The Making of a Gentleman

by Shana Galen

  “Good.”

  “But, Julien, when I say we might attend a function, you do realize I am including you.”

  Now there was an even longer silence.

  “I don’t see why I should have to go along. You and my mother are perfectly capable of—”

  “Oh, no! I am not going to undertake this… this matchmaking endeavor alone. You are coming along. And you’ll enjoy it, too.”

  “Doubtful. But perhaps I can be persuaded.” His tone had turned low and teasing, and Felicity did move away from the door finally. She had eavesdropped long enough, and she did not want to overhear any of the duc and duchesse’s private moments.

  But what was she to think of what she had overheard? The duc was not in favor of a match between herself and his brother. The duchesse was not opposed to it.

  And why did she care for either of their opinions? She was the comte’s tutor, and that was all she would ever be. When this position was finished and she was a governess to some small boy or girl, the comte would not even cross her mind. She would not even remember his kisses and caresses and those intense cobalt eyes. Her body would stop aching for his touch. Wouldn’t it?

  She made her way up the wide stairs in the vestibule, taking her time. She had no book to occupy her mind, and she dreaded the long night ahead of her. She wondered if any of the servants were about in the kitchens. A warm glass of milk might relax her and keep her from tossing and turning all night, her head full of images of the comte.

  She had just turned back and was making her way down the stairs, when something crashed. It was the sound of breaking glass, the sound of destruction.

  Eleven

  Armand was in his room, undressing for bed, when he heard the noise. For a moment, he felt like a child again, alone and confused on the night the peasants attacked his château. But he was no child now. His every instinct screamed to protect his family and this house. To protect Miss Bennett.

  He went swiftly to the door, threw it open, and stepped into the dark corridor outside his bedroom. He could hear the calls of servants and his brother, and he headed in that direction. He walked resolutely, though images of the night of the attack flooded his mind. He had been in the corridor outside his room that night, as well. The corridor already filled with smoke, he had not been able to breathe or see, but he could hear—as he could now.

  “Mort à l’aristocratie!” he had heard them call, and in that smoke-blackened corridor, two men—servants? Peasants? He would never know—had agreed to kill any aristos they found. Even at his young age, Armand had known that included him.

  He wanted to believe God had helped him to escape, but he didn’t think he deserved God’s mercy any more than the thousands of other aristocratic children killed in the revolution. So perhaps it was luck that helped him evade the attackers. He had slunk along the corridor, hiding in alcoves and crawling along the floor when necessary, until he reached the secret tunnel his brothers and he used to escape the château without their parents’ knowledge. He would have preferred to hide in it—as part of him wanted to hide now—but he had forced himself to run through it, keeping his eyes open for any sign of Bastien or Julien.

  There had been none, and he emerged alone and confused.

  And scared.

  That was the feeling Armand remembered better than any other. He had been so scared. He had not wanted to die.

  If only he had known what lay ahead, perhaps he would not have been in such a hurry to save himself. There had been many nights after his escape that he wished himself dead.

  But he was alive now, and he was not frightened. If anyone challenged him, he would challenge them right back. The sounds were coming from the vestibule, and Armand made his way to the stairs leading there. He was halfway down when he spotted Miss Bennett.

  She had her hand over her heart, and he could see her chest rising and falling. Her hair was not as neat as he was used to seeing it. Usually her yellow curls were pulled smooth, caught up with pins in some sort of round knot at the back of her head. But tonight, many of those curls had escaped their prison and were down about her back. Her hair was longer than he had expected; pieces fell to the middle of her back.

  Just then she turned and looked up at him, and he could see the fear in her eyes. They were still as blue as the first time he’d seen her, but they were wider and darker. He took the remainder of the stairs in twos and was quickly by her side. For a moment, he fumbled with his words. His mind would not cooperate, and he could not form a syllable. But he clenched his fists and forced his mind to bend to his will. Finally he managed, “Are you well?”

  “Perfectly. I was on my way to my room when I heard a loud crash. Your brother is investigating.” She pointed to Julien, who stood in the center of a growing group of footmen and other male servants. Sarah stood on the side, her face white and one hand protectively over her belly.

  “What in God’s name is going on?”

  Armand turned to see his mother coming down the stairs. She wore a blood red robe, and her long dark hair was down about her face. For a moment his world tilted. With her hair down that way she reminded him of… something… someone.

  He blinked, and the image focused. She reminded him of herself years ago. She did not look so old now, but her eyes were different—sadder. He could remember, more clearly than ever before, what she had looked like in those days leading up to the attack on their country château.

  “Armand,” she said, seeing him. “What is wrong?”

  He held up a finger, and with a last look at Miss Bennett, continued down the stairs. He pushed past the servants and elbowed his way into the dining room, which opened into the vestibule. In the light of one of the lamps, he could see the glass from the window was shattered, and the window itself was broken near the top. The hole was square or rectangular in shape, and when he followed the path the object must have taken, he saw the scrapes and dent on the normally shining wood of the dining-room table.

