Not wanting Dominic to see the hot tears that filled her eyes, Brie fled to the safety of her own bedchamber, slamming the connecting door behind her. She would see him in hell before she let him see her cry.
Leaning against the door, she clenched her fists in an effort to stem the tears rolling down her cheeks. Stupid, stupid fool! She had fallen in love with a man who wouldn't give tuppence to spare her feelings, had allowed herself to be hurt, time and time again. When would she learn that Dominic didn't care for her, that he never would? She must come to terms with that understanding—before her heart broke into little pieces.
It was quite a while before Brie had control of herself again, but then she poured water in a bowl and splashed some on her flushed face, trying to erase the traces of tears.
Breakfast in the common room of the inn was a solemn affair. Brie ate in stony silence, trying to ignore both Dominic and the bustle around her. She was grateful when at last Jacques came to inform them the carriage was ready.
Once on their way, Brie couldn't help contrasting this leg of their journey with previous ones. She was alone in the coach and there was no spirited banter or pleasant companionship to alleviate the boredom—not even any exercise to relieve the tedious miles. The day was gray and overcast, wrapping the countryside in gloom, and Brie spent so much of the time staring out the window that she grew to hate the dreary landscape with its endless vineyards patterning the hillsides.
They changed horses twice, but neither time when she stepped down to stretch her legs did she see Dominic. During their second stop, she was told by Jacques that Dominic had ridden on ahead.
At last, after what seemed to be an interminable interval, the carriage pulled off the main road. Jacques slowed the horses to a walk, but the lane was in such a sad state of repair that the coach bucked and swayed continually. Each rut and pothole jarred Brie's teeth, and several times she was almost thrown from the seat.
After a quarter mile or so, the lane gave way to a clearing— or at least what once must have been a clearing, Brie thought grimly as she noted the overgrown weeds and unkempt shrubbery. Then the coach crawled around a bend in the drive and the once-magnificent chateau came into view.
Seeing it, Brie gasped involuntarily. She had supposed the manor house might be in poor condition, but she hadn't expected the utter desolation of the place. Although the frame and main walls of the house still stood, great gaping holes took the place of leaded windows, and a section of the roof had collapsed where a limb from a nearby tree had fallen on it. Peeling paint and crumbling mortar completed the picture of abandonment and ruin, while a gray mist hovered around the place, giving the scene an unearthly aura. Brie shuddered at the eerie silence, suddenly not wanting to leave the relative security of the coach.
The soft jingle of a harness was the only sound she heard as she opened the door and stepped down. Jacques was still in the driver's box, she noted, but he was staring grimly at the wreckage of the chateau.
Slowly, as if in a dream, Brie mounted the steps to the house. There was no front door to impede her progress, but she had to duck her head to avoid the cobwebs as she entered. If possible, the inside of the chateau was in worse state than the outside. Holding her skirts high to avoid the debris and rubble, she began a tour of the silent mausoleum.
Bits of crystal from a fallen chandelier crunched under her feet as she moved along the entrance hall. In rooms to her right and left, she could see broken pieces of furniture strewn on the moldering carpets, and all the walls were badly stained and oozing dampness. The once magnificent staircase was missing the banister, and Brie had to step carefully as she made her way upstairs.
On the second floor she discovered what must have been a music room. A discarded harp, its bow snapped in two, lay on a pile of charred wood. Someone had obviously built a fire—not in the fire place as one might expect, but in the middle of the room.
On the third floor Brie opened a door and checked abruptly. Dominic stood at the window with his back to her, his head bowed. He seemed not to have noticed her presence, but as Brie turned to leave, he suddenly spoke. "Welcome to my ancestral home, Miss Carringdon," he said, his voice sounding harsh and bitter.
Brie hesitated, not knowing how to respond. Then, without warning, Dominic suddenly whirled and threw something against the side wall with such force that the plaster cracked. Brie flinched, realizing when the object clattered to the floor that it was a broken toy soldier.
