by Joan Vincent
Castlereagh latched onto the reprieve. “I knew Tarrant was safe. De la Croix is inexperienced. He could not have maintained the pose had he known Tarrant was alive.”
André’s jaw dropped, the dandy gone. He stepped forward. “I would not have kept up the pose? I?” Only his uncle’s hand kept him from launching himself at Castlereagh’s smirk.
“I told the lads to have naught to do with you,” Tretain said more loudly than necessary. He grasped his nephew’s arm. “Perhaps now they will be done with you.”
“I will find Porteur,” André said with cold fierceness. “I will continue until that is done.”
“Then you will obey orders,” Castlereagh said tersely.
“Insofar as he now understands the rules of the game,” Tretain answered, and released him. “As do you, my lord.”
Castlereagh’s colour rose, his famous temper piqued. “I sent your last letter to him days ago,” he blustered with blatant falsity. After all, his secretary had written Tarrant.
Tretain ignored him. “Come, de la Croix. We must make arrangements to move Tarrant to Trees.” He went to the door, relieved that André followed.
Chapter Eleven
June 6th Sunday
Secure in the knowledge that Amabelle was with friends, Hadleigh dressed with great care. “When we are finished, Cauley, find Darton and ask him to tell Lady Edgerton I wish to speak with her in the garden.” His look hardened at the valet’s grimace.
Hadleigh struggled upright on his crutches. “Then have Brady drive you into Lewes. Hire a travelling coach. The White Hart should have one.”
Cauley wanted to object, but asked, “When’re we ta leave?”
“As soon as the coach is available.” Hadleigh took up his crutches and left.
* * *
Sarah searched Darton’s features but could read nothing from them. Nor could she give in to the urge to question him about the message from Hadleigh. She walked with reluctant steps towards the garden.
Pausing to study Hadleigh as he sat at the table beneath the oak, Sarah admired his stark handsomeness. Her heart began to race. She drank the sight; stored it for all the days when he would be gone. He would never know how much she loved him.
Their shared confidences had revealed Hadleigh’s fear that he had betrayed someone or something during his torture. Sarah knew just how deep his guilt was. His confidence had been shaken. She had not been able to heal these wounds.
Hadleigh sensed Sarah’s approach. He reached for his crutches and stood, then turned to face her.
Comforted by the fact he wore the new shoes, Sarah smiled and sat in the chair he indicated. While he resumed his seat she willed her features into a semblance of calm.
Hadleigh stared down at his white knuckles. I owe Sarah my life. I will always honour her for that. He clung to that and tried to dredge up the words he had worked on through the night.
Sarah cleared her throat. “Hadleigh—”
“No, Sarah—Lady Edgerton,” he corrected trying to will away the effects of her jasmine woman’s scent. He flexed his shoulders, unaware that he scowled.
“Please employ some of your sainted patience and listen,” he said tightly. He paused, ashamed. Her chagrin made him long to take her in his arms and kiss it away.
“I apologize,” he managed. “For my behaviour and my words on Thursday last. They were uncalled for after all you have done for me.”
Every word stabbed Sarah’s heart.
“I apologize for ... for all my boorishness.” He paused and drew a shuddering breath.
Sarah’s heart trembled at his pain, his bitterness. She reached out but he did not move to take her hand.
“I thank you for the—the shoes. I do that behind times also,” he added with a crooked grin. “Cauley told me it was your idea. They are ... comfortable.” A cough stole his words.
It was all Sarah could do not to jump up and take him in her arms. “Hadleigh, do not do this.” Her heart broke at the derisive twist of his lips. “You are young. You have done nothing wrong.”
Hadleigh glared at her and compressed his lips. If he spoke now it would be to hurt. He looked blindly at her herb garden. “Cauley is in Lewes to hire a coach. I hope to leave on the morrow but it may be a day or two later. It depends on what he finds.”
“Hadleigh—”
He shook his head. He could not make her understand what he did not. “I cannot thank you—cannot ever repay you for saving my life. You have my deepest gratitude.” Looking at Sarah he was shaken by her deathly pallor.
