“Aye, and I intend to see that you pay dearly for the suffering I have endured over the past two days.” Nico narrowed his eyes. “Can you imagine being trapped in this suite with an outraged French woman?”
Raoul sucked in a sharp breath. “You have Francine here?”
“I had no choice,” his servant growled. “When I arrived in London, I discovered she was making plans to leave England. It seemed best to convince her to remain.”
“By kidnapping the poor woman?”
“Poor woman? I still have the bruises from where she beat me with a parasol.”
Raoul’s lips quirked. It was little wonder his valet was looking so harassed. Nico preferred to deal with his problems with a knife, not charm.
“Did she say why she was leaving?”
Moving toward a low walnut table set between two wing chairs, Nico grasped a silver flask and returned to Raoul. Taking a sip, he handed it off to Raoul.
“She was suspicious of Fredrick’s questions,” he said. “She harbors a belief that her life is in danger.”
Raoul took a thankful drink of the brandy, hoping it would ease the chill that had seeped to his bones.
“My father?”
“It must be.” Nico met his gaze steadily. “I had to lug her here kicking and screaming, but when I received word from you that Lord Merriot was on his way to London, she abruptly decided she was quite satisfied to remain hidden in these rooms.”
Raoul nodded, gratified that Nico had the sense to hide Francine before his father could get his revolting hands on her.
“Does she know that you work for me?”
Nico’s expression hardened. “I tried to assure her, but she claimed she would not believe me until she laid eyes on you.”
Raoul chuckled. “You should not look like a cutthroat.”
“I am a cutthroat.”
“True enough. Can I assume she refused to admit she was my nurse?”
“The nasty old bat has done nothing but hurl French insults at me.”
“Does she know you speak French?”
An evil glint entered Nico’s dark eyes. “Not yet.”
“Do not be too hard on her, mon ami,” Raoul urged. “She must be frightened out of her wits.”
Before Nico could respond, the sound of a door opening had both men turning to watch as a short, decidedly round woman with a puff of silver-streaked brown hair and hazel eyes stepped from the attached bedchamber and into the parlor.
Raoul discovered he was holding his breath as he studied the round face that was faintly wrinkled, and the eyes that held a gleam of wary intelligence.
It would be a lie to say that he recognized her, but there was a stir of familiarity that was more a feeling than logical conclusion.
Taking a timid step forward, the woman smoothed her hands down the satin of her elegant green gown.
“Raoul,” she said softly, the thick French accent abruptly bringing Raoul back to the soft lullabies sung in his ear as he fell asleep. “Is it truly you?”
Chapter 19
Struggling to find his breath, Raoul moved forward, careful to do nothing that might frighten the woman.
“Francine? You were my nurse?”
“Oui.” She pressed her hands to her ample bosom. “My beautiful boy. How I’ve longed to speak with you.”
Raoul gave a shake of his head, his numbing shock being replaced by the stark realization that this woman had been in London for all these years without once approaching him.
Mon Dieu. She must have known he would want to visit with her, if only to learn more of his mysterious mother.
“Your longing could not have been too overwhelming, considering that I have been living in London for years,” he said, unable to disguise the hint of bitterness in his voice. “You had only to walk a few blocks to speak with me.”
A hint of genuine sorrow darkened her eyes. “You cannot conceive how difficult it has been for me. I used to go to your every performance, and even stood before your home on more occasions than I wish to recall.” Her voice broke as she battled back her tears. “But I was too frightened to approach.”
His anger faded as swiftly as it had risen, replaced by a pained sense of confusion.
“Frightened of me?”
“Never you,” she breathed. “You will always be my sweet Raoul.”
“Then why?”
Francine paused, her eyes darting toward the door as if fearful that someone was about to barge in.
Nico had been right. The poor woman was terrified.
“Lord Merriot,” she at last whispered. “I could not risk him discovering that I revealed myself to you.”
“Why would my father be concerned whether or not my nurse speaks with me?”
Some indefinable expression rippled over her face before she nodded her head toward the sofa.
“Perhaps we should sit down.”
Raoul wrestled with his surge of impatience. Francine was obviously wary enough. The last thing he desired was pressing her to the point that she refused to reveal what she knew of his past.
“If you wish.”
Taking her arm, he gently led her toward the sofa, ensuring she was comfortably settled before taking a seat beside her.
The forgotten Nico moved across the room to tug open the door leading to the hotel corridor.
“I will leave the two of you to speak alone.”
Raoul nodded, sympathetic to his valet’s need for fresh air. Nico, a man of the streets, was never happy when he was confined for any length of time.
Waiting until Nico had exited the room and closed the door, Raoul returned his attention to the woman at his side, rather unnerved to find her regarding him with evident adoration.
“Do you remember me at all?” she demanded softly.
“Only your voice a little,” he confessed. “I am sorry.”
She waved her hands in a Gallic gesture. “C’est bien, it was a long time ago.”
“You came with me from France?”
“Oui. You were just a baby and already so beautiful. It broke your mother’s heart to put you in my arms.”
