“I would appreciate it if you would stop talking about me as if I’m not here.”
Chapter 27
Brim: (Abbreviation of Brimstone.) An abandoned woman; perhaps originally only a passionate or irascible woman, compared to brimstone for its inflammability.
A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue
Francis Grose
Nick must appear an utter simpleton, flat-footed and flummoxed, as Mariana sailed into the room like a wrathful fury, chest heaving, eyes flashing. But there was no help for it.
“I shan’t be discussed like some pawn in your game of chess,” she stated, coming to a decisive stop before him and Montfort. “I’m a woman of means, both worldly and intellectual, who makes her own decisions.”
“My dear,” Montfort began on a plaintive note.
Nick’s ears perked up. He’d never heard that particular sound emit from the unflappable Bertrand Montfort. This night grew more interesting, and more confounding, by the moment.
“Do notmy dearme, Uncle,” she stated, effectively shushing the man.
Nick settled back, perching lightly against the solid oak table at his back. Mariana had seized total command of the room, and he was inclined to let her have it. Anything that upset Bertrand Montfort’s equilibrium was welcome.
The fact of the matter was that he’d been unable to uncover a shred of physical evidence linking Montfort to the assassination plot. But he’d come here anyway with the intention of bluffing the man out and finding out his motive for initiating the entire business. In fact, he’d skipped London altogether for that very reason.
Well, there had been another reason: by avoiding London, he’d thought to avoid Mariana. Clearly, fate had other ideas.
“Let me see if I have this straight, Uncle,” she said. “You sent cutthroats to—what?—murder Nick?”
“They were meant to warn him off the French king intrigue. Nothing more.”
Nick couldn’t help but enjoy watching Montfort squirm beneath Mariana’s wrath and righteousness. Bertrand Montfort had never squirmed a day in his life. “I’m fairly certain,” Nick cut in, “I mortally wounded one of them.”
“They were ruffians,” Montfort dismissed. “They deserved no better.”
“They may have had families who depended on them,” Mariana countered, her attention landing on Nick for a fleeting second before returning to Montfort.
But for Nick that split second of her attention felt like the warm glow of a springtime sun after an overlong winter. Forty-eight hours, give or take a few minutes, was entirely too long to have been without her.
“Ah, my dear,” Montfort began, paternal condescension coating every syllable, “unfortunately that is not the world in which we live. Hard bargains are made, and hard bargains driven home. It’s easy to forget such realities in our paradise of the Folly.”
Mariana’s eyes flashed fire. “Don’t you dare patronize me,” she said, her voice a lowered octave. “I’m coming to know about you, Uncle. The sweet uncle you’ve appeared to be is at disturbing odds with the ruthless operator revealed in Paris.”
Montfort’s gaze swung toward Nick. “Does she know about Bretagne?”
“I know about Percy,” Mariana spoke up, clearly annoyed by the exclusion.
Still, Montfort continued to address Nick. “What does she know?”
Mariana shot Nick an irritated glance before pinning her uncle with an unflinching glare. “I know,” she began, “he’s been part of your spy network these last eleven years.”
A short, surprised laugh sputtered out of Montfort. “Myspy network? Percy Bretagne would gnaw off his own hand before he would work for me again . . . or fake his death yet again.”
“Can you blame him?” Nick asked.
“Perhaps not,” Montfort replied with an almost imperceptible shrug.
“What am I missing?” Mariana’s eyes darted back and forth between the men.
Montfort shut his mouth and averted his gaze, leaving it to Nick to put this matter to bed once and for all. Nick cleared his throat. He should have told Mariana in Paris. “Although everyone thought him dead after the Battle of Maya”—He hesitated a moment—“Percy actually suffered from amnesia.”
