Velvet Embrace

by Nicole Jordan

  "But it is a forgery! I signed no warrant—"

  The captain cut her off, not giving her a chance to explain the part her father had played. "It is obvious that you are disturbed, mademoiselle. When you come to your senses, I am sure you will remember making the charges. Corporal, escort this man to his horse."

  "No!" she said desperately. "I won't let you take him!" She threw herself at the captain, clinging to his arms while his soldiers looked on in astonishment.

  The captain fell back several steps, swearing. When at last he gathered his scattered wits, he seized Suzanne by the arms and flung her to the ground.

  She lay there a moment, sobbing, then raised a tear-streaked face to the comte. "I had nothing to do with it," she whispered hoarsely. "Please, you must believe me."

  Philippe Serrault only stared down at her, his dark eyes void of expression. "It is of little consequence now, mademoiselle," he said tonelessly. Then his gaze swung to the captain. "Shall we go, monsieur?"

  Suzanne wanted to beg, to plead, but she realized her entreaties would be useless. She watched helplessly as the comte was escorted to a waiting horse.

  He went without protest. When he was mounted, however ,a child's anguished cry made the comte glance over his shoulder. At the top of the steps, a very young boy was struggling wildly in the arms of a servant.

  "Dominic," the comte murmured, giving a last, lingering look at his son. But he spared not a glance for the young woman who lay huddled and grieving on the ground as he was borne away by the soldiers.

  Chapter One

  England, 1818

  Brie Carringdon clenched her teeth as she struggled with the stopper to the medicine bottle. When it wouldn't budge, she pushed a russet curl back from her forehead in exasperation. How, when she was capable of running the finest training stable in the country, had she managed to get herself in such a situation? It was nearly midnight, she was stranded three miles from home at a gentleman's hunting box, a snowstorm was raging outside, and the two elderly patients she had volunteered to care for were being more provoking than even invalids had a right to be.

  Brie tackled the bottle again, trying to see the humor in her situation. She most definitely did not belong in a sickroom. She had neither the necessary patience nor the skill. But she would not be defeated by a medicine bottle!

  Wrapping a fold of her brown kerseymere gown around the stopper for leverage, Brie tugged and twisted and at last succeeded. When the bottle was open, she wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant fumes. The medicine could have been poison for all she knew, but it had been prescribed by the doctor with orders to be administered regularly.

  Carefully, Brie measured out a spoonful of the foul-smelling potion, then sat beside the plump, gray-haired woman on the bed. "Please, Mattie," she urged, managing somehow to keep frustration out of her tone. "You must swallow a little of this."

  Mattie Dawson coughed fitfully as she huddled beneath a mound of blankets. "My chest hurts," she complained in a rasping voice.

  "I know, my dear, but this medicine is supposed to make you better."

  "''Twill kill her, like as not," Mattie's husband muttered as he watched. Brie had arranged a cot for Homer beside the bed so that Mattie could rest more comfortably. He was lying on the cot with the covers pulled up to his chin, grumbling as he had been all evening. "Blamed doctors don't know anything. All charlatans, every last one of 'em."

  Brie's blue-green eyes narrowed as she glanced down at Homer. He was the very opposite of his wife—tall, gaunt, and as cantankerous as a rusty hinge. He had always treated Brie with far more familiarity than was proper for a servant toward the daughter of a baronet, but since he had known her for the entire twenty-three years of her life, she was inclined to make allowances, especially now when he was suffering from such a severe head cold.

  He looked a little absurd at the moment, Brie thought, with his grizzled hair sticking out from beneath his nightcap and his nose red and swollen. Realizing how miserable he must feel, though, she felt a twinge of sympathy. She herself was rarely ill. And in spite of her current annoyance, Brie was extremely fond of both Homer and Mattie. The couple had been in her parents' service, then hers, for more than twenty years before becoming caretakers at the Lodge. Brie had in fact been the one to recommend them for the prestigious position, and even though they no longer worked at Greenwood, she still felt responsible for their welfare. They were getting on in years and were more frail than either of them would admit.

