Nevertheless, Etienne’s expression did not alter as he magnanimously ignored her impertinence and walked toward her. “Where is your brother?”
“I wish I knew,” she retorted bluntly, “for he would not have allowed this to happen.”
Etienne halted. For years no one had had the effrontery to talk to him in such a manner, or use such a tone.
Then Gabriella Frechette made another mistake, for she obviously took the baron’s silence as an opportunity to continue. “Have you not forgotten something, such as the simple courtesy of a greeting or an expression of sympathy for my father’s demise?” she asked with a scornful politeness. “Or perhaps a thanks for how his untimely death has enriched you?”
For a brief instant, indignation raged through Etienne with the speed and fierceness of a summer’s grass fire. His emotional response was quickly quelled, however, and none of that indignation showed on his face. Instead he regarded her impartially with the coldly measuring stare that had made many a brave knight cower before him, a look that came from the knowledge that he had seen, done, experienced and survived more than most men had or ever would.
Gabriella Frechette did not flinch under his scrutiny. She did not start to weep. She did not even lower her eyelids. She simply stood there and faced him.
Etienne was not often confounded, and he did not like the sensation now. Either Gabriella Frechette was a stupid, foolish woman ignorant of the true meaning of her reduced status, or she had the spirit to maintain her personal dignity in spite of it.
Then, out of the corner of his eye, Etienne saw the mocking scorn of Philippe de Varenne’s smirk. Sir George de Gramercie, conspicuous in his customary scarlet, was simply and understandably studying the woman and finding her fascinating. Donald Bouchard, whom Etienne always thought of as “the monk,” was patiently waiting to see what would happen next; his friend, the stolid Seldon Vachon, was openly shocked. The castle inhabitants were unabashedly staring.
Suddenly he knew that this one lone woman represented a threat to his authority here. But Gabriella Frechette’s father had lost this estate by spending too freely on frivolities, and by raising a quarrelsome son who had argued and run away. He was not in the wrong to accept his reward. She was in the wrong to stay. She must be made to see that she was no longer the lady of the manor, just as he had to make clear to the rest of the servants that he would brook no disobedience or rebellion of any kind.
He considered his opponent, knowing not every weapon need be held in the hand. For a woman as proud as she, the best attack would surely be humiliation. Strangely and most unusually, he felt a twinge of regret that it must be so. But it was. He had fought and sacrificed too long to have his power corrupted in any way, by anyone.
“What are you doing here?” he asked with the dispassionate calm his enemies had come to fear.
The wary servants and tenants shifted uneasily and exchanged anxious whispers. Etienne noticed that Josephine, standing off to one side waiting patiently, looked at the young woman with sympathy in her lovely eyes. Philippe de Varenne no longer smiled, and Sir George was, for once in his life, looking grave. Donald and Seldon wisely went about their business.
“This is my home,” the late earl’s daughter answered.
“Not anymore,” he replied quietly. Very quietly.
There was a flash of grudging acknowledgment in her eyes, and a deep flush spread over her smooth cheeks. Etienne realized he had achieved a measure of triumph over her, yet did not feel overly triumphant. Well, it was never as enjoyable defeating a woman in a battle of words.
“My lord, if you will excuse me,” Sir George said with very slight reproach in his usually merry eyes, “I will assist your lady with her goods.”
“As you wish,” Etienne replied, telling himself George’s disapproval was nothing, and Josephine should see to making their bedchamber a comfortable haven. With a silent curtsy, Josephine took George’s arm and walked toward the large building that had to be the hall. Others in his retinue took their cue from them and sauntered away, all except Philippe de Varenne.
“Where is the bailiff?” Etienne demanded, momentarily ignoring Gabriella Frechette.
A moon-faced man of short and stocky stature burst out of the remaining crowd like an arrow from a bow, bustling toward the baron with a curious mixture of humility, self-importance and fear. “I am Robert Chalfront, my lord,” he said in a rather high-pitched voice. “I have been the bailiff here for ten years.”
