Louisa Rawlings

by Promise of Summer

  And yet…she remembered the look of Lucien’s torso when he’d taken off his shirt. Sleek, tanned. The thatch of black hair that only served to draw attention to his hard-muscled chest. She’d felt an inexplicable pull, a tug at her senses, the danger in him both an intimidation and an attraction. She laughed to herself. What a bizarre turn of events! Who would have guessed, less than five days ago, that her life could have taken such a tack?

  Lucien stirred again. Had his wound begun to bleed? Topaze stepped closer to the bed. A floorboard creaked under her foot.

  “Damn you!” Lucien’s hands were around her throat. Choking her. Pressing the life out of her. She gurgled and slapped at his iron fingers in helpless impotence. The room seemed to darken around her; she was slipping into oblivion.

  “Name of God, Lucien! Let her go!” Martin leaped from the bed and pulled Topaze away from Lucien’s grasp. She felt blessed air return to her lungs, the roaring in her ears subside. She clung to Martin, trembling, feeling the warmth of his arms, the comforting protection of his embrace. It was only after a few moments that she found the courage to turn about and look at Lucien.

  He was sitting up in bed, his face covered in sweat, his eyes wide and staring. “Oh, Lord, Martin.” He groaned and sank back against the pillows, throwing his arm across his eyes. “I was dreaming of the captain.”

  Topaze’s voice shook. “Captain Foure?”

  Lucien lowered his arm and inhaled slowly, a ragged breath that seemed to steady him. “Go back to bed. But don’t creep up on me like that again.”

  Martin’s arm was still around Topaze’s shoulders. “Are you all right?” At her reassuring nod, he turned his attention to Lucien. “He can’t still be looking for you, my friend. Not after all these years.”

  “I don’t know. But I keep thinking…just once, I’ll be in a seaport, let down my guard”—he plucked at the shirt and breeches in which he’d slept—“and allow myself to sleep like a normal man…that’s when he’ll find me.”

  Topaze felt her fears subsiding, to be replaced by pique. Would the man always exclude her from his conversations? From his secrets? “Captain Foure?” she repeated, rubbing at her tender neck.

  Lucien had recovered his composure. He settled himself into the bed and pulled up the coverlet. “I’m sorry I frightened you. Go back to sleep. He doesn’t concern you.”

  Oh! He’d nearly killed her, and now he was dismissing her out of hand? “Who?” she demanded. “Damn your liver, who?”

  “Véronique wouldn’t swear,” he said evenly. “A pirate captain.”

  “What?” She staggered back from the sheltering arm and stared at Lucien. Then at Martin. Damnation! He hadn’t even flinched at Lucien’s words. They were madmen, the two of them! “Why should a pirate captain want you?” she gurgled.

  Lucien sighed, his voice filled with weariness. “Because he’s sworn to kill me.” He glanced at the window. “There’s still an hour to sunrise, I reckon. Do you mind?” Without another word, he turned away and slept again.

  Martin put his hand on her arm. “We’ll talk another time,” he said. “The sooner we get to my aunt’s cottage, the sooner we’ll all sleep securely.” He led her back to her cot, hesitated, then planted a soft kiss on her forehead before returning to his own bed.

  In the morning, donning her cloak before the mirror, Topaze noticed the slight discoloration at her neck, the blue-tinged marks of Lucien’s strong fingers. She touched them gingerly; there was a slight soreness. Ah, well. What did it matter? She’d had her share of knocks and bruises, living her chancy street life. She could afford a crumb of sympathy for Lucien, in spite of everything. He hadn’t intended to do her harm. And for all his insouciance, there had been fear in his blue eyes, only for a moment. She shivered. To live with the knowledge that someone sought to kill you, someone who might creep up in the dead of night…small wonder he slept lightly, in his clothes, poised for danger.

  She looked up in the mirror. Lucien was standing behind her, his eyes on her throat. She turned to him. For a moment she thought she read remorse on his face. “I trust you won’t come to regret this adventure,” he said softly, and touched her neck with gentle fingers. Then he frowned, and the eyes turned hard and distant. “For Satan’s sake, cover your head for the carriage ride.”