  Wishing she could do more to ease their misery, Brie sighed. Why had she ever agreed to stay with the Dawsons when she knew so little about nursing? Her forte was training thoroughbreds for the hunting field, not soothing fretful patients. If Mattie and Homer had been suffering from colic, she would have known precisely what to do.

  The irascible Homer seemed to think she didn't belong there either. "You needn't have come, Miss Brie," he said, sniffling.

  "And who would have seen that you stayed in bed?" she asked, biting back a sharper retort as she held the spoon to Mattie's lips. "You wouldn't even have let the doctor in the house, had I not been here. At least Patrick had the sense to realize that and to come to get me."

  Homer buried his red nose in a handkerchief and snorted. "Young scamp! Ought to take a rod to him to teach him proper respect for his elders."

  Brie didn't reply since she knew his threat was empty. Patrick was the oldest and dearest of Homer's four grandsons, even though he was in disgrace at the moment. Patrick had been worried enough about Mattie's cough to defy his grandfather's express orders and summon the doctor, but afterward he had gone to Greenwood, hoping to gain Brie's support.

  She had come at once, intending only to exert her authority. But Mattie's condition had turned out to be far more serious than even Patrick had suspected. When the doctor had ordered both elder Dawsons to bed, Brie had volunteered to look after them. It would have been wiser to send for Katherine, she knew, since her companion was far more qualified to preside over a sickroom. But Katherine's rheumatism had been bothering her again, and Brie hesitated to make her drive the three miles between Greenwood and the Lodge in such bitterly cold weather.

  The situation had only become worse, though, for the snow that had been falling all afternoon had threatened to become a real blizzard. Since the small Lodge staff were all local people, Brie had allowed them to go home to their families. That had left seventeen-year-old Patrick and his three younger brothers in charge of the stables, and no one but Brie in charge of the house. Thinking of her abilities in the area of household management, Brie smiled ruefully. But at least the horses wouldn't suffer any discomfort because of the snow.

  Trying to ignore Homer's grumbling, Brie made another attempt at getting Mattie to swallow the obnoxious liquid. When she succeeded, Mattie grimaced and sank weakly back against the pillows. "Pay Homer no mind, Miss Brie," she whispered hoarsely. "You're a blessed saint, just like your mother was."

  Uncomfortable with such undeserved praise, Brie concentrated on pouring out more of the medicine. Being compared to her mother only made her feel guilty for the uncharitable feelings she had been harboring. Lady Suzanne had been known throughout the district for her selfless devotion to the poor and ailing. Had she still been alive. Brie knew, Lady Suzanne would have been doing exactly what Brie was doing now—only she would have done it with far better grace.

  "I'll agree that Mama was sainted," Brie replied, "but I fear I'm not like her at all. Come now, Mattie, one more spoonful. You don't want your cold to develop into pneumonia."

  Homer grunted. "'Twon't come to that. She just has a little somethin' in the lungs."

  Nearing the end of her patience, Brie gave him a quelling glance. "It isn't a 'little something'. I may not know much about illness, but even I can tell Mattie's congestion is serious. And your condition is not much better."

  Homer shrank back, but it was Brie's look, not her sharp tone, that made him regard her so warily. Her eyes, a smokey shade of blu
e-green, had a way of darkening and flashing when she was angry, as they were doing now. That peculiarity had been an advantage to her in the past. She wasn't particularly tall, nor was her slim figure very intimidating, but she had been in command of an army of grooms and ostlers since she was nineteen and had needed to use every means at her disposal in order to run the vast estate she had inherited from her father.

  When Brie got her patient to swallow again, she gave Mattie a sip of water, then turned her attention to Homer. Bending down, she held out the bottle and spoon to him. "I promised to see that you took your medicine, but I don't think you need me to administer it." Homer's scowl deepened, but Brie was determined to have her way. "Come now, Homer," she said warningly. "You don't want me to resort to Katherine's method. I've seen her with sick children. She holds their noses until they open their mouths and swallow."

