The Duke of Dark Desires

by Miranda Neville

  Smoothing her skirt to take the trembling out of her hands, she essayed a smile. “Good morning, mes élèves,” she said. “I will join you in the schoolroom shortly. Why are you not eating breakfast?”

  The three of them exchanged looks. Apparently Maria had been designated to speak, a measure of how seriously they regarded the moment. Nothing less would keep Fenella quiet.

  “Are you really the daughter of a French marquis, Miss Grey?”

  “If she is she wouldn’t be Miss Grey.” Fenella’s deferral to her elder hadn’t lasted long.

  “You may continue to address me thus if you wish, but yes, I am truly Jeanne-Louise de Falleron. You don’t have to believe me.”

  “Of course we believe you,” Maria said, “and we think we have the right to know how you came to be our governess.”

  “I agree. Let us sit down, for it’s quite a long story.” Maria and Laura perched on either side of her on the bed, with Fenella on the floor at her feet. She was glad she could see only Fenella. The other two looked too much like their brother. She was trying hard not to think about Julian.

  Jane was becoming quite good at telling her tale. Omitting all mention of Mr. Fortescue, she couldn’t have asked for a more sympathetic audience. After she told them about the final loss of hope, when Marie-Thérèse and Antoinette were dead, they gathered around and embraced her.

  “Stop,” she begged. “You will make me cry again. I’ve shed so many tears for them but it doesn’t bring them back. One must be brave.”

  “I would never be brave if someone killed Fenella and Laura,” Maria said, at which all three began weeping and Jane had to comfort them.

  “Listen, mes chères, don’t be too sad for me. Thank the bon Dieu that you are alive and well and have each other and can lead happy lives.”

  Maria dabbed at her cheeks with a handkerchief. “God saved you for a reason, Miss Grey. We do not know why he does things. We shall pray to thank him for bringing you to us.”

  She’d never thought of it being God who saved her; rather that he had most cruelly punished her and her innocent sisters, and for that reason she had turned her back on the religion of her upbringing. But if her plight was indeed God’s plan, would he want her to seek revenge? Was he not a forgiving God?

  That, perhaps, was why she had never prayed again. She did not want to forgive.

  “Someone must have known you were escaping and reported you,” Fenella said. “I hope they die.”

  “Why would anyone kill little girls?” Laura asked.

  “I don’t know. I suppose it’s because a revolution is like a war and terrible things happen. Many people besides me have lost everyone.”

  Laura’s hand squeezed hers. “You haven’t lost me. I’ll be your little sister if you like.” Jane gave the child a hug and tried not to dissolve into a puddle of tears.

  “What about Monsieur de Beauville?” Fenella said. “Is he really your cousin?”

  The question stiffened her backbone. “Unfortunately yes, for all that he denies me.”

  “Have your looks changed so much?” Maria asked. “I didn’t see Julian for a long time but I never forgot him.”

  “It’s my belief that Louis knows me but he prefers not to acknowledge me because of what I did after I became Miss Grey.” In her bitterness she didn’t consider the new questions she’d opened up.

  “Because you went to Saint Lucia?” Laura asked.

  She was tempted, very tempted. “No,” she said. “I lived in Paris and I had to be friendly with some of the revolutionaries.”

  “How horrible for you to have to live among such wicked people,” Maria said.

  “They weren’t all wicked but it was difficult sometimes.”

  “When did you go to Saint Lucia?”

  “I’m sorry, Laura. I lied to you. I have never been to Saint Lucia.”

  Laura’s mouth fell open. “You never saw ostriches and crocodiles?”

  “Never.”

  Fenella, as usual, asked the difficult questions. “Why did you go on pretending to be Miss Grey after you came to England? You’re safe here.”

  “Miss Grey was a governess and I needed a position as governess.”

  “What a coincidence that you ended up at Fortescue House. You must have been very surprised when you saw your family’s pictures last night.”

  “You cannot imagine how much.”

  “Why didn’t you know Julian had bought them from your father?”

  Jane squeezed her eyes shut, to deny the question she did not want to answer now.

