Much Ado About Rogues. Kasey Michaels
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before it was too late for any of them.
But it had already been too late. He should have seen the signs, made a decision as to what was most important to him, and taken his wife and children to safety. Instead, he and his band of compatriots goaded and pushed the Directorie at every turn. Employing a plan devised by Sinjon, they nearly succeeded in an attempt to assassinate several of its leaders.
And that, to Sinjon, had been his single biggest mistake. The Directorie retaliated with all the might still at its disposal, hunting down and disseminating their opposition. While Sinjon and his men hid in cellars, not knowing what was happening, his adored Marie Louise had become one of the casualties of his folly.
He’d cried then, great blubbering drunken sobs. Jack sat silent, as there were no words that could comfort the man, heal his guilt and his loss. At that moment, no matter what Sinjon asked of him, Jack would do it. Because he was looking at a beaten old man who had lost everything; his wife, his country, his fortune. Here in England he lived in genteel poverty in a run-down manor house, employed by the Crown but never quite trusted.
Genteel poverty. Forced to plot and often kill, not only to exact justice for all he’d lost and rid the world of that upstart Bonaparte, but also to save a prime minister from scandal, find a way to disgrace those whose voices in Parliament didn’t agree with the Crown, employ his skills to clean up the many messes those in power made with regularity. He’d no choice.
Except that he did. He’d always had a choice. The man had been grieving? How much? Drowning his guilt and sorrows? Really? Jack knew he’d never know exactly where Sinjon’s clever mix of truth and fiction had merged that night, but only the reality of what he had seen. He had been the man’s audience, drawn in, made sympathetic to a supposedly sad and disillusioned wreck of a man. What had come next, his introduction to the second secret room, to the marquis’s secret life, would forever color his opinion of his mentor.
Now he would show Tess her real father, the damning part of the man that could readily be seen. A dose of truth couldn’t hurt her any more than the fiction she’d built up around the man, the fiction Sinjon had so cleverly encouraged.
“Give me the candles, Tess, and follow me,” Jack said, and then led the way down the steps and across the room to the stone he’d located earlier.
“There’s more to see?” Tess asked as he pushed on the stone and it pivoted easily.
Jack held the brace of candles at shoulder level as the cabinet holding Sinjon’s inspired arsenal slid aside. “Look at what’s there, Tess, and at what isn’t. As one important piece is missing.”
He stood back and allowed her to walk into the small chamber lined with shelves from floor to low ceiling on three sides. The only furniture in the room was a single chair placed directly in its center; where Sinjon would sit to admire his genius.
“To your left, the Greek. To your right, the Roman. Straight ahead, and most interesting of all for what isn’t there, the Egyptian. Your father’s treasures. Or should I say, your competition. What Sinjon loves most in this world. What he risked his family for, lost his wife for, sacrificed his children’s childhoods for, I suppose some may think. I know I do.”
Tess turned in a slow circle, the candlelight casting strange shadows on the rows and rows of artifacts, shining back to her from Roman shields and breastplates, dancing along gem-encrusted bowls, illuminating ancient busts, helmets, bracelets, necklaces… and reflected in the tears in her eyes.
Selling only a few small pieces would have provided more than enough to pay the village shopkeepers, repair the manor house, educate his son at the best schools in England, purchase a mansion in Mayfair, launch his daughter into Society.
If Sinjon could part with any of his treasures. If selling them on the open market wouldn’t mean the end of him.
“I don’t… I can’t… How, Jack? Why?”
“Let’s go back upstairs,” Jack said, taking the brace of candles from her and leading the way, holding on to her hand as they went. Her suddenly very cold hand.
He poured her a glass of wine and took it to her as she sat with exaggerated erectness on the leather couch, staring at nothing. She shook her head slightly in refusal so he downed it himself, and then positioned himself at the front of the desk, resting against its edge.
Jack would have spared her this if he could, but she’d made it impossible. Sinjon had made it impossible. The man she so admired, so longed to please, her so wonderful, perfect and heroic father. He wondered how long it would take her to understand the implications of what she’d just seen.
It didn’t take half as long as he’d thought. She’d always been very bright.
“He’s a thief, isn’t he?” she said finally. “My father is a thief.”
“I made that mistake myself, and was quickly corrected. He sees himself more as a private collector. A thief, you see, steals for profit. Sinjon was always most discerning, taking only the best and keeping it for his own private enjoyment. Your competition, Tess, the true loves of his life.”
Tess bent her head and began rubbing hard at her temples. “God. Oh, sweet Jesus…”
Jack pushed himself away from the desk and sat down beside her, taking her hands in his and lowering them to her lap, not letting them go. “It was easy in France,” he told her. “He had his title to protect him. Nobody suspected that the treasures he brought home with him from his travels were anything but the purchases of a wealthy man. He could display many of them openly, keeping only the most easily recognizable safely hidden away, where he could appreciate them. He was admired, sought after to speak about antiquities. An acknowledged expert, the so-fascinating Marquis de Fontaine. Nobody knew, Tess, not even your mother. That’s what he was trying to protect when he sided with the other Royalists. His way of life. His treasures. In the end, the new French government got most of them, so he came here, and started over.”
“Started over…” she repeated softly. “But… but he was working with the Crown.”
“What better excuse to travel where he wanted, make use of secret channels of transportation, have access to ships, to the plans of the mansions of the wealthy, museums… palaces. There was a war going on, treasures were disappearing everywhere, for many reasons. Some say Bonaparte brought half of Egypt back to France with him. I think Sinjon hated him most for that, and that the Emperor had the treasures and he didn’t. But your father also did his job, Tess, and very well, to give the man the credit due him. And then, when the mission was complete, he’d reward himself by adding to his collection. But Sinjon isn’t a young man anymore. He could still choose the prize, formulate the plans, but it soon became apparent to him that he needed someone else to execute them.”
Tess had been breathing rapidly, but now she took a deep, openmouthed breath that was nearly a gasp. She was attempting to get herself under control. “René?” she asked at last. “Did he…?”
“I don’t think he knew, no. In any case, he hadn’t proved as talented as Sinjon had hoped. You, however, exceeded his expectations, and he’d every intention of introducing you to that room down there. Until I came along. You want praise from the man, Tess? I’ll tell you something he told me. You should have been born the son.”
Tess smiled ruefully. “How very like him. Every compliment has a hook on the end, one that digs straight into the flesh. Praise for me, at the expense of my brother. We were in a competition, weren’t we? One of my father’s deliberate making. The winner gets to collect for him. I think I’m going to be sick.” But then she rallied, as another question struck her. “Did you… did you steal with him?”
Tess knew what he’d done before coming to the manor house. How he’d played at cards, played at highwayman, played at most anything, running wild and angry, always searching for something, never knowing what that something was. Never knowing if he was running toward something, or away from himself. The bastard who belonged nowhere.
Sinjon must