthur remained silent. This was a time for haste, not argument. At any moment—his heart clenched, and he rushed outside to hitch the horses to the carriage.
Miss Costantini brought down the luggage immediately. Clearly Madeline and she had expected to leave that evening. They just hadn’t envisioned that Madeline would spend part of the night in Fort Carré.
He bundled the two women into the carriage and poked his head inside. “Where to? Le Havre? Calais?”
“Venice,” Madeline said.
Arthur nodded. He would be glad to see Percival again anyway, and Madeline and her companion had always intended Venice as a destination.
Except—Arthur had told the admiral that he was thinking of visiting Venice. If they traced the provenance of the jewels, they could guess their destination.
Blast.
“Is something wrong?” Madeline asked.
The woman was so quick to observe.
“It’s possible the admiral might suspect we headed there,” Arthur said.
Her face tensed. “Then we must reach Venice first.”
“You mustn’t worry.” Arthur closed the door to the carriage and climbed onto the driver’s seat. The wind brushed against him, and he realized he was still dressed in evening clothes.
Likely they were torn from his amble through the woodland outside Fort Carré. When Brummel had advocated for ebony evening wear, he’d likely not considered the usefulness of the color for rescuing women from French prisons that even Bonaparte had failed to escape from.
What he was doing was mad. He hadn’t spent seven years working for the British government, frequenting Whitehall, to act like a common criminal. He still had time to change his mind. If she wanted to flee, she could drive herself.
The sound of a passing carriage drew him from his reverie, and Arthur quickly directed the horses onto the road and toward safety.