watching eyes widened with surprise, then in one fluid motion the stranger swung himself through the window to land lightly before her. With a flourish, he swept her a bow. ‘Madame Lefevre, I presume?’
Elodie caught her breath, overwhelmed by the sheer masculine power of the man now straightening to his full height. If he meant to harm her, she was in very bad trouble indeed.
He must be English. No other men moved with such arrogance, as if they owned the earth by right. He loomed over her, tall and whipcord-lean. There was no mistaking the hard strength of the arms and shoulders that had levered him so effortlessly up to the balcony and swung him practically into her lap.
His clothes were unremarkable: loose-fitting coat, trousers and scuffed boots that might have been worn by any tradesman or clerk toiling away in the vast city.
But his face—angular jaw, chiselled cheekbones, slightly crooked nose, sensual mouth and the arresting turquoise blue of his eyes—would capture the attention of any woman who chanced to look at him. Certainly it captured hers, so completely that she momentarily forgot the potential danger he posed.
He smiled at her scrutiny, which might have embarrassed her, had she not been suddenly jolted by a sense of déjà vu. ‘Do I know you?’ she asked, struggling to work out why he seemed so familiar. ‘Have we met?’
The smile faded and his eyes went cold. ‘No, madame. You don’t know me, but I believe you knew my kinsman all too well. Max Ransleigh.’
Max. His image flashed into her mind: same height and build, thick, wavy golden hair, crystal-blue eyes. An air of command tempered by a kindness and courtesy that had warmed her heart then—and made it twist again now with regret as she recalled him.
The afternoon sun touched this man’s tawny hair with tints of auburn; rather than clear blue, his eyes were the hue of the Mediterranean off St Tropez. But beyond that, the two men were remarkably similar. ‘You are Max’s brother?’
‘His cousin. Will Ransleigh.’
‘He is well, I trust? I was sorry to have done him … a disservice. I hoped, with Napoleon escaping from Elba so soon after the event in Vienna, that his position had not been too adversely affected.’
He raised one eyebrow, his expression sardonic. Her momentary bedazzlement abruptly vanished as her senses returned to full alert. This man did not mean her well.
‘I regret to inform you that your tender hopes were not realised. As you, the cousin of a diplomat, surely know, the “event” that embroiled him in the near-assassination of his commander ruined his career. He was recalled in disgrace and only the outbreak of war allowed him a chance to redeem himself on the field of battle.’
‘I understand the carnage was terrible at Waterloo.’
‘It was. But even his valour there was not enough to restore his career, which was destroyed by his association with you.’
‘I am sorry for it.’ And she was. But given the stakes, if she had it all to do over again, she would do nothing differently.
‘You are sorry? How charming!’ he replied, his tone as sardonic as his expression.
Her anger flared again. At men, who used women as pawns to their own purposes. At a woman’s always-powerless position in their games. What matter if this man did not believe her? She would not give him the satisfaction of protesting.
As she remained silent, he said, ‘Then you will be delighted to know I intend to offer you a chance to make amends. Since you don’t appear to be prospering here …’ he swept a hand around to indicate the small room, with its worn carpet and shabby furnishing ‘… I see no reason why you shouldn’t agree to leave for England immediately.’
‘England?’ she echoed, surprised. ‘Why should I do that?’
‘I’m going to escort you back to London, where we will call on the Foreign Office. There you will explain exactly how you entrapped my cousin in this scheme, manoeuvring him into doing no more than any other gentleman would have done. Demonstrating that he was blameless in not anticipating the assassination attempt, and any fault should be assigned to the intelligence services whose job it was to sniff out such things.’
Her mind racing, Elodie weighed the options. Her hopes rose crazily as she recognised that travelling to London, as this man apparently had the means to do, would get her a deal closer to France, and immediately—not next autumn or in another year, which was as soon as she’d dared hope her slowly accumulating resources would allow.
But even with King Louis on France’s throne and the two nations officially at peace, as a French citizen she was still vulnerable. If she testified to involvement in an attempt on the life of the great English hero Lord Wellington, saviour of Europe and victor of Waterloo, she could well be imprisoned. Maybe even executed.
Unless she escaped on the way. Ransleigh would likely want to journey by sea, which would make the chances of eluding him before arrival in England very difficult. Unless …
‘I will go with you, but only if we stop first in Paris.’ Paris, a city she knew like the lines on her palm. Paris, where only a moment’s inattention would allow her to slip away into a warren of medieval alleyways so dense and winding, he would never be able to trail her.
Where, after waiting a safe interval, she could hunt for Philippe.
He made a show of looking about the room, which lacked the presence of a footman or even a maid to lend her assistance. ‘I don’t think you’re in much of a position to dictate terms. And I have no interest in visiting Paris.’
‘A mistake, Monsieur Ransleigh. It is a beautiful city.’
‘So it is, but unimportant to me at present.’
She shrugged. ‘To you, perhaps, but not to me. Unless we go first to Paris, I will not go with you.’
His eyes darkened, unmistakable menace in their depths. ‘I can compel you.’
She nodded. ‘You could drug me, I suppose. Gag, bind and smuggle me aboard a ship in Trieste. But nothing can compel me to deliver to the London authorities the sort of testimony you wish, unless I myself choose to do so.’
Fury flashed in those blue eyes and his jaw clenched. If his cousin’s career had truly been ruined by her actions, he had cause to be angry.
Just as she’d had no choice about involving Max in the plot.
‘I could simply kill you now,’ he murmured, stepping closer. ‘Your life for the life you ruined.’ He placed his hands around her neck.
She froze, her heartbeat stampeding. Had she survived so much, only for it all to end now? His hands, warm against the chill of her neck, were large and undoubtedly strong. One quick twist and it would be over.
But despite the hostility of his action, as the seconds ticked away with his fingers encircling her neck, some instinct told her that he didn’t truly mean to hurt her.
As her fear subsided to a manageable level, she grasped his hands with a calm she was far from feeling. To her great relief, he let her pull them away from her neck, confirming her assessment.
‘Paris
