Free A Lady's Revenge by Tracey Devlyn Page B

the epitome of a pompous English aristocrat. With no bright colors, the gentleman looked dressed for a funeral rather than an important business meeting.
    “Now that our pleasantries have concluded, what news do you have?” Valère watched his visitor’s lips firm in indecision, watched him sift through which falsehood to share. He had seen it a thousand times, to nauseating degrees. All informants who still retained a bit of their morality and patriotism went through the same phases as their brethren before them.
    They first assessed Valère’s physical strength, his mental fortitude, and finally his inclination toward violence. No matter their skill at such negotiations, they all eventually surrendered. The only question was when. He normally enjoyed the verbal fencing sessions, but this informant held answers that were of personal interest to Valère. He had no wish to wait for the man’s answers.
    When his informant remained silent, Valère released a regretful breath. “Need I remind you of your current circumstances, my lord?”
    “No.”
    “Then why the delay? You have something I want, and I have something you want, yes?”
    The man’s jaw tightened so hard Valère feared the bone would crack.
    Finally, the informant revealed, “They are removing her to Hampshire.”
    Valère had expected Lord Somerton to secret her away, but a specific location had eluded him. “Where in Hampshire?”
    “Helsford’s maiden aunt left him a modest country estate in Yateley.”
    “At what distance is Yateley from London?”
    “A fair day’s carriage ride.” His informant’s hard gaze shifted to the milling crowd.
    Valère examined the various minutiae he knew of this high-ranking official until one detail stood out above all others. “Correct me if I’m wrong, my lord, but I believe you own a residence in this Oxfordshire region, do you not?”
    The man returned his resigned yet furious gaze back to Valère. “Yes.”
    “Ah, very good. I have one more favor to ask of you, my lord.” He took little pleasure from the starkness of the man’s features, for his mind had already turned toward the next level of his plan, which was shaping into a rather stimulating game of chess.
    He loved chess. Excelled at it as he did every game of stratagem. The Raven—the Black Queen—was not the only one who could penetrate enemy lines.

Eight
    While peering into the looking glass above her dressing table, Cora removed the bandage hiding the right side of her face. When the last strip of linen fell away, cool air pressed against her flesh, and dismay tightened her throat.
    Three inches of angry red stitching closed the deep gash made by Valère’s ring. The cut began below her temple and curved along her cheekbone.
    Even though the doctor had used small, even stitches, a scar would mar her face forever, a constant reminder of her incompetence, of her extreme arrogance. She squeezed the bridge of her nose. How had she so thoroughly failed her country? And her parents?
    “Here we are, Miss Cora,” Dinks said, carrying a small jar of salve provided by the doctor. “I’ll dab a bit of this on your cheek before setting your hair to rights.”
    “There’s little to be done with it, I fear.” Cora ran her hand over the back of her head. “Trim up the ends so it doesn’t appear as though I just stepped out of Bedlam. A hat and veil will serve to conceal the rest.”
    As Dinks worked her magic, Cora searched her mind for a way to avoid her impending breakfast with Guy. Humiliation from yesterday’s debacle still sat in the pit of her stomach like a mass of uncut gems, sharp and heavy. She feared her imprisonment had affected something elemental in her mind. What sane person reacted with such virulence after being touched?
    Guy’s calm patience in the face of her attack left her flabbergasted, even now. She could still envision his dark eyes filled with understanding and a burning desire to help her. Oh, God, how she wanted to