Gypsy Jewel

by Patricia McAllister

  And she promptly fainted at Marcelle’s feet.

  THE VOICES IN THE parlor were hushed, only one of which rose occasionally on an anxious note.

  “Of course she’s lying,” Henriette hissed, leaning toward the countess with her dark eyes narrowed. “The chit cannot possibly be Damien’s wife. Where is her wedding ring, and why can she not produce a copy of the banns?”

  “She said her trunks were lost on the journey,” Marcelle repeated patiently. “And I know from personal experience it is commonplace enough.”

  Reminded of the deathly-pale young woman lying upstairs, the countess felt another pang of pity. When April had recovered sufficiently to be questioned, she had relayed enough knowledge of Damien to ease Marcelle’s mind. There was no doubt the girl had known Damien well, but Henriette kept casting suspicions on the notion of any marriage.

  “And the ring, Madame?” Henriette persisted. Her waspish tone held a note of sarcasm. “Was she also conveniently set upon by brigands, as well?”

  “There was no time for a formal ceremony, with the war and all,” Marcelle answered curtly, disliking the challenge in the other woman’s voice. She had invited Henriette to spend the weekend at the chateau out of respect for her son, but now she was beginning to regret it. Though she came from a fine family, Henriette’s manners had always been coarse.

  “The family doctor examined April, and said she was merely stressed from the long journey,” Marcelle continued. “I had Guy check her story out, and it is true that she did arrive upon the Eastern Star from Constantinople. There is little reason she would lie about the rest, Henriette.”

  Damien’s former mistress rose to agitatedly pace the elegant parlor. “C’est impossible. You know as well as I that your son refuses to marry. And I doubt he would choose such a homely creature if ever he did.”

  “April is quite lovely by anyone’s standards, as well you know, Henriette. As for Damien vowing never to wed, men are prone to change their minds. Love strikes quickly, and where it will.”

  “You are such a romantic, Madame,” Henriette said disparagingly. “I cannot believe you would take a total stranger into your home and accept whatever she chooses to tell you. Mark my words, you will regret it. She is playing you for a fool.”

  Marcelle glanced at the crystal timepiece upon the fireplace mantel. “Why, my dear, I see that your weekend is over. You should think about returning to town before it grows dark. I shall send Guy for your things.” She picked up a silver bell from the table and rang it sharply. Henriette could not possibly miss the hint this time.

  “I would advise you to check out the girl’s story thoroughly, Madame,” Henriette said just before she left. “She claims she is descended from Russian royalty. That would be easy enough to disprove.”

  “I have no concerns,” Marcelle replied coolly. “I shall leave all the fretting to you, my dear. Au revoir.”

  Henriette departed angrily, following the steward out to the waiting coach. Before she embarked, she glanced up at the window to April’s room, the same bedchamber Damien used when he was in residence at the chateau. Her eyes narrowing, Henriette murmured, “We shall see, Mademoiselle April, just how blue your blood really is.”

  Feeling slightly assuaged, she climbed into the coach and waved to the driver. But her gaze remained fixed on the upper window until the chateau faded out of sight into the winter dusk.

  “C’EST MAGNIFIQUE!”

  Marcelle clapped her hands in delight like a little girl, watching April slowly revolve before her in the crinoline gown of golden gauze. The wide skirts were sewn with tiny seed pearls, the bodice low and shaped to fit her wasp-waist. Small embroidered puffed sleeves matched the gold-trimmed train of the gown.

  “This one,” Damien’s mother told the seamstress, who smilingly nodded and rushed to help April out of the lavish creation. Several hours later, after April had been fitted for dozens gowns and dressed in a lilac-print day dress, she rejoined Marcelle in the drawing room downstairs.

  “Madame, I cannot thank you enough. You have been too kind,” April said shyly as she took the hands held out to her.

  “Nonsense. I have not had such fun in years. I always dreamed of the day I would be able to dress Damien’s bride. It is my good fortune that your trousseau was lost at sea.”

