by Brenda Joyce
Jack was mildly curious and he smiled, puffing on the cigar. “Feel free.”
Robert exhaled a large cloud of smoke. “You have not yet met my niece, Evelyn D’Orsay. She has been recently widowed and lives with her young child on the Bodmin Moor.”
His tension was immediate. “Actually, I have met her.” And he suspected what would come next—Evelyn had lobbied her uncle to speak up on her behalf.
Robert seemed surprised, and then relieved. “It seems that her husband, who was a friend of mine, left her in rather dire straits. I cannot understand it, but of course, they are émigrés, so they left a great deal behind when they fled France. Still, she has a child to raise.” He appeared disapproving.
Jack couldn’t help it—he disapproved, too—and Robert had just echoed his very own thoughts.
“Evelyn believes that her husband has left her some valuables in France at their country home. She is determined to retrieve them—and she has asked me about you.”
Jack smiled stiffly. Was his heart racing? “She has asked a great many Cornishmen about me, Robert. She has been trekking about the countryside, making inquiries about me, and indicating that she wishes to speak with me. A dozen cronies have alerted me to the fact.”
“She believes that you could retrieve those heirlooms, Jack,” Faraday said. And he lifted a thick gray brow.
Jack grimaced. “Robert, what she wishes is madness.”
“She is grieving, and I cannot blame her if she is not thinking clearly. She was very fond of D’Orsay.”
He almost choked on the sip of brandy he was taking. Had she loved that old man? Was it even possible? And why the hell should he care? He had assumed it to be an arranged and loveless marriage. “He was old enough to be her father.”
“Yes, he was, and maybe that was the attraction—her own father was a rogue, as irresponsible as they come. And he abandoned her. She was left in our care when she was five years old. Why wouldn’t Evelyn fall for Henri? He was everything my brother was not—solid, dependable and respectable—and he offered her a wonderful life. Besides, he fell in love with her at first sight.” Robert smiled. “I know. I was there…. I witnessed it myself.”
Jack felt like pointing out that it would be easy to fall in love with a beauty like Evelyn; she, undoubtedly, had fallen in love with D’Orsay’s fortune. But Jack had heard Robert’s every word—he hadn’t realized her father had abandoned her. As it turned out, they actually had something in common.
“You are glowering,” Robert said.
“Well, that is because I agree with you—D’Orsay should have provided for his wife and daughter.” Jack hadn’t thought about his own rakehell father in years—he could not recall what John Greystone had even looked like—but he thought about him now. His father had chosen the game halls of Paris and Antwerp over his own family. His mother had never been the same after he left, and a few years later she had begun her retreat from reality. To this day, she was often addled and incoherent, and entirely incognizant of her surroundings. She now lived with Amelia and Grenville.
“But he did provide for them, although not in a usual way. There is a small fortune in that chest,” Robert said.
Jack took a puff of his cheroot. “She did not seem to know its value,” he finally said.
“A chest filled with gold is either a small fortune or a large one. Did you agree to retrieve the chest for her?”
He almost coughed on the tobacco now, hearing for the first time that the chest was filled with gold rather than family heirlooms. As he attempted to compose himself, a light knock sounded on the door and Enid poked her head in. “Hello, Mr. Greystone. I heard you were here. I do not wish to interrupt. I merely wanted to greet you and see if you had had supper.”
Jack was already on his feet, and bowing over her hand. “Lady Faraday, forgive my poor manners. But thank you for asking, and I have already dined.”
She lifted a disapproving eyebrow at Robert, perhaps for all the smoke in the room. “You should open a window,” she said.
Robert ignored that. “We were actually discussing Evelyn D’Orsay,” he said. “Have you called on her yet?”
Enid stared, a bit coolly. “I have been intending to, all week. I will do so as soon as I can. Why on earth would you and Mr. Greystone discuss Evelyn?”
“She is recently widowed, and she is in a bad way—Jack agrees with me.”