Raoul’s heart squeezed with pain. No young boy should ever be without his mother.
“So…you knew her?”
“Since she was very young.” A wistful expression touched her countenance. “My mother was a chambermaid for the family, and never have I encountered such a lovely, more sweet-tempered woman. You have her smile.”
“Her name.” Raoul licked his dry lips. “What was her name?”
“Miranda, the Comtesse de Suriant.”
It took a moment for him to realize why the name was so familiar.
“Comtesse?” He gave a shake of his head. “That makes no sense. I have seen her portrait.”
Francine widened her eyes with surprise. “Ah, then it was not destroyed?”
“No, but I look nothing like the woman in the painting.”
“As I said, you have her smile, but it is true you greatly resemble your father.”
He held up a hand, his thoughts in turmoil. “Lord Merriot…”
“Lord Merriot. That pig.” The woman made a sound of disgust. “That he claimed to be your father makes me ill.”
Raoul sucked in a sharp breath. “Claimed?”
“Mon enfant, you are the son of the Comte and Comtesse de Suriant.”
Surging to his feet, Raoul gazed down at the woman with a bewildered sense of disbelief.
“No,” he rasped.
“Oui, Raoul. You are their only child and heir.” She tilted her chin. “Which now makes you the Comte de Suriant.”
He shook his head even as the memory of the portrait flared with agonizing clarity through his mind.
The mother and father gazing with such love at the small child in the woman’s arms. Those parents would not have tossed aside their baby as if it were no more than a bit of rubbish.
Not for any reason.
“That is not possible,” he gritted.
“You have made a mistake.”
She shook her head, her expression one of absolute certainty. “I assure you, mon enfant, there is no mistake. Even if I had not been present when you were born, I would know you were Hugo’s son. As you have seen from the portrait, you are so much like him, it makes my heart ache to look at you.”
Raoul shoved his fingers through his hair, pacing toward the fireplace.
“This is insanity.”
“I know this must be difficult to accept.”
“Not difficult, bloody impossible,” he corrected, his voice harsh as he was forced to consider the realization that his entire life was a lie. “French aristocrats do not abandon their only heir to an Englishman so he can claim him as his bastard. It is absurd.”
He heard her soft gasp. “They never abandoned you.”
Spinning around, he met her reproachful gaze. “They deliberately condemned me to hell.”
“No, Raoul, they adored you. Which is why they would do anything to protect you.”
His harsh laugh echoed eerily through the room. “And they have done such a fine job of it, have they not?”
“Please listen to me.”
“Why should I?” he demanded. “You are speaking nothing but gibberish.”
Without warning, her mouth thinned and she stabbed a finger in his direction.
“You are being childish, Raoul,” she snapped. “Sit down and I will explain.”
Caught off guard by the sharp command, Raoul discovered himself moving to perch on the edge of the sofa, his expression wry.
“You at least have the manner of a nurse.”
She reached to lightly pat his cheek. “I have loved and cared for you since you entered this world, but I will not allow you to insult your parents. They gave their lives to keep you safe.”
Raoul flinched, feeling as if he had taken a blow.
The earth was shifting beneath his feet.
The man who he had always thought to be his father was suddenly not. His mother had not willingly discarded him. And far from being a bastard, he was a supposed heir to a French title.
Abruptly, however, nothing mattered except the icy fear that it was all too late.
“Their lives?” He was forced to halt and clear his throat. “Then they are dead?”
A vast sadness darkened the hazel eyes. “They were taken by the guillotine.”
“Sacrebleu.” He reached to take one of her hands, as much to seek comfort as to offer it. “Tell me what happened.”
She gave a tiny shake of her head. “It is difficult, mon enfant. Only those who lived through the revolution could understand the constant terror and uncertainty we endured.” Her eyes grew distant, a shiver shaking her body. “You woke in the morning never knowing if this was the day the mob would arrive at the door and carry you to the Tribunal. Neighbors turned against neighbor, willing to offer any lie, with the hopes of keeping their heads. Even family members were willing to betray one another.” She clutched his hand as if it were the only thing that kept her anchored to the present. “Such dark times.”
Raoul grimaced, suddenly feeling ashamed by the bitterness that had plagued his life. He had grown up alone and unloved until he had been placed in Dunnington’s care, but it could not compare to the tragedy of his parents.
“I am sorry for making you recall such a painful time,” he said, squeezing her fingers.
“You do not make me recall,” the woman denied, her hazel eyes haunted. “I never forget. Not ever. We all suffered, your parents most of all.”
His parents. It still was difficult to accept.
“Why?”
“They were well-known to be fully committed to the king. It was even hinted that they were involved in plotting to assist the Royal Family from France.”
“That could not have been popular among the Montagnards.”
“It was only the devotion of the local villagers, and of course your parents’ tenants and servants, that held the wolves at bay. Even then, the Comte and Comtesse realized it was only a matter of time.”
“Why did they not leave France?”