  She thought, I must have imagined a spark of softness. She put up her hood and turned away with a shrug. “Life is too short for regrets.”

  Lucien’s caution proved unnecessary. The three of them were the only passengers in the public coach. Topaze was able to sit alone opposite the men, at her ease, with her hood thrown back. The events of the dawn had put them all in a somber mood. Topaze sighed and peered out the window. “It looks to snow, I think. Will it slow our journey?”

  Martin shook his head. “It shouldn’t. We haven’t far to go now.”

  “Just to Beauvoir,” said Lucien, his voice deep with mockery. “I thought to tell you before you begin again with your questions. We’ll hire a private carriage to take us to Madame Le Sage. Martin’s aunt.”

  “Will we stay there long?”

  “As long as it takes to transform you. I should hope you’d be prepared for Château Grismoulins and the Chalotais in a month or so.”

  “In any event,” said Martin, morosely, “I must think of returning to Guadeloupe soon. There’s work to be done.”

  Topaze laughed. “Do you mean there’s the danger that I’ll be alone with this poxy whoreson for a while?” She meant it as a joke, hoping to tease them both into a better humor, but Lucien frowned.

  “Véronique has become foul-tongued,” he growled. “I scarcely think that Madame de Chalotais would be pleased.”

  Damn the man! “How do you know?” she challenged. “How do you know anything about Véronique?”

  Martin cleared his throat and stirred uncomfortably in his seat. “You might as well tell her, Lucien. She’ll have to know soon enough.”

  “Indeed. Well, girl, the truth of it is that Véronique de Chalotais was my cousin.” He smiled his cold smile—one eyebrow raised in sardonic mockery—a mask that cloaked all semblance of human feeling. “And the Chalotais estate, Grismoulins, should be—if there were a God in Heaven—mine.”

  Chapter Seven

  “Good morning, Mademoiselle Véronique. Will you take tea?”

  Topaze stared out of the cottage window. Despite the cold rain that beat down on the bare and distant hills, dripped from the thatched roofs, turned the farmyard to mud, she had never felt more filled with sunshine. Could all this be happening to her?

  They had arrived late last night. She had a sleepy recollection of a round, chirpy woman who had beamed in surprise and pleasure to see them. She had been shown to her room at the top of the stairs. Her very own room. A cozy room, with a warm fire, a thick coverlet on the bed, the softest down pillows within her memory. She had awakened this morning to find a velvet dressing gown at the foot of her bed, and a little maid inviting her to come down (in negligée!) to the common room adjoining the kitchen to take breakfast. Oh, the wonder, the beautiful luxury of it.

  “Tea, Mademoiselle Véronique? Or would you prefer chocolate?”

  “Véronique, I think Madame Le Sage is addressing you.” Lucien’s deep baritone.

  Topaze turned from the window. To her surprise, Lucien stood there in a dressing gown—a padded silk morning robe—covering what appeared to be a long nightshirt.

  His bare feet were slippered. He looked rested. The cottage was at some distance from the coast. More than a full day’s ride. Perhaps Lucien only feared his pirate captain near a harbor.

  He seemed amused by her searching examination. He smiled, a slow, lazy smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes. “Véronique? Tea?”

  “Oh!” He was speaking to her. “Yes, please, Madame Le Sage. Tea.”

  “Eh?” Madame Le Sage cupped a dimpled hand around her ear.

  “Tea, if you please.”

  Madame Le Sage nodded. The lac
e ruffles of her cap bobbed cheerily.

  Topaze took a chair opposite the older woman, watching in pleasure as the tea was prepared with a fine service. Silver spoons, lovely blue cups and pots and pitchers. Meissen, she guessed, though she couldn’t quite recall how she knew that. One of Madame Benoîte’s rich lovers, no doubt, had once invited them to tea.

  Despite the isolation of this farmhouse, Madame Le Sage was clearly a woman of some means. From what Topaze could see at the window, there were half a dozen small buildings connected to the main farmhouse—stable, barns, a dovecote—with lofts and storage spaces under the eaves that were reached by sturdy ladders. There seemed to be a cook as well as a maid, and Topaze had noted two or three farmers and stableboys when they’d arrived last night. The farmhouse itself—a solid granite building—was quite large: kitchen and sitting room on the main floor, four good-sized bedrooms on the floor above.

