And there his thoughts turned to Madeleine yet again—MadeleineVan Rowen . Ethan had barely hidden his amazement when Quin had revealed the girl's identity, though the connection wasn't improbable. The Weylands had a family seat near Iveley Hall, the former Van Rowen manor—which Ethan had seized at Van Rowen's death. It made sense that upper-class families like theirs in the same county would associate.
Yet Ethan could scarcely believe he'd slept with the girl, theMaddy referred to on that night—the one mention that had turned the tide of Ethan's fate, putting Van Rowen in a fury.
Learning Madeleine's identity had made Ethan reevaluate the entire night of the masquerade. The morning after, he'd practically convinced himself that she'd been innocent of any deceit. He'd only recognized how truly devious she'd been, how arrogant, when he'd discovered that she was the child of two of the most vile people he had ever imagined.
Ethan had always heard that those in desperate situations behaved in unpredictable ways. This had not been so for the Van Rowens. They had been so easily manipulated that Ethan's revenge hadn't satisfied whatsoever.
Van Rowen had already been in financial straits. He'd leveraged all his lands and investments to pay for his much younger wife's jewels and silks, frantic to keep her happy.
Working insidiously, Ethan had bought up the man's loans, forcing himself to act slowly, though he'd burned to make them pay. He had never let them know he'd been the catalyst for their ruin, and they'd never suspected a young Scot could destroy a powerful English landholder.
So many accused Ethan of being unfeeling. In truth, he felt too strongly—always had—and Ethan's hatred for the Van Rowens had boiled over into every aspect of his life. He'd tried to let the revenge go when he'd won—when Van Rowen and Brymer had been killed, and Sylvie left penniless.
Ethan had thought his work had dulled some of the rage, but his encounter with Madeleine made him realize the same fury still simmered.
Now he knew why her accent was tinged with French. The final report he'd received on Sylvie and her daughter several years ago had had them living in a Parisian slum called La Marais.
Some digging had uncovered that Sylvie had actually hailed from that place, and Ethan had been gratified to learn that she'd fled back there. She deserved to root about a slum, and any spawn of hers and Van Rowen's could keep her evil, deceitful arse company in misery, as far as Ethan had been concerned.
Instead, the widowed Sylvie had married a rich Parisian; Quin's current address for Madeleine was in the well-heeled parish of St. Roch. If Sylvie lived there now and could clothe her daughter in such an affluent way, teaching her airs, then obviously she hadn't been punished enough.
The woman had brazenly dispatched her daughter to England to secure Quin while enjoying a backup proposal from the aging Count Le Daex, a man so rich that his wealth outstripped even Ethan's. The thought of Sylvie benefiting from a match like that sickened Ethan.
Worse was the idea of Le Daex enjoying young Madeleine. Ethan's hands clenched.
He exhaled a breath and forced himself to relax. Before he'd left, Ethan had thought it imperative that Le Daex discover what his fiancée had been doing behind his back in London on a particularly wild night.
Insidious dealings—Ethan excelled at them, and he happened to have many contacts in Paris.
There'd be no rich count for the grasping Van Rowens.
And yet, despite knowing what blood ran through Madeleine's veins, Ethan's desire for her refused to wane. If anything, it grew worse each day. Filled with conflicting thoughts, he was uncertain what his next move should be.
Damn it, he needed to focus—he could decide what to do about her later. He rose from the table, stepping out a side door into the night air.
When two passing boys froze at the sight of his face, he scowled, making them run.
Madeleine would react the same way.
Movement from the corner of his eye drew his gaze up—
Davis Grey stood on a balcony across the street, his gaunt face creased into a smile, his brows raised, no doubt dumbfounded by Ethan's uncommon carelessness. The man's pistol was already drawn and cocked.
What the hell have I done…?Rage consumed Ethan as he snatched his own pistol and fired.
Too late. Pain exploded in Ethan's chest, the bullet driving home.
Chapter Eleven
'I'm doomed,' Maddy whispered to herself as she wandered La Marais in the dark in a silk ball gown.
Oh, what was she thinking? She was always doomed in varying degrees. Why had she ever thought she would get a concession from fate? One bloody bit of luck?
'I'mmore doomed than usual,' she amended. Toumard's pair lay in wait in the alley beside her building, forcing her to roam the streets until they gave up. She was in debt, with no prospects to pay them, and the one thing she'd possessed of value—her virtue—had been wasted with a laughable return.
And now she would pay for that wild, reckless night.
Because the count had heard from a contact in London, who'd heard from another, that his prospective bride had been free with herself, running with a fast crowd in London. The hypocrite! He'd demanded an examination to determine if she was still a virgin or possibly carrying another man's babe, as if these were the medieval times the ancient count had likely grown up in.
Maddy hadn't even known that people actually did that anymore. She'd been tempted to huff and whine, 'But I was wearing my chastity belt!' Instead, she'd blankly refused his demand—trying to sound outraged, instead of baffled at the timing—and he'd withdrawn his proposal.
Refused by the count. He might as well have slapped her.
Worse, she'd allowed it to happen. She'd managed men for years and knew dozens of ways she could have finessed the situation, ways to wriggle and finagle to get what she wanted. She could cry at the drop of a hat and could have acted overwrought at his capriciousness. If that tactic hadn't worked, she could have adopted a seductive demeanor, or simply made sure she was examined by a bribable physician. And yet…
Shehadn't .
Did I do anything today to leave myself vulnerable?
A bit.
As though she'd been outside her own body, she'd heard the words spilling from her lips: 'I never wanted to marry you anyway! And your wig smells fusty.'
She'd burned her ships. Why? She was never so foolish—except with the Scot.
Maddy should never have gone to England. Returning to her native land after such a long exile had made her miss it even more. She had been arrogant and rash there, and apparently she hadn't left those traits behind.
'Oh, please, justone crumb of fortune!' she whispered urgently to the sky. As if in answering jest, she spied thunderclouds swelling, obscuring the stars. Where would she go if it rained? Not all drunks on stoops were as passive as her building's collection. They could be ferociously territorial.
The air was thick and damp, presaging the storm. Maddy hated storms. Every tragedy in her life had been accompanied by thunderclaps and pounding rain.
The morning her father's second had come to report his death in a duel, lightning had punctuated the man's words. The day of her father's funeral, rain had spilled in torrents. When Maddy and her mother had returned from burying him, they'd been turned away, their home of Iveley Hall having been seized by creditors while they'd been gone.
Though one ring or brooch could have kept them for years, it was considered in poor taste to wear jewelry to a funeral, so they'd fled with nothing more than the clothes on their backs. As they'd ridden away, Maddy had looked back at the manor through the rain-streaked window of the coach and known she would never find a way to return home….
The fire that had nearly taken her life when she was eleven had raged, whipped to a frenzy by the fierce winds of a storm, yet barely dampened by the scattered bouts of rain. Maddy had been trapped inside the small apartment she and her mother shared several floors up. She'd been convinced she would die even before a burning
