Brandywine: Regency historical romance (The Brocade Series, Book 1)

by Jackie Ivie

“Accident?”

  “He fell out of the curricle, and then the horses ran amuck.”

  “I’m not surprised. You’re saying…he fell? Gillian? Out of his own carriage? Odd.”

  “I pushed him,” Helene whispered.

  Lady Bridget coughed, but it sounded suspiciously like a laugh. Helene didn’t look to check as she waited.

  “Well. Go on. And what happened then?”

  “The carriage got wrecked and he had to put down one of the horses. And it was so terrible!”

  “And you? No harm there?”

  “Oh, no. I climbed atop a branch before it happened.”

  “That was excellent thinking.”

  “But it was still my fault. And he was very angry at me…so he ordered a bath delivered to my room. We were both soaked, and I thought the bath was for me, but it wasn’t. He…made me undress and wash him, but I made a muck-up of it, and now he won’t believe anything I tell him.”

  Lady Bridget made a sound similar to a horse’s snort. That’s when Helene noticed how red the woman was as she held back her laughter.

  “Go ahead. Laugh,” Helene said dispiritedly.

  “Oh, darling! You two are absolutely priceless. I wish I had the talent for putting ink to paper. Better yet, putting this on stage! Why, we’d make a fortune.”

  “I’m baring my heart and you call it theater. This isn’t helping.”

  “You’re not crying anymore, are you?”

  Helene blinked. Straightened her back. And stared.

  “See? So. Here is the plan. You’re going to tell Aunt Bridget every detail, and she’ll sift through it before giving you advice. You don’t know how lucky you are, darling, because I rarely give advice. Before we start, though, I’d better ring up for a cold platter. We’ve still got most of yesterday’s squab pie, and Mrs. Hotchkins made tea cakes, too.”

  “You stole Mrs. Hotchkins, too? You have no conscience!” Helene giggled.

  “She was wasted at the cottage, and you know it. I simply gave her a reason for her existence. Can you imagine how that poor dear must’ve felt to have her talents ignored most of the year?”

  “I’m not particularly hungry, you know.”

  “Nonsense. After a nice cry over a man, there’s nothing better than good food and lots of it. Now go on with your story, dear. Auntie Bridget’s all ears.”

  Helene told Bridget everything — the Montriart chateau, her time with Sherry, the inn at Calais, Gerard’s attempted murder, and the sanatorium. She left out the gazebo with Gil, because Bridget could figure that out for herself. Helene blushed too much to talk about that.

  She didn’t notice when another plate of goodies from Mrs. Hotchkins’ kitchen arrived, or the second bottle of claret, or when it grew too dark to see Bridget clearly, and they stopped to have the lamps lit. If she had, she would’ve fallen silent or cried again at the waste of a whole day away from Gillian.

  She had only two days left.

  ***

  Gil called for her the next afternoon after luncheon. Helene bit her lip, arranged and rearranged the hair at her forehead, and jumped each time a caller was announced. Bridget wasn’t any help. That woman had given orders not to be disturbed. Helene wasn’t surprised, after watching the woman imbibe almost as much claret as food. Her absence was a relief, too, because Helene already wished she’d kept her mouth closed, and her history hidden.

  And then the footman informed her Lord Tremayne awaited her in the foyer, Helene nearly slunk back to her chamber. She didn’t know what to say. How to act. She’d prepared herself in the clothing sent over the previous day and looked calm and composed…yet it was Gillian! And she found, when he approached, that she couldn’t even look him in the eye.

  “I suppose I should apologize, Helene.”

  He was looking at her nose. Helene quickly glanced down and forced her mouth to speak, using a flippant tone and vacuous words.

  “There’s naught you need to apologize for, My Lord. I—I’m sorry I didn’t stay at the dance, but…I was tired. And Lady Bridget…did ask me to stay.”

  Her lying ability was failing her. She’d stammered and paused all through it. Helene stood there, twisting her reticule strings in her hands.

