by Brenda Novak
She was better off with someone else.
But that thought brought him no comfort.
Gingerly, he pulled the jacket of his uniform over his injured arm and buttoned it. Regardless of what he could or could not have, he hoped to rid England, and Jeannette, of one worthless baron. But first he had a promise to keep.
* * *
After a day and a half of riding in the drizzling rain, Treynor arrived at his mother’s estate. He’d almost turned back time and again, except he owed his mother an apology. And he had decided while on the Superbe that if he ever had the chance, he would deliver it in person.
A stablehand spied him through the rain and came out to hold the reins while he dismounted, then led the horse away with a tip of his hat.
Treynor watched him before approaching the grand columns of the front entrance.
He rang the bell, wondering as he waited how his mother would receive him. Would she rebuff him? Mock his sudden change of heart? For how could she not think it sudden after all these years?
He wished he could explain what had happened to him the day Amelia gave birth. How watching her baby be born had touched something deep in his soul. How coming so close to death on the Superbe had taught him the value of life. How all the changes in him seemed to be wrapped up in loving Jeannette—
The door creaked open and his mother’s elderly butler peered out at him. “Master Treynor. It is a pleasure to see you, sir.”
“Thank you, Godfrey,” he said. “Is my mother in?”
“Indeed, sir. She told me you were here. She can see the drive from her study.”
The butler showed him inside a luxurious entry hall with mahogany paneling and marble-topped tables, tapestry-covered chairs, and an ancient mural of the Last Supper. “Lady Bedford asked me to show you upstairs. She has not been feeling well,” Godfrey announced, taking his wet coat and giving it to a silent maid. “Put that by the downstairs fire, Agnes,” he said.
With a quick, shy smile, she bobbed a curtsy and folded the coat over her arm before scurrying off.
Treynor followed Godfrey to the top of a grand staircase, then down a hall to a balcony overlooking a ballroom. Eventually, they came to a small sitting room where his mother stood gazing out the window.
“I am surprised to see you.” Once Godfrey had withdrawn and closed the door, she turned to face him. “I read of your daring naval battle in the paper today. There was even mention of a possible knighthood. I thought you would be glorying in your success, not traveling out in the cold to visit me.” She offered him a thin smile. “What brings you here?”
Not knowing where to begin, Treynor ignored the question. “Godfrey tells me you are not feeling well.”
She laughed softly. “It is nothing. Old age and bad weather, both of which sneak up on the unsuspecting.”
“It is warm enough in here.” He strode to the fireplace, collected the poker, and jabbed the fiery logs. They sparked and popped before falling into a pile of glowing embers. “Is your husband home?”
“He is visiting a lady friend in Exeter. It seems they have something to celebrate.”
“A lady friend?”
His mother shrugged. “May I offer you some tea?” Obviously, she was more interested in trying to unravel the riddle of his presence than in talking about the marquess.
“I would enjoy that. Thank you.” He saw her confusion as he set the poker aside, but she moved dutifully to the bellpull to summon a servant.
“Do you want to tell me about the capture of the Superbe?”
Treynor gave her a wry smile. “Mother, I didn’t come here in hopes of earning your approval, at least in the sense that used to be important to me.”
Her eyes widened. “Something has changed. What?”
Treynor cleared his throat. “I came to offer you an apology.”
She didn’t respond, but her eyes lingered on his face. While waiting for him to explain, she seemed to falter and took a seat on a rose-damask settee.
“Perhaps I have been unfair to you.” He ran a hand through his damp hair, feeling more self-conscious than he’d imagined.
“I beg your pardon?”
He soldiered on. “Since I became a man I have never given you a chance to know me, or to care for me. Nor have I opened my heart to you.” Unable to read his mother’s face, he swallowed hard. “I have been too busy holding grudges. I am sorry.”
His mother closed her eyes and covered her mouth with a hand that shook ever so slightly. After a moment, she stood, holding her head at a proud angle. “I have always admired you so. If I have done nothing in this life but give you birth, I have achieved one success.” She stopped talking long enough to control the quaver that had crept into her voice. “And although I bitterly regret some of the decisions I have made, I am grateful that I can call you my son.”
Treynor had never touched his mother before, had not been permitted more than a brief, formal kiss on the cheek. But for a moment he took her in his arms and held her close, feeling the fledgling tenderness inside him grow stronger, healthier.
“I love you, my son,” she murmured. “I have always loved you.”
Pulling back, she wiped away the tears that streamed unheeded down her cheeks. Then she crossed to a tall secretary and opened its doors.
After withdrawing something Treynor could, at first, not see, she turned and handed him a folded paper sealed with red wax. “This is for you.”
* * *
“Do you love him?” Jeannette’s mother sat across from her in the earl’s well-appointed drawing room, peering over the rim of the delicate china cup she held to her lips.
“Love whom?” Jeannette kept her eyes cast down. Her father and Lord Darby were out, and Henri had gone searching for a book upstairs in the library. She and her mother were alone for almost the first time since she had returned nearly two days ago.
“The lieutenant, of course.”
“I barely know him, Maman.”