  April was silent a moment, feeling guilty over deceiving this wonderful woman. Lady Cross had been nothing but supportive and generous since her arrival, and though much of what April had told Damien’s mother was the truth, how would the countess react if she knew her daughter-in-law had been raised by gypsies?

  Lies had multiplied so quickly when Marcelle had questioned April about her upbringing. The tale that she had been orphaned young and raised by a foster mother satisfied Lady Cross. But what would April tell the others who had been invited to a chateau ball in her honor tonight? She had tried without success to dissuade Marcelle from the idea, but the countess was proud of her son’s wife and wanted no unsavory rumors over April’s sudden appearance.

  “Wait here, ma petite, I have something to give you,” Marcelle said, smiling mysteriously as she moved to the sideboard where her fine china was displayed. From behind one of the plates she produced a tiny foil-wrapped box, and presented it to April with a fond kiss on the cheek.

  The younger woman untied the silk ribbons and opened the box. A simple gold wedding band glimmered up at April through her suddenly moist eyes.

  “It was my mother’s,” Marcelle explained. “She was a staunch old matron in her later years, but when she was young she was a romantic. And her marriage with Andre de Villette was a love match. I know she would be happy to see you wear this tonight.”

  The thoughtfulness of the gesture warmed April to the core. She embraced Marcelle, constantly amazed at the tiny Frenchwoman’s insight. Much of Damien’s sensitivity could be attributed to Lady Cross, April decided, and it was easy to love them both. But she reminded herself of Damien’s deceit, and that she had come here only out of desperation. She wanted nothing from him or his family, and soon she must surrender her dreams of belonging here and leave to find a new life of her own.

  April openly wiped away the tears from her cheeks as the two women went upstairs together to dress for the fête. Marcelle thought it was only because April was so moved by the gift she cried. She had no idea that her son’s wife had also learned from the family doctor on his last visit that in less than seven months she, too, would be a mother.

  HENRIETTE DUPRE WATCHED SPIREFULLY as the young woman calling herself April Cross charmed the countess’s friends and guests that evening. Wearing the gown of golden gauze, April moved like a fairy princess through the crowd, her crown of pale hair sparkling with diamond dust. She had the men bowing and the women simpering, and Henriette was convinced that the girl was nothing but a talented imposter.

  Henriette’s father, Henri Dupre, soon moved up beside her and noted where his daughter’s malignant gaze lay.

  “Ah, the young Lady Cross. Destined to be rich as well as beautiful. As long as Marcelle continues to believe her tale.”

  “What did you find out?” Henriette hissed under her breath, in no mood to be reminded of April’s loveliness.

  Her portly sire only smiled for a long moment, as a couple paused within listening range and then moved on. Like his daughter, Henri Dupre had long aspired to be the relative of an earl. This latest turn of events was unsettling as it directly affected his own future. Drawing a scented handkerchief from his pocket, he mopped his sweaty brow and murmured, “You were right, ma doux. The girl is merely an excellent actress. There was indeed a young prince by the name of Petrovna, but he and his wife were killed years ago by brigands. Their only child died as well.”

  Henriette’s lips curved upward in a tight smile of satisfaction. It had been worth waiting a month for the information to arrive from her father’s Russian connections.

  Henri saw his daughter’s dark eyes glitter with malice as she murmured, “N
ow for the right moment to expose her.”

  Henriette had, of course, every intention of letting the entire crowd absorb the impact of what she had learned. Tingling with anticipation, she moved forward to intercept Marcelle.

  “Madame, I have an announcement to make to your guests.”

  The countess was not pleased, especially since Henriette had not been invited to her fête. “Not now, my dear. It is time for the dancing to begin.” Marcelle motioned for the doors to the ballroom to be opened, and the guests streamed away through the doors.

  Seeing her audience slipping away, Henriette looked desperately about for her father. Instead, she spotted April moving discreetly into the ladies’ toilette room. Seizing her chance, she moved quickly. She found April alone in the room, doubled over with an arm across her waist.

