by Shana Galen
Julien swayed, and the groom smiled.
So even their servants had betrayed them.
Raising the shovel again, the groom brought it down swiftly. This time, Julien ducked, kicked the groom hard, and darted around him. He might not be strong, but he was quick.
"Ma mère, get away!"
She was holding a pitchfork, the look in her eyes maniacal as she waved it at the peasants. Most were armed with only dull knives or fire pokers, and they stayed back. Waiting for their opportunity.
She glanced at Julien, and he raised his arms, nodding to her. She tossed him the pitchfork, and he caught it easily—just in time to fend off another blow from Claude. The handles of the tools clashed together, and Julien pushed back, throwing Claude off balance. Julien struck again, and the groom fell. Grasping his chance, Julien turned the tines of the pitchfork on the servant.
"Don't get up or I'll kill you." He looked at the men and women closing in on the stable. Men and women with hate and bloodlust in their eyes. "I'll kill all of you."
"No, little boy," one gray-haired woman missing several teeth hissed. "We're going to kill all of you. Mort à l'aristocratie!"
The peasants charged, and Julien threw the pitchfork and ran.
Into the fire. Into the sound of screaming horses.
He ran blindly, hitting a solid wall of warm, trembling muscle.
"Julien, get on. Hurry!" His mother's voice, coming from the right. He could barely discern her white robe and curtain of black hair in the smoky dark. She was atop a dancing dappled mount.
Reaching high, Julien grasped the mane of a large bay gelding and pulled himself up. The horse reared, and Julien held until his muscles felt they would snap from strain. One of the peasants approached, and the gelding skittered. Julien struggled with his nightshirt, tugging it over his head and wrapping it around the horse's eyes. His mother had done the same with her robe and, clad in her chemise and petticoats, she was now urging her blind horse forward, through the open back of the stable.
Julien turned his mount to follow just as the old peasant woman ran for him. She was brandishing the pitchfork now, and he kicked at her with his bare foot. The tine sliced through the tender flesh of his foot, and Julien cried out
With his good foot, he kicked desperately at his gelding. The beast jumped and ran forward. Julien held on with all his strength, trying to steer the horse through the doors. He could see his mother waiting, and just beyond her, the woods beckoned.
If they could only reach the woods.
The gelding veered crazily to the right, and Julien pressed hard with his leg, urging the horse left. They cleared the stable with mere inches to spare, and then he was out in the open, beside his mother. He pulled the nightshirt off the horse's eyes and hunkered down, allowing the beast to gallop for the woods. He would slow the animal when they were closer. Farther from danger.
Their way was lit from behind, the light of the fire making the dark night as rosy as a sunrise. But Julien did not dare look back. He looked only at his mother, who rode right beside him.
They ran through a small brook and into a line of trees. By unspoken agreement, they slowed their mounts, and the duchesse de Valère turned to look at the chateau. Reluctantly, Julien turned to look as well.
The house was engulfed in fire—the bright red and orange flames surging into the sky like angry, grasping hands. Around the fire, the peasants danced and sang a macabre song.
Julien felt ill. His head ached, and he couldn't catch his breath. His foot was bleeding and throbbed whitehot with pain. But it was nothing to the pain of losing his brothers.
No.
"I'm sure they escaped," he said through gritted teeth. "Father saved them."
His mother turned and looked at him. "Your father—" she began, and then glanced down at her bloody nightgown.
"No," Julien whispered. "No!"
She looked away, but not before he saw the heartrending grief in her eyes. The anguish pulled her face down, etching deep grooves where only faint lines had been the day before.
"No." The word was a mere breath.
"We must go," she said. "Come first light, they'll be looking for us."
Julien nodded. He looked one way and then the other, unsure where to lead—even if he should lead.
"We'll go home. To England," his mother said. "My parents will take us in."
"England?" Julien had heard his mother talk about her homeland, but he had never been there. "How will we travel? We have no money."
"We won't let a small thing like that stop us." She looked away from the fire and met his gaze. "We're Valères. What would your father say?"
"Ne quittez pas," he said automatically. Never give up.
"You're the duc de Valère now."
Julien swallowed. He was the duc, a heavy burden for a thirteen-year-old. But Julien would shoulder that burden. He would make his father proud.
He would avenge this day, and he would never give up, not until justice was done.
Two
London, 1801
"Ma'am, Sir Northrop has asked for you."
Sarah looked up from the geography book she and her two pupils were bent over and frowned. "Me?"
The butler did not respond. Wrisley merely raised one salt-and-pepper eyebrow and waited. He was the picture of forbearance, though Sarah knew he must detest errands like this.
She removed her reading spectacles from her nose, leaving them to dangle from the chain around her neck, and dusted her hands on her shapeless, gray gown. It was a nervous gesture, and her teachers at the Ladies Benevolent Society Academy for Young Girls—the Academy, as the girls there called it—had told her countless times the gesture did nothing to improve her deportment. And yet Sarah could not seem to resist the action when she was unnerved.
