Duvall’s sallow skin flushed an unhealthy orange. “I never said I did not like Miss Addams,” he corrected rapidly. “It’s just that we get along so well, the master and me, and I do not look forward to a petticoat household.”
Jeremy nodded his understanding. “Nothin’ worse than wimmen. Always wantin’ ter be boss, an’ all. But Miss Addams is straight up. Yer won’t get no trouble from ’er, iffen yer can learn ter keep yer yapper shut.”
Duvall hopped to his feet, not knowing if he was angry with Jeremy, who couldn’t see the handwriting on the wall, or with himself, for being dull-witted enough to think the simpleton would understand his problems. He and Pierre made a good team, and had done so for years. A woman would ruin everything; probably even want a gaggle of children about, drooling on his master’s spotless waistcoat. “Va te faire cuire un oeuf!” he spat in Gallic fury, turning away before he did Jeremy an injury.
“Huh?” the boy questioned blankly as he righted the stool Duvall had kicked over in his fury.
Duvall turned back to level Jeremy with a look that brooked no argument. “You know nothing, less than nothing! I said for you to go cook yourself an egg!” Then he stormed out of the workroom to nurse his present and anticipated wounds in the privacy of his small sanctum located behind Pierre’s dressing room.
Jeremy scratched the side of his head. Cook himself an egg? He sighed, feeling slightly sad in spite of himself. It was obvious the valet was slipping round the bend. If he, Jeremy Holloway, wished to remain under the man’s tutelage, and in the house—where there was not a bit of horse manure to be found, let alone shoveled into piles—he had better be extra nice to him, for the man’s mind was about to snap. He set down the half-polished boot and headed for the kitchens, intent on boiling a fresh egg.
LADY WICKFORD KNOCKED softly on the door, then lifted the latch and poked her head inside the room, peeking toward the bed that stood in the shadows at the far side of the chamber. “Caroline?” she questioned in a loud whisper. “Are you awake?”
Caroline, who had been awake for hours, remained very still, hoping her visitor would take the hint and go away. She was not up to facing the countess. She was not up to facing anyone. She just wanted to lie there, in the darkness, until everyone forgot about her.
Her eyes tightly closed, she sensed rather than saw Victoria beside her bed. “Caroline? It’s past noon. Surely you should be hungry?”
Sighing, Caroline turned her head in Victoria’s direction, still refusing to open her eyes. “I am never going to eat again,” she vowed quietly but firmly.
Victoria laughed, pulling up a small chair so that she could make herself comfortable. “Pierre does have that effect at times, doesn’t he?” she remarked kindly. “It is Pierre you are hiding from, isn’t it? He’s a difficult man to understand, I know, but he cares very deeply for you, although I’m sure you don’t believe me.”
Caroline opened her eyes and looked up at Victoria. “You’re right. I don’t believe you.”
Victoria settled back in her chair, arranging her skirts over her knees. “Then I imagine you wouldn’t be interested in hearing how Pierre behaved when he was told that you had suffered an accident. Pity,” she said, sighing. “It was quite a remarkable reaction from a man who has made it a rule never to react to anything. Ah, you’re sitting up. Wonderful. Perhaps you will decide to have a small meal?”
Caroline ignored this second offer of food, her entire attention directed to Victoria’s hint that Pierre had been worried about her. “What did he do?” she asked curiously, leaning toward her visitor. “Was he truly upset? I remember you saying something about it being Pierre who carried me here—and he held my hand, didn’t he? I didn’t dream it all, I’m convinced of that.”
Victoria used the tip of her index finger to push her spectacles more firmly onto the bridge of her nose. She was enjoying herself, and only wished her dearest Patrick could be here as well, to share in the fun. “Pierre was distraught from the moment he heard the terrible news until you finally awoke, Caroline. He was totally unhinged. He bellowed at the doctor—at all of us—and threatened anyone who came close to you with bodily harm, caring for you himself.” She lifted her chin, smiling at the memory. “It was wonderful to see. I always wondered if Pierre were human, and now I know that he is. I should have known it would take a woman to bring a man such as he fully to life.”
