The Bride Wore Scarlet

by Liz Carlyle

  Geoff looked placidly up from his easel, feigning slow recognition. “Why, yes, of course!” Finally he rose and came toward them. Anaïs introduced the vicomte.

  Geoff pumped his hand with a sort of John Bull gusto. “Oh, I say, good to meet you, old chap,” he said cheerfully. “The wife’s been in alt over the notion of an English friend—can’t speak a word of this odd Hollandish tongue, you know.”

  Distaste flitted across Lezennes’ visage, but was quickly veiled. “Technically, Mr. MacLachlan, it’s Flemish,” said the vicomte, “but French will do as well here. Surely your wife has a little French?”

  Geoff looked at Anaïs blankly. “Yes, I daresay.”

  “Oh, enough to stumble along, but I do dislike it,” Anaïs complained, hitching her arm through his. “You must pardon my husband, my lord. We’ve been married but a few weeks. As to why we’ve come, Geoff likes to draw pictures of buildings.”

  “Of buildings?” Lezennes looked quizzically at Geoff.

  “Yes, yes, thinking of becoming an architect. Can’t live off m’father forever, eh?” Geoff gave Lezennes a conspiratorial wink. “Or so the gov’nor likes to remind me. Bags of money, that one, but tight as a parson’s pucker.”

  “Oh, come look at his drawing, do!” Anaïs tilted her head toward the easel. “You really will be quite impressed.”

  Left with no polite way to refuse, Lezennes bowed stiffly at the neck. “Après vous, madame,” he said with a flourish of his hand.

  They crossed the pathway and the clearing, Geoff yammering on about how frightfully expensive it was to live in Brussels, and wondering a trifle too loudly if Paris was any cheaper. Lezennes assured him it was not. Then the drawing was duly produced and a suitable fuss made, with Charlotte Moreau politely declaring it was quite the nicest likeness of the palace she had ever seen.

  Anaïs thought it more probable it was the only likeness she’d ever seen, but she thanked them both profusely.

  “Well, Charlotte,” she eventually declared, “I hope I may call you Charlotte?”

  Again, the lady cut an uncertain look at Lezennes. “But of course,” she said. “And you are . . . Anaïs, was it not?”

  “It is, and I was so frightfully disappointed over your headache on Sunday,” Anaïs pressed on. “I so desperately wished to quiz you about the best place to buy lace. And books”—here she knelt and snatched up her cheap novel—“have you any notion where I might find a bookshop? With these sorts of English serials?”

  Madame Moreau looked startled. “With English serials?”

  But the vicomte was eyeing the garish cover in barely veiled disgust. “Mon Dieu, madame, what is that thing?”

  Anaïs widened her eyes. “A penny dreadful,” she whispered. “They are most exciting, my lord. This one is about a wehr-wolf.”

  Lezennes’ lip seemed to curl. “And what, pray, is a wehr-wolf?”

  “A man who changes into a wolf at the full moon,” said Anaïs with a shiver. “He has sold his soul to the devil, you see, for youth and wealth, but there’s a catch—isn’t there always a catch when one does such a silly thing? In any case, it is most deliciously horrid. I know ladies do not normally buy them, but I am of the opinion that they should at least try one.”

  “Oh, she’ll read just any sort of nonsense,” Geoff cheerfully threw in, now repacking his things. “Have pity on us, Madame Moreau, and take her somewhere she can find a proper book.”

  “But in English?” said the lady, her delicate brow furrowing. “Alas, I do not think—”

  “We could discuss it over tea one day?” Anaïs suggested. “If, that is, you are feeling better?”

  Again, Charlotte Moreau glanced at her companion. “Well, I am not sure . . .”

  But Lezennes was looking back and forth between Anaïs’s silly novel and the perfectly bovine expression on Geoff’s face. “Feel free to go, my dear,” said the vicomte. “I think it would be quite harmless.”

  Some of the tension went out of Charlotte Moreau at that, and for the first time she flashed what appeared to be a genuine smile. “I should be pleased to,” she said. “When?”

  “Monday?” Anaïs suggested, trying not to seem too eager. “Oh, and do bring little Giselle. She is such a pretty thing, and puts me so very much in mind of my own dear Jane.”

  Even at this remark, however, the child did not make eye contact, and instead pushed further behind her mother’s skirts.

  The vicomte, however, did make eye contact. “I am afraid Giselle is delicate, and not quite like other children.” His voice was firm. “She does not often leave home.”

  Anaïs let recognition dawn across her face. “No, indeed, then,” she said. “Of course it would not do. The poor, dear mouse. How very good you are, my lord, to be so mindful of her welfare.”

  Geoff looked up from the easel he was closing—and making a hash of the whole business, for he’d managed to shut his coattail up in one of the hinges.

  “By gad, I’ve a capital notion,” he said, finally thrashing himself loose with a good deal of flailing and clatter. “The two of you must come to dine! What about Tuesday? We’ve a smashing good cook over there. Roasts a joint as well as a proper Englishwoman. How does six o’clock sound? Afraid we’re still keeping country hours.”