Dominic gave a derisive laugh at her startled expression. "This, by the way, is the nursery," he said in that same bitter tone. "And that," he added, pointing to the pieces of the wooden toy, "was once my favorite plaything. I always wondered what had become of it. I left it here that night, when the soldiers came for my father. I can remember, years later, still feeling uncomfortable at the sight of a uniform, even British."
His gaze returned to Brie, his eyes raking her figure as if daring her to mock him. She had no intention of mocking him, though. She could see the raw pain in his eyes, and her heart went out to him.
"Dominic," she said, searching for the right words. "It does no good to relive the past. Neither you nor I could have prevented what happened. Can you not forget?"
His mouth twisted in the curving sneer she hated so much. "Forget? That is hardly likely, mademoiselle, when your very presence in this house serves to remind me. Your mother used to visit here, did you know? In this very room, while I was at my lessons." He paused, regarding her narrowly. "Come here."
Suddenly wary, Brie hesitated. But when Dominic abruptly repeated his command, she slowly walked across the room to where he stood. He grasped her arm and turned her face to the window that overlooked the front lawns, then stepped behind her. When he placed his hands on her shoulders. Brie tensed, not quite sure of his intentions. But Dominic merely began to speak in a low, faraway voice.
"I have never forgotten that night," he said softly. "I was supposed to be in bed asleep, but instead I was here, playing with my wooden soldiers. When I heard a disturbance, I looked out this window and could see real soldiers—a small troop, actually. There." He pointed to the spot. "The sun had already set, but I could see the men's faces clearly in the light of the torches they carried. When I opened my window so I could peer down, I heard my father's voice demanding an explanation for the intrusion. He received no answer. I saw him walk down the front steps toward the waiting men, and didn't wait any longer but ran out of the nursery. I'm not sure what I intended to do. Save my father, I think, though from what danger I wasn't certain.
"Only years later did I understand why he had left the apparent security of the house. He was protecting me. Had he stayed, the revolutionary soldiers would have stormed his home, but as it was, the soldiers forgot me. I believe they were too surprised my father put up no struggle."
Brie closed her eyes, blinking back tears as she pictured the young boy Dominic had described. How frightened and bewildered he must have been to see his beloved father taken away by the soldiers. She wanted to say something to let him know she understood, but he spoke again.
"I raced downstairs, but when I reached the front hall, I came face to face with my tutor who caught me and very effectively ended my headlong rush into the fray. I fought him, to no avail. Then finally I quieted so I could hear what was being said. My father's arms were bound behind him, and he was speaking to their captain, demanding to know why he was being arrested. I almost laughed when I heard the charges, they were so outrageous. Treason and murder! Treason because he was of noble blood—that I could almost understand. As young as I was, I was aware of the mood of the country. I had heard all the gruesome details about what was happening in Paris from a travelling gypsy, and I could realize no nobleman was safe from the trumped-up charge of treason. But murder! He was charged with killing Lady Lisette, your grandmother. And it was your mother Suzanne who accused him."
Brie had been listening intently to Dominic's story, but she interrupted him at this point to den
y her mother's involvement. "I don't believe it," she declared. "My mother would never do such a thing."
As if recalling her presence, Dominic dropped his hands from her shoulders and stepped back, putting a distance between them. "I haven't finished the story. The captain had barely gotten the words out of his mouth when your mother appeared on the scene. She threw her arms around my father, protesting her innocence, much as you did just now—although her sobbing added a bit more drama. It was quite a touching scene."
Hearing the hard note in his voice, Brie turned to face Dominic, her eyes searching his face. "And you chose not to believe her?"
Her expression remained enigmatic as he returned her gaze. "It was too much of a coincidence not to. Had Suzanne Durham been innocent, she would not have known of the charges, nor would she have arrived at that particular moment. I don't think my father believed her either, for that matter. The soldiers took him away shortly, and I never saw him or your mother again. My tutor, having a high regard for his own skin—and mine as well, I suppose—bundled me up and whisked me off to England to my mother's family. I was told that my father would be safe once he could clear his name of the charges. It was less than a month later when we received word of his execution."
Brie stared at Dominic, wanting desperately to understand this complex, bitter man she had come to love. "Is that why you sided against the French during the war?" she asked finally. "You wanted revenge?"
