by French Leave
Morbid imaginings served no useful purpose; what the earl needed was a plan. He would begin with the waterfront inn. Perhaps someone had observed Lisette’s escape and noted the direction in which she had set out. Unfortunately, a thorough questioning of the hostel’s staff yielded no useful information. The innkeeper recounted Lisette’s silent plea for help, and admitted that it was for this reason that he had placed her in a room from which she might escape with relative ease. While he was pleased to know that the young lady had indeed done so, he regretted that he had not seen her again, and so was unable to offer her further assistance.
Other inquiries were equally fruitless. Lisette’s flight had apparently coincided with the arrival of the packet from Dover, and amidst the confusion of disembarking passengers, the movements of one mere slip of a girl had gone unremarked. She could not have gone far, he reasoned with perhaps more desperation than logic. She had no money to hire a carriage, even had she had a clear destination in mind. Traveling on foot, she could not have covered much ground. On the other hand, she might have persuaded the driver of a farm cart or some such conveyance to take her up; he could readily imagine her doing just such a thing. If that were the case, she might be anywhere—including her aunt and uncle’s home in Amiens.
The mournful peal of church bells seemed to echo Lord Waverly’s despair. The bells of Sainte-Jeanne, he supposed, calling the faithful to vespers...
The bells of Sainte-Jeanne...
No! Surely Lisette would not have sought refuge in a convent, after all she had done to escape one. But Calais was far from Paris, and the sisters of Sainte-Jeanne might never have heard of the goings-on at Sainte-Marie. And where might a young lady find a safer place than at a convent? Somehow this reassuring thought brought no comfort to Lord Waverly. He had a gnawing fear that if Lisette entered a convent a second time, she would not be allowed to escape again.
Well, she would not have to escape; he would go to her and carry her out himself. He would scale the walls, or break them down if he had to, but he would have her back. She was his wife, and no power in heaven or hell would keep him from her.
His mind made up, Waverly set out in the direction from whence had come the sound of the bells. At length he came upon the ancient stone wall surrounding the convent of Sainte-Jeanne. He followed this for some distance until he reached the gate. Finding no one in attendance there, he gave three violent tugs to the bell pull, and when no one appeared in answer to his summons, he rattled the heavy iron gate until the clanging sound echoed off the flagstones of the cloister. A short, plump sister answered the call. Upon spying an elegant (if somewhat rumpled) gentleman seemingly trying to break down the gate, she launched into a flood of impassioned French, of which only one phrase was comprehensible: “But you are a man!”
“You are very perceptive,” replied Lord Waverly in the same language. “Now have the goodness to surrender my wife.”
The stout little nun fairly bristled with indignation. “C’est impossible, monsieur. The only women within the walls of Sainte-Jeanne are the brides of Jesus Christ!”
The earl’s eyebrows rose in inquiry. “Are you accusing Him of bigamy?”
“Ah! It is blasphemy!”
“Nonsense, Sister Martine.” A tall, serene woman entered Waverly’s field of vision. “And you, I think, must be Lord Waverly?”
“You know me?” said the earl, taken by surprise.
“Let us say that I have been expecting you—though not, I admit, quite so soon. Come in, s’il vous plaît.”
At a signal from her Mother Superior, Sister Martine unlocked the gate, albeit with obvious reluctance. Waverly stepped inside, relieved and yet suspicious at having been granted entrance with such apparent ease.
“And Lisette—?”
“Oui, monsieur, Madame Waverly is here. I believe you will find her in the chapel. Sister Martine will direct you there.”
Sister Martine gave him a look which betrayed her willingness to dispatch him to quite a different destination.
“I believe I can find my own way,” said the earl. His gaze swept the cloister and alighted on a tall building with stained glass windows in the form of pointed gothic arches. “Surely that must be it?”
“Oui, that is it, monsieur,” the Mother Superior conceded with a nod. “A fine example of fourteenth-century architecture, n‘est-ce pas? Be sure to notice the carving over the altar; it is quite remarkable.”
Waverly promised to do so, but he was quite uninterested in altars, carved or otherwise. He strode across the cloister, mounted the broad, shallow steps to the chapel, and went inside. The interior was dimly lit, and Waverly stood motionless just inside the door for a moment while his eyes adjusted to the change. The air smelled faintly of incense and burning candles. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting patterns of multicolored light onto the floor. Before the altar knelt a small figure dressed in the white robe and winged headdress of a novice.
“Lisette.”
“Milord!” She whirled to face him, eyes alight, but in an instant her transparent joy was replaced by a guarded expression. “Milord,” she said again, more restrained this time.
