by Karen Ranney
She had smiled at him, however, asking him in French if he was a trespasser or a burglar.
“Neither,” he’d said in his very bad French. “Only an admirer.”
“Of me?” she’d asked, changing to English so quickly that he could only stare at her in stunned amazement.
“Dear God, yes,” he said, an answer that made her frown at him. “I’m sorry, but you’re so beautiful,” he tried to explain.
She’d laughed then, her amusement further ensnaring him. “You shouldn’t be here,” she said a moment later, banishing him with a slight smile.
“Probably not,” he’d replied, feeling reckless. “But I’ve been brought here against my will. By you.”
She’d laughed again, and he’d laughed with her.
“What did she do then?” Margaret prompted, bringing him back to the present.
“She wanted to know my name.”
“The very next day,” Margaret added, “you began to meet in the garden.”
“Yes.” He smoothed his hand over the sheet in an effort to organize his thoughts. Every day for months they had met in the secluded garden at the rear of the house. There, he’d loved her, beneath a venerable tree near the corner, a secluded bower that had become their first trysting place. He could still recall that time as if he had just left her, the memories of her so poignant and perfect in detail that they would no doubt forever rank among the most precious of his recollections.
“A few months later you asked her to marry you,” Margaret said impatiently. “Of course she said yes.”
He realized he was faltering in his tale, so he continued. “Yes, we married,” he said, unabashedly lying to his only child. The story was one he’d concocted a few years earlier, never realizing that it would appeal to Margaret’s sense of drama and adventure. “But we had to steal away, because her father did not approve.”
“He was a mean old man, but she was beautiful like a princess,” Margaret announced, a little louder than necessary. No doubt the words were meant for her cousins, most of whom were listening.
He bent over to kiss her on the forehead. He smiled at her but that didn’t soften her sudden frown. She could be very critical of his storytelling abilities, so he continued with his fabricated tale. “We sailed around the world until we discovered that you were going to be born.”
“Were you very happy?”
“Very happy,” he said, glancing up to discover Iseabal and Riona looking at him. Their compassion was surprisingly painful, so he concentrated instead on Margaret’s intent face. She had her eyes closed and he wondered if she was imagining her mother.
“She had black hair just like mine, didn’t she, Papa?”
“She did.” And does, a thick mane that gleams in the sunlight and in the soft glow of candles. He still, even now, wanted to thread his fingers through her hair and feel the softness of it.
“Were you very much in love, Papa?”
“With all my heart,” he answered and that part at least was true.
“But she died,” she said, an ending to the story she’d never added before, making him wonder if she did so for her cousins’ benefit. “And I got sick and wouldn’t eat. Do you think it’s because I missed her?”
Douglas welcomed the spurt of anger. He should continue to remember happier days and not the more recent ones in Edinburgh. Or even when he’d rescued his daughter. “No doubt,” he said. “But now it’s time for sleep, Meggie.”
She nodded, but he knew she’d be up and about the moment he left the loft. But he wasn’t in the mood to be a disciplinarian. The summer month at Gilmuir was the time to be adventurous and daring. There was time enough when they returned to Edinburgh to be proper.
A lesson for him as well.
Charles Talbot stood watching the MacRae house in the darkness, waiting for signs that the young maid at the Hartley home had been correct. “Miss du Marchand’s working for the MacRaes, sir. She sent one of their maids to the house for her locket.”
“Are you sure of this?” He’d reluctantly parted with the last of his coins, wishing there was some way that the information hadn’t proven to be so costly. He hoped that du Marchand would pay him well for the information.
She bobbed a curtsy and was out the door before he could question her further.
The house was a large one, situated on the end of the square. The Comte’s daughter had come up in the world, it seemed. As he watched, an elderly manservant came out of the front door and lit the lamps beside the steps. However, there was no sign of the woman.
He waited for another quarter hour before resigning himself to the fact that he wasn’t going to be able to verify her presence for himself.
If she had been there, he might have approached her himself, possibly even suggest that the sale of the ruby could make her future secure. But if she truly had stolen the ruby, then ownership of it would be in doubt, enough that he couldn’t sell it to a reputable buyer. Perhaps it was better to allow the Count to secure the stone.
However, he didn’t trust du Marchand, and it had nothing to do with the Frenchman’s arrogance and everything to do with the look in his eyes. He’d seen contempt before; he’d been subjected to that expression from his neighbors in Inverness before he’d decided to move to Edinburgh. There was that emotion, but added to it was a cruel glint in du Marchand’s eyes, a hint that the man would stop at nothing to achieve his aims.
Charles had often felt the same. Now it was only a simple question of which of the two of them would achieve what he wanted.
Chapter 19
T he nine years at the Convent of Sacré-Coeur had been marked by deprivations. Jeanne had grown used to one meal a day, to the stark emptiness of the cell she’d been assigned, and even the paucity of conversation. One of her greatest pleasures, that of reading, was prohibited because of the scarcity of books. Even if she had been allowed the time and the luxury, she wouldn’t have been able to discern the words on the page. Her precious spectacles had been hidden in the secret niche at Vallans. Now, however, they perched on the end of her nose as she sat engrossed in a novel by Mr. Henry Fielding. Numerous times she closed the book and stared at the spine, then opened it again, so fascinated with the tale of The History of Tom Jones, a Foundling, that she could not put down the book.