Dominic looked away, sighing wearily. "Not precisely. Napoleon had to be stopped at all costs and I merely did my part. But you miss my point. Granted the tide of the revolution was evil, an uncontrollable evil, but it was merely an instrument which Suzanne Durham used to bring about my father's downfall."
"But if the comte really did kill my grandmother, that would explain my mother's action."
"Explain, perhaps, but not excuse. My father did not kill Lisette Durham."
"But how can you be sure?"
Dominic leveled his piercing gaze at Brie once more, and there was a long, pregnant pause before he spoke. "Chérie, you are either very, very naive, or you are a superb actress. You almost had me doubting my father. But perhaps that is your game, after all."
It was all Brie could do to keep from looking away. She had always known Dominic was no more willing to believe her own innocence than her mother's, but his words still hurt. "I am playing no game, Dominic," she murmured, trying to keep the tremor from her voice.
"We shall see," he replied, the warning in his tone apparent. "We shall see."
Chapter Seventeen
Brie buried her hands beneath the folds of her cloak to hide their trembling, but it was a futile gesture. Dominic knew already how nervous and apprehensive she was. Yet how could she be otherwise when the atmosphere in the coach was fraught with tension as she and Dominic approached their final destination?
When they had left the Valdois estates a few hours before, they had gone to the village inn where Dominic ordered rooms and a light repast to be served in the private parlor. Brie had made no pretense of eating, but if Dominic noticed her lack of appetite, he hadn't commented on it. Afterward he had told her to wait in her room until the horses were rested. When they set out once more, Dominic rode with her in the coach. He was silent and preoccupied, and Brie remained just as silent, hoping fervently that the impending confrontation with Sir Charles Durham would provide both a key to the past and a vindication of her own actions.
The coach finally came to a halt before a house which wasn't as large as the Valdois chateau but had been built in a similar style. Dominic handed Brie down from the carriage, then escorted her to the front door.
It was quite a while after his knock that the door was opened a mere crack. A slovenly-looking porter peered out, eying the visitors with undisguised hostility.
"It would seem we are expected," Dominic observed sardonically. When the door started to slam in his face, he forced his way in and roughly grabbed the servant by the collar of his liveried jacket, jerking him up. "Now my good man," Dominic said brusquely in French. "You will tell me where I may find your master before another minute is up, or I will throw you to my coachman. Jacques knows quite well how to deal with your kind. Ah, excellent timing," he added when Jacques entered behind Brie. The burly coachman was brandishing a pistol and looking quite capable of using it.
The porter, finding himself outnumbered, gave a frightened whimper and in a strangled voice, said that Sir Charles could be found in his study. Dominic gave a brief nod. "Jacques, you may take charge of this fellow. See that we aren't interrupted, if you please." Taking hold of Brie's arm then, he guided her down the hall.
When he stopped before a closed door, he spared a glance for her. Her cheeks were rather pale, but she met his eyes bravely. Returning her gaze, Dominic once again doubted his wisdom in bringing her along. If she were innocent, she would be in no little danger when he confronted Durham. On the other hand, if she were a party to her grandfather's plans, then he, Dominic, would have to be doubly on his guard. But he had to know. And it was much too late now to allow his doubts to interfere with his course of action. Quietly, Dominic opened the door and ushered Brie into the study.
A man, grayed and stooped with age, was hunched behind a massive oak desk at the far end of the room. He was richly dressed in brocade and lace, his clothes belonging to an earlier generation. The curling, powdered wig he wore had gone out of style some twenty years ago.
He did not look up, but growled in a feeble voice, "Take it away, you imbecile. How many times have I told you not to bring tea while I am busy?"
"It must be a great trial to you, Sir Charles," Dominic said softly, "to be surrounded by incompetence. You would do better to choose your employees with more care."
At Dominic's first words, Sir Charles had looked up, impatience written on his grizzled countenance. But his impatience quickly turned to puzzlement, then comprehension, and finally fear. "Who the devil are you?" he demanded without conviction.