  “There you are, my dear.” Madame Le Sage’s pink cheeks glowed as she handed Topaze her cup. “I hope the dressing gown was to your liking. I haven’t worn it in years. How clever of little Henriette”—she beamed at the maid who was just leaving the room—“to have remembered where it was stored.”

  “Yes, thank you. It was kind of you.”

  “You can imagine my surprise to see Martin again. It must be six years. And then to see him twice in the space of a month…! Tea, Monsieur Renaudot?”

  “Lucien.”

  “Eh?”

  He raised his voice. “Lucien. Please call me Lucien. Chocolate, if it’s not too much trouble. It’s very kind of you to welcome us again, madame.”

  “Well, after all, my own brother’s child…who knows how long it will be before he returns again to France? Véronique, will you hand Lucien his chocolate?”

  Topaze took the cup and crossed to where Lucien stood at the hearth. “Why does she call me Véronique?” she murmured under her breath.

  His mouth twitched in amusement. “I believe that’s what Martin and I told her last night, after you’d gone to bed,” he said quietly. “You’re Véronique. We didn’t bother with a second name. You’re an actress, preparing a part. With your upbringing, it should be a simple matter for you to pretend that. And it explains why we’re here, our need to ‘rehearse’ you for your role.”

  “Good morning!” Martin stood in the doorway. He too was clad in morning déshabillé: embroidered velvet robe worn over a matching waistcoat, with breeches, stockings, slippers. He nodded graciously. “Aunt Louise. Véronique. Lucien. Dieu, Lucien! What a state of undress!” He frowned at Lucien’s bare legs and nightshirt. “Show a little respect for Aunt Louise, if not for your wife!”

  “Eh? What? Wife?” Madame Le Sage’s eyes were round saucers.

  Lucien laughed. “Put on a waistcoat for this chit?”

  Topaze smiled tightly. “Would you do so for Adriane de Ronceray?”

  Lucien eyed her with bored indifference. “Of course.”

  “Why then, damn you,” she said softly, and crossed to Madame Le Sage, who had heard nothing but the word “wife”. The older woman smiled expectantly at them, her eyes dancing from one to the other as she waited for an answer. “Yes, madame,” said Topaze. “I’m his wife. But I’m quite vexed with him this morning.”

  “Then I shouldn’t speak to him, if I were you. It’s what I always did with my late husband.”

  Topaze grinned. “Ah, but you see I much prefer to speak to him. To torment him.”

  Lucien threw up his hands. “Spare me your sharp tongue.” He laughed ruefully. “I surrender. Tomorrow morning will find me dancing attendance upon you, wife. And in proper attire.”

  “Well, then.” Martin seemed pleased to have the matter settled. “What shall we do today?”

  A gust of wind blew the rain against the casement, rattling the small panes. It stirred a shadowy memory in Topaze’s brain. “I remember days like this. We used to blow bubbles.”

  Martin laughed. “Soap bubbles? Name of heaven, I haven’t done that in years. What say you, Lucien?”

  Lucien’s eyes were focused on a distant tree. “Yes,” he said. “I remember. Véronique liked to blow bubbles.”

  “Damnation,” muttered Topaze. “What does Véronique have to do with it?”

  He smiled. “Another cup of chocolate, if you please, Madame Le Sage.” While the older woman busied herself with her pots and cups, Lucien turned to Topaze. The smile was still on his face, but the eyes chilled her. “Once and for all,” he said, his steely voice pitched below Madame Le Sage’s hearing, “you are Véronique. I want you to think like her, to remember her memories as we fill you with them. And Véronique wouldn’t swear.”

  She shrugged. She refused to be frightened. “I forgot. And Véronique wants to blow bubbles today. May she?”

  “Not if you ask like that.”

  She turned away from Madame Le Sage’s view and stuck out her tongue at him. “You black-hearted devil. May I?”