  Lezennes lifted his nose a notch. “Giselle’s governess leaves in the afternoons, and Charlotte cannot be from home after that,” he said. “I am afraid we could not possibly come to your house.”

  “Well, if you insist,” said Geoff good-naturedly. “Hate to put you out, though.”

  “I beg your pardon?” said Lezennes.

  But Geoff blustered his way onward. “Tell you what—I’ll make it up to you!” he vowed. “A cask of the gov’nor’s best whisky accidentally fell into my wagon as I was leaving for Brussels. What do you say I drain us off a bottle?”

  “Whisky?” The vicomte literally recoiled. “Made of fermented grain?”

  Geoff snapped his folding stool shut. “Aye, and I’ll wager you’ll never drink that tepid French brandy again, Lezennes, once you’ve had a snoot-full of Scotch glory. So six, then, at your place?”

  Lezennes drew a deep, almost shuddering breath. “Oui, six,” he said in a tone that suggested the earlier he could get it over with the better. Then he crooked his head to look down at his companion. “Charlotte, I daresay, will be glad for the diversion.”

  Charlotte was still smiling her genuine smile. “Oh, I would!” she declared. “Thank you, Uncle. You really are too kind.”

  The matter, then, was settled. After a round of polite good-byes, Anaïs and Geoff watched the three of them stroll away in the direction of the Rue de la Loi, on the opposite end of the park.

  “Good God,” he said when the trio was beyond earshot. “That was appalling. Even I don’t like us.”

  “Stupide rosbifs, are we not?” Anaïs grinned up at him. “And now poor Lezennes must have us to dine. That was well done, by the way.”

  “Stepped in it like horse manure, didn’t he?” Geoff grinned back. “And who knew you could be so dimwitted?”

  “Or you so cheerfully crass,” Anaïs added.

  “Oh, I have my moments.”

  “I thought the coattail in the hinge was a convincing touch,” said Anaïs, rummaging in her pocket. “If we cannot make decent Guardians, I daresay we might tread the boards.” She produced a lace and linen handkerchief, and fluttered it at him.

  He lifted one brow. “Thank you, Anaïs, but you have not reduced me to tears quite yet.”

  “No, silly, I pinched it from Charlotte’s pocket,” she said, tucking it into the collar of his waistcoat. “Vittorio taught me.”

  “To pick pockets?”

  “To do a number of things,” said Anaïs vaguely. “Vittorio said that sometimes a deeply personal item could be imprinted with the owner’s emotions. And unless I miss my guess, that handkerchief has been damp with her tears more than once. Perhaps you will find it helpful.”

  �
�Aye, I might do, at that.” Tucking it away, Geoff returned his gaze to Charlotte’s back as the threesome strolled deeper into the park. “What were you doing with such a tawdry book, anyway?”

  “Tawdry, hmm?” Anaïs crossed her arms over her chest. “Have you any notion, Geoff, what kind of money Mr. Reynolds makes selling that stuff? More than Mr. Dickens and the Brontë sisters combined, I’d wager.”

  He crossed his arms as if to mirror her. “And your point would be?”

  “Well, I—” She closed her mouth, then opened it again. “Not that it’s any of your business—”

  “No, no, none at all!” he agreed, a slow grin spreading over his face.

  “—but I thought, frankly, that I might try my hand at it,” she finished, lifting her chin. “And do not laugh, blast it. I’ve known for an age you people in the Fraternitas would likely try to refuse me, and I must have something to do until—until—”

  “Until your Mr. Right comes along?” Geoff suggested.

  “Until I shove my way past your stupidity and prejudice,” Anaïs finished. “There. I’m not giving up, Geoff. Now, let us be serious. What is your assessment of this situation in which Charlotte Moreau finds herself?”

  Geoff sobered at once, and let his arms fall. “Not good,” he conceded, his gaze still fixed on Charlotte’s back. “She is cowed, if not outright terrified, by Lezennes. One doesn’t need the Gift to see that.”

  Anaïs frowned. “Indeed not,” she agreed. “Geoff, I have the most awful feeling that we mightn’t have much time. Did you sense anything?”

  He shook his head. “Only a measure of disquiet, but I feel as though I’ve begun to know her,” he said. “To form a connection to her. And I agree with you. She is innocent, and Lezennes does not have her best interest at heart. Worse still, I don’t think we have months—possibly not even weeks—to get this business settled.”

  “We are going to have to move faster than might be wise,” said Anaïs as the trio turned from the main path and vanished into the trees. “I am going to have to be bold, Geoff. To befriend her quickly. But that may backfire if she’s as skittish as I fear.”

  Geoff had picked up his sketch pad and was tapping it rather pensively against his thigh, in the way a stalking cat might twitch its tail in warning. His ice-blue eyes were still fixed on the distant path, and his jaw was set stubbornly again.

  “Use your best judgment, then,” he finally said, his voice grim. “And yes, waste no time.”

  “And if I fail?” asked Anaïs. “If I spook her? Are you willing to do what must be done?”

  “To snatch the child?” said Geoff. “I should rather not. But without the child, Lezennes would have no use for Charlotte. He would let her go. You must try to persuade her to contact her family, Anaïs. Just in case there is some hope.”

