by Jenn LeBlanc
The hall was light and airy, with large western-facing windows that let in the last vestiges of sunset as it blazed across the horizon. The room was luxuriously appointed with grand mahogany pieces and inlaid paneling. The table was dressed with an ivory cover and silver candelabras that countered the soft glow from the large chandeliers hanging above the long table.
Gideon decreed they should all be seated together at one end since they needed to discuss dinner, per Chef’s request, and if they were properly spaced out there would be no way for them to communicate. Gideon was, of course, at the head of the table, and his brother was seated to his right. Mr. Shaw sat next to him with Francine on Gideon’s left.
Gideon asked about every dish and made notes for Chef, determinedly sticking to the greater purpose of Chef’s need to work on the menu for the summer gathering. They drank fine red wines from Bordeaux and sampled spicy thin soups along with savory thick ones. Glazed asparagus spears followed, drizzled with a tangy yellow sauce, and finally braised lamb shanks in a burgundy sauce with mushrooms, carrots, and caramelized onions and scallops swimming in beurre blanc.
When the main courses were complete, the footmen presented trays of confections: fluffy, buttery lemon pastries with berries of every color and poached pears in a red wine sauce with crème patisserie. The sweets were complemented with a glass of sweet, thick white wine.
Francine filled her belly. She ate well; she ate everything. She ate until she was full and then she ate some more. She leaned back and thought she actually heard her stays creak under the pressure. She glanced quickly around the table to make sure nobody had noticed, then giggled to herself.
Trumbull looked at her, then his brother. “Haven’t you been feeding your guest, Rox?”
She glanced at Trumbull, a smile gaining strength on her lips as she turned her gaze to Gideon, who placed his fork on the table. “Well, I imagine she has suffered more of the sous-chef’s cooking than the rest of us have,” he said, looking back to her. “Has my kitchen been lacking?”
She shook her head vigorously, giving Shaw a sideways smile. Gideon laughed, bringing his fist to the table, making the settings and silver jump. “I beg your pardon, I should have made other arrangements. I don’t pay much mind to the gruel we’re required to deal with when Chef is away because I know she’ll take care of us when she returns. I should have explained. No wonder you were frightened of my invitation to supper!” He laughed harder, pushing the half-eaten pear closer to Francine. “Please pay them no mind. Eat all you want. We are among friends, are we not?”
Trumbull and Mr. Shaw picked up their own silver, drawing their plates closer to themselves in agreement.
Gideon studied the red stain on Francine’s lips from the juice. His mouth watered when he thought of tasting the brandied pears on her.
She finished off the pear then leaned back again, appearing quite comfortably sated.
“I see you approve of Chef’s latest creations?” His mouth had gone dry and his voice cracked a bit.
She nodded wildly, pointing at the empty plate.
“Ah, so poached pear is a favorite?”
She smiled again.
“Then we shall have poached pears with every meal, if you wish,” he said, tapping gently on the edge of her plate.
She shook her head then rested her hand on the back of his. He looked down, feeling the tingling sensation burning through his skin, snaking its way up his forearm inside his veins. His heart skipped and he withdrew, suddenly aware of all eyes on him. She glanced from one face to the next apologetically, both Perry and Shaw apparently stifling a chuckle.
Gideon cleared his throat. “Usually the ladies retire to the parlor to gossip, and the gentlemen join me in my study for an after-dinner port and cigar, but since you are the only lady in attendance, I don’t wish to abandon you. Shall we all retire to the grand terrace over the gardens?” He wanted to see her in the moonlight. He wanted to ferret her to the edge of the darkness and taste the pears. He couldn’t take his eyes, or his mind, from her mouth.
Francine stood, drawing the men from their chairs. She looked at Mr. Shaw, entreating him with her eyes. He smiled and nodded.
She signed to him.
Gideon picked out dinner, sunset, and bed—he thought.
Shaw began to speak, but Gideon lifted his hand to stop him without taking his gaze from her. He would not communicate with her through someone else.
