by Louise Clark
Madeleine raised her brows at the bloodthirsty words, but Stephanie noted an identical pocket on her side of the carriage, and drew out a second pistol.
Madeleine gasped. "Stephanie! Put that away! You will hurt yourself should it accidentally fire!"
"There is no need to worry, Tante Madeleine." She was holding the weapon as competently as did Tony Baxter. "My Papa taught me how to shoot and look after a gun when I was just a little child. Vraiment, I feel much better, now that I have a weapon in my hand." Perhaps, she thought, that was why she had not screamed when the French soldier had opened the door of her coach on the road to Calais. Nestled in her pocket had been a tiny, but lethal handgun. Her fingers had stroked the weapon's cold, steel barrel while the man inspected her papers. He was alive today only because he had allowed her to continue on her journey.
"What else did your father teach you?" Tony asked. He had been relieved to see the spark of life return to Stephanie's eyes. Until they reached the outskirts of London and the danger was over, he wanted to keep her mind off the robbery and bleak memories of the revolution. Besides, he was interested. Stephanie de la Riviére was quite unlike any other young woman of his acquaintance.
"Oh, to ride a horse astride. To be foremost in the hunt. To fence."
Baxter grinned. "Do you fence well, Mademoiselle?"
"Not as well as I shoot," she replied cheerfully, her dark eyes twinkling. "I do not have the necessary strength in my wrist, you understand, to properly control an épeé for any length of time. And while I was with the nuns, I could not practice, of course."
"Of course," Tony murmured, his eyes alight with laughter.
"This is a most improper conversation," Madeleine said stringently.
Tony and Stephanie both laughed. "Yes, it is," Tony agreed. "But fascinating, don't you think, Aunt Madeleine?"
The Dowager ignored him. "Stephanie, you must not speak of this to anyone else, do you understand?"
"Mais oui, Tante Madeleine! I should never consider doing so. But Monsieur Baxter is family, is he not?"
Grinning, that gentleman leaned back in his seat. "Better call me Tony then," he said.
* * *
The robbery was the main topic of conversation amongst the staff at Wroxton House the next day, and inevitably, Nicholas learned of the event. He turned to his aunt for the details. What she described made him tighten his lips in anger, but there was nothing he could do beyond reassuring her that this was an isolated incident not likely to be repeated.
Madeleine was easily convinced, but Stephanie could not be comforted so easily. She acknowledged the truth of the Earl's observation, but it was not her security in England that concerned her; it was her father's in France. She compared the gay, heedless life she was living with her dear Tante Madeleine to the luxurious, but dangerous atmosphere her father existed in at court and reproached herself with the differences. Her brooding dampened her usual vivacity, driving the spring from her step and the sparkle from her dark eyes.
Nicholas discovered that he much preferred to cope with Stephanie's most fiery outburst than to watch her listlessly trail through her daily activities. On the second morning after the robbery, he observed her covertly as she wandered into the dining room wearing a chemise gown of subdued blue-gray lustring that was definite testimony to her state of mind, but nonetheless extremely attractive with her coloring. Before she sat down, she absently selected a slice of toast, a vastly different choice from her usual breakfast fare.
He waited until the footman had poured her coffee before waving the servant from the room. He had decided it was time to draw Stephanie out, or risk having the incident leave an indelible mark on her. He was ruefully aware that to speak of the robbery would be helpful to both of them, for he was suffering from acute remorse. On that particular evening, he had remained in London in order to follow St. Luc to a cockfight. Though intellectually he understood that he could have done nothing more than had Tony Baxter, still he wondered if his presence might have changed the outcome. At the very least, he would have been able to help Stephanie deal with the memories the robbery had roused.
Stephanie glanced at him in surprise when he gestured the footman from the room. Though they usually breakfasted without the Dowager Countess to provide propriety, there was always a servant present to ensure they were not truly alone. The Earl's dismissal of the footman piqued the curiosity lying temporarily dormant and made her aware of how very attractive he was, with only a silver damask waistcoat covering the fine lawn of his shirt. Moreover, as the servant closed the door behind him, she was deeply conscious that they would not be disturbed, no matter what should happen. The Earl was seated across the table from her, and if she reached out and touched him, he would be warm, solid and very male.
