Lady of Fortune

by Mary Jo Putney

  The older man shook his head and said with wry self-knowledge, “You should know better than that. You’re a public man, like your father. I’m not. I never wanted all this. Power isn’t good for me. I find myself tempted to abuse it.”

  He sipped his brandy and added softly, “You must know I’d give the whole of Radcliffe and half of England as well to have you here alive.”

  As if embarrassed by his show of feeling, he went on impatiently, “Will you tell me what happened without any more round-aboutation?”

  “It’s simple enough. One of the bandits robbed my bleeding and apparently dead body, taking all my identification. In the midst of that, a platoon of French Guards came on the scene. They were after the bandits, and quite a battle ensued. I don’t remember any of this, by the way.” He sipped his brandy, then went on, “Jean-Claude and I were taken captive, while Mother managed to get herself and the wounded Anne Bohnet away.”

  Lewis slid forward in his chair, his voice blisteringly intense. “Do you mean that Marie-Claire is alive too?”

  Charles was surprised by the vehemence. “Why, yes, we all are, except for some of the bandits, including the one that robbed me. When the Guards killed him, they assumed he was the Earl of Radcliffe and announced to the world that they had bagged another filthy British spy. Rather droll, actually.”

  They were interrupted by the arrival of the food, brought by the butler himself, a family retainer who had watched Charles grow up. Some time was lost in emotional greetings and brief explanations, and Charles was unable to resume his tale until the butler left. He first made himself a substantial sandwich, biting down with unabashed pleasure. “I’ve always said that the ham from the home farm was the best anywhere.”

  Seeing that his uncle was uninterested in culinary asides, he swallowed his mouthful and continued, “To return to the story, Jean-Claude told the Guards that we were good French citizens, cruelly beset by bandits. Being a suspicious lot, the Guards threw us into the local prison. I was out of my head for quite some time. Really rather remarkable that I didn’t die in that filthy hole—the credit for my survival goes to Jean-Claude. Plus, since everyone around me spoke French, I did too, and it never occurred to anyone that I was a vile Englishman. One of the advantages of being bilingual.”

  Charles stopped for another few mouthfuls of sandwich and a draft of the ale that had been delivered. “The next part of my story is rather boring. While we were not thought to be British spies, it was assumed that we must be guilty of something, and they decided to hold on to us until they figured out what.

  “Meanwhile, my mother had escaped with Anne, and they went to ground with some Norman peasants whom she had known for years. She got in touch with the royalist network and started working with them. Not that she is royalist herself, but she rather liked smuggling people out of the country.” He grinned. “An amazing woman, my mother.”

  “I have never doubted it,” Lewis said dryly. “And then?”

  “She had no idea what had happened to the rest of the party, that Christa had escaped, and that Jean-Claude and I were in prison. It took months to find us, and even longer to arrange an escape.” He added with studied casualness, “If she had left it another two days, they would have guillotined me for nameless crimes against the revolution.”

  Lewis repressed a shudder at the thought; the guillotine had been invented as a quick, humane method of execution, but the idea of a loved one being beheaded had a peculiar horror.

  “The escape from prison was last summer. However, there was some work that needed to be done, and Mother and I did not feel free to return until now. The Bohnets stayed in France and are working with the royalists. A brave pair.”

  He swallowed the last of his sandwich and said, “We reached Dover yesterday, then posted up to London. Mother had written to you two years ago, and I sent a message myself shortly after last summer’s escape, but from the uproar when we arrived at Radcliffe House, the messages went astray. My mother was tired so I left her in London and rode up here because I was anxious to see you and my sister. Speaking of which, where is Christa—staying with friends? I assume that you would have called her down otherwise.”

  Lewis flinched. In the excitement of Charles’s return from the dead, he had almost forgotten the problem that had gnawed at his vitals for nearly a year. He took a deep breath, then plunged in. “She’s not here. I don’t know where she is.”

  “What?” Charles’s brows drew together alarmingly.

  “She ran away last March. I have searched everywhere, but without success.”

  “But why on earth would Christa run away? This was her home.” His suddenly cool gray eyes regarded his uncle challengingly. “What happened?”

  Lewis met his gaze with difficulty. “It is my fault. I … asked her to marry me.”

  “You what!” Charles’s incredulity was so profound as to constitute an insult.

  Lewis flushed and said stiffly, “The idea is not all that ridiculous.”

  Charles tried to look at his uncle objectively. He and Lewis had an unusual relationship, with the older man somewhere between father, big brother, and friend. Lewis was forty-four years old now, twenty years older than Christa, but hardly at his final prayers. He had always been reserved, with few friends, but he had the fitness of a man who had lived a physically active life, and he had the family looks. When he had offered for Christa, he was the Earl of Radcliffe—a prime catch on the Marriage Mart.

  Speaking more mildly, Charles said, “I meant no insult, but the age difference is substantial, and since Christa always thought of you as her uncle, it is hardly surprising she refused you. But why did she run away?”

  Speaking with painful slowness, Lewis said again, “The fault was mine. When she came out of mourning last March, I explained that she had no fortune, then made the offer to her.” The last words came with great difficulty. “The way I made it … was a kind of coercion.”