Darton approached with a salver. “Mr. Tarr, a rider has just arrived with two missives for you.”
Hadleigh turned. When the butler joined them he impatiently grabbed up the letters, examined the first, and then the second. At sight of the neat hand on the last, he threw a blinding smile at Sarah. “André lives!”
* * *
Lewes, Sussex June 7th Wednesday
Hadleigh tossed down a card and glanced at Sarah who sat reading on the other side of the room.
At Amabelle’s victorious crow, Sarah met his gaze, then looked away.
“Is your friend coming today?” Amabelle asked again.
“You shall see him soon enough,” he answered, and shuffled the cards. A flash of green at the salon’s door caught his eye.
Amabelle followed Hadleigh’s gaze to the salon door and stilled at the sight of an elegant young man.
André strove to subdue his palpable relief. Only the reproach in Hadleigh’s gaze kept the baron from rushing to embrace him. He forced himself, instead, to run an appreciative eye over Amabelle.
“Now I quite understand how it is you have remained here, mon frère.” At Hadleigh’s wasted condition, his gaze hardened.
Tarrant battled between his joy at André’s arrival and his bitterness at its long delay. He reached for his crutches.
“Reste-toi dans ta chaise,” André insisted. “Please do remain seated,” he said again in English. The extent of Hadleigh’s injuries even after all these months clenched his stomach. As he sauntered forward he strove to master his emotions. His attention ostensibly remained on a preening Amabelle. “You must introduce me to this Aphrodite.”
At this unintentional slight to Sarah, Hadleigh gave her an apologetic grimace. “My lady—” he began but coughed.
André turned his quizzing glass on Sarah. The beauty’s chaperone, he thought and made a leg to Amabelle.
“Lady Edgerton, it is my privilege to express my family’s gratitude for your care of my cousin,” he told the young lady. “They will be surprised to learn you are so very beautiful.”
Amabelle twittered.
“No, André,” Hadleigh managed to choke out between coughs.
“This is not so very good, mon frère.” André thumped him on the back.
“Not—good—at—all, you bloody fool,” Hadleigh bit out. “This is Lady Edgerton.” He held out his hand to Sarah. He took the glass of water she offered and drew her forward.
De la Croix rolled his eyes but assumed a contrite expression and drew a lace handkerchief from his sleeve. He pressed it to his lips, then bowed to Sarah with a flourish.
“Lady Edgerton, my deepest apologies. I was so overwhelmed with joy at sight of my cousin whom I had feared lost these two months past, that I made the mistake. Please forgive me.”
Sarah watched Hadleigh’s lips twitch. For a few seconds their eyes met and shared amusement. The twitch confirmed Sarah’s thought that his “brother” was doing it too brown. She nodded to the elegant dandy. “It is nothing, sir.”
De la Croix observed the exchange and flicked a glance at Hadleigh. She knows him well. Too well. He gave an exaggerated flick to his lace and said in a pronounced French accent, “Madame Edgerton, I am so very happy to present myself. André Lucien Francois Renoit Ribeymon, Baron de la Croix.”
Hadleigh began to cough again and drank more water.
Sarah allowed a slight smile. “We are ... honoure
d, my lord. May I present my stepdaughter, Miss Amabelle Edgerton.”
Amabelle sank into a deep curtsy and accepted André’s hand with more alacrity than her stepmother could like.
“Enchanté, mademoiselle.” André bowed and raised her hand to his lips while he flattered her with his eyes.
“It—it is a—a pleasure, my lord.” Amabelle sighed at the Exquisite. She pulled her hand back only when nudged by Sarah.
“Baron de la Croix,” Sarah recalled his attention. “Shall you dine with us this evening?”
He sniffed his kerchief. “It will be my delight, madame.”
“It will be our pleasure as well. Now we shall leave the two of you in private.”
“But, Stepmama,” protested Amabelle.
Sarah took her arm. “We follow country hours, my lord, but this even we shall dine at seven. Will that suit?”
