Page 33 of Temptation and the Artist

Aline Hagerin.

He found he was sitting on the floor while the note fluttered from his hands.

Just like that, his hopes and dreams—his love—were thrown into the breeze. Leaving nothing.

Chapter Ten

“I didn’t really mean you to join us, Aline,” Philippe de Monteigne said sadly.

“Clearly,” Aline replied from the bench opposite, where Gaston had hauled her. She had been far too exhausted by her mad run to put up more than token resistance when he had bound her hands behind her back and draped a traveling cloak about her shoulders, no doubt to conceal the oddity from any casual observers.

Basil, looking fierce and angry, sat beside her now, though he had been warned that if he tried to untie her, he would be separated from her.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Harwich.”

“Then you mean to abduct Basil to France,” she said flatly. “Do you really think the authorities will not interfere when two Frenchmen drag an English boy and his screaming mother aboard any vessel, be it a private yacht or the scheduled packet?”

Philippe smiled infinitesimally. “The boy might sound English, but he is as French as I am, and I have papers to prove it. As for you, my dear, you have no papers and sound as French as I am.”

“Only when I choose to,” Aline said in perfect, ladylike English accents.

Philippe shrugged. “Either way, you are merely a hysterical woman with no say whatever in the upbringing of your son.”

Squashing the panic rising once more, she quoted carelessly, “The law is such an ass, it seems.” She sat back on the bench, wondering if she could, with bound hands, get her fingers into the reticule still dangling from her wrist and find her dagger. “But you are going to such trouble, uncle, that I can only assume you need Basil’s presence. Is the government trying to take Langterre from you?”

“From your son,” Philippe retorted. “So, you needn’t sound so smug about it.”

“No, there’s more than that,” she said with certainty. And laughed. “Of course. There are moves to take Langterre from the control of a Bonapartist family, without the presence of the heir of the hero who fought against the emperor.”

“Then you will recognize my determination, madam.”

“I recognize your theft and your villainy. And you fail to recognize that Basil and I have friends even now coming to our rescue. I hope you hired plenty of bravos, for the two who served as your distraction will be out of action.”

“They served their purpose,” Philippe said complaisantly. “As for your so-called friends—I assume you mean your servants. Supposing they do anything at all beyond look for other positions, by the time they get your carriage ready, drawn by a mere two horses, they will be so far behind us that they won’t matter. And we have booked ahead to change horses and even spend the night. You are outsmarted, my dear. And if you don’t want to be abandoned in a ditch in the middle of nowhere, I suggest you accept the fact.”

I accept nothing, she thought savagely. Though saying so was hardly in her best interests. Things were bleak, but two major assets stood in her favor. Firstly, the Monteignes had no idea what she was capable of. And if the others failed her—which she doubted—Stephen Dornan would not.

Except she did not like the amusement on Philippe’s face. “You are thinking of your most recent conquest? The painter fellow—Dornan? I wouldn’t bother. We clipped his wings from the start from sending him your conge. One fewer of your knights to deal with.”

*

Stephen didn’t know how long he sat there on the floor in utter misery. He didn’t want even to see her letter, but eventually, he forced himself to pick it up and read it again, in case he had missed something.

Dear Mr. Dornan. Very formal, though no doubt it achieved the distance she had intended. It was certainly written in a firm, determined hand, without hesitation or the shakiness of grief. Rather a masculine hand.

He frowned suddenly, trying to recall what he had seen of her handwriting. She had never written to him, but he had stood at her desk while a half-written epistle lay before her.

He sat up straighter, aware that he was clutching at straws, yet unable to stop himself. Even if she had made the sudden decision to part from him, would she not have made reference to their appointed meeting at luncheon? Would she really have dragged Basil away from his football game?

So little of the situation made sense that he felt more than justified in going in search of her. And if she wasn’t in her rooms, he would go to the meadow because he was damned sure Basil would still be there.

Stuffing the note into his pocket, he sprang up and stalked out of his room and down to hers, where he rapped smartly on the door.

Almost immediately, it was wrenched open by Flowers.

“Dornan,” he growled.

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