  “Stop badgering her, Fenella,” Maria said. “Can’t you see she’s upset?”

  “It’s all right,” Jane said cravenly. “It’s just that I have a headache because I couldn’t sleep last night.”

  “Lie down and rest, then. I will watch my younger sisters.” Maria fetched a damp cloth from the washstand, pushed her sisters aside, and dabbed at Jane’s forehead. “My mother likes me to do this when she has the headache. Is that better?”

  “Much better, thank you.”

  “Would you like us to fetch you a kitten from the stables?” Laura asked.

  “Perhaps another time. I will try to sleep now. You are all very good to me.” She blinked against the recurrence of treacherous tears.

  Fenella spoke from the window where she was closing the curtains. “That is because we all love you. We don’t want you to leave us.”

  Julian’s valet, having cut the hacked hair into a tidy Brutus, was disposing of the trimmings when the Earl of Windermere knocked and entered his room without permission.

  “Why the radical new style?” he asked.

  “It happened on a whim.” Most likely the truth since Jane hadn’t come to his room with the intention of giving him a haircut.

  Obviously bursting with curiosity, Damian waited until Julian had finished speaking to his servant and dismissed the man. “Cynthia sent me, after you failed to appear at the breakfast table. Neither did Beauville, or Falleron, and Miss Grey hasn’t been seen anywhere.”

  “I suppose everyone else is talking about last night’s drama. Sit down while I finish tying my neckcloth.”

  “Of course they are. Even ladies who haven’t seen nine o’clock in decades came down early. Cynthia is the most unpopular woman in Sussex for failing to interrogate Miss Grey about her past. I hope she is sleeping off the effects of the laudanum in Cynthia’s posset. Do you believe that she is the Falleron daughter?”

  “I do.”

  “I won’t ask you why, for now. If so, I don’t imagine her presence in your household is coincidental.”

  “No. She came to kill me.” Julian twitched the folds of black linen to get them just so. He hardly knew himself with short hair. He was shorn of his defenses, inside and out.

  Damian raised an elegant brow. “An ambition shared by many over the years, I daresay. Did she make the attempt and fail?”

  He turned away from the mirror to face the earl, crossing his legs with an air of ease he was far from feeling. “For now I am more interested in discussing Louis de Falleron, and exactly what he and Radcliffe have planned. Were either or both involved in the initial betrayal of the Fallerons, and of Smith and me, or is their alliance a more recent one?”

  In the past, Windermere’s efforts to get information about the Falleron affair from his Foreign Office colleagues had hit a stone wall of official silence. “My connection familiar with the Foreign Office’s secret affairs always denied that Radcliffe knew anything about the business at the time. He gave me the impression that the failure of the operation, whatever it was, came from within Paris.”

  “Damn closemouthed government snakes.”

  “Under the circumstances he might now tell me the truth. With the involvement of Cazalet, and thus His Majesty, the current situation seems likely to erupt in a scandal that his masters will wish to crush.”

  “I wouldn’t be at all surprised.” Julian didn’t mention that his darling Jane was a ro
cket that might go off in any direction at any time. “Shall I come with you? I’d like to shake the guts out of them.” Julian was on fire to get at the truth. “I have a better idea. Let’s go and shake the truth out of Radcliffe now.”

  Windermere looked tempted but, ever the diplomat, he shook his head. “Better not. We’ll be in a stronger negotiating position with some facts. I can ride to London in a few hours.” Damian stood. “One thing I wonder about. If the pictures do not belong to you, and your ownership of them seems, let us say, questionable, can Louis de Falleron claim them?”

  “Obviously he will make the attempt. I don’t like the man but I am perhaps prejudiced by the company he keeps. Now I know why Radcliffe didn’t try to stop me in Belgium. He believes he has control of the collection through their rightful owner.”

  “But is he the owner?”

  “I don’t have anything in writing from the late marquis so it will come down to my word against his. Oh Good God, lawyers! I thought I was finished with them.” Still, Julian wasn’t about to let Radcliffe get his filthy hands on the pictures without a fight. “I may need testimony from someone at the Foreign Office.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Damian said, “but diplomats like to maintain discretion at all costs.”