“Nonsense.” Rose Marie set her cup on its saucer and scooted her chair back. “We found you in his room. Barely dressed.”
Jeannette felt herself blush. “I am sorry for that, Maman. I know it distresses you. I was …I was frightened and lonely, and the lieutenant had been good to me.”
“He is not even a first lieutenant, Jeannette. And England is at war. Truly, is that the sort of man you wish to become involved with? To think you once dazzled every young aristocrat in France.”
The balls and soirees she had attended, her ardent admirers, her pampered life—none of that mattered to her anymore. Her sentimental longing for the past had vanished. Were she given a chance to marry Lieutenant Treynor or reclaim what she had lost in France, she would marry the lieutenant without a backward glance.
But he hadn’t asked for her hand, so there was no use discussing the subject with Maman.
“Those days are gone. I wish I could get them back, for the sake of you and Papa and Henri, but I cannot.”
“Ah, Jeannette. Fate has conspired against us.”
“Indeed. We are now merely poor relations to an English earl. Should St. Ives let me go, I must settle for whatever new suitor Lord Darby can find.”
“He did not do so well the first time,” her mother said tartly.
Jeannette had to agree. “No, but he had no way of knowing St. Ives was a dishonorable fellow. A proper marriage to a man of means and good family would allow me to provide for you and Papa. And there is Henri to think about—he will need entrée to society and a gentleman’s education. I care about nothing beyond that.”
Rose Marie smiled patiently. “Your father and I are getting old and have lived our lives. Henri is young and can make his own way. Do not choose a husband for what he can do for us, my child. You made that mistake with St. Ives, no? We were fools to go against our better judgment. After what has happened, I shall never put you at risk again.”
“But you have so little here in England!”
“We have y
ou and Henri and each other. Is there anything more important? Our dearest friends were not so blessed when they went to the guillotine.”
Jeannette fell silent. Those final days in France had been terrifying. “Still,” she ventured after a moment, “if I make the right match, you will know no want in your old age—”
“And you may know no happiness. I have thought so since meeting Treynor at the King’s Arms.”
Jeannette’s eyes widened with surprise.
“Choose your lieutenant, Jeannette. That is what your heart tells you, is it not?”
“He—he is a bastard, Maman. Would that bother you?”
Rose Marie grimaced, but laughed. “Ma cherie, if you love him, you love him.”
“Thank you, Maman,” she began, “but …you need not worry about my marrying him. He does not …care for me in the same way.”
“He is risking his life for you.”
Jeannette winced at the reminder. She had been trying not to think about the coming duel. St. Ives walked with a cane. His movements revealed stiffness and pain in every joint. It was unthinkable that the baron dared challenge Treynor—unless he planned to ensure his own success. “I fear St. Ives will not fight fairly.”
Rose Marie considered her words. “He risks much if he does not. Surely the lieutenant will walk away unscathed. You need not worry.”
“I would have said the same thing not more than an hour ago.” Lord Darby had just entered the room with Jeannette’s father.
Jeannette looked up in surprise, then followed the earl with her eyes. “And now?”
“Your father and I learned some interesting news today.” Doffing his hat, he sank onto the sofa. “Evidently the baron likes to duel. He has been at it for years.”
“But the gout—”
“Is in his leg,” the earl finished.
Jeannette and her mother glanced at each other. “There must be some mistake—”
“I am afraid not.” With a sigh, Darby crossed one leg over the other. “He nearly killed a young upstart not too long ago. Boasted of it all over the gaming hells. And there are …rumors as to how he accomplished it.”
“He cheats?” Jeannette cried.
Darby’s eyebrows went up. “No one dares accuse such a powerful man, but …the rumors suggest that, yes.”
“Then we must warn the lieutenant!”
“I already sent my coachman to the King’s Arms to deliver the news. I felt it only fair that Treynor know what he might be up against.”
“What if that isn’t enough?” Jeannette asked.
“The rest resides in God’s hands,” her father said.
“No,” she argued. “We must go to the duel, make sure the baron fights fairly.”
He gave her a pointed glance. “We will do no such thing.”
* * *
That night, Jeannette tossed and turned as thoughts of the duel at dawn faded into nightmares of Treynor being killed. She told herself she worried for nothing. The lieutenant was well trained and capable. If he won, she would be free of the baron. But if he lost …it was too frightening to consider.
Burying her head beneath the pillow, she tried to block the memory of Darby’s haunting words.
He nearly killed a young upstart not too long ago. Boasted of it all over the gaming hells. And there are …rumors as to how he accomplished it….
He cheats?
No one dares accuse such a powerful man, but …the rumors suggest that, yes.
He would not fight fairly. She knew it. Would a mere warning be enough to save Treynor?
There was no way to be sure. She could do nothing to stop the duel. Treynor had given his word and would keep it, regardless.
Her father might have sufficient faith to leave it in the hands of God, but she could not sit back and do nothing. Leaving the warmth of her bed, Jeannette hurried down the corridor to her brother’s room. Henri was sleeping soundly, one arm thrown over his head. The sight of him looking so young again, so innocent, tugged at her heart, making her grateful to be reunited with her family.
But she dared not linger. Treynor needed her.