  He looked pleadingly at his nephew. “You know that I would never have harmed her, Charles. You must believe that. I would have dowered her had she wished to marry. Since she had no other preference, I thought she might be comfortable as the Countess of Radcliffe. Her lack of fortune would not matter, and I could have best protected her that way.” His last words were almost inaudible. “And in time, I hoped she might come to care for me.”

  Charles repressed the strong desire to pick up something and smash it. He could see his uncle’s painful vulnerability, could understand how a middle-aged man would fall in love with Christa’s bright charm. But …

  He stood and paced wolfishly across the room while he swore with vivid bilingual fluency, then turned to glare at his uncle, anger blazing from him. “So you lied about her fortune and bullied her to marry you.” His voice grated as he continued, “You know how dangerous the world is for a girl alone. If she has been missing for a year, she could be anywhere—a prisoner in a brothel or dead in some London stew.”

  There was a long, long pause before Charles ground out with painful emphasis, “If anything has happened to her, may God forgive you, because I never shall.”

  Lewis looked at him bleakly. “You can’t possibly blame me any more than I blame myself.”

  Dead silence reigned, until he added, “I thought she might refuse me, but I never dreamed that a gently bred girl would pack up and disappear so quickly.”

  With unconscious arrogance Charles snapped, “You should have known that no sister of mine would stand still for that kind of Turkish treatment. What have you done to find her?”

  Lewis sighed. “The usual things. Interrogated the servants, spoken to all her émigré friends in London, visited all the registry offices I could find. Her maid said she intended to seek a position as a governess.”

  It suddenly occurred to Lewis that he had missed an important point in his nephew’s earlier speech. “Why did you accuse me of lying about her fortune? Your will made no provisions for her, and all the d’Estelle property is in France
. As I said, I would have provided for her as your sister, but in her own right she hadn’t a penny to bless herself with.”

  Charles’s eyebrows rose. “That’s coming it a bit too strong, Lewis. You must have known that my stepfather would not fail to provide for his family. Christa is not the heiress she will be if the French king is ever restored, but with the money Philippe transferred over here, she still has ten thousand a year, which is a substantial fortune in anyone’s eyes.”

  “But … I checked out the accounts,” Lewis said with bewilderment. “There were no monies from France.”

  “The account is with the London office of Philippe’s bankers—Mont d’Or et Fils.” In the face of Lewis’ surprise, Charles continued, “The Comte d’Estelle charged me as trustee for my mother and sister. There was no reason to change bankers, and much of the money was put into the Funds. To avoid confusion, it never went through a Radleigh bank account.”

  With tight-lipped exasperation Lewis asked, “Why did you never tell me? Did you consider me unworthy of your trust?”

  “You know that’s not true! You handled my affairs for all the years of my minority, and I have never had reason to doubt you. There is no man in the world that I would sooner trust with my fortune.” Charles stopped, then added bitterly, “Though obviously it was a mistake to trust you with my sister.”

  Lewis’ face flamed but he made no attempt to refute the statement.

  Charles drew a steadying breath, then went on in a more moderate tone, “Now that I think of it, Philippe made the transfer shortly after you went to Jamaica. You were gone for almost a year, and by the time you returned, the whole business was old news. I must have thought I’d written to you about it.”

  His jaws tight, the earl faced the consequences of his oversight. “If she had been in possession of her fortune, she might have set up her own household, but she never would have just run away with no more than her pin money in her pocket.”

  Lewis sighed. “The results would have been different, but it doesn’t lessen my responsibility.”

  Charles stood, the weariness of strain and travel showing in his face. “I’m going to bed now. I’ll be getting an early start back to London.”

  His uncle stood also. “I’m going with you.” At Charles’s raised eyebrow he said grimly, “I was the one that drove Marie-Christine away. Now I must face her mother.”

  It was late afternoon when Lewis and the earl arrived at Radcliffe House. Charles went along to greet his mother and briefly tell her what had happened to Christa. Lewis was conscious of the veiled curiosity of the servants, who watched to see how he was reacting to his change of station. He shrugged mentally; his conscience was clear on the point, and there were very few people’s opinions that he valued.

  One of those few was his sister-in-law. When a solemn Charles came down and indicated that his mother was ready to receive him, Lewis felt his throat close up. He was tempted to run, but he had never run from duty in his life, and he would not begin now.

  Sunlight shafted in at the far end of the room, but the countess was seated in shadow, her face obscured. It didn’t matter. He would have known her anywhere. “Marie-Claire …”

  She stood and walked to him, her hands outstretched. He caught them in his and looked down at her, absorbing every detail of change since he had last seen her five years before. She was a small woman, a little too thin at the moment, her face showing the effects of these last years of strain. The rich dark hair had wide streaks of silver now, and she wore it pulled back in a loose coil on her neck. She was beautiful in the fashion of a Renaissance Madonna.

  She smiled and it was like the sun coming out. “It is good to see you, Louis.” She was the only one who ever used the French form of his name, and her accent made music of it.

  They held hands a moment longer, then she released him and seated herself. “Pray make yourself comfortable, Louis.” When he had chosen a chair, she said, her voice grave, “Charles told me what happened, though I had already learned of it from the servants.” She smiled faintly. “They probably told me more than even you would know.”

