Prelude to Heaven

by Laura Lee Guhrke

  “Well, well, Dumond, look what I’ve found,” he said, laughing as he brandished the weapon. “We’ll see who wins this battle now.”

  “Fighting an unarmed man?” Alexandre made a sound of contempt. “How like you, Aubry.”

  The other man lunged, slashing with the rapier, and Alexandre jumped back, but the point of the weapon caught his already bloody and ruined shirt, slicing open the white linen across his torso. “Did you really think you could kill me, Dumond? My wife knows I am very difficult to kill. She shot me with a pistol, you know.”

  He must have seen Alexandre's surprise, for he nodded. “Yes, shocking, isn’t it? My dear, sweet wife tried to murder me.”

  “Murder?” Alexandre countered. “Or self-defense?”

  Aubry didn’t reply to that. Instead, he lunged with the rapier. Alexandre jumped back, but before the earl could straighten and lunge again, he lashed out with his foot, a hard kick to the other man’s hand that freed the rapier from his grasp and sent it flying. It landed on the carpet nearby, and though both men reached for it, Alexandre got to it first. Retrieving it in his right hand, he straightened, pointing the blade right at Aubry’s chest.

  The earl froze.

  Smiling, Alexandre pressed the tip of the rapier against the other man’s heart. He made a delicate, downward movement, slicing open Aubry’s fine tweed jacket and waistcoat. “That’s for my ruined shirt, Englishman. For shooting me, I’ll have some sport. For hurting Tess, I’ll kill you.”

  He stepped back, keeping the blade pointed at Aubry. “Tess? Toss me that rapier of yours.”

  She hesitated. “He’s a very skilled swordsman, Alexandre.”

  “I’m better, petite. Trust me on that.”

  The blade landed with a soft thud on the carpet nearby, and never taking his eyes from Aubry, he moved to pick it up. Retaining his own sword in his right hand, he tossed the other with his left. It landed at the earl’s feet. “Take it up, Aubry,” he said. “Take it up and fight like a man.”

  “That was foolish, Dumond,” Aubry said, retrieving the weapon. “I am the best swordsman in England.”

  Alexandre faced him in fencing stance, retaining his sword in his right hand. “Prove it, then.”

  Aubry attacked at once, advancing, forcing Alexandre to retreat, and for the moment, he allowed it, assessing the earl’s skill with a blade, and it didn’t take long to appreciate that Aubry had not been merely bragging. Not only was he skilled with the rapier, he was also very quick. Though Alexandre was able to parry each lunge, he knew his movements were slower right-handed and it showed. When the earl caught him open and jabbed the sword at his flank, he wasn't able to completely parry the thrust, and the point of the sword pricked his thigh, drawing blood.

  He heard Aubry's laugh of triumph, and he knew this was his opportunity. He deliberately left himself open again, and like a wolf sensing vulnerable prey, Aubry attacked, thrusting just as he’d expected.

  He parried the lunge, then shifted his sword to his left hand, and feinted toward the other man’s thigh. Caught off guard, Aubry tried to parry the blow as if his opponent was right-handed, twisting the rapier out and down and leaving his torso wide open. Alexandre lifted his sword over the top of his opponent's and lunged, sinking the rapier straight into the shorter man's midsection like a knife into butter.

  Alexandre pulled out the sword and recovered backward, then watched as the earl sank to his knees, emitting a gurgling sound of surprise and terror at the sight of his own crimson blood spilling onto the luxurious Axminster carpet.

  Aubry's astonished gaze lifted to his face. “You Frog bastard,” he mumbled. “You've killed me.”

  He saw no need to reply. He simply stepped back as the earl fell forward and sprawled at his feet. He felt no pity. The man’s brutality to Tess left no room for that. Perhaps le bon Dieu would have mercy on him, but Alexandre had none.

  He stared down at the man's motionless body for a long moment, and then, taking a deep breath, he bent and grasped Aubry’s wrist. There was no pulse, and satisfied, he straightened, releasing the earl's limp, lifeless wrist.