Dominic shut the door quietly behind him and moved further into the room, drawing Brie with him. At closer range, he could see the unhealthy pallor of Sir Charles' complexion. The old man was obviously an invalid, for his eyes were sunk deep in their sockets, and his thin, spotted hands were trembling.
Disgusted to have a foe so unworthy of his steel, Dominic wondered if he had somehow been misled about Durham's intent to kill him. But then he caught the fiery gleam of hatred in the sunken eyes. "I hardly think introductions are necessary," he replied, "but since you insist, I am Dominic Serrault."
Sir Charles stared malevolently at Dominic before his attention shifted to Brie. Then suddenly his face turned a deathly shade of white, while a strangled gasp erupted from his throat. "Lisette! My God." His claw-like hands gripped the edge of the desk, and he swayed, shutting his eyes. When he opened them again, he was still staring at Brie.
Watching Sir Charles' reaction, Dominic could see his shock was real. It was obvious the old man thought he was seeing the ghost of his dead wife Lisette. Dominic felt such a flood of relief that his knees went numb. Brie hadn't been lying to him. She hadn't been lying. A slow, spiraling joy began to wing its way upward from his heart.
But he ruthlessly forced his chaotic thoughts aside in order to concentrate. The shock had disappeared from on Sir Charles' face, to be replaced by suspicion and a rapidly increasing anger.
With a swift motion that belied his years, he pointed an accusing finger at Brie. "You are not Lisette!" he bellowed, his face becoming mottled with rage. "Who are you? Who are you?"
Brie was startled by his fury. "I am your granddaughter, sir," she answered warily, wondering if Sir Charles possessed an unsound mind.
"That is a lie! I have no granddaughter."
"I assure you it is true. I am Brie Carringdon. Your daughter Suzanne was my mother."
Sir Charles hesitated. "Suzanne? Suzanne, did you say?" He sneered, his eyes becoming more hooded. "So the little slut ran off and found herself a h
usband. I always wondered what happened to her. Was Carringdon fooled? Did he think you were his child?"
Brie was first astonished, then enraged by the insult. "How dare you!" she said between clenched teeth. "How dare you say such a thing about my mother." She took a step toward him but was restrained by Dominic.
"That is quite enough, Brie," he said quietly. "You may leave the room." When Brie raised a questioning gaze, Dominic gave a curt shake of his head. "This quarrel is not yours, but mine. Go, now. Wait for me in the hall."
The expression on Dominic's face was unreadable, but Brie couldn't ignore the command in those gray eyes. Lifting her skirts, she turned to obey.
Later, she wondered if the outcome would have been different had she not done so, for when she reached the door and opened it, she came face to face with Jacques. The next instant she was flung roughly to the floor as a pistol shot exploded behind her.
The fall stunned Brie, knocking the breath from her body, and she missed seeing Jacques raise his own pistol and fire. But the retort of his weapon was still ringing in her ears as she lay there gasping and trying to recover her senses. When she heard a woman's voice exclaiming in horror, Brie thought she must be imagining things, for it sounded very much like Katherine. Then gentle hands grasped her shoulders and she heard Julian's voice, asking her if she were all right.
Bewildered, Brie looked up to find him kneeling beside her, his concerned blue eyes fixed on her face. "No, I'm not hurt," she insisted, struggling to her feet. "Please . . . help me up. What—"
The question froze on her lips as she caught sight of Sir Charles. He sat slumped in his chair, his head lolling to one side, a bright red stain spreading across his chest and contrasting vividly with the ivory color of his waistcoat. A large pearl-handled dueling pistol lay on the desk, making Brie recall the first pistol shot.
Her shocked gaze swung to Dominic. He had shrugged out of his coat, and Brie saw with horror that his right shirt sleeve was rolled up to expose a bloody gash on his upper arm. Jacques was dabbing at the wound with a handkerchief, trying to stem the welling blood, while Dominic, with one hand, was untying his cravat to use as a bandage. When the coachman began deftly wrapping the injured arm with the neckcloth, Dominic looked up and met her gaze, his gray eyes locking with Brie's blue-green ones.
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