  “Reg told me I made a fool of myself, Helene. I’m certain you noticed. I believe I even entertained the guests on a grand scale with a piano recital. I don’t recollect doing anything quite that moronic, but I seem to have lost a lot of the evening.”

  Her heart stopped. And then it dropped. She felt every bit of it. And no amount of swallowing, or blanking her mind, or counting, or modulating breathing made it feel any different.

  “I really do beg your apology. And I assure you it won’t happen again.”

  Her heart decided it would restart, thudding away from somewhere inside, and with a ragged rhythm that hurt. Or something worse was happening.

  “You will accept my apology, won’t you love?”

  “It won’t…happen again?” Someone else must’ve been speaking — her throat wouldn’t utter one word, let alone those.

  “Of course not. You’ve firsthand knowledge of what overdrinking does to me. I was…a bit under the weather for a spell. You won’t hold my absence against me?”

  “No.”

  She turned away to fasten her bonnet securely under her chin, wincing as she pulled on the ribbons. He’d been ill from over-imbibing, and here she’d been pouring out her heart and wailing about a lost day? She should’ve known.

  She walked out the door and then froze at the sight of an enclosed coach with a complement of six horses. And outriders.

  “That’s…a traveling coach, Gillian.”

  Oh God. Her time was up. Their act finished. She’d done her part. And now he was sending her away. They’d never have to see each other again. Wasn’t that their bargain? Her eyes filled with such painful tears, they burned.

  “Of course, darling. The season is at an end, and London palls during the heat. I’d hoped you felt the same.”

  “My…clothing?” Odd. Her voice didn’t carry any of the trauma. She’d be on her knees in thankfulness over that later.

  “Already seen to, love. The baggage carriage is well ahead of us by now. I hope my arrangements meet with your approval.”

  Helene looked up at the trees, skittered her glance over the iron gate, ignored any passersby, blinked rapidly, doing anything she could think of to stay the sobs. The previous night, when Bridget finally retired, Helene thought she’d spent the last tears she owned, yet here she was, proving that wrong.

  ‘We’re starting to gather attention standing here, Helene. Would you like assistance to the coach?”

  She shook her head and forced her feet to move. And after the first step, walking was easier. The carriage shimmered until she reached it, and then it was as solid and unemotional as she was. She fully expected him to shut the door on her and send the coach on its way. When he joined her inside, she gasped. And then went wide-eyed as he ignored a spot on the opposite bench, and took a seat right beside her. He was taking up more than his share of the cushioned bench, too.

  “Pray, don’t look at me like that, Helene,” Gil said. “I dislike riding with my back to the horses.”

  “You’re…traveling, too?”

  “Of course.”

  Of course? Oh sweetness! Oh mercy! The day was instantly filled with light and wonder and absolute joy. And she hadn’t any idea how to hide it. She stared at her gloved hands jammed together in her lap and tried to contain it.

  “And I’d like to make better time than our last journey.”

  “If…you’re ill…it’s entirely your own fault.”

  “I’ve already apologized for that and been accepted, unless I’m mistaken. Are you holding a grudge, love? I’m sorry if I was inattentive at the ball, but you won’t glower at me all day for that, will you?”

  “In...attentive?”

  Someone else was in command of her body. She would never have asked it and ne
ver in such a lost, childlike voice! She felt him stiffen beside her.

  “I recall dancing with the signora, or I think I did. If I’m not mistaken, I could’ve done worse. And I‘m tired of apologizing. Please don’t hold it against me further.”

  He recalls his waltz with the signora and not the gazebo?

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Gillian.” She moved her vision out the window and made her voice as disinterested as possible.

  “What would you like to talk about, then? No answer? Very well. If you have no preference, I’ll talk about my wretched day. Perhaps I’ll start by describing my repaired curricle and the new roans I bought. Reg has an eye for horse flesh. He found the pair for me. The Chaffins have fallen on hard times and needed to part with them in a hurry. Do you know something else that’s strange?”

  She wasn’t paying the least attention to his talk about horses and almost missed her cue. The lapse in his talking clued her to murmur something, which he must’ve taken as sign of her listening, so he continued.