“Bon, madame. Merci beaucoup.”
Sarah guided her reluctant stepdaughter to the door.
Amabelle called out gaily, “Until we dine, my lord.”
After the door closed behind them, Hadleigh said tightly, “You will treat Lady Edgerton with all due respect.”
André nodded.
The two men assessed one another.
As the silence continued, the baron walked over and drew Hadleigh into a light embrace. “Thank God you survived,” he said in French. When Tarrant did not respond he stepped back. Beneath the grim accusatory gaze, André commented, “You have lost two stone.” He looked down at the heavily bandaged foot.
“I read your report to Castlereagh. Obviously,” he motioned to the crutches, “it was more serious than you recounted. How did you manage to escape?”
The pain in André’s voice chided Hadleigh. “I do not know,” he said. Bitterness flared across his features. “Where have you been? What in damnation has been going on these past months?”
To cover his guilt, André drew Amabelle’s chair back and sat with a royal air.
Hadleigh waved his hand and spoke in the perfect French all of the children of the Tretain household learned. “What is the meaning of this—this affectation?”
André answered in kind. “Pardon me, my brother. To what do you object? My manners or my being French?”
“What nonsense you babble, André.” Then he saw the other’s bleakness. He fought to regain control of his emotions.
“What has happened?”
De la Croix shook his head. “Trop de choses. Too many things.”
His sorrow-ladened eyes hit Hadleigh with a premonition.
André swallowed hard. “Michelle est mort en avril.”
Hadleigh sank back against his chair, then forward. He lowered his head into his hands.
All pretence of nonchalance evaporated. André reached across the table and grasped Hadleigh’s wrist. “I would have found you then in April, had I not returned to Trees for her funeral.”
Raising his head, Tarrant clasped André’s. He tightened it at the baron’s stark apologetic gaze. “What do you mean? No,” he shook his head, all those questions put aside for the moment. “How are Tretain and Aunt Juliane?”
“Tretain is—stoic. But Tante Juliane—how can I say it?” André sighed. “She is inconsolable. The girls try to comfort her and the lads have even put aside their devilment, but she— You would not recognize her.”
Releasing André’s wrist, Hadleigh sat back. His shoulders sagged. “What did you mean—you could have found me?”
When the baron finished the tale, Hadleigh smiled grimly at the squire’s duplicity. “I was safe here with Sarah. But why did you not answer my letter?”
“I never received it.”
“What?”
“Our friend, Castlereagh, kept it to himself.”
“But he wrote Tretain?”
“No. Your letters were delivered but a few days ago.”
Hadleigh curled a fist. “The beef-headed idiot!”
“So very inelegant,” de la Croix said, “but sadly apropos.”
A flare of concern collided with Hadleigh’s curiosity. “What happened? The earl—”
“Kept me from making a complete ass of myself,” André said. “What he will do is a worry. Our concern for Tante Juliane kept both of us from calling the fool out.” André studied a manicured finger nail.
“What about the men who did this to you?”
Anger, never far from the surface, twisted inside Hadleigh. “The leader was a man I followed from Horsham, Mr. George.” He looked at his feet. All this and yet nothing accomplished.
André read the thought. “It was not a complete failure. I was sent to check on an émigré visiting near Hawking. Porteur. I did not meet him, only his servant. He made a fool of me—escaped on a French corvette a week past. Took half the gold with him,” he ended bitterly.
“You were fooled?” At de la Croix’s nod he saw again that guilt weighed heavily on André.
“We captured over twenty free traders and some French sailors. I wounded one called Letu. Porteur had him thrown over the side of the gig taking them out to the corvette.” He saw the colour drain from Hadleigh’s face. He took hold of his arm. “What is it?”
“Letu, the despicable cur, is the one who carved up my feet.”
If only I had killed him, thought the baron. He mentally worked through the main players in Kent. “Broyal spoke with George but never saw Letu.”
Shaking away memories, Hadleigh looked at him quizzically. “Who?”
