The Secret History of the Pink Carnation

Chapter Twenty-One

Richard saw red.

He saw every shade of red imaginable, from crimson to scarlet, but mostly he saw himself driving his fist repeatedly into Marston’s face. It took all of his considerable strength of will not to turn that vision into a reality.

Only Richard’s hands, clenched into fists under the table, hinted at his inward struggle as he leaned back and drawled, “Really?”

“Some men have all the luck,” hiccupped Murat, from somewhere just below the rim of the table.

“It ain’t luck; it’s my handsome face.” Marston hauled his friend up by the collar and deposited him back on the seat of his chair. “Met the girl for five minutes last night, and already she can’t keep her hands off me.”

That wasn’t the way Richard remembered it. Clearly, there was some mistake. Marston must have invented the assignation to impress his friends. Or he was meeting some other woman and had her confused with Amy. There had to be a simple explanation.

Through painfully tight lips, Richard got out, “What did she do? Accost you in your chambers after the party?”

“Nah.” Marston flung a card on the discard pile. “She sent me an urgent message. Like that, do you? An urgent message?” Marston guffawed again. “She wants me badly.”

“Nobody shends me meshages like tha’ anymore,” mourned Murat.

Marston dealt him a brotherly whack on the shoulder that nearly sent him flying over the arm of his chair. “That’s because Caroline scares ’em all away!”

“Caroline,” Murat groaned, and reached for the brandy decanter.

“An urgent message, you say?” queried Richard.

“That’s women for you.” Marston tossed back another snifter of brandy. “Says she must see me urgently, because she had something terribly important to tell me. Said I’d know what it was about after our conversation last night. Ha! As if any fool couldn’t figure out what the girl wants, hey, chaps?”

“What about her brother?” Richard blurted out.

“What about him?”

“Won’t he object to his sister arranging assignations with you?”

“Balcourt?” Marston threw back his head and laughed. Richard hoped the weight of it would cause him to overbalance, perhaps knocking himself out on a handy piece of furniture—there was the nice sharp edge of a card table right there—but Marston’s luck was in and Richard’s was out. Marston’s head snapped back to center without Marston so much as wobbling. “Balcourt? He knows better than to come up stuffy about this.”

That was taking French nonchalance too far, decided Richard. Not to mention that Balcourt was half English and thus should bloody well know better.

“But it’s his sister,” Richard gritted out, pushing to his feet. “Rather a nasty trick to play on a friend, seducing his sister.”

Marston shrugged. “Balcourt owes me. Good night, gentlemen.”

“Do you need a ride?” Richard spoke rapidly as Marston began to move towards the door. “If you’re willing to wait a moment, I’ll send for my coach. I can drop you off on my way home.”

And make good and sure you never make it to your assignation, Richard added grimly to himself. So many things might happen along the way. His English coachman, not knowing the streets of Paris well, might get lost, and drive about in circles for hours. At least long enough for Amy to think herself abandoned and leave in a fit of pique. Or the carriage might encounter a fatal pothole. Or Marston might pass out from drink, with a little help from his newfound friend. Or—

“Very decent of you, Selwick.” Marston, who had paused for one glorious moment, set one foot in front of the other. And another. “But it’s a short walk.”

“Are you sure? Where are you meeting her?”

“The Luxembourg Gardens.” Marston paused again. “Women and their romantic notions. I’d’ve preferred a bed.”

Richard would have preferred to smash his fist right into Marston’s smug mouth. Instead, he forced himself to bid Marston a pleasant good night. He contemplated giving him a little shove—just the slightest nudge—on the marble stair, but too many potential witnesses were milling about. Damn, how to dispose of Marston without drawing attention to himself? Attention the Purple Gentian could ill afford.

As he snatched back his gloves and hat from the maid at the foot of the stairs, Richard contemplated racing ahead of Marston, lying in wait, and knocking him down from behind. The streets of Paris abounded with footpads. That gold watch chain of Marston’s shouted “grab me! grab me!” to any thief in a five-mile radius. Marston would be out cold, Amy would be safe, and no one would be any the wiser.

There was only, Richard realized, savagely crushing his hat in his hand, one slight problem. He had no idea which route Marston planned to take. Splendid. He’d lurk there in an alleyway by a street Marston might never walk past while Marston forced himself upon Amy in the Luxembourg Gardens.

What in the devil had Amy been thinking?

Bounding down the steps of the Rochefort town house, Richard saw Marston strolling towards the Seine, towards the bridge that separated them from the Luxembourg and Amy. Richard momentarily considered alerting Balcourt to his sister’s peril, and just as quickly dismissed the idea. Even if he were to find Balcourt at home, even if Marston were wrong about Balcourt’s indifference, he didn’t like to think what might have befallen Amy by the time he wrenched Balcourt out of a chair and shoved him into his coach.

