"Have you seen such creatures, Mr. Sheffield?" Alice shifted her attention to him and Tristan knew his questions would have to wait until later. But Miss Dorsey would answer them as soon as the child was in bed.
"No. I have not ventured across the sea,” he answered. "However, I have caught fish larger than perch. The salmon in Scotland grow quite large.” Remembering an incident at the Wolverton country estate, he chuckled. "Though perch hold a fond place in my heart since the year I refer to as The Brothers' War.”
"The brothers’ war?" Clearly intrigued, Alice gave him her undivided attention. Tristan noticed that Miss Dorsey had also straightened in her seat and faced him with a curious expression.
"As boys, my brother and I were particularly competitive. I found him to be pompous and insufferably superior, and he considered me to be vastly inferior and disgustingly rude. I wanted to knock him down a peg, so I tormented him unmercifully and he retaliated in kind. Our father was unaware of most of our conflicts because we knew he wanted us to get along and were careful to engage in our challenges when he wasn't around.
One day, after he told me I stank of the gutter, I sneaked a bucket of perch into his room and hid them behind the wardrobe, inside the drawers, under the bed and in his favorite pair of boots. He found the fish in the boots the next day, but it was another week before anyone thought to search for more.” Tristan shook his head at the memory. "After Father took a switch to me for giving the maids extra work, he made me sleep in that room until the stink faded.”
That made Alice giggle and Miss Dorsey chuckle.
"Did your brother retaliate?"
"Yes, he did. A small tin box that I valued disappeared some weeks later. Of course, he denied taking it." Tristan realized too late that the story had led him down a path he'd not intended to take. The tin box had contained a folded drawing of his mother and a lock of her hair. It had been the only thing he'd brought with him to the Wolverton household. It lay snug in a drawer in his room even now.
Curiosity sparkled in Alice’s eyes and Tristan concluded, "Suffice it to say, I didn't believe him." He glanced at Miss Dorsey. "After some persuasion," He paused a wry grin spread across his face. "he returned the box."
With that, he stood and gathered their plates. He would be wise to avoid stories about his childhood. Though he and his brother had resolved their differences, so many of his memories centered on his rebellion against the people who saw him as inferior because of his low beginnings. That brief quiet moment following Alice's mention of her mother made it clear the child knew how different her life would once she was finally allowed to go home.
Tristan waited, curiosity barely suppressed, until Alice was in bed for the night and Miss Dorsey had taken a seat in front of the chessboard before asking, "Who is Beatrice?"
She raised her head sharply, clearly surprised at his tone. "My sister.”
"I thought you were the only survivor.”
"I am.” She met his gaze and he saw again that well of sorrow that had surfaced in the aftermath of her morning nightmare. "She died almost as soon as we arrived in England.”
"How did she die?"
JULIA FLINCHED. HOW did Beatrice die? Julia's memories of the time tended to scramble whenever that question rose in her own mind. She made herself swallow the flair of panic that rose like bile and made her throat ache.
When Cousin Renard had led them down the gangplank from the ship, she’d been terrified of the crowds of people bustling about in the growing dark. He’d found a lean-to shelter beside a narrow alley and told them to wait there while he arranged for a carriage to take them to his townhouse. She and Beatrice had believed themselves safe, but before he had returned, two foul smelling, bearded sailors had discovered them. Then all had been confusion and dizziness and shock.
“We were waiting for Cousin Renard who’d gone to get a carriage. I must have dozed, because the next thing I remember was Beatrice shouting frantically, yelling for me to run, then a sharp pain when I hit my head.” Or had someone hit her? Someone else had shouted—her cousin? The words made no sense, and darkness had overwhelmed her. The next thing she remembered was the scent of damp wool and the sensation of being carried.
“I remember nothing else until Cousin Renard put me in the carriage then left to search for Beatrice.”
