Cora (Virtue & Vice #4)

Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

GIDEON

T he young man’s weariness was evident as he led Gideon deeper into the mansion, down a hall and into a study. He had never set foot into Countess Oreste’s infamous parlor before. Until recently, this had been Eryx Wilder’s territory. Gideon therefore took his time examining the space filled with dark furniture and stained wood. The walls that were not lined with shelves and cabinets were covered in silk wallpaper, an understated feminine touch to an otherwise thoroughly masculine space.

“What can I help you with, Mr. Wentworth?”

“I understand you are Countess Oreste’s son?”

“I am.” The boy poured him a glass of brandy without asking whether he wanted one this early in the day. Gideon accepted it and set it aside. “My mother was called away on urgent business before the Christmas holiday. I have been looking after her affairs ever since.” He grimaced. “Making a hash of things, frankly.”

“I doubt my visit will bring you any solace, Lord Bristow.”

“Wonderful.” He flopped into a chair. “You may call me Archie. I’m not a lord. The count was my stepfather, not my natural sire.”

Right, he’d forgotten that Oreste’s son had been born out of wedlock. “You might have heard that I recently acquired Mr. Wilder’s bank.”

Archie nodded tiredly.

“There is an underlying loan arrangement that requires Countess Oreste’s signature.”

“That’s a problem.”

“When is she expected to return?”

“I don’t know.” He sighed. “She departed suddenly for France, but no one has seen her there. Not her old friends in the demi-monde, not Comte Oreste’s family, no one. She hasn’t contacted anyone since.”

Disquiet roiled Gideon’s gut. He had a bad feeling about this. “I need her signature, or that of her legal representative, on this document.”

He held it out. Archie read it quickly and said, “I am afraid I cannot assist you with that, Mr. Wentworth. I only become her legal representative upon her death. Without proof of her death, my hands are tied.”

“Is it a possibility?”

“Anything is possible with my mum,” Archie said, and flopped into a wingback chair beside an ornate fireplace. The fire itself was gas, but the mantel was elegantly carved marble and had clearly been retained for character. “Except death. Probably. I hope. Lord knows I would rather finish school than deal with all of this.”

A crumb of pity for the young man wormed its way under Gideon’s skin. Archie was clearly in over his head and struggling to manage his mother’s complicated affairs.

The boy took up Gideon’s untouched brandy and sipped thoughtfully. “I was supposed to return to university this semester, but instead I’m dealing with a bunch of feuding women.”

“They can be quarrelsome,” Gideon said mildly, thinking of the fight he intended to pick with Cora when he arrived home. His cock stirred with ill-timed interest. He had beat a hasty retreat from her bedroom on their wedding night. Too hasty. He ought to have held his ground. The way the silk hugged her curves…

Gideon bit his own knuckle.

“Are you hungry?” Archie asked, perplexed. “I can have a tray prepared.”

“What?”

“You’re eating your own hand.”

“I was momentarily distracted.” Gideon clasped his hands behind his back to prevent further thoughtless incidents. He didn’t ordinarily telegraph his thoughts so readily. He was on tenterhooks, needing his wife so badly and yet denying himself the satisfaction to which he was entitled. “If you are unwilling to sign the document, then I must leave you to your female troubles.”

“I am not unwilling. I’m not permitted. There is a difference.”

“I would take the risk.” If the countess objected for some inexplicable reason, almost any court would uphold the legality of a man’s signature while stepping in to manage her affairs. It remained unclear to Gideon how a woman had acquired such independent wealth in the first place. Her French husband hadn’t had a pot to piss in, as he understood matters. The money came from Belladonna’s time as a courtesan, amplified by Wilder’s shrewd investments. Not only in this scandalous enterprise.

“I, however, am not. My mother’s business dealings with Wilder are not to be trifled with.”

Gideon stifled a sigh.

“Please do let me know immediately when she returns.”

Archie’s expression transformed into one of great concern. “I shall. I am worried for her safety. It isn’t like her to disappear, but I don’t know who to turn to for help. Scotland Yard is no use. You have a connection to Queen Victoria. Would you be so kind as to ask for her assistance?”

Good lord, the boy was sincere. Gideon had to stifle the urge to laugh. The Queen? Intercede on behalf of the most scandalous countess in London?

Unlikely.

Unfathomable, really.

Still, if he wanted this stupid bank merger finally done and dusted, he needed Countess Oreste’s signature. Which meant that someone needed to find her. Quickly.

* * *

Meanwhile, in France…

Light sliced across Bella’s tired eyes. She blinked rapidly.

Heavy footfalls on the wooden steps reached her ears. Gibface. She tensed, suddenly awake.

“You stink.” He kicked an empty wooden bucket closer to her.

“Happens when one is denied proper bathing facilities or clean clothes,” she answered tartly. If he was impressed with her pluck, the brute didn’t show it. He unhooked her from the chain. Her arms dropped to her sides like lead, connected with a dirty, fraying rope looped around each wrist. It wasn’t easy to gather her skirts and use the bucket, but she was grateful to have the freedom of not soiling herself for once. A measure of her former pride seeped in. She didn’t care whether the great oaf witnessed her hiking up her skirts or not. He, apparently, did not care to see her in this condition, for he stomped back upstairs and left the door open.

Grimly, she took stock of her situation. There was no point in screaming for help. She had tried that, to no avail. From time to time during her captivity, she thought she had heard a woman’s voice. She spoke French, this unknown woman. Although Bella had never been able to make out distinct words, she recognized the cadence and tones.

She was still in France, then. In the countryside. Somewhere she could be left alone for hours or days at a time without a guard.

Somewhere no one would ever think to look for her.

Her captor returned, carrying a second bucket. By now, Bella’s eyes had adjusted to the low light. She had spent untold weeks memorizing the patterns of Gibface’s comings and goings. This was her one chance.

She snatched up her waste bucket and threw it at the man’s head. He barked a yelp and toppled backward, his own pail flying upward. She barely raised her arms in time to protect her face before cold water hit her everywhere at once.

Never mind the water. Run!

She scrambled up the wooden stairs, pushing her weakened body as fast as it would move. Six steps between her and freedom.

She made it four.

Her captor grabbed her ankle. Bella toppled forward, landing hard. The imprint of a stair would be imprinted in flowering violet across her thighs. She dug into the wood, screaming, “Aidez-moi! Je vous prie, aidez-moi! Help me!”

Pain exploded in the back of her skull. She sank into merciful unconsciousness, and awoke, alone, in more pain than any human should have to endure.

* * *

Bella lost track of time. She could no longer distinguish between night and day by the subtle warming and cooling of the walls. She was always cold. Tired. Thirsty. All her thoughts were of food. She dreamed of tables laden with roasts and stews, fresh bread and fruit. She awoke feeling sick to her stomach as if she had gorged herself and cast up her accounts, only to realize she was still a captive.

The door creaked open. Gibface’s unmistakable form blocked most of the weak light, still bright enough to burn her eyes.

“Sign this,” he ordered.

“What?” Bella stared at the paper thrust in front of her face. English. It was written in her native language.

“Sign it.”

“Will you let me go if I do?”

He grunted. When she didn’t sign it, Gibface left. Bella was never going to sign that damn paper. It was obvious that she was never getting out of this pit alive. Signing anything would only be a gift to her captors. At least Archie would be able to take over her immense wealth.

Perhaps it would protect him better than it had protected her.