A Lady's Past

by A. S. Fenichel

  “You there. Who is that?” Victor demanded.

  Her breathing was hard and erratic. The people he’d watched go to the guillotine had been scared like this. She feared for her life. As he remembered that sensation, anger rushed through Jacques like a blizzard. Whoever had caused this kind of terror in his Diana would pay. His lips against her ear, he whispered, “Trust me, and giggle.”

  How she managed it, he didn’t know, but her impassioned chortle sounded like bells to him.

  Jacques turned and kept her hidden behind his back. “Caron, what are you doing?”

  “Laurent! Je cherche une dame.”

  “You will have to find your own. This one is the daughter of an earl and I’ll not share her.”

  Victor’s thin lips disappeared. He stepped forward. “If I had the power here in London, I would finish what we started in Paris, you coward. Now you’re nothing but a fortune hunter. At least at the guillotine you would have died with honor. Madam, you would do better to find a frail Englishman you can control.”

  His temper near its limit, Jacques fought the urge to punch the ass in that narrow nose of his. The only thing keeping him in place was the need to conceal Diana. “You speak of honor, and all I saw was horrific injustice. There is nothing honorable about what is happening in France.”

  “I could kill you here and no one would care. You are less than nothing in England. I would do it if not forced to leave my sword at the door.”

  Jacques slipped his dagger from its hiding place inside his coat. The steel glinted in the torchlight. “You speak very bravely when you know I won’t allow the lady to be exposed to gossip.”

  “I would not fear a fop like you regardless of the situation. You know nothing of what I can do, Laurent.”

  His companion tugged his arm. “She’ll get away.”

  With a smile, Victor said, “Take my advice, madam. This one is pretty, but nothing but trouble.”

  The two rushed off, checking every bush and pillar until they returned to the house.

  Jacques turned back to Diana and pressed her against the stone. His anger at Victor had done nothing to quell his need for her. “What do you think Lady Chervil will do if you do not reappear inside?”

  After a stammer, she said, “Likely, she will assume I returned to Everton House, as I didn’t wish to come out to begin with.”

  “Good.” He grabbed her hand and stormed through the garden toward the side gate. He pressed her into a shadowy space. “Do not move. I will find you if you run, Diana, and I will be very vexed.” Rushing through the gate, he flagged down his driver, who immediately made his way through the clogged street.

  It was early, so most of the partygoers were still inside.

  Stepping back through the gate, he was relieved to find her still there. This time he didn’t grab, but offered his hand.

  She looked at it, then up at him. Fear, sorrow and maybe hope churned in those crystal eyes. She grasped his hand and followed him to the carriage. Once inside, she pulled her hand away. “Where are you taking me?”

  The warm imprint of her fingers stayed with him, sending a charge through him. “Somewhere to talk. When we get there, you will tell me what the hell is going on and you will not leave out a single detail. I do not know why I feel such strong ties to you, but I do, and I will not have men like Victor Caron threatening you.”

  “He’s a dangerous man. You shouldn’t have made him angry.”

  “He is pestilence, a plague upon the earth. But this is not the place for our talk.” Jacques removed his coat and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Are you cold or scared?”

  Looking directly into his eyes, she shrugged. “Does it matter?”

  He put his thumb under her chin. “To me, it matters quite a lot.” He ran his finger along her jaw, leaned down and kissed her.

  The way her body relaxed into his was a punch to his gut. The last time he’d wanted someone so thoroughly, he’d met with devastation and nearly lost his head. Madness was the only explanation for his current behavior.

  “Are you afraid of me, Diana?” he said against her lips.

  “No. I only long for what I can’t have.” Her fingers threaded his hair, and her tongue touched his. She was passion and desire wrapped up in the neatest bundle of womanhood. She let him caress her lips with his and moaned as he kissed her neck and ear.

  “Who says you cannot have this?”

  She pressed her hands to his chest, pushing him away.

  With no other choice, he complied and sat across from her. He adored the way her hair had tumbled from its carefully placed curls and now lay long and lush against her shoulders and chest.

  Crossing her arms over her chest, she watched him. “I have some questions, since you insist I answer yours when we arrive wherever it is we’re going.”

  “You may ask me anything.”

  “Are you a marrying kind of man, Jacques Laurent?” Her eyes narrowed.

  It was a fair question. “I have never thought myself to be the type of man to settle down and have a wife and children. I have always been content with my friends and lovers for company.”

  “Then am I to be your latest lover?” Her gaze softened, but sorrow crept in.

  “If I am honest, Diana, you do not strike me as the mistress type. That fact leaves me with some uncertainty.”

  Her expression softened, but her tone was hard. “At least I don’t look like a whore.”

  Unable to hide his surprise, his face grew hot. “I have no idea why you would say such a thing.”

  “Never mind. It isn’t significant to our conversation. If you don’t see me as your mistress of the week, why are you so intent on pursuing me?”

  He leaned back against the cushion. “Since we met, I have often wished I could have dropped you off at Everton House and not had you invade my thoughts night and day.”