  He laughed, relenting. “You’re an unruly chit. Very well. This afternoon. If you show yourself worthy this morning, by learning your lessons.”

  She grinned at Martin. “I knew I could persuade him. He aren’t such a devil after all!” She turned to the door. “I’ll be dressed in a cat’s wink.”

  Lucien frowned. “He isn’t a devil. Isn’t.”

  She nodded, acknowledging the correction. “But of course he is,” she added, giggling, and skipped out the door.

  Madame Le Sage had given Martin a large bedchamber that overlooked the rolling hills of the countryside. They assembled there when they had dressed. Though Martin’s aunt was hard of hearing, she was also warmly hospitable; if they worked downstairs, the woman might hear little, but they’d be subjected to her well-meaning intrusions.

  Lucien laid out paper, ink, quill pens. “If you want to write anything down,” he said, “do so. I’ll expect you to destroy all your notes before we leave here. But, in the meantime, if you’re so inclined…”

  “Let me listen first,” said Topaze. “There’ll be time enough to make notes later.”

  “Good. I think it would be wise to tell you only those things that Véronique would be expected to know. As far as possible.” He strode to the window and stared out at the bleak day, his hands behind his back. “Château Grismoulins is in the Vendée hills. Do you know the region?”

  “No. I don’t think that Madame Benoîte, my mother, ever played there.”

  “It’s scarcely surprising. It’s an isolated region. The people are quite provincial, closemouthed, hostile to strangers. You may find it more difficult to win over the servants than the family itself. I tell you this only to prepare you for an unfriendly reception. There will be time enough to draw plans, to take you through the many rooms of the château, but I think you should learn about the people first. To begin, Grismoulins belongs to Comte Simon de Chalotais.”

  Topaze nodded. “Véronique’s…my father.”

  He turned from the window. “No. Mine.”

  Martin stiffened in surprise. “Dieu! Then who are you?”

  “As far as Véronique knows, I’m Lucien-Armand, Chevalier de Chalotais, and heir to Grismoulins.”

  “Name of God, Lucien, I thought…”

  Lucien’s face twisted into a devil’s leer. “That I was a bastard? Not at all. My parents were married.”

  Martin shook his head. “Frankly, my friend, I thought your claim to the estate was”—he looked uncomfortable—“the resentment of an illegitimate son.”

  Lucien laughed. “Did you? A foolish mistake. Pity I never told you the story.” He smiled at Topaze. His eyes were cold. “At any rate, Véronique, Simon de Chalotais is your uncle. His wife’s name…your aunt…” He turned back to the window. His hands were clenched at his sides. “Her name is Marie-Madeleine,” he said at last.

  “What do they look like? How old are they?”

  He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. They’re dead. Both of them. But Véronique shouldn’t know that. Do you un
derstand? When you go to Grismoulins, you should expect to see them. As the Comte and Comtesse de Chalotais. You’d naturally ask for them.”

  “By Saint Mathurin, the patron saint of idiots and fools! Then why tell me they’re dead?”

  “How charmingly you put things. Only so that you don’t go mistaking the stableboy for my father.”

  Stableboy? she thought. What a peculiar comparison. “Then who is my father?”

  “Your father is long dead. You never knew him, and your mother never speaks of him. It was a loveless marriage; he died in a duel. I’ll give you his name, but if you forget it, it won’t matter. No one remembers him, least of all Véronique. No one cares. Your mother’s family, however, is important. De Marcigny.”

  “The wealthy de Marcigny? The source of Véronique’s inheritance? Of my inheritance?”

  “Quite so. A rich prize, the Marcigny connection. Rich enough so that my father’s brother, Hubert de Chalotais, quickly married your mother and adopted you.” He smiled sardonically. “The Chalotais men always try to marry well.”

  “But if your father is dead, then who is now the Comte de Chalotais?”

  “My uncle, Hubert. My father’s brother.”

  “Why not you?”

  “Yes,” said Martin, “why not?”

  The blue eyes were clear and blank. “It’s best you don’t know. Véronique vanished before…” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, never mind. Ask your ‘mother’ at Grismoulins.”

  “Why are you called Renaudot?”

  “It was my mother’s name.”