by Carola Dunn
“I must apologise to them, and to you, my lord, for asking Aurore to keep silent about my family. It seemed best that they should await my arrival, or certain knowledge of my death, before approaching you. I gather this has led to some confusion, and for that I must apologise also to Mr Everett.”
Gabrielle felt her face crimson and turned her eyes again firmly on her lap. What would he say next? She should never have told him that Luke had thought her a base-born adventurer, a harlot and a French spy!
“In the meantime, I returned from St Petersburg and found my children gone. I reported to Fouché such intelligence of Russia as I thought fit, and laid my plans to come to England. That was when I discovered the plot to which Mr Everett referred, and learned that my nephew was being drawn into it.
“Fouché knew that Alain worked for a key figure in the conspiracy. He somehow found his sister and used her to induce him to betray his employer.”
“What would you have done?” asked Alain, his arm round Sophie’s shoulders, his gaze passing from one to another of his listeners. “They threatened her with a life far worse than death. I had failed her before, when I left her behind in France. I prepared to cooperate, praying that my uncle, Le Hibou, would find some way to intervene, but ready to give up a thousand bloody-handed Frenchmen to save her!”
There was a moment of heavy silence.
“Of course you were,” said Lady Harrison firmly. “And of course Maurice did intervene!”
Lord Darcy patted her shoulder. “I did indeed, chérie, but Mr Everett was a step ahead of me—and his henchman nearly put an end to me!” He waved a salute to Baxter. “However, they now have Monsieur Roussel in secure custody, Sophie is restored to us, and I am happy to inform you all that Aurore has consented to become my wife!”
Lady Harrison, her sea-green silk rustling, swept forward, and knelt before the marquis.
“I ask you for la bénédiction, milord,” she said, smiling up at him coquettishly.
“With pleasure, my dear,” he responded, and kissed her forehead. “And now, if the explanations are over, Maurice, we shall repair to the morning room to drink your lady’s health in the best French champagne.”
She helped him out of his chair and she and Gerard supported his steps from the room.
In a daze, Gabrielle went to the nearest window and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Papa to marry Madame! And now that Alain, too, had found his family, doubtless he would marry Dorothea, and Gerard might as well take Sophie, who was turning out to be almost as pretty as her brother was handsome.
And she herself would just turn into an old maid and spend the rest of her life on the shelf.
“Miss Darcy?”
She froze.
“Gabrielle?” Luke' s voice was having trouble emerging. He cleared his throat. “I know you said you never want to see me again, but I must talk to you!”
Her own voice was misbehaving now. She wanted to ask what there was to talk about, but all that came out was a grunt.
Apparently this was sufficient encouragement.
“Forgive me! I had no right to say all those terrible things to you, and I knew in my heart that they weren’t true, however bad it looked, It was pure anguish! I wanted to marry you, and I knew I couldn’t. I was trying to persuade myself that you were unworthy. But even when I half believed it, I still wanted you for my wife. You cannot imagine how it felt.”
“I was in anguish.”
He was silent. Somehow he had not thought of that. He had known she was angry, had every right to be angry, but he had not considered that she might hurt as much as he did.
“Can you ever forgive me?” he whispered wretchedly.
She was fighting tears. If she spoke they would escape, and she despised weeping females. She closed her eyes tight, bit her lips, pressed harder against the windowpane.
“Gabrielle!”
His cry was filled with despair. She turned and flung her arms about him, hid her face in his chest, and let the tears come.
Fortunately Luke had a large, clean handkerchief. He carried her to a sofa and held her while she wept. He was somewhat puzzled, having seen her go through the most painful experiences without the slightest sign of tears; but as long as she let him keep his arms around her, he had no objection.
At last the sobbing turned to sniffling. She looked up at him, her eyes red, and he kissed them.
“I adore you,” he said. She snuggled closer.
“Do you really?” she asked. “It seemed odd to me that you wanted to marry me when you despised me.”
“I didn’t think it possible that I could ever want to marry you more than I did then, but I do now. If you follow me. I truly do adore you. Will you be my wife?”
“Kiss me again while I think about it.”
He obliged.
Gerard rushed into the room.
“Gaby,” he shouted, “Papa says I can join a cavalry regiment!”
“Do go away, there’s a good fellow,” urged Luke.
“And Gerard,” said Gabrielle with a sigh, “don’t call me Gaby!”
Historical Note
General Pichegru followed Georges Cadoudal to France in January 1804. They were both arrested, along with General Moreau and other conspirators.
Pichegru committed suicide in his cell; Cadoudal was shot. Fouché failed to implicate Moreau in the plot, but Bonaparte exiled him anyway. He went to America, returning in 1813 to fight with the allies again his ex-master.
Copyright © 1987 by Carola Dunn
Originally published by Walker
Electronically published in 2005 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
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This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
