by Shana Galen
Sarah had blinked in surprise. The duchesse had known she was a governess all along? Why had she never said anything? "H-how did you know?" Sarah stammered.
"You thanked the maid who poured your tea—that first day in the drawing room. It was as though you had never been served before. I knew something about your story didn't fit. I did a little investigating and made my own conclusions."
"Je regrette," Sarah said, reaching out to take the older woman's hand. "I'm sorry I lied to you, and I'm so sorry I pretended to be Serafina."
The duchesse frowned at her. "Sorry you pretended to be Serafina? Child, don't you know?" Her eyes locked on Sarah's. "You are Serafina. I knew your mother, your father. You are the comtesse du Guyenne."
"What? No, I—"
But the duchesse had not let her continue. In fact, she would hear no more about it. When she finally realized Julien and Sarah spoke the truth, how would she feel? And the duchesse did not even know the worst—the Foreign Office still considered Julien a traitor. What the duchesse would soon realize was that Sarah was not just an imposter but their enemy.
She glanced at Julien and saw his eyes were closed. He was finally drifting off to sleep. Good. As soon as he slept, she would sneak away to see Sir Northrop. She could not afford to wait until the morrow.
***
Sarah tightened the cloak around her face and crept silently through the Valères' dark garden. She was probably going to be murdered, sneaking about London in the middle of the night like this, but she had no other choice. She had to find Sir Northrop before the morning.
The back gate was just ahead, but when she reached it, she found that the latch was rusty and difficult to maneuver. She struggled with it until her fingers were raw and then jumped when a hand reached around her and jerked the latch free.
Sarah spun around and gasped at the sight of Armand, standing behind her. As usual, his eyes were shadowy and unreadable, but under the slash of his dark brows, his gaze was focused on her. She took a shaky breath and stepped back. She had not noticed before how handsome he was—the hard planes of his face, the cut of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. He was barefoot, his white linen shirt open at the throat. He wore no cravat or tailcoat. And still, his stance, his bearing told the story of his aristocratic heritage. But that was not what would draw women to him. Underneath the trappings of civility, there was something primitive and feral about him. Something waiting to be tamed.
"Th-thank you," Sarah said, willing her heart to slow. "I know this must look strange, my being out here in the middle of the night."
He raised a brow, and she wasn't certain whether he understood her words or not.
"But I have an important task that cannot wait. I have to go see my old employer, Sir Northrop. I'll be back as soon as I can."
She would be back, wouldn't she?
Armand merely gazed at her as she slipped out the
gate and closed it behind her. He did not speak, but she could almost sense his displeasure with her actions, feel those dark eyes burn into her spine. Well, he wasn't going to tell anyone, and she would be back before Julien realized her absence.
She made her way across Mayfair to Sir Northrop's elegant but small home. It was not far from Berkeley Square, but she felt like a different person from who she had been when she left just a few short weeks ago. When she stood in front of the house, she realized she could not exactly knock on the front door and rouse the occupants. Perhaps if she went around to the garden, where Sir Northrop's library was located, she might find a footman to wake him for her.
But when she entered the garden, she saw that a lamp still burned in Sir Northrop's office. She crept to the French doors and quietly tapped on them. There was a long, silent pause, and then the doors were thrust open and she was yanked inside.
"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Sir Northrop hissed. "You almost got yourself shot. You make more noise than the crowd at Ascot."
"I wasn't trying to be quiet." She shook his hand off her arm. "I was hoping to rouse you. I need to speak with you."
He shut the French doors behind her, locked them, and went to his desk. As he poured a glass of brandy, he said, "Oh, so now you need to speak with me. You didn't seem to feel the need to do so before you traipsed off to France with your lover."
"There wasn't time," she lied.
"No time." He drank heartily. "Was that it, or did
Valère seduce you until you decided to turn traitor as well?"
"He's not a traitor." She looked about the room, remembering the last time she had stood here. Then she had been terrified, afraid of losing her position and searching for the poker in case Sir Northrop accosted her. Now she could hardly believe she was that same girl. So much had changed. She had changed. "He's not a traitor," she repeated. She was not afraid to stand up for Julien, for herself.
"Is that so?" Sir Northrop gave her a long, hard look, perhaps seeing the change in her as well. Finally, he set his glass on the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pistol. "A short time ago, you were wiping snotty noses and playing blind man's bluff. Now you're telling me who is and is not a traitor to my country."
"I can prove Julien isn't a traitor. We found his brother and—" Sarah's words died out as Sir Northrop hefted the pistol and pointed it at her.
"You couldn't just do what I asked, could you? All I wanted was proof that Valère had contacts in France, proof that he had traveled there. It was simple, really. Any idiot could have done as I asked. But not you."