“By the time the full danger was known, it was too late.” Francine heaved a deep sigh. “The estate was constantly being watched, and any effort to slip away would have given Robespierre the excuse he desired to have them executed.”
Aching regret pierced his heart.
Not regret for having been denied his life as a legitimate aristocrat, or even for the grand inheritance that no doubt might have been his.
No, it was the regret of a young boy who had never been allowed to know his family.
“They were trapped,” he rasped.
“Oui, but they never lost hope that they could save you.”
He fought back the childish urge to cry. “How did they accomplish it? It could not have been easy.”
“Actually, it was remarkably simple in the end,” the nurse corrected. “Your parents let it be known they were traveling to Paris to visit your mother’s family who were already imprisoned, and after the usual fuss, a dozen carriages that included your parents and most of the servants left the estate. They took with them the armées révolutionnaires who were keeping watch on the house.”
It took a long moment before Raoul realized what must have occurred.
“They left me behind.”
Francine nodded. “Oui. Your mother carried the child of a tenant in her arms so no one would suspect, and left you in my care. They also left behind as much money as they could gather, along with the family jewels and a few of the most precious works of art.”
Raoul’s eyes widened, a sharp fury flooding through his body.
The money, the jewels, the works of art…
Lord Merriot’s mysterious inheritance.
“Mon Dieu, that bastard,” he gritted, his eyes narrowing as he imagined the pleasure of choking the life from the man. Obviously it was not enough to make Raoul’s existence a misery, he had stolen his inheritance as well. Belatedly recalling the woman at his side, Raoul gave a rueful shake of his head. “Forgive me, Francine. Please, continue with your story.”
“There is not much more to tell.” She shrugged. “A handful of servants and I waited a few days to make certain we were not being spied upon, and then we loaded a cart with what we could, and covered it with hay before heading for the coast. Your father had already arranged to have an English boat waiting for us south of Calais.”
Raoul was not fooled for a moment by her dismissive tone. Although he had never endured the terrors of a revolution, he could easily imagine the fear of a young woman who was not only forced to brave certain death if she was caught, but also obliged to leave her family and all she knew behind so she could flee to England to save a child that was not her own.
He quite literally owed her his life.
“You were extraordinarily brave,” he said, his voice thick with emotion.
A flustered blush touched her round cheeks. “Not brave. I assure you that I was terrified the entire journey.”
“And yet you continued on,” he pointed out gently. “That is the true measure of courage.”
She shook her head, her expression profoundly sad. “No, in the end, I failed. My courage was not enough when Lord Merriot demanded I leave you.”
“I understand your flight to England, but why did you take me to Merriots?” Raoul demanded, careful to keep any hint of recrimination from his voice.
“Your parents feared that even if I managed to escape with you, there would still be those who would hunt you down and attempt to kill you. They could not send you to family or those friends that might be known by the revolutionaries.”
“Understandable, I suppose, but that does not explain why they chose Lord Merriot.”
Francine grimaced. “They had met him briefly while he was in Paris, and he had written to your father more than once implying that he would be delighted to help in their fight against Robespierre.”
“You must be jesting.”
Raoul snorted in disgust. “Lord Merriot is a spineless coward. Why would he risk his neck for a cause that he had no stake in?”
“Because he understood that there was no danger to him so long as he was in England, and he hoped that his offers of friendship would allow your father to look more favorable on his constant requests for money.”
“Ah. Now it makes perfect sense.” Raoul had no difficulty imagining Lord Merriot dunning a near stranger for blunt, but he had to admit he was disappointed by the thought that the Comte de Suriant was foolish enough to be taken in. “But surely my father must have realized that by sending a cartload of wealth to a man known to be in desperate need of funds was like asking the fox to guard the chickens?”
Francine clicked her tongue. “Your parents never intended Lord Merriot to know of your inheritance. Before we left France, the Comte sent Lord Merriot a bank draft to pay for his assistance and to reveal that we would soon be in England. It was intended that the money and personal property would travel on to London and be kept hidden by your parents’ most loyal servants until we could return to France, or you came of age.”
Raoul was ridiculously relieved by the knowledge his parents had done their very best to keep him and his inheritance safe.
It surely proved just how much they loved him.
Unnerved by the realization of how desperately he needed to believe in his parents’ devotion, Raoul sternly focused his mind on the questions that still clamored to be answered.
“What happened?”
Francine’s eyes filled with tears. “Lord Merriot came in person to meet the boat, which we had not expected. He commanded that the cart be brought to Cheshire and that the other servants return to France. I was so desperate to see you safe that I did not argue. Forgive me.”
“It was not your fault, Francine,” he soothed, patting her hand. “You risked everything for me and I shall never forget your sacrifices.”
“I never dreamed that his lordship could harbor such evil,” Francine declared. “And in the beginning, he was quite kind. He took you in and allowed others to believe you were his bastard son. He gave you the name Charlebois, which prevented any speculation that you might have ties to French nobility. He even treated me as a welcomed guest.”
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