Jean-Pierre couldn't believe Sandre.

The prince was crazy.

The prince was going to get his way. This would galvanize the guard as nothing else could.

"Take her out of here." Sandre rubbed his temple. "Her screaming is giving me a headache."

Jean-Pierre rushed in, gathered the writhing woman in his arms, and started out the door.

"Jean-Pierre!" Sandre called.

Jean-Pierre turned back.

"From now on, you're going to be the one shooting their loved ones. You'd better find the Reaper fast, or you'll never dare fall asleep again."

Chapter Thirty-two.

"Do you suppose I should take this with me to Italy?" Aimee smoothed her hand along the white-painted wood of her grand piano in the echoing music room of her imposing mansion.

"Do you play?" Emma eyed the nine- foot length with trepidation.

"Oh, no." Aimee wiggled her short fingers. "I don't have the reach."

"Then I think you should rent one when you get there." Lady Fanchere had sent Emma to help Aimee pack her belongings and close her house, and now Emma knew why. As Aimee sorted and discarded the paraphernalia of her life, someone had to be the voice of reason.

But Emma had spent the last two nights awake, caring for Michael Durant as he lay in the Fancheres' dowager house, tossing with fever. While she was away from him, Rubio cared for him as tenderly as if they were brothers, yet every moment she spent helping Aimee, she worried, and that infuriated her.

Why was she concerned about the fate of a man who had lied to her? Seduced her? My God, he had even reproached her for allowing Prince Sandre to court her when he knew perfectly well why she was doing it, and he'd taunted her with the prospect of courting her as Michael Durant, the heir to the Duke of Nevitt, when he knew he'd made her fall in love with the Reaper. With himself!

If he didn't die from this infection, she was going to kill him.

"Dear, are you all right? You look upset!" Aimee looked upset, too.

"I believe I'm perhaps a little weary." Not a good excuse, but truthful, and the only one of which Emma could think.

"Sit down here." Aimee pulled the sheet off one of the chairs. "Elixabete, run and get Emma a glass of water."

Elixabete stood stock-still, her eyes wide and frightened.

Emma took pity on the child. "No, truly, that's not necessary. If I could rest for a moment, I'll be fine."

Lady Fanchere had sent Elixabete to assist them, to fetch and carry, but the child hadn't been the help Emma had hoped. Not that Emma blamed Elixabete. Maybe it was Emma's exhaustion that made her oversensitive, but Aimee's home was spooky. It was huge, larger than the Fancheres', with dual curving stairways climbing from the massive marble foyer up to the second-floor gallery and into the corridors lined with doors and rooms and more rooms and more, until a person felt as if she could get lost and never find her way back.

Everything-the marble on the floors and the columns, the walls, the furniture, the vases and accents-was white and pristine. The paintings were watercolors of faded gray, and even the servants were dressed in white, pale ghosts who slipped silently through this horrible parody of heaven.

When Emma had tactfully asked about the decor, Aimee had said, "It's Rickie's doing. He wanted the house to look clean."

In Emma's opinion, the house didn't look clean; it looked barren, unwelcoming . . . haunted. As she directed Aimee's servants to cover the furniture with sheets and Lady Fanchere's servants to carry Aimee's trunks to the cart, she constantly found herself looking behind her, convinced someone was watching. Once she saw Elixabete turn suddenly, fists up, prepared to defend herself against . . . nothing.

Even Aimee's bedchamber was washed-out, without color or character of any kind, and that, more than anything, told Emma what Aimee's life had been with Rickie. This lady who loved flowers and bright clothes and laughter had been regimented while in the confines of her own room.

Apparently Aimee saw nothing wrong, packing, trotting up and down the stairs, chatting merrily. Perhaps the sight of her prison meant nothing now that she had made her escape. She decided what to keep and what to throw away in a slapdash manner, and so far nothing white had made the cut.

Taking the sheet off another chair, Aimee seated herself, then pulled the footstool close and patted it.

Elixabete hurried to her and curled up on the stool, huddling as near as she could into Aimee's skirt.

"When I get to Italy," Aimee said, "I was thinking of getting a kitten. I've always wanted a kitten, but Rickie said they shed-and worse. I always thought worse was worth it for the joy of having a little thing that jumped in my lap and twined around my ankles."

