Lady of Fortune

by Mary Jo Putney

  Lewis moved a step closer. She thought he was handsome? Following a thread of feeling too faint to be called hope, he asked, “Is it so unthinkable that you could ever love me?”

  She rose then and deliberately crossed to the windows, turning to face him with the late afternoon sun falling across her. The harsh light illuminated the fine lines in her face, the silver in her hair. “Look at me, Louis. I am five years older than you, and I have done a life’s worth of living. I have buried two husbands and three babies, and I am physically and emotionally too tired to begin again. If you move beyond your … obsession with me, you can marry a woman young enough to give you children and have the life you should have begun twenty years ago.”

  He moved so close they were almost touching, and looked into the wondrously clear gray eyes Marie-Claire had bequeathed her children. “Charles has been my son, I need no more. I know that you are not a girl, and it doesn’t matter. To me, you will always be beautiful.”

  Lewis’ gaze held hers with mesmerizing intensity. “You speak of what you believe would be best for me, but you have not answered my question. Is it unthinkable that you could love me?”

  Marie-Claire looked back steadily. “I have always cared for you, not just as my husband’s brother, but for yourself. Even when you were a boy, I knew I could rely on you absolutely, and I have always valued your integrity and honor. But I will say it again: I am too worn. You deserve better.”

  Lewis held her gaze for an endless moment, then knew with a flash of insight that the time for words was past. Placing his hands on Marie-Claire’s shoulders, he bent his lips to hers. He deliberately held back, fearing that a lifetime of suppressed love might sear them both.

  Her lips were hesitant at first; then she slowly raised her hands to his waist and the tentativeness of the kiss was swept away as his passion communicated itself to her. Lewis pulled her close, scarcely believing that after a lifetime of dreams Marie-Claire was in his arms, responding with a sweetness beyond his imaginings.

  The sun had slipped below the horizon and the room was nearly dark when they returned to normal time. The countess tilted her head back, and there was mischief in her voice when she said, “Do you know, Louis, I believe that I am not as old as I thought.”

  He laughed then, with a freedom and joy entirely new to him. “Then you will consider me as a candidate for your next husband?”

  There was sadness in her reply. “My husbands have not fared well. You might be better advised to keep your distance.”

  Lewis put a hand on her shoulder, his blue eyes searching in the dusk. “Marie-Claire, I would give the rest of my appointed span in return for a single day as your husband.”

  Her voice was wondering. “You really mean that, don’t you?” She was awed by the patent sincerity of his statement. With a half-smile she said, “I trust it will not come to that. I think it is well that we learn to know each other again. If you feel the same way this summer, you may ask me again.”

  Lewis Radleigh had no doubts at all how he would feel in the summer. He pulled Marie-Claire close against him and laid his cheek against the top of her head, grateful for the darkness of the room that concealed his joyful tears.

  Locating Christa turned out to be anticlimactically simple after the drama of the last two days. Drawing up a list of their émigré acquaintances, Charles called on half while Marie-Claire and Lewis visited the rest. One of the best possibilities, Suzanne de Savary, proved difficult to locate because she had moved, but a neighbor gave Charles the direction of her shop.

  It was after closing hours when he arrived there, and Suzanne herself was the only person left. Her eyes widened at the sight of him when she opened the door, and with a squeal of delight she threw her arms around him.

  “Charles Radleigh! This is beyond anything great!” She stepped back and asked hopefully, “And my cousin Marie-Claire?”

  He smiled broadly as he entered the shop and closed the door behind him. “Very well indeed. She is in London now, and looking forward to seeing you.” The earl glanced around him at the spacious showroom and rich sweeps of fabric. “It appears you are doing very well for yourself.”

  “Yes, much of it due to your sister. The minx made me the most coveted modiste in London by passing the word of my skill—in the strictest confidence! Of course everyone beat a path to my door, and now I am all the rage. Even when the fashion moves to someone else, I think I will keep many of the customers.”