"He wasn't a traitor," Sarah repeated, eyes on the pistol. Surprisingly, she was not afraid at all. She was angry. How dare Sir Northrop point a pistol at her! Did he think he could bully her into betraying Julien? "I couldn't lie."
"You didn't want to lie," Sir Northrop boomed, his voice filled with rage. Sarah sucked in a breath and watched the pistol waver. "And do you know the trouble that has caused me?"
Sarah shook her head.
"They're after me now. Me!"
"What?" His words made no sense to her, and yet she could see the fear and fury in his eyes. "What are you talking about? You should be glad Julien is not a traitor. Now the Foreign Office can find the real traitor."
He shook his head and gave her a sad smile. "They already have."
Her eyes widened as the import of his words washed over her. She should have known. She should have guessed when The Widow disappeared. "You. You're the traitor," she whispered. She straightened, and her gaze flew to the locked French doors. She could not stay here. She had to get away, tell Julien, tell someone. "And you hoped to implicate Julien."
"The Foreign Office was growing suspicious. I needed to point the finger elsewhere. It should have been a simple matter. I've been a double agent for years—long before you were even born. The French simply pay better than the English. King Louis was extremely generous." He was bragging now, sauntering about the room as though he were the king, waving the pistol as though it were his scepter. "But now—now things have changed. Bonaparte doesn't trust me, and that's why I'm working to restore the monarchy. Unfortunately, I was forced to sell information to Bonaparte to fund my efforts. The Foreign office grew suspicious. I needed a scapegoat."
She stared at him, hatred brewing within her. He had used her to trap Julien. "You used me." She clenched her fists to control the anger. "You knew Julien was innocent, and yet you used me."
"And I'll use you again, little fool. You should never have traveled to France with the duc. With his long-lost brother returning, I may not be able to prove Valère is a spy, but you've just sealed your own fate."
She shook her head. "You're mad. Who would believe I'm a spy? I'm nothing more than a governess."
He laughed, and she took a surprised step back. She had expected any number of responses, but not laughter. "I never should have sent you in," he said between chuckles. "I knew you would fail, but there was something too delicious about the irony."
He moved closer, his pistol aimed at her h
eart. Sarah took a shaky breath, his words causing her heart to race. "What irony?"
"Don't you know? Think, Sarah. I believe you do know."
Sarah shook her head, but the duchesse's words earlier that evening played over and over in her head. You are Serafina. You are the comtesse du Guyenne.
"I don't believe it." She put a hand to her head, tried to still the loop of words. Was this another trick? Another ruse?
"And that's the irony, Miss Smith—or should I call you comtesse? No. Actually I think Sera is more appropriate. That's what your parents called you."
Sarah stared at him wide-eyed. Sera. Yes, in those phantom memories. In those phantom dreams of her mother and father, they had called her Sera.
Petite Sera.
"But how?" she stuttered. "I don't understand."
He sighed, clearly bored. "It's exactly as I told you. Your father, the comte du Guyenne, angered the king. He made too much noise about the king's spending and the rights of the peasants. It riled up the people, and in those days, even years before the revolution, it did not take much to anger the peasants."
Sarah swallowed and nodded as she tried to digest the information. But even as Sir Northrop's words spewed forth, she easily put them into place. Instinctively, she knew them to be true. Her father had been a comte. She was the daughter of an aristocrat. But an aristocrat who had cared for the people, who had wanted to help them.
She had had a family. She had belonged to someone.
"The king exiled your family, and they left for England. Only, shortly after they arrived here, they disappeared."
A chill ran down her spine at the look in his eyes. "What happened to them?"
He smiled. "King Louis feared they would be a threat, even in England, so I dispatched them."
She gasped, crushing a hand to her mouth. "You—" It was all she could manage.
"I was to have killed you as well, but I felt you might be useful, so I brought you to the best orphanage in London and made a generous donation so I might be apprised of your progress. When you left your last post, I hired you. I found it amusing to have the comtesse du Guyenne as a servant in my home. And then"—he shrugged—"the perfect opportunity arose. You were engaged to play you." He laughed, but Sarah stared at him in horror. With just a few words, he had changed her life, her identity. Everything she had thought was true was false. Her mother had not been a prostitute but the beautiful Delphine, comtesse du Guyenne.
And this man had murdered her. He had murdered Sarah's chance at a normal life and a family.
"And so you see," Sir Northrop continued. "No one would believe Sarah Smith a spy and traitor, but Serafina Artois? Oh, yes, she might have many reasons to aid the French—loyalty, return of her birthright, revenge on the country where her parents were killed…"
"No." She moved toward him, not caring that the pistol was pointed directly at her heart. She did not know what she would do; she just knew this man must be punished. She could not allow this lie, this abomination to go on any longer.
"What are you doing?"
She did not know what he saw in her face, but his hands were shaking now. She refused to answer, continued moving forward.
He cocked the pistol, tried to aim, pointed it, and fired.
