Standing at the top of the stairs at last, she found herself unsure. She would have to make a choice—right or left—and one guess was as good as the next. Then she saw a thin, brown-haired girl in a smart, starched gray gown and white apron and cap step onto the landing from the nearly invisible servants' staircase, pressed gentlemen's shirts in hand, who turned toward the north hallway and disappeared around the corner.
She was heading to the family's private quarters, Natalie speculated, which meant the library was probably to the left. Not necessarily, but a decent guess.
Natalie turned the corner, chancing one last glance behind and down the stairs to make sure she wasn't being followed, and fairly tiptoed through the deserted hallway, feeling a bit guilty for trespassing on private ground. In her mind, however, her excuse was valid.
Unexpectedly she heard voices, rich and deep, though cushioned enough from thick paneled walls to hush the words. She stopped in the center of the corridor, intending only to listen long enough to decide if Jonathan's voice was one of them, then the intrigue enveloped her, and she pressed her ear against the door.
* * *
Jonathan heard the voices, too, as he stood in total darkness, coming from the count's library in the room behind the wall safe.
It took him by surprise, as all was silent until the muted conversation started. He waited several moments, trying to distinguish words and phrases or if the discussion was of great importance, but ultimately he couldn't understand anything from his location. More to the point, if he couldn't learn anything by eavesdropping, there was no reason to risk being found in the count's darkened study. He would be better caught in the hallway if at all.
In four strides he was once again at the door. Then he heard rustling from the library—a clunk, a raised voice.
It was possible they were leaving, and if true he would be stuck in the study until they were gone. With any luck they would head toward the ballroom and not his direction, but he had to be prepared for the possibility of being discovered.
Calmly, his quick mind shifting into alert as he prepared a plausible scenario for his being there when there really wasn't one, he reached for the knob, opened the door a crack, and peered down the hallway. What he saw both startled and unnerved him.
Natalie was there, hips swaying in her full-skirted ball gown as she walked swiftly toward the main landing. Just as she rounded the corner, the count emerged from the library followed by two men, one average in height, the other incredibly tall and ungainly. All French nobles; all with common interest in deposing the current king of France.
What the hell was she doing there? Listening—or looking for him? It was possible she knew the French language to some degree, as most English ladies were so taught, but it was unlikely that she spoke it fluently or she would have used a few words in his presence while they were in France. Most chilling of all, he realized in that instant, was the consideration that she might have been observed in the shadows or rounding the corner by the count himself. In that case, knowledge on her part was irrelevant. A very powerful and wealthy French count, if he had been discussing national security issues, and by all accounts they were discussing precisely that, would have to assume she knew something and would be inclined to take action.
Jonathan sucked in a breath, standing motionless, door opened to a crack only the width of his eye, as the count glanced in his direction. Then with haste the three men turned and strode in the direction of the ballroom.
He waited nearly five minutes, which dragged immeasurably slowly. But he couldn't chance one of the Frenchmen noticing him following. Finally time grew critical, and he had to move.
Smoothly he opened the door and stepped into the deserted corridor. With haste, and without observing a soul, he walked to the center landing, down the stairs, and into the ballroom. Already the noise level had risen as the area had become more crowded. It took him another five minutes to find Natalie, standing with Madeleine near one of the long windows, now opened to cool the room with a more imagined than obvious breeze, her side to him as she fanned herself while listening to an enormous woman, pink-cheeked and perspiring, bellowing with laughter at herself and a comment she was making.
Then slowly Natalie turned to him, as if feeling his presence more than realizing it, a delicate, almost indistinguishable smile parting her lips when she looked into his eyes.
Jonathan felt ridiculously like an adolescent, his heartbeat increasing, mouth drying from nothing more than staring at her beautiful face softening for him alone. He saw neither fear nor anxiousness in her gaze, but rather yielding warmth and questions she was aching to ask. Whatever she'd heard in the count's private library, if anything at all, either wasn't enough to concern her—or she was hiding it flawlessly.
Clasping his hands behind his back, he sauntered up to the ladies, who stopped talking as he approached. "Walk in the garden with me, Natalie?"
Madeleine looked at him. "Oh, yes, go," she insisted.
"But the count's daughter is expected now. It would be rude," Natalie argued without conviction.
Jonathan leaned toward her and lowered his voice. "What better time could there be? Everyone will be in here."
He watched her hesitate, eyes shifting over the crowd, weighing the possibility of learning something from him that perhaps he couldn't divulge in the presence of others. Madeleine had turned her attention to the large woman again, both in discussion once more, this time in French, which meant they'd already taken note of their impending absence. He took Natalie's arm and, without another word, led her by the elbow into the foyer, out the front doors, and into the garden.
They weren't alone, as yet. Three or four other couples strolled along the brick path that meandered through the grounds, most arm in arm, communing in muted tones, laughing softly. The scent of flowers and freshly cut grass filled the calm night air. Lamplight brightened the walkway in hues of dimmed yellow; music and conversation from the ballroom filtered through the partially opened windows to mix with the buzzing insects of nighttime and the far distant sound of the sea.
