he could respond, he heard the voice, as he expected he would, the sibilant tones of Le Comte de Maupassant.
“My, my—what an intimate scene.” Aware of the frozen tableau of people behind him, Le Comte impaled Blackburn and Devon with the aristocratic hauteur of eight generations. His look was pure triumph—and something else.
Blackburn knew that he’d just raised the stakes in the contest that Le Comte had started years ago. Well, so be it. He’d just thrown Devon Caravelle to the wolves, the most vicious of the lot.
And he couldn’t afford to care.
Susannah seethed. That French bitch had simply brazened it out after launching herself at the Marquess of Blackburn. She’d probably enjoyed the stares of Le Comte’s guests who were this very instant digesting the incident with their usual salacious appetites.
Susannah surveyed the banquet hall glittering with crystal and silver, the air redolent of rich delicacies. No sign of Blackburn, Le Comte, or that little trollop. Her sixth sense told her that Devon Caravelle seemed to have gotten under the Marquess’s skin. And Susannah didn’t like it. The Marquess was hers, she decided with haughty fiat, secure in her beauty and seductive prowess. She felt the warmth of the room close around her and her bones melted, her breasts straining simply at the thought of Blackburn. Her unparalleled lover, and she had sampled many.
Cooling herself with her lacquered fan, Susannah thought about their interlude just a few hours before. What had first started as just another bout of intrigue, for a handsome pay packet of course, had developed into a gnawing need, a fire in her womb. How could the Marquess remain impervious to her charms and leave her stranded in the middle of a soiree to consort with that Frenchwoman, and so publicly?
She pursed her lips. The situation was positively humiliating. And frankly untenable. It was a wonder de Maupassant didn’t call Blackburn out, the ton would probably say tomorrow afternoon as they gathered at their clubs. Probably had less to do with the fact that it was bad form to defend the honor of one’s mistress and more to do with the fact that the Marquess could drill a sovereign at twenty paces. And as rumor had it, the two men already shared a bad history.
What Susannah desperately needed was another drink. Her mouth was parched from all the drama, she thought sourly. Just in time, she spied one of Le Comte’s factotums, standing alone staring morosely into space, oblivious to the dull roar of chatter around him.
She strolled over to the tall, thin man who reminded her of a scarecrow or, on better days, a particular species of undertaker. Fortunately, his demeanor didn’t mean that he was immune to her charms.
“Bertrand, mon amour, you look entirely too preoccupied,” she trilled at his side, one hand splayed over her capacious bosom. “You look in need of fortification, as a matter of fact. Le Comte has a way of enervating one, would you not agree?”
Deep in thought, his brow furrowed, he blinked twice before finally recognizing her. He gave her a belated bow. “Lady Treadwell. What a pleasure. But of course, refreshment, immediately.”
Moments later Bertrand Lacan was staring moodily at her décolletage in between sips of champagne and deepening sighs. Guests were beginning to drift from the room like colorful autumn leaves and Susannah shrewdly used the opportunity to create a feeling of burgeoning intimacy. It was almost one in the morning, but a man could still dream that the night was young, she thought strategically, trailing her fingers over the deep valley of her bodice for added impact.
“So tell me, Bertrand, you who know everything,” she encouraged with a little pout. “Do explain for me the main performance of the evening: That Frenchwoman throwing herself at the Marquess of Blackburn.”
Lacan raised his watery blue eyes to hers and in their depths was a flicker of anger. “It is an ugly situation, Madame.” His mouth snapped shut as though unwilling to say more.
“Precisely how nasty, Bertrand?” cajoled Susannah, linking her arm with his encouragingly.
Lacan was reluctant to be swayed, holding himself stiffly away from temptation. “I do know some details,” he supplied, trailing off and nervously catching the eyes of several guests making their way from the banquet hall to the ballroom.
Susannah awarded him with a brilliant smile designed to recapture his attention. “I’m sure you do, Bertrand. You are so close to Le Comte, after all. But what of his entanglement with that Frenchwoman?” Susannah could be like a pampered terrier with a bone.
The late hour and more than a few drinks contributed to Lacan’s lowered defenses. He straightened contemptuously, his face mottling with resentment. “Bah,” he spat dramatically. “Frenchwoman! Devon Caravelle is a traitor to France, like her father and mother before her, fomenters of the Revolution and the overthrow of the king.”
“A rather nasty piece of work by the sound of it.”
“More than you could ever imagine, Madame!”
“My imagination is quite fertile, Monsieur; not to worry.”
Susannah had clearly hit a nerve. Requiring less prompting now, Bertrand Lacan continued on his rant. “And yet, Le Comte is willing to reward her for her disloyalty.”
“‘Reward her for her disloyalty’—I don’t quite understand.”
“Devon Caravelle has many talents that Le Comte is willing to put to use,” Lacan pronounced, his disaffection boiling over. He gesticulated for emphasis. “Not for the gloire of France, malheureusement, but in the service of that tyrant, Bonaparte.”
Susannah tilted her head closer, prepared to be the beneficiary of Bertrand Lacan’s simmering discontent. “But you were more than willing to set her up with the Marquess of Blackburn the other evening, Bertrand,” she reminded. He was the one who had given her the opiates and the directive to lace Blackburn’s drink.
“I had no choice,” he said, with a shake of his head.
Susannah nodded understandingly, patting his arm. “But what service could the Marquess and the Frenchwoman together possibly supply?” she pushed gently, keeping her voice low.
Only a few guests remained, despite the fact that the banquet table still groaned under the weight of artfully arranged delicacies that footmen continued to replenish. Le Comte had reveled in the lavishness of the display, no doubt, thought Susannah.
She turned her attention back to Lacan, her eyes narrowing seductively at her quarry. Suddenly suspicious at being the focus of Susannah’s undivided attention, Lacan momentarily blocked out both her obvious bounty and his acute displeasure with Le Comte. “I can’t possibly reveal that,” he said. Relinquishing his glass on a table behind him, his hands twitched nervously at his side.
“And why not?” Susannah asked prettily, trying to keep the sharpness from her gaze, aware of the fact that the room was emptying quickly, with couples sailing from the hall to find their generous host. “You are loyal to Le Comte, no matter what. And I am loyal to Le Comte, no matter what. There’s absolutely no problem with your unburdening yourself to me, Bertrand.” She gave a throaty chuckle. “We are, after all, comrades-in-arms, are we not?”
Lacan ran a hand through his rapidly retreating hairline before sighing. “I don’t understand why Le Comte would do anything to support that bâtard, that tyran.”
“Indeed,” concurred Susannah. “Le
