The Price of Pleasure Read online

  Reed must have lost consciousness, for when he awakened he found himself lying in a swaying cart on a thick pallet of straw, covered by a warm blanket. Daylight had fled; Reed gazed up at the star-studded sky and wondered what in God’s name he had gotten himself into.

  Fleur Fontaine removed her hat and veil and shook out her tangle of lustrous ebony curls. Each time she walked into that maelstrom of human suffering, she died a little inside. She thanked God her husband’s death had come quickly. No man deserved to be treated like an animal, or beaten simply because he was an aristocrat. More importantly, no man deserved to die in Devil’s Chateau. Unfortunately, she couldn’t rescue everyone.

  Fleur lived in constant fear that one day her identity and work for England would be discovered. For the past year, she had lived the life of an anonymous widow, residing in a small cottage with her servants on a sparsely populated spit of land hugging the French coast. The bribe money that facilitated the release of prisoners came from Lord Porter’s agency, as did the names of the men she was to rescue from Devil’s Chateau.

  Lord Reed Harwood was the third man she had spirited out of the jail for political prisoners, and in the worst condition. She prayed Doctor Defoe would be able to save him, for according to the last communication she’d received, Harwood was a man of some importance.

  “How is he tolerating the ride, Antoine?” Fleur asked the man riding in the back of the cart with Reed. The other man drove the wagon along a road that followed the cliff.

  “He’s still alive, countess,” Antoine said. “More than that, I cannot say.”

  “We’ll be home soon. Doctor Defoe should be waiting for us. I summoned him from the village before we left.”

  Fleur sighed and fell silent, overwhelmed by pity. Reed Harwood had suffered more than any man should have to bear. At one time he must have been a handsome man, one much sought after by women. Now he was a shell of that man, filthy, painfully thin and sick. His flesh sagged on his long frame, his gray eyes were dull and his black hair matted and lusterless.

  The driver veered off onto a dirt lane. The night was so dark, Fleur could barely see the small stone-and-wood cottage until it rose up before them.

  “The doctor is here,” Antoine said, pointing to a horse tethered to a tree near the front door.

  The door opened; a weak light leaked through. Fleur hopped down from the cart without help. A short, thin man stepped into the night and approached them.

  “Did all go well? Did you find the one you were looking for?”

  Though Fleur trusted Doctor Defoe, she had been instructed not to reveal the identity of the men he treated. She paid him well for his discretion, and he appreciated the extra coin.

  “I found the man, but I’m not sure he will live.”

  “Everything is prepared. Have your servants carry him inside. I won’t know what I’m up against until I examine him.”

  Fleur watched as her two servants lifted Reed from the cart and took him to the cottage. A plump older woman met them at the door, an expression of immense relief on her face.

  “I have returned safely, Lisette. You can cease fretting now,” Fleur said.

  “Why must you do this, ma petite?” Lisette chided. “I live in fear of the day you will not return.”

  “You know I do this to avenge my husband’s death. We will speak more later. I must attend the doctor.”

  Fleur hurried after Doctor Defoe and his patient, arriving in the bedchamber just as Harwood was eased onto the bed. Lisette followed close on her heels.

  “Hot water, plenty of it, and clean cloths,” Defoe barked. “The man reeks; his flesh is covered in filth.”

  Lisette hurried off to do his bidding.

  “Antoine, fetch two splints for my patient’s arm. You know what I require,” Defoe said.

  “What can I do?” Fleur asked.

  “Right now, nothing.” Defoe shook his head. “Look at him. The poor man’s been starved and beaten. What a terrible waste.”

  “Can you save him? He will need nourishing food and rest while his bones mend.”

  Defoe said nothing as he continued his examination. “Two broken ribs,” he enumerated. His probing elicited a moan from Reed. “They will have to be bound. The bruises will heal, but it may still be too late to save him. Youth is on his side; the will to live beats strong within him.”

  Lisette returned with hot water and cloths. She pushed Fleur aside and began stripping off Reed’s ragged clothing. “Go change, ma chère. I will help the good doctor while you rid yourself of the prison stench.”

