Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(65)

Rand was to realize soon with mild irritation that Mireille was genuinely afraid of him. She was so small and delicately made that perhaps she harbored the inner suspicion that he would crush her with a booted foot if she displeased him. He was kind to her when he remembered to be, but most of the time his attention was absorbed by Rosalie. He came into the room to begin the grim vigil by her bedside after conducting a fruitless interrogation into how the drugging had happened. The information he had elicited seemed to indicate that the wine could have been altered at any one of countless points before it had arrived at the room, and there was no way he could pinpoint suspects, method, or motive.

The first twenty-four hours brought about no change at all in Rosalie’s condition. Although Rand stayed by her, dozing in a chair or staring blankly at her by turns, she gave no sign of returning consciousness and remained in a chillingly waxlike state. Frequently he gave in to brief urges to check her pulse and breath, for there were moments when he thought he could see the life ebb from her still body. Even after the flashes of fear were extinguished he was tortured by anxiety, for he did not know if she would soon take a turn for the worse or the better. Mireille hovered nearby, her little face solemn, her eyes quietly anxious as she pretended not to hear Rand’s orders for her to go to her own bed and come back in the morning.

At one point Rand left the bedside in order to stretch and walk over to the window, and he stared broodingly outside into the darkness for several long minutes. The crush of guilt weighed heavily on him, making it nearly impossible to bear the gnawing memory of the things Rosalie had said to him, of the things he had said to her before storming out of the room. He had come back to apologize, to shake and kiss her, to tell her with his usual arrogance that he wouldn’t let her go. Dammit, she had a way of driving him beyond all reason, and he should not have let her affect him so profoundly. Not when her safety and welfare depended on him. His thoughts wandered briefly to the crowd of London bucks he had kept company with the past few years. Would any of them understand the fix he was in? Probably not. They prided themselves on being carefree; they would not understand the need, the sense of responsibility, the remorse that plagued him. Until now he had conducted himself exactly as they would have, handling his obligations with negligence. Finally it seemed that he was reaping the rewards of his carelessness. Suddenly all the lectures and recriminations of his grandfather began to hit hard.

He had treated Rosalie as though she were a posy he had plucked by the wayside, not admitting how rare she was, that she was as fragile and in need of protection as the most valuable of blossoms. Selfishly he had played games with her, games of desire and indifference, seducing her until she had finally made the first move to his bed, when he should have dealt with her in a straightforward fashion. Knowing what darkness was hidden in his own heart, how had he come by the temerity to demand her hand in marriage with such high-handedness? He smiled bitterly before turning back to the bed.

A few times the next day Rand wondered what had caused Mireille’s fascination with Rosalie. It hardly made sense, since as far as he knew they had never met before. The little chambermaid scurried back and forth in the process of sponge-bathing Rosalie, brushing the long sable hair and braiding it neatly, changing the sheets and making certain that the room was free from dust and clutter. She chattered in French to herself, hummed snatches of folk tunes, and more perplexing still, her pockets were occasionally weighted with a small book or leaflet. It was clear that she had received some sort of education, a peculiar quality in a French servant. She seemed to be an unusually imaginative child.

Mireille’s devotion to Rosalie did not stem from any sort of desire to attract Rand’s notice. She was distinctly uneasy around him and ran like a fleet-footed deer whenever he issued even the mildest request. The thought did not enter his mind that she might have pitied him, for he did not know that desolation shone in his eyes with a cold and unmistakable light. As night approached and Rosalie still lay in her endless sleep, Rand felt the last of his patience drain away. He left the hoop-backed chair at her bedside to flex his aching muscles and then strode over to the small satinwood writing desk. He wrote a precisely detailed letter to M. Bonchamps, the manager he had appointed in Havre, concerning the credit affairs of one M. George Brummell. As far as Rand was concerned, Brummell’s loose tongue had contributed greatly to the circumstances that had led to this situation, and he would not let the Beau’s part in it go unrevenged.

Rand instructed Bonchamps to travel to Calais and personally make visits to all of those who conducted any sort of transactions with Brummell, systematically ensuring that credit for all except the most essential services would be cut off. Brummell would receive only the minimum of coal and food needed to stay alive, no matter how he wheedled or cajoled. No more freshly laundered cravats or champagne and japan-blacking for boots, no more tailoring services, hair oils, almond biscuits, or expensive snuff, no more elegant dinners or leisurely promenades down the boulevard, for Brummell would be reduced to such a state that he would not want himself to be viewed by the public. Savagely Rand wished that he had a heartless enough disposition to request Brummell’s complete starvation, but the mere possibility that the Beau was Rosalie’s father checked him from taking that drastic action. Rosalie would probably be aghast and incensed if she knew what Rand was doing, but it was either that or go mad from an unsatisfied lust for vengeance. And, Rand promised himself as he succumbed to bleak moroseness, if Rosalie should die of malnourishment, he would personally guarantee that Brummell suffered a far more painful fate.