Etienne glanced at Gabriella Frechette. She did not like this man, although she was trying not to show any emotion at all.
Nevertheless, Etienne had spent years gauging reactions, so he was quite certain that she hated the bailiff. Yet he had been in her father’s employ for ten years. That was most interesting, and possibly another tool for him to use. “You may remain bailiff, Chalfront,” the baron announced, his decision made in that instant. “Your continued presence should ease the transition to my rule.”
A subdued murmur ran through the crowd, whether of approval or not, Etienne did not trouble himself to consider.
Chalfront did not stifle the relieved sigh that broke from his lips as he bowed to the baron. “I will serve you well, my lord. I give you my word. The reeve is here, my lord, and the woodward and the—”
“I expect nothing less than my due, from you or any of my people,” Etienne replied. “As for the reeve and the others, I will see them another day. Tell me about the late earl’s son.”
Her brown eyes gleaming with defiance, Gabriella Frechette stepped forward. “Baron, is this not an inappropriate place to discuss such matters?”
Etienne regarded the young woman with the mildest of disdain. “I do not recall addressing you.”
She flushed, and after a moment’s hesitation, looked down at the ground.
Etienne immediately turned back to the bailiff. “Answer my question, Chalfront,” he commanded, his voice still calm and unruffled.
“My lord, the present Earl of Westborough is—”
“There is no longer an Earl of Westborough,” Etienne observed.
“Yes, well, um, my lord, Bryce Frechette is somewhere in Europe at the moment, we think, and—”
“Where in Europe?”
“Nobody knows, my lord. Naturally we tried to locate him when his father fell ill, but to no avail, I’m afraid”
Etienne listened impassively, although he had been informed of this before He wanted to hear how the local people interpreted the childish action of the son of their late lord. It was quite obvious his sister did not condemn him for it—more fool her! “He did not say where he planned to travel before he left?” Etienne asked, already knowing the answer.
Chalfront cleared his throat nervously and gave a sidelong glance at the blushing Gabriella.
“He, um, left home rather abruptly, my lord,” Chalfront said, “after a quarrel with his father. His father claimed he did not care where his son had gone. When it became clear that the earl’s illness was mortal, Lady Gabriella sent men to find him. Unfortunately, by the time they returned with no news of her brother, the earl was dead. Lady Gabriella could not afford to send the men again and, being wiser in her handling of money than her father, she did not.”
Gabriella Frechette stiffened, but said nothing.
“This Bryce Frechette … what do you think he would do, should he hear of his father’s demise?” Etienne inquired.
Chalfront looked down at his hands, then glanced at Gabriella Frechette. Her expression was murderous, and Chalfront’s tone changed to one of angry defiance, aimed not at the baron to whom he spoke, Etienne guessed, but at the woman beside him. “I cannot say, my lord. He was something of a wild youth, if truth be told, impetuous and spoiled. Some—nay, most—felt it was better that he had gone, although of course it is regrettable that any son should quarrel so with his father.”
“You felt it was better he was gone!” Gabriella Frechette cried impetuously, her hands drawing into fists at
her side. “You were glad that there was no one to watch over you except my sick father! No one who might see your dishonesty!”
“Dishonesty?” Chalfront squeaked, growing red in the face.
“My steward has examined the account rolls of Castle Frechette and found nothing amiss,” Etienne said, believing Gabriella Frechette’s accusation was made of haste and hate. He had every confidence that Jean Luc, his steward of many years, would have noticed had anything been amiss with the castle’s financial records. “And I should not have to remind you again that you will speak only when you have been addressed,” the baron said to the young woman. He spoke not loudly, but with unmistakable firmness
Rather impressively and contrary to the reaction he had anticipated, she quickly regained her self-control. Her eyes still flashed with angry fire and she did not look at the bailiff, but it was clear she was capable of subduing her emotions when it was necessary. A most rare quality in a woman, and one completely unexpected.