  Lisette was right, Fleur thought. She had brought the stench of death and offal with her. “I won’t be long,” Fleur said as she hurried off.

  Fleur took the time for a thorough wash and change of clothing. Staying in character, she donned a plain black gown with no embellishment. She would continue to wear black until her job here was finished.

  Fleur’s thoughts returned to Reed Harwood. He had been harshly treated since his arrival at Devil’s Chateau, though he hadn’t been at the prison during her last visit, about eight months ago, when she had bought another Englishman’s freedom.

  Did Lord Harwood know what had happened in England to make his rescue imperative? She doubted it. The communication she’d received said that he had been working as an agent in Paris and had disappeared from the face of the earth. Fleur had been informed that Devil’s Chateau was one of the last places left to look for him, and it was there she had found him.

  Before Fleur returned to the sickroom, she wrote a hasty note to her contact and sent Antoine to deliver it. The note reported Harwood’s rescue as well as his serious condition. She also explained that if Harwood lived, it would be several weeks before he could travel.

  When Fleur returned to the sickroom, Lisette had washed the patient and thrown a blanket over his nude form. With the dirt removed, it was easy to see that Harwood had once been a handsome man possessed of an admirable physique. If he recovered and regained his lost flesh, he would be an extraordinary specimen of male virility. But that was beside the point.

  “How is he?” Fleur asked.

  “Weak,” Doctor Defoe said. “He couldn’t have lasted much longer. Whoever set his broken arm did a remarkable job, considering what he had to work with.”

  “As for his broken ribs and various external injuries, they will heal. I’m more concerned about losing him to severe malnutrition.” Defoe shook his head. “He must be an extremely stubborn man to hold on as long as he has.”

  “Treat his injuries, Doctor, that’s all I ask. I will nurse him back to health, and Lisette’s cooking will fatten him up.”

  “Don’t feed him anything heavy or rich at first, mind you. Broth and gruel and plenty of liquids. I’m sure he’ll let you know when he’s ready for solid food.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.” She handed him a heavy purse. “I appreciate your coming out this time of night and maintaining secrecy.”

  “I’m no more a fan of the current government than you are.” Defoe snorted. “I’ll leave a salve for his bruises and laudanum. Sleep is essential to his healing; give him laudanum as necessary, but use it sparingly. It is highly addictive. I’ll be back in two days to see how he is progressing.”

  The doctor left. Fleur looked on as Lisette fussed with the patient.

  “We’ve done all we can for now,” Lisette said, moving away from the bed.

  “I’ll sit with him while you prepare a nourishing beef broth. I expect he’ll want some questions answered when he wakes.”

  Fleur pulled a chair up to the bed and sat down. She didn’t know much about Reed Harwood except what she’d learned from secret communications. Harwood, working as an operative for England, spoke flawless French and had gathered valuable information for the Crown. His father had been an earl and the title had passed to his brother. No one seemed to know what had gone wrong or how Harwood had ended up in Devil’s Chateau.

  Fleur studied Reed’s features; the
dark slash of his eyebrows, the thick black hair, the full lips and sunken cheeks, trying to imagine what he had looked like before Devil’s Chateau. Did he have a wife? she wondered. Was he betrothed? He appeared to be somewhere between twenty-five and thirty, give or take a year or two. Most men his age were wed or betrothed.

  Fleur half rose from her chair and leaned close when Reed opened his eyes. They shone like pure silver in the candlelight.

  Full consciousness returned slowly to Reed. With great effort, he opened his eyes a crack and feared he was dreaming. Gone were the rough stone walls, the foul straw upon which he had lain more days than he cared to count. It was too quiet. There was no moaning, no sobbing, no pleading. All Reed heard was blessed silence.

  The overwhelming stench of death and decay was gone. He had lived with the smell for weeks, months. He sniffed the air, recognizing the scent of flowers, sweet clean linen and . . . he was lying naked on clean sheets!

  Reed tried to speak, but no sound came forth. His throat was raw and his mouth filled with cotton.