  Julien was bending near the table, and now he rose, holding a red heavy thing.

  “It’s a brick,” he said, turning it over in his hands. Armand nodded. That was the word he had sought. Had it fallen off the house?

  No, he immediately dismissed that idea. Something or someone had put the brick through the dining-room window.

  “And there’s a message scrawled on it,” Julien said. “Bring me a light. Closer.” One of the servants moved to stand beside Armand, who peered over Julien’s shoulder. He could see the scrawl of words, but they made little sense to him. He might have pieced out their meaning, but it would have taken him far longer than it took Julien.

  “Give us the Treasure of the Sixteen or”—Julien turned the brick over—“we will crush you.” His eyes met Armand’s. “What the hell does that mean?”

  All the servants were talking at once, each more confused than the last at the meaning, but Armand found he could not breathe, could not move. Something about the words held him still.

  “Again,” he said quietly, and then when he realized Julien could not hear him, “Again!”

  The room went instantly silent, and Julien gave him a long look. Armand pointed to the brick. “Again, s’il vous plait.”

  Julien looked down. “Give us the Treasure of the Sixteen or we will crush you. Does that mean something to you, Armand?”

  All eyes were on him. He could feel them prickling his back, but he ignored the sensation and held his hand out for the brick. It was heavy and solid when Julien placed it there. Small pieces of glass still clung to its edges, falling off as Armand shifted it in his hand. He stared at the writing, little more than black scrawl made by a piece of coal or ashes. He stared at the words until they began to make sense. The writer had misspelled treasure, forgetting the a. He did not know how he knew this, only that he did.

  The Treasure of the Sixteen. Why did he know that? Why did it
sound so familiar? The murky water in his brain cleared slightly, as though he had dropped the brick into it and could see the bottom for an instant. He stared into the clear water, and thoughts rushed into his mind as if placed there by a familiar stranger.

  A room at night. A low fire crackling in the hearth. The stench of unwashed bodies and stale wine. Someone was talking, and he was not supposed to hear what they were saying. Strong arms clamped onto his shoulder, screeching pain as he was hauled upright and belted across the face.

  Armand dropped the brick, and Julien cursed. “You almost hit my foot!”

  Armand blinked and looked around. He did not recognize the room for a moment. Where was the fire? Where was the wine?

  “Armand, are you well?” Someone touched his arm, and he turned, ready to strike out, to defend himself, but caught himself just before he struck at Sarah.

  His mother was beside him now, and just behind her, Miss Bennett, who looked more frightened than before. He wanted to tell her she shouldn’t be afraid, but he knew nothing but howls would come out now.

  He could not get the damn smell of that room out of his nose! And until the smell was gone, he could not forget that scene. He must forget it. To remember… He put his hands to his head and tried to squeeze the memory away.

  The Treasure of the Sixteen.

  No!

  Images of prison rose up before him: his small cell, the dark hearth.

  No!

  He could not go back there. He would not go back there!

  “Armand, no one is going to make you go back there.” It was his mother’s voice, and it snatched him from the memories. He looked down and into her concerned face. “Armand, did you hear me?” She held up a hand but did not touch him. He could see she wanted to, but he was glad she did not. He did not want to be touched.

  He nodded at her question, though he could not have said at the moment what it was.

  “You are safe here. Come, let us sit down.” She motioned to one of the chairs, and a servant immediately pulled it out from under the table. Armand sat, put his head in his hands. The memory was fading, but it still pulled at him, still tore at him like tiny rat teeth.

  “Bring us a glass of wine,” someone said, probably his mother. The low murmur of voices rose up around him, but he ignored them and concentrated on ridding his mind of the terror, ridding his nose of that smell.

  He heard the wine glass clink on the table before him and reached for it without looking. He downed the wine immediately, feeling its warmth spread through him.

  Where was Miss Bennett? He looked up and around, his gaze catching on her yellow hair. She was watching him. Everyone else, his mother included, was focused on Julien, who had lifted the brick again and was studying the writing.

  But Miss Bennett was watching him. He stared at her, willed her to come closer. And finally, she did.

  She took the chair on the side opposite his mother. “Are you well?”

  He couldn’t answer, could only reach out and take her hand. He knew he was not supposed to touch her this way. Julien would say something else about marriage, but at that moment, Armand did not care. Only Miss Bennett could make that memory fade completely.

  As soon as her warm skin touched his, the last ripples of the murky water in his mind stilled. He allowed it to still, not wanting to disturb the memories hidden there ever again. “Bad thoughts,” he finally managed to choke out. His voice was raw and hoarse again, as though he had not used it in many years.

  “Do the words on the brick mean something to you?”

  “No,” he said quickly and then could see in her eyes she did not believe him. His brother was looking at him, too, and Julien cleared a path through the servants to stand on the other side of the table.