“Why are you not married?” he asked suddenly, trying to confound her. When she did not answer, he said, “Well?”
“Excuse me, my lord, I did not realize you were addressing me.”
She was playing a dangerous game, this pretty woman with the defiant eyes standing before him in wounded pride and unbowed majesty. But she would lose. He would win this first test of his authority, because he must always win. “Why are you not married?” he repeated, and no one who heard the stern tone of his voice would have dared refuse to answer.
“Because I did not wish to be,” Gabriella Frechette said, some of her defiance replaced by obvious fear.
“My lord, if I may say so, Lady Gabriella tended to her parents most devotedly,” Chalfront stuttered, clearly terrified. “She said she would entertain no suitors while she did her duty to them.”
“I did not ask you for your opinion, bailiff,” the baron noted dispassionately. The man looked about to collapse, but that was of no concern to Etienne. He spoke only to the young woman. “Apparently your father was more shortsighted than I had been told, since his lack of concern for your future has left you on my hands. Is there no other family to whom you could go?”
“No.”
“You will address me as ‘my lord’ or ‘Baron,”’ he said.
“No, my lord,” she replied with undeniable scorn in her dark brown eyes.
What kind of creature was this? The boldest knights in England were more easily dominated than this wench. “Who fostered you?” he demanded.
“No one, my lord. My parents wished to raise us.”
“If you are as devoted to God as you were to your parents, you should go to a convent.”
“Excuse me, my lord?” Chalfront interrupted again, his voice like the squeak of a mouse.
The baron turned his impartial gaze onto the bailiff. “What is it?”
Chalfront cleared his throat nervously. “Lady Gabriella is penniless, my lord. It would cost some money for her to be accepted into a convent, and there is nothing left.”
“There are debts still unpaid, too,” Baron DeGuerre noted.
Suddenly Gabriella realized he had known more of her family history than he had indicated.
Obviously his questions, embarrassingly posed in front of the assembled servants and tenants, had but one purpose: to reveal her penniless state to everyone and shame her in public. He was a cruel and heartless man, worse than even the rumors had led her to believe!
She must have been mad not to see immediately the unfeeling creature he was. How could she have been so impressed with his strength and commanding presence when he did not temper those qualities with mercy? How could she have thought there was a hint of vulnerability in his aloofness? How could she ever have found him attractive, unless she had felt the same fascination for him that Eve had experienced for the snake in the Garden of Eden?
They were engaged in a battle, and Gabriella would not admit defeat, especially when Baron DeGuerre took a step toward her and made what she supposed was his idea of a smile. “However, I can be generous.”
The look in his eyes assured her that his idea of generosity was not one she would share.
Chapter Two
The baron reached into the wide, plain brown leather belt about his waist and produced a leather purse.
Gabriella had very little doubt what he might expect in the way of recompense for his “generosity,” this vain, arrogant bully who had tried to humiliate her in the courtyard of her own home. What kind of woman did he think he was dealing with? One like Josephine de Chaney, who had abandoned her morals for the sake of money? “I want nothing from you, my lord,” she said contemptuously.
Not a muscle moved in the baron’s handsome, impassive face.
“You…you have been most munificent, my lord,” Chalfront said anxiously, reminding Gabriella of his odious presence. “Surely everyone understands that.”
“Except this person,” the baron replied, his gaze still fastened upon her. “Whether you accept my gift or not, you will leave this castle and the village at once.”
“No, I will not. This is my home and—”
“If I order you to go, you will go.” The baron said the words quietly, but the menace was unmistakable. Then he smiled again. “You may stay in the castle if the tenants’ feelings are so vital to you. As a servant.”
It took a mighty effort, but Gabriella straightened her shoulders and said, “The tenants will be most upset if you make such an order.”
“The tenants?” he asked with a very slight hint of incredulity. “What care I for the feelings of the tenants?”
