Gervase froze for a moment as lingering remnants of jealousy made him wonder if his wife had met a lover and the boy had misunderstood.
Suspicion dissolved when Geoffrey grabbed his hand, shaking it in his frenzy. “Veseul, she said! She sent me for help. Mamascreamed. He wants to hurt her.”
To the horror of the two men, the boy’s eyes rolled back and he pitched to the hard marble floor in the first stages of a seizure, his breathing a harsh rattle in the empty hall.
Swearing, Gervase knelt by his son, pulling off his coat and shoving it under the boy’s head for whatever protection it might give. Frightening as the seizure was, Geoffrey needed him far less than Diana did.
Fragments of information clicked into a terrifying new pattern. It wasn’t spying that had brought Veseul to loiter near Diana’s house, but her extraordinary beauty and her closeness to Gervase. The Frenchman had been barred from London brothels for his violence. He would not dare attack Diana here unless he intended to leave no witness to his crime.
Springing to his feet, Gervase said in staccato sentences, “The fit will be over in a minute or two. Make sure he doesn’t hurt himself. Send for his nurse, Madeline. She’ll know what to do. Then send help to the maze. Veseul is dangerous.”
As he tore across the hall toward the door, Francis knelt by the convulsing child, his hands gentle and a glowing warmth in his heart in spite of the circumstances. By the simple act of entrusting his son to his cousin, Gervase had atoned for his earlier insult in a manner far more meaningful than any spoken apology.
* * *
Veseul grabbed Diana in one powerful hand, looming over her in all his broad muscular strength. He was panting, the wildness of his eyes showing the beast that had always lurked beneath his polished surface. He used his other hand to give a hard, open-handed blow to the side of her head. “That should take some of the fire out of you, little bitch!”
Diana’s head snapped sideways and she nearly blacked out. She was helpless as a doll as he lowered her to the ground and immobilized her by straddling her thighs.
Ignoring the feeble attempts to resist, he laid one heavy palm against her cheek and crooned, “So exquisite, so entirely perfect. If you had only been more accommodating, I could have shown you delights you have never reached with an Englishman. Cold of heart, cold of hand, the English.”
The fingers of one hand slipped into her hair and his other palm clenched her breast painfully. “Silk and softness. Everything a woman should be. On the one hand, it’s a tragic waste to kill you, but destroying beauty is a high, pure art, and I will draw strength and power from the destruction. No one else will ever know, which will give me all the more power.”
His madness was nearly as paralyzing as the weakness of Diana’s body. With shocking strength, Veseul used both hands to rip first the bodice of her gown, then the layers of undergarments beneath. When her breasts were exposed, he pinched both nipples hard. When she cried out, he sighed voluptuously and his lower body began grinding against her.
“A pity there is so little time, but it will be enough,” he said in the same eerie, conversational tone. “I am an artist of destruction, you know. Today I will destroy you, the purest essence of female beauty I’ve ever seen. Then I will go to London and weave a web of brilliant lies that will destroy Wellesley, the purest warrior of our age after Bonaparte himself.”
The tip of his tongue shot out serpent-quick to lick his lips. “And the destruction of the first two will destroy your husband, the purest form of cold, hard Englishman. Damned to the lot of them!”
All her life Diana’s beauty had attracted unwanted attention and violence, but never had she felt so helpless and victimized as she did now. As she struggled, Veseul easily caught her wrists and pinned them to the ground above her head with one of his hands.
His breath was heavy with the scent of brandy and his tangy cologne turned her stomach with nausea. Her legs numbed beneath his weight, and his bright, blank eyes bored into her with hypnotic intensity.
“When I have accomplished all that, perhaps I shall destroy myself,” he said reflectively. “For the rest of my life will be anticlimactic, and I abhor anticlimax.”
Diana began to scream, hoping that someone, anyone, was within earshot. She had scarcely begun when he bent over and crushed his mouth over hers, smothering her voice easily with his thick lips and pointed tongue. For all the good her struggling did, she might as well be lying utterly passive.
Hopeless with despair, she felt the demon of violence that had stalked her for a lifetime closing in for the kill.
* * *
The maze had been Gervase’s playground and retreat as a child, so he forced himself to slow down to remember the route so he wouldn’t waste precious seconds on dead ends. For the whole of his relationship with Diana, he had gone down blind alleys, running in fear from what was so freely and generously offered. He would not let himself do that again at this moment of greatest crisis.
Even though he knew the path, his progress seemed slow as he raced between the tall hedges, hurtling around the corners. He was halfway through when he heard Diana’s voice raised in a scream that was suddenly, terrifyingly, cut off.
Gervase froze, paralyzed with anguish at being too late. Lost in the selfishness of his guilt, he had rejected his salvation and the one bright light of his life was extinguished. He had failed Diana, himself, and their son, and for his sins he was cursed to spend eternity in darkness.
In the aftermath of catastrophe, nothing remained but the absolute need to avenge her.
When Gervase burst into the clearing at the heart of the maze, he saw the Count de Veseul’s broad body pinning Diana to the cold earth. So total was Gervase’s certainty that she was dead that at first he disbelieved the evidence of his eyes when she moved, still struggling against her attacker.
Joy lanced through him. This time he had not failed. Redemption was still attainable.
He did not pause to savor the exultation of his relief. In three strides he crossed the clearing, bellowing a wordless challenge to Veseul.
The Frenchman knew who came without even looking. He leapt to his feet and kicked Diana in the ribs to weaken her so she would not interfere. Then he swung around to face his attacker. His burly frame crouched in the stance of an experienced fighter.
Gervase recognized that skill and slowed, knowing that a headlong assault would put him at a lethal disadvantage. He had perfected his knowledge of hand-to-hand fighting in the unforgiving school of combat, and his eyes narrowed in concentration as he circled sideways, watching for a weakness. To test his opponent, he threw a single blow with his left hand. Veseul easily blocked it, so Gervase riposted with a sharp blow with his right hand.