He advanced on Francine and her hand disappeared into his large palm. “Thank you for the wonderful company at dinner. I am glad you enjoyed it, and though I’m sure we would all like to spend more time in your presence, we completely understand your regrets.”
She smiled her broad smile as he brought her hand to his lips and once again pressed his mouth to her wrist, a scandalously long kiss, and bid her good night. The gentlemen followed her to the great entrance and as Gideon paused behind her, Shaw and Perry exchanged a glance and strode toward the back of the manor.
Francine became dizzy, knowing he was watching as she ascended the staircase, but she kept going nonetheless, willing the grace from her stature and gait. When she reached the landing, she paused and took the deepest breath she could, then turned to see him smiling up at her. She closed her eyes to capture the memory and swiftly headed toward her room.
Gideon remained a few moments after she disappeared, wanting her to return to him, though he knew she could not, she would not, and even if she did, he knew he would be required to return her untouched. He felt his loins suffuse with heat and he willed his mind to other thoughts. He bent over, resting his hands on his knees, and breathed deeply for a moment.
“Roxleigh!” Perry shouted through the open doorway, and then, a few moments later, “Gideon!”
He grunted and turned to join them.
“Roxleigh tells me you are enamored as well, Shaw,” Perry said as they sat at a table on the terrace together.
“Well, you certainly don’t hesitate to strike up a conversation,” Shaw replied with a grin. “And yes I am, quite.”
Perry considered his reply. “Most men wouldn’t care to flaunt that in polite company,” he said, reaching for the small humidor Stapleton had brought to the terrace with the port.
“I don’t see how this evening could be any further from polite company than it already is. I also don’t see how being polite about love would do me much good. The fact is that I’m besotted. There’s no way around that. And from the looks of it, His Grace is headed toward the same fate, and there’s not much hope for saving him from it, not that either of us would. You appear to be quite as thrilled at the prospect as he is, at any rate,” Shaw observed, sitting in the chair across from Perry.
“I suppose I am. I suppose further that I do not believe anyone to be more deserving of it, though since we have no idea yet who this girl is, I can only hope for a good outcome. I believe my brother has already decided that propriety be damned should he learn something of our miss that will not mend well with the dukedom.” He lit a cigar and rolled it between his fingers as he thought. “Actually, I doubt he would give the ton a second thought should he do something they disapproved of, and of course he has my support in any case. Not that he needs it.” He paused. “Where the bloody hell has he gone off to, anyway? He certainly shouldn’t send the gossips to post so soon. Roxleigh!” He waited impatiently. “Gideon!” Shaw raised his eyebrows at his use of his brother’s Christian name.
“We shall get along smashingly,” Shaw said as he lit his cigar.
Perry looked at him. “Yes, quite,” he replied with a grin and a chuckle.
“Yes, what?” Gideon asked, striding to sit in the chair between the men on the terrace, then resting with his legs stretched out before him.
Both men simply shook their heads, sipping port.
Gideon looked at his brother from underneath his eyelashes, a glint of retribution pulling a low chortle from his brother’s throat. The gentlemen sat silently, drawing on their cigars and s
ipping the rich, sweet, red wine.
Stapleton walked toward Gideon, proffering a salver with a card, and he took it.
“It’s a bit late to be entertaining visitors, is it not?” Perry drawled. Gideon glanced from him to Shaw pointedly, then Perry added, “You know what I mean.”
Gideon’s smile faded as he read the name on the card. Monsieur Gautier Larrabee.
Gideon stood abruptly, turning to Stapleton. “Show him to the green parlor,” he ordered, concentrating on the card.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Stapleton bowed and turned to leave.
“What is it?” Perry asked, taking the card from Gideon. “Who is Monsieur Larrabee?” He paused. “Gideon!”
“What? Oh, I’m not entirely sure, but I believe that was the surname Francine gave.”
“It cannot be that easy. Do you think it’s her family? It cannot be.”
“There’s only one way to find out.”
Shaw stood. “Gentlemen, I shall leave you to the mystery, as I am definitely not needed in this foray. I bid you both good evening.”