  “I’ve been cultivating influence in high places. I may just be able to bring pressure to bear on your closemouthed colleagues.” Windermere looked intrigued but Julian shook him off. “I’m going to be closemouthed myself for now because I don’t want you to delay getting to London.”

  The door opened again and Julian’s three sisters burst into the room, led by Fenella. “Maria said we should wait but I can’t. You have to help Miss Grey. That man she says is her cousin has made her cry because—” She broke off and ran over to him. “What happened to your hair?”

  “You were just leaving, weren’t you, Damian?” Julian said firmly, because clearly Windermere wanted to remain and hear the answer to this question. The Osbournes barely contained their impatience until the door closed behind him.

  “What’s this about Jane and Falleron?” Julian demanded.

  “He was cruel to her,” Fenella said. “She says he pretended not to believe she is his cousin because he doesn’t approve of her being friendly with some of the revolutionaries. But she only did it to save her life.”

  Interesting. So that was their game—he had no doubt Radcliffe was behind the denial or at least connived at it. Julian didn’t believe for a moment that Louis de Falleron hadn’t recognized Jane/Jeanne once he got over his surprise and had a chance to talk to her. He just didn’t want a rival claimant.

  Julian could now see her close resemblance to the late Marquise de Falleron, whom he had met on several occasions. With no idea about the ins and outs of French inheritance law, the plan he had conceived should thwart Louis. And Radcliffe.

  Laura tugged at his sleeve. “Your hair, Julian. Why did you cut it?”

  “I did it to please Miss Grey,” he said simply.

  “You called her Jane before,” Fenella said, giving him a knowing look.

  “So I did. I wish you girls to help me with a plan I have for making sure that Frenchman doesn’t hurt Jane anymore.”

  As they gathered around to listen, Julian reflected that what he was about to do scuttled any influence he might have developed with Lord Cazalet, and hence the king. Every scheme had its cost, and this one was worth it if he began to make amends to Jane and set him on the path to his redemption and her forgiveness.

  Chapter 20

  Jane had to leave Denford, both the duke and the castle. She couldn’t bring herself to kill the former or remain in the latter. In a practical spirit, she wished she’d received her quarterly wages, which were almost due. She couldn’t ask for them because she didn’t intend to announce her departure. She would pack up everything she owned, including the knife now hidden under her mattress, and disappear during the dinner hour. At almost midsummer there was plenty of daylight to get her to Chichester¸ where she could spend the night at an inn while waiting for a coach to take her to a port.

  The hardest thing was what to write to the girls. No, not the hardest, but she wouldn’t think about not seeing Denford again. She wouldn’t think about him at all. She dared not, or she would start to cry and she was finished with tears. He wasn’t worth a second’s grief.

  My dear children, she began. It is with great sadness that I take leave of you forever. I am sorry that I deceived you. I don’t know how to tell the whole truth. She stopped, thought, and crossed out the last sentence. I don’t wish to lie to you any further . . .

  “Miss Grey!”

  Judging by the racket, all three Osbournes were knocking at once. Thankful that she hadn’t started packing, she slipped her letter under a blank sheet of paper and bade them enter.

  “We’ve come to—”

  “Quiet! You promised me you would behave if I let you come.” Maria swept her most beautiful Court of Versailles curtsey. All three girls were in their best gowns, as they had been for the theater. “Mademoiselle de Falleron,” she said. “His Grace the duke has asked me to convey an invitation. He would be honored if you would join the party for dinner tonight.”

  Oh, he was cunning. He knew it would be hard to refuse the children. She curtseyed back. “Thank you, Miss Osbourne. Please convey my respects to His Grace and inform him that it is not comme il faut for the governess to dine with the guests.”

  “But you’re not the governess,” Fenella said with a smirk. “You are Mademoiselle de Falleron and the daughter of a French marquis.”

  “We’re all coming down to dinner tonight, even Fenella and I.” Laura brimmed with excitement. “We’ve come to help you dress and do your hair.”

