Prelude to Heaven

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  Martin, as the family solicitor, handled all the earl’s private legal affairs, and the private legal affair of the moment was one requiring both discretion and finesse. Martin, fortunately, possessed both those qualities. He wished, however, that he had more time. But he sensed Lord Aubry was running out of patience.

  The carriage turned down the tree-lined lane leading to Aubry Park. Martin removed his gold-framed spectacles and polished them with a linen handkerchief. Resting them once more on his broad nose, he pulled out his watch and was relieved to note that he would not be late. The earl was obsessed with punctuality. Martin put his watch back in his waistcoat pocket and pulled the leather case onto his lap. His fingers continued their agitated rat-a-tat as the carriage turned again, pulling into the drive.

  Martin had been to Aubry Park many times, and as always, he was struck by its symmetrical beauty. Aubry Park was an elegant residence, with its long windows, marble columns, and classical sculpture. But now, in early summer, with the roses in bloom and the wide lawns lush and green, it was splendid indeed.

  Martin gripped the handle of his leather case in one hand and alighted from the carriage. He ascended the wide flagstone steps, where he presented his card to the properly expressionless butler.

  He was shown into Lord Aubry's immense library. He spared only the most cursory glance for the priceless paintings and artifacts, the exquisite rosewood tables, and the lavish carpets and draperies, but he cast a covetous eye over the leather-bound volumes that lined the long wall.

  A lover of books, Martin knew that the Earl of Aubry was not. Traditionally, the Aubry men had always hunted, drank, and gambled, sometimes to excess, and would no more have opened a book by the fireside than Martin would have gone fishing. The present Lord Aubry was no exception. Martin knew all the books had been acquired simply to furnish a “gentleman's library,” and he doubted they had ever been opened.

  Martin crossed the long room to wait beside one of the brown leather chairs opposite the earl’s desk, knowing that he would not wait long.

  Within moments, the library doors opened and Martin turned to watch the tall and lean Earl of Aubry stride toward him. Even Martin, whose knowledge of society gossip was sadly lacking, knew that Nigel Ridgeway was purported to be one of the handsomest men in England. Even he had heard that women were found the earl extraordinarily handsome and that his wife was the object of both admiration and envy by many other women in the ton.

  As Lord Aubry drew closer, Martin continued to view him surreptitiously behind his spectacles. The earl was, indeed, a magnificent-looking man, with his blond hair, handsome chiseled face, and strong, lean body. The solicitor glanced down at his own portly shape and gave an inaudible sigh, thinking of his thinning hair and double chin. But he felt no envy toward the other man. He sensed a dangerous side to the earl, a subtle cruelty, and knew he would not trade places with Lord Aubry, even had he the power to do so. He felt a sudden twinge of pity for Lady Aubry.

  “Sit.”

  The peremptory voice of the earl slashed into his thoughts, and Martin gave a start. Aubry was seated, and when he made an impatient gesture, indicating one of the chairs opposite, Martin hastily sat down as well, settling his leather case on his lap.

  “Have you found her?”

  Martin once again felt a tremor of uneasiness run through his body as he began his carefully rehearsed reply. “These things take time, Lord Aubry. It is very difficult—”

  “You haven't found her,” the earl concluded for him. He leaned forward, placing clasped hands on the polished desk top. “Did I not make my wishes clear to you, Trevalyn, three months ago?”

  The question was voiced in a quiet, even tone, but Martin felt his insides twist with apprehension. He rushed into speech. “We have made progress, sir. Bow Street runners have discovered that Lady Aubry pawned the emeralds at a jeweler on Bond Street. The jeweler identified her miniature and described the clothes she was wearing as those taken from your wardrobe. He thought, of course, that she was a lad.”

  “The fool,” Aubry muttered. He looked up and his pale blue eyes gave the solicitor a piercing stare. “I trust the family emeralds were recovered?”

  Martin opened the case on his lap and removed the velvet-lined boxes containing the emerald necklace, tiara, and earrings. He opened them and placed them carefully on the desk for the earl’s inspection, relieved that he had accomplished at least one of the tasks assigned to him.