At his arrogant words, the mood of the crowd changed from one of dread to defiance.
“If they wish to remain on my land, they would do well to try to please me, not the late earl’s daughter,” Baron DeGuerre said. Then he slowly surveyed them, his impartial, chilling scrutiny resting for a brief moment on every person there.
They all fell silent and averted their eyes from his, their insolence gone as if he had physically taken it from them. One by one they silently went out the gate. “I will speak with you later, Chalfront,” the baron said, and Chalfront, obviously dismissed, joined the departing crowd.
“Goodbye, Gabriella Frechette,” Baron DeGuerre said before he turned on his heel and strode toward the hall, clearly convinced by her stunned silence he had won this skirmish. The other knight who had remained smiled cruelly and followed his master into the hall like a dog on a lead.
Gabriella stood in the courtyard all alone, feeling more abandoned than she had by her father’s death and even Bryce’s absence.
If she stayed, she would have to be a maid, humbled before the servants and tenants she had known all her life, the very people she had been raised to believe she had a duty to protect.
Was it so humiliating to be a servant? Had her father not praised many times the labor of his people and the worth of his hirelings who had built this place? Was it worse than being driven from her home?
The Frechettes were not cowards. This was her family’s home and had been for generations; Baron DeGuerre could not force her to leave, however he tried. Besides, there was the very real chance that Bryce would return one day, and who could say what might happen if she were not there? She could not count on Baron DeGuerre or Robert Chalfront to tell her brother where she had gone.
Also, as the baron surely knew—to his discredit—it would be too dangerous for a woman with no money and no escort to travel. She would quickly find herself in a worse predicament, and at the mercy of villains even more loathsome than the baron.
If she remained, she might yet be able to help her people. Clearly the tenants would need any and all assistance she might render.
If she fled, that would allow the baron to think he had triumphed over her.
Therefore, there really was only one thing she could do. She must stay.
With the fierce pride in her family name to sustain her, Gabriella turned on her heel and marched to the
kitchen.
Despite what had passed in the courtyard, the room was abustle with preparations for the evening meal, a feast she herself had ordered and that would use the last of the stores her father had purchased. Both she and the cook had wanted this meal to make them proud, if for slightly different reasons. She had thought of her family’s honor; Guido wanted to retain his position by impressing his new master.
One of the maids spotted Gabriella and gasped, her mouth an “O” of surprise as she colored Then the others realized who was in their midst and there was an awkward pause before Guido came toward her with outstretched, floury hands.
“My lady!” he cried, his Italian accent strong because of his indignation. “This is a terrible business! The baron is no gentleman! Sit here.” He indicated a pile of bags filled with flour.
Gabnella smiled, sure again of their affection and that she had made the right decision. “No, Guido,” she said, “if I am to be a servant, I had better begin to work.”
The other servants exchanged shocked glances. “My lady!” James the baker began. “Your sainted mother—”
“Is mercifully in her grave,” Gabriella said, subduing a pang of sorrow. “The baron has given his ultimatum and I have made my choice, with no regrets. Now,” she continued briskly, “have the flowers been spread upon the tables yet?”
“No, my lady,” a girl named Alda replied quietly, nodding toward cut stems of late-blooming campion.
“Very well,” Gabriella said. “I will do that.” She picked up the flowers and headed toward the corridor leading to the great hall.
“Alda, you help her,” Guido ordered, and Gabriella heard the respect in his voice.
It made her feel…good. Before, they had always deferred to her, but never had she been so aware of their respect. This time, too, it was not because she was her parents’ daughter, but for herself alone.
As she waited for Alda to gather together more flowers and join her, Guido went back to peering into a bubbling pot, like an alchemist waiting for lead to turn to gold, and the spit boy turned an enormous boar as if the fate of the kingdom rested on the performance of his duty. James fussed over the exact shape of the sweetmeats, but paused to give her a genial smile.
The Baron's Quest Page 2