Emma watched her smooth her hand over Elixabete's hair over and over, an unconscious gesture of comfort and closeness. "You seem like the kind of woman who would own dozens of dogs and cats."

"Yes, I am that kind of woman." Aimee brightened. "Maybe when I get to Italy, I'll get a dog, too. Fanchere did rent me a villa; there should be lots of room for pets."

On impulse, Emma suggested, "And maybe a lover?"

All expression smoothed from Aimee's face, leaving it blank and still, and she didn't look at Emma or speak.

Emma was embarrassed; she knew she should never have suggested such a thing; it was too daring for an unmarried woman to say. But she so badly wanted Aimee to be happy, and she had a vision of her in her villa surrounded by flowers and pets, in the arms of a tender man who loved her for all the caring, wonderful, silly things she was. "I apologize," Emma said. "That was bold and uncalled-for."

"Not at all, dear!" Aimee smiled, but without her usual joie de vivre. "But as to another man in my life-no. Once was enough."

Emma's heart hurt for Aimee, even while she understood completely. Because loving someone was too much trouble and too much anguish, and somehow, when she had Michael Durant cured and on his feet again, she was going to flee Moricadia and never look back.

"Maybe I will come to be your paid companion in Italy," Emma said.

Aimee's hand stopped in midair and her true smile blossomed. "I would like that." She offered her hand to Emma. "I would like it better if you came as my friend."

Emma was so touched, tears sprang to her eyes again. She took the outstretched hand and squeezed. "I would like that, too."

Aimee hugged Elixabete with her other arm. "And she'll bring you, Elixabete, and we'll teach you to read and write and make a great lady out of you. Shall we do that?"

Elixabete nodded and smiled.

The three of them pushed the cruel ghosts away, and joined in a moment of peaceful companionship.

Then Elixabete stood. "If we're going to go to Italy, we've got to finish packing!"

Chapter Thirty-three.

Jean-Pierre was here at last, attending a royal ball.

But he wasn't enjoying himself.

He stood holding a glass of champagne and watching the guests flow into the ballroom. None of them looked wounded or feverish. None of them even looked tired.

Well, of course not. That would be too easy. Instead he would have to examine the guest list, find out who didn't come, and go search their homes in the hopes he could at last make an arrest and end his hunt for the Reaper-and he would do it before tomorrow night, when Sandre's three-day deadline expired.

"Jean-Pierre! How good to see you. Where have you been hiding yourself?" Lady Fanchere hugged him and offered her cheek.

Taken by surprise, Jean-Pierre at first stood stiffly, then touched his lips to her face. He'd been under so much strain, he'd forgotten how truly loving his cousin Eleonore was. He shook hands with Fanchere, who was standing, as always, at Eleonore's right shoulder, stoically silent, and said, "I've been on the prince's business." He sounded clipped, he realized, not like a guest at a ball but like the hated policeman Sandre had created. So he smiled, but the expression felt more like a grimace.

Eleonore cupped his face and gazed searchingly into his eyes. "You look worried to death. I'll have to speak to Sandre about working you less."

"No. Please!" God, no. "Say nothing. I live to serve His Highness."

She paid no attention, but lightly touched the still-infected whip slash. "That looks painful. You should have had it tended."

"I was busy."

"Our little Miss Chegwidden has quickly made herself indispensible in the household as our physician. Next time, I'll have her look at it."

Jean-Pierre felt his interest stir. "Miss Chegwidden cares for the wounded?"

"She does what needs to be done. Her father was a vicar in a country parish in Yorkshire, so she became indispensible to the people of his flock, and thus indispensible to me." Lady Fanchere smoothed her hand across her thickening waist.

"Ah. Congratulations are in order then." Jean-Pierre kissed her cheek and shook hands with Fanchere again, but he didn't really care that his cousin was increasing. Right now, that wasn't important. What was important was the possibility that Miss Chegwidden was involved with the Reaper and his exploits. For what did they really know about her? Only what she had told them.

"Miss Chegwidden is quite the paragon, then, if all you and Sandre say is true." Ever since Jean- Pierre had announced he'd shot the Reaper, Sandre hadn't asked when he was going to be captured, or spoken of Quico's wife, or mentioned the rapidly rising tension in the palace. He had spoken only of the silly chit with whom he'd fallen in love, boring Jean-Pierre half to death.

