by Brenda Joyce
Evelyn somehow smiled at the plump young man who nodded at her.
“It is so tragic, really, to be reunited under such circumstances,” Lucille cried, jostling in front of her husband, who stepped backward to accommodate her. “It feels like yesterday that we were at that magnificent church in Paris. Do you remember? You were sixteen, and I was a year older. And I do believe D’Orsay had a hundred guests, everyone in rubies and emeralds.”
Evelyn wondered what Lucille was doing—certain that a barb was coming. “I doubt that everyone was in jewels.” But unfortunately, her description of the wedding was more accurate than not; before the revolution, the French aristocracy was prone to terribly lavish displays of wealth. And Henri had spent a fortune on the affair—as if there were no tomorrow. A pang of regret went through her—but neither one of them could have foreseen the future.
“I had never seen so many wealthy aristocrats. But now, most of them must be as poor as paupers—or even dead!” Lucille stared, seemingly rather innocently.
But Evelyn could hardly breathe. Of course Lucille wished to point out how impoverished Evelyn now was. “That is a terrible remark to make.” It was rude and cruel—Evelyn would never say such a thing.
“You berate me?” Lucille was incredulous.
“I am not trying to berate anyone,” Evelyn said, instantly retreating. She was tired, and she had no interest in fanning the flames of any old wars.
“Lucille,” Robert interjected with disapproval. “The French are our friends—and they have suffered greatly—unjustly.”
“And apparently, so has Evelyn.” Lucille finally smirked. “Look at this house! It is threadbare! And, Papa, I am not retracting a single word! We gave her a roof over her head, and the first thing she did was to ensnare the count the moment he stepped in our door.” She glared.
Evelyn fought to keep her temper, no easy task when she was so unbearably tired. She would ignore the dig that she was a fortune hunter. “What has happened to my husband’s family and his countrymen is a tragedy,” Evelyn said tersely.
“I hardly said it was not!” Lucille was annoyed. “We all hate the republicans, Evelyn, surely you know that! But now, you are here, a widow of almost twenty-five, a countess, and where is your furniture?”
Lucille hated her even now, Evelyn thought. And while she knew she did not have to respond, she said, “We fled France—to keep our heads. A great deal was left behind.”
Lucille made a mocking sound as her father took her elbow. “It is time for us to go, Lucille, and you have a long drive home. Lady Faraday,” Robert said decisively to his wife. He nodded at Evelyn and began guiding Enid and Lucille out, Harold following with Annabelle.
Evelyn slumped in relief. But Annabelle looked back at her, offering a tentative and commiserating smile. Evelyn straightened, surprised. Then Annabelle, along with her family, disappeared into the front hall.
Evelyn turned, relieved. But the feeling vanished as she was instantly faced with two young gentlemen.
Her cousin John smiled hesitantly at her. “Hello, Evelyn.”
Evelyn hadn’t seen John since her wedding. He was tall and attractive, taking after his father both physically and in character. And he had been her one somewhat secret ally, during those difficult years of her childhood. He had been her friend, even if he had chosen not to engage his sisters directly.
Evelyn leaped into his arms. “I am so glad to see you! Why haven’t you called? Oh, you have become so handsome!”
He pulled back, blushing. “I am a solicitor now, Evelyn, and my offices are in Falmouth. And…I wasn’t sure I would be welcome—not after all you endured at the hands of my family. I am sorry that Lucille is still so hatefully disposed toward you.”
“But you are my friend,” she cried, meaning it. She had glanced at the dark handsome man standing with him, and recognized him instantly. Shocked, she felt her smile vanish.
He grinned a bit at her, but no mirth entered his dark eyes. “She is jealous,” he said softly.
“Trev?” she asked.
Edward Trevelyan stepped forward. “Lady D’Orsay. I am flattered that you remember me.”
