"What do you mean? I was assured Mr. Blakely owns a respectable estate in the country."
"He does, or shall I say did. But I am not Mr. Blakely."
Genie shuddered from the chill creeping through her. "But you … who are you?"
"I have been known by many names. I would say I was at your service, but we both know it would be a lie. All you need to know is that I am devoted to seeing my homeland thrive under the rule of Napoleon and have no scruples when it comes to achieving my goal." He smiled, but his eyes were cold.
"I don't understand."
"No, of course not. But what you think is of little value and no importance."
"You are French?"
"But of course."
French? How could she not know? "But your accent. You sound the English gentleman."
"I am the bastard son of the Duc de Vermette. He was well pleased with me, raised me to the pomp and privilege of the duke's son, until he remarried and she gave him an heir. She wanted to secure the power and fortune for her own brat, so I was packed off to an English boarding school when I was eight years old."
"So you have lived in England?"
A cruel glint flashed in his eyes. "I returned to my homeland in time to report my father to the tribunal. I was there when he, his wife, and their nasty son all met their fate courtesy of Madame Guillotine."
Genie's pulse raced and she tried to wrench her hands free. He was a monster.
"See how it all worked out for the good? It taught me to value what is truly important in life-money."
"What is it you want?" whispered Genie.
"Simple. I want the code to find the spies-the letter with the red seal. Marchford has it. I want it. I have been offered a sum of money vast enough to turn the most loyal of hearts. Which, of course, mine never was."
Blakely pulled a knife from his boot and placed it on the table. "If I am willing to put my own father's head in the guillotine, just think of what I might do to you. You will tell me what I want to know. Where is the letter with the red seal?"
Genie swallowed hard. She feared she might get caught in her deception, but she had never imagined a scenario such as this. She needed to think fast. He thought her foolish so she could use that. "I went to the duke's study and opened the safe, just as you told me to. There was only one letter with a red seal. Is this not the red seal you were looking for?"
Blakely shoved the blank paper before her. "It is blank! How do you explain it?"
"I … I did not open the seal."
"Dammit!" Blakely cursed as he paced back and forth. "I've been tricked. It was all a farce. The duke, it is his fault!"
Genie sincerely prayed he would continue to direct his anger toward the duke and away from her.
"I have done everything you asked of me. Please, let me go!" Genie's voice sounded higher, louder than normal. Fear was making her bold, even as she began to succumb to panic.
"You have seen too much."
"They will be looking for me."
"People saw you leave in a coach with Mr. Blakely. I will circulate a rumor that you and Mr. Blakely resolved their differences and eloped."
"I would never!" cried Genie, forgetting for a moment her actual actions of last night were considerably worse. Had it only been last night? It seemed ages ago that she was held in the strong arms of Grant. The thought brought tears to her eyes.
"Do not cry. I cannot stand blubbering, I warn you," growled Blakely.
Genie blinked back a retort that he had not been the cause of her tears. She would not waste her energy thinking of him. She scanned the room for some prospect of escape, but they were in a large, dark cellar. Along the walls, she could make out what appeared to be metal cages with piles of rags and debris. In the dim light of the lantern was a hint of movement. Staring back at her through the darkness were several pairs of eyes.
Thirty-three
"Louisa is married?"
"Apparently," said Marchford carelessly.
Grant frowned. "And the groom?"
"A Dr. Roberts."
Grant shook his head. "Are mornings always this exciting?"
"Only when you are awake for them," answered Marchford.
"Then I am cured of ever attempting it again. What are you going to do?"
"Miss Rose has suggested we go round to the good doctor's residence and see if we can catch them before they flee. I own that I should most likely heed this advice."
Grant glanced at Miss Rose who was sitting primly on the seat of the phaeton. The two men walked a few steps away, out of earshot. "What of the letter and Miss Talbot?"
Marchford patted his breast coat pocket. "The letter is safe for now. As for Miss Talbot, I fear I am at a loss. Did the servants know anything?"
"The groom drove her to a chocolate shop yesterday, but otherwise, I do not know."
"Have you any other idea of where she would go? What she would do?" asked Marchford.
Grant shook his head. "I cannot believe she would do anything like this at all. Although … " Grant's voice trailed off. He would rather be drawn and quartered than reveal that Genie had come to him last night. But why had she come? He was irresistible of course, but he had been profoundly drunk last night. Why had she been there? Was she in some sort of trouble? Had she come to him for help?
"What is it?" asked Marchford. "If you know something … "
"She may have been in trouble," said Grant slowly. "She spoke to me, but I forget. I regret I was deep in my cups at the time."
"Try to remember," pressed Marchford.
Grant pressed his hands to his temples until it hurt, hoping the pain would clear his head. "Promise me you will shoot me if a drop of liquor ever again passes through my lips."
Marchford's eyebrows rose. "I can only surmise you are making a joke."
"No, my friend. My memory is hazy but I feel sure Genie would not be in this trouble today if I had not been so beset by drink. And now it has taken from me the only lady I ever truly cared about." Tears sprung to his eyes, unbidden and unfamiliar. Gone was the cool mask of society's upper crust. He was a broken man.
Marchford put his hand on Grant's shoulder. "Steady on. We will find her."
"Yes, yes of course." Grant gave himself a mental shake. "Forgive me, this morning thing appears not to be to my liking."
"So if Miss Talbot was in trouble, perhaps she was being blackmailed or threatened in some way," said Marchford in his direct way, getting back to the business at hand.
"Yes, considering her actions of late, I would have to agree with you," said Grant, a chill taking hold.
"She could have been pressured to steal the letter."
"But she did not. She stole only the seal."
"Then she may be in danger once the people discover she has not given them what they want," said Marchford bluntly.
A tremor like ice water ran down Grant's spine. "We need to find her," he said, his voice quavering.
Marchford studied him for a moment, as if noticing him for the first time. "I fear, dear chap, you are in love."
"Do you really think so?"
"I cannot find any other reasonable explanation. You have bought a special license, sworn off drinking, lost control of your emotions on a public street, and-most disturbing of all-done all this before noon. I would say the evidence leads me to no other conclusion."
"I suppose under the circumstances, it would be foolish to deny it. I love her madly, it's true. I need you to be honest. If she has taken this letter somewhere, what will happen to her when they find it is a fake?"
"They want the letter. They will probably hold on to her for leverage until they can get it."
"How can we find her?" asked Grant.
"Doubt we have to. I wager they will come to find me. I need to find my errant bride, then I will return home to see if a message comes."
"I would like to inspect this chocolate shop," said Grant. "It's most likely nothing, but it's our only lead." He glanced at Penelope, sitting in his phaeton. "Take my horses. I'll grab a hack."
A short while later, Grant walked into the chocolate shop, his senses bombarded by the rich aroma. It was a dark shop, so small he might have passed it many times before ever realizing it was there. A young lad stood at the back counter in a dirty apron. It hardly appeared to be a setting for intrigue.
Still, what could be a better cover than a chocolate shop in Piccadilly?
"May I help you, sir?" asked the lad as Grant approached.
"I do hope so. Found myself in some trouble. Thought perhaps coming here would help," said Grant vaguely, hoping the lad would reveal something.
"Trouble with your vowels, sir?"
"Find myself quite at a standstill. Heard this place might help," fabricated Grant.
"Candyman's busy now. Come back later perhaps."