  “You know where my sister is?” Charles asked eagerly.

  “But of course,” she said with a lift of her brows. “She is working here. Shall I make you some coffee?”

  Being half French, Charles never refused such an offer. While Suzanne brewed the beverage, she brought him up to date on Christa’s and her own activities. He had gone through the extremes of shock and amusement and they had drunk half the pot by the time she was up to the present.

  “So three days ago, she appeared on my doorstep, ready to leave the life of an abigail behind her.” Suzanne frowned. “She is not very happy. I think something happened, but she won’t talk about it. Did I mention that she was employed by Miss Annabelle Kingsley, Viscount Kingsley’s sister?”

  Charles nodded. He had met the viscount some years before. He had been a dried old stick of a man; perhaps the sister was also, and had made Christa’s life miserable. He still marveled at the thought of his sister meekly doing anyone’s bidding.

  Suzanne went on, “Christa started here yesterday. She insists on working in the sewing room. A great pity—she would be marvelous with the customers.” She frowned and added, “I think she does not wish to be found by someone, for she instructed me to deny her existence if anyone inquired.”

  “I am glad that you did not include me in her prohibition.” Charles chuckled.

  “Faugh!” Suzanne scoffed at the very idea, then smiled ruefully at her cousin. “I am going to lose my partner, no?”

  “I think it very likely,” Charles agreed. “Where is she now—at your house?”

  “No, she is staying with one of the seamstresses. I have just married again, and she judged it unsuitable to … how do the English say … play gooseberry?” As Charles burst out laughing, she continued placidly, “Though with six children between my Henry and me, one more gooseberry would hardly be noticed.”

  After tendering his felicitations on her nuptials, Charles asked, “Where is she staying?”

  With a shake of her head, Suzanne said, “I fear I do not have the direction, only that it is somewhere near St. Paul’s. But if you come here at eight o’clock in the morning, you may carry her back to a life of luxury.”

  Charles touched her hand. “Is that what you would like for yourself? You are part of my family. You have only to ask …”

  His cousin waved dismissively. “If one of my daughters grows up thirsting for the beau monde, you or Christa may bring her out. But as for me, I have never been happier in my life than I am now. Give Marie-Claire my love, and ask her when she can call on me. As a working woman, it is harder for me to get away.”

  Charles rose. “I’ll take you home in my carriage, then tell my mother and uncle the good news. We can all sleep easy tonight.”

  The weather warmed on the way to London, turning the roads to a relentless mass of mud that released hooves and wheels with great reluctance. The trip from the Orchard dragged into three full days, and it took all of Alex’s stoicism not to let Fiske see how difficult he found the journey. He had the glum suspicion that the valet would be clucking over him like a mother hen for the rest of his days, and all because he’d pulled the boy out of the water once.

  The lengthy trip permitted ample time for planning and he had decided to begin his search for Christa at her cousin Suzanne’s. Alex had taken his sister to the shop once and knew the direction, and it seemed likely that Mme. de Savary would know her young cousin’s whereabouts. Christa might even be working for the modiste—she had once mentioned that as a possibility.
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br />   When they reached London he retired immediately. Alex was still weak, and he knew he would need all his strength for the search. He had Fiske wake him early the next morning, having decided to get to the shop very early and wait until the owner arrived. Or even, he dared hope, Christa herself.

  Fiske’s lips pursed disapprovingly when he left St. James’s Square. The valet had no idea what was behind this mad dash to the metropolis, and had pointed out at regular intervals that Lord Kingsley should still be in bed.

  It was about seven-thirty when Alex arrived at Suzanne’s, and the air had the acrid tang of too many coal fires as the streets began to stir. He found a convenient alley directly across from the shop and leaned against the wall as he absently ate a handful of hot chestnuts purchased from a peddler. They kept his hands warm against the sharp chill of the January morning, and the viscount mused on how food always tasted better out-of-doors as he watched the passing parade of working people. It was an entirely different London from that of the ton.