  “Would you like some water?”

  Ross turned his head toward the dulcet female voice and wondered if he had died and gone to heaven. Nothing this side of paradise could sound so sweet. Reed nodded, praying his dream would go on forever.

  He watched the woman tip up the pitcher on the bedside table and pour water into a glass. Then she slipped an arm under his shoulders to lift his head while she held the glass to his lips. Reed realized this was no dream when he felt her soft breasts pressing against his cheek. The water tasted sweet and pure, unlike the dark, murky liquid that passed for water in prison. And the woman smelled of . . . flowers.

  “More?” the woman asked when Reed drained the glass.

  Reed shook his head. “You . . . speak . . . English.”

  “I was born in England. How do you feel?”

  “I . . . hurt, but I can’t recall when I didn’t hurt. Am I dreaming?”

  “No, this is real. The doctor has already seen you and left you in my hands. If you’re in pain, I can give you some laudanum.”

  “Later. Who are you? Where am I?”

  “What do you remember?”

  “Being in a dark pit and wishing for death.”

  “Is that all?”

  Reed frowned, searching his memory. Suddenly it came to him. The Black Widow. He searched her face. She wasn’t wearing a veil now, and what he saw stunned him. Flickering candlelight revealed the Black Widow to be young and lovely. Pale skin, ebony hair falling in curls around her face, long sooty eyelashes and full lips. She was a raving beauty.

  “Are you the Black Widow?” She nodded. “I don’t understand. Why would you want a dying man? What good am I to you? If pleasure is the price you demand for my freedom, I fear the price is too high. I’m in no condition to please either of us.”

  “It’s good to know the persona I fabricated is working. My name is Fleur Fontaine. I am English by birth. My late husband was a French count; he went to the guillotine during the Reign of Terror. He arranged for my escape but was unable to save himself.”

  “I’m sorry,” Reed said softly. “Why are you doing this? Why me? I understand none of this.”

  “I don’t expect you to, not yet. Enough questions for now. You’re in pain. Let me give you some laudanum. When you awaken, I will feed you some broth that Lisette is preparing as we speak. You are dangerously malnourished. And if you are to return to England, your broken bones must heal properly.”

  Reed watched as she mixed laudanum with water in a glass and held it to his lips. He drank, grimaced and at her urging drank some more. After a few minutes, Reed’s eyes grew heavy. “Fleur,” he murmured. “Flower. It fits. You smell like flowers.”

  Fleur’s smile bathed him in sunshine despite the darkness closing in on him. “And you, my lord earl, need to rest.”

  Hovering on the edge of consciousness, Reed wanted to tell her he wasn’t an earl and that the title belonged to his brother, but his mind had shut down.

  Fleur bent to brush a lock of hair away from Reed’s forehead, then quietly tiptoed from the chamber. He had spoken, which was a good sign. He’d also expressed curiosity, another good sign.

  Fleur made her way to the kitchen. The rich beef broth simmering in a kettle over the hearth smelled delicious. Fleur hoped that nourishing food and good care would snatch Reed Harwood from the brink of death so he could return to England in full health.

  The last man Fleur had rescued hadn’t been in prison long and was able to return to England within a fortnight. Fleur feared Harwood wasn’t going to be as lucky. Her main worry was discovery. How many times could she bribe Lucien before the authorities caught up with her? How long before she was imprisoned as a spy herself? Fleur sighed. She couldn’t think of that now. Not when she had someone more important than herself to protect.

  Lisette turned from the pot she was stirring when she saw Fleur. “How is the patient?”

  “He’s sleeping. I gave him laudanum; he should be out until morning.”

  “Morning isn’t very far off, ma petite. Go to bed. There is nothing more you can do. The broth simmers nicely and will be ready when he awakens.”

  Fleur yawned. “I should sit with him in case he takes a turn for the worse.”

  “Let Gaston sit with him tonight. He can see to his needs better than you. You need your rest. Going into that prison again must have been difficult.” She gave Fleur a little push. “Go, I will fetch Gaston.”