“You haven’t changed that much,” she said slowly, still surprised. Trevelyan had evinced a strong interest in her before Henri had swept into her life. The heir to a large estate with several mines and a great tenant farm, it had almost seemed that he meant to seriously court her—until her aunt had forbidden Evelyn from accepting his calls. She hadn’t seen him since she was fifteen years old. He had been handsome and titled then; he was handsome and commanding now.
“Neither have you. You remain the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”
She knew she blushed. “That is certainly an exaggeration—so you are still the ladies’ man?”
“Hardly. I merely wish to flatter an old and dear friend—truthfully.” He bowed. Then, he said, “My wife died last year. I am a widower, my lady.”
Without thinking, she said, “Evelyn. We can hardly stand on formality, can we? And I am sorry to hear that.”
He smiled at her, but his gaze was filled with speculation.
John stepped in. “And I am affianced. We are to wed in June. I wish for you to meet Matilda, Evelyn. You will like her very much.”
She took his hand impulsively. “I am so happy for you.”
Evelyn realized that she was now standing alone with the two gentlemen—everyone else had left. Her salon mostly empty, she became aware of just how exhausted she was—and that, as happy as she was to see both John and Trev, she desperately needed to lie down and rest.
“You seem tired,” John said. “We will take our leave.”
She walked them to the front door. “I am so glad you called. Give me a few days—I can’t wait to meet your fiancée.”
John hugged her, rather inappropriately. “Of course.”
Trev was more formal. “I know this is a terrible time for you, Evelyn. If I can help, in any way, I would love to do so.”
“I doubt that anyone can help. My heart, Trev, is sorely broken.”
He studied her for a moment, and then both men stepped outside.
Evelyn saw their mounts tied to the railing as she closed the door—and that was the last thing she saw. Instantly, blackness claimed her and she collapsed.
* * *
“YOU ARE SO exhausted that you fainted!”
Evelyn shoved the smelling salts with their sickly odor from her nostrils. She was seated on the cold, hard marble floor, a pillow between her and the front door. Laurent and his wife knelt beside her, both extremely concerned.
And she was still light-headed. “Is everyone gone?”
“Yes, everyone has left—and you swooned the moment the last guest was gone,” Laurent accused. “I should have never allowed the guests to stay as long as they did.”
“Aimee?”
“She is still asleep,” Adelaide said. She stood. “I am going to get you something to eat.”
Evelyn saw from the look on her face that protesting that she was not hungry would not dissuade her. Adelaide walked away, and she looked at Laurent. “This has been the longest day of my life.” God, the tears threatened her again. Damn it. She would not cry!
“It is over,” he soothed.
She gave him her hand and he helped her to stand up. As she did, a terrible migraine began. And with it came the now-familiar surging of panic and fear. “What are we going to do now?” she whispered.
He had become her confidant in these past few years, and she did not have to elaborate. “You can worry about Aimee’s future tomorrow.”
“I cannot think about anything else!”
He sighed. “Madame, you just fainted. We do not need to discuss finances tonight.”
“There are hardly any finances to discuss. But I intend to start going over the estate ledgers and my accounts tomorrow.”
“And how will you read them? They befuddled the count. I tried to help him, but I could not understan
d the numbers myself.”
She studied him. “I heard you and Henri discussing the arrival of a new foreman. Did the previous foreman leave?”
Laurent was grim. “He was dismissed, madame.”
“Why?”
“We have suspected theft, Lady D’Orsay, for some time. When le comte purchased this estate, the mine was doing handsomely. Now, there is nothing.”
So there was hope, she thought, staring at the dapper Frenchman.
“I am afraid to ask what you are thinking,” he said.
“Laurent, I am thinking that I have very little left to pawn.”
“And?”
He knew her so well, she thought. And he knew almost everything there was to know about her, Henri and their affairs. But did he know about the gold? “Two weeks ago, Henri told me that he had buried a chest filled with gold at the château in Nantes.”
Laurent simply met her gaze.
“You know!” she exclaimed, surprised.
