But she knew him. Sandre was logical. So she possessed herself of patience and tried to explain the truth in a way he would comprehend. "Do you remember when we were children together?"

"Of course," Sandre said.

"For fun Rickie used to pull one leg off a frog and let it go, and wager on whether it would die before a predator ate it."

"Boyish mischief." Sandre dismissed it with a wave.

Vehemently, she said, "He got worse as he got older, not better. Aimee was not mourning Rickie's death. She did not go mad with grief. Someone killed her!"

"We will of course bury her next to him," Sandre said. "It's what she would have wanted."

"No, she wouldn't! What she wanted was to go to Italy." Eleonore couldn't believe Sandre could be so blind. "She was murdered!"

"You're distraught. It's your condition." Sandre came to her, tried to make her sit in his chair.

She resisted, her arms stiff and her fists clenched.

Still in that soothing tone, Sandre said, "We are so pleased that at last you're increasing, and you know how dangerous this fretting can be to your health and the health of your child."

"I am not fretting." Her voice rose. "I'm telling you one of Rickie's comrades killed your cousin by marriage. You're the prince. Seek justice!"

"Yes, of course I will." He took her hand, her fist, and led her toward the door. "Now, you go home and rest. Fanchere, you take her. Eleonore, when you come back, make sure you bring Miss Chegwidden. It has been far too long since I've gazed upon her face. I would hate to think she was avoiding me." He patted Eleonore on the shoulder, then turned to his desk.

He was dismissing her.

And she realized . . . he had done it.

He had murdered Aimee.

Maybe he'd thrown her over the balustrade himself.

Maybe he'd had his men throw her.

But he had murdered her cousin and his, a silly woman with a kind heart, because Aimee believed the Reaper had the power to topple his regime and spoke of it too freely.

Aimee was right: The boy Sandre, Eleonore's play-mate, was gone forever, replaced by the venal creature hated across the length and breadth of Moricadia.

For possessing that knowledge, Aimee was dead-and for that, Eleonore was responsible.

Her head swam. Her knees collapsed.

Fanchere put his hand around her waist and supported her into a quiet library down the corridor from Sandre's office. He found her a seat and brought her a glass of water.

She sipped it, wishing it could wash away the taste of murder. "I can't raise our child here. I can't."

Quickly he stood, shut the door, turned the key, and came back to her side.

"I know how much you value the de Guignard connection, but I can't live in a land where murder is winked at and corruption stalks the streets." She blinked, trying to clear the tears from her eyes. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry." He went down on one knee before her and chafed her hands. "I have a confession to make. When you told me about the baby, I surreptitiously began moving our money out of Moricadia and into foreign banks-the Bank of England, Banque de France, even an American bank. Because I knew this baby would sooner or later force you to face what you didn't want to see, and I knew we would want to go somewhere where we can raise our child without fear."

She stared at him, disbelieving.

He had known something like this would happen? How was that possible?

Because . . . because he knew the truth about Sandre. The truth she had ignored.

"We'll lose our home," Fanchere said. "But don't fear. I have connections all over the world, and we will not starve."

She couldn't hold back the tears. She and Fanchere had had a good marriage, always, respecting each other and their contributions to the union. He had brought a fortune made in merchandise. She had brought an ancient, noble name and the connections and influence that went with that. But they had never spoken of love. She had thought it was a partnership, nothing more. Now she discovered he was willing to leave Moricadia for her, and for their baby.

Looking into his thin, droopy, adored face, she put her hand to his cheek. "You are a dear man, and I thank God for the day my father picked you as my husband."

He turned his lips into her hand and kissed her palm. "I love you, too."

They basked in the warmth of the unexpected moment.

Leaning close, she whispered in his ear, "One more thing. I would like to somehow speak to the Reaper. Do you know how to reach him?"

He smiled. "As a matter of fact, I believe I do. Come, Eleonore. Let's go home."

Chapter Forty-one.

A knock sounded on the door, waking Emma from her afternoon nap, the one she substituted for her nighttime sleep.

"Come in," she called, and then she stared at the ceiling and thought, He wants me to choose him. He wants me to marry him.

Michael thought she was an Amazon. He saw her as brave and strong, someone who could do anything she wished with her life.

And he wanted her to marry him.

"Miss Chegwidden?" Tia advanced cautiously into the room.