  Alex was vaguely aware of a fashionable carriage that pulled up in front of the shop; presumably some eager customer with an early morning fashion crisis. Most of his concentration was on the passersby. Christa was not very tall, and might be hidden by some larger person. He was also uneasily aware that he had no idea of how she would react to seeing him. Would she be glad? Angry? Or perhaps worst of all, indifferent? He reminded himself forcibly that she might not be coming to her cousin’s at all, but it was impossible to suppress the hope.

  And then suddenly Christa was walking down the street toward him, her elfin face grave above her blue cloak. Alex took a half-step out of the alley and studied her hungrily. If she looked unhappy, perhaps she was missing him? He was about to cross the street to intercept her when suddenly Christa stopped, her face lit by an expression of transcendent joy.

  With a rush of delight Alex thought she had seen him and that she was as happy as he. Then he realized that her gaze was not on him but on a tall blond man who had stepped out of the waiting carriage, his back to Alex.

  When Alex had first met Christa, she had called him “Charles” as a desperate question. This time also she cried out “Charles!” but now there was no doubting. She was racing toward the blond man, who sprang forward to catch her up in his arms.

  Alex’s vision narrowed and he felt as if he were falling away from the world. His head whirled and for a moment he blacked out. When his senses returned, he found that the alley wall was supporting him. The bricks were cold and gritty against his burning forehead and his breathing sounded harshly in his ears. With dizzy precision he decided that Fiske was right, it was too soon to go out alone.

  Most of his attention was focused on the ragged pounding of his heart as he strained for breath, but at a great distance he could hear two voices excitedly chattering in French. Something about believing that Charles had been dead, and mutual assurances of good health. Alex concentrated on nearer things, on the effort it took to remain upright, on the paralyzed numbness of his solar plexus. His knees wanted to buckle and he was still flattened against the brick building when the carriage door slammed shut. Despairingly he heard the jingling harness as the vehicle carried Christa out of his life.

  The mysterious Charles, back from the dead. Savagely Alex wondered how darling Charles would react when he discovered just how generous his sweetheart had been to her employer, but the anger vanished as quickly as it had flared up. After all, Christa had never said she loved Alex, she had merely been there when he needed her, asking nothing in return. If her Charles was any kind of man at all, he wouldn’t blame Christa for what had happened when she had believed him dead. Alex tried to be glad that she had her lover restored to her but his grief was too raw for him to be generous. Perhaps he could wish her happy later, but not now. Not soon.

  He levered himself away from the wall with his hands, trying to decide if he were steady enough to walk. From near his right elbow a shrill voice asked, “ ’Ey, mister, are you going to finish them chestnuts?” The viscount looked down, blinking to clear his vision, and saw the chestnuts he had dropped when he first saw Christa. An urchin looked up at him suspiciously.

  “Help yourself.” Alex’s voice was unsteady. While the boy scooped up the remaining chestnuts, Alex searched in his pockets for a coin that he handed over when the boy straightened. “Will you get a hackney for me?”

  The boy’s eyes widened at the size of the coin. “Yessir, right away.” He skipped off. The cove was obviously drunk as he could hold together.

  After the hackney coach deposited Alex back at Kingsley House, he collapsed with such thoroughness that his worried valet called in the best doctor in London and summoned Miss Kingsley from Suffolk.

  On the carriage ride to Radcliffe House, Christa kept one hand clutched around Charles’s arm as if afraid that he would disappear into the ether. While she had an intellectual belief in miracles, this one seemed too good to be true. They exchanged news at a high rate of speed, both talking at once and finishing each other’s thoughts as they had since they were children. The conversation slowed some as they neared the end of their journey, and Charles said hesitantly, “There is something you should know before we get home.”

  “Oh?” She quirked her brow questioningly.

  “I have told you why Lewis behaved as he did. I hope you can bring yourself to forgive him.”

  Christa gave a Gallic shrug. “It was foolish of me to run off as I did. It made a great deal of sense at the time, but I should have known your uncle would not turn into a monster overnight. The last year has been … educational.”