"Milord," she said, her voice shaking a little, "is this wise?"
His lips turned up at the corners in a rueful smile. "Perhaps, perhaps not. Mademoiselle, I cannot continue to watch you torture yourself with recriminations. The robbery the other night was an isolated incident and I can promise you it will not recur. The next time you travel outside of London, I have ordered that armed outriders accompany the coach. You need not fear that your safety will be compromised again."
Stephanie fiddled with her cup. "You are very kind," she said in a low voice.
"But I have done nothing to chase away your dismal mood."
"I fear it is not so simple," she said, smiling faintly. "The robbery was unpleasant, yes. I was frightened and I was furious that I had to surrender my pearls to that filthy peasant, but that is not what troubles me now."
"It is memories of the dangers you faced in escaping from France that disturb you," Nicholas said carefully, having been alerted to this by Madeleine.
"No... yes." Stephanie hesitated; then tried to explain. "It is true that the robbery made me think again of France. When my Papa sent me here, there was danger in a woman of quality traveling without a male protector. So, I dressed as a young man of the bourgeoisie, and I was allowed to pass when my coach was stopped, for I had all of the proper papers. But I know that had circumstances been different... If my papers had said I was Stephanie de la Riviére, not Stephan Montaigne, my fate would have been different. And now, the situation in France becomes more dangerous every day for the King and those surrounding him. I worry about my Papa. How will he escape from France when the time comes?"
Nicholas did not doubt that Stephanie's description of the dangers she had faced was accurate. Or that her father's position was precarious. He doubted, however, whether the Marquis de Mont Royale would ever willingly abandon his master. If the revolution turned more violent than it had been to date, Mont Royale could indeed be swallowed up in its wrath. But he would never leave France in order to save his skin. It was not in the man's nature—which meant that Stephanie was tormenting herself with a dream that could never come true. Yet, if she was able to draw some sort of comfort from the idea, was it right for him to disillusion her?
Nicholas had no idea what the Marquis de Mont Royale would want for his daughter, but he knew how he would feel, separated from one he loved by circumstances he could not control. He would want to know that Stephanie's lovely slanting eyes were sparkling with laughter, or dancing with mischief, not dark with anguish, as they were now.
But how to bring the animation back into her eyes when he was powerless to influence the events that meant so much to her?
Rising, he moved beside her to catch her hands in his and draw her to her feet. The urge to touch her cheek was strong, and smiling whimsically, he gave in to it. The feather-light touch became a caress as he gently stroked his thumb along the dark shadows beneath her eyes. "Mademoiselle, I do not know the thoughts that were in your father's mind when he sent you away, but I am certain he did what he believed was best, for both of you. He would not wish to see you distraught over his future. He would want you to enjoy yourself here in England. He would want you to be happy."
Stephanie gazed up
into the clear blue of the Earl's eyes and knew without a single doubt that he desired to console her. His thoughtfulness eased some of the pain, but it was not enough to eradicate her deep-rooted dread of her father's fate. "How can I be happy, milord, when my home is in turmoil? When my dearest Papa remains in the midst of the chaos? You do not know what you ask. How can you? Your land is so peaceful that a mere highway robbery causes consternation! You live on your rich estates with no fear that your people will suddenly rise up against you. You do not understand the distrust, the treachery, the violence that is France! How can you? But I do, and I cannot bear to think of my Papa trapped there, without a hope of escape."
Unable to admit that he, too, had experienced the threatening atmosphere now found everywhere in France, Nicholas searched for words that would ease her heartache. "Stephanie, I may not understand the pain you feel, but speaking as a man, I would want to know that my loved ones were safe if I were in a dangerous situation I could not control or predict. To send you away would break my heart, but to know that my concern for your safety had been misunderstood would haunt me to my dying day."