Gideon inclined his head. “Of course, Shaw, until the morrow.”
“I am coming with you,” Perry grunted at Gideon as he followed.
Monsieur and Madame Larrabee sat patiently on the settee in the parlor. “What if he knows nothing of Madeleine?” Mme. Larrabee asked in French.
“I have no doubt they are aware of the location of our daughter. Lord Hepplewort was clear: she was lost on this estate. He would know where she is,” M. Larrabee said as the butler opened the door.
The Larrabees looked at each other. They certainly weren’t prepared to deal with a duke, much less with two British peers. They stood, M. Larrabee bowing and Mme. Larrabee curtseying.
“It’s rather late for a social call,” Gideon greeted rather gruffly. Perry quietly cleared his throat.
“I believe that you have, eu, ma fille, my daughter,” M. Larrabee replied in a thick French accent.
“And what, pray tell, gives you that idea?” Gideon asked.
“Monsieur, eu, Your Grace, I receive a letter from Lord Hepplewort concerning ma fille. She was taken from him—on your land,” M. Larrabee said.
Perry stepped in front of Gideon as he felt the tension course through his brother at the statement. “Pardon me, monsieur, but you may do well to not levy accusations straight away.”
M. Larrabee shook his head. “Of course. I apologize, my English is not so well. I did not mean to offend Your Grace. I received a letter—”
“Perhaps if you show us this letter,” Perry cut in.
“Mais oui, un moment, s’il vous plait,” M. Larrabee replied, looking through his coat pockets, then presenting it.
Perry smiled, taking the missive and turning to Gideon. “You need to compose yourself, brother. You have no idea what these people are about yet,” he said under his breath while he unfolded the paper and held it up. The letter rambled on about the point without ever reaching it, but at the end it clearly accused the Duke of Roxleigh of holding captive one Madeleine Larrabee.
Gideon tensed, his eyes grew dark, and his mouth drew white with anger against his teeth.
“Un moment, s’il vous plait?” Perry said to M. and Mme. Larrabee as he pushed his brother from the parlor, then dragged him to the study on the other side of the great entrance. He called for Stapleton, then turned to Gideon. “Gideon, listen to me.”
Gideon looked at him with eyes full of anger.
“We can deal with this Hepplewort chap later. Right now we need to clear up a few things with this man and Francine—if that is her name.”
Gideon jolted, all of his muscles taut like a crossbow preparing to fire, and his brother retreated a step.
“Gideon, listen! She had a terrible accident, she doesn’t remember anything, or hasn’t said what she does remember. If this is her father, finding him is what you intended to do to begin with, is it not? The search ends here, we can clear this up right now, and you will be free to marry Francine. Is that not what you want?”
“But the letter—”
“The letter be damned! If you received that letter, you would assume the worst as well and immediately go looking for your child. Good God, man! Have some sense here! That man’s daughter is missing, and some damned swine accused you—you! He is behaving rather politely, I dare say. If it were you in his position, I believe you would have stormed the gates without any polite formalities, n’est-ce pas?”
Gideon relaxed a bit, pushing his brother back. “Except that apparently this Madeleine is already betrothed. We need Francine,” he said. “And we should ask Shaw to join us. He’s better able to communicate with her than I.”
At that moment Stapleton walked in. “Your Grace?”
Gideon turned to the butler. “Stapleton, bid Mrs. Weston to ready Miss Francine to greet our guests and ask for Mr. Shaw to join us as well. Also, please send in some tea.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
“Good to have you back,” Perry said, clapping Gideon on the shoulder. “Shall we see to the guests?”
“So be it.”
They walked back into the green parlor and the Larrabees stood. “Monsieur, madame, I must beg pardon for my previous demeanor. I do not take kindly to being accused of absconding with innocents,” Gideon said.
“Of course, Your Grace. I understand your reaction, as you must understand mine.”