  Alexandre turned toward Tess, who was still standing in the doorway. “It's over, my love,” he said and tossed aside the rapier. “He’ll never hurt you again. He is dead.”

  “He shot you. I saw your body on the ground. You didn’t move.”

  “The bullet grazed my arm, nothing more,” he assured her. “The fall from my horse knocked me unconscious, or I would have been here sooner.”

  I thought...I thought—” She broke off, taking a step toward him. “Oh, Alexandre, I thought you were dead.”

  He started toward her, smiling a little. “I told you I wouldn’t die. I have too much to live for.”

  She took a step toward him, and then another. And then, with a sob, she broke into a run. He opened his arms, the safest haven he could provide, and she ran into them, burying her face against his neck. He held her, stroking her back, kissing her hair, waiting for the shuddering in her body to stop.

  “It was true what he said,” she told him, pulling back to meet his gaze. “I shot him once before. I thought I'd killed him, and I panicked, so I ran away to France. I was so afraid the authorities would find me. I was afraid they'd arrest me for murder. But I had to shoot him. He would've killed me and the baby.”

  “I know,” he said, cupping her cheek, his heart clenching at the sight of her cheek where bruises were starting to form from her husband’s blows. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Perhaps we should fetch the doctor for you.”

  She pulled back. “Or for you,” she said, examining his shoulder and the prick on his thigh. “Oh, Alexandre!”

  He could feel her body begin to shake, and he wrapped his arms around her again. “I don’t need a doctor,” he told her, holding her tight, looking past her to meet the sad gaze of the woman in the doorway. “But we will need to send for the magistrate.”

  “What?” Tess pulled back again, looking at him in dismay. “Is that necessary?”

  He cupped her face in his hands. “My darling, a man cannot kill an earl and just expect to be allowed to go on his way. This fight would not be considered a duel. Let us hope they believe me when I explain that it was self-defense.”

  “And if they don’t?”

  “They will believe me.” Margaret's voice rang out, and both of them looked at her. Tears stained her cheeks, but her voice was firm and resolute. “I am the daughter of a duke, and no one questions my word. When I tell them what happened, no one shall doubt that it was self-defense.”

  Alexandre nodded. “Thank you, madame.”

  “No thanks are necessary, monsieur.” She looked at Tess, then looked away. “It’s the least I can do, God knows.”

  Alexandre took Tess’s hand. Together they stepped over the smashed remnants of the door and crossed the foyer. Behind them, Margaret called to Chilton to send for the magistrate as they left the house and paused in the drive. There, in the sunshine, Alexandre pulled Tess back into his arms.

  She cupped his face. Almost fiercely, she kissed his mouth. “They will let you go. They must.”

  “And when they do, my love, what shall we do?” he asked, kissing her palm.

  “We'll go home. It's blackberry time in Provence.”

  He smiled, remembering the last time they'd had this conversation. “And we’ll make blackberry tarts?”

  “Every summer.”

  “And you won't put my paintbrushes away without telling me where?”

  “I'll put them in the studio.” She reached up, tangling her hand in his hair. “And I'll make certain there are always plenty of ribbons for your hair.”

  “I was thinking of cutting it short, now that I am once again a man of the world.”

  She scowled at him. “Don't you dare.”

  Smiling, he bent his head. When his lips were an inch from hers, he murmured, “I won't, my love. I promise. I'll let it grow to my ankles.”

  She laugh
ed at that ridiculous notion. “That will take a long time.”

  “Indeed.” He kissed her. Against her lips, he added, “The rest of our lives.”

  Epilogue

  It was harvest time in Saint-Raphael. Tess watched from the window of Alexandre's studio as workers in the distance scurried like ants on an anthill amid the vineyards of Château Dumond, harvesting the grapes. Alexandre had told her that grapes didn't do well if their life was too easy. To produce great wine, the fruit had to suffer. Life, she realized, was very much the same for people.

  But the suffering was over now.