  “The title is passing, and debts brought to light due to the earl’s unfortunate accident while on his honeymoon. I’m not boring you, am I?”

  “Oh, no,” she mumbled. “The Earl of Chaffin had an unfortunate accident, and there’s a new earl who sold his horses. That’s what you said, isn’t it?”

  He stretched his legs out and moved somehow, matching his thigh to hers. The contact sparked. Heated. Even through her skirts. Helene’s eyes widened.

  “It’s being quieted, but apparently his accident involved a duel. Something about defending the bride’s honor after too much celebrating at a party in Monte Carlo. The earl never was good with a sword. At the height of his ability, you probably could’ve gone a few rounds with him. It appears to be a tragedy that wasn’t really a tragedy, doesn’t it?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Someone wanted the late Earl of Chaffin dead, and I don’t think we’ll have to look far to figure out who, will we?”

  “Could you...sit on the other bench?” She couldn’t concentrate with his leg pressed against hers.

  “I find this side more conducive to my health. Should you wish more room, you’re free to move, Helene.”

  The longer he told his story, the more abrupt and clipped his voice became. She didn’t check for why. She was having enough difficulty pretending he didn’t bother her. And probably failing.

  “Thank you.”

  She scooted across from him, arranged her skirts and tucked them under her legs, before realizing the stupidity of her move. Sitting across from him meant his legs easily reached hers. And worse, she had a very good view of him. It was better to focus on the padded section behind his head.

  “Since you haven’t been attending to a thing I’ve said, I suppose I’ll have to be quite blunt, won’t I?”

  “Are you ever anything but?”

  “I’ve been asked to annul our marriage.”

  He’d surprised her. She’d jerked and darted her glance to him, before quickly returning it to the carriage wall. She still saw him shrug and then fold his arms.

  “You...want to annul our marriage? But…that’s not possible!”

  “Why not? There hasn’t been a consummation, and I find it has some appeal, especially after the illuminating visit to the Bingham residence this morn. And that’s before I factor in your decided thorniness to me at present.”

  “Thorn...iness?”

  “And instantly she becomes Brandy again, copying everything she hears and confounding all around her! You, Madame, are a consummate liar, a tale-spinner of no small imagination, an actress of amazing ability, a mimic of uncanny talent…I can go on.”

  “I haven’t told any tales!”

  “And how do you suggest I find that out? You willing to undergo a…physical-type examination, are you?”

  Her mouth opened. Shut. She probably reddened. The blush felt hot enough. This was terrible! The padded material blurred. And then cleared. Blurred.

  “You know, Helen even warned me it would be difficult to ferret the truth from you.”

  “Helen?” Her voice shook.

  “Must you repeat everything I say? Of course, Helen! Who else have I been discussing? It’s your cousin who married Chaffìn! She’s now a merry widow and for some reason believes if I set my marriage to you aside, she’d actually be able to step into your shoes. As my wife. Blast the bitch! If I’d any sense, I’d have run this morning when I saw her.”

  “Why didn’t you?” She focused. The padding was crystal clear at the moment.

  “Because she had a wench called Sherry with her, and I recognized the name.”

  Helene gasped and looked right at him. “She brought Sherry with her? Truly? How’d she find her? Oh, Gillian, you have no idea how much that means to me! You must take me to her at once!”

  “Haven’t you listened to a bloody thing I said?”

  Her excitement dissipated as quickly as it came. Helene forced herself to sit calmly and straight and attentive.

  “I...I haven’t been paying much attention, Gillian, and for that I’m truly sorry. But you must realize how much Sherry means to me. If it hadn’t been for her, I’d have perished years ago in France.”

  “Sherry wasn’t with you in France, Helene. And, as far as her vouching for you, I’d say that would be as advantageous as flogging a dead cow.”

  “Sherry wouldn’t lie!” She stuck out her chin and glared at him. “No matter what else you’d have me believe, it was due to her that I survived, I keep telling you.”

  “Helene, hasn’t it occurred to you yet that you might be a touch mad? I’m beginning to think so.”