Besides, he didn’t want to relinquish the pleasure of punching Marston.

There was only one thing to do. Damn, damn, damn. Richard rapidly changed course and headed for home. He stormed through the front hall of his house, capsizing a small table and knocking a picture askew. Charging into his study, he flopped to his knees and began flinging books from the bottom shelf of his bookcase.

What in the hell was Amy thinking, arranging assignations with strange men in the middle of the night? Had no one ever shouted any sense into her? Did she think she was invincible? When he found her, he’d shake her till she couldn’t stand. And then he’d lock her into a room with a dozen locks—make that two dozen locks—so she couldn’t send any more ridiculous notes to ridiculous men setting up ridiculous meetings at ridiculous hours of the night. Damn!

Seizing on a fold of black cloth, he yanked his cape out of its hiding place. No time to change his breeches; the cape would have to hide the tan cloth, and at least his boots were black up to the knee. The mask followed the cape, and Richard was up and running, mask dangling from his hand. Pushing past Geoff, responding to his, “Good God, man! What’s wrong?” with a perfunctory, “Can’t talk! Tell you later,” Lord Richard Selwick bounded down the stairs of his town house.

Seconds later, the Purple Gentian sprinted in the direction of the Luxembourg Gardens and his damsel in distress. His resolution to avoid Amy Balcourt had lasted less than a day.

Amy shoved back her hood. Unfortunately, the removal of the draped fabric did little to improve her vision. “I knew I forgot something,” she muttered. A lantern. She had the hooded cloak, the sturdy boots, the urgent information, but she had forgotten the lantern. And without a lantern, Amy had very little idea where she was. She did know she was in the Luxembourg Gardens. But beyond that, Amy was at a loss. One shrub looked very much like another in the darkness.

“Ah, there you are!” Marston’s low voice carried down the long alley of trees as he emerged from around a bend. The large space distorted his voice, thickened it, made it sound unnervingly different than it had the night before. He was speaking English, Amy realized. Of course! Everyone’s voice changed when they spoke another language. “I’ve been looking for you.”

Marston’s booted feet echoed on the flagstone path as he closed the distance between them, moonlight glinting off the gold embroidery on his coat. He wore the rich frock coat she had seen the night before at the Tuilleries, and his curly head was hatless. Amy fought down the sense of unease steadily rising like the fog around her. Why would he disguise himself in mask and cloak when she knew who he was? Surely, it showed good sense on his part not to parade about in costume.

“I’m sorry,” Amy said, her own voice tinny to her ears. “I got a bit lost.”

“You can make it up to me.” Marston took her by the shoulders. “Like this.”

Reminding herself again that he was the Gentian, and that she’d embraced him last night, and enjoyed it very much, Amy squished her stray qualms and went willingly into his arms. Letting her eyes drift shut, she rested her cheek against his chest, and breathed a deep, contented sigh. . . . And her lashes popped back up.

He smelled wrong.

Amy rapidly pulled back, eyes wide with alarm. In that brief moment she had been pressed to his jacket, she had smelled tobacco, brandy, and leather. No citrus cologne.

“Don’t be such a tease,” Marston growled, grabbing for her.

Amy narrowly evaded his grasp. Oh goodness, he wasn’t the Purple Gentian. And he clearly thought that he . . . that she . . .

“Come on! You know you want me!” Marston captured one of Amy’s hands and reeled her in.

Damp lips descended on her own. Amy found her protests being displaced by a large tongue forging between her teeth. Gagging at the intrusion, Amy shoved hard against Marston’s chest. The hard metal of Marston’s watch fob scraped against her palms, but Amy scarcely felt the pain as she strained against him. Caught unawares, Marston stumbled back. Their lips parted with a nasty sloshing sound.

Amy wiped her lips with the back of her hand. Marston’s eyes narrowed dangerously.

“You seem to have the wrong idea! I mean . . . that is . . . I didn’t invite you here to . . . to kiss you. I want to talk to you! About . . . about Edouard’s birthday!”

“About Edouard’s birthday.” Marston’s voice dripped disbelief. Amy couldn’t blame him; she scarcely believed herself.

“Yes! I’ve been away so long that I scarcely know what he likes anymore, and I wanted to throw him a splendid birthday celebration as a thank-you for bringing me out here,” Amy babbled, backing up towards the line of trees.

Stupid, stupid, stupid, she mentally berated herself. All right, you got yourself into this, Amy. Now fix it!

“I’m sorry if you thought . . . um,” Amy stalled out. Biting her lip, she tried again. “I apologize for any confusion. You have every right to be angry. I didn’t mean to bring you out here under false pretenses. Really! I am so very, very sorry.”

Her apology seemed to have touched a chord in Marston.

