“Am I bored? I don’t
think so. So there’s nothing for me to sully? Given that you are half French, I find that opinion extraordinarily naive. Where, Madame, is your touted French common sense? Surely you plan to wed again some time in the future. Let me assure you that the gentleman of your choice will be much concerned.”
“I have no intention of ever marrying again. Also, the thought of your poor mother being dragged here just because of some nonsensical rule is ridiculous. The fact is that I’m nothing more than a poor relation. No one cares about my reputation or lack of one.”
He wasn’t even looking at her, merely frowning at his face in the shine of his boots. “Very well,” he said. “In a month or so, after Edmund has driven you distracted, and you find yourself on the point of throttling him, you will pay a visit to London. You don’t have to marry any man there, I promise you.” “I won’t ever want to leave Chesleigh.” “We shall see,” he said. He drew his watch from his waistcoat pocket and consulted it. “It’s late. Perhaps your nonsensical opinions result from fatigue.”
“Just because I have no liking for your kind of life, your grace, you believe me stupid. Oh, dear. I’ve insulted you, haven’t I? I am sorry for it. Will you still let me remain as Edmund’s nanny?”
“Do you know,” he said after a moment, “I don’t believe I’ve ever met a woman like you before? You run smoothly along a certain road, then suddenly take a turn that leads to another road that goes in the opposite direction. You’re something of a puzzle. I have always been quite good at solving puzzles. Why don’t you say good night? No, don’t say any more. I’m giving you the chance to escape the drawing room without further offending your host.”
He took a step toward her, then paused. His long fingers stroked his chin. “Before you retire, let me inquire exactly what you believe my kind of life to be.”
She looked up at him full face. “I believe you to be a man of the world, a man who can have most anything he wishes with but a snap of his fingers, a man, in short, who, because of his wealth, rank, and personal attributes, can indulge himself in any pursuit he fancies.”
“In conclusion, not a very estimable man.” She said without hesitation, “I will always believe you an estimable man, your grace. I think you have a good deal of kindness. Indeed, how could I ever believe otherwise?” She turned and walked to the drawing room door. She paused, her hand on the doorknob, and said over her shoulder, “After all, have you not allowed a poor cousin-in-law to invade your stronghold?”
“Yet another different glimpse of you,” he said quietly. “I trust you won’t regret coming here.”
“I cannot regret it, your grace,” she said, and quickly left the room.
Her choice of words perplexed him. He went to his library. He decided an hour later, before he went to his bed, that he would postpone his return to London, at least for a week, until he was certain that she and Edmund rubbed along well together.
Chapter 8
It was raining hard; the building was old gray stone, an open gutter flowing in front of it. Inside, she could hear the echo of her boots on the stone floors. She’d never known such fear in her life. One of the two men shoved her through a door into a small, narrow room. There was only one high window in that room behind a young man who appeared so thin as to be gaunt. He looked like a monk in his cell. He was sitting behind a very old, scarred desk that held no papers, nothing, on its surface. The young man rose slowly, never looking away from her, his eyes never leaving her face. He was wearing a black, musty-looking wool coat and trousers.
He walked up to her and took her chin in his long, thin fingers, lifting her face. She tried to jerk away, but one of the men twisted her arm behind her, saying low in her ear, “You hold yourself still, Mademoiselle, or I’ll break this pretty wing.”
The fingers on her chin tightened, then suddenly released her. He motioned to a chair. “Sit down.”
She sat. There was no choice. She wanted to ask where her father was, but the words were buried too deep in her throat. Why had they brought her and her father here? To Paris? She was so afraid, the words were stuck in her throat. The man said, “My name is Houchard. I need you. You will do exactly as I tell you, or I will kill your father.”
Where were the words to scream at him, to demand why he was doing this, whatever this was?
“I’m relieved that you’re well enough looking. The duke only likes beautiful women. If you must, you will bed him.”
She leapt from the stingy chair and screamed, “What are you talking about? What duke? I know no duke. What have you done with my father?”
“Oh, you know the duke. Soon you will know him even better. You’re half English. I find it amusing that you will aid me in my cause. You bloody English, you are always so certain that you and only you are right. I wonder if I should bed you first to see that you’ll know how to properly seduce the duke, if, naturally, the need arises.” He turned to one of the men. “Did you strip her? Examine her?”
The man shook his head. “The little chick was too frightened and her father too incensed. I didn’t want to have to kill him. Do you want me to strip her now?” Houchard looked at her, slowly shaking his head.
He threw back his head and laughed and laughed. Then, with no warning, he started singing in Latin, in a deep monotone, as would a priest intoning a benediction to the people.
The two men standing behind her began to sing as well, their voices high as young boys’, pure and light, their Latin beautiful and smooth and resonating in that monks’ cell of a room. Evangeline jerked awake, her heart pounding, sweat heavy on her face, breathing so hard she thought she’d choke.
A dream.
It had been nothing but a dream. But most of it had happened. She wondered why she’d dreamed that Houchard and his henchmen had sung in Latin? She hadn’t understood what they were singing, and perhaps that was the point. She had no idea what would happen now.
A dream.
God, it had been so very real. She shook away the last remnants and pushed back the covers. She could deal with this. If she didn’t, her father would die. She’d won the major concession, thank God. The duke, for the moment, had accepted her, had welcomed her as a member of the Chesleigh household. She would be Lord Edmund’s nanny, if Edmund accepted her. Houchard’s drama was set irrevocably into motion, and there was nothing she could do to prevent his characters, herself included, from playing out their roles.
The morning sun was shining brilliantly through her bedchamber windows. There was no fire lit, and indeed there was no need for one. It was so warm one would believe it was summer. This had happened several times during her growing-up years in England. There would be torrential rains, freezing weather, snowstorms, then several days so vivid and bright, so warm, that one dreamed of summer, lush and hot and so very green. She looked out at the naked-branched elm trees. Well, not really summer.
Then, naturally, winter would return with a vengeance. There was so much she had to do, the most important thing to make friends with the duke’s son. If he took an instant dislike to her, she was ruined. She remembered saying this to Houchard. He’d merely shaken his finger at her, saying, “If that happens, my dear, I suggest you prepare yourself for your father’s funeral. The problem will be, of course, that you will never find his body.” She’d believed him then. She still believed him.