  Margaret had been right about the aftermath of Nigel's death. The magistrate had been sent for, and once the dowager countess had explained the situation, emphasizing that Alexandre had acted in self-defense, he had been allowed to go free. He and Tess had returned to Saint-Raphael for a quick wedding before journeying to Florence for Alexandre's exhibitions there and a month-long honeymoon. But they had returned to Saint-Raphael in time for the harvest, and had arrived to find a letter from Margaret awaiting them.

  The dowager informed them that she had decided to stop hiding herself away in Northumberland and had gone to London for the autumn. She added that the ton was still reeling from the shocking events at Aubry Park, but that, she had added in a wry postscript, would last only until the next shocking event came along.

  The sound of a child’s laughter behind her caused Tess to turn away from the window, and she smiled at the sight of her daughter toddling awkwardly across the floor, away from Alexandre, who was pretending to chase her. She watched as Suzanne ducked behind the stout pedestal of a table, peering around it to search for her father, unaware that he had moved directly behind her.

  Tess tried not to laugh and give her husband away as she watched him stealthily approach Suzanne. When he caught her, pulling her away from the table and lifting her into his arms, she shrieked, giggling and squirming, as Alexandre began to tickle her.

  “If you stop every few minutes to play, you two will never finish the painting,” Tess told them.

  “They will not be finishing it today,” a voice declared from the top of the stairs, where Jeanette stood smiling at them. “Leonie asked me to come fetch Suzanne. It's time for her nap.”

  Alexandre set his daughter on the floor, turned her in Jeanette's direction, and patted her bottom to send her walking that way. But Suzanne didn't comply. Instead, she tugged at her father's trouser leg and pointed to the sunny corner where Augustus was curled into a ball, sound asleep. “Gus-gus, Papa. Gus-gus.”

  “You want Augustus to go with you?” Alexandre leaned down and took his daughter's hand in his. Together they walked across the studio, where Suzanne released her father's hand and tried to pick up the huge, full-grown cat. Augustus meowed a greeting and allowed himself to be half-dragged out of his corner before he hopped to his feet and followed his young mistress to the door.

  As Tess watched them go, Alexandre came to stand behind her. Wrapping his arms around her waist, he rubbed his cheek against her hair. “The harvest is an excellent one, and the vintage should be superb. We might make a profit on it.”

  Tess nodded, but as she leaned back in her husband’s strong arms and watched Jeanette lead Suzanne out of the nursery with Augustus trailing after them, she knew with or without the harvest, she was already the richest woman in the world.

  She turned toward the window, and as she and Alexandre watched the harvest of the grapes, she thought about how much her life had changed, how quickly the painful memories of Aubry Park had faded from her mind. Alexandre had given her a new life, a life rich in love and laughter.

  She had once thought her life to be hell on earth. But now she knew that life had only been the prelude to heaven. And heaven was now.

  THE END

  More Romance from

  Laura Lee Guhrke

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  To Dream Again

  Chapter One

  Whitechapel 1889

  Nathaniel Chase heard the loud, rather insistent knock on the open door and the irate voice calling his name, but being rather preoccupied, he did not look up from his task. "Yes, Mrs. O'Brien, what is it?"

  The stout landlady followed the sound of his voice, dodging her way around moving men, steamer trunks, furniture, and wooden crates. In the center of the room she paused, unable to find her new tenant amid the chaotic jumble of his belongings. "Mr. Chase?"

  "Over here," he called.

  Peeking between a tall wooden Indian and a large telescope, she saw him on his knees beneath a table, his back to her, rummaging in a box.

  She cast a curious glance at the tools and machinery that littered the table before bending to peer at the man beneath. "Mr. Chase, sure did I not say to have your things off the stairs by five o'clock?"

  Nathaniel stopped ransacking the box and lifted his head to reply, forgetting that he was kneeling beneath the table. He hit his head with a bang, nearly tumbling his equipment onto the floor. "Ouch!"