Julia had waited for them to return, terrified of everyone who walked past the carriage and into the nearby tavern. The lively music and squeals of laughter from inside made her head throb and the ringing in her ears worsen. She huddled in the dark, too frightened to cry, chilled and shaking despite the woolen lap robe Renard had wrapped around her.
After an endless wait, Renard had climbed into the carriage and tapped the roof with his walking stick. Only then had he turned and told her Beatrice was dead. It had felt like Paris all over again. Maman, Papa, her brothers... now Beatrice. All dead.
She took a deep breath, the horror of the moment still vivid and gut wrenching, though so long ago. "I don’t know exactly what happened to her, Mr. Sheffield, but I know she tried to protect me and died for her effort.” Her voice shook. She met his gaze with defiance and declared, “That’s all that matters.”
Cousin Renard had never spoken of Beatrice, or any of her family, again once he’d made that terrible pronouncement. It was as though her other life had never been. She took her cue from him and never spoke of her childhood. She’d banished all memories of that time... Except for the nightmares. She never knew what would set them off, only that the dreams left her with a quivering stomach and throbbing headaches.
After so many years of avoiding all thought of that time, her heart released something tight and raw and forbidden. Images flooded through her in a kaleidoscope of memories. No single moment, but a burst of love and joy, and loss and sadness, all at once. It was as though she’d taken back a scrap of her life. Beatrice was gone. Maman and Papa were gone. As were her brothers. But they had once lived. They had once been happy.
Mr. Sheffield studied her for several seconds, then said, "I may not know if you are truly Summerfield's cousin, but I do believe you suffered the loss of someone you loved deeply. I am sorry for your pain.”
Julia saw compassion in his eyes and relaxed the tight clasp of her hands in her lap. She didn't know what to make of the man. He could flay one alive with a harsh look yet soothe as quickly with a smile or gentle word. He’d gone to considerable effort to prevent Alice from realizing he still held Julia prisoner and he appeared sincere when he apologized for what he deemed necessary actions.
She realized she trusted him, and believed he really did act on the behalf of both the crown and Lord Goodwin. But would he ever trust her?
CHAPTER 12
Julia slept better than she had since undertaking Alice’s care. She drifted awake, relaxed and at peace, ready to begin a new day. She shifted, and opened her eyes in shock when she realized her wrists and ankles were not bound as they’d been when she went to sleep. Her stomach lurched, and she lay still as she absorbed the fact that he’d touched her while she slept. Yesterday she’d decided she trusted him, but this tested that trust. What’s more, did this mean he trusted her?
She didn’t need to look over her shoulder to know Mr. Sheffield was not beside her on the bed. She sat up, then rose to check the door. The handle turned easily and a brief glance into the hall showed the Alice’s door was open. Voices drifted up the stairwell and confirmed that Mr. Sheffield and Alice were in the kitchen. She closed the door and dressed as best she could without anyone to assist her with the back lacings. Satisfied that she was decently covered, she descended the stairs.
When Julia entered the kitchen, she halted in amazement. A basket of eggs sat on the large worktable along with a jug of milk, two loaves of bread and a round of cheese. A haunch of ham showed signs of being sliced and the aroma of ham filled the air. She lifted her unbound hands and nodded toward the bounty of fresh foods. “Does this mean you’ve heard from your superior?"
&
nbsp; Tristan looked up from where he stoked the stove’s fire. "I arranged for him to send provisions after I confirmed where Alice was. When I have definitive answers I shall tell you.” He turned a slab of ham. “As to the other,” He glanced toward Alice who was playing with her doll and paid no attention, “The doors on the ground floor are secured, so you may move through the house at will.”
So, in other words, nothing had changed.
"I look forward to that moment,” she said sweetly.
She poured milk into a mug and handed it to Alice. "What is your superior’s name?"
"King George the Third.”
Julia clamped her mouth tightly, determined not to respond to his insolent answer. Instead, she began breaking the eggs into a bowl for their breakfast.
A small sound warned her before his breath tickled her ear, raising gooseflesh and making her jump. He leaned close and whispered, "Ravencliffe. The Foreign Office.”