  Her threat managed to do the trick. Homer obeyed without further argument, only muttering a little about the bitter taste of the medicine. Relieved, Brie stoppered the bottle and set it on the bedside table as she rose. After checking the hot brick at Mattie's feet, she rearranged the pillows and tucked the covers around her patient. Mattie appeared to be asleep, Brie noted thankfully. She turned the lamp down, leaving the bedchamber in a dim glow.

  When she had made one last trip to the hearth to lay another log on the fire, she knew there was little more she could do. She picked up her candle and turned to Homer. "Good night," Brie whispered. "Patrick means to check on you in a few hours, but please call me if you need anything, or if Mattie gets worse."

  "Very well, Miss Brie," Homer answered stiffly, still not admitting that his judgment had been in error. He let Brie walk all the way to the door before he called after her. "Patrick had best be looking after you, Miss Brie. I'll have his hide, else."

  Brie smiled, realizing that despite his gruffness, Homer cared about her. "Patrick has been taking excellent care of me," she replied. "He's already kindled a fire in one of the guestrooms and brought up some water."

  "'Tisn't right that you should be all alone in the house."

  "It is only for one night. Julian should be here tomorrow—or the next day, if the snow delays him. With the number of servants he'll be bringing, there will be no need for me to stay. I couldn't remain here anyway with a bachelor in residence. Not without giving rise to gossip, which Greenwood doesn't need."

  Homer's bristled brows drew together in a frown. "Lord Denville won't be pleased to find me and Mattie abed."

  Brie suspected that worry had been the root cause of his crankiness. "Heavens, Homer! Julian isn't a monster. He knows how hard you and Mattie have worked for him, and he certainly won't begrudge you a few days rest when you are both ill. If it will ease your mind, though, I'll tell him about the struggle I had to get you to stay in bed. Now don't worry and go to sleep. There's nothing for you to do at the moment."

  Brie quietly let herself out of the room and shut the door. As she made her way down the service stairs, an icy draft nearly blew out her candle, reminding her of the storm raging outside. She shivered, cupping her hand around the wavering flame to shield it. The small county of Rutland rarely saw such severe weather, for it was located near the center of England, in the heart of the hunting country. But this snowstorm seemed particularly fierce. Hearing the sound of the wind swirling around the house. Brie was glad she wasn't out in the storm, even if it meant having to spend the night virtually alone in the big house.

  It was only when she had reached the next landing that she realized she had no nightgown to sleep in. Not wanting to disturb Mattie again merely to borrow one, Brie detoured through Julian's room, looking for something to wear. She found one of his dressing gowns, as well as some tooth powder and a hairbrush, but his slippers were so large that she didn't bother to take them. Gathering up the other articles, she made her way back down the icy corridor to the bedroom she had appropriated for the night.

  The room was only one of several guestchambers on the second floor, for although the Lodge was a hunting box, it wasn't small by any means. The house had fifteen rooms besides the servants' quarters and large kitchen, plus a number of outbuildings that included an excellent stable. There was also a dormitory in back that housed the male staff and the servants of visiting guests.

  The Lodge was frequently occupied. Although most sporting gentlemen used their hunting boxes for only a few weeks a year, Julian Blake, Lord Denviile, generally spent most of the hunting season at his, plus several months during the summer. Family concerns had kept him in London since the start of the new year, but he was expected any day now. Brie was looking forward to his return—in spite of the fact that he would also be bringing her cousin Caroline to visit her.

  The room Brie had chosen served both as bedchamber and sitting room. A large canopied bed stood at one end, and at the other, flanking the fireplace, was a Sheraton chaise longue and a pair of overstuffed armchairs. The walls were paneled in walnut and lined with hunting trophies—antlers, stuffed heads, and the like—while a luxurious bear rug sprawled in front of the hearth. It was quite a comfortable chamber, Brie thought, or at least it would have been, if not for the cold. Despite the fire Patrick had lit, the room was still chilly.

