jerk away when one slim, elegant hand reached out to touch her face. “Poor poppet,” he said softly. “With no one to avenge her.”
She wanted to turn her face into his hand, to press her lips against his palm. She was mad. “My mother is dead, sir. I believe she was the one who sold me.”
“Indeed,” he murmured noncommittally. “I’ll let you rest tonight. Tomorrow is time enough to continue your education.”
“What if I don’t want to learn?” she said, trying not to tremble at the gentle touch.
His smile was genuine. “You will, my child. I assure you, you will.”
21
Francis Rohan moved through the vast hallways of Maison de Giverney, his jeweled heels clicking on the parquet flooring. He no longer bothered to pace himself, to achieve the perfect mincing walk. Most of his guests had retired to places of privacy, and those who were still cavorting in public would be far too interested in their partners to notice the King of Hell striding through their midst.
He found Charles at one of the gaming tables, staring at his hand with a complete lack of enthusiasm. He turned inquiringly when Rohan came to stand over him, and with one look at his face he immediately turned his cards over and rose, following his friend to the empty hallway.
“You look like death,” Charles said. “Was your ‘poppet’ that bad in bed?”
Rohan gave him a measured look. “Do you really want to be discussing the sister of your true love in such a crude manner?”
“She’s not my true love,” Charles said. “And considering all the blasted effort you’re putting into having Elinor Harriman, I would assume a question would not be out of line.”
“Phrase it better.” There was a note of steel in his voice.
Charles looked at him for a long, thoughtful moment. “You, too,” he said ruefully. Before Rohan could respond he went on, “Was your time with Miss Harriman less than you hoped?”
“We held a short conversation. I have something I must do, and I need your help for it.”
“And what is that?”
“I need to kill a man.”
Charles’s sleepy eyes opened more widely. “Anyone in particular?”
“The fat man who joined us tonight. Sir Christopher Spatts.”
“I’m not objecting, mind you,” Charles said. “He’s a slovenly creature, and there are rumors about some of his less savory activities.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as his preference for children, the younger the better. He was quite disappointed when he heard you don’t allow children to be part of the Revels, but decided there were other ways to find pleasure. Why?”
Rohan didn’t answer. “Do you have any notion where he is at the moment?”
“I believe he went off with young Wrotham.”
“Where?”
“Dear me,” Charles murmured. “What did he do?” His eyes narrowed. “Good God, man, are you wearing your sword? You can’t fight him. He couldn’t possibly be any kind of match for you. It would be murder.”
“Good,” said Rohan. “Where is he?”
For a moment Charles didn’t move. And then he nodded. “Come with me.”
Now was as good a time as any to leave, Eleanor thought. He’d already made his nightly visit, though departing without touching her, even attempting to, was different. She understood completely. She’d told him the truth of what had happened six years ago and he’d been disgusted. Whatever kind of exotic allure she’d held for him, and while she hadn’t understood it she’d come to accept that it existed, had vanished.
She moved to the window, looking out into the street. She was probably being foolish, escaping when there was no earthly need. It was more than likely she’d be taken to a coach tomorrow morning with no explanation, just sent on her way.
As it had happened so many years ago when she’d been trapped by that horrible man.
This had been a different kind of imprisonment, and she told herself she was delighted that Rohan had finally seen the error of his ways. She just didn’t want to face him when he set her free.
No, she would leave now, when the house was relatively quiet. She could hear the sounds of gaiety and something else drifting from a distance, and she remembered the frenetic energy as Rohan had led her, blindfolded, through the rooms in the château.
Rohan would clearly be partaking of that gaiety, and for the time, perhaps forever, she was forgotten. Once she was out she had more than enough money to hire a coach to take her out to his château. There, she would collect Lydia and they would run, back to England