“I do, and let me assure you there is no one being held against their will here at Eildon Hill or at any of my estates, nor has there been at any time. There is a woman here who answers to the name Francine. She was injured in an accident with my curricle and horse team just over a fortnight past. We have been caring for her while she recovers, but have no idea where she came from or why she was on my land.”
“It is possible that she is our Madeleine,” M. Larrabee said in a hopeful whisper.
“I imagine anything is possible, yet I hesitate because she does not seem to acknowledge any past involving a family or a fiancé. I have asked for her to be brought to greet you, then we shall see.”
M. Larrabee looked at the duke, finally understanding he was merely a victim of circumstance. “Your Grace, I appreciate your hospitality and consideration.”
Carole entered the parlor with a tray of tea.
“I expect you are tired after a long trip. Please, sit.” Gideon motioned to the settee as he and Perry took the two chairs across from them.
“I must warn you, Francine isn’t able to speak. She hurt her throat in the accident, and it hasn’t improved entirely. Of course, she’s been able to communicate using sign language. I’m assuming now that it’s the French derivation.” he said, watching them. It eased him a bit that they didn’t seem to understand. “I happen to have an architect working on the manor who is also adept with sign language. I have asked him to join us, though I suppose if she is your daughter, you would also be familiar with it.”
They both looked confused.
Stapleton opened the door to the parlor and Francine walked in.
M. and Mme. Larrabee both stood, then Mme. Larrabee ran to Francine, hugging her tightly, before Gideon and Perry even had a chance to stand upright.
Perry instinctively put his hand out to grasp Gideon’s arm, but he was too late; his brother was already across the room, next to Francine.
“Ah, ma fille précieuse? Est-tu bien? Le Duc, il dit que tu ne peux pas parler, c’est vrai? Madeleine? Mon petit chou?” Mme. Larrabee went on in rapid-fire French. “Monsieur! Qu’est cet?” the woman asked, looking at Gideon.
Gideon watched Francine’s eyes as the small woman fussed. “Madame, I must insist you unhand her,” he said firmly when he saw panic reach Francine’s eyes. She looked quite terrified, and Gideon felt instantly protective. “Madame, Monsieur Larrabee, sit down!” Gideon ordered.
M. Larrabee rushed to his wife and took her into his arms to comfort her.
“You can see she doesn’t recognize either of you. There
is no need to terrify her.” Gideon put his hand on Francine’s back to steady her.
“Let us be seated, and have some tea, and attempt to discuss this rationally,” Perry said, ever the diplomat, motioning to the chairs.
M. Larrabee walked to the settee with his arms around his wife, easing her down. She was weeping and trying to convince him of something in French.
“Je sais, je sais, s’il te plait mari, un moment. S’il te plait,” M. Larrabee said. She nodded as he handed her a handkerchief and she blotted her eyes, attempting to quell her tears.
Gideon steered Francine to the chair next to his. He wanted to be closer to her, to hold her hand, but if this did turn out to be her father then there was no sense in enraging his feelings of propriety by handling his daughter in an untoward fashion. It made his skin ache and his heart wrench to be unable to comfort her.
Perry could see the effect of the situation on his brother and decidedly took over the conversation to move attention from Gideon and Francine before any inappropriate conduct could be insinuated.
“Monsieur Larrabee, are we to understand that you believe Francine to be your missing daughter Madeleine?” he asked.
Francine’s heart sank. She shook her head violently and stood from the chair, but Gideon grasped her wrist and pulled her back before she could speak. He placed her hand on the arm of his chair, hoping to offer some bit of reassurance that he wouldn’t let them remove her, particularly if she were unwilling.
She looked at her hand, then up to Gideon’s eyes, which bid her hold his gaze. She forgot the rest of the room, losing herself in the iridescent depths.
Perry drew the attention back to him. “Monsier Larrabee?”
“Yes, my lord, this is our Madeleine,” he said, gesturing toward her. “Our fille, our Madeleine, she was betrothed to Lord Hepplewort when she was of ten years. He came to France one month past to bring her to England to be married. If you ask what our daughter looks like, our answer is this girl. I would swear an oath on the Bible that this is our Madeleine.”