Perhaps Jean-Pierre should have been paying more attention. "Is she caring for the injured now?" He faked a mild curiosity when in fact he was straining to hear the reply.

Which Sandre interrupted. He appeared dressed in the uniform of commander of all Moricadian troops-troops he had never seen, as far as Jean- Pierre knew. He kissed Lady Fanchere's cheek, but his gaze searched behind her. "Where is the lovely Miss Chegwidden?"

"I sent her to help Aimee pack up her house and the poor girl came back exhausted, so I ordered her to stay home tonight."

Jean-Pierre's excitement collapsed. Even this slim lead had failed him.

Sandre pulled a long face. "You shouldn't weary Miss Chegwidden with such minor matters. Send a servant with Aimee. Better yet, send her home to pack." He flicked a meaningful glance at Jean-Pierre.

Jean-Pierre could scarcely contain his irritation. Yes, yes, I know. I'm to murder our cousin Aimee for you and make it look like an accident. But I'm busy right now, and Aimee is in Eleonore's care. You wouldn't like to have Eleonore's illusions about you shattered, would you, Sandre?

"Aimee is very important to both Emma and me, and we wish her to enjoy at last a little of her life. If I could help her close her house and pack, I would do so, too."

If Jean-Pierre could feel amusement-and he was beyond that-he would have felt it now, watching Sandre squirm under Eleonore's gentle reproach.

"Yes, of course. I wish her Godspeed, too." Sandre delivered that line with a little too much fervency.

Every minute, Jean- Pierre's men were out searching feverishly, looking in every cave and every hovel, dragging the sick and injured out of bed to see if they had been shot, because every minute that ticked by brought them closer to Sandre's deadline and the moment when someone's wife or child would have to be shot. By him. By Jean-Pierre.

Meanwhile, the guests circulated, the champagne flowed, and in the gambling halls, travelers lost their wallets to Sandre's dealers.

So as far as Sandre was concerned, all was right in the world. And for everyone in Moricadia, that was all that mattered.

Lady Fanchere patted Sandre's cheek. "You'll see Miss Chegwidden in three days at the Petits' afternoon tea. You can wait that long, can't you?"

"If I must." Sandre bowed gracefully.

But Sandre's eyes glowed with a peculiar combination of love and lust that meant Miss Chegwidden would suffer for every moment Sandre had to wait, and if Jean-Pierre had had any pity to spare for anyone but himself, he would feel sorry for Miss Chegwidden.

They were both caught in the claws of a monster.

"Bring them in. Bring them in." Sandre waved to the mercenaries he'd hired to protect him from his own guard. "Don't dawdle. I'm a busy man."

Jean-Pierre stood, his back pressed against the wall in the guardroom, and watched as the families of his men were herded inside. Women. Children. Sobbing quietly or loudly or standing white faced. Mothers with babes in their arms and one old lady, Taverese's mother, because Taverese had no other family for Sandre to hold hostage. She was a goodhearted soul, and even before this, she'd been nice to him. In the last three days, they'd all been nice to him, offering him food, service, sex if he would only spare their sons, their daughters.

They were like cattle to the slaughter.

And he was the killer.

Behind the line of mercenaries, the guard watched the scene.

Sandre had had them searched before he let them in. The revolution was not going to start here and now, he assured them.

No one-not the guard, not the women, not the children-could look away from the pistol Jean-Pierre held in his hand.

He'd searched long and hard for this pistol. It held small bullets, mere specks of round iron, the kind, he hoped, that would do the smallest amount of damage to muscle, bone, and nerve.

But he was gazing at a lineup of three-year-olds, of gawky adolescent boys and women who looked fragile from overwork. A small bullet . . . that could still kill, especially if he weren't skilled. If his aim was off.

"Line up against the wall." Sandre sounded brisk and cheerful.

Of course. Sandre had been looking forward to this for three days.

Jean-Pierre wanted to close his eyes and shoot. But he didn't dare. He might kill somebody. A kid. A wife.

Instead, he picked his target carefully. He pulled the trigger.

Taverese's mother slammed into the wall, blood pouring from her arm.

Taverese shrieked and cursed, and had to be restrained by the other guard from attacking Jean-Pierre.

And Jean-Pierre knew Sandre was right.

Jean-Pierre would never dare sleep again.