She put on a shirt and breeches from Henri’s wardrobe. Then she grabbed one of her brother’s coats and covered her head with a hat. She would need to move without notice. This time of night, a boy could certainly do so more easily than a young woman.
Cringing as the floor creaked beneath her feet, she made her way to her parents’ rooms. Since the revolutionaries had stormed their house in Paris, her father kept a gun close by.
She found his powder flask and bullet bag, which she shoved in her pocket. The gun was there, too. Securing it between Henri’s belt and the bare skin of her stomach, she gave her parents one last look, said a silent good-bye, and headed outside.
The soggy grass squished beneath her feet as the long barrel of her father’s pistol pressed against her hip and leg, extending almost to her knee. She had nearly achieved St. James’s Square, which was empty this time of night, when she heard a drunken voice singing an old ballad.
Someone was making their way home from the pubs.
Ash trees grew at the side of the road. Her breath misting in front of her, she ducked into them, using the fog for cover as well, while she waited for the stranger to stumble by. But it wasn’t easy to waste the time. She had at least two miles to walk to make the duel site before the baron or the lieutenant arrived.
As soon as the man was gone, she trudged on and on—endlessly, it seemed. Fortunately, Oxford Road was easy to find. So was Lambsdell and the old beech tree with its massive trunk and giant spread of branches.
But how would she watch unobserved? The fog would help cloak her, but she could not rely on that alone. And if she had to hide herself too far away, she would not be in a position to help if something went wrong….
As she circled the beech where the duel was to take place, the snap of a twig brought Jeannette to a halt. She tried to hear beyond the soft rush of her own breathing, listened for the sounds of some small animal, which it probably was, but heard …nothing. Silence reigned, broken only by the sudden trill of a bird.
She was just considering a thick stand of trees as her hiding place—she might be able to view the action despite the thick fog from there—when the ground began to vibrate.
Someone was coming. Moving deeper into the surrounding woods, she found an icy ditch and climbed into it.
Peering over the lip of her hiding place, she caught a glimpse of black through the branches and dense gray of a stormy-looking dawn: the baron’s carriage. It sped so confidently toward her, she began to feel more and more justified in her fear for Treynor’s safety.
“My, you are eager for this meeting with the lieutenant, monsieur,” she murmured to herself. “What, exactly, do you have planned?”
Chapter 23
The carriage pulled to a stop so close to her hiding place that Jeannette could almost reach out and touch the wheel. She wished she had managed to find a spot a little farther away—something that would give her more room to maneuver, if necessary. But it was too late. She couldn’t risk moving. Not now.
St. Ives’s shoes came into view as he descended from his carriage. Ralston Moore climbed out next. Jeannette recognized him as he walked in front and gazed down the road as if he thought he should be able to see Treynor coming toward them in spite of the fog. Evidently, the solicitor was playing the role of the baron’s second.
“Are you sure this is the place?” Moore rubbed his temples as though trying to relieve a headache.
The baron came to stand next to him. “He can’t miss the tree.”
“But …did you want to get under the branches or—”
“The road is fine. There isn’t a soul around.”
Moore kicked at the ice-hardened mud. “Is it truly needful to go through with this? I mean, certainly there must—”
“There is no other way! This is where Lieutenant Treynor draws his last breath. And I, for one, cannot wait.
”
“But—”
“Silence!” St. Ives glared at him, then tossed a glance at his liveried driver and lowered his voice. “Do you think I wanted any part of this? I have no choice. It is all Richard Manville’s fault. If not for him, I would have my wife with child and tucked safely away at Hawthorne House even now.”
Moore shook his head. “But death is so …permanent.”
“Always a good thing to keep in mind.”
“You are not threatening me….”
St. Ives lifted his head in an imperious manner. “Merely telling you that your concern is unwarranted. You need only watch—” he smiled “—and report what I told you.”
Moore hesitated, but ultimately acquiesced. “Yes, my lord.”
“Now.” The baron clapped his hands. “My pistols.”
With a sigh, Moore returned to the carriage. When Jeannette saw him next, he was holding a velvet box from which he took two ivory-handled guns. “Here they are.”
“And just in time.” St. Ives gestured toward the road. Two men approached on horseback, coming from the city. Jeannette couldn’t see them, but the clopping of hooves and the whinnying of their horses carried to her ears.
It had to be Treynor. She strained to catch a glimpse of him and the man with him, but the fog was too thick. It wasn’t until he was nearly upon them that she could make him out—and what a vision he made sitting astride his horse, his back straight, his shoulders square, the brass buttons of his uniform shining despite the dull, overcast sky. Bosun Hawker was his second. Although they appeared at ease, there was a predatory awareness about them that made Jeannette feel slightly reassured. Had they gotten the message?
There was no way to be sure….
Treynor’s eyes scanned the dark, foggy woods on either side of him, causing Jeannette to hunch down. “I see you have chosen a spot with plenty of cover,” he said as soon as they were close enough for him to speak. “Somehow, I thought you might.”
The baron didn’t respond to his sarcasm. “This need not take long.” He walked to meet the lieutenant, his steps jerky without the aid of his cane.