  “Did you have something to do with this?” Julien lifted the brick.

  Armand shook his head. “I was in my room. I heard the noise and came down.”

  “But you know something.” All eyes were on Armand again, and he could feel his skin heat with discomfort. He lifted a hand to loosen his necktie and realized he was not wearing one. His throat felt tight and constricted.

  “No,” he lied. “I do not know something.”

  “What is the Treasure of the Sixteen?” Julien demanded.

  Armand did not dare look away, but he remembered a song Miss Bennett played on the pianoforte that morning. He played it over in his mind. Julien finally looked at the others. “Does this mean anything to anyone?’

  “No, Your Grace,” all voices echoed as one.

  Frustrated, he tossed the brick on the table, and Armand clenched his fists to keep from grabbing it. He wanted to snatch that brick and throw it as hard as he could back through the window. He wanted it far, far away from him.

  “Grimsby,” Julien said, “go outside and fetch the watchmen. I want to know if they saw anything. And I want to know how this got past them. I’ll have their heads.” The butler nodded and rushed to follow Julien’s instructions. “You”—he pointed to a pair of footmen—“check the rest of the house. Make sure all of the doors and windows are secure. You”—he pointed to a maid—“clean up this glass.”

  The orders continued until all of the servants were occupied. Through it all, Armand held Miss Bennett’s hand. He should have been outside tonight. He would have been if he had not been so tired. His mind had been occupied with thoughts of marriage. What he should have been thinking of was protecting the house.

  Julien slumped into one of the dining-room chairs beside Sarah. “Any idea who could have done this?”

  “I think it is safe to assume that it might be the same men you have been paying the watch to protect us from,” his mother said. “The men who dug up the garden.”

  Armand nodded. How he wished he had run a little faster that night when he had seen the man in the garden. If he could have caught that one, then none of this would have happened. He felt the water of his mind ripple again and forced it to still. But the momentary wave had confirmed something. The men in the garden and the Treasure of the Sixteen were related.

  Miss Bennett was no longer holding his hand. She had released it at some point, but she was still seated beside him, and now she spoke. “I think the comte remembers something.”

  “Really?” His brother’s tone was harsh, and Armand gave him a threatening glare.

  “No need for sarcasm, Julien,” Sarah said. She looked at Armand and smiled, though the smile was tight. She was tired. “If you know something about the words on the brick, you should tell us, Armand. Explain why someone would throw that through our window.”

  Armand stared at her then looked at his brother. He could not remember. He would not. And, even if he could, the knowledge would not save them. The less they knew, the better.

  “I don’t know anything,” he said, rising. Julien rose, too.

  “You’re lying. I saw your reaction. All of this means something to you. Tell me what.”

  “I don’t know anything,” Armand repeated, but he could see Julien was not ready to give up. Armand would make his brother give up. He slammed his fist onto the already damaged table, making it rock and groan. “Stop talking!”

  But his brother was already around the table, and before Armand could react, Julien grabbed his collar and hauled him against the dining-room wall. “Tell me what you know, damn it! What the hell is going on?”

  Rage had been building in Armand for days, rage and a feeling of impotency, and now he pushed Julien back. His brother was taken by surprise and stumbled, but Armand caught him, reversing their positions. He slammed Julien against the wall, rattling a painting but feeling the satisfying thunk of Julien’s bones crash into the solid material behind him. “I could kill you,” he hissed, reverting to French. For some reason, the language came easily to him now, the words falling off his tongue. “I could put my hands around your neck”�
��he put his hands on Julien’s neck, felt the strong muscles beneath his fingers—“and squeeze every bit of life from you.”

  “Do it, then,” Julien answered in French. “Kill me, but it won’t stop the nightmares, Frère. It won’t avenge the men who did this to you.”

  Armand flexed his hands. He wanted to hurt, to kill, to make someone pay for the pain even those brief memories had churned up in him.

  “I didn’t imprison you.” Julien’s eyes were bright and hard and never wavered. “I rescued you. I never, not for one instant, forgot about you. I never stopped searching for you.”

  Armand stared at him, the cold fire in his belly beginning to burn out.

  “But now you’ve brought something back with you.”

  Armand’s hands flexed, but his brother did not wince.

  “And I need to know what it is. I can’t protect ma mère or Sarah or Miss Bennett if you don’t help me. What is the Treasure of the Sixteen?”

  Armand stared at his brother for a long moment. The waters in his mind churned and bubbled then, resolutely, he stilled them. “No. I don’t know.” He released Julien and stepped back. His hands were moist, and he could feel the sweat on his back, his upper lip. The room had become too warm. He backed away from his brother, backed toward the stairs, toward the safety of his room.

  Julien stepped forward. “Don’t walk away from this. Don’t walk away from me.” But before he could move any closer, Sarah was in front of him.

  “Julien, let him go.”

  “He knows something.”