  “S’il vous plait, mademoiselle, would you help me to loosen my laces?” April begged her, and took deep gulps of air when Henriette grudgingly complied. The color flooded back into April’s face, rendering her more beautiful. Henriette felt a rush of jealousy as she stared at the younger woman.

  “You don’t know who I am, do you?” she purred. “I am Henriette Dupre.”

  April straightened slowly and met the burning black gaze of the lovely Frenchwoman in the jade-green silk gown. She realized she had seen the woman before, but she could not remember where. Then Henriette’s husky laugh stirred up unpleasant memories for her.

  “That’s right, I was the one who told Lady Cross to throw you out when you came crying at her door,” Henriette said. “And had she any wits about her, she should have. For I know what you are, and once she learns it too, you will be tossed out on your laurels.”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” April whispered.

  “Indeed? Shall we go together and explain to her how the Petrovna family died? Oui, girl, don’t look so shocked. It is not important how I learned the truth. It is enough that I can and will expose you for the liar you are.”

  “Why?” April asked, feeling the hostility emanating from the other woman in waves. “Why do you care?”

  Henriette laughed incredulously. “Can you be as innocent as you pretend? Not if you knew Damien, and I don’t doubt that you did. For, you see, Lord Cross has a great appetite for beautiful women. In any court.”

  April felt as if she would be violently ill. She understood at last who — and what — Henriette Dupre was. And she was horrified to realize Damien’s mother apparently accepted Henriette’s presence with ease.

  “I congratulate you on your cleverness,” Henriette went on, “but I won’t see Damien robbed blind by a scheming chit. If you leave at once, I might not betray your secret. But I have little sympathy for a lightskirt who would try to pass off her bastard as an earl’s son.”

  April gasped. How did Henriette know she was with child? As if reading her mind, the courtesan smiled archly at her.

  “A tiny waist thickens quickly when one is enceinte,” Henriette said. “When I loosened your ties I could not miss the fact. And Guy mentioned you no longer ride the magnificent black stallion you brought with you. I hope you will not be so foolish as to try and make anyone believe it is Damien’s child you carry.”

  April did not answer. She sought desperately for a way out. Henriette’s appearance was shocking enough in itself, but the woman threatened to destroy her and any future her innocent child might have.

  “You need not worry,” she told the woman at last in a low voice, “I will be leaving soon.”

  “Bien,” Henriette echoed with satisfaction. “Take your bastard and go. You are not wanted here.”

  April turned and rushed out of the room, trying to lose herself in the crowd. Her head was ringing with all she had learned, and she could think of nothing but Damien lying in that other woman’s arms. She had always planned to leave eventually, but now she had no choice. She must leave soon, before Marcelle guessed what Henriette Dupre already had. April felt her heart sink when the countess spotted her across the room and hurried over.

  “Ciel! I have been looking everywhere for you,” Marcelle scolded her lovingly. “The orchestra is here. The Emperor has just arrived and wishes the honor of the first dance with you.”

  There was no polite way for April to refuse. She forced a bright smile and executed a deep curtsey when presented to Louis Napoleon III and the Empress Eugenie. She masked her surprise upon finding the emperor to be half-ahead shorter than herself. He was not a handsome man, either, with a high forehead and thinning hair, a bushy moustache and unkempt beard. His dancing ability was his only impressive talent. April found he could waltz as if born to it, and she enjoyed the brief time they shared on the floor.

  A short time later she escaped the fête with the plea of a headache, and Marcelle dotingly agreed that she might retire early. April escaped to her room, where she quickly packed and then wondered where she might flee. Suddenly she recalled several conversations she had shared with Guy Fontblaine upon her arrival. The steward had gone out riding with her, before she had learned she was with child and ceased any risky activities.

  Guy had mentioned a remote estate in Devon, which had been shut down upon Damien’s departure. The way Guy described it, isolated and on the edge of the sea, had instantly appealed to April’s need to escape. There would be no servants to question her arrival, no neighbors to invite themselves over. And it was also unlikely she would ever be found there, by Henriette or anyone else.

