“So long as you come with me.” He reached them in two strides, his hand shooting out to grab Amélie’s arm, his fingers digging into her flesh like talons. Amélie cried out in pain.
“You’ll take your hands from her, sir,” Emma snarled, moving to shove him away.
Faster than she could have imagined, he released Amélie and spun, the silver head of his walking stick coming up to block her path. With a flick of his wrist, a thin, needle-sharp blade snaked out from the tip, the steel glittering in the lamplight. He pressed the point against the hollow of Emma’s throat.
“I would not do that if I were you, little farm girl,” he whispered, his face inches from hers. His breath was cold, smelling faintly of wine and malice. “You have spirit. I admire that. But you are playing a game whose rules you cannot possibly comprehend.”
The point of the blade was an icy star against her throat. Emma did not dare to breathe, her entire world narrowed to that single, terrifying point of contact. Armand’s smile was a predator’s, confident in his victory. He believed he had them trapped, two frightened women with no recourse but to submit. It was his first mistake. He did not know her. He did not know the stubborn, unyielding core of her, forged in years of being told she was less. He did not know what she would do for the woman standing behind him, whose ragged breathing was the only other sound in the room.
Emma’s mind, swept clean of panic, began to work with a brutal, crystalline clarity. She let her eyes drift past Armand’s shoulder, toward the cluttered dressing table. A heavy, silver-backed hairbrush lay near the edge. A plan, desperate and mad, began to form.
She allowed her knees to buckle slightly, a feigned swoon of feminine terror. “Please,” she whimpered, letting her weight sag.
It was exactly what he expected. A flicker of contempt crossed his face. As he adjusted his stance to accommodate her supposed collapse, she made her move. With a convulsive jerk, she twisted, her good shoulder ramming into his side as her flailing left hand swept across the dressing table. The silver brush, along with a porcelain pot of cold cream and a crystal perfume bottle, crashed to the floor in a cacophony of shattering glass and metal.
Armand’s head snapped toward the sound. It was only for a second, a reflexive, human response. It was all the time she needed.
Emma brought her good hand up and slammed the heel of her palm against his wrist with all her strength. His grip, already loosened by surprise, broke. The sword-stick clattered onto the Aubusson rug. Before he could recover, Amélie lunged forward, her foot connecting with the cane and sending it skittering under the heavy chaise longue.
Armand snarled, a low, animal sound of pure fury, and lunged for Emma. But the momentary advantage had shifted the balance of power. Amélie was on him, her hands transformed into claws, then fists, her body a shield between him and Emma.
“That’s enough!” Emma’s voice cut through the room like a whip. It was a voice she did not recognize as her own—cold, hard, and utterly in command.
Armand froze, shaking Amélie off him. He stared at Emma, his chest heaving, a thin line of blood welling on his cheek where Amélie’s nails had found their mark. His handsome face was contorted into a mask of rage. But beneath the rage, for the first time, there was a flicker of uncertainty.
Emma stood tall, her chin up, her gaze unwavering. Bainbridge’s words from the library echoed in her mind. A partnership. A shield. The mad plan he had proposed, a marriage of convenience, was no longer a theoretical escape. It was a weapon.
“You have misunderstood the situation, Monsieur Beauchamp,” she said, her voice impossibly steady. “Your stepmother is not available for any ‘advantageous arrangements.’ Her future is already secured.”
Armand laughed, a harsh, disbelieving bark. “And who, precisely, has secured it? You?”
“My brother,” Emma stated, the lie rolling off her tongue with a terrifying ease. “Baron Cresthaven. Their engagement was to be announced tomorrow, after his current obligations were…resolved. Lord Bainbridge helped broker the agreement. A union between our families. I’m sure you can appreciate the political and financial advantages.”
She saw the first seed of doubt take root in his pale eyes. A Baron was a more formidable obstacle than a spinster farm girl.
“This is absurd,” he hissed, but his voice had lost its confident edge.
“Is it?” Emma pressed on, the lie growing, taking shape, becoming more real with every word she spoke as she bluffed the best she could. “Lord Bainbridge is a very thorough man. When you arrived so unexpectedly, he grew concerned. He took the liberty of sending a wire to an acquaintance at Scotland Yard. Inspector Davies. A very discreet man, but one who takes threats against the peerage quite seriously. He is on the midnight train to Brighton. He will be here in the morning to take a full report of your assault on me, and your ongoing harassment of the future Baroness Cresthaven.”
She let that sink in. The threat of a public scandal, of police involvement, of a diplomatic incident between powerful English and French families—it was all there, hanging in the air.
Armand’s face was a thunderous mask. He was trapped. He looked from Emma’s implacable face to Amélie’s, who stood beside her now, her expression one of dawning, incredulous hope.
“However,” Emma said, offering him a way out, a path that would preserve his pride, “we are not unreasonable people. The duchesse is prepared to be generous to avoid a…family unpleasantness. She will sign over her yacht to you. THE HELENE. I believe it is worth a considerable sum. In exchange, you will receive Inspector Davies yourself in the morning, assure him it was all a terrible misunderstanding, and return to France on the first available tide. You will not contact the duchesse again.”
She held her breath. It was a wild, audacious gamble. He could call her bluff. He could choose violence again.
He stood in silence for a long, agonizing moment. The rage in his eyes slowly cooled, replaced by the flat, cold assessment of a merchant weighing a deal. The yacht against the scandal. Profit against ruin. Emma saw the exact moment his mind turned. He was, at his core, a creature of avarice, not passion.
A slow, reptilian smile spread across his face, not reaching the fresh scratch on his cheek. “The English girl has teeth after all,” he murmured, more to himself than to them. He straightened his coat, his composure returning with chilling speed. He looked at Emma, a new, grudging respect in his cold gaze.
“Perhaps,” he said softly, “we can come to an arrangement after all.”
Chapter 12
The morning sun felt like an accusation. In the library, the air was thick with the scent of beeswax and impending crisis. Emma stood beside Lord Bainbridge, a sheaf of legal documents pertaining to a yacht named HELENE on the desk between them. Amélie sat in a wingback chair by the cold hearth, a silent, beautiful ghost in pale gray, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. They waited.
Emmett entered, his face etched with the worry of a groom on his wedding day, a worry that had nothing to do with flowers or nervous brides. “Emma? Bainbridge? What is this about? The servants are saying the most peculiar things.”