  Fleur gave in; there was no arguing with Lisette where Fleur’s health was concerned. “Very well. Tell Gaston to call me should he need me.”

  Fleur made a detour to the sickroom before retiring to her own chamber. Though his lordship was sleeping, he moved restlessly in the bed, moaning softly. She heard him mutter something and leaned close to listen. Shock rolled through her when she heard his words.

  “Betrayed. Got to tell Porter. Dying . . . dying . . . ”

  Fleur’s hand went immediately to his brow, expecting to feel the heat of fever, but his skin was cool to her touch. She could only imagine what he’d been through. Something about this man struck a chord in her that went beyond pity. Something about the new Earl of Hunthurst was different from the other men she had plucked from prison and sent on their way to England.

  Just then Gaston arrived in the sickroom and urged Fleur to seek her own bed. Fleur didn’t know what she would do or how she would proceed without her faithful Lisette, Antoine and Gaston. They had fled with her after her husband had been taken away and remained after she began her undercover work for Lord Porter.

  “Call me if there is a change in his condition,” Fleur told Gaston.

  “Of course, Countess.”

  Fleur considered correcting him about addressing her as a countess; the Reign of Terror had stripped the title from her, but she decided her words would do little good. To her faithful servants, she would always be Countess Fleur Fontaine.

  Chapter Two

  Reed was aware of little that went on around him during the following days. He knew by Fleur’s scent when she appeared at his bedside. But when he tried to bestir himself, his eyes refused to open. Somewhere in his befuddled brain he knew he was being fed laudanum. Sometimes he roused enough to swallow broth, gruel and rich puddings.

  Reed always knew when the doctor paid a call, for pain occurred with each visit. But as the days passed, his broken bones began to mend, his mind cleared, and broth and gruel no longer satisfied him. During his lucid moments, he decided to forgo the laudanum the next time it was offered to him. He needed more answers than Fleur had given him, and he wouldn’t get them as long as his mind remained in a fog.

  The servant was sitting with him one morning when Reed awakened. After Gaston helped him wash and clean his teeth, Reed asked for something more substantial to eat than his usual fare. He spoke in French, for he’d discovered that Gaston spoke no English.

  “I will fetch the countess for you,” Gaston said as h
e hurried from the chamber.

  Once he was alone, Reed levered himself into a sitting position with his uninjured arm and sat at the edge of the bed. When Fleur bustled into the chamber, he hastily covered his loins with the sheet.

  Fleur spoke to him in English. “What are you doing? Are you in pain? Do you want more laudanum?”

  “No more laudanum,” Reed rasped. “I’m hungry. Now that I know I’m going to live, I need something more substantial than the pap you’ve been feeding me.”

  “It was touch and go for a while,” Fleur admitted. “Doctor Defoe said you would know when it’s time for solid food. I’ve been waiting for you to ask. But we can’t overload your stomach with heavy fare for a while yet. Lisette will know what is best for you right now.”

  “Lisette,” Reed repeated. “Your cook?”

  “My cook, my companion, she is everything to me. She will probably suggest eggs and toasted bread to start. If that stays down, we’ll proceed from there.”

  “I need to move around a bit,” Reed said. “If I lie abed much longer, my muscles will atrophy, or what’s left of them,” he added wryly. He held out his good arm and shook his head. “I look like a skeleton. My brother won’t recognize me when I return home.”

  He sent her a piercing look. “I am returning to England, aren’t I?”

  “You are indeed, my lord, but not until you are ready. Your departure will require a great deal of preparation. Lord Porter already knows you’re alive and will inform me when to expect a ship to take you back to England. I’ve made him aware that you’ll need a lengthy recovery period before you can depart.”

  “You work for Porter? You’re an English operative?” He tried to smile, revealing a dimple in his right cheek. “So you don’t take men from prison and force them to pleasure you.”

  Fleur laughed. “I hardly think you or any of the men I rescue are in any condition to give pleasure.”

  “How do you get in touch with Porter?”

  “Through my contact here in France. I receive my orders from him. As you have guessed, I am an English operative.”