  Brie built the fire into a crackling blaze, then stood before the hearth to change, nearly laughing when she had donned Julian's blue brocade dressing gown. Far too large, the robe hung on her slender frame and reached several inches past her bare feet. But at least it was fairly warm. Tying the sash around her waist, she made quick use of the soap and water on the washstand to wash her face. As she pulled the pins from her auburn hair and began to brush it, she cast a deliberative glance at the bed. It was almost midnight, but she wasn't particularly sleepy and she dreaded the shock of climbing between stiff, cold sheets. When she spotted a leather-bound book lying on the bureau, she decided to read in front of the fire for a while. She had little time for such luxuries at Greenwood, for she was generally far too busy.

  The book was a gothic novel, Brie realized upon seeing the title, and she wondered how it had come to be at the Lodge. She knew for a fact that Julian never read such stuff. One of his ladybirds had probably left it at the Lodge by mistake, she mused. Not that she would ever dream of pointing that out to Julian. She could just imagine what his reaction would be. He would color up to the roots of his blond hair and read her a blistering scold about how ladies weren't supposed to know about such things. Then they would argue as they always did, for Brie never let anyone scold her except Katherine or her head trainer at Greenwood. Not even Julian, who was her dearest friend and might have been her husband had she said "yes" only once to his numerous proposals of marriage. Her refusals had disappointed him, she knew. But even if Julian hadn't been more like a brother to her than a prospective husband, her one disastrous experience with love had taught her that she never wanted to marry. She never intended to give her heart to any man again.

  Julian hadn't had any trouble finding someone to console him, though. Handsome, titled gentlemen usually didn't, particularly if they were rich enough to buy companionship— which Julian was. As Viscount Denville, he was wealthy in his own right, besides being heir to an earldom. He occasionally invited females to the Lodge, Brie knew. Even though Julian tried to be discreet about his ladyloves, not much happened in their small district that she didn't eventually find out about. After all, she was the largest landowner in that part of the country, as well as the possessor of one of the finest training stables in all of England.

  Retrieving a blanket from the bed, Brie lit the lamp beside the chaise longue, then made herself a snug nest and settled down to read. The gothic turned out to be a blood-curdling account of a haunted castle, but she found it surprisingly absorbing. She had no idea that she had read for nearly an hour until she looked up from her book to find that the fire had dwindled to a dull glow.

  When she shivered, though, it was due as much to the frightening tale she was reading as to the cold. Brie glanced n
ervously around the large room, finding it easy to imagine things lurking in shadows. Except for the crackling fire, the room seemed oddly quiet, for the wind had died down and was no longer howling eerily through the trees as it had been for hours. The dull thumping she had heard a few moments ago also had stopped. Probably a loose shutter or a limb striking the side of the house, she reflected. She would have Patrick see to it in the morning.

  Throwing off the blanket, she went to the hearth and tossed another log on the fire, then scurried back to the chaise longue and buried herself under the blanket. Tucking her bare feet beneath her, she returned to the hair-raising story.

  It was only a short while before she caught herself shivering again. Feeling ridiculous for scaring herself, she closed the book with a snap. She had to go to bed before she started imagining herself in a haunted dungeon with groaning ghosts and ghouls!

  She blew out the reading lamp—a mistake, she realized at once. The dancing firelight sent shadows skittering across the room, making the stuffed heads on the walls come alive. Brie watched them warily, feeling a shuddery tremor race up her spine.

  She was still trying to summon the courage to brave the shadows and the icy bedsheets when, without any warning, the door to her bedroom burst open. It slammed back on its hinges with a ferocious crack, nearly startling Brie out of her wits. She gave a cry that was half shriek, half choked gasp as she leapt to her feet and whirled to face the menace, her blanket and book tumbling forgotten to the floor.

  She stood there quaking, her heart pounding violently in her throat. A man, a stranger, filled the doorway, looking as darkly ominous as the devil himself. He had obviously been out in the snowstorm, for the curly brim of his beaver hat was ringed with white, while the capes of his greatcoat glistened with frozen crystals. His eyes were what captured her attention, though. Narrowed beneath slashing black brows, they glittered like shards of ice, unnerving Brie with their piercing intensity. Yet even as she stared, his gaze changed subtly, becoming coolly speculative.