by Brenda Joyce
“You have forgotten your manners, the both of you,” Nadine said softly to her sisters, but she never took her gaze from his. “Hello, Dominic.”
She had always been one of the most graceful and gracious women he knew. There was something about her movements, her gestures, her tone and bearing that beckoned those around her like an offered hand, yet also indicated a vast and reassuring sense of nobility. She would have made an exceptional countess.
But he instantly realized that while her innate grace remained, she was filled with sadness. The sparkle in her eyes was gone. He released Veronique and walked over to her, taking both of her hands in his. “How are you?”
She hesitated. “I am well.” Moisture arose.
He did not hesitate. He bent to kiss each cheek, then opened his arms. She stepped into them and he held her, comforting her for all that she had been through.
She was so very familiar, for he had held her many times, intimately but casually, as he was doing now. But as he held her, he thought of Julianne. He was shocked, not just because his thoughts were errant, but because when he held Julianne, there was nothing casual about it. And then he was uneasy. In his arms, Nadine felt like a sister, not a fiancée. He loved her dearly, he would always protect her and provide for her, but he suddenly knew he would never be able to make love to her.
He released her and managed a smile. “I am so glad you are alive. I spent months searching for you in France.”
The tears shimmered, unshed. Yet Nadine was not the kind of woman to cry easily. “I know. I heard. Please, Dominic, do not blame yourself for failing to find me. I was in hiding.”
He touched her cheek. Nadine was a very strong woman, but she had to have been afraid, and she had been alone. “I wish I had been with you.”
“I know you do, but there is no point in lamenting what cannot be changed.”
“No, there is no point,” he agreed. He turned to her father and they shook hands, warmly. “So you have settled in Cornwall?”
“Yes. We were guided to an estate that had been neglected for years and I purchased it,” D’Archand said. He was a tall, dark, good-looking man who had married an older woman at a very young age, the marriage arranged by both of their families. He had been widowed for many years now. He had lost two vast estates in France, one in le Loire, the other in the south, near Marseilles. “It seems like a secure place to raise Veronique and Angelina.” He was firm and, before either girl could protest, he sent them quelling looks.
Dominic turned back to Nadine, aware that the girls detested the country. “How do you like Cornwall?”
“It is quiet, isolated…but we are together now.” She smiled briefly, and he wondered what she really thought. “You have changed, Dominic.”
He hesitated. “I am older.”
“We are both older. You have changed a great deal,” she said, very thoughtful now. “But then, I suppose we have both changed.”
“You are even more beautiful than when we last were together.”
She finally smiled, brushed away the moisture in her eyes and cocked a brow. “Dare you play the gallant with me?”
“I mean it.”
“I don’t care, and you know it.”
“Yes, I do know it.” Nadine had never cared about her looks, and unlike every other Frenchwoman he knew, she had not been a flirt. “Do you want to take a stroll?”
“Of course.” She gave him her arm and he looked carefully at her. Why was there so much tension between them? Once, they had been as close as a young man and a woman who were not lovers but good friends could be. He knew her so well, and she had never been so self-contained. It was as if she had erected an invisible wall between them. Or had he done that?
D’Archand opened the door to the terrace and the back gardens. He smiled at them as they went out. Nadine seemed to watch where she was going, and he studied her classic profile. “I am very glad you are home.” He paused at the edge of the slate terrace, a small garden and fountain just beyond the low terrace walls.
She released his arm and met his regard. “But this isn’t my home, not really.”
He touched her cheek. “How do you really like Cornwall?”
She inhaled. “So you can still read my mind, like a Gypsy?”
“No, I cannot.”
She started, their gazes holding. “I used to be able to sense your thoughts, and I can’t sense them now, either. I only know there is something different with you, or with us.”
He wanted to tell her that he had spent the past year and a half in France, spying for Pitt. He knew he must not. And how should he respond to her comment? “You never answered my question.”
She shrugged, the gesture so European. “I suppose I will become accustomed to my new circumstances, but I will always miss my home in the Loire Valley.”
“You need some time to recover and adjust. That is all.”
She smiled a little at him. “Yes, in time I will adjust to this new life.”
He finally said, softly, “Have we both changed so much that we have become strangers to one another?”
Tears filled her eyes. “I hope not! I love you, Dom.”
He knew she did not mean it passionately, and he reached for her. She came again into his arms. “Have you been in France this entire time?” she asked, her face against his chest.
He tensed. He did not want to lie to her. “It is better,” he said slowly, “if we discuss the future, not the past.”
She looked up at him. “So we will not talk about what we have both endured, these past years? It has been two years, Dominic, since we last saw one another.”
His heart lurched. He recalled the last time he had seen her—at a ball, the night before she’d left for Paris.
They had kissed with feeling, with passion, and suddenly he was saddened. How innocent they had been. How naive—and they had been so prepared to love one another for an entire lifetime.
“There are things I cannot discuss, not even with you,” he said.
She detached herself from him and looked up at him. “Then I will assume you have survived a very difficult time, as I have.”