Caroline reached out a hand, found Victoria’s, and squeezed it hard. “Thank you, my friend,” she said, blinking away tears. “I needed to hear that. He confuses me so, you understand,” she admitted, “kissing me one moment and treating me as if I were an annoying rash the next. I never know where I stand with him, or what he wants of me.”
“Kissing you?” Victoria repeated interestedly. “He hasn’t—”
Caroline shook her head vehemently. “No, no! Of course not! Pierre would never—that is, I wouldn’t allow—not that he tried to—”
Victoria waved her hands, signaling her understanding. “I didn’t think so, my dear, but as a married woman, and supposedly conventional, I had to ask. I remember Patrick—” She hesitated, intent on a memory of her own courtship. “But Pierre is an honorable man,” she ended firmly. “If he has kissed you, you and he are as good as affianced.”
Now Caroline’s tears came in earnest, for there was nothing she would love more than to be married to Pierre. She loved him, infuriating, secretive despot that he was, and she could almost believe he loved her, too, in his own way. But whom did he love? She was a nameless nobody, and as if that in itself were not enough, somebody was trying to kill her. What sort of future could the two of them have with such a terrible cloud hanging over their heads?
It was impossible, and so she told Victoria, who listened politely and then replied in her most officious tone: “Poppycock! Pierre would never let anyone hurt you, so that is one problem as good as solved, although I will admit you had a close call yesterday. I believe Pierre spent most of last night kicking himself for that, so he will be twice as protective from this point on, until the person or persons who wish you harm are unearthed and punished.”
“And my memory?” Caroline questioned, Victoria’s matter-of-fact solutions amazing her. “Can you solve that problem so easily as well?”
“Your memory will return any day now, as I have read extensively on just this sort of phenomenon, and your chances of a full recovery are extremely high. I am not one who puts much credence in prophecy, but I do believe I am in this case allowed to say with full conviction that you and Pierre will then marry and remove to London, where you will become the darling of Society and Pierre will astonish all who know him by doting on you night and day.”
Caroline shook her head. “You make it all sound so simple. You’ve really read about cases like mine?” she asked, this part of Victoria’s conversation completely penetrating her brain. She looked closely at the woman, noting once more the wire-rimmed spectacles and the sharp intelligence lurking behind them. “Are you a bluestocking, Victoria?”
“I was,” she told her, winking. “I’ve retired from all that now, content to be a wife and, if my sudden aversion to my morning chocolate is any indication of my condition, soon to be a mother. If you don’t mind my saying so, I believe you might be just a tad blue yourself, Caroline. You’re certainly no featherheaded miss, even if Pierre tells me your education must have come at the hands of a person who didn’t mind his speech in front of you.”
After congratulating Victoria most sincerely, and thanking her for traveling by coach to come to Pierre’s aid while in her delicate condition, Caroline broached a subject she had been longing to discuss with someone. “Last night, when everyone was talking above my head, I thought that they were as loud as the pieman calling outside my window. Piemen don’t hawk their wares in the country, do they? It must mean that I have lived in London.”
Nodding, Victoria added, “Or some other town of reasonable size. I told you that you were quick. Another young woman
wouldn’t have realized that the pieman was a valuable clue. Let me ring for a tray before you tell me what else you have discovered.”
PIERRE SAT BEHIND his father’s desk, the fingertips of his right hand rhythmically drumming on the tabletop. It had been too close, this last attack. He had been cutting it too fine, trying to play his cards closely to his vest and not allowing anyone else in on his plans. His secrecy had cost him, and Caroline. He couldn’t make another mistake.
He stopped his drumming to open the top drawer of the desk and remove the letter he had received from his father more than a week earlier. Unfolding the single sheet, he read over the missive, nodding his silent agreement with his father’s conclusions, then shaking his head as he reread the last line.
“No, Father, I’m afraid I cannot do that any longer,” he said aloud. “I cannot wait for your return before putting an end to this nonsense. It has proved too dangerous.” He refolded the paper and replaced it in the drawer, then rose to stare out the window overlooking the gardens.
