My Fair Temptress by Christina Dodd Read Free Book Online Page A

“Bring back my sister.” With glorious relish, he added, “Never mind the bodies. When you kill ’em—let ’em rot.”
    He had fought them, four against one. He had saved the lad’s sister, and killed the men. Two had died easily, but one had sliced Jude’s arm open with a broken bottle. Another had shot Jude in the shoulder and in the gut. That blackguard suffered special treatment. Jude had questioned him before he dispatched him, and pulled two names from the villain’s lips—Comte de Guignard and Monsieur Bouchard. They had hired these men to kill Michael, but why, the blackguard didn’t know.
    Looking down at the circle that branded his palm, Jude brought himself back to this with the Throckmortons. “When I dream, I dream that I made a mistake, that he’s still alive and off on another grand adventure. But I always wake up, and he’s dead.” He looked up to see Throckmorton examining him with a sharp eye, and he knew the speculation that ran through Throckmorton’s mind. “I found Michael’s coat nearby, and the blackguards had his boots. His boots, Throckmorton, no one else’s, for no one except me wears such a large size.”
    Throckmorton nodded. “As you say. I simply hoped that—”
    “Believe me,” Jude said, “I tried in every manner to convince myself that body was not my brother’s, and the more I tried, the more I convinced myself it was.”
    Celeste’s eyes swam with sympathetic tears. “You have done so much with no thought for yourself!”
    “I think too often of myself.” Jude rubbed the hardened round scar in the palm of his hand. “That’s why my brother was killed.”
    “You accept blame when it is not due. He was killed because someone wanted him dead.” Celeste had lived in France for several years, and occasionally Jude could hear the echo of French pragmatism in her tone and accent.
    “Because that’s true, I’ll be able to forgive myself—when I have my vengeance.”
    “Good. Self-loathing makes a good man bad. Vengeance is a great cleanser of the soul.” She nodded in satisfaction. “I have help for you. I found two gifts that were given to Garrick and me on the occasion of our marriage. You can present them to the Moricadian gentlemen as a bribe to get their attention.”
    Throckmorton cleared his throat. “Would the gifts be the snuffboxes that Uncle Julian gave us?”
    “Yes, as a matter of fact.” Celeste’s voice was crisp and clear.
    “Because they are expensive—”
    “And in dreadful taste, and suitable only for a man, and just the sort of thing you would expect from someone who disapproves of your marriage to the gardener’s daughter.” Celeste tapped her slipper-clad foot in annoyance. “What difference does it make, anyway? When the time is right, Maltin’s going to break into the Moricadians’ apartment, steal everything back, and do another search for clues as to their purpose.”
    “I know.” Throckmorton put his hand on her shoulder. “I know, darling.”
    She took a steadying breath, then closed her eyes as if she were groping for her temper. She must not have found it, for she snipped, “You cannot help it if some of your family are jackasses.”
    Throckmorton met Jude’s gaze and made a gesture over his belly, then sliced a glance at Celeste.
    Ah. She was increasing. That explained her sensitivity about a matter she would have normally shrugged away. In a chatty tone, Jude said, “Comte de Guignard and Bouchard believe that Englishmen are worthless, good-for-nothing fribbles, and I’ve worked hard to confirm their prejudice.” He had tagged along after them, contrived to meet them wherever they went, and played the part of a simpleton and a sycophant so in love with Continental culture as to be oblivious to insult or innuendo. “I’ve succeeded. They believe me to be the country’s biggest fool.”
    “Have they realized you’re Michael’s brother?” Throckmorton asked.
    “Yes, but they don’t know I was in