  “You should have left me on the road, Jacques. It would have been better for both of us.” Shifting her gaze, she stared out into the street.

  “Well, I did not, and I could not, so that point is moot. The current problem for me is that I cannot abandon you to your fate, Diana.” He ached to reach across and give her comfort, to pull her into his lap and sooth her stiff spine until she relaxed against him.

  The carriage slowed, and she looked at him. “Why not?”

  It was a good question, and one for which he had no answer. “Stay here for a moment, please. I will make certain no one is at home.”

  “Where are we?”

  “Stay here.” He jumped down and sealed her in the carriage. Going around the side of the house, he entered through the servants’ door. The town house was likely empty, but he would make sure after he saw to Diana’s safety. They were in a less popular part of town, but not entirely without possible onlookers. The street was clear as he returned and assisted Diana from the carriage, up the steps, and inside. He bolted the door.

  “Whose home is this?”

  “It belongs to Middleton, but it is rarely in use. He bought it for his mother, but she spends most of her time in the country. Stay here a moment. I will light a candle and see if there is wood for a fire.” Managing to light three tapers on the candelabra in the parlor, he returned to the foyer.

  “Do you not have a home in London?”

  “If I brought you to a gentleman’s home in a popular neighborhood, your reputation would be compromised.”

  She followed him. “I have no reputation to damage. Is there no staff here?”

  “Since Her Grace will not return for several months, Middleton employs only a housekeeper and butler here. I will go down and inform them we are not to be disturbed.” Not wanting to leave her in the dark, he lit several more candles and knelt down at the hearth.

  “And then what, Jacques? You have me alone. You will tell the servants to mind their own
business. I am at your mercy. What will you do with me?” Only the hint of a tremor shook her voice.

  He’d never met anyone like her. Calm despite her fears and her predicament. Staying on his knees, he sat back and watched her sit on the divan. “I would think that if I was going to take liberties beyond what you allow, I would have done so the night at the inn. You will have to trust me.”

  “You have given me little choice.”

  He stacked the wood and lit some kindling underneath. “There are always choices, Diana. You might have exposed yourself in the temple and seen what Caron wanted with you. You could have run away at the garden gate and perhaps made your way back to Lady Chervil before I found you. You might have even tried asking me to take you directly back to Everton House. You chose none of those things, and you hardly strike me as a woman who does many things she doesn’t want.”

  In the firelight, her eyes glowed with passion. Perhaps it was anger, but it was not mild by any means.

  He longed to put that look into her eyes but without any question as to the reasons.

  “I am a woman who has done what was necessary to stay alive. You do not want me, Mr. Laurent. I am not who you think I am.”

  Leaning against the doorjamb, he almost laughed. “I honestly have no idea who you are, Diana. I know I desire you and, in a strange twist, I like you. I am going to inform the butler we are here, so he does not take a fire iron to us in the night. If you wish to leave, no one will stop you. I hope you will stay. But if you do, I must warn you, I have a great many questions I want answers to.”

  Not waiting to see if she reacted, he turned and went below stairs to the servants’ level.

  Chapter 6

  Diana studied his back as he left the parlor. Strong and sure of himself, he was everything a young man of wealth should be. Her only contribution to his life would be disaster. She should walk out the front door and never look back.

  The fire illuminated the simple but elegant room. Part of her wished he’d been scandalous and taken her to his home in London. She longed to know his tastes, where he lived and how he lived. Perhaps his parlor was done in the French style or maybe he was austere and kept things simple. She guessed it was the latter. Nothing about Jacques Laurent was fussy or pretentious.

  The dowager duchess of Middleton had lovely taste. Dark woods, light fabrics and just a hint of lace. It reminded her of her mother’s parlor before they were taken. It had been comfortable, unfussy, and filled with warmth.

  Pushing back her tears as she had for over a year, Diana straightened her back and waited. Let him hear her story. It would send him running, and she would not have to make that choice, at least.

  Sitting back, she kicked off her slippers and pulled her feet up under her. A fluffy blue pillow lay beside her, and she hugged it to her chest. If she could just find a place to hide until this nonsense with the French was over, perhaps she would be safe. Though, the things she knew… There were people who wouldn’t want her to talk about the things she’d seen.

  His sharp steps sounded on the hallway floor. “The butler is out, and the housekeeper insists on bringing us tea. It seemed useless to try to talk her out of it.”

  “It’s rather a waste to have this town house unused.” The fire began to warm the room, but nothing ever warmed her. The only time she’d been warm in years had been sleeping in Jacques’s arms. It made her foolishness difficult to regret.

  “Preston can afford the house, and it came in handy tonight.” He sat at the other end of the divan.

  His staring made her uncomfortable. “Ask your questions if you must.”

  On the arm of the divan, he lounged as if he’d not a care in the world. If he were English, he would sit straight and never stare. Everything about him screamed confidence, honor and directness. “Where were you born?”

  Surprise pulled a laugh from her. “That is what you want to know?”

  He leaned toward her. “I want to know everything, Diana. I thought we might start with where you came from and your real name.”