How long he stood there he didn’t know, but when he turned around once more it was to see his father standing before him, still dressed in his traveling cape and hat.
“Good afternoon, my son,” André said by way of greeting, still in the process of stripping off his gloves. “You look like the very devil, if I might say so without fear of being tossed out of my own home on my ear.”
“Good afternoon, Father,” Pierre returned calmly, automatically concealing any shock André’s sudden reappearance might have caused. He hadn’t heard a carriage draw up, or been aware of any commotion in the foyer. “You’ve had a pleasant journey, I trust.”
“Yes, indeed,” André agreed. “I had quite forgotten the myriad joys of traveling about the countryside by coach, making do with post-horses, sleeping between damp linen, and picking at indifferent meals. You may kiss me if you wish, although I’d rather you didn’t, as displays of affection can be so wearing. How fares our Miss Addams?”
Pierre averted his eyes from his father’s penetrating stare, preferring to cross to the drinks table and pour them each a small glass of wine. “She had a small accident with her horse yesterday,” he told him as he handed over one of the glasses. “The saddle cinch had been shaved.” Lifting his own drink to his lips, he drained the liquid in one swallow and then hurled the glass into the cold fireplace. “Playtime’s over, Father.”
“She will recover.” André stated, didn’t question, for he already knew the answer. If any permanent harm had come to Caroline, Pierre would have had his head by now and not just contented himself with destroying a fine piece of French crystal. “Forgive me, my son. It now seems I sadly underestimated our adversaries, and led you to do likewise. They appear to be more than mere bumbling nuisances. We have no more time to hope for Caroline to recover her memory on her own.”
He stripped off his hat and cloak and flung them carelessly onto a nearby chair in preparation of getting down to business. “May I presume that the Merrydell is still walking among us, or have you got her hanging by her thumbs in the cellars?”
Pierre shot his father a piercing look. “She and the son met for a heated conference this morning among the trees at the bottom of the gardens, but she’s back in the house now. I’ve given orders that she is to be watched at all times and is not allowed to see Caroline alone. I think she’ll try poison next, if she listens to her son, whom she seems alternately to adore and detest. I only wish I could have overheard all of their conversation, as I cannot yet fathom how they plan to handle identifying Caroline’s body and claiming the money. After all, Mrs. Merrydell certainly can’t suddenly pretend she has recognized her ward, can she? I have to own it, Father, the woman is beginning to get on my nerves.”
“Yes. I had noticed that.” André retired to the chair behind his desk and sat down, steepling his fingers as he leaned his elbows on the desktop. “She’s not suspicious?”
Pierre shook his head derisively. “Our dear Mrs. Merrydell is too sure of herself, too single-minded in her mission, to be suspicious, although we cannot rely on her overweening stupidity for much longer.” He walked over to the desk and perched on one corner. “Must I beg, Father, or are you going to tell me who Caroline really is? Surely you know by now. You seem to know everything else.”
“Tsk, tsk, Pierre,” André could not refrain from teasing. “It isn’t like you to be so precipitate. I do believe I like it. Your Good Deed has been all that I could have hoped. I think I’ll just toddle upstairs to thank her personally. I wouldn’t wish to be rude, you understand. And then there’s dear Lady Wickford. I should be very shabby indeed if I didn’t clean up my dirt and present her my compliments as soon as may be.” He rose, placing his palms on the desktop. “You will excuse me, Pierre, won’t you?”
“I’d have a lesser man’s heart for a paperweight,” Pierre returned cheerfully enough, “but I’ll allow you to play out your string as long as it pleases you, Father, with only a word of caution. My patience grows thin.”
André leaned across the desk to tap his son on the cheek. “Humility. That’s the ticket, mon fils. You’ve come a long way. Now, what say we dispense with these melodramatic displays of affection so that I might retire to change before we visit the ladies. Victoria is with her, I imagine, standing guard?