Why would Sir Northrop want to see her? As she interacted almost exclusively with the lady of the house, Sarah had not thought Sir Northrop knew she existed.
Wrisley cleared his throat, and Sarah stut tered, "Sir Northrop? Certainly. Tell him I will be along momentarily."
Wrisley sighed and closed his eyes briefly, his look pained.
Sarah winced. When she was flustered, she could be such an idiot. Wrisley would want to escort her, of course. She turned back to her charges. Both waited, hands in laps and eyes on her, for the lesson to continue. Anne, nine years old, and Edmund, age seven, were sweet, good-natured children. It had been a joy to tutor them these past two months, and Sarah sincerely hoped her employ would not end today.
Not that she had any reason to suspect it would. She had done nothing wrong.
Had she?
"Children, I must speak with your father," she said, stating the obvious. "It's almost tea time. Why don't you wait for your tea and toast in the nursery? I shall meet you there."
"Yes, Miss Smith," Anne said obediently. She rose and straightened her white and blue gown.
Edmund followed, less concerned with the wrinkles in his clothing. As he passed, he leaned over and whispered, "I'll save you the marmalade, Miss Smith."
She smiled. "Thank you, Edmund."
When the children were gone, she followed Wrisley into the corridor, leaving the clean, bright schoolroom behind. With its solid desks, comforting books, and pretty yellow and white checked curtains, the schoolroom was her haven. She felt safe inside, sure of herself and her position. Outside, she felt uncertain.
The schoolroom was on the third floor of the town house, along with her own tiny room and various other servants' quarters. As the governess, Sarah did not associate with the lower servants. Custom dictated that she might socialize with Lady Merton's maid as well as the housemaid, but she had not been in the Merton household long enough to form much of an acquaintance with these or any of the other upper servants. Consequently, when Sarah was not with the children, she was rather lonely—a strange sensation after years of sharing quarters with dozens of girls at the Academy.
Wrisley had not so much as turned to
be certain she was following, and near the stairs that led to the house's lower levels, Sarah felt safe to steal a peek in the gilt-edged mirror that hung there. She blew out a breath at what she saw. The sleek bun she had coiled her hair into this morning was no more. She had taken the children on a nature walk in the garden earlier, and between the wind and the sudden spring shower, her neat coiffure was ruined. She tried to smooth it back into place, but it was hopeless.
And then there was the state of her dress. The serviceable gown was wrinkled and stained at the knees. She should have changed after kneeling in the garden, but it was such a chore that she had intended to save it until dinner. A little soil would not hamper her teaching geography and French this afternoon. Of course, clean clothes and tidy hair were important, but so was digging in the dirt and playing in the rain. The children understood that. Sir Northrop might not be so open-minded.
"Ma'am." Wrisley's voice floated up the stairs, and Sarah rushed to follow him. She was always chastising Anne for sounding like a herd of horses on her way down the stairs, and Sarah was careful to descend gracefully, though her knees were shaking as she drew nearer to Sir Northrop's library.
Not for the first time, she wished she had just a little of the beauty some girls seemed to have in abundance. It might give her a boost of confidence. But she was stuck with plain brown eyes, drab brown hair, and a freckled complexion from forgetting her hat out in the garden once too often. And she did not want to even think about her mouth. It was much too large for her face. Growing up, she had practiced sucking in those swollen lips to make them look smaller, but the exercise only made her appear stranger. Still, she was tempted to try it today.
How she wished she had just one—just one— admirable physical feature!
Wrisley reached the vestibule on the ground floor and turned toward Sir Northrop's library. Sarah hurried to follow, the weakness in her knees spreading so that now her head was spinning as well.
Could she have done something wrong?
No.
Perhaps Sir Northrop wanted a report on the progress of his progeny. In that case, what would she say? Anne's French was quite good, but Edmund's geography was poor indeed.
Wrisley motioned for her to wait as he opened the ornate library door and stepped inside. Sarah took one last deep breath and reminded herself of the Academy's motto: Chin up.
It was a maxim that had served her well both in her employment as a governess and in life. No matter what trials she must face, she could always keep her chin up and her courage intact.
"Sir Northrop, I present Miss Smith." Wrisley opened the door wider, and Sarah entered. She curtsied quickly, catching only a glimpse of her employer seated behind an enormous mahogany desk. She kept her chin high but her gaze on the Turkey carpet, patterned in green and gold.
"Thank you, Wrisley. That will be all."
Sarah kept her eyes downcast as the butler retreated, closing the door behind him.
"At ease, Miss Smith," Sir Northrop said, and Sarah realized she was still curtseying. She rose and saw that Sir Northrop was studying her. His brow was furrowed with intensity, and Sarah wanted to die with shame.