  “I take it,” the earl continued after a thorough inspection of the emeralds, “that the jeweler is now doing something more suited to his capabilities. Cleaning stables, perhaps?”

  “Something akin to that,” Martin answered, meeting Aubry's eyes with difficulty. He had done what he'd known the earl would want him to do, but it had left a bad taste in his mouth.

  “Surely you have more to tell me, Trevalyn?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Martin pulled his notes from the case and gave them a quick glance, then went on, “We have ascertained that a 'young man' answering to the description of Lady Aubry boarded the night ferry from Dover across the channel, on the evening of March 17, and landed at Calais the following morning.”

  “She's in France?” Aubry’s voice was even, with no inflection of emotion, yet Martin could sense anger and frustration beneath the earl’s surface calm, for he had seen both emotions before and on more than one occasion. “Where?”

  The solicitor coughed nervously. “We don't know that yet, sir. As I said, these things take time.”

  “How much more time will you need?” The earl's voice took on an acerbic quality. “You've had three months already.”

  “Quite so, my lord, but we had been working under the assumption that Lady Aubry was hiding somewhere in England.”

  “The Season is nearly half over. Speculation about my wife's absence has been bandied about for weeks. To avoid further gossip, I was forced to make some paltry excuse and cancel the remainder of my time in London. I want her found, Trevalyn.”

  “We are making every effort. I will be journeying to France shortly to continue the search. There are not many places for a woman traveling alone to hide, even if she is dressed as a man.”

  The earl nodded and rose to his feet, indicating that the interview was at an end. “Find her, Trevalyn. I can't pretend she is ill and staying with my mother in Northumberland forever. As I've told you before, I don't care what it costs. As long as you are discreet, I don't care how many men you have to hire or bribe. Find her. Your family has served mine well for many years. I would hate for that tradition to be broken.”

  Martin swallowed the lump of dread in his throat and closed his case. Rising to his feet, he turned and left. As the carriage rolled down the road toward London, Martin Trevalyn knew that if he did not find Lady Aubry soon, he'd be the one cleaning out stables.

  ***

  Nigel paced across the Axminster carpet of the library after the solicitor had gone, his anger growing with every step. He reached up to touch the scar that slashed across his temple, the one everyone thought he'd gotten in a riding accident. His physician knew the graze of a bullet, of course, but only Nigel knew who had shot him.

  His eyes scanned the family portraits that hung above the recessed shelves of books. No breath of scandal had ever touched the Aubry name. Nigel met the painted eyes of his father and vowed it never would. His explanation of illness about his wife’s continued absence would not satisfy the ton’s relentless curiosity for long. Despite his mother’s cooperation, someone would be bound to eventually discover that Teresa was not in Northumberland. It was only because so many people were in London for the Season that no one had yet unearthed the fact. If he didn't find her soon, people might begin to suspect that she had actually left him.

  His gaze moved from the portrait of his father to the pair of rapiers that hung above the fireplace, their points crossed over his family coat of arms. His ancestors had defended their honor with weapons of steel, but how could he fight rumo
r and scandal? Wagging tongues could not be silenced at the point of a sword.

  Nigel scowled. He would find Teresa, and when he did, he'd make certain she never put his reputation at risk again.

  He thought of Trevalyn blinking behind his spectacles like a sleepy frog. “These things take time, Lord Aubry,” he mocked the fat solicitor's tiny voice. How long could it take to find one stupid girl?

  His gaze moved on to the portrait of his wife which hung to the right of the fireplace. He stared into her huge green eyes and studied her finely molded features, and before he even knew what was happening, the poker from the fireplace was in his hand. He laid a vicious gash across his wife's heart, and then another. And another. But the poker never touched her face. Not her beautiful face.

  ***

  Alexandre walked with long, impatient strides along the beach, his thoughts tumbling over themselves ceaselessly, like the waves against the rocks. He had told her no, and there was no changing his mind. As soon as she was well enough to travel, he'd give her some money and send her on her way.