  With a stab of pure pain, she thought of Alex. It was one of God’s less humorous jokes that now that she had regained both station and fortune, he was lost to her. If he had loved her, she would have fought Sybil Debenham for him. But without his love, she had no more place in his future now than when she was a maid.

  “I would not have missed it,” she added after a silence that was a little too long. She looked at her brother questioningly. “I expect Uncle Lewis and I may be a little uncomfortable with each other at first, but we shall get over that. Do you anticipate a problem?”

  “Well,” Charles said hesitatingly, “not exactly a problem. It’s just that … well, you know how men are always falling in love with Mother.” As Christa stared at him blankly, he elaborated. “Apparently Lewis fell in love with her when he was thirteen and hasn’t looked at another woman since. At least, not seriously,” he qualified. “Now that he has caught her between husbands, he has pleaded his case. She’s always been very fond of him, and now they are both smelling of April and May. I think they may make a match of it.”

  The situation had been something of a shock even for Charles. After a little soul-searching, he accepted it with genuine pleasure, but he worried about Christa’s reaction. After all, she didn’t know and value Lewis as he did, and she had reason enough to hate him. Charles needn’t have worried. After a moment of blank astonishment, his sister went off into whoops.

  When she sobered up, she gasped, “The poor man! So mad for Maman that he was desperate enough to consider me a substitute. It is a farce Moliere himself would have appreciated—kinfolk reappearing from the grave, longtime lover rewarded. C’est merveilleux!”

  Charles gave her a hug, delighted at her reaction. “You are well enough in your way, my little cabbage.”

  When they reached the house, Christa jumped from the carriage and raced up the stairs. A watchful footman opened the door and she went hurtling through. Marie-Claire was waiting. With a sob of joy, Christa hurled herself into her mother’s arms. “Oh, Maman, Maman,” she gasped through her tears. “I’ve missed you so.”

  Lewis kept out of the way while Christa and Marie-Claire had their reunion. Much later in the day, Christa sent him a message requesting a meeting in the library. He was at his most impassive when he complied; she was beginning to recognize the expression as embarrassment. She rose at his entrance, studying the lean b
lond figure. He really was a very distinguished-looking man—stern, perhaps, but Maman would cure that. Men had always fallen in love with her mother, and it was a testament to Lewis’ character that Marie-Claire reciprocated his feelings.

  He stood in silence for a moment, then said with rehearsed precision, “I owe you a profound apology, Marie-Christine. I behaved very badly, and I fear my actions may have put you into danger. Certainly into discomfort.”

  Christa shrugged and gave a gamin smile. “But as you see, I am none the worse for it, and I have no regrets that I left Radcliffe Hall. I think that my actions perhaps caused you more pain than yours caused me.”

  Lewis smiled ruefully and began to relax. “If you only knew! Did I really see you near Hyde Park last autumn? I thought perhaps I was hallucinating.”

  “Yes,” she confirmed. “Fortunately, London is an easy place in which to lose oneself.” She studied him a moment longer, then crossed and offered her hand. “We had best be friends. Otherwise it will make Charles and my mother very unhappy.”

  “Then you know … ?” he asked as he took her hand and held it between his two large ones.

  “Yes, and I approve. Maman likes being married. It will be good for her to have someone to care for.” She grinned. “Almost as good as it will be for you to have someone caring for you.”

  Lewis bent and kissed her hand, not with the passion of a lover but with respect and affection. “You are a rare young woman, Marie-Christine, worthy of being your mother’s daughter.”

  Christa blushed pink at the compliment. “You could have said nothing that would please me more. But there is one thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Our relationship will prosper much better if you call me Christa. No one uses my full name unless he is angry with me.”

  Lewis laughed, delighted beyond measure to have both her forgiveness of the past and her blessing for the future. Offering his arm, he said, “Shall we go inform the rest of the family that we have made peace?”