André’s eyes widened briefly. “They were murdered?”
“Not precisely.” She bit on her bottom lip as she thought. “Well, Teddy was. He was attacked by footpads in London. And it’s rumored that the sixth Marquis of Clarendon was actually pushed rather than fell, but I don’t know if there were other murders. I should ask Miss Mae as she’s the one who told me all about the curse.”
“Miss Mae?” André inquired.
“Miss Mae is an elderly lady who’s lived here for some time.” Cecelia stopped and frowned. “I actually don’t know how long she’s lived here. I must ask her that as well. She stays in her apartments for the most part, but occasionally she gives her companion the slip and wanders the house." Her face lit up as she laughed. "The day we arrived we found her in our sitting room. She refused to believe we were the Marquis and Marchioness of Clarendon and said she wanted to see Teddy who was the seventh marquis of Clarendon. However, Teddy has been dead for years. She didn’t seem to believe that, either.
"Everyone thinks she’s dotty, but I believe she’s a wonderful actress who finds it amusing to keep everyone off balance. I enjoy her company immensely. Would you like to meet her? I’ve promised Rosie we would have tea with Miss Mae one day this week. It would be lovely to have you escort us, as my husband refuses. I believe he’s a coward for not joining us.”
Rand splashed more burgundy into their guest’s goblet and then filled his own. “I prefer to call it self-preservation rather than cowardice. Feel free to decline if you wish, monsieur. It’s apt to be a harrowing experience. And I must add that if you choose to join the ladies I am not responsible for the outcome.”
André’s lips curved into a smile. “I will accept your offer, madam. It should prove interesting.”
She flashed a look of triumph at her husband. “Wonderful. Will day after tomorrow suit?”
“I look forward to it.”
“We’ll have a splendid time. Now where we? Oh yes. The curse. Do you believe in such things, monsieur?”
He looked thoughtful. “I believe in fate, but whether or not a curse actually becomes one’s fate, I’m not certain. My thoughts and beliefs are still somewhat tangled.” He shrugged. “Perhaps, good or bad, we must accept what comes our way.” His eyes shifted to his host. “What do you believe, my lord?”
Rand absently rolled the stem of his goblet between his thumb and forefinger. “I am a fortunate man and life has afforded me more choices than some. To some degree, I suppose that could be considered fate. Even so, I would like to believe that I control my own future rather than some phenomena called destiny or some blasted curse put into existence decades before my birth. Believing in fate or a curse chips away at the notion of taking responsibility for one’s actions. My mistakes are my own as well as my successes.”
André’s eyes darkened and for a brief moment the air crackled with tension. “You are a man not only of intelligence and assurance, but also well-born. I cannot help but wonder how far that intelligence and self-assurance would take you, were you born into the impoverished, lower classes,” he said softly.
An unspoken challenge hung between them and Cecelia quickly diffused the tension with her soft lilting voice. “Miss Mae believes that my husband is much too clever to fall victim to a curse, though she phrased it in much less delicate terms.”
Rand held his hands out gracefully. “Ah well, if Miss Mae believes that I won’t fall victim to the Clarendon curse, then I will accept her wisdom and consider the matter closed for the evening.”
“For the entire evening?” Cecelia sighed with disappointment.
“Yes,” he said firmly. “This discussion has grown too deep. I would rather not philosophize so soon after pheasant and braised beef. It spoils the digestion as well as the mood.”
“Very well, but I still find the matter interesting.” She took one last bite of her sherbet then allowed the footman to remove her dish. “Monsieur André, we’re having a small house party in a week and a half’s time and I’ve been contemplating what we might do for entertainment. I thought a ride to the ruins for a picnic lunch might be fun. It isn’t too great a distance and quite safe as long as no one attempts to climb about the rubble. People love superstition and the aforementioned curse that I’m not supposed to talk about could be debated over cold chicken and wine. We would take several carriages, but it’s a lovely ride on horseback. My husband keeps excellent stables. You should take a look. But I’m assuming you enjoy riding. Do you?” She stopped abruptly and her face flushed. “Oh, I beg your pardon. That was careless of me. I didn’t think.”
He leaned slightly toward her. “No. No. Do not apologize. It was a natural question. I do not mind at all,” he assured her. “And I believe that I do enjoy riding though I could not tell you why I believe so." After blotting his lips with a napkin, he said, "Now that dinner has passed I should bring this matter into the open. My situation is peculiar and you’ve been most gracious. I do not wish to further impose on you, but there seems no clear-cut path to follow.” He faltered. His eyes fell to his lap. “I am adrift. It is most difficult.”
Cecelia’s eyes widened as she exclaimed, “Oh, but you must stay with us as long as you wish to do so. Your company is welcome and there is no shortage of space.” She looked to Rand for conformation.
What else could he say? The Frenchman had no identity, no money. Where else would he go? “Of course,” he said.
“You shouldn’t concern yourself with anything other than regaining your health. It will all work out,” Cecelia assured him. Her smile was radiant. “You’ll see.”
