by Shana Galen
scrapes on her hands, dirt on one cheek, and there was
a tear in the material on her thigh.
She looked beautiful.
“We make quite a pair.” He glanced down at
himself—his torn coat, his dusty breeches, his bloody
shirt. He wasn’t sure if the blood was hers or his or one
of the soldier’s. He took her hand. “Come on. Let’s
scare the servants.”
She shook her head but followed him with a laugh.
At the door, he lifted the ornate lion’s head and banged
three times. Bastien could have sworn he heard the
echo of the knocker in the silence. A moment later,
the door creaked open, and an equally creaky butler
stood in the entryway. “May I help you?” The butler’s
eyes skimmed over the pair of them, and the disdain
showed clearly on his face.
“We’re here to see the duc,” Bastien said.
“The duc and duchesse are not home at present. If
you’d care to leave your card”—his tone indicated he
doubted they possessed cards—“I will give it to His
Grace at the first opportunity.”
“What’s your name?” Bastien asked.
The butler raised his brows. “Grimsby, and yours?”
“Bastien. I suggest, Grimsby, you go get the duc. We’ll
wait for him in the parlor or the drawing room. Better
yet”—he pushed his way past this Grimsby—“we’ll wait
in the dining room. Miss Russell and I are famished.”
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“Sir!” Grimsby argued. “You cannot shoulder your
way into this house. I will call the footmen and have
you bodily removed.”
Bastien stood nose to nose with the butler. “And
what will Julien say when he hears you’ve had servants
lay hands on his brother?”
“Brother?” Grimsby sputtered. “You are not the
comte!”
Bastien’s eyes narrowed, and he grabbed Grimsby’s
shirt and jerked him close. “Armand. Is Armand alive?
Is he here in London?”
“N-no!” the butler squeaked as Bastien lifted
him off the ground. “His lordship is at his estate in
Southampton.”
Bastien’s fingers slipped, and he released Grimsby
and turned to Raeven. She looked as shocked as he
felt. “Did you know about this?” he asked.
She shook her head. “No.” She reached out,
touched his sleeve. “Bastien, both of your brothers.
They’re both alive.”
Bastien heard a sharp intake of breath and turned
to see Grimsby staring at him. “You… I didn’t see it
before. But you look just like the comte.”
Bastien nodded. “I’m his twin. Now, where is
Julien? I don’t have any time to waste.”
Grimsby swallowed. “He is not at home. The
duchesse and your mother—”
“My who?”
Grimsby jumped back even as Bastien reached for
him. Grimsby stuttered, “The dowager duchesse, sir—
er, my lord. They have all gone to Lord Astley’s ball.
They left the little boy at home, of course…”
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Bastien reached behind him, searched for a chair,
and when he didn’t find one, sank down onto the
floor. “My mother. And I have a nephew.”
Raeven knelt beside him.
“I don’t know what to say,” he told her. “I don’t
know what to do.”
She nodded. “I do. We go to this Lord Astley’s and
find them. We know the soldiers are looking for us,
and we might be able to trust this butler, but we might
not. I’d rather keep moving than sit here and wait for
the soldiers to turn up.”
“Madam,” the butler said stiffly. “I do not know what
kind of trouble you are in, but I assure you, I would
never betray one His Grace’s family members. I—”
“All the same, Grimsby.” Raeven stood and faced
him. “Tell us how to reach Lord Astley’s ball. We’ll
see the duc for ourselves.”
Grimsby’s gaze swept over her. “Madam, you
cannot attend Lord Astley’s ball dressed in this fashion.”
“It’s no good, Grimsby.” Bastien stood. “You
won’t talk her out of it, and I agree with her. We’ll
go to the ball.”
Grimsby sighed. Loudly.
“Give us the direction,” Bastien ordered.
Raeven could hear the strains of the orchestra even
as they stood outside the glittering town house. She
had thought the Valére house enormous, but this
was even larger, even more ornate. She stood beside
Bastien on the lawn and watched the carriages pull
into the drive. Women dressed in silks and velvet,
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jewels sparkling in the glow of the torches, stepped
regally from each conveyance.
She looked down at her men’s clothing and blew
out a breath. “Perhaps this was not such a good idea.”
“We have little choice,” Bastien said. “We can’t
trust the butler, and I want to see my family before I
have to go into hiding. Maybe they can help hide me.”