  He caught the legs of the table to prevent it from falling. Once it was stable again, he moved out from under it and jumped to his feet. "I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, rubbing his sore head and doing his best to look contrite, "but moving in is taking longer than I thought."

  "Where do you want this one, guv'nor?"

  Nathaniel glanced at the two men who stood nearby holding a huge crate between them. "Ah, my trains!" He pointed to an empty space beside the table. "Put it here, if you please. And be careful," he added. "It's somewhat fragile."

  He returned his attention to his new landlady. "Mrs. O'Brien, I will have my things off the stairs as soon as I can find a place to put them."

  She placed her hands on her ample hips. "You said you'd be moved in by the end of the day. Other tenants will be returnin' from work soon and won't like that they can't get up the stairs, yer boxes and things bein' scattered hither and yon. You promised me—"

  "Yes, I know," he interrupted. "By the time my neighbors return from work, my things will be out of the way." He looked around with a frown. "I don't know where I'll put them. It seems I have underestimated the quantity of my luggage."

  Mrs. O'Brien was never one to miss an opportunity. "I've a cellar you could use. Only two shillings the week."

  Nathaniel considered that option for a moment. These were only temporary lodgings, of course, but he wasn't certain how long it would be before he could find permanent rooms. In the meantime, he would have to use his rooms as his laboratory, and he wanted his things close at hand. Mrs. O'Brien's cellar simply wouldn't do. There had to be another solution.

  He raked a hand through his hair and glanced up, then paused as an idea struck him.

  "The attic is directly above me, is it not?"

  "It is." The landlady frowned suspiciously. "But I don't see—"

  He pointed to the ceiling. "If I put in a hole, I could use the attic."

  "A hole in my ceiling? Heavens, no!"

  Nathaniel paid no attention to her protest. "Yes, that would work," he muttered to himself. His decision made, he turned to one of the men who was bringing in his things. "Mr. Boggs, could you come here a moment?"

  The burly, bald-headed man stepped up beside him, and Nathaniel pointed above his head. "Could you cut a hole here and give me access to the attic?"

  "Mr. Chase, I won't allow it. I won't let you tear me house down!"

  Mrs. O'Brien's declaration was lost on the two men, who began to discuss the project. "Very good," Nathaniel finally said. "When can you begin?"

  The man rubbed his jaw. "I'd need t'get me tools and buy the goods. And I'll want me boy to 'elp. Tomorrow afternoon be all right, guv'nor?"

  "Of course. Before you leave today, would
you and your men bring the rest of my things off the stairs? Just pile them anywhere you can find room."

  A wail from Mrs. O'Brien caused Nathaniel to turn to her. "Are you unwell?" he asked, noting her flushed face and distraught expression.

  She placed a hand to her heart. "Holes in me ceiling. Oh, heavens."

  She seemed quite upset to Nathaniel. This was a matter of simple carpentry, easily repaired when he moved out,

  and he couldn't understand her distress—until he looked into her eyes and perceived a shrewd gleam in their green depths.

  He pulled his wallet from the inner pocket of his jacket. "If I leave, I will pay to have everything put back exactly the way it was before," he assured her. "And I'll pay you half rent for the attic."

  He began to count out money. "And there's five pounds to you, my dear lady, for all the inconvenience."

  "Well, now," she said, brightening considerably, "that's somethin' I can agree to." She snatched the money from his hand.

  Nathaniel turned and tossed his wallet toward his desk, where it landed in an open drawer. He took the landlady by the elbow and turned her gently toward the door. "Mrs. O'Brien, you are a pearl beyond price. I thank you."

  "Will ye be needin' anything else, sir?" she asked, tucking the money into the pocket of her apron as Nathaniel guided her past Mr. Boggs and around a stack of crates. "Breakfast, tea, an' dinner? I'm a fine cook, I don't mind sayin'. Three meals a day for, say, two quid the week?"

  "That's a tempting offer. A man does appreciate home cooking. I will consider it." He gave her his most charming smile and pushed her out the door. "I'll have my things off the stairs shortly," he promised. "Good day."