  April paused in thought to run a hand over the velvet bedspread she sat on. It had been difficult to sleep in the bed she knew Damien occupied when he was here, harder still to force him from her thoughts whenever she saw his likeness in Lady Cross. But though time had dulled the pain of his betrayal, she knew she could never forgive him for it, and now the fact of Henriette Dupre only made her resolved never to trust a man again.

  April rose and walked to the window. The view of gently rolling green hills was dazzling in daylight, and softened now by the veil of moonlight cast over the land. She placed a hand across her lower stomach and felt the light flutter there, like butterflies in a jar. Soon it would be too awkward and dangerous for her to travel. She must leave now, before Henriette betrayed her or Marcelle refused to let her go because of the child.

  April tried to imagine what Lady Cross’s reaction would be when she found the empty bedchamber in the morning. Would Marcelle be hurt, angry, relieved? April realized she would never know. She laid her cheek against the windowpane and felt her hot tears frosting to the glass.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  DAMIEN HESITATED SLIGHTLY BEFORE he stepped down from the open landau. Something was wrong at de Villette. The windows were shuttered and the chateau dark, as if it had been closed up for the season. Which was unlikely just before winter.

  He frowned as he walked up the path, noting the unkempt gardens and empty stables. It was not like his mother to let anything go unattended in her absence. Damien had been gone almost two years, but it was not such a span of time that he expected any glaring changes. He felt a prickle of foreboding, wondering if something terrible had happened. The door knocker echoed through the empty chateau several times, and he found the door securely locked.

  Immediately returning to the waiting coach, Damien gave brisk directions to the Dupre residence. Henriette would know what had happened to his mother. He sat back against the cushions, trying not to let his imagination get the best of him. It was possible Marcelle had simply gone abroad for awhile. He found himself tapping his fingers impatiently on the armrest. He simply was not in the mood for any guessing games after returning from the war.

  It had been trial enough to learn of the slaughter of the Light Brigade after his return to the field quarters from Moscow. If it hadn’t been for his old unit, a French division of the Chasseurs d’Afrique, the loss in the North Valley would have been greater.

  The war was over now, and a temporary truce signed, but the wounds would remain forever, especially the loss of Lord Raglan, who
had passed away in the spring. Damien smiled a little sadly, recalling his old friend’s last words to him. James had thanked him for the covert information he had obtained, and assured the younger man that it had made a great difference in their tactics against the czar. Damien doubted it, but he had accepted the praise silently, no longer caring about winning a war when the cost was so dear.

  Now he gazed broodingly out at the French countryside, wondering if the first skiff of snow had settled on Mistgrove yet. He had planned to visit England first, but realized his mother must be frantic for word of him since the war ended. So Damien had stopped in Normandy first.

  Finding the countess gone was both alarming and annoying. Damien knew first-hand how flighty Marcelle could be, but now was not the time he felt like chasing her all across the countryside. He let out a sigh of relief to see that the Dupre mansion in Rouen had several carriages parked out front.

  Damien disembarked, paid the driver to wait, and hurried to the front door. He was forced to exchange pleasantries for several minutes with the old boor, Henri Dupre, while his daughter was called down.

  Recognizing the handsome earl standing in the hall, Henriette squealed softly and flung herself into Damien’s arms. “Is it truly you?”

  While Monsieur Dupre moved discreetly away, Henriette stepped back for another look, failing to notice that Damien’s arms had not returned the embrace. She was too busy drinking in his dashing appearance in a black swallow-tailed coat over a white waistcoat. He was as handsome as ever, but there were tiny lines near his eyes she had not seen before, and a smoky cast to his night-dark hair. Damien looked dispirited. His blue eyes were weary as he greeted her formally.

  “Henriette, you’re looking well.”

  She made a moue with her red lips. “Oh, Damien, aren’t you going to kiss me? It has been years since we were together.”

  “And if you will recall, the last time we were together was mutually agreed to be the last,” Damien replied. “I only came here tonight to find out if you know where Marcelle has gone. If so, please tell me.”