Enid smiled at Jack. “I did not realize that you were acquainted with Evelyn.”
Jack smiled. “I have recently made her acquaintance.” But he was still stunned by Robert’s revelation. So she was chasing a pot of gold? He should have known! And wouldn’t that solve a great deal of her problems? Not that it was his affair.
Enid seemed bewildered and Robert said, “She is in a difficult circumstance, and I was hoping Jack could be of help.”
“Well, she has certainly come down in the world,” Enid remarked. “But I would be careful if I were you. She is a fantastic coquette. Most gentlemen are taken with her, and leap to do her bidding—hoping to receive her favors.”
“Enid,” Robert reproved.
“Rest assured, I am not in need of any favors.” Jack smiled, speaking mildly, but he did not care for Enid’s condescension. Of course, he recalled how desperately he had wished to bed Evelyn the other night.
“Good.” Enid approved. “Besides, after having married D’Orsay, I am sure she will seek to remarry some kind of title, with a fortune, of course. I imagine she will be married before the year is out. Her next husband will certainly restore her finances.”
“You are probably right,” Jack said, remaining outwardly indifferent. But that was what widows like Evelyn D’Orsay did. It would not be unusual for her to remarry as soon as was socially acceptable. And then she would not need him to run to France to retrieve a chest of gold. He should, in fact, be relieved.
“Trevelyan was quite fond of her when they were children,” Robert remarked. “And he is now a widower.”
“He is a great catch for most of us, but he will only inherit the title of a baron, dear, when Lord Trevelyan passes. I doubt Evelyn would marry so low.”
Jack stared at them both. Having been friends with Ed Trevelyan since childhood, he knew Trev had been a rogue before his marriage, with an eye for beautiful women, and his family had been involved in smuggling for generations. If he wished, he could captain his own ship and he had the means to hire any smuggler he chose.
“I happen to recall that Evelyn also liked Trevelyan,” Robert remarked.
Enid scowled. “Really? And what about Annabelle? She is about to become a spinster—she is twenty-two.”
Robert sighed while Jack absorbed this news—that Evelyn had returned Trev’s interest. Before he could ask when this old romance had occurred, Enid faced him. “So how can you possibly help Evelyn?”
“The countess is considering making an attempt to retrieve some family valuables that were left behind in France,” Jack said, knowing better than to reveal full details.
Enid started. “That sounds dangerous, even for you. Are you going to help her?”
“I haven’t thought about it,” he lied.
“Well, she is clever and beautiful, and if she wishes for you to help her, I am sure you will be doing so, in no time whatsoever,” Enid said rather disparagingly.
Jack simply smiled. Enid Faraday thoroughly disliked Evelyn, and he was somewhat affronted by her hostility. Of course, a beautiful woman like Evelyn would naturally use her allure to gain friends and allies, and he could not really fault her for that. But he hardly thought her a clever, scheming seductress—as Enid apparently did.
“Be careful where she is concerned,” Enid said before she left.
Faraday clasped his shoulder. “Ignore her. She has always felt threatened by Evelyn, as if Lucille had to compete with her, which she did not. Women!” He sighed. “I hope there is a fortune in that chest. She has had a difficult life, and now she has a daughter to raise.”
Jack
ground out his cigar. “I doubt we will ever learn how much is in that chest. Enid is correct. She will remarry sooner, not later, and she will forget all about the pot of gold D’Orsay left for her in France.” Or she could beseech her old flame Trevelyan.
Robert stared in disbelief. “You will not help her?”
“It is far too dangerous.”
Robert was incredulous. “Everything you do is dangerous. You thrive on danger! And you adore beautiful women....”
Jack felt very much like a hypocrite. “It is too dangerous,” he repeated firmly.
“I am stunned,” Robert said. “I was certain you would jump at the chance to throw yourself into such a fray, to outrace our navy, to elude the French army, to recover a chest of gold for a woman like Evelyn.”
Jack folded his arms and stared. “Are you asking me to reconsider?”
