Reckless - By Anne Stuart Page 0,99

older than his cousin's son and heir, ordinary looking and too outspoken. He would fuck her once and abandon her.

But he hadn't. He hadn't emerged from that little room he kept, preferring his privacy to (he audience most of the Heavenly Host preferred. And Etienne was there under sufferance. Not a member, not even a guest, but a hanger-on to be tolerated. Oh, they laughed with him, gambled with him.

But he knew the English and their misguided sense of superiority.

Etienne had finally chosen to interfere. It hadn't been that difficult, to tease Adrian into leaving her behind. And just to make certain she didn't cause any more trouble he'd arranged her tumble down the cliff before he caught up with Adrian.

She hadn't hit her head, or suffered more than a few bruises. More damnable luck. And the men he'd hired to finish Adrian for good had bungled. They'd waited too long. He'd turned away from home instead of coming toward them, and their necessary pursuit had ruined everything.

Etienne had been waiting at Adrian's house, prepared for the tragic news, when that stupid English vicar had helped him into the house. It had taken all Etienne's sangfroid to keep from screaming in rage.

And then the moment Pagett had informed Adrian that Charlotte Spenser would be in Sussex what must he do but go haring off almost immediately, like a love-starved moonling. Who would have thought Etienne had done everything he could to stop him, but for some reason his influence over Adrian was waning. It wouldn't be long before he was dropped, and he'd lose his entree to anywhere in English society.

He wasn’t going to let that happen.

Indeed, it wasn't his fault. The heir, Charles Edward, had been too much like his father, with a neck-or-nothing style in all of life. He rushed into things without thinking them through, and it hadn't taken long to goad him into riding Etienne's favorite horse, Meutrier. With typical English arrogance he hadn't known that the horse's name, and temperament, meant "murderer." The horse was mad, there was no other word for it. He'd been abused, and only Etienne could ride him.

But Charles Edward didn't like being told he couldn't do something. The fall had broken his back.

The pneumonia that followed had carried finished the job, leaving Francis Rohan with only one heir.

It had been child's play to corrupt Adrian. He was already well on his way by the time he was twenty-five, old in the ways of sin and decadence. It wouldn't take much for Adrian to succumb.

Opium was a dangerous drug, the interesting concoctions he made from plants could be even worse, and he had watched Adrian use them indiscriminately, with his help, of course.

An overdose would be so easy, but he preferred not to help things along. Adrian had been doing just fine by himself. His wretched father, Francis, was old now, close to seventy. He couldn't live that much longer, though he seemed damnably healthy. If Adrian predeceased him Francis would quickly follow, and there would be no one but Etienne to step into the title, the house, the monies.

He intended to be kind to Francis's wife. He would remove her from his houses, of course, but he would settle a small amount on her, enough to keep her relatively comfortable if her needs were few.

And what needs would she have? She'd be in mourning, unable to attend social functions, which made things a great deal simpler. After that time was up he expected her to simply fade away without her husband. They were far too attached to each other—Etienne considered it bad ton to be so besotted, particularly after so many years and six children. No, she would die soon and he wouldn't have to worry about even the tiny stipend.

But none of that would happen, that rosy future would vanish if Adrian lived long enough to re-produce. And Etienne could no longer afford to be patient.

The small village of Huntingdon boasted an indifferent inn, but they were used to the strange comings and goings connected lo Hensley Court, and no one paid any notice to the big Frenchman.

They weren't even concerned about traitors. Most of the stupid English expected him to sell them out the first chance he got. They didn't realize that the so-called French government would rather have his head on a pike than theirs.

Fortunately he knew Hensley Court and its grounds very well—he'd been most observant on the few occasions when he'd been invited to join