She stepped away quickly, then turned to see him grin.
"Your ears turn red when you are angry, did you know?" he teased.
Julia stared at him, not sure if she should slap him for the familiarity or cover her ears in mortification. "I do not believe anyone has made me angry enough to do so in the past, Mr. Sheffield. You have proven yourself to be unique in my experience.”
"Why, thank you, Miss Dorsey,” he said with a sweeping bow and a wink at Alice, who watched with wide-eyed interest. "Everyone should be unique in some way... and being the first in your experience would be a true honor.”
Julia felt the heat spread from her ears to the rest of her body, and her eyes suddenly stung with shocked dismay. She had come to think of him as a gentleman she could trust. His innuendo was lost on the child, but not on her. Unable to face him, she turned back to the eggs.
Silence stretched as she worked.
"I apologize, Miss Dorsey,” he said at last. "I should not have teased you in that way. My comment was beneath both of us. I pray your forgiveness.”
Manners demanded she respond in kind, and Alice would not understand the boundaries his remark had crossed. "Of course, Mr. Sheffield. I am sure you did not intend disrespect.”
Liar.
TRISTAN WATCHED MISS Dorsey's stiff back as she whipped the bowl of eggs and called himself every type of fool. She wasn’t the type of female to be entertained by suggestive teasing. She'd been irritated at his flippant comeback when she asked who his supervisor was. Then, when he'd whispered Ravencliffe's name, she'd held her own, but he'd taken it a step too far.
Damn and blast! The hurt he'd seen in her expression before she flushed and turned away had been like a blow to the gut. He hadn't meant to treat her with disrespect. He needed to make it up to her.
Breakfast was a bit more subdued than the day before, but Alice appeared not to notice as both he and Miss Dorsey strove to respond to her chatter. When Alice told him about the embroidery sampler she had completed under Miss Dorsey's guidance he remembered that there might well be floss threads and hoops in the rooms his foster mother had used when she visited some years back. As soon as they finished breakfast, he led them to her sitting room.
The cupboard was locked and he did not know the location of the key. Undeterred, he asked Miss Dorsey for a hairpin. Working deftly, he used the pin to unlock the cupboard where there were, indeed, hoops, threads, handkerchief squares and needles.
"I thought you needed a key to open a lock,” Alice said as he worked.
"Normally, you do, and should,” Tristan agreed. "But it’s useful to know how to release a lock when the key is not available.”
"You speak from experience?" Miss Sheffield's voice held a note of condemnation and Tristan knew she'd not yet forgiven him his rude behavior.
"Yes, I do.” He reformed the pin and handed it back to her. "As a child I escaped several risky situations by picking locks.” He turned to Alice. "Would you like to learn?"
"Oh, yes!" Alice said. "I should like it very much.”
"Mr. Sheffield! You should not teach a child to pick locks! It is not –"
"Would you like to learn, too?"
She stopped and stared at him in surprise.
He kept his expression neutral. "You never know when some arrogant troublemaker may decide to lock you into a room against your will.”
He took great pleasure in watching her disapproval shift into reluctant amusement. "I believe I would, Mr. Sheffield.”
Alice worried her lip while she worked, then grinned when she succeeded in opening the cupboard door after just a few tries. Miss Dorsey caught on just as quickly. For the next hour they learned to shape and manipulate hairpins to lock and unlock the cupboard. When they succeeded in mastering the cupboard door, they moved on to picking the bedroom door lock. By the end of the morning, Miss Dorsey had lost her stiff distance and he felt she might have forgiven him his bad behavior.
After a meal of bread and cheese, they walked to the riverbank again. Alice made a game of hiding behind trees and jumping out at them. Tristan soon reversed the game, and before long, Alice begged to know how he managed to hide so effectively though he was so much larger than she.