Amy let out a sigh of relief. “Thank you for being so understanding.”

Marston sidled towards her, and an arm snaked out, grabbing Amy around the waist. What she had said and what Marston had understood were two very different things. If she could just remove that crowbar of an arm of his from around her waist, maybe she could explain to him.

“There’s no need to be shy,” he crooned. “Come on now. You can tell me what you really want.”

“You. Don’t. Seem. To. Understand.” Amy gasped out the words as she pushed against Marston.

His grip tightened around her and his mouth moved moistly against her ear. “Oh, I understand all right. You’re just afraid to ask for it.”

Marston’s tongue flicked against her ear; he was holding her so tightly that her arms were pinned between them, the skin of her forearms scratching against the embroidery of his coat. Why wouldn’t he let go? Amy wondered, the beginnings of panic spreading from her mind to her quivering hands. And Marston’s mouth—it kept moving, following hers, trying to invade her lips.

Amy twisted her head to the side, struggling desperately to free her arms from Marston’s embrace. She could hear the peaceful chirping of birds and the murmur of water in ironic counterpoint to the rasp of Marston’s harsh breath in her ear.

“You don’t understand,” she panted again. “Surely we can discuss . . .” Marston’s head followed hers. Amy’s neck ached with the strain of pulling away. If only she could push him away long enough to make him listen to reason and understand that there had been a mistake! Wet lips trailed across Amy’s cheek. Yanking an arm free, Amy shoved against Marston’s face with all her strength.

Crunch!

She succeeded far better than she had imagined.

“You bitch!” Marston howled, releasing Amy. “You’ve broken my nose!”

Amy stared in horrified fascination at the dark liquid dripping through Marston’s fingers. With his left hand, he yanked frantically at his cravat until the knot came undone, wadding the fabric up against his nose.

“I’m sorry,” Amy gasped. “I didn’t mean . . .”

Marston’s pale eyes met hers over the crumpled cloth. His expression could only be described as murderous. With a low growl he flung aside the cloth and began advancing on Amy.

Apologies clearly weren’t going to have much effect.

One yard, two feet. Marston was steadily closing the distance between them. “You’re going to pay for this,” he snarled.

Amy had the feeling he wasn’t referring to monetary remuneration.

Amy set her arms the way she had seen her cousin Ned do when he was boxing with the stableboy. “If you don’t stop right there, I swear I’m going to break something else! I will!”

“That will cost you,” Marston warned.

His hands swallowed Amy’s. Not altogether able to believe any of this could be happening, Amy felt her arms being forced around her back. In all of her twenty years, no one had ever treated her roughly or grabbed her in anger, and that this man, this friend of her brother’s, should turn on her in violence was utterly inconceivable.

The pain in her shoulders brought her sharply back to reality. Amy pushed back with all her might, straining to keep his arms from closing around her, but years of lifting books in her uncle’s library had done little to prepare her for a contest of strength; within moments, her arms were three-quarters of the way behind her. Her breath rasped anxiously in her throat. She supposed she should scream, but who would come at her call? Blood from Marston’s nose dripped down onto Amy’s cheek, and she gasped and wrenched her head away. The movement was all Marston needed to consolidate his victory. With a final burst of force, he twisted her arms behind her back, pinning them together with one large hand. Amy jerked against his grasp, arching away from him as far as she could, but he yanked her back against him. His fingers grasped her wrists as tightly as though they had been bound with a dozen sailor’s knots.

No! Amy’s mind shouted. Marston’s arms around her pinned her entire upper body immobile. With his free hand, he grabbed a handful of her hair, and yanked her head back. Amy’s eyes teared with the unexpected pain.

“Now,” he snarled, pulling savagely on her hair, “we can discuss what you can do to make this up to me.”

“My brother will call you out for this!” spat Amy.

Marston chuckled unpleasantly, tugging her curls again, harder. “Your brother couldn’t shoot a slug.”

Amy’s nostrils flared. “You value yourself highly, don’t you?”

“Why, you little—arrrrrr!”

Amy’s sturdy boot slammed down on Marston’s little toe. The hard, square heel ground down into the leather with a marvelous crackling noise that was rapidly drowned out by a stentorian roar of pain. Twisting her wrists, Amy pulled free from Marston’s loosened grasp. Blast! Marston’s hands were already grabbing for her, pulling at her dress as she tried to run. She should have broken his fingers, not his toes. She heard the unpleasant sound of rending cloth, but Marston still held firm. Any moment now, Marston’s other hand would shoot out and it would start all over again.

No! She wouldn’t stand for it! Amy whirled and swung at Marston’s face with her right fist. Her knuckles grazed the underside of Marston’s chin and plunged into empty air.

Marston tumbled to the ground at her feet with a crash like the fall of Goliath.