  The smile vanished and her voice was sorrowful as she continued, “How did it come to happen, Louis? You had not used to be so … insensitive.”

  “There is no acceptable excuse, Marie-Claire. I frightened her. And”—it was a painful admission—“I wanted to, a little. I wanted to shock her enough to see me differently, enough to see the advantages of marrying me. I behaved abominably.”

  She smiled ruefully. “The fault is not solely yours. My Christa has always been impulsive. And independent to a fault.” Her eyes closed a moment, picturing the bright face of the daughter she had not seen in two years. When she opened her eyes the countess continued in a more robust tone.

  “Actually, I think you and Charles take too pessimistic a view. I very much doubt that my daughter is dead or in dire straits now. You men underestimate the ingenuity of a woman.” She chuckled fondly. “You underestimate Christa in particular. I believe that she could be left in a den of lions, and the next morning they would be letting her use them for pillows.”

  She was silent for a moment. “But if she truly decided to lose herself, we may never find her. She could be anywhere. Perhaps even America—Christa always said she wanted to see what a country looked like when the revolution was over.” She sighed. “If that happened, we may never see her again.”

  Lewis’ face was stricken. “It never occurred to me that she might have left the country. I think she had enough money to buy a passage.”

  Marie-Claire studied his guilt-ridden countenance. A deeply intuitive woman, she could imagine what he had gone through this last year. Lewis was a responsible man, and he would see himself as having betrayed a trust. It would have been a shattering blow to his sense of self, and she could see the pain etched in his face. She said briskly, “I have by no means despaired of finding my daughter. I think it very likely that some of our émigré friends here in London know of her whereabouts, but would not speak to you.”

  Correctly interpreting his expression, she added with amusement, “Even in the face of the no doubt generous bribes you would have offered. My little one has a gift for inspiring loyalty.” The countess studied him a moment longer, then said gently, “As she has a gift for inspiring love. I do not blame you for loving her, old friend. What man would not?”

  Lewis sprang from his chair, nearly undone by the chaos of his emotions. He circled the room, tension in every step, then halted under a portrait of Marie-Claire and her first husband, with Charles a toddler. It was a beautiful painting of a beautiful family, and had been completed a bare two months before his brother died.

  Looking at the portrait, he said in a despairing voice, “It is time there was truth between us, Marie-Claire. I did not really love Christa. Or if I did, only a little. What I loved most was that she was your daughter.”

  Lewis turned to face her, a blaze of emotion transforming the face that had always been so impassive. “She is a lovely girl, but only a shadow of you. It has always been you, the whole of my life. There will never be anyone else.”

  Marie-Claire had the gift of stillness. Her very silence seemed to wrench the admission from him. “I love you, and you have reason to hate me. But I had to tell you, even if it costs me your friendship. When I thought you were dead …” His voice choked off and he fought for control.

  “I mourned you and Charles with all my heart. But almost worse was knowing that I had never declared myself to you, that I would go to my grave as a man who was too frightened to admit to love. I thought perhaps you knew that I loved you, but were too kind to reveal your knowledge.”

  She spoke then. “You were only thirteen when I married your brother. I knew that you were … enamored of me, but I thought that in time you outgrew it.”

  “I might have, had I loved you in the fashion of a boy. But I loved you as a man does. The way I love you still.” His voice was colorless as he continued, “I w
as eighteen when you married your cousin. I would have hated him if I could, but Philippe was too fine a man to hate, and he had loved you all his life. I, of all people, should understand that.”

  He linked his hands behind his head and said with a kind of defiance, “I am yours to command—whether you bid me leave your sight forever, or put a period to my existence for injuring your daughter. I will be your brother-in-law, or your friend if you wish it.” Lewis stopped for a long moment before ending quietly, “Or your husband if you would have me.”

  There was stark pain in his voice when he continued after a long pause, “I am a thousand kinds of fool, for only a fool would make an offer in the shadow of the injury I have done you. I suppose it is in keeping with the joke I have made of myself in your eyes. You have had two husbands, and both have been extraordinary men. Men with a capacity for love and laughter that exceeds anything in my power.”

  Lewis stopped, his ragged breathing the only sound in the room. His voice was barely audible as he finished, “I know that you can never love me, and it was selfish of me to burden you with my emotions. I will never speak of this again.”

  Marie-Claire made an impatient motion with her hand. “You dishonor your own worth, Louis. I have never thought you incapable of love. I have seen you with Charles, and his own father could not have cared for him more.” She searched his face, seeing the vulnerable core of the man that had been hidden for so many years. She had always been deeply fond of him. When she continued, it was with compassion.

  “I am grieved beyond words that your whole life has been misshapen by your love for me. Perhaps I knew that you had not outgrown your calf-love, but I did not want to believe it. I would rather have seen you love a woman who could return it as you deserve.”

  He regarded her steadily. “I would have loved another if I could. But it was impossible.”

  “It is not too late for you,” she said earnestly. “You are a handsome man, still young enough to begin a new life and family. Do not waste yourself on me any longer.”