Page 11 of The Duke
Celine’s pulse began to race with anticipation.
She said, “I suppose you know Bastien lost his head. He took your secrets with him, the poor, loyal idiot; he never breathed a word. But I am smarter than Bastien, and I am still here.” She reached into a hidden pocket and pulled a letter out. She waggled it between her fingers. “You were a very naughty child.”
Infuriatingly, the duke controlled her response too well for Celine to read her. Celine was sure the duke must understand what she held. There was only one letter it could be, if she had come all the way to London with it.
The duke took the letter from her, turning and examining it. Bastien’s name and direction were written on the front in a bold, childish hand that would be unmistakeable to the duke, as it was the duke’s own writing.
The duke had told her in Paris,Bastien helped me with a prank when I was twelve and precocious. If he’s destroyed the letter I sent him, then he’s the only person besides myself who knows what was in it.
The duke’s eyes widened slowly, and the hand that held the letter began to tremble.
And no wonder. The contents of that letter were so shocking, Celine still almost couldn’t believe it. She said with relish, “You betrayed your aunt, the Duke of Howard. You betrayed your country and your king. You instructed Bastien how to place your aunt’s papers among the possessions of a French lieutenant who you knew would be captured by the English. Their discovery would make it look like your aunt was passing along state secrets. You see, I have read it. There is no mistake.”
But again, the duke stymied her. Despite being visibly shaken, she only said, “Yes, I see.”
Then she moved all at once, crushing the letter inside her hand. The paper crinkled and buckled. She strode to the fireplace and threw it in. It caught flame quickly and was reduced toa fine web of ash, and then to nothing. The duke stayed some time watching the fire. Every now and then, a shiver would pass over her whole body. Eventually she straightened and fixed her gaze on Celine. She showed naked emotion at last, an excoriating anger. “You dare to come here,” she said, “to my home—”
Oh, it was too good. Whoever said revenge didn’t satisfy had never hated.
Leisurely, Celine pulled another letter from her pocket. On the front was Bastien’s name and direction in the same writing. It was a copy, as the other had been. The duke stilled, and for the first time, wariness entered her face, perhaps the first dawning realisation she was in serious trouble.
“You can burn this one, too, if it will make you feel better,” Celine said sweetly. “I have more. The original will fall into the wrong hands, of course, should anything happen to me.”
The original was safely hidden, too precious to risk.
Yes, the duke was starting to realise now. All the blood had left her face, and she had put her hand to the back of a chair to steady herself. She was unaware, Celine thought, of having done so. There was no need to point out the consequences to the duke of this treasonous letter being made public; it was only too clear the duke knew. Perhaps even better than Celine, she knew.
And she was going to have to fulfil Celine’s every desire to stop that from happening.
The duke looked up. She was no longer looking at Celine as an inconvenience beneath her notice, but as an adversary she took very seriously indeed. Now, at last, they were playing on an even field.At last.
The world seemed to pitch around Celine, but she didn’t let herself relax any more than the duke had.
In those unearthly eyes, Celine could almost see the emotions cooling, the reserve returning, the manner becoming civil and unhurried. The blackmail had been accepted. Thus they would enter the next phase: an agreement on terms.
Delicately, Celine said, “Won’t you ring for tea?”
“Of course.” The duke matched her tone, crossing the room to pull the cord and murmur instructions to a footman.
The duke gestured Celine to one of the chairs arranged around a small table in the centre of the room and took a seat herself. She leaned her chin on her fingers and baldly considered Celine. Celine looked back, unabashed. After perhaps three minutes of total silence, Celine smiled. “Is it hurting yet?” she whispered. The duke’s face contorted.
Two footmen entered, arranged the tea things on the table, and left.
The duke said in a hard voice, “What is it you want?”
The moment Celine had risked everything for had come. She hid her shaking hands. “I want you to launch me on society and help me make an excellent marriage. To that end you will stand as guardian and settle a dowry on me of twenty thousand pounds.”
“Launch you on society?” the duke repeated with open astonishment. “You are joking.”
“I am not.”
The duke looked her over from foot to forehead. Celine had an idea what she must look like. Her face bore the queasy remnants of makeup. Her dress—a cut and colour that would probably make an English debutante faint—gaped lewdly at the breast, her fingernails were dirty, and she smelled. She looked the furthest thing from respectable. Shewasthe furthest thing from respectable.
“It won’t be possible,” the duke said at last.
She heard a bark of laughter that she realised a moment later was her own bitter, disbelieving voice. “Must I remind you of the letter I hold?”
The duke frowned. “I am willing to be very generous indeed. Somewhere in the vicinity of eighty thousand pounds. Don’t tell me I’ve encountered the one whore in Christendom who can’t be bought.”