“I’ve come to take you home, Lisette.”
He approached the altar where she knelt and extended a hand to raise her to her feet. She allowed him to lift her up, but made no further move in his direction.
“Vraiment, milord, I do not know if I wish to go.”
Waverly, taken aback by this declaration, managed to inquire, “May I ask why not?” He had feared the Mother Superior would not permit her to leave; he had never even imagined that Lisette herself might prove unwilling.
“You already have my money; what further need can you have for me?”
Waverly’s gentle expression became thunderous. “Who told you such a thing?”
“Étienne told me you married me for my inheritance. Raoul said we were perhaps not truly married at all.”
“Raoul lied. Our marriage may have been irregular, but it was— and still is—perfectly legal.”
“And Étienne?” she asked, watching him closely. “Did he also lie when he said I was an heiress?”
“It is true that you are an heiress,” said the earl, choosing his words with care, “but as God is my witness, I did not know it until well after we were married.”
Seeing Lisette struggle with indecision, he possessed himself of her hands. “I will not deny that your fortune was a godsend, Lisette. But it was not the best thing that came from our marriage.”
“Non, milord?” She was still doubtful, but made no move to withdraw her hands.
“No, Lisette. Since I married you, I have learned to put another person’s welfare ahead of my own—at first because I was obliged to do so, but later because I wished it. You rescued me from a life of self-seeking debauchery. One might argue that you saved me from myself.”
Lisette snatched her hands out of his clasp and turned away. “And while I save your soul, Lady Hélène will warm your bed, oui?”
“Lisette!” exclaimed Lord Waverly, shocked at such forthright speech, and in such a place.
“You think I am too young to know of such things, but I am not.”
“It is true that I once desired marriage with Lady Helen. But she was obliged to marry money, and so she wed another. And I—” The earl took her by the shoulders and turned her to face him. “I removed to France, where I spent the next four years drinking myself into a stupor and brooding over my supposed injuries. Only recently have I realized that Lady Helen’s chief attraction lay in the fact that I could not have her. Once that obstacle was apparently removed, I discovered the lady had lost much of her appeal.”
“You—you no longer love her, milord?” Lisette asked.
“I do not think I ever truly did. That emotion, it seems, was reserved for a very different sort of lady—a very young lady whose innocence, though charming, has caused me more than a few anxious moments. I flattered myself that she needed me
. I did not realize just how desperately I needed her until I realized she had been taken from me.”
“Moi?” she breathed, hardly daring to hope.
“You, Lisette.”
Her dark eyes grew round with wonder, and her lips parted in an “O.” Lord Waverly, never one to let slip an opportunity, bent and covered her mouth with his own.
“Oh!” cried Lisette in recognition, when at last he released her. “You did kiss me that night at the Dorrington ball! I knew you did!”
“Yes, I did. And—be warned, ma petite!—if you return with me to England, I intend to do a great deal more than that.”
As the implications of this threat became clear, Lisette bestowed upon her husband a smile almost blinding in its brilliance, and indicated her approval by flinging herself into his arms.
Epilogue
How much a dunce that has been
sent to roam
Excels a dunce that has been kept at home!
WILLIAM COWPER,
The Progress of Error
London, 1841
Sir Ethan Brundy, M. P., stood at the edge of the ballroom and surveyed the festivities with a smile of satisfaction, lifting his champagne glass to his wife as she waltzed by in the arms of her brother, the Duke of Reddington. He had, he reflected, a great deal to be thankful for. He was still head over ears in love with the woman he had married in haste a quarter of a century earlier. Both his daughters had made advantageous marriages, and Emily would shortly make him a grandfather. Charles, the eldest of his twin sons, had inherited a modest property from his maternal grandfather, and had turned it into a profitable estate. Thirteen-year-old Benjamin Brundy (alas, even Mrs. Hutchins was not infallible) would be returning to Eton very shortly.
There remained only William, the younger of the twins, to bring a crease to his father’s brow. A childhood illness had necessitated Willie’s removal from school, so while Charlie set Eton on its ear, his brother was educated more quietly at home. He had eventually outgrown his tendency to sicken, but not without rather unfortunate results. One of these was that he was quite happy to remain buried in Lancashire, where he oversaw the operation of the cotton mill during Sir Ethan’s frequent trips to London. Indeed, it had taken no less an event than his parents’ twenty-fifth anniversary ball to lure Willie to London, and Sir Ethan suspected that even then his presence was due more to his reluctance to disappoint his mother than to any real desire to sample the delights of Society. As if to put this suspicion to the test, Sir Ethan glanced at the tall young man beside him.