She focused her gaze on the shelves of books lining the wall behind her employer. "I'm sorry about the mud stains, Sir Northrop," she rattled. "I took the children into the garden this morning and was showing them the new dahlias. There was quite an interesting insect on one. It was green and orange and black and had oh so many legs—eight or ten or—anyway, I knelt down to show the children. I didn't realize the ground was—"
"Do you always talk this much?"
Sarah blinked. "No." Resisting the urge to explain further, she pressed her lips together.
"Good." Sir Northrop rose and strode around his desk. He was a tall man, well-built and muscular. Sarah understood he had been in the Royal Navy before retiring to London, marrying, and starting a family. He had been knighted by the King for his service to his country. Because many of his exploits were well known and heralded, he was accepted into the highest social circles.
Sir Northrop passed her, and she fumbled with her hands, finally clenching them in front of her. She would not smooth her dress. Behind her, she heard him turn the lock on the door. Sarah froze, not daring to look around.
"Do not be alarmed, Miss Smith."
"I'm not alarmed," she squeaked.
He made a dubious sound then stood in front of her again, his expression grim. She waited for him to speak, but he did nothing except stare at her for what felt like at least five full minutes.
Finally, she ventured, "Is something wrong?"
"Yes." He crossed his arms and leaned back against his large desk. "I have a very serious problem."
She swallowed. "Oh."
So she had done something wrong. It was probably Edmund's geography. The poor boy could hardly identify the main rivers on the Continent.
It had to be Edmund. Unless…
The way Sir Northrop was studying her. The way he was looking at her. He wasn't thinking of…
No, certainly not.
But Sarah did recall that Pippa, one of her favorite teachers at the Academy, had told the girls a story about a former employer who had so wanted the teacher in his bed that he had chased her halfway around the house, finally cornering her in the—Sarah took a sharp breath—library. Pippa had managed to fight the man off only by wielding a fire poker.
Was there a fire poker in this library? Sarah had not thought to check. She turned surreptitiously to glance at the fireplace.
"Miss Smith, I need your help, and this request is—how do I say it?—rather unconventional."
Sarah's eyes fixed on the fireplace. No poker!
"Un—" Sarah cleared her throat. "Unconventional?" There was a clock on the mantel. Perhaps that would serve if she became desperate.
"Miss Smith, I think you'd better come into the music room with me." He gestured to the door at the other end of the library. Sarah and Anne had spent quite a few hours in the music room, and she knew this door from the other side. She had not realized it led into the library. Which meant that Sir Northrop might have spent hours listening to Sarah and Anne practice.
He gestured at the door, and Sarah, relieved, hurried toward it. He was not going to chase her about the house after all. He just wanted… what did he want?
She opened the door and was immediately taken aback. The music room was usually light and airy, the draperies secured to allow sunlight from the garden to pour in. Today the heavy drapes were shut and the French doors closed tightly. In the center of the room, one of the velvet chaise longues squatted before the fireplace, and Sarah could make out a single delicate slipper dangling off the end.
"Is that her?" a female voice croaked from the direction of the chaise longue.
"It's her," Sir Northrop answered.
"Let me see her."
Sarah looked in confusion from the chaise longue to Sir Northrop. Sir Northrop nodded at her. "Go around to the front of the chaise longue. Madam would like to see you."
Madam? Sarah spoke with Lady Merton every day, and this woman sounded nothing like Lady Merton. Lady Merton was young and a bit silly. This woman's voice was smoke and fog. And she sounded pained.
Reluctantly, Sarah inched around the chaise longue until she stood before the woman. The stranger was lying on her side, one hand supporting her head and the other clutched protectively at her ribs. The woman was younger than she sounded; Sarah guessed twenty-seven or twenty-eight. She had glossy black hair and large coffee-colored eyes. Her lips were red, the color matching the burgundy gown she wore. The gown had been loosened, and the bodice fell quite low, revealing the swells of an ample bosom.
She was a beautiful woman, catlike in her repose. And yet instantly Sarah knew something was wrong.
"I'm injured," the woman told her. "I've been shot."
"Shot?" The word burst out of her mouth before she could contain it. "How? Why?"
Sir Northrop stood on Sarah's ot
her side, and the woman looked at him now. "Didn't you tell her?"
"No. You said you wanted to see her. Do you agree now that she'll do?"
Sarah frowned, a chill running up her spine. "Will I do for what?"
The woman was looking at her again, assessing her. "Come closer, Miss—"
"Smith." Sarah looked at Sir Northrop. "Sir, should we not call for a surgeon?"
"I've already done so, Miss Smith."
The woman gave her a wry smile. "No need to worry about me. I'm not so easy to kill. Come closer."
Sarah bent, and the woman reached out and cupped her chin. Sarah saw that her hand had held a towel, and the towel was red with blood. Sarah closed her eyes and tried to ignore the dizziness. Could she not just return to Edmund and Anne and the geography lesson?