  “I have nothing suitable.”

  “Julian said you’d say that. He sent these for you to wear. Show her, Laura.”

  The youngest girl fumbled with the strings of a silk bag. With a flourish she held up a double string of exquisite matched pearls. “The Denford pearls,” she said.

  “I cannot accept.”

  “It’s only for tonight,” Maria assured her.

  Jane wasn’t so sure about that. Julian was trying to bribe his way back into her good graces. As though a necklace could make up for all she had lost at his hands.

  Fenella, meanwhile, rummaged in her cupboard. “What is this?” She had discovered the rose silk gown. “You do have a real evening gown. I’ve never seen anything so lovely.”

  “I should not,” Jane said, wavering. Truth to tell, she was not averse to appearing just once in her true colors, in the high circles to which she had been born.

  “Why not, mademoiselle,” Maria asked. “I don’t understand why you won’t join the party now that we know who you are?”

  Impossible to explain but too tempting not to give in. Tomorrow she would leave, no matter what Denford said, but tonight she would be Jeanne-Louise.

  An hour later, her coiffure taking longer than it should due to the disagreements and lack of expertise of her self-appointed lady’s maids, she was dressed.

  She loved the gown, knowing it flattered her with its tiny bodice and slender skirt. How she loved the whisper of gauze on her shoulders and arms and the swish of the modest train.

  “You look beautiful,” Maria said, tucking a stray strand of Jane’s hair into the white satin ribbon circling her head. “You always do. Now put on the pearls.”

  She didn’t even argue. Peering at her reflection in the small mirror, she admired how the translucent spheres made her skin glow. Not even Maman’s pearls had been so fine. She wouldn’t keep them, of course, though she wasn’t certain she didn’t deserve them. They’d buy her a lot in America.

  Laura took her hand. “I can’t wait to see Julian’s face when he sees you.”

  She wasn’t going to examine the implication of that remark. “I’m glad you will be with me because I’m a little frightened. Shall we glide in together?”

  “Don’t for
get to smile,” Fenella said. “As you once said, everyone loves a smiling face. A happy person makes others feel happy.”

  “You really are a dreadful child,” she said to the grinning girl. But she couldn’t help obeying and her heart lightened by a degree. She wondered what Louis would say to her now. She needn’t tell him that Henri had given her the gown. And though she’d often wondered what Julian would think of her dressed like this, she no longer cared.

  Her lips formed a false simper to rival Fenella’s. Denford’s opinion of her appearance meant nothing to her, nothing at all.

  Dinner that night observed every form, starting with a procession into the dining room according to order of precedence. Her partner was Sir Richard Radcliffe.

  The man whom Denford had described at the theater as “one of the vilest men in England” treated her with smooth courtesy and a lack of curiosity she found astonishing. Like the absent Earl of Windermere, he was, she gathered, some kind of diplomat. After listening to a lengthy description of a visit to Versailles twenty years earlier, she replied rather bluntly that she had been too young to be presented to the king and queen.

  “I’m sorry if I bring up painful memories,” he said. “I wouldn’t like the great civilization of the ancien régime to be forgotten. England has never been able to rival the magnificence of the French court. My greatest hope is that one day it will be restored.” He dropped his voice. “Let me speak confidentially, mademoiselle. If there is any way that I can serve you, please ask. As a member of His Majesty’s government I am not without influence.”

  Jane’s glance followed his to the head of the table. “I don’t wish to pry,” Radcliffe continued, “but it occurs to me that your situation vis-à-vis Denford and certain property of your family is somewhat ambiguous.”

  Why should she believe Denford’s opinion of this urbane man? If the duke had invited the Radcliffes here for purposes of his own, then she wanted no part of them, except to thwart them. Listening to Lady Belinda, he wore his most cynical half smile.

  Denford caught them staring at him and raised his brows. Then he had the audacity to favor Jane with one of his genuine grins that used to send her heart tumbling. She snapped her head away. “Thank you, sir. I’m not sure what you can do but I appreciate the kindness.”