For a moment, Stephanie held his gaze, then she looked down, shuttering her feelings beneath her half-closed eyelids. "Your words are kind, milord, and I shall remember them, but—" She stepped back, away from his seductive caress, away from the comfort of his concern, from the strength he offered so freely. She looked up, her expression candid. "I cannot abandon my Papa to a fate that terrifies me. I believe that one day he will want to leave France, and when that day comes, I must be ready to help him. I can do nothing else."
As she turned to go, she paused. Looking back, she smiled. "I will not forget that your concern was for me, milord. It is a memory I will cherish."
* * *
Nicholas's attempt to raise Stephanie's spirits was more successful than he imagined. The helplessness that had held her captive since the robbery was chased away by the tender intimacy of their morning together. It was as if he had been able to revitalize her with his words and his compassion. He had shown her that in a world turned on its edge, there could still be balance. That in England, it would be possible for her to create a life every bit as loving as the one she had left behind. But France still lay just beyond the choppy waters of the Channel, and in France lay her past and her present. Until she had dealt with that, she could not begin again.
She made plans to convert into gold the jewels her father had sent with her. As she had never attempted to organize such a thing, she acknowledged that she would need someone, preferably a man, to act as her agent in the transaction. The man would need to have few scruples, and would also have to be familiar with the less savory aspects of life. Remembering the sordid incident at the Duchesse d'Arden's ball, Stephanie thought the Vicomte de St. Luc might be exactly the sort of man she required, provided she showed him from the beginning that she intended to remain in control of the operation.
And so, when next she saw the Vicomte, she piqued his interest with a cryptic request that they meet privately in a place and at a time where they would not be disturbed.
She chose a drizzly March night long after midnight in a part of Hyde Park they both knew well. The area was lit by a lantern, but inevitably there were shadows. Stephanie, who had arrived early at the rendezvous, stayed just outside the pool of light. As she waited for the Vicomte to arrive, her hand was firm on the reins of the restive bay gelding she was riding. She was dressed in a way that would have given her fond godmother heart palpitations if Madeleine had chanced to see her. An enveloping cloak hid most of her form, but there could be no doubt that she had donned the dark, plain man's suit she had worn during her escape from France. Moreover, the hand that held the restive bay steady controlled a horse she was riding astride. Stephanie wanted the Vicomte to realize that she would not welcome the sort of advance he had made on the Duchesse's terrace. However, in case the man did become difficult, her free hand was even now wrapped around the butt of the small pistol she had carried in France.
Beneath the shading brim of her hat, she frowned as she watched the puddle of light given off by the lantern. She had been waiting a good twenty minutes or more, but St. Luc had not shown up. She would give him another few minutes, she decided, her temper beginning to rise. If he had not arrived by then, she would leave. And then have to find other ways of selling her jewels. She resisted the urge to sigh. Damn the man, where was he?
Water dripped off the brim of her hat and down the back of her collar. Stephanie reluctantly turned the bay's head. So be it. The Vicomte would not be coming tonight. She urged the horse into movement.
Her departure took her into the pool of light and, as she was momentarily exposed, there was a sudden explosion of movement nearby. The bay shied, capturing Stephanie's attention for an instant. When she looked up again, the Vicomte hovered on the opposite edge of the light.
"Bonsoir, Mademoiselle," he said urbanely, apparently unperturbed that the brim of his high crowned beaver hat dripped with rain and that his many-caped greatcoat drooped with the dampness.
Stephanie, feeling disadvantaged, said crossly, "How long have you been here?"
He laughed. "Long enough. You are cautious, Mademoiselle. I commend you."
"Bah!" Stephanie said, disgust in her voice. "You pick a miserable night to play tricks, Monsieur le Vicomte. Let us do our business and have done with it."
"An excellent suggestion." He edged his horse closer, so that she could see the olive green of his coat and the yellow of his waistcoat beneath the folds of his outer garment. "If only I knew exactly what that business was."