  Needing to steady her heartbeat, she took a deep breath. “What makes you think Diana is not my name?”

  It was maddening the way his half smile transformed him into someone dangerous and irresistible. “I believe Diana is your real name. It is St. Cloud that I doubt, as I’m sure you already know.”

  She leaned in too, bringing her face within a few inches of his. Heart racing and her brain blaring warnings, she knew she should leave, but he drew her in like nothing and no one else ever had. She whispered, “What you ask can get you killed, and I cannot be responsible for anyone else’s life.”

  Sorrow marred his smile and he ran his fingers along her jaw. The touch was innocent, but traveled through her like a lightning bolt. Before she’d been captured, his attention would have been fun and amusing. She might have giggled and found a way to avoid him. Mother would have been frustrated with her lack of interest in marriage. Father would have been happy to retain his assistant and confidante. They would have gone on happily.

  Yet the way he looked at her. Perhaps even in lighter times, she could not have resisted Jacques Laurent. Oh, but how she longed to meet him under different circumstances.

  Heavy footsteps in the hallway forced them both to sit up.

  “It’s so nice to have someone in the house. My lady hasn’t been here in nearly six months. Once His Grace was well married, she stopped visiting. I suppose she has nothing else to nag him about.” Mrs. Poppy chuckled as she waddled in and set the tea tray on the table in front of them. “I’ll just set this here.”

  Diana turned her head, looking at the fire.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Poppy. We can manage from here. We will not be staying long.” He spoke to the housekeeper as he did anyone of the ton. He seemed not to know that in England, servants were commanded and lords were pampered.

  “Take your time. If you need anything else, just ring for me.”

  As soon as she was gone, Jacques poured the tea and handed Diana a cup. “I am willing to take the risk, and you are certainly not responsible for me, Diana.”

  The tea was strong and hot in contrast to how she felt on the inside. The weariness that followed her between escapes, running and hiding, settled over her. “I’m so tired of lying. What I tell you, you must keep to yourself. If you mention me in passing, you’ll destroy me and possibly yourself. I am poison.” She took a deep breath. “My name is MacLeod. Diana MacLeod. My father was a Scot and my mother English. I was born in the borderlands.”

  “Your father was the inventor who went missing, Jacob MacLeod? They said he collaborated with the French on some kind of improvements to black powder.” His eyes narrowed and a tightness tugged at his tone.

  “Is that what your French friends say? Lies and half-truths. They wanted my father to improve the effectiveness and range of the Indian rockets.” It was impossible to keep her voice level. She needed him to hate her, to leave her, but that didn’t mean it was what she wanted.

  He lowered his voice. “I have come to England and brought my family here at great cost to avoid those ‘friends’ you speak of.”

  Closing her eyes, she took a few breaths. Her temper, emotions and exhaustion were catching up with her.

  The cushion shifted, and when she opened her eyes, he was closer, looking into her face as if he could read something there beyond her words. “Tell me what happened, from the beginning.”

  Unable to ignore the plea in his voice, she sighed. “Three years ago, just before Christmas, some men came to our home and put sacks over our heads. The servants tried to help, but they were silenced. I think Dickerson, our butler, was killed, but I can’t be sure.” She brushed a tear away. Never knowing what had happened to the servants had been so hard. They had been with her family her entire life.

  Jacques thumbed away another of her tears. “Where did they take you?�
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  “We were placed in the hold of a ship. They fed us barely enough to survive. Mother was sick most of the voyage. Father kept demanding to know what was happening, but the French crew would tell us nothing.

  “When we reached land again, they put the hoods back on our heads and carted us off to some dungeon where they made every attempt to force my father to work to improve their chances of winning the war. They had a great deal of information about the work of William Congreve, but their information was several years old. I suppose whoever they were using as a spy either was killed or reposted. My father was a good friend of Congreve’s. They shared experiments, but while Father had the expertise, he’d lost interest in rockets when his ideas were rejected by the English. Congreve continued his work and Father read his friend’s papers, but certainly had no desire to help the French. He refused…” A shiver ran up her spine. Every word brought her back to those horrifying days.

  Pulling her into his arms, Jacques leaned back and wrapped her up in his warmth. He ran his hands along her arms, infusing heat as he went. “What happened?”

  Images of that damp, dark dungeon blasted her memory. Pain and horror stiffened her muscles. “Mother wasn’t the fighting type. She sewed and knitted quite a lot. She enjoyed her garden and writing letters to old friends. Yet faced with these terrible men, she remained stoic. After six months, she’d completely stopped speaking. I would try to draw her out of her cocoon, but she just stared at nothing. At night, Father would hold her, and she cried. Even her weeping gave me comfort. The silence was unbearable. Though I think her retreat inward was her way of protecting herself.

  “Father fought more openly at first. He yelled in English and French. Occasionally, he ranted in Latin. After a while, he too gave up and just plodded along with the work they wanted him to do. He’d stand for hours over the workbench. One day he caused a small explosion.” The guards nearly had apoplexy when they ran in to the cell. Father hid his grin, only sharing it with her.