“Would you like a partner, Willie? Miss Williamson is free, and she looks like she’s trying to catch your eye. Shall I introduce you?”
From his superior height, Willie Brundy surveyed the partnerless young ladies seated against the opposite wall. The lad had taken his height from his ducal forebears, but in all else—all else—he was the image of his father. Spying a predatory-looking redhead simpering at him from behind a lacy fan, he repressed a shudder.
“Good God, no!” he said emphatically. “In fact, I was thinking to make an early night of it. I’m setting out for ‘ome at first light.”
Even his doting papa could tell that Willie’s accent, which never raised an eyebrow in Lancashire, struck a jarring note in a London ballroom. Sir Ethan, hoping to spare his son much of the scorn that he had endured, had once engaged a tutor who assured him of his ability to rid the boy of this social impediment within a month. However, when it was discovered that his methods of instruction relied heavily on the frequent use of a razor strop, Sir Ethan had turned the fellow out on his ear. Willie’s accent remained.
“Your mama was ‘oping you’d stay on a bit,” Sir Ethan told his son. “It wouldn’t ‘urt you to ‘ave a bit of Town bronze, you know.”
“Per’aps not, but I don’t see that it would ‘elp me, either. A waste of time, if you ask me—”
But Sir Ethan did not ask him; in fact, his father was no longer attending him at all, his attention having been claimed by a late arrival.
“I trust you will forgive my tardiness,” drawled Lord Waverly. “A late dinner at my club, you know.”
“Of course,” replied Sir Ethan, accepting the earl’s handshake.
“How fortunate for me that the Brundys are such a generous lot! Was it only three weeks ago that your son was presenting mine with— what was it, now? Oh, yes! A black eye, I believe.”
Sir Ethan could not but grin at this reference to young Ben’s unscheduled holiday from Eton. “Per’aps Viscount Melling will remember in the future not to make unwanted observations on me boy’s lineage,” he suggested. “Speaking of boys, ‘ave you met me second son, Willie?”
Lord Waverly turned his attention to the younger man. “Not since he was in leading strings. I’m sorry to say that he has not improved with age: he still looks far too much like his father.”
“I say, Papa—!” exclaimed Willie, taken aback by this forthright speech.
“Let it go, Willie,” advised his father.
“By the bye, have you seen my wife? I promised to meet her here.”
“Aye, just a minute ago she was—” Sir Ethan scanned the ballroom once more. “There she is, beside the palm tree.”
The set had just ended, and as the violins fell silent, the dancers cleared the floor, giving the earl an unobstructed view of the opposite wall. Beside the palm tree, Lady Waverly sat talking to a dark-haired young lady in a pale pink gown whose bell-shaped skirt emphasized her slender waist. Even at eight-and-thirty, Lisette retained much of the gamine quality that had characterized her at seventeen—a quality also very much in evidence in the young lady who accompanied her.
“Ah, Lord Waverly,” said Lady Helen Brundy, retiring from the dance floor to join her spouse. “How lovely to see the two of you cry friends, at least for the occasion.”
“Lady Helen,” returned the earl, raising her gloved hand to his lips. “Always a pleasure. Tell me, has Lisette utterly given me up?”
“Not at all. William, come make your bow to Lady Waverly. You loved her when you were very small, but you will not remember that.”
But Willie Brundy offered no comment. Instead, he stared slack-jawed at the delicate beauty in pink seated beside Lisette. That young lady, as if feeling his eyes upon her, met his gaze across the width of the ballroom and, turning away, began to ply her fan vigorously.
“I say!” said Willie at last. “ ‘Oo is that?”
“ ‘That,’ as you put it, is Lord Waverly’s daughter Lady Eugénie.”
“That,” pronounced Willie with great deliberation, “is the lady I’m going to marry.”
Sir Ethan and the earl, staring at one another in mutual horror, made no reply.
Copyright © 2001 by Sheri Cobb South
Originally published by PrinnyWorld Press (0966800540)
Electronically published in 2009 by Belgrave House/Regency Reads
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No portion of this book may be reprinted in whole or in part, by printing, faxing, E-mail, copying electronically or by any other means without permission of the publisher. For more information, contact Belgrave House, 190 Belgrave Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94117-4228
http://www.RegencyReads.com
Electronic sales: [email protected]
This is a work of fiction. All names in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to any person living or dead is coincidental.
Table of Contents
FRENCH LEAVE
Sheri Cobb South
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Epilogue
e, Sherri Cobb South