“Yes, we have both managed to survive two very difficult years.” He took her hand and held it, wishing he could be honest with her—wishing he had been honest with Julianne. But he had a duty to the state. And his duty required duplicity and caution and distrust. “And isn’t that a feat?”
“You are one of the strongest men I know. I would expect you to survive a hurricane—even if on a raft in the ocean.”
He finally, genuinely, smiled. “No one could survive that!”
And she also smiled. A long moment passed as they studied one another. “This is awkward, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is.”
“I am not as strong as you,” she said.
He was alarmed. “What does that mean? I can see that you have suffered. I can see that you are saddened.”
“It means that I have changed. I have lost my innocence, Dominic, my naiveté.” She did not smile now. “The woman you wished to marry no longer exists.”
“No,” he said sharply. “You do exist—but you have changed, just as I have. I am not a reckless boy anymore, just as you are not a naive girl.”
“You were never a reckless boy,” she said softly. “You were always a young man of honor, pride, courage and duty. And I can see that those traits have been strengthened, not diminished.”
How wrong she was, he thought grimly. “Do you know what hasn’t changed?”
She jerked slightly, as if with alarm.
“My loyalty.”
“I knew that was what you would say…” She trailed off.
“And you are dismayed? I will always care for you and I will always protect you, if I can.”
“But?” she supplied.
He was silent, not wanting to open up an especially intimate subject.
She smiled. “But we aren’t two barefoot children now. We aren’t even a rich Fr
ench heiress and a powerful English earl, dancing the night away or attending lawn parties.”
Very carefully, he said, “Maybe we will have to discuss the past two years.”
“Yes, maybe we will—at another time.”
He was relieved that they would delay the discussion. He hesitated. “War changes everyone. I hate that it has affected you at all. I wish I could have spared you, Nadine. I spent five months looking for you. I would have never given up if I had thought you were alive. And I will not allow the past years to destroy our relationship.”
“But there is a hurricane in France. The war—the anarchy—the mobs—the Jacobins—have they not destroyed everything in their path?”
He was silent again, letting every bloody memory he had flow over him, and he also let in every memory he had of Julianne. And in that horrific moment, he realized that the damned revolution had already destroyed two of the most important relationships in his life.
“Nothing is the same, is it?” Nadine finally said. “Nothing.”
His heart thundered. “No. Nothing is the same, Nadine.”
CHAPTER NINE
“THAT MUST BE THE HOUSE,” Julianne said, surprised.
She was seated in the backseat of Tom’s carriage, facing a very pleasant two-story home on Cavendish Square in London. It was in a well-to-do neighborhood filled with other stately two- and three-story homes. Shady elm trees lined the street, as did fine curricles and carriages. Oxford Street, with its luxury shops, was but a block away. The house was much larger and far more upscale than she had expected.
“I am guessing that the mine and quarry are doing better than Lucas has said,” Tom remarked, sounding amused.
“How can we afford this?” she asked. Lucas could not possibly manage such a house by himself. He would have to have a housekeeper and a maid.
“I suppose you will ask your brother,” Tom said with a smile. “Ah, I see that there is a stable boy.”
Julianne saw a young man approaching from the back of the house, a carriage house and stable visible at the end of the short driveway. She got out of the carriage, as did Tom, who spoke briefly with his driver. Tom was to spend the night before he went on to Edinburgh in the morning.
She watched a very elegant brougham approaching, a pair of high-stepping bays in the traces. When it came close enough, she saw two stunning young ladies in the back, dressed in pale silks and towering headdresses. The ladies waved their gloved hands at her as they passed.
It was a rare moment, but Julianne felt poor and gauche.
Tom came to stand beside her, scowling. “They are absolutely indifferent to the suffering that is right around the corner,” he said.
She sighed. “Yes, they are. But you must admit, they were beautiful.”
He gave her an odd look, and it was partly reproving. “No, they were not. You are the beautiful one.”
Julianne managed a smile. The drive from Cornwall had taken three days—they had spent each night at a public inn. It had been a pleasant trip, as she enjoyed Tom’s company, as well as that of the widow who was traveling with them. Julianne could hardly travel alone with Tom, and Mrs. Reston had been meaning to visit her children in the city for some time now. They had spent the entire time reading newspapers, writing letters and discussing politics, Mrs. Reston napping. Fortunately, he had been kind enough not to bring up the still-sensitive subject of Paget. Tom had found numerous moments in which to admire her wit, her intelligence and her traveling outfits. Was he making his feelings clear? Or was he being kind?
Her heart remained bruised and raw. She still thought about Paget on a daily basis, with hurt, anger and confusion. She hoped Tom did not have serious intentions.
On the very first day of travel, she had dared to bring up the subject of his writing to their Jacobin allies in Paris—which she had been constantly worrying about. “Have you written to Marcel yet?”
“Yes, I have.”
She had felt a distinct stabbing of dismay. “Did you identify Bedford?”
“I most certainly did, Julianne. Surely you are not having second thoughts about disclosing his activities, are you?”
She was very certain then that she did not want his activities known by his enemies in France, but she had fallen silent. Tom had taken her silence as acquiescence, and the conversation had ended.