The warm, serene atmosphere enveloped them both, as Jonathan laced his arm through Natalie's, drawing her closer without confrontation on her part. She hadn't spoken since they'd walked outside, but she wasn't rushed or bothered, and in fact seemed quite comfortable alone with him in the somewhat intimate atmosphere.
"Enjoying yourself?" he asked politely.
"Enough. It's beautiful here." She glanced at him sideways. "And you?"
He watched her face, half in shadows, half illuminated by the golden light of the house behind them. She was smiling, though her eyes pierced his for enlightenment. "I suppose. I especially like that you're here with me."
It was the manner in which he said the words—subdued and serious—that took her aback. Her smile faded a little, then she turned her head so that she faced the garden once more. They walked in silence a few more steps, until he spied a wrought-iron bench near the southeast corner and directed her toward it.
"Jonathan—"
"I have something to ask you, Natalie," he cut in pensively.
She hesitated, then allowed herself to be seated, straightening her skirts once more as he stood slightly to her side, arms crossed over his chest.
"Please," she acknowledged with a wave of her palm.
He knew she was anxious to delve into matters of her concern but was purposely holding her abrasive tongue in check lest he decide to forgo the all-important meeting that had brought her to France. He felt another surge of modest power over her at that moment as he stared down at her face, illuminated dimly by golden lamplight.
Tilting his head, he asked cautiously, "How well do you speak French?"
That surprised her, as he knew it would, and her expression of mystification was what he wanted to see. She had no idea where the conversation was heading.
She squirmed a little, wringing her fan in her lap. "That's a rather odd thing to ask."
He lo
oked to the brick pathway, rubbing his leather-soled shoes along the pebbles. "It's not an embarrassing or even unusual question, Natalie."
She waited several seconds, then sighed and relaxed against the back of the bench. "I speak fluent French, although I can't imagine why it should matter to you that I do."
He wasn't amazed by the answer, and yet somewhere in the back of his mind he began to heed a caution, as yet unclear. Looking into her eyes once more, he reasoned, "And you learned the language from a fastidious governess?"
She gave him a flat smile. "My mother made it imperative. She insisted I not lose my heritage, for what it's worth."
His brows rose. "Lose your heritage?"
Her features grew serious, and she hugged herself at the elbows, causing her breasts to flow together into swells of creamy softness. He tried not to glance down at them as he concentrated on her face.
At last she murmured, "My maternal grandfather was the count of Bourges."
The air stilled around them as Jonathan suddenly became absorbed by her words. He stared openly at her as the seconds ticked by, but she continued without notice.
"Actually, he was a wealthy and well-respected count before the Revolution of ninety-two. In one night he lost everything as peasants stormed his country home. Through a bit of luck he paid off a jailer with bits of gold he had hidden on his person, and two days before he was to be shipped to Paris for trial and certain death, with the help of the bishop of Blois and various hard-line clergy, he managed to wade his way through the country until he found passage to England, as did a few other lucky French nobles. A few years later, after building a small fortune in trade, he married my grandmother and had three daughters and a son. My mother was the youngest."
Jonathan's mind raced from her disclosure. Possibilities were innumerable now. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"Goodness, Jonathan. You make it sound as if I'm keeping deliberate secrets." She sat forward, dropping her arms as she reached for her fan again. Absentmindedly she began tapping it in her lap. "It's not really information one goes around spreading in polite society."
He couldn't argue that. Being one-quarter French wasn't necessarily bad. On the other hand, it didn't speak well in making a good marriage when one wasn't completely English, or when one's grandparents and distant relations were Catholic. Though unimportant, these incidentals could have an effect on some in the social whirl, for nothing else but gossip. This said nothing of the English view of the French and sexual promiscuity and culture. Now that he thought about it, he supposed not mentioning a French count for a grandfather was probably well advised for those other than family or close friends.
He leaned against the lamppost. "Why haven't you spoken the language here?"
Now she grinned in droll merriment. "Doesn't it seem more logical to act the innocent in the exchange?"
His forehead pinched in confusion, and she leaned toward him so closely her face was nearly to his waist.
"Remember shopping Thursday, in that little boutique near the waterfront?"
He snickered. "I remember the offensively priced, ugly brown bonnet you bought to add to your scant wardrobe."
She ignored the sarcastic comment, though her lids thinned with feigned disgust. "It was a chocolate-colored silk and quite fashionable, but that is beside the point. I purchased the bonnet although I didn't need it—"
"You're joking," he interjected, straight-faced.
"You don't understand," she insisted patiently, sitting back a little. "I wanted the pink parasol. While I was considering the parasol, however, the saleswoman began speaking in French to two other French ladies about how the English had no taste at all, and always wanted things pink regardless of their individual skin coloring which was usually ghastly." She flicked her wrist in indignation. "Then they carried on about how the English never seemed to dress boldly and elegantly like the ladies in France. I couldn't allow that to pass without response."