Pierre bowed his head, silently counting to ten. He had earned this, he knew, all this and more, for having doubted his father, for having doubted his mother’s constant love. But, oh, how it hurt to have to stand back and let the older man call all the moves. Yet, if it had been left to him he would have done much the same, right up until the moment he knew his heart to be committed.
Now, the moves, the strategies, the thrill of the hunt, seemed no more than childish games, and more than a little dangerous. At last he understood why Patrick Sherbourne had seen so little humor in Victoria’s quest to find Quennel Quinton’s murderer.
When love enters the picture, the thrill of the game flies directly out the window.
“Coming, Father,” Pierre heard himself saying dutifully, just as Jeremy Holloway erupted into the room without bothering to knock.
“Guv’nor! Guv’nor! She put somethin’ in the tea. Oi wuz boilin’ an egg, jist like Frenchie said ter do—’es so tip-top, knowin’ just wot Oi should do—an’ Oi seen ’er plain wit m’ daylights, that bracket-faced bubby, sneakin’ sumthin’ inter missy’s teapot. Oi came right ’ere, jist like yer said ter do, ter tell yer. Yer coulda knocked me flat—that Frenchie is fly!” Catching his breath, Jeremy turned to see André Standish in the room and quickly tugged at his nonexistent forelock. “Oh, ’ello there, Whitey. Oi didn’t ’ear yer wuz back.”
“My lapse entirely, young man,” André confessed dryly. “Henceforth I shall make it clear you are to be informed of all my arrivals and departures. But for now, with your kind permission and with heartfelt thanks for your keen eyesight and steadfast loyalty, I find that I have matters to which I must attend.”
Jeremy gave a negligent wave of his hand. “Be m’ guest, Whitey. Oi gots ter get back ter m’ egg anyways.”
Pierre and his father exchanged gazes, then both walked rapidly toward the stairs.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THEY ENTERED the chamber without knocking, two perfectly dressed gentlemen whose physical presence displayed the best of their generations, from the understated elegance of their well-cut clothing, to the athletic healthfulness of their bodies, to the light of intelligence that burned so brightly in their dark eyes.
Once more Caroline was struck by their close physical resemblance: André, who proved that a gentleman can age without losing one iota of his attractiveness, and Pierre, who was enjoying the full flower of his manhood. But more than their physical likenesses, Caroline was once again aware of the uncanny, silent communication they shared.
Pierre had taken no more than three steps into the room before he saw Victoria standing to one side of Caroline’s bed, neatly pouring the contents of a fu
ll china teapot into the base of a large potted plant. As he turned to André, who had also seen Victoria, the two men visibly relaxed, their bodies unknowingly mimicking each other in the way they immediately became more slack of shoulder, less aggressive in their step; their dark eyes became instantly shuttered, their entire posture changing from controlled haste to smiling congeniality, radiating a mood of ease and even slight boredom.
“Good day, ladies,” André said, stopping just short of the bed where Caroline rested, a half-dozen pillows propped at her back. He bowed from the waist. “Please excuse our precipitate entrance, my dears, but I was so overcome with eagerness to see both you dear people again that I completely misplaced my good manners. Victoria, you are positively glowing. May I presume that you are planning to present dearest Patrick with a token of your affection, as we so politely phrase it? Caroline, you naughty puss, I hear you have taken a tumble. Shall we have to relegate you to using my late wife’s dogcart?”
Caroline, recovering from her momentary awe, mumbled a curt welcome, then narrowed her eyes and looked past André to where Pierre stood, idly inspecting one lace shirtcuff, and announced baldly, “Mrs. Merrydell brought me tea and Victoria dumped it on a plant, which I do believe is already showing signs of wilting. I know that ladies in my new friend’s delicate condition are at times prone to eccentricities, but I doubt this is one of them. Would you care to offer me an explanation, Pierre, or am I going to be forced to draw my own conclusions?”
“A flush hit, I’d say,” André remarked, looking at his son.
“There’s nothing wrong with her eyesight,” Victoria slipped in, sitting down once more and replacing the empty teapot on the silver tray Mrs. Merrydell had delivered. “And hello to you, dearest André. You look fine as ninepence, even in your traveling clothes.”
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