Something Delilah could exploit.
“Is that the reason you’re hosting these recitals? To make very public your newest, shiniest, liaison?” she asked, biting back the urge to say more. She momentarily caught sight of her profile in the mirror, her eyes glittering feverishly.
“It does add a certain drama,” the Frenchman conceded, toying with the crystal stopper of a perfume bottle beautifully displayed on the pedestal table by his chair, the sweet cloying scent instantly filling the room. “I want to keep you and the Eroica dangling just out of Blackburn’s reach—for now. It will only whet his appetite and bring him under my control—and trust me, he is a difficult man to control.”
As though she had any doubt.
Le Comte continued pompously, “Understand this, if nothing else. Together you and Blackburn form two halves of a whole and that whole is what I want. Together you have the ability to give me what I’ve been after for years.” His lips thinned and his eyes narrowed. “Let me emphasize one more thing, Devon. I’ve waited long enough. And I’m expecting you to perform. I trust we’re clear on that point?”
Le Comte continued, digging the knife in deeper. “One must admit that the Eroica is a symphony of incredible beauty and, thanks to your father, it carries in it the seeds of humanity’s destruction. Quite the horrific irony, no?”
Soulful, majestic, heartrending, Devon could hear the strains of the melody, a composition dedicated to the courage and folly of Napoleon Bonaparte and the Revolution.
“And it led to my father’s murder, leaving in its place an ineradicable stain of blood.” Her words were a whisper in the room.
“Unfortunate for you, isn’t it?” Le Comte eyed her speculatively.
“And that’s why I’m here, Le Comte,” she concluded bitterly, ultimately a realist.
Even if she had the Eroica in her possession, to wrestle with the code alone was impossible. Even her highly vaunted proficiency was limited when it came to the complex cipher that her father had a part in creating.
She needed Blackburn. And yet he could just as easily toss her to the magistrates as a spy or traitor to the British cause once he had what he wanted.
Her blood warmed in anger as she remembered his words, his touch, his threat.
Seduce him…what else?
The words appalled her, and again she felt Blackburn’s hot breath on her skin, the hard hands enclosing her wrists. In the eyes of the Marquess, she was entirely disposable, a mistress as easily manipulated as a rag doll, her body to be used as currency.
Devon felt the unblinking cold of Le Comte’s stare on her skin, shocking her back to the present.
His face was a sly mask, barely disguising his pleasure at his own machinations. She was freezing again. In spite of the hothouse confines of the room, her blood ran like ice. Unable to hold his gaze, Devon once more conjured the specter of Blackburn, forcing herself to admit that the Marquess represented the biggest gamble of her life, and she was more than familiar with the laws of averages.
“You seem fatigued, ma chère.” Le Comte interrupted her thoughts with false concern. “Shall I ring for your maid?” His eyes were sharp and she shivered again at the thought of those pale, white hands on her body.
“No need—I’m quite all right.” She knew it was useless to inquire about the whereabouts of the score, as Le Comte was a man who never changed his mind once it was set upon its course.
“Do get some rest, then. You have a challenging few days in front of you, Devon, keeping our Marquess primed like a rutting stag, no?” Without bothering to watch for her reaction, he moved languidly from the chaise to ring for a footman before adding, “And by the way, you never did recount the details of your meeting with Blackburn. Did the Marquess have a message for me, perhaps?” His look was as anticipatory as a fencing master waiting for the next thrust and parry.
A film of perspiration dampened her palms and she had a mad impulse to turn around and simply run out the door. Instead she answered abruptly, “He expects to be given the score tomorrow evening at the recital.”
Le Comte looked slyly triumphant. “Ever arrogant, our Marquess.” His eyes lingered on the Meissen clock over the fireplace, as though counting the minutes. “Yet he’ll learn, once again, that there’s a price to be paid for everything.”
The Frenchman was right. Loyalty, integrity, honesty—Devon had learned all too recently that they could be bartered for a price, or for a cause. As the door closed behind Le Comte all she saw was a swinging noose and all she heard was the mocking voice of the Marquess of Blackburn.
Do whatever you have to do to get the score. I’m sure you know how, Mademoiselle. All too well.
Chapter 4
Blackburn listened to the crescendo of violins, distant and lilting, wafting into the candlelit boudoir just as the woman draped over the satin and lace-strewn bed peaked for the second time. He felt her body tense, the lush, extravagant curves fill his hands moments before he, accommodating as ever, lost himself in her dark depths.
Several heartbeats later dusky eyes framed by a profusion of ebony curls opened lazily. “You may love me to death,” breathed a satiated Susannah Treadwell, “anytime.” Her intense gaze—supremely satisfied and simultaneously carnal—devoured the man whose lean powerful body had just given her an encounter with Eros she would long remember. She arched her back in languid contentment, a smoothly curved arm supporting her slender neck.
“My pleasure.” He moved away with economic grace to stretch his tall frame, nakedly confident, alongside the bed. Magnificently male in a casual sprawl, his broad shoulders were an incongruous match for the fragrantly tousled ivory sheets and lace-embroidered pillows.
The Lady Treadwell was in a class by herself, a woman whose lack of inhibition and insatiable proclivities matched his—stroke for passionate stroke.
Exactly how involved she was with Le Comte and the Eroica score was, of course, another matter and did absolutely nothing to keep him from enjoying the scarlet-tipped hand which lingered so effectively on his hard torso. The hand stole upward, infinitely slowly from the indentation of his navel, to caress the sculpted chest.
“Must we attend this tedious recital, Gray?” Lady Susannah pouted prettily, intent on her pleasurable exploration of a well-delineated pectoral. “I can think of far better ways to spend our time than waiting interminably for this pianist. I do believe Le Comte has temporarily lost his mind. All this excitement over a woman playing Beethoven. I saw her just the other day riding on Rotten Row. A shriveled bluestocking. Only wonder why Le Comte has taken an interest!”
Blackburn suspected the Frenchman had told Susannah very little about Devon Caravelle. He rarely supplied details, only money, aware that her elderly husband had run through his fortune long ago. The Frenchman had paid her well to offer him up to his abductors, he was sure of it.
Blackburn’s expression revealed nothing but amusement as he settled his long frame more comfortably on the overstuffed softness of the hastily commandeered bed.
“Quite the sensation from what I’ve heard. Could it be that you’re afraid of a potential rival? The way you propelled me out
