Page 98 of Scandalous

She looked from her shredded dress to Martín. “Now look what you made me do. I could never love a man like you! Go back to all your skilled women—I never want to see you again! I hate you!” She flung a tattered scrap of skirt at him before sprinting up the steps and disappearing into the house.

Martín realized he was standing and lowered himself back onto his seat. He stared at the closed door at the top of the stairs. Should he go after her? But no, it would be a disaster to pursue her. Besides, what would he say?

He drove the team slowly away from the house, his head a bit dizzy. How had a day that started with such promise turned so quickly into a nightmare? He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. She hated him?

Relief vied with despair that he’d not poured out the truth about his past. He should be grateful to have learned her true feelings before he’d pathetically laid his past and heart at her feet. Whom had he been fooling? He was no country squire; he was a privateer, a sailor who belonged on his ship. He had greatly enjoyed his life before she had come along. He would enjoy it again. He would forget her, even if he had to visit every whore in existence. He was healthy, wealthy, and free—what was there not to like about his life?

Thinking of freedom made him recall the meeting he had today with the Frenchman.

Ah, yes, d’Armand. Martín’s savage grin startled a passing coachman so badly, he jerked the reins to his team and would have scraped the side of the curricle had Martín not quickly guided the grays to safety.

D’Armand could only be here for one reason: revenge. Did he think, foolishly, to reestablish his father’s claim of ownership and drag Martín back to New Orleans? Or perhaps he thought to blackmail him? To threaten to expose Martín’s past to Sarah or her uncles unless Martín did his bidding?

Martín smiled grimly. Whatever he planned, it wouldn’t matter. Martín could no longer be threatened or blackmailed with anything because he no longer had anything to lose.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

D’Armand’s town house was a four-story stone monstrosity. A footman wearing lavish burgundy and black livery answered the door and made Martín wait in a small anteroom. Threadbare carpets, dusty green silk wallpaper, and three battered fan-backed chairs filled the small chamber. D’Armand must have rented the rooms and not been able to afford anything better. Martín smiled at the thought.

He was examining the only painting in the room—a rather dark landscape that took up most of one wall—when the footman returned.

“The marquis will see you now.” He led Martín up another flight of stairs to an ornate set of double doors at the end of the hall. An enormous, brawny man stood on either side of the double doors—d’Armand’s protection, no doubt. Martín ignored them both and flung open one of the doors without waiting for the footman.

The furnishings in this room were far superior to the one he’d just left. Rich brocades draped the windows and gilt bergère chairs; delicate settees and tables crowded the plush Aubusson carpet that spanned the room. The walls were crammed with paintings, and yet more were propped up in stacks around the edges of the room. A full-length picture of a man dressed in court clothing hung above a console table heavy with crystal decanters.

“You recognize him?” D’Armand’s voice called from the other side of the room.

Martín looked into the face of the dead marquis, a face that had haunted him for years. He was just a man in rather silly clothing. A vain, self-indulgent man.

“He was not so young and prosperous looking when I knew him.”

The marquis chuckled. “No, he was in a rather bad way after my grandfather banished him to the savage hinterlands.”

Martín turned away from the image of the long-dead marquis.

D’Armand sat behind a large desk. A tall, thin, black woman and a young boy stood beside his chair.

The room shifted and began to darken from the edges inward. Martín blinked his eyes to sharpen his hazy vision, but the woman and boy shimmered and receded. He steadied himself against the wall with one hand.

“Valerie?” His voice was the ghost of a whisper.

The marquis’s laugh was rich yet unpleasant, like a lavish banquet that had begun to spoil and decay. “Ah, I see introductions are not entirely necessary.” D’Armand gestured toward Valerie, a woman Martín had not seen in over a decade. “Why don’t you introduce your son to his father, my dear?”

Martín didn’t need an introduction. The boy’s eyes alone would have told him whose child he was. He was the very image of Martín at that age. Valerie murmured something to the boy, and he came forward and executed a graceful bow.

“Bonjour, monsieur.” He spoke with d’Armand’s more proper French accent.

“Comment t’appelles-tu?” Martín asked his son.

“Je m’appelle Gaston, monsieur.”

Martín couldn’t tear his eyes from the boy. He was slighter and darker than Martín, and he had his mother’s impassive expression and air of calm. Martín looked from his son to the man who claimed title to him. He strode toward the marquis, his vision red. He distantly heard d’Armand yell something, and the two brawny men entered the room, armed with pistols.

“They will kill the boy, Bouchard.”

Martín stopped, his breathing like thunder in his ears. Good God, how could this be?

“Step back, Bouchard.”