"Oh, ho,” he laughed. "Time for troublemaker lesson number two – hiding in plain sight.” They might be safe for the moment, but once Ravencliffe contacted Lord Summerfield, others might well discover their whereabouts. Better safe than sorry. He glanced over and told Miss Dorsey, "Of course, I know how to spot people using these tricks, so remember that I shall not be fooled. However, when one's opponent does not expect to encounter such skills, they are quite effective.”
Alice quickly learned to freeze in place and how to fade into shadows, but she tended to giggle and give herself away. Miss Dorsey proved to be better at blending in to the surroundings than he would have liked. If she did try to use his lessons to escape, he would have the devil's own time to find her. Though he would. He only hoped she did not test her skills – or his.
HE AWOKE THE FOURTH day some time before dawn to find Miss Dorsey curled up against him, her head nestled on his chest. Her arm lay across his chest and her torso pressed intimately against his side. At some point the rolled quilt had flattened and she'd instinctively turned to him for warmth. An instinct that his body responded to with enthusiasm.
He carefully tried to ease her from his side, but her eyes opened, widened, and she rolled away with a gasp. "I—beg your pardon, Mr. Sheffield,” she whispered.
He turned onto his side and drew his knees up to disguise his condition until he could control it. "Under the circumstances, I think you might as well call me Tristan,” he said with a droll smile.
She kept her back to him, curled into a ball with only the tender flesh of her nape visible. "I believe it might be best if we maintain formality, Mr. Sheffield.”
"We are hardly living a formal life at the moment,” he countered. "It is time we accepted that. I shall call you Julia and you will call me Tristan.”
Later, while Julia measured oat grains for their breakfast, Tristan made another trip to the smokehouse in hopes that Ravencliffe would have sent word she was who she claimed to be.
To his great relief, the vent was open and the messenger bag hung from its peg. Tristan set the lamp on a stool and quickly pulled out the message inside. Scanning the contents, he heaved a sigh of thanks. Summerfield did have a French émigré cousin whom he'd rescued as a child.
He read further and frowned.
... I have this information from my mother. She remembers her as a young woman whose Season ended after the Barclay Ball some five years ago. Mother remembers that the girl became hysterical and created a scene when the crowd in the room overwhelmed her. Gossip said Summerfield sent her back to his country estate. She never returned to the city.
A hysterical scene? That did not fit his impression of the woman in the kitchen. Determined? Yes. Passionate in protecting the child? Yes. Hysterical? Never. Then he remembered the frantic thrashing when he'd wakened her from her nightmare
and paused. Perhaps.
I have sent to Summerfield for a description to be sure the woman you have in custody is the same person, though I have no reason to believe otherwise. Until the matter is fully settled, you are to keep them where they are. I shall inform you if matters change.
Respectfully yours, etc.
Ravencliffe
What to do, now? Did he continue to watch the woman's every move until the description removed all doubt? Her basic story had been verified, and his gut told him she was as innocent as she claimed. But was that enough? Tristan folded the message and returned it to the bag.
"Does your superior confirm the truth?"
Tristan spun around to see Julia in the doorway of the tunnel. The dim light revealed the irritated set of her mouth and that she stood with her arms crossed, her stance determined. He might well regret his lessons in stealth. He should have heard her before she reached the doorway.
"The oats are boiling, I take it.”
She did not answer, but merely stared, unblinking, at him.
He picked up the lantern and crossed to the doorway. "He confirms Summerfield has a cousin who fled France. He has yet to receive a description to verify that you are she.”
She had begun to relax her posture but stiffened again when he added the part about her description.
"He did not question my cousin?"
"He has sent word to Summerfield, but it was Ravencliffe's mother who remembered a female cousin.”
Julia blanched. He noted that a vein in her temple pulsed frantically though she remained otherwise unmoving for a moment. Finally, she took a breath and deep rose washed away her pallor. "I suppose it was futile to hope that time had erased the events of the Barclay ball from anyone's memory.”
So it was true. Tristan had no further doubts that she was indeed Summerfield's cousin. "I take it things did not go as you wished?"
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