Robert was blunt. “Yes, I am.”
Jack kept his expression impassive, but inwardly, he felt like a small boy in the classroom, sitting in the corner, squirming.
“We go back eight years—and it has been a good eight years, for us both,” Robert said.
“So I am in your debt?” Jack asked slowly. He was stiff with tension now. “Or is that a threat?”
“We are friends,” Robert said flatly. “I would never threaten you. Nor would I suggest that you owe me anything, as we have both prospered through our association. No. I am asking you as a friend to help her, Jack. I am asking you because I know you are a gentleman, and a man of honor.”
“Touché,” Jack said, scowling.
CHAPTER FIVE
EVELYN HANDED HER coat to a liveried servant, glancing around at the vast entry hall she had just been let into. The floors were marble, the ceilings high, with a huge crystal chandelier overhead. Red velvet chairs lined the circular chamber. Works of art—clearly masterpieces—hung on the walls.
It was an imposing house, and she was not surprised. Since deciding to come to London and present her letter for Jack Greystone directly to his sister, Evelyn had familiarized herself a bit with the Paget family. Dominic Paget was a well-known figure in the ton. The son of a French noblewoman, he was an outspoken Tory, both vehemently opposed to the French revolution and as passionately supportive of Britain’s war against the new French republic. Considered one of the wealthiest peers in the land, he moved in society’s highest circles—and was close to Pitt and the governing elites. Although opinionated, his reputation was outstanding—he was considered a patriot and a man of honor.
There was even a rumor floating about that he had been a part of the La Vendée uprising in France. There were whispers that he had been one of Pitt’s secret agents.
Evelyn had dismissed that gossip. But interestingly, Paget had married far beneath him. For Evelyn had also investigated the Greystone family. While the Greystones could claim an ancient lineage that went back to the days of the Conquest—their ancestors had been Norman aristocrats—they had been seriously impoverished for many generations. The estate relied exclusively upon a mine and a quarry for its subsistence. The manor, located close to Land’s End in Cornwall on its most southern tip, had been closed up for several years. The Greystone patriarch had lost his title a century or so ago when on the wrong side of a rebellion.
Paget could have married a Hapsburg princess; he married Julianne Greystone instead.
It sounded rather romantic, but Evelyn was too experienced to believe that it had been a love match. Surely, a great many factors had gone into Dominic Paget’s choice of a bride, even if she had heard some strange gossip about her, as well—that she was an eccentric, and that she was somewhat radical. Lady Paget was rumored to have once been imprisoned in the Tower—for her Jacobin sympathies! Since the Earl of Bedford was a Tory, close to Pitt and attached to the war effort, Evelyn doubted very much that he had married a radical of any kind.
As Evelyn waited to be received, her curiosity was piqued. No matter how skeptical she was of the gossip she had heard, she was intrigued, and very curious to meet Julianne Paget.
But she was also terribly nervous, as she must convince Lady Paget to forward her letter to her brother, and Evelyn had no clue as to how the countess would be inclined.
Another manservant appeared at the hall’s far end, wearing the identical royal-blue-and-gold livery as the doorman, and the same powdered wig. His gray brows lifted rather imperiously as he approached. Evelyn quickly smiled, knowing that she did not look as destitute as she truly was—appearances now meant everything! She was clad in her finest black velvet gown, and she was wearing both her pearls and her diamond engagement ring. She had removed her gloves so her ring would be obvious, and now she held out her calling card. “Sir, I was hoping to call upon the Countess of Bedford, if she is in.”
His brows shot up impossibly higher.
Evelyn knew she was not following the proper etiquette, which required that she leave her card, and return only when her call had been accepted. She continued to smile, and said, “I have spent the past two days and nights speeding across the country in coaches, and the matter I wish to broach is a fairly urgent one. I have yet to even acquire a hotel room.” That was the truth. She was, in fact, exhausted from the madcap trip, just as she was exhausted from the events of the past month.