  “You may call me what you like, my Lord Tremayne, but mad? No. I’m saner than the lot of you!”

  “Then, tell me – why does everyone lie? I sent Reg for some answers and get summoned myself. And the first person I meet is the newly bereaved widow. You’ve no idea how that sets a body back, let me tell you.”

  “How is my cousin?” She spoke sweetly, her eyes blank.

  “You don’t give a damn about her any more than I do, but she had quite a story for me. One, that’s collaborated by enough witnesses to call a tribunal, by-the-by.”

  “They’re all lying, My Lord, every last one.”

  “Prove it, Helene. Prove that you’ve told the truth about even one thing you’ve told me, and I’ll let it go. I swear it. I’ll even forget the little detail you so conveniently forgot in all this.”

  Her heart thudded so hard, she had to admit its continued existence. “What...detail?” she whispered.

  “I told you. Helen’s a font of information now that she’s returned to the family fold. You’re not even Helene Marguerite. You’re Helene Montriart. And that might mean this conversation is moot, since we’re not even wed in the first place!”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Of course you are. You’re always sorry.”

  “I signed the register as Helene M. Bingham, My Lord. Will that be enough?”

  “For what?”

  “An annulment.”

  “I don’t want a bloody annulment! They do!”

  “But you said…uh? What did you say?”

  “Helene. Darling. I don’t give a damn what everyone says. I only care about—oh. Forget it. Another time, perhaps. After I’ve figured this out. The Binghams certainly want our marriage annulled. I can’t quite believe it’s to regain my hand for Helen, although they did quite a bit of posturing and acting as if it did. And that means I have to find out the real reason. Perhaps you’d be willing to give it to me?”

  “What?”

  “The truth, Helene. Start with that.”

  She somehow smiled. She couldn’t tell his expression. He was too blurred.

  “You wouldn’t spot it if it jumped into your lap, My Lord.”

  PART THREE

  Lady Tremayne

  CHAPTER ONE

  Paris had changed, and Helene looked around carefully, a
verting her eyes the moment anyone hinted they were turning toward her. She shouldn’t worry. She wasn’t too familiar with the sights, since the only times she’d roamed the streets she’d had to scale a drain pipe and keep in the shadows.

  Beside her, Lord Tremayne looked unruffled, elegant, and every inch a visiting dignitary to the new regime.

  “Well, My Lady, have you decided which sights you’ve a mind to see first?”

  She ignored him. He knew what she felt, and besides, he was immune to anything she said. If she hinted anything, he’d probably decide she’d need to visit the guillotine at the Place de la Revolution in case it sparked a lie he could seize.

  “And just look. We aren’t the only nobility to be visiting. See? Your fears were absolutely groundless. There’s Countess Tilbury and her latest lover — if I’m not mistaken.”

  He raised his hand in salute, and Helene looked to where he gestured. The woman was another blond, although her hair was close enough to white to merit that for a description. She wore a fabulous gown that didn’t look to have one stitch devoted to modesty. Helene almost gasped and caught herself. She was determined to avoid any display of any kind for Lord Tremayne. That was the only way she could play his game.

  And live through this journey.

  She hadn’t realized they were destined for Paris until he stopped at the inn and she recognized it. They were in Dover. In two years, not much had changed. It was also the same inn Sir Bingham stayed at.

  Helene followed Gil inside and tried to hide her complete panic as she realized what he was about. He was taking her back to Paris? No. She’d do anything. Say anything. Admit to whatever he wanted, even if it was a lie

  Anything.

  The innkeeper hadn’t found a decent cook. The boiled fare set before them wouldn’t tempt a pig, let alone someone swallowing around a knot of nervousness like she was. The man hadn’t spent any gains on redecorating, either. The same red drapes covered the windows, the same material covered the chairs, but at least the fire cheerfully warming the private sitting parlor looked hospitable.

  Helene quickly went to it and tried to ignore the spot she’d stood in two years earlier. Sir Bingham had been lecturing her on the qualities of cleanliness, proper table manners, and her new status in his household, and she watched him eat the same fare while her mouth watered.