But his aim was off, and the charge went wide. Sarah ran forward and crashed into him. They tumbled onto the floor, and she scratched at him, tearing at his face, kicking him wherever she could reach.
She was screaming and thus did not hear the commotion as the doors were broken open and men rushed inside. She didn't look at them, just felt their hands as they reached for her and pulled her off Sir Northrop.
As she was dragged away, she saw his bloody face.
He was still grinning.
She screamed, but strong arms engulfed her, pulled
her into an embrace. She struggled to free herself until she smelled citrus and wood.
Then she stilled and glanced up at the man holding her. He smiled at her, blue eyes crinkling in a roguish grin.
"Looks like I got here just in time."
Twenty-seven
As the torrent of emotions rushed over her face, she looked more beautiful than he remembered. Julien saw surprise, chagrin, relief, and finally—yes, that was what he had been waiting for—love.
"Julien?" She reached up and touched his face, his hair, then fell into his arms. "I'm so glad you're here. It—he was horrible."
He pulled her tightly against him, the feel of her body pressed against his like a wool greatcoat in the middle of a snow storm. His heart warmed, and he buried his head in her neck, not caring that the men from the Foreign Office were staring.
She was safe. She was unharmed. His heart could stop clawing its way out of his chest.
She pulled away, put her hands on his cheeks. "How did you find me? How did you know? And who—" She looked back at the men wrestling with Sir Northrop.
"Armand." His brother was standing just outside the French doors, his arms crossed and his expression menacing. If Julien hadn't gone in to aid Sarah, there was no doubt Armand would have done so. "He must have followed you here then come back and woke me. Scared the hell out of me." He smiled at her, stroked her smooth cheek. "But I went with him. These men were skulking about outside, watching Sir Northrop's movements. They saw you go in and were waiting to see what would happen next."
The men hoisted Sir Northrop to his feet and began to restrain him. "That's the traitor!" he shouted, pointing at Sarah. "Arrest her!"
"Ma'am," one of the men began.
Julien grabbed his shoulder. "Your Grace. She's a duchesse."
"Sorry." The man cleared his throat. "Your Grace, we'll need to question you."
"Of course," Sarah replied. "I'll help in any way I can."
They muscled Sir Northrop past her, and Julien had to restrain the urge to take her back into his arms. But he watched as she faced the raving man, showing no sign of fear. "You're going to burn!" Sir Northrop shouted. "You'll burn for the traitor you are, Comtesse!"
He was dragged through the broken doors, past Armand, who looked like he might tear him apart. Julien exchanged a look with his brother, and Armand clenched his fist then stalked away, giving them privacy.
Sarah was looking at him. "He told me something, Julien. Something horrible. H-he told me I'm the comtesse du Guyenne. I really am Serafina Artois."
Julien stroked her hair, her face. He didn't care who she was. He just wanted her safe in his arms again. "So my mother was right."
"Yes. And Julien, he told me—" She swallowed, looked away. "He told me that he killed my parents." A tear sparkled on her cheek, and he pulled her close.
"He's going to pay, Sarah. We'll make sure he pays."
"Yes," she whispered into his neck. "But Julien, do you know what this means? I had a family. I was loved. I belonged."
"You've always belonged." He pulled her tightly against his chest. "Right here. In my arms."
"Yes," she whispered, and he felt her fingers dig into his back.
He breathed in her scent, felt her soft body melt into his. And he cursed himself as a fool for ever thinking he wanted a business arrangement for a marriage.
He wanted Sarah—no matter what her name was.
With great effort, he pulled away from her and led her outside where Armand waited for them. "Let's go home."
"Yes." She smiled at him, loving the way his eyes warmed to indigo with desire for her. Home. She finally knew where home was.
***
She belonged. Sarah looked at the Valère town house, at her mother-in-law, even at the quiet, watchful Armand, and knew she belonged. It wasn't because she was an aristocrat, in truth, as opposed to just playing the part. It was because she knew where she came from—and she knew who she belonged with.
Julien.
If only Rowena would allow them a few minutes to be alone.
"We must have a wedding," she said the next afternoon, leading everyone into the dining room an
d signaling the footmen to bring in the first course.
Julien pulled Sarah into his lap, and she smiled down at him. She could not bear to be separated from his touch right now either. Rowena frowned at the overt display of affection, but then she waved a hand and admonished everyone to eat. Her chief concern seemed to be they all looked too thin.
Armand was at the table as well. He was clean and dressed, his long brown hair pulled back into a neat queue. Rowena saw Sarah looking at him and smiled sadly. "He still hasn't spoken. I think if we give him time, his speech will return." They watched as he pushed away his untouched plate of food then gave the footman attempting to serve him a dagger-filled glare. The footman backed away, and the duchesse sighed. "In time, I'm certain all of his manners will be restored."