The butler placed her card on his tray and glanced at it. He looked up quickly, bowing. “Countess, I will tell Lady Paget that you have just arrived in town.” His tone was vastly respectful.
Evelyn thanked him, her heart leaping with exultation—he could have sent her away. She had felt certain that Lady Paget would see her sooner or later, but she did not want to linger in town, far from Aimee, with every passing day adding to her hotel bill and depleting her small purse.
She followed the butler into a stunning gold salon with a dozen seating arrangements, and sat down to wait. Her heart continued to thunder. Sitting seemed impossible, so Evelyn stood and paced.
The letter she had written Greystone was tucked into her purse.
Dear Mr. Greystone,
My dear sir, I am writing to you to apologize. But I also must make a confession. Four years ago, you helped me, my husband, my daughter and our three servants flee France. I realize you do not remember the event, but I also hid my true identity from you, and wore a hood as a disguise. I was and remain vastly indebted to you, for saving the lives of my husband, my daughter and myself.
I will always be in your debt and I will never forget what you did for me and my family. The last thing I ever wished to do was impose upon you. Too late, I realize now that my having asked you for your aid, yet again, was a vast and reckless imposition.
And it put you in the position of having to refuse me. I understand now that my proposition was beyond folly, it was sheer madness. For you were very right. Returning to France now is far too dangerous for any one man. Of course you had to refuse.
Since then, I have had a great deal of time to reconsider. No family heirlooms are worth risking your life. I regret the misunderstanding we have had. I also beg you to accept this apology.
I want you to know that you are always welcome at my home. If I can ever entertain you in the future, please, do not hesitate. It is the least I can do for you, after all you have done for my family.
Sincerely,
Lady Evelyn, the Countess D’Orsay
Evelyn trembled, recalling her every word perfectly. She had thoroughly disliked writing such a dishonest letter, even if she had little choice—because Aimee’s future was at stake. Of course, she would always be in his debt, and that much was very true. Still, she had yet to fully recover from their encounter. Not only did she remain hurt, she could not dismiss it.
How would Greystone react when he finally read her letter? Would he believe what she had written? Would he call on her at Roselynd, as Laurent thought? She had come to London with the gold in mind, but now, she genuinely wished to end the strife that had arisen between them. Maybe then, Greystone would cease to haunt her.
> She heard soft, rapid footsteps—the clicking of feminine heels—and she tensed, turning.
A tall, slender red-haired woman in emerald-green satin and a matching headdress paused on the threshold of the salon. She was very beautiful, and close to Evelyn in age. Although her hair was curled beneath the headdress, she wore it loose to her waist, without a wig. As their gazes met, she smiled. “Hello, Countess D’Orsay. I am Lady Julianne Paget.” Her expression was curious, not imperious, and her tone was rather friendly.
Evelyn was instantly relieved, as she was accustomed to pretensions. “Thank you for seeing me, Lady Paget. I realize this is rather improper, but I have decided to take my chances.” She smiled warmly, hoping her anxiety did not show.
Julianne Paget came into the room, smiling in return. “I am not wedded to propriety, and anyone who knows me would say so,” she said, laughing.
Evelyn wondered what was so amusing, as she recalled the odd gossip about Lady Paget being rather eccentric and having been a prisoner in the Tower.
Lady Paget said, “I have ordered tea for us. You are not French.”
“No, but my husband was a Frenchman from Le Loire. He is deceased,” she added.
“I am sorry,” Julianne Paget exclaimed softly.
Evelyn smiled. “Thank you. He was a wonderful father, and a good husband. But he was a great deal older than myself, and he was ill for many years. His death was not unexpected. But I will always miss him.” She hesitated. “I believe he was a friend of the Dowager Countess, your mother-in-law.”
“That may very well be,” Julianne Paget said. “Please, do sit.” She sat down on one long gold sofa, and Evelyn sat down, as well. “The Dowager Countess was from Le Loire, and my husband had an ancestral home there.” She sobered. “Of course, it is charred and ruined now.”