  That resolve had barely passed through his mind before her words came back to him, floating on the sea breeze. I have nowhere else to go.

  He stopped walking and sat down, resting his forearms on his bent knees. He stared at the sea, thinking of her. He thought of the way her hands rested protectively on her roundness, the way her eyes looked to him for understanding and help. She needed him.

  He didn't want to be needed. Frustrated, he picked up a pebble and threw it into the sea. He didn't want the responsibility. He didn't want painful reminders of the past.

  It might be best if he sent her to the village and found someone to take her in. Some peasant family who had eight children and needed the money. Why should he be the one responsible for her? And besides, a peasant woman with a brood of children would know how to care for her until her baby was born.

  He lowered his head to rest in his hands. He certainly didn't know how to do that. He thought of Anne-Marie, of her pain and her death. His fault.

  He couldn't take care of this woman. She’d made the choice to run away from her home and her family. She was not his problem.

  I have nowhere else to go.

  Alexandre wondered what would happen to her after she left here, and that speculation made him uneasy. Abruptly, he rose to his feet and started for the road. He was supposed to be on his way to the village for food and painting supplies, not starting out to the sea and contemplating the fate of a woman he didn’t even know. She could solve her own problems. He wasn't her father or her brother or her lover. He wasn't responsible for her. But even as he reminded himself of that fact, he could not shut out her voice. It continued to echo through his mind all the way into the village.

  ***

  Tess wandered into another unused room of the castle. This was the dining room. As in all the other rooms, the furnishings were covered with dust, and cobwebs hung in the corners. She ran her finger over the heavy walnut dining table and idly stared at the grime on her finger, wondering how such a beautiful home could be allowed to fall into disrepair. Built during the Middle Ages, it had been modified over the centuries and many amenities had been added. The furnishings spoke of wealth and excellent taste. The gardens and grounds had once been lovely. So why was everything in this shameful condition?

  Perhaps Monsieur Dumond's family had lost their money during the upheaval of the Revolution. Perhaps painting didn't earn him much blunt, and he could not afford to maintain his home. That would explain many things, but nothing could explain the beautiful dress she wore that was only a few years out of fashion.

  She tried to keep her mind on Monsieur Dumond to that she would not dwell on her own future, but soon her mind turned inevitably to her own problems. Dumond had told her she couldn't stay here, but she hadn't given up hope. She had to keep that. Hope was all she had.

  She tried to reassure herself. He wouldn't just turn her out, would he? If he were the kind of man who would do that, it made no sense that he would have taken her in to begin with. And yet, what sort of man lived in a huge castle all alone? What sort of man shut himself off from the world?

  Although puzzled as to why he lived this way, and concerned for her own safety, she was grateful for the isolation. If he let her stay here, no one was likely to find her. Ignorant of the finer points of the law, Tess wasn't exactly sure whether the English authorities would follow her to France, but if they did, she was sure they would take her back to England to stand trial. She had no idea what the penalty was for killing your husband, but she knew her story of how it had happened would never be believed. No one in England, man or woman, would ever believe Lord Aubry capable of beating his wife so severely that she shot him in self-defense. Besides, Tess reflected bitterly, it was both acceptable and legal for a man to beat his wife. He only had to use a rod no thicker than his thumb.

  And no one knew. Everyone believed that Lord and Lady Aubry had an idyllic marriage. If Lady Aubry was often “indisposed,” well, there was nothing so extraordinary about that. The servants knew, of course, but they would never tell the truth. If they did, they would never find employment again because no one wanted servants who told the family secrets. If the authorities were able to find her and take her back, she knew she would be accused of murder. She doubted her pregnancy would gain her any sympathy.

  And what if Nigel wasn’t dead? What if somehow he had survived? Tess shivered with fear, and tried to quell it at once. She’d shot him, but she hadn’t stayed to examine the results of her handiwork. She’d seen him lying there, his body still enough for death and blood oozing from the wound at his temple.