“Viscount Broyal, the Earl of Margonaut’s son,” he explained. “Castlereagh had sent him to the Dover area to ferret out treason. George insisted Broyal help with a smuggling run. Of course the squire had no idea who Broyal really was.” André gave a negligent wave.
“I met Broyal and his lady on their wedding day just after his wife’s brother and sister were kidnapped. Porteur had hidden the bullion in Lady Broyal’s family’s mausoleum. Before her father’s burial, he reclaimed it.”
André raised one shoulder. “I am not certain of some of the details. Broyal was not always forthcoming.” He frowned and then continued. “To be brief, after the children were recovered, Porteur had Broyal’s wife abducted. She was rescued, but Porteur, he is gone and half the gold with him. But enough. Tell me everything you remember after Horsham.”
An hour later a knock interrupted them.
At Hadleigh’s bid Cauley entered. “‘Tis six of the clock, Mr. Tarr.”
De la Croix turned a languid eye on Hadleigh. He dangled his quizzing glass by its ribbons and spoke in French. “Who is this bear? Why does he call you Tarr?”
Hadleigh grinned. “Cauley, Baron de la Croix. André, my valet and sometime nurse, Bob Cauley.”
André raised a brow, but stood and offered his hand.
For a moment Cauley stared at the dandy. Then he clamped his huge paw over the slender fingers and shook it firmly before releasing it.
“Monsieur Cauley.” André flexed his bruised hand.
“Good ta meet you, m’lord,” he answered. He eyed the stylish green coat with a critical gaze. “Miss Amabelle must have been real en-chan-tee with you.”
“Your valet, mon frère? Is he not a bit—ahh—ham-fisted?”
Hadleigh pulled himself upright. “He tells me I am the only one who has survived his care.
“Come, while I dress for dinner you can clarify some details about Broyal, George, and Porteur.”
* * *
The next day de la Croix ruminated under the oak. Ostensibly he watched Hadleigh’s slow progress towards the lake under Amabelle’s attentive care. The sight of his friend’s feet when the bandages were changed still chilled him. And Hadleigh’s melancholy was far too pervasive. It hardened André’s determination to find Porteur and George.
A flicker of movement behind the walking hall’s windows caught his attention. Lady Edgerton, he thought and glanced back toward the pair near the lake. Hadleigh’s behaviour toward that lady puzzles. Rising, André sauntered to the
walking hall. His sharp hearing led him to the stillroom where Sarah was packing bottles into a large basket.
Startled by his unexpected appearance, Sarah gasped.
“Pardonnez moi, madame.” André bowed. “Please, continue.” He sauntered into the room and leaned against a cabinet. “May I be so bold as to ask after M. Tarr?”
Sarah’s hands stilled. “What in particular, my lord?”
“How long will he have to endure the brace?”
“Until the foot is straight. When he starts putting some weight on it, the muscles will stretch more rapidly. Please convince him to take laudanum each time before its binding is changed until the healing is further along.”
“La, you think me too persuasive,” de la Croix protested.
“He respects and loves you. I cannot believe you have—could not use that to his advantage.”
The baron stiffened.
Sarah fiddled with a bottle. “Can you tell me where you will take him?”
“To our uncle’s estate. He will be well cared for.” André fingered his quizzing glass. “My gratitude, Lady Edgerton. It must have been very bad with him when you found him.”
“Very,” she answered. Sarah placed cotton between the bottles in the basket. “Hadl—Mr. Tarr’s wounds are healing but his mind needs to heal as well.”
“The anger? He owes me much of it,” André admitted.
Turning to him, Sarah sighed. “What happened is done. It does no good for him or for you to turn it over and over.”
Surprised at her astuteness, de la Croix gave a crooked grin. “Hadleigh does better with Miss Edgerton than with you and me.”
“He has nothing to prove to her,” she told him. “When you are home do not leave him too much alone.”
“I doubt my sister Leora or his cousins with whom he has always been a favourite will allow it,” André said.
Darton stepped inside the doorway. “My lady.” He held forth a silver salver. “This came in the post.”