"I'm awake." Emma didn't know what to do with Michael's proposal. Since her father died, no one had wanted her, and now Michael said she had choices. And maybe she did.

What did she want?

What was the right thing to do?

She had loved the Reaper, dark, mysterious, beckoning.

Did she love Michael Durant?

She sat up in bed and rubbed her forehead with the heels of her hands, and glanced out the window. The sun was setting. "It's late. I've got to get dressed!"

"If you would, Miss Chegwidden. We've got an emergency downstairs." Tia stood at the bedside.

For the first time, Emma looked at Tia.

Tia's face was red and blotchy, her eyes tearstained. "It's not Durant," she said.

Emma came off the bed in a rush. "Something with Brimley's finger?"

"His finger is fine. Mending. A miracle. No." Tia shook her head and started crying in earnest. "It's Lady de Guignard and Elixabete."

No. No.

As she dressed, Emma questioned Tia.

Tia didn't seem sure of anything except that the men were carrying Elixabete back to the Fancheres'. But she wouldn't speak of Aimee, and she was crying so hard, Emma felt a hard lump settle in her stomach.

Not Aimee. Not dear, kind Aimee, who stood poised on the verge of happiness.

Emma rushed downstairs.

The men were carrying Elixabete into the house on blankets stretched tightly between them. "Put her down," she commanded, and they gently placed the blankets, and the child, on the floor.

She knelt beside her.

Elixabete lay on her side, curled into the fetal position, eyes closed. She clutched something close to her chest. Her face had been kicked, her nose broken, but it was the mark on her forehead that concerned Emma. She had a dent in her skull, and that was the kind of injury that could kill.

Servants crowded around.

"Step back," Brimley ordered. "Give them room to breathe."

Emma touched Elixabete's shoulder.

The child's eyes fluttered open.

"Elixabete, can you hear me?" Emma asked.

"Yes." The girl focused on Emma, then on the people standing around her.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three."

"Good." God willing, Elixabete would recover. "Can you move your fingers? Your toes?"

"Yes. Yes. Oh, Miss Chegwidden." She gave a wrenching sob. "Why did it have to happen to her?"

That lump in Emma's stomach grew heavier. "What happened?"

"He threw her over the edge. She screamed, but he threw her over the edge. I tried to stop him, but he kicked me and threw her over the edge." Elixabete brought her hand up, and in it she clutched a carved horse, polished and exquisite. "She gave me this. It was her father's. She wanted me to have it. And she's dead."

In a soft, soft voice, Emma asked, "Who's dead?"

Elixabete trembled and cried.

"Is it Aimee?" Emma asked.

Elixabete nodded, then curled up around the horse again. "I want my mother," she wailed.

Emma stroked her forehead, then stood up and told Brimley, "Put her to bed. Don't let her get up. Put cold rags on her face to bring down the swelling. Talk to her. Give her water. And for the love of God, bring her mother here." Turning away, she started to make her way through the crowd.

"Miss Chegwidden." Brimley's voice brought her to a halt. "What are you planning to do?"

"I'm going to make them pay."

"Durant, something's happened in the main house."

Michael put down his pen, glad to procrastinate on that difficult letter to his father, the one that told him that the prodigal son was alive and needed help, and raised an inquiring eyebrow at Rubio.

"The child Elixabete was hurt and Lady de Guignard . . ." Rubio shook his head, and his eyes looked the way they had when he'd first come out of the dungeon. Dull. Resigned. In pain.

Michael came to his feet. "Where's Emma?"

"They called her to care for Elixabete."

He wasn't finished speaking before Michael was racing for the house. He ran inside, grabbed a footman. "Where is Elixabete?"

"They carried her upstairs. Did you hear . . . ?" He was a young man, and he had to clear his throat. "Did you hear about Lady de Guignard?"

Michael took the stairs two at a time, followed the trail of weeping maids and medical supplies up to the third level, and rushed into Elixabete's bedroom.

Emma wasn't there.

He grabbed Brimley by the lapels. "Where's Emma?"

Brimley grabbed him right back. "She gave us instructions on how to care for Elixabete; then she left."

"Where did she go?"

"I think she went . . . She said she went to make them pay."

"To make them pay? No. She went to ride? Why didn't you stop her?"

"I have a situation here, Durant. And I can't lay hands on a lady!"

"How long has it been?"

"A quarter of an hour, perhaps more."