"Of course not," he replied accordingly.
She eyed him carefully, not certain if she should take his sudden smile of amusement for condescension toward the female mind and its trivialities, or enjoyment at such a ridiculous predicament. When he said nothing more, she brushed over it.
"In any case, they then began to discuss the bonnet, it being of the latest fashion in color and cut, quite stunning and from Paris. When I heard that, I picked it up. The other ladies wanted it, but it was in my hand."
"So you purchased something you don't need."
She breathed deeply and jutted her breasts out fully, straightening in defiance. "But they thought twice about my lack of taste."
"You'll never see them again," he enunciated blandly.
"That is irrelevant."
He stared down at her smug expression for a long, quiet moment, then rubbed his eyes with his fingertips. Women. He would never understand them.
"This is why you haven't spoken French since you've been here?" he asked, attempting to return to the point.
She shrugged. "I suppose if I needed directions I would call upon it."
He lowered his voice. "But pretending the innocent allows you to listen to otherwise private conversations."
Her smile faded most abruptly. "I'm not being malicious at all. It just puts me at a little bit of an advantage when others are talking rudely about me—as they have once or twice here tonight—because they don't realize I know what they're saying."
Jonathan paused, his eyes grazing over the low garden wall and out toward the open sea, black but for a long, shimmering stream of moonlight. The eavesdropping really didn't bother him, mostly, he assumed, because he'd been doing the same since he'd arrived in France. What troubled him, however, was learning that her grandfather was a deposed French noble. And what did that mean? Probably nothing at all. She was correct that many nobles escaped to England during the time of the Revolution, a few of them providing for themselves as her grandfather had done, most expecting the British gentry or government to sustain them.
But something more disturbing was slowly taking shape in his mind. Could she possess some loyalty to the Legitimist cause, to those who intended to unseat the present king and replace him with the line of long ago—of the time when her grandfather had had power? This seemed extremely far-fetched, though not impossible to ignore, especially after his consideration earlier this evening that her motives went far deeper than she admitted, that he felt she was subtly using him or hiding things. To be fair, she had a life of relative wealth and ease in England and didn't speak of her French connections to anyone, so why would she care who was king of France? She was also a woman. Women generally didn't take notice of political issues, as it certainly wasn't a feminine pursuit and was frowned upon by society as a whole. Then again, Madeleine was a woman, and she believed in righting political wrongs and working for government issues because she was female and would therefore be unsuspected by all. Natalie, for all her youth and naiveté, could very well think the same. She was certainly smart enough.
What unsettled him the most was this: If she was hiding real motives, she had no reason to tell him of her ancestry, but learning her grandfather was once the count of Bourges seemed extremely coincidental to the moment and his reason for journeying to France in the first place. It would also firmly account for her eavesdropping on the French elite, without any reaction or concern, as they planned to rid themselves of the current king. Perhaps she'd heard nothing in a conversation about gaming or hunting or other gentlemanly endeavors. This was entirely possible and yet seemed unlikely given the knowledge of who exactly was behind the closed library door. But above it all, Jonathan had to admit that knowing she might now be aware of a political turmoil to come made him apprehensive.
"What are you thinking?"
Her huskily murmured words sliced into his thoughts. He turned to her, looking down at her face glowing softly in the lamplight, and the gaze of genuine question emanating from her eyes.
He gave her a half smile and tu
gged at a bougainvillea leaf clinging to the white trellis on his right. "The Black Knight is here tonight, Natalie."
He watched her eyes widen with at first stunned disbelief, then almost instantly narrow with titillating excitement. "Did you speak to him?" she asked in a rush.
He looked at the leaf between his fingers. "Yes."
She sat forward on the bench, palms clinging to the iron seat. "And?"
He hesitated with pleasure, making her wait, enjoying the moment for all it was worth. Then he dropped the leaf, reached for the fan on her lap, tossing it on the bench to her side, and lightly grabbed her arm to help her stand, which she did without thought.
"Before we get into that, there's something I need to know," he said vaguely enough to cause a flicker of doubt on her brow.
A sudden cheer, then applause and commotion erupted from the ballroom beyond. Annette-Elise had arrived, the emeralds no doubt gracing her throat, and hopefully he and Natalie were the only ones missing the debut.
Jonathan glanced around. They were alone, and the timing was perfect.
"Walk with me, Natalie." It was rather unlike a question, more of an insistence, and she really had no choice. Her mind wasn't on him and being alone in a moonlit garden, it was on the intrigue to come. Quite an advantage for him, and he would use it, naturally.
"Are you hiding something from me, Jonathan?"
That stopped him short. "What?"
She gazed into his eyes, concentrating. "About the Black Knight. I mean"—she shook her head to clarify, lips thinned—"I know he exists. That evidence is conclusive. But he's also a man and he must have a life besides thievery. How do you know him? Why is he here?"
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