Jeanne had spent countless afternoons in the sunny yellow parlor in front of the cold fireplace, her feet propped up on the needlepoint footrest, her mind adrift in a fascinating world. Reading had helped the time pass until Douglas returned, and had kept her occupied. Otherwise, she would no doubt have roamed through the house aimlessly, feeling the emptiness of his home and missing him beyond measure.
Sometimes Betty would bring her tea and stay to talk, but mostly Jeanne was left alone. Today, however, Betty rapped on the doorframe, interrupting her. With some difficulty, Jeanne pulled herself from Sophia’s protestations and blinked at the maid.
“You have a visitor, miss,” Betty said, peering into the parlor. “Lassiter wanted to announce him but I told him I’d let you know.”
Lassiter didn’t quite know how to treat her. As a governess she wasn’t subject to his regulations, so it would have been perfectly natural for him to ignore her. However, Douglas had evidently given orders that she was to be treated as a guest in his house, which meant that Lassiter had to consider her well-being, ask her preferences for meals, and appear willing to serve. The confusion of roles left him frowning at her when he wasn’t being overly obsequious.
“A visitor?” Jeanne asked, standing. She placed the book she was reading on the table and removed her spectacles, blinking at Betty until she came into focus. “I don’t know anyone who would visit me here,” she said, confused. The only people she knew other than the Hartleys were those in the émigré community, but none of them knew she was here.
“Well, know him or not, he seems a very proper gentleman,” Betty said. “He’s wearing a very fancy suit with a vest embroidered with gold thread. He’s got a
cane in his hand and I thought he was going to strike Lassiter with it, so impatient is he to see you.”
“I truly don’t know anyone like that,” Jeanne protested.
“Shall I bring him into the parlor?”
Jeanne nodded, smoothing her hands over her skirt, then from her temple to her nape, wishing that she had a chance to look in the mirror before greeting an unexpected guest.
Who was coming to call on her? Robert Hartley? Surely not. Taking a deep breath, she faced the door and clasped her hands together in front of her.
As the visitor was shown into the room, she sat abruptly, staring at him as if he were a ghost.
He should have shown more signs of dissipation, some wear, considering his age. True, there were more lines around his eyes, and his blond hair had whitened considerably. But his face was tanned, and the fact that he left his hair unpowdered suited him.
His attire was less ornate then she remembered. Although his vest was embroidered, his waistcoat was an almost somber brown. There were no jewels in his shoe buckles, no rings on his fingers, yet he managed to appear both immaculate and prosperous. Not an easy feat for an émigré.
“Hello, Father,” she said, remaining seated.
He tilted his head in acknowledgment of her rudeness.
“Jeanne. You’re looking well.”
“You’re looking magnificent, considering you’re dead,” she said with no effort at humor. “How did you manage to resurrect yourself?”
“A rumor put out to assuage the mobs, my dear. I merely became a citizen of France.”
He bowed slightly in a sardonic gesture.
The last time she’d seen him he’d been ordering her into a carriage bound for the Convent of Sacré-Coeur. He’d ignored her pleas as if she were nothing more than a tiresome stranger, and then gave the orders for her to be bound and gagged.
“Why are you here?” she asked, deliberately refusing to offer him a chair. She would not play the hostess. He could die of thirst and hunger before she lifted a hand to offer him refreshments.
“Such a cordial greeting, daughter,” he said, smiling benevolently at her. She noted, however, that his eyes didn’t change. They were still watchful, still predatory, the expression of a hawk or a falcon. Glancing at the empty chair beside her, he said, “Are you not going to offer me a place to sit, Jeanne?”
“You’re not welcome here.” She didn’t stand, thinking of all the days in the convent when Marie-Thérèse had made her kneel on the rough-hewn floor of the chapel and confess her sins aloud, including the shame she’d brought to her family, and her disobedience toward her father.
“I can see that,” he said, tapping his walking stick on the floor. “However, I came to see my only child. To wish you well and offer my felicitations. Perhaps we could compare notes on your escape. How did you manage that?”
“How did you even know I was in Scotland?”
He smiled. “Perhaps I learned from a mutual friend.”
“Justine?”
He looked surprised and it was her turn to smile, an expression that lacked humor. She remembered only too well her last encounter with Justine at Vallans.
Jeanne had never felt the emotion she was experiencing now, a loathing so deep that she felt cold with it. She stood, finally, but didn’t approach him.
He raised one eyebrow and looked imperiously at her. “Are you still aggrieved about that incident? You’re not the first aristocrat to find yourself with child. What I did was for your own protection. Don’t be so naïve as to believe the world accepts bastards, Jeanne. You were never that provincial.” He laughed, a titter that was an affectation at court and sounded even more brittle and false here in this lovely parlor.
At least he didn’t pretend to be other than what he was. If once he had loved her it was because she had either amused him or resembled him. She had been a perfect child until she’d erred and then she was tossed away with no more regard than her baby daughter.