Stephanie resisted the urge to back away. Now that she was here with the Vicomte, she had reservations. Was she doing the right thing in selling the jewels her father had purchased? Could there be another way to achieve her ends? She shook the doubts away. She had chosen her path. She would follow it.
"I have some jewels I would like to sell."
"You bring us both out into this dreary English rain for that! I had thought you were plotting the King's successful escape from France, at the very least!" Though his tone was disgusted, Stephanie did not miss the way he had straightened. For some reason, she was irresistibly reminded of a hunting dog aroused by the scent of prey, but waiting for the command to give chase.
"I am not interested in the fate of the King, but I do have certain... schemes... in mind, Monsieur. The money I raise from the sale of my precious inheritance will not be wasted, I assure you."
The Vicomte's hand tightened on the bridle. His mount tossed its head, the only evidence of the excitement Stephanie's words had roused in its rider. A smile curled his mouth that was faintly patronizing and completely smug. "Mademoiselle is a most resourceful woman. Why should she wish to enlist my meager assistance in her plot?"
"A lady cannot be seen coming and going from the sort of establishment that purchases precious jewelry." She shifted in the saddle. Was it her imagination, or had St. Luc edged his mount a trifle closer?
"Mademoiselle must be very sure of the man she allows to help her with this endeavor. He must be trustworthy and totally committed to her cause." The mockery in the Vicomte's voice could not be missed. Stephanie swallowed her anger and slipped her hand beneath the cloak, into the pocket of her coat. Smoothly she drew out the tiny, lethal handgun.
"You are quite correct, Monsieur de St. Luc. And I am very sure. The man I have selected knows better than most why a Frenchwoman would have need of funds and he will, I believe, sympathize with my desires. I will, of course, see that he is rewarded handsomely with a portion of the proceeds."
The Vicomte's expression tightened. "Mademoiselle, I am at your service."
"Monsieur, I am honored. I would like to do this as quickly as possible. I have no engagements on the afternoon of Wednesday next. Would that be too soon for you to make whatever arrangements you must?"
Still eyeing the weapon in Stephanie's hand, the Vicomte muttered, "Two days. Yes, I think I will be a
ble to accommodate that schedule."
"Excellent. We will meet here at... three hours past noon, shall we say?"
The Vicomte swept her an elegant bow. "It will be my pleasure, Mademoiselle."
Stephanie turned her horse and cantered away without a reply. St. Luc stared after her, hate burning from his soulless eyes.
* * *
There was a clatter of hooves on the cobblestones in front of Wroxton House. A footman in crimson and white livery, carrying an umbrella, rushed out of the house to greet his master. Another followed to lead the streaming gray stallion to the stable. The Earl, whose overcoat was very wet, paused gratefully under the cover of the umbrella to tell the footman holding the gray that the horse had been galloped hard and would need to be properly cooled out. He added that the servants were not to mention his late arrival to anyone. Then he ran up the stairs to the open front door, so quickly that the footman holding the umbrella had difficulty keeping up.
Inside the house Nicholas gave over his sodden hat and coat to the same footman, but instead of going directly into the library, as was his custom when he returned home late, he paused in the hall, thoughtfully inspecting first one room and then the next as he shook out the ruffles at the cuffs of his slate gray coat and straightened his powder blue waistcoat.
Finally he nodded and a slight smile curled his firm lips. Only then did he follow his usual custom and go to the library.
There was a fire lit in the gate and Nicholas paused there, warming his cold fingers as he waited in the darkness for Stephanie's arrival. St. Luc had not been the only one hiding in the shadows this wet March evening. Unbeknownst to the Vicomte, Nicholas had followed him to that lonely spot in the park from the inn where he had dined. Until Stephanie's arrival, it had seemed to Nicholas that his job would soon be over, for he was sure St. Luc was meeting one or another of his accomplices—either to supply information that was to go to France, or to acquire it from some disloyal Englishman.