Rand gazed at her. She was offering hope where hope was desperately needed, but he felt a pang of envy that her smile had not been meant for him. It was an idiotic response on his part and he felt compelled to offer additional reassurance. “I must warn you that, like Mrs. Kraft, my wife has a will of iron. If she says everything will work out, then it doesn't dare do otherwise.”
André inclined his head. “Your encouragement means much. Thank you.”
“Well, now that we’ve come to an understanding,” Cecelia said cheerfully. “I suppose I should leave you gentleman to your port.”
André laid his napkin on the table. Circles of fatigue shadowed his eyes. “Dinner was magnificent, but if you will forgive me, it’s time I retired. This has been an exhausting day.”
Relieved that he would not need to spend more time in the gentleman’s presence without his wife’s company, Rand nodded his head in agreement. “I had thought to spend a few hours in my office, but I’ve changed my mind. I daresay we won’t be far behind you.”
André rose from his chair and offered a slight bow. “Then I bid you good night.”
In his chambers, André accepted the valet’s help in removing his boots and jacket then sent him on his way. He had managed to get through the evening without allowing his feelings to get the better of him. But servants gossiped and he wanted to be rid of the man before the emotions churning beneath the surface spilled over and showed on his face. This was a damnable state of affairs. Every stitch on his back, the bed he slept in, the food he ate all came from Clarendon. He owed his very life to Clarendon. Only the presence of Lady Clarendon had made the evening bearable. There had been such surprise and pleasure when she rushed into the drawing room. Her cheeks were tinted pink with laughter, her copper curls tumbling about her face and shoulders. He had dreamed of her so often. But she wasn’t a dream. She was real.
He was the one who wasn’t real. He needed to know who he was! Without that knowledge he was nothing more than an impoverished gentleman dependent on the marquis’s charity. Angrily, he stripped off his cravat and shirt feeling the slight burn as scar tissue pulled below his right shoulder. He tossed his clothing on the floor then touched the pink puckered scar. It had been caused by a bullet some years ago. He had a number of minor scars but such a major injury would be a memorable event in one’s life. He shut his eyes and tried to call up a memory. Any memor
y. A sister or brother, the home he had grown up in, an occupation or title. Even if he learned he was married, it would be better than no knowledge at all. A wife could be dealt with. This bleak emptiness could not. There was nothing but a blank canvas. He was a stranger to himself.
Lightning flashed, filling the chamber with an explosion of blue-white light followed by an earsplitting crash of thunder. He started at the sound, breaking free of his thoughts. A window had been left open and the heavy drapes stirred with a sudden gust of wind. He could smell the approaching rain. He went to close the window and found himself staring into a hazy darkness. Cloud cover shrouded the sky and a low fog boiled beneath him. Another flash of lightning lit the sky and the air quivered. The paved terrace below was a three story drop. It would be so easy to step onto the ledge and fall to his death. The misery of not knowing would end.
Jesui! He recoiled at the extent of his despair. What a coward he was! He quickly pulled the window shut and closed the latch. If for no other reason than to see the beautiful Lady Clarendon again, he would live.
Chapter Seventeen
Humming, Cecelia entered the breakfast room. Her green and lavender sprigged muslin rustled as Ashley scampered about her ankles. “Off to the kitchen with you.” She scooped the kitten up and handed her over to the young footman who stood beside the sideboard then turned her smile on their guest. “Good morning, Monsieur André. I trust you slept well?”
André sat at the table with an open copy of the London Times spread out before him and a steaming cup of coffee at its side. The corners of his mouth curved up as he rose from his chair and bowed. “Good morning, my lady. My accommodations are quite comfortable. Thank you.”
Even with his soft camel jacket, cream waistcoat and a smile on his face, Cecelia thought he looked dark and mysterious. One could not fail to be intrigued by him and his circumstances only deepened the intrigue. He would not suffer a lack of female attention. Whether or not he would enjoy that attention, she decided would be another matter altogether.
He quickly moved to the chair directly across from his and pulled it out. “May I serve you?”
She allowed herself to be seated. “Thank you, sir.”
He crossed to the marble topped sideboard then swept a debonair bow. “What is your pleasure? We have baked eggs, bacon, sausage, kidney pie, scones, berries with clotted cream, pastries.”
“Oh, heavens,” she said. “Such a selection. It’s a quandary I’m faced with every morning. We’ve a marvelous cook and that makes it all the more difficult. I would be happy for your suggestion.”
“Then I would suggest the baked eggs and sausage. I found them both excellent this morning. And the pastries are superb.”She motioned gracefully toward the groaning sideboard with her hand. “I shall trust your judgment completely, monsieur. With the exception of kidney pie, fill my plate as you see fit.”
“I would be honored.”
She watched as he took a plate from the sideboard and spooned baked eggs onto the
gold patterned china, then added a sausage patty, a scone and several small pastries.
He presented her with the filled plate and she graciously smiled her thanks. “It looks wonderful.”
“Would you care for tea or coffee madam?”
“Tea please. Cream with one sugar. Coffee always smells marvelous but I don’t care for the taste.”
He poured tea into the fragile china cup to her right and with an exaggerated flourish followed with cream and sugar.
“Thank you, kind sir.” Her eyes were luminous and her lips twitched with suppressed laughter. “You are most gallant.”
