Bride for a Night(82)

Hugo dipped his head in agreement, his previous distrust of Talia obviously replaced by a newfound respect. Nothing less than a miracle, considering the nobleman was notorious for his disdain toward most females.

“You did not tell me if you managed to track down your brother,” Hugo reminded him.

“I did.” Gabriel sucked in a harsh breath. “Unfortunately.”

Hugo narrowed his gaze. “He was the bait for the damned Frenchman’s trap?”

Gabriel hesitated, torn between the cynical voice in the back of his mind that whispered Harry was proving to be capable of any sin, and the fierce need to believe he would never deliberately lure Gabriel into the hands of his enemies.

“I do not think that he realized what Jacques intended.”

Hugo made a sound of disgust. “You still defend him?”

Gabriel shrugged. “No, but his surprise was as great as my own when Jacques made his appearance at the bordel.”

“You were at a whorehouse?”

“Where else would I find my brother?”

A hint of amusement simmered in Hugo’s golden eyes. “You might wish to avoid mentioning your precise location when you discuss this with Talia.”

Gabriel gave an impatient shrug, even as he tucked away the sage warning. Hugo was right. It probably would be best to keep that bit of information to himself.

“My point is that I do not believe he even realized I was in France until I cornered him.”

Hugo appeared far from convinced. “If Harry was not a part of the plot, then where is he?”

Gabriel leaned his aching head against the column, the thought of his brother a raw, aching wound in the center of his heart.

“I am not entirely certain.”

“But he is aware that you are being held captive?”

Gabriel shifted his gaze toward the massive globe made of ivory and gold that was situated beneath a bay window.

“Yes.”

“Gabriel, what are you hiding?”

For a long moment Gabriel found himself reluctant to reveal Jacques Gerard’s ruthless plot. Why?
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Did he hope that by ignoring the hideous threat it would make it less of a possibility? Rather like warding off the evil eye, he wryly admitted, inanely wondering if Talia’s gypsy grandmother would approve.

Or was it simple shame?

After all, no gentleman of honor wished to admit their own brother was not only a despicable spy, but that he might very well be plotting his death.

In either case, he owed his friend the truth.

Hugo had been willing to risk his neck to rescue his friend. He deserved to know the danger they both faced.

With an effort, Gabriel forced his gaze back to his friend.

“Jacques Gerard just left the room after informing me that Harry is about to become the next Earl of Ashcombe.”

“Impossible—” Hugo began, only to suck in a sharp breath as he realized that there was one means to make it possible. “Damnation.”

“Precisely,” Gabriel agreed in clipped tones. “And I fear you are to be sacrificed along with me to elevate my brother to the title.”

Hugo breathed a few choice curses, his contempt for Harry etched into his expression.

“And Harry has agreed to this plan?”

Gabriel wearily shrugged. “I pray he has not, but in truth…I do not know.”

As if sensing Gabriel’s reluctance to discuss Harry’s potential for fratricide, Hugo narrowed his gaze with a sudden surge of determination.

“Well, it does not matter,” he announced firmly. “Neither of us is going to be sacrificed.”

Gabriel smiled wryly. “Agreed.”

The golden gaze shifted toward the doorway where two soldiers were standing guard.

“Now we just need to discover the means to avoid our imminent death.”



JACQUES DID NOT allow himself the opportunity to consider his bold decision as he headed to the private study at the back of the townhouse.

It was his favorite room in the house that had once belonged to the Comte de Devanne.

Although not as large as the library, it was a spacious chamber. Gilt-wood armchairs with teal velvet covers matched the curtains covering the windows overlooking the back garden. A pair of lacquer cabinets framed a Brussels tapestry along the far wall while the heavy oak desk was set to face the white marble fireplace veined with gold.

He had removed the ornate figurines and porcelain plates that had littered the room before he had claimed it as his own, replacing them with the precious sculptures his father had completed before his untimely death.

It was his private domain that no one dared enter without his specific invitation.

Or at least no one with any amount of sense, he corrected, anger flaring through him as the door to the study was thrust open and Harry Richardson strolled in as if he were a welcome guest rather than a necessary pest.