  He had to be dead, she told herself, willing it to be true, forcing her thoughts away from that awful night in Kent and back to her present situation.

  If she stayed here, what would happen? Would Monsieur Dumond expect her to become his mistress in exchange for a roof over her head? Would he humiliate her? Beat her?

  Yet, if she left, what would become of her then, wandering alone on the roads? She contemplated the very real possibility that she would have her baby in a ditch along the roadside.

  No, somehow, for the baby's sake, she had to convince Alexandre Dumond to let her stay here, at least until her baby was born.

  He wasn't like Nigel, she thought, again engaging in what she knew might very well be wishful thinking. No other man could be that cruel.

  ***

  Alexandre sat in the tavern and drank his wine. The other tables were crowded, but his was not. He drank alone and did not speak to anyone. No one spoke to him. But the stares and low murmurs of disapproval made it clear his presence had not gone unnoticed.

  Everyone in the village knew about Anne-Marie, of course. Some, he knew, pitied him, refusing to believe the worst. Others feared him, certain of his sin. Still others knew that he simply wanted to be left alone, and they respected his wishes.

  Lise, the barmaid, paused at his table. She did not fall into any of the other categories. She wanted him. Some women, for reasons he could not fathom, found an aura of danger irresistible. She leaned forward to refill his glass, giving him a plain view of what she could offer him. His gaze traveled slowly from the outline of her breasts beneath the white muslin, past the lips that parted seductively, to the brown eyes watching him with more than passing interest. He shook his head slowly.

  Her lips pouted and she reached out a hand to stroke his arm. Gently, he grasped her wrist and pushed her hand away.

  “Lise!” The sharp cry of the girl's stout maman rang out from the doorway of the kitchen.

  With an indignant flick of her skirt, Lise moved away. “Celibate as a monk,” she muttered.

  At the next table, a man grabbed her skirt and gave it a playful tug. “I'm not,” he told her, laughing.

  She yanked her skirt from his grip. “Oh, leave me be, Gaspard,” she snapped, slamming her bottle of wine down in front of him and striding away. Her mother followed her, sending Alexa
ndre a frown over her shoulder. The mother’s disapproval, he concluded cynically, no doubt added to his attraction in the daughter’s eyes.

  He returned his attention to the girl, watching her back as she walked toward the kitchens, her long black hair swinging between her shoulder blades, and he felt a hint of regret. He hadn't had a woman in a very long time, and Lise was a pretty girl. She could be his for the taking any time she could escape her mother's careful supervision. But she was right about him. Celibate as a monk. Over three years now. What the hell was he waiting for?

  He leaned down and grabbed the sack at his feet. In it were the bread, butter, and olive oil he'd come into the village to obtain, as well as the packet of sable paintbrushes he had ordered from Marseilles. Swinging the sack over his shoulder, he tossed a few coins on the table. Eyes bored into his back as he moved toward the door, and the men crowding around the doorway parted silently to let him through. No one spoke to him or smiled a farewell. He left the tavern and made the long, lonely trek back to his château.

  By the time he reached home, it was dark, but the moon was out, lighting his way as he crossed the courtyard. In the distance, a wolf howled. An owl hooted softly. Somewhere nearby, a rodent scurried through the weeds. The sound of his boot heels tapping against the flagstones mingled with the chirping of insects and the other sounds of the night. But when he climbed the back stairs and entered the kitchen, he found the château as dark and silent as a tomb.

  “Mademoiselle?” he called, but there was no answer. Wondering where the woman might be, he set the sack on the worktable, lit a lamp, and left the kitchen to go in search of her. He went upstairs first, thinking she might have gone to bed, but she was not in her room.

  As he descended the stairs, the thought crossed his mind that after his uncompromising answer of this morning, she might have left. The idea of her out alone at night disturbed him more than he cared to admit, and he hastily began searching the rooms on the ground floor. “Mademoiselle?” he called again, but only the echo of his own voice answered him.