Raeven nodded. “You’re right.” She bit her lip as
another well-appointed carriage clattered up to the
house. “How should we do this? Walk in the door
there?” She gestured to a door where two liveried
footmen were assisting a woman in a white gown and
diamonds from her coach.
Bastien considered then shook his head. “I think we
go in the back. Perhaps there’s a terrace.”
Raeven smiled. “Good idea. One other problem.
Once we’re inside, how will we find your brother?
You haven’t seen him in years. Will you recognize
him before we’re spotted and thrown out?”
“I’ll know him,” Bastien said. She glanced at him,
and his expression was pure confidence. “And we’ll
move quickly.”
They scaled the gate and entered the back garden.
Fortunately, the terrace was well lit with Chinese
lanterns strewn in long lines. Several couples walked
arm and arm, and several had veered off the path.
Bastien and Raeven almost stepped on one amorous
man and woman. Raeven apologized profusely before
Bastien grabbed her arm and pulled her away.
They climbed the stone steps to the French doors
leading into the ballroom. Raeven was thankful for
the dark because it masked their tattered appearance,
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but they still garnered more than their share of curious
looks. Raeven ducked her head. Bastien took the
steps two at a time, and Raeven hurried to keep up,
but when they stood before the French doors and she
glimpsed the dazzling ballroom, she balked.
She had been to balls before. She had worn pretty<
br />
gowns and her mother’s jewels. She had spent an
hour pinning her hair and applying subtle rouge. But
she had never seen a ball like this one. The men and
women looked as though they were kings and queens.
The ladies’ dresses alone awed her. She had never
seen so many rich fabrics or sumptuous styles. Jewels
flashed, fans waved lazily, and the women all but
glided across the ballroom floor.
The men were almost as impressive. They stood
straight and regal, their navy coats brushed to perfec-
tion, their cravats stiff, and their gazes imperious. She
wanted to shrink rather than walk before those impe-
rious glances. She had never felt so much the sailor’s
daughter as she did now.
“Raeven, let’s go,” Bastien urged. When she
looked at him, she saw no trace of worry on his hand-
some features. But then he belonged here, among
these gods and goddesses. One glimpse of him, even
in torn breeches and a dirty coat, hair loose about his
shoulders and a smear of dirt or blood on one cheek,
and he looked a part of the ensemble before her. Even
in disarray, he was regal and imperious.
But, of course, he did belong. He was no pirate’s
son. He was the son of a duc—he was a marquis—and
when he stepped through the French doors, he would
only be reclaiming what was rightly his all along.
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She, however, had no place here. And when Bastien
stepped through those doors, she knew she would lose
him. She’d thought to hold on by rescuing him from
prison. She’d thought to hang on by bringing him
to his family. But now she could see she had only
widened the chasm between them. She had known
it was there, but she had never acknowledged it until
now, when it gaped, wide and inaccessible.
“Perhaps you should go alone,” she said, aware her
voice trembled slightly. She cleared her throat. She was
not afraid—not of the ton, not of Bastien’s brother, the
duc, not of losing Bastien. She would go on.
Bastien scowled at her. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not
going to leave you here.” He grabbed her arm. “Hurry.”
And with one yank, he pulled her into the glit-
tering ballroom. She squinted at the bright lights from
the chandeliers and lowered her head again, feeling
strangely self-conscious. At their sudden appearance,
she could hear the hum of conversation dim then
hush. From the corners of her lowered eyes, she saw
heads turn, women lean to their partners to whisper,
and muffled exclamations.
Oh, how she wanted to disappear!
Instead, she raised her head and looked directly in
the eyes of those they passed. Let them stare. Let them
whisper. She didn’t live her life in stuffy ballrooms.
She had seen the world. She tried to let them see her
defiance in her gaze. She wanted them to know she
didn’t care if they mocked her.
A man stepped out before Bastien, and before he
could speak, Bastien said, “The duc de Valére. Where
is he?”
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The man looked surprised then gestured toward the
house’s interior. “I believe he’s with Lord Astley in the
library. Some matters of business to discuss.”
“Good. I’ll join him.” And Bastien, still holding
her hand, plunged onward. The orchestra was still
playing and people were still dancing, but Raeven was
very much aware they were the main entertainment
at the moment. Like the Red Sea before Moses, the
guests parted as she and Bastien made their way across
the ballroom.
But one woman stepped into the breach. She was
smiling tenuously. “Armand?”
Bastien stopped, and Raeven felt the tremor of
shock course through his body. “No,” he managed.
