Chapter 10
The next morning, a commotion rose from the grand hall below—a sharp, masculine voice speaking French, the hurried footsteps of a butler—shattering the quiet of the house.
Emma froze, her hand on her own doorknob.
It was not Lord Bainbridge’s easy baritone or her brother’s softer tones.
This voice was clipped, aristocratic, and carried a note of impatient command that set her teeth on edge.
Drawn by a sense of foreboding, she crept to the top of the grand staircase, peering through the balusters.
A man stood in the entrance hall, tall and impeccably dressed, handing his hat and a silver-headed walking stick to a footman.
His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, his features sharp and handsome in a way that felt predatory, like a hawk’s.
He cast a long, sharp shadow across the marble floor.
Then Amélie appeared from the drawing room.
The transformation was instantaneous and horrifying.
The woman who had commanded Emma’s body with such confident grace seemed to physically collapse into herself.
Her shoulders, usually held with a dancer’s poise, hunched forward.
The vibrant color drained from her face, leaving her skin a waxy, sallow shade.
She took a single, involuntary step backward, her hand flying to her throat as if to ward off a blow.
Emma watched, her heart turning to a stone in her chest, as Amélie shrank before her eyes.
“Armand,” her voice a reedy whisper, stripped of all its melodic warmth.
The man smiled, a thin, bloodless motion of the lips that did not touch his pale gray eyes. “Ma chère belle-mère,” he said, his French accent a silken sheath over a blade. “You look surprised to see me. Did you think you could hide from your family obligations in this dreary corner of England?”
Dinner was an exercise in exquisite torture.
They were all gathered in the formal dining room, a parade of stiff silks and starched linen under the tyranny of a dozen glittering chandeliers.
Armand had been placed directly opposite Amélie, a strategic move by Nora that now felt like a general positioning his cannons.
He watched her, his gaze an unblinking, reptilian assessment.
He did not eat so much as preside over his plate, his every movement economical and precise.
Amélie, by contrast, was a study in disintegration.
Her hands trembled so violently she could not lift her wine glass without rattling it against her teeth.
She held her soup spoon in a white-knuckled grip, pushing the contents of her bowl from one side to the other, never once bringing it to her lips.
Emma’s own food tasted like ash. A molten fury built in her gut, a protective instinct so fierce it was a physical pain. Every time Armand spoke, Emma felt the urge to leap across the table and claw the smug, handsome mask from his face.
“You look unwell, Amélie,” Armand observed, dabbing his lips with a napkin. “This sea air does not agree with you. You have grown thin. Paris misses you, you know. Your friends ask after you constantly.”
“My friends know how to write,” Amélie managed, her voice barely audible over the clinking of silver.
“Ah, but letters are so impersonal,” he countered smoothly.
“They cannot convey the true depth of one’s…
concern.” His gaze flickered to Emma, lingered for a fraction of a second too long, then returned to his stepmother.
“It would be such a shame if rumors of your…particular friendships…were to reach certain circles in Paris, ma chère belle-mère. A woman in your precarious position must be so very careful of her reputation.”
The threat, veiled and vicious, landed with the force of a physical blow. Emma saw Amélie flinch as if struck. The blood drained from her own face, a cold terror gripping her. He knew. Or he suspected. It was enough.
“The hunting has been excellent this season, wouldn’t you agree, Bainbridge?” Emmett cut in, his voice a little too loud, a little too hearty. “The pheasants on the downs are particularly sporting.”
Lord Bainbridge, who had been studying Armand with a quiet, unnerving intensity, turned his attention to Emmett.
“Indeed, Cresthaven. Though I find they lack the strategic thinking of a good game of chess.” His eyes met Emma’s across the table, a silent exchange of support and alarm.
He saw it, too. He understood the game being played.
Armand waved a dismissive hand. “Such rustic pursuits. No, I find my time is better spent securing the future. Which brings me to the true purpose of my visit, Amélie.” He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that seemed to draw all the air from the room.
“I have been working tirelessly on your behalf, of course. Your financial affairs are…tangled. But I believe I have found the perfect solution.”
He paused, savoring the rapt attention of his audience.
“One of my dearest associates, the Comte de Valois, has long been an admirer of yours. He is a man of considerable influence and even more considerable appetites.” Armand’s cold smile widened.
“He has been looking for a wife to lend his establishment some…class. An arrangement has been proposed. A most advantageous arrangement, for all of us. He is willing to overlook any…past indiscretions…in exchange for the Beauchamp name and connections. Your future, and your fortune, will be secured.”
He sat back, his pale eyes glittering with triumph, leaving his words to hang in the horrified silence. He was not just threatening Amélie with exposure. He was announcing her sale.