“Even if she forced you into marriage?”
“Talia…” Gabriel faltered, not certain he was prepared to share his doubts. “What?”
“She claims she had no desire to wed either Harry or myself,” he at last confessed.
Hugo waved his hand dismissively. “Of course she would deny trading her soul for a title. What woman would confess such a truth?”
“I am not completely convinced of her guilt.”
His friend hissed, his eyes darkening with shock. “Have you taken leave of your senses?”
Gabriel narrowed his gaze. “Take care, Hugo.”
“If she had no desire to wed, then all she had to do was say no. The days of buying and selling women as if they are cattle are long past,” Hugo pressed. “She could not have been forced into marriage.”
It was precisely what Gabriel had told himself, but now he glared at Hugo, barely resisting the urge to punch his closest friend in the nose.
“Have you had the misfortune to meet Silas Dobson?”
Hugo grimaced. “A nasty bit of goods, but a damned shrewd businessman. I have invested in his latest shipping venture.”
“He is an uncouth brute who makes a habit of terrorizing those in his power.”
“That does not mean Miss Dobson…”
“Lady Ashcombe.”
Hugo’s jaw tightened at Gabriel’s interruption. “It does not necessarily follow that your wife is a victim. It is quite likely she was a willing conspirator with her father in plotting to claim the highest available title.”
Gabriel impatiently shook his head. He would soon enough determine the truth for himself.
“Her guilt or innocence no longer matters.”
Hugo’s frustration was replaced by a flare of sympathy. “True enough,” he murmured. “Harry made a deal with the devil and now you must pay.”
Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Have you considered a career on the stage?”
“I…”
Hugo snapped his lips shut as a footman in the familiar blue-and-silver uniform of Ashcombe halted beside Gabriel and handed him a folded note.
“Pardon me, my lord,” he apologized. “This has just arrived from Devonshire. The messenger said it is urgent.”
“Thank you.” Expecting information on his brother, Gabriel was unprepared for his housekeeper’s plea for him to travel as fast as possible to Carrick Park. His blood ran cold as he shoved himself to his feet with enough violence to tumble his chair backward. “Damn. I must go.”
“Go?” Hugo swiftly lifted himself upright. “Go where?”
“Your ill wishes for my wife have come to pass,” he ground out, unfairly striking out at his friend as a fear he did not entirely understand clutched his heart.
Hugo flinched. “What the devil do you mean?”
“My wife has disappeared,” Gabriel turned on his heel, headed for the door. “You had best pray I find her.”
THE FRENCH CASTLE tucked in the countryside south of Paris retained much of its delicate charm despite the obvious ravages of war.
Built in a perfect square to frame the formal inner courtyard, the structure retained two towers from what Talia assumed to be a previous castle and vast wings that were constructed of a golden stone that shimmered in the sunlight. Along one wing a covered terrace was supported by a series of archways that led to the main residence that offered a striking double stone staircase and carved stones set above the large windows.
Among the surrounding gardens many of the statues and marble fountains had been destroyed by rioters, but inside, the endless procession of public chambers, salons and elegant galleries remained remarkably intact. And despite the fact she was being held captive, Talia could not prevent herself from appreciating the exquisite beauty that surrounded her.
Who could remain impervious to the priceless artwork that lined the walls, the massive tapestries, the inlaid wood floors and the breathtaking frescoes that graced the high ceilings?
Standing in one of the long galleries, Talia leaned against a fluted column that bracketed the high, arched window and gazed across the gardens to the distant road beyond.
Not for the first time since arriving at the palace three days ago she considered the possibility of simply walking out the front door and making her escape. She was alone, after all, and she did not doubt that she could travel a considerable distance before she was missed.
Unfortunately, she was not so stupid as to believe that she could actually make her way back to England.
Not only did she not speak French, but she had no money, no legal papers necessary to travel in France and no means to flee the estate beyond her own feet. At best she would be arrested before she reached the nearest village. At worst she would be taken captive by the numerous French soldiers who passed by the palace with unfortunate regularity.
She did not doubt they would be far less gentle toward her than Jack Gerard.
No…not Jack, but Jacques, she silently corrected with a deep sigh.
As furious as she was to have been kidnapped from her home, she could not deny that Jacques had done his best to keep her in comfort.
He had taken her from the church to a small boat kept among the local fishing vessels and had demanded his rough companions row them to a sleek yacht that had been hidden along a remote section of the coast. Thankfully he had sent the brutes back to London, and Talia had been put into the hands of his French crew, who had treated her as if she were a delicate treasure in constant need of coddling.
Once in France, the journey to the palace had been a mere blur as she had been placed alone in a carriage that had traveled for several hours at a bone-rattling speed through the countryside with only brief pauses so she could relieve herself among the bushes.
Since her arrival at the palace, she had been left to explore her surroundings in peace. She had been careful, though, to avoid the large outbuildings that had been given over to a great number of wounded soldiers and a dozen children that she had assumed were orphans.
This morning, however, she had sensed her solitude was about to come to an end. After emerging from her bath, she had discovered the gown she had been wearing since being kidnapped had mysteriously disappeared and was replaced by a lovely satin dress in a warm shade of ocher. There had also been matching slippers and expensive undergarments that had made her blush.
With no choice she had attired herself in the new clothing, although, without a maid, she had chosen to pull her hair into a simple braid that hung down her back. She would not be trapped in her chambers because she was too proud to take the unwanted clothing.
The footsteps she had been expecting for hours at last echoed through the gallery, and, accepting she could not avoid the inevitable, she turned to watch as Jacques Gerard strolled toward her.
A grudging smile tugged at her lips as she caught sight of his elegant charcoal-gray jacket that had been tailored to perfectly fit his lean body. His white cravat was tied in the latest style, and his black pantaloons clung with loving care to his muscular legs.
The humble vicar had been replaced by a gentleman with the sort of natural arrogance that was usually reserved to those born into power. And not for the first time Talia wondered just who this man truly was.
He was far too well-educated for a simple peasant, and yet, his hatred for the aristocracy was unmistakable.
A man of mystery.
Coming to a halt directly in front of her, Jacques reached for her hand, lifting her fingers to his mouth for a lingering kiss even as his