“Of course I know—I was there—I helped him bury the chest.”
Evelyn started. “So it’s true. He did not leave us penniless. He left a fortune for us.”
“It’s true.” They stared at each other. “What are you going to do?” he said unhappily.
“It has been quiet in France, since the fall of Robespierre.”
He inhaled. “Please do not tell me that you are considering retrieving the gold!”
“No, I am not considering it—I have made up my mind.” And she was resolved. Her decision was made. “I am going to find someone to take me to France, and I am bringing that gold back—not for myself—but for Aimee.”
“And who could you possibly trust with such a fortune?” he cried, paling.
But even as he spoke, the image came to her mind of a tall, powerful man standing on the deck of a ship racing the sea with unfurled black sails, his golden hair blowing in the wind....
She could not breathe or move. She hadn’t thought about the smuggler who had helped her and her family escape France in years.
My services are expensive.
Thank me when we reach Britain.
Evelyn looked up at Laurent, stunned.
“Whom could you possibly trust with your life?” he added desperately.
She wet her lips. “Jack Greystone,” she said.
CHAPTER TWO
EVELYN STARED OUT of her bedroom window, still in her nightclothes, her hair braided. She was hugging herself.
She had just awoken. But she had slept fitfully, and her rest had been interrupted with terrible dreams. Oddly, she had been dreaming of her childhood. Of going to bed without supper, and being so lonely she had cried herself to sleep. And she had dreamed of Lucille and Enid, both of them mocking her for her airs, and declaring that she had gotten just what she deserved.
But then her dreams had changed, and she had dreamed that she was running through the night, being chased by evil. The night had become familiar, and she realized she wasn’t on foot—she was in a carriage, and Aimee was crying in her arms. But they were being pursued. The gendarmerie were after them, and if they did not escape, Henri might be arrested and executed. She was terrified. The hand of evil was right behind them, ready to snatch them back....
She had awoken in a sweat, shivering with fear, her stomach in knots, tears upon her cheeks. It had taken her a second to return to reality and recall that she was not in the midst of fleeing France on that particular summer night. Henri had been buried yesterday, at the local parish church. She wasn’t in France; she was at Roselynd.
Her chest seemed to tighten.
The sight of Jack Greystone standing at the helm of his black ship, all sails unfurled, his legs braced against the sea, his tawny hair whipped by the wind, assaulted her. The image was one of power and command.
She suddenly found it hard to breathe.
She hadn’t thought about Greystone in years—not until yesterday.
Was she really going to approach him and ask him for his services—again?
Did she have any other choice? Henri was dead, and she had to recover the gold he had left for them.
She trembled, because Henri’s death still felt unreal—as if a part of her dream. Grief rose up instantly, choking her. So did fear, and even the feeling of abandonment. God, she was so alone, so overwhelmed, and frightened.
If only Henri had retrieved the gold before his death. But he had left that monumental task up to her, Evelyn. She prayed she was up to it.
Aimee would never find herself in the straits that Evelyn had been left in as a child, she vowed. Evelyn’s father had loved her, or so she believed, but he had failed in his responsibility to her. He had been right to leave her with Robert, as he was too reckless and irresponsible to care for her, but it had been wrong to leave her penniless. She, Evelyn, must never fail her daughter.
“Mama? Are you crying?”
Aimee’s small, frightened voice cut through her thoughts. Evelyn realized she was battling rising tears, but some of them were due to the great strain she was under. She faced her daughter, but not before wiping her eyes quickly with her fingertips. “Darling! Have I overslept?” She swept her close, into a big embrace.
“You never sleep in,” Aimee whispered. “Are you tired today?”
“I was very tired, darling, but I am back to being myself now.” Evelyn kissed her. “I will always miss your father,” Evelyn said softly. “He was a good man, a good husband, a good father.” But why hadn’t he retrieved the gold in the past five years? Why had he left her with such a daunting task? When he hadn’t allowed her any duties except those of being a mother and a wife, when he was still alive? If she had been allowed more independence, she might not feel so overwhelmed now.
