Page 84 of Misadventures with a Duke

Dieu, I would be happy to accept the lash of her fury again, instead of this bizarre distance. The strange haze that continues to cover her face, as if she has figuratively reclaimed her sheer shawl from me, only to wrap it around her head.

“Because of the scroll,” she finally states. “The decree…that Louis signed for you.” She gasps, and I am too damn sure it is not because of the shock taking over my own countenance. “The scroll that you left on the night table…before Marquette came in and…and…”

“Raegan?” It is a raw demand from the depths of my throat, coinciding with the horrified gasp from the pit of hers. “Raegan?”

She releases another harsh breath, verging on a sob. “Oh, Bastien,” she rasps. “Oh…no…”

Before she is done, I have enough time to toss aside her shawl and brace myself—to stop her plummet from an all-consuming faint.

Her head lolls against the crook of my arm. All the strength in my body funnels toward her. All the air in my lungs is stolen and frozen.

Which means the stunned what the hell on the air is not hers. Nor mine.

Through nothing short of a miracle, I manage to swing my head around. “Drue,” I dimly croak. “Thank Christ.”

“Holy shit.” She yanks the peacock-blue fichu from her bosom, at once using its satin surface to dab at Raegan’s forehead. The crinolines of her blue-bows-everywhere gown are a mass of urgent rustles. “What happened?”

“Eh?”

“Holy shit. Okay, scratch that and oxygen in your lungs. I need you to pick her up because I can’t in all…this.”

I dip a quick nod before securing Raegan and most of her dress into my hold. At least five times, my frustration echoes what Drue has just expressed. I yearn to rip out the ridiculous crinolines and toss them into the shadows. But the last thing we need right now is undue attention—exactly what Drue is attempting to steer us clear from.

“Come on,” she directs, rushing beneath a sign that says Main Concourse. We round another corner before entering a small room with doors that slide shut after we enter. I am too absorbed with watching Raegan to wonder why the little room seems to be rattling and then slowly descending.

Less than a minute later, we leave the room and again turn to the left. Drue leads the way toward a flight of stairs heralded by another sign.

The Campbell Apartment

“This is out of the way,” Drue explains before I can ask exactly who Campbell is or why he wants the whole world to know where his apartment is. “And, from the scoopage I overheard around the party, it’s also been clammed for the night because of the hoo ra-ra over the gala.”

Only half a dozen of her words make sense, but I latch on to the main points like they’re my new air. Hopefully, we are headed away from prying eyes and suspicious curiosities, most notably belonging to anyone who knows Detective Liam Logan.

At the top of the stairs, we confront a locked door. Drue unlatches the jeweled pin from her bodice and uses the long point to release the lock, mumbling something fervent about not having to find her way around “digital fuckery.”

I am equally thankful the digits and their fuckery have stayed away, especially as we enter a room of sweeping grandeur. If I had moments to waste on being fully impressed with the space, I would indulge them. The wall sconces are made of sleek stained glass. The high hand-painted ceiling leads my gaze down the long room. At the end, on the other side of a bar topped with polished stone, there are plush chairs and couches. Across from the bar, there is a grand storage cabinet fronted by five carved doors.

I rush Raegan to one of the black leather chairs in front of that huge chest. My muscles strain as I take care not to jostle her. She moans now, fluttering her eyes as if struggling to focus.

“Rayonnement?” I lean in after grunting in gratitude to Drue for bringing over a damp cloth. I dab it along Raegan’s face, but she flaps and shoves at me. “Sweet girl,” I urge. “Please—”

But she thwacks at me again, which has me darting a scowl toward Drue.

“She’s not totally conscious yet,” the woman says. “What the hell happened?”

I shake my head. Trying to give her the answer would take hours we do not have. “Do you think we should summon a physician?” I demand instead. “I care not if Logan finds out. If she is unwell in some way—”

“Okay, slow up. Right now, that might be the password before the log-in.”

“You want to bring in a log? All the way up here?”

Drue opens her mouth. Closes it. Clamps the front of her head as if talking herself out of saying something but speaks anyway. “I’m just saying first things first, all right? Let me go find your brother and Allie. All hell’s going to bust loose, with or without logs, if those two look around the party and don’t find us. Plus, if we really do need a doctor, maybe Allie can pull some strings and find one who’s willing to slide in on the DL.”

That ensures she has my fast and fervent nod. “Most excellent plan, then. Go.”

The woman turns, requiring no more treatises or encouragement. Once more I acknowledge how valuable an asset Drue Kidman would be on a clandestine mission or on a battlefield. If she had been but born two hundred and fifty years ago…and as a man…

It is all the thought I have of that subject. Or any others. No considerations are of matter, in any form, other than the freshly moaning woman at my side. But while her burst is full of new strength, her countenance is not. She is still writhing in a dream world, crying out at her own apparitions…