“Get out,” she said, surprised that she could manage the words at all, but hatred evidently made her both resolute and strong.
“I would have thought the convent taught you respect,” he said, his mask of geniality beginning to slip.
“They taught me a great deal, Father. However, I endeavored to forget those lessons the moment I left.”
“A pity,” he said. “You might have become a more tractable woman. A man does not admire a woman of rough temper, Jeanne.” He looked around him at the room with its hint of luxury. “However, you’ve managed to do well enough for yourself. Another post as governess? Or something else entirely?”
She felt her face warm, and cursed both her embarrassment and his knowing smile. But before she could answer, he raised his walking stick and pointed it at her throat.
“I want your mother’s necklace,” he said, surprising her. “Give me that and I’ll not trouble you further.” Smiling, he added, “I’ll be dead to you again, a reasonable arrangement, do you not agree?”
Her hand closed over the locket. “Why?”
“Because it belongs to me.” The mask of gentility slipped completely even as his face seemed to age, the grooves on either side of his mouth deepening. “Everything at Vallans belonged to me. You stole it.”
She smiled. “I hid it before you sent me away,” she said, grateful for the strength to appear amused. “And found it among the ruins. Do you want my spectacles and journals as well?”
“I want the necklace,” he said, his gray eyes wintry.
“No.”
Walking to the fireplace, she pulled the bell cord beside it, summoning Lassiter. She and her father wordlessly stared at each other until the older man entered the room.
“The gentleman is leaving,” she said. “See him to the door, Lassiter. If you need any assistance, summon one of the stable lads.”
One thing for which she could not fault the majordomo was his instant recognition of the circumstances. He bowed slightly, his voice low and respectful. “Sir,” he said. “If you’ll follow me.”
Her father stared at her. “I want it, Jeanne, and I’ll have it,” he said, before turning toward the door.
“You’ll get nothing else from me,” she said as he left the room. As she stared after him, she whispered, “You’ve taken too much as it is.”
Chapter 20
D ouglas scooped his sleeping child into his arms and left the carriage. Margaret had fallen asleep as soon as they’d reached land. Smiling down into her face, he walked up the steps to his house, dismissing the coachman with a softly voiced command.
Margaret mumbled something in her sleep and curled her cheek against his chest, much as she had done as a baby.
In that moment he felt as though the past and the present were pulling him in two. He wanted to visit Jeanne and yet at the same time Douglas knew that it would be safer to condemn her to perdition and get on with his life.
A month must have dampened Jeanne’s allure. He wouldn’t be as enthralled with her as he had been before leaving Edinburgh. The time apart would have acted as a sanity-inducing respite.
Nevertheless, when he opened the front door of his home to be greeted by a sleepy Lassiter, the first question he wanted to ask was about Jeanne.
“Is all well, Lassiter?”
“Very well, sir. Welcome home.”
“It’s good to be back,” he said.
Bless the instinct of well-trained servants, he thought a moment later when Lassiter turned and led the way to the stairs, casually remarking, “The young lady has been asking when you would return, sir.”
“Has she?”
Lassiter only nodded, and the subject was exhausted, which was just as well. Douglas didn’t know what else to say.
“She had a visitor when you were away, sir,” Lassiter said.
Douglas glanced at his majordomo. “Who?”
“I don’t know, sir,” Lassiter said. “A Frenchman. He carried a gold walking stick and had blond hair. Not a young man,
but not old, either. Near to my height.”
“How long did he stay?”
“A few minutes, no more. He looked decidedly put out when he left. Nor did the young lady seem pleased at his appearance.”
The Sherbourne estate in England, his father’s boyhood home, boasted a chapel complete with a set of clarion bells. Each one of them was ringing in his mind even now.
He walked upstairs, depositing Margaret in her bed. Betty bustled around him, helping to undress her.
Bending down, he kissed his daughter on the forehead. “Goodnight, Meggie.”
She looked up at him, rubbing her eyes. “Are we home, Papa?”
“We are. But it’s late, and you should go back to sleep.”
She nodded groggily at him and he didn’t doubt that she would soon be asleep again.
“Should I stay with her tonight, sir?” Betty asked, bobbing a small curtsey.
“I don’t think so,” he said. “But tuck her in well, Betty, it was a rough journey.”
The seas from Gilmuir had been choppy, yet the summer storm they encountered had made Margaret laugh. He had been slightly less euphoric, thinking that their ship could be easily dashed on the rocks. But the only casualty on their journey had been a sail that had come loose and wrapped around the mainmast. It would be repaired tomorrow at Leith.
After he left Margaret’s room, Douglas walked down the hall to his own chamber. Closing the door, he went to the fireplace to light a candle. The flame flickered and then caught, and he placed the holder back on the mantel and shrugged out of his jacket.
He’d never considered hiring a valet, and now he was doubly grateful that there wasn’t anyone bustling around him. There were times when his life was simply too busy, when the demands of his company, his family, and his responsibilities pressed in too much. He exempted Margaret from that sense of duty simply because she was the one for whom he worked so hard.