Now, she said, still uncomfortable by his flattery, “Let’s go inside and rest a bit. You still have a long journey ahead of you.” She took his arm.
As they turned toward the house, the front door opened.
Lucas came out, smiling at her. “I see you have made it to London in fine form. Hello, Julianne.” He strode forward, wearing a dark green frock coat and a silver waistcoat over his pale breeches. He was not wearing a wig and his tawny hair was pulled back into a queue, but he was very dashing anyway.
Julianne embraced him, aware that his smile was fleeting and his gaze searching. She wasn’t really angry with him now, and she looked forward to having a sincere conversation with him, as soon as possible. “We have survived some very bad roads,” she said lightly. She watched Lucas turn to Tom and shake his hand. The last time she had seen them interact, they had been in Penzance. That had been over a month ago—on the day of the last Society meeting she had attended. The day Jack had brought Paget to Greystone.
Lucas had been disapproving of Tom then. He was cool and formal now. “Thank you for escorting Julianne to town, Thomas.”
“It is my pleasure,” Tom said.
“Tom will stay the night, if you do not mind,” Julianne said quickly.
“He is only staying for a single night?” Lucas asked calmly.
Julianne realized she could not get a sense of his thoughts. Just then, he reminded her of Paget. But wasn’t he deceiving her—and Amelia and Jack? It had been obvious when she had discovered Lucas with Paget that he was somehow involved in the war against France. Hadn’t he said something about orders from Whitehall?
“I am off to Scotland,” Tom said.
“Ah, yes, that radical assembly of Tom Hardy’s.” Lucas’s face was impassive. His tone however, was just slightly mocking. But before Julianne could become alarmed, he said, “It is hardly a secret. So do come inside. I have planned a supper for us.” He looked at Julianne. “I am amazed you haven’t tried to convince me to allow you to go to Edinburgh with him.”
Julianne thought about her London convention. She simply smiled.
His stare sharpened.
JULIANNE PAUSED BEFORE the open door of the salon, where Lucas sat alone with a brandy and the London Times. Supper had been over for some time, and he had changed into a paisley dressing gown and his slippers. He saw her and stood, a dark brow cocking upward.
Julianne hadn’t changed out of the gown she’d worn to supper. It was the best dress she owned, a rose-colored floral silk with a square neckline and three-quarter-length sleeves, the full skirts ruched to reveal the darker rose-patterned underskirts. Amelia had insisted she take her mother’s pearl pendant and earrings, which she had yet to remove. She smiled, coming into the salon, but closing the door behind her as she did so.
“Supper was pleasant enough,” Lucas said, pulling out a small pale blue chair with carved and white-washed arms and legs. “I am glad you have come to town Julianne, but I must leave in the morning. It is rather unexpected, but it is just for a few days.”
Julianne thought about the convention, which was only a two-day assembly, and she felt relief. Lucas would never find out the real reason she had come to London now. “I will be fine.” She hesitated. Once again, he was traveling. Hadn’t she wondered if he was always in London when he said he was? “Where are you going?”
“Manchester. I have found a new foundry for our ore.”
She couldn’t help doubting him. “You made a vast effort to get on with Tom, Lucas, which I appreciate.” She sat down.
He sat, too, on the sofa, and stretched out his long legs. He was blunt. “I don’t like his
leanings. And I worry he will urge you into actions you might not otherwise consider.”
“I am hardly meek and mindless,” she said, surprised.
“But you are often malleable.” His gray gaze did to waver.
Was he referring to her foolish infatuation for Paget? She did not know where to start—whether to ask him about the house or Paget or his wartime activities. “Why didn’t you tell me who he was?”
Lucas hesitated. “There didn’t seem to be a point, Julianne.”
She stiffened. “I believe you are lying to me now!”
He actually flushed.
“What are you involved in? You are never at Greystone, but are always in London—or so you claim! And how can we afford this house? Are you also a spy?” she cried.
“I am not a spy. However, I am a patriot. If, in some small way, I can help my country, I will.” His tone was hard, and so were his eyes. “The house belongs to our uncle, and he never uses it. I am renting my room here for a very small sum.”
That explained the house, she thought, shocked by his tone and expression. “And how are you helping our country? By helping Paget survive? I am beginning to think that you brought him home, not Jack.” She no longer knew what to believe.
“I was sent for Paget. I recruited Jack. Julianne, you are the last person I am comfortable disclosing this information to.”
She was dismayed. Her mind raced. “You are my brother—I love you.”
“I know you do. You are not to tell anyone, and by anyone I am including Tom and Amelia, that I was sent to France to help Paget return home.”
She hugged herself, aware of her heart racing. Of course she would never tell Tom. “How well do you know him?” she finally asked.
“I don’t know him well at all. We became acquainted for the first time when I arrived at the manor, and then I became somewhat better acquainted during our journey to London. Why?” He was sharp.
She supposed she was relieved. “Shouldn’t I be curious? He was our guest for many weeks, yet I don’t have a clue as to who he really is.”