She stepped back from Aimee, knowing she must find the kind of courage she never had before.
“Is Papa watching us from Heaven?” Aimee asked.
Evelyn wet her lips and somehow smiled. “Papa is certainly still with us—he will always be with us, even when he goes further into Heaven, he will be in our hearts and in our memories.”
But suddenly she didn’t understand why he hadn’t at the very least made arrangements to have that gold brought from France to them. He had been of sound mind until the very end.
Was she actually angry with Henri now? She was incredulous. He had just passed, and she must not be angry with him! He had been so ill, he had loved her and Aimee, and if he could have recovered that gold for them, he would have done so!
And if Henri hadn’t been able to retrieve the gold, was she mad to think that she could do so now, when she was just a woman, and a somewhat pampered noblewoman, at that?
But she would not go to France alone. She hoped to go there with Jack Greystone, and he was certainly capable of achieving anything he set his mind to.
His image assailed her again, as he stood at his ship’s helm, the wind buffeting his shirt against his body, his hair streaming in it, as his cutter raced the wind.
Aimee stared solemnly at her. “I want Papa to be happy now.”
Evelyn quickly hugged her. Aimee had seen how bitter and dark her father had become over the past few years. Children could not be fooled. She had sensed his anguish, his pain and his anger. “Your papa is certainly at peace now, Aimee, because he is in heaven with angels,” she said softly. Aimee nodded solemnly. “Can he see us, Mama? From heaven?”
“I think he can.” She smiled. “And that is how he will always watch over us. Now, can you leave me while I get dressed? And then we can take le petit déjeuner together.”
And as Aimee nodded, smiling, Evelyn watched her leave the room. The moment her daughter was gone, she let Jack Greystone fill her thoughts. Her chest seemed to tighten again. And she most certainly knew why—but she hadn’t expected to have such a silly reaction to the mere idea of him, not after all of these years.
Carefully, she sorted through her memories.
Henri had slept through most of the Channel crossing, and Bet
te had read to Aimee until the sea had lulled her back to sleep. Evelyn had stood by the porthole, watching the sunrise as it turned the sea pink and gold, marveling at the experience of crossing the Channel on a swift sloop with black sails. But she had been impatient. She hadn’t wanted to remain in his cabin—while he was on deck.
And as soon as Aimee was asleep, with the sun barely in the sky, she had gone up on deck.
The sight of Jack Greystone standing at the helm of his ship was one she would never forget. She had watched him for a moment, noting his wide stance, his strong powerful build, as he braced against the wind. His hair had come loose, and it was whipped by the wind. Then he had turned and seen her.
Evelyn remembered his gaze being searing, even across the distance of the deck. However, she was probably imagining that. He had seemed to accept her presence, turning back to face the prow, and she had stood by the cabin, watching him command the vessel for a long time.
Eventually he had left the helm, crossing the deck to her. “There’s a ship on the horizon. We’re only an hour from Dover—you should go below.”
She had trembled, their gazes locked. “Are we being pursued?”
“I don’t know yet, and if we are, there is no way they can catch us before we reach land. However, we could encounter other vessels, this close to Britain. Go below, Lady LeClerc.”
It wasn’t a question. Silently, she had retreated to his cabin.
And there had been no chance to thank him when they had reached their berth, just south of London. Two of his sailors, in striped boatnecked tunics and scarves about their heads, had escorted her and her family to land in a small rowboat. Somehow he had arranged a wagon for them, in which they had been transported to the city. As they got into the vehicle, she had seen him in the distance, astride a black horse, watching them. She had wanted to thank him and she had wanted to wave; she hadn’t done either.
As she got dressed now, choosing her dove-gray satin, she was reflective. He had haunted her for several days, and perhaps even several weeks. She had even written him a letter, thanking him for his help. But she hadn’t known where to send it, and in the end, she had tucked it away.