He swept her a bow so low she wondered how he kept from falling on his face. “I am your obedient servant, madam. I would spend the rest of my life at your bidding if you so wish.”
A bubble of laughter escaped her lips. “You have a keen sense of humor. And here I thought you to be quite serious and reserved. I’m glad to be wrong as serious and reserved is no fun at all. But please, sit and enjoy your coffee. I won’t eat a bite until you do.”
He inclined his head. “As you wish.”
“I wish.”
As requested, he returned to his seat and drank his coffee. But once that was accomplished he turned his eyes on her and made no attempt to hide his gaze.
Her face grew warm under his scrutiny. By the time she had finished her eggs she couldn’t stop herself from asking, “Is something amiss with my appearance, monsieur?”
He lowered his eyes a moment. “Forgive my lack of manners, but I feel as if I have just awoken from a deep fog and I’m gazing on Botticelli’s Venus. I fear that no matter where I train my eyes they will return to you. You are too lovely to ignore.”
She erupted into delighted laughter. “Sir, you’re shameless in your flattery.”
“It was not meant insincerely,” he protested. “Truly.”
Still laughing, she said, “Then I insist that we change our topic, else my head will swell and my bonnets will no longer fit.”
“It would only make you twice as lovely.”
She wiped a tear from her eye with the corner of her napkin. “I beg you to stop, sir before I lose all dignity.”
He sighed audibly. “Very well. May I offer my complements on your home, then?”
“You may.”
“For days, I had little notion of what lay beyond the four walls of my room. Only this morning was I able to see how magnificent your home is.”
“Thank you, though I claim no credit for its appearance. It was well cared for when we arrived. I’ll be making a few changes but nothing too extreme. I don’t know that I should do anything in here. I rather like it.” She glanced about their surroundings. The breakfast salon was little more than a circular nook off the corridor. It was papered in burgundy and cream toile. The round walnut table would seat eight at the most and the sideboard was barely large enough to contain the array of breakfast serving dishes. Gold silk valances topped the tall mullioned windows and the brilliance of a sun-washed morning flooded through the glass and bathed the room. It was, she considered, cozy rather than impressive. “It’s a bit small,” she continued, "but I believe that’s part of why I like it. What do you think, monsieur? Should I leave it as it is?”
“I see nothing to change. It is most comfortable.”
“I’m happy you’re of the same mind as it’s far less work for me. And I’m happy to have another opinion. Clarendon is so involved with the rest of the estate that he doesn’t have much time or interest in its décor.” A slight frown puckered her forehead as she stirred her tea. “It has only now occurred to me that this is very English breakfast fare. I’ve heard that the French prefer a lighter meal in the morning. If you would like, I could have cook prepare brioche or croissants tomorrow morning.”
“Only if you would prefer them, yourself. I don’t seem to be able to determine my likes and dislikes until I am faced with them”
“How very strange everything must be for you. I can’t even imagine.” She noted the date on the newspaper he had been reading and saw it was weeks old. “Heavens. You won’t find any current news in that. We have more current newspapers. Would you like me to have Winston bring them to you?”
“Merci, but no. I asked for an older copy. I thought if I read of events that happened before my accident it might trigger a memory.” He smiled wistfully. “Unfortunately, it hasn’t worked.”
She fixed her eyes firmly on his. “Don’t lose heart, monsieur. You will regain your memory.”
“You seem so certain.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
She smiled and shrugged slightly. “I really don’t know why. Call it intuition.”
“I appreciate your optimism.” He folded the newspaper and set it to the side. “Has your husband taken his morning meal? I wondered if I would see him this morning.”
“I’m afraid he has deserted us. He rode off with our overseer early this morning. As I mentioned, the es
tate takes a great deal of his time.”
He sat quiet a moment before saying, “I would be more reluctant to leave such a beautiful bride.”
Whether this was more flattery or a criticism of her husband she wasn’t certain, but she felt the need to speak in his defense. “We’ve been here but a short period of time and there are many things that need to be taken care of. My brother and father are much the same way and I understand his need to put things right.”
He leaned toward her and murmured, “Then your husband is fortunate to have such an understanding wife. I envy him.”
“Thank you, Monsieur. That was a lovely thing to say. Rand--Clarendon has never been one to be idle. He enjoys achievement. It’s his nature. It always has been.”
His dark brow knitted over narrowed eyes. “You say always. You have known one another long?”
“All my life. He was and still is, my brother’s best friend. His family has property that joins our estate in Surrey and he and Eugene went to school together. I used to follow them about when they had breaks from school. When I look back on it, I wonder why they put up with me." She cut into the sausage patty. "I insisted on doing everything they did which must have been a dreadful nuisance. By the time I reached eight or nine, my mother stepped in and I was forced to endure more feminine pursuits such as embroidery and water colors. I’m afraid I was an abysmal failure at both.” She stopped and frowned. “I must apologize. I’m babbling on about myself and likely boring you to death.”
“I’m not at all bored and as I’m unable to speak of my own past I can add little to the conversation. Please continue. I would like to know more.”
The Devil's Own Luck (Once a Spy) Page 27