The woman stepped closer, and Raeven studied
her. She was beautiful—tall with dark hair coiled
elaborately on her head, dark eyes, and full lips. She
was slim, her willowy figure accented by the wispy
white gown she wore. And, like the other women,
she sparkled. No one would ever call the diamonds at
her neck and ears garish, but they whispered wealth
and taste.
She nodded and moved closer, almost touching
Bastien now. “No, you’re not Armand. He’s…
you’re… You must be Sébastien.” Her eyes glowed,
and the smile she flashed was as bright as the lights in
the chandelier. “Oh, I cannot believe it!”
Bastien’s fingers tightened on Raeven’s, and then
he released her.
So soon, she thought. She’d hoped he would hold
on just a little longer.
Raeven watched as the lovely woman in white
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offered her hand and Bastien took it, kissed her gloved
knuckles. He looked as though he’d been born to do
such things. “I am Bastien,” he said. “And you are?”
“Sarah, the duchesse de Valére. I’m Julien’s wife.”
She spoke quickly, her voice a little breathless.
If Bastien was surprised to meet his sister-in-law,
he didn’t show it. He drew Raeven forward. “Your
Grace, this is Miss Russell.”
Raeven took the woman’s gloved hand, and Sarah
squeezed her fingers reassuringly. “Pleased to meet
you, Miss Russell.”
Raeven watched as Bastien casually took the duch-
esse’s arm and give her a charming smile. “Would you
take me to your husband? I’m in something of a hurry.”
Sarah nodded. “Trouble?” She waved a hand. “Of
course there is. It seems to follow you brothers like a
hungry puppy. This way…” She gestured for them
to follow then turned back and gave Bastien a quick
hug. “I’m sorry, but I simply can’t believe you’re here.
I’m so thrilled. Your brother will be—oh! But your
mother. She will want to see you. We must seek her
out.” She looked from guest to guest. “Can someone
find the dowager…?”
“No.” Bastien shook his head firmly. “My mother
will have to wait, I’m afraid. We haven’t any time
to waste.”
The duchesse nodded, her expression more grave
now. “Very well. But I’m going to have to answer
for this later,” she said as she led them past the staring
guests. No one made any pretense of not watching
them now. At some moment Raeven couldn’t
pinpoint, the music had stopped and the last vestiges
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of the ball halted. She could feel heat creeping up her
neck and cheeks, but she ignored it and held her head
high
. So what if she looked like a street urchin?
She could set, reef, and furl a sail.
She could fight with a sword, rapier, cutlass, and
dagger, and wasn’t a bad shot with a pistol.
She could plot a course halfway across the world.
And be sure her ship actually reached its destination.
What could these men and women do but stand
about, dance, and look pretty?
Finally— finally—they left the ballroom and stood
in the house’s large foyer. To Raeven it seemed
cavernous as a tomb with its high, domed ceiling,
marble statues, and stark, imposing walls. A footman
or butler materialized immediately and bowed to the
duchesse. “Your Grace, how may I be of service?”
“I need to see my husband. Is this the library?” She
gestured to one of the closed doors.
“Yes, Your Grace. Shall I announce you and
your… companions?” His tone had just the slightest
sneer of derision, but Sarah ignored it.
“No. We want to announce ourselves,” she said,
more than a hint of excitement in her tone.
She went to the door, knocked briskly, and opened it.
Bastien held his breath as the door swung open.
He heard the duchesse—strange to think of anyone
but his mother as the duchesse de Valére—call out
something. Perhaps a greeting. And then the two men
inside swung around to face them. The men were well
dressed in all but matching coats, breeches, and pumps.
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They both held crystal glasses filled with amber liquid.
Bastien had never seen one of the men.
And when his gaze met that of the other, the years
fell away.
The duchesse moved to the side, and Bastien
stepped forward. He opened his mouth to say some-
thing. He thought he might say something amusing or
pithy, but no words came.
Instead, he watched his brother hand his glass to the
man he’d been speaking with, take two steps, and then
enfold Bastien in a firm, hard embrace. Bastien stood
immobile, hardly knowing what response he should
make. An hour or so before, he had not known his
brother was alive, and now here was Julien, in the
flesh, hugging him fiercely.
Julien stepped back, put his hands on Bastien’s
shoulders. Too late, Bastien realized he should have
embraced his brother in return. “I knew you were
alive,” Julien said in French.
The voice.
The voice was almost the same. Older, deeper, but