  “Oh, I will,” she answered. “I shall think of something, I promise you.”

  Still staring down the path, Geoff said no more.

  It had been a most extraordinary day—a day that was leaving Anaïs more confused than ever about the man who now stood by her side. Shoulder to shoulder, quite literally, they seemed to coexist as easily and comfortably together as two people could be in moments like this.

  As if it were fated.

  But it was not. It couldn’t be. Nonna had spelled out her fate long ago, and it would be best if she remembered that.

  “Here,” she said after a time. “Give me the pad and your pencils. I shall help you carry all this home.”

  Perhaps Anaïs and Geoff did not have fate on their side, but it was beginning to seem as though Charlotte Moreau just might. On Monday, Anaïs came downstairs for luncheon to find that the afternoon mail had brought a letter postmarked from Colchester.

  Bernard presented it to Geoff on a salver with a little bow. “I hope, monsieur, that it brings good news?”

  “It’s in Sutherland’s hand,” said Geoff, taking it.

  “Your Preost’s in Colchester?” Anaïs asked, following him into the parlor.

  “Aye, he left London the day after you suggested he go.” Geoff took a paper knife from the desk and slit the letter open. “We are not so steeping in our—let’s see, how did you put it?—yes, our stupidity and prejudice—that we cannot recognize a good idea when we hear one.”

  Anaïs leaned round his shoulder. “Oh, just read it,” she insisted. “And never mind the sarcasm.”

  Geoff snapped the letter open, and his eyes darted swiftly over it. “Good Lord,” he murmured. “That was quickly done.”

  “What?” said Anaïs. “What?”

  Geoff shifted his gaze to hers. “You were right again, my girl.”

  “Yet another phrase that rolls beautifully off your tongue,” said Anaïs. “But do go on. Precisely how brilliant was I?”

  Geoff didn’t even bother to rise to the bait. “Charlotte Moreau’s family awaits her return with open arms,” he said, a look of pure relief spreading over his face. “The prospect of a grandchild has them over the moon. And they had not heard of Charlotte’s widowhood.”

  “Well, how could they when they cut her off?” said Anaïs a little bitterly.

  “A circumstance they have sorely regretted,” said Geoff muttered, looking again at the letter. “It sounds as if they have been mourning all those lost years. Anaïs, they want to give her a home.”

  Anaïs closed her eyes. “Thank God.”

  “God had help from you and Sutherland.” Geoff handed Anaïs the letter. “Well done, all of you. Here, read for yourself, but don’t burn it. We may yet need it.”

  “Thank you.” She began to skim over the words, scarcely daring to believe them.

  But Geoff had begun to roam restlessly about the parlor. “The Fraternitas has two good men near Colchester,” he said, dragging a hand pensively through his hair. “Guardians both—and men whom we can trust. We can appoint one of them to Giselle; to oversee her safety for now, and later to help her understand and cope with the Gift.”

  With a sense of intense relief, Anaïs refolded the letter, and tucked it in her pocket. “But first we must get her there.”

  “Indeed.” Almost absently, Geoff extracted Charlotte’s handkerchief and looked at it. “First we must get her there—and safely.”

  Just then Petit came in to announce that luncheon was ready. They dined in comparative silence, Anaïs remarking on little more than her hope that Charlotte would actually turn up for tea this time, rather than send another last-minute cancellation.

  Geoff seemed lost in thought, but not as tense—or as cross—as he had been during their first days in Brussels. For her part, Anaïs could not escape the strong belief that their short time together was rapidly drawing to a close.

  There was a part of her that would be relieved.

  Geoff, too, would be glad to see England again, Anaïs thought, watching him across the table. Or perhaps he would merely be relieved to see the back of her. Anaïs did not think she flattered herself by imagining there was a strong physical attraction between them, one that had been building throughout the whole of this trip. But he had fought it, while she had not.

  Well, not entirely.

  Perhaps she had been lucky. A less principled man would have said yes to her offer, and shown far less concern for her.

  Or perhaps it was not entirely a matter of his concern for her?

  Geoff had made it plain he’d no wish to be trapped into marriage. Anaïs understood that. But perhaps it was something more complicated. A devoted mistress? A secret lover? She had not considered the possibility that there might be someone else in his life. Heaven knew it would not be the first time she had fallen into that fool’s trap.

  Again, she let her gaze run over him, and felt that familiar little rush, a sweet ache that went straight to the pit of her belly. With his mane of leonine hair and those intense, almost lupine eyes, Geoff struck Anaïs as some half-tamed creature, attached to no one, roaming the forests of life alone.

  But there was n
othing to be gained by allowing her thoughts to run in that direction, and everything to be gained for Charlotte and Giselle Moreau in getting them back on English soil as swiftly as possible. Anaïs finished her meal in silence, trying to keep her eyes on her plate, then excused herself and went downstairs to make the final preparations for tea.

  That afternoon, Charlotte Moreau surprised Anaïs by arriving ten minutes early.

  It was a good sign, Anaïs thought. It did not take long, however, for her to realize that the darkness had settled over Charlotte again. The vibrancy her eyes had so briefly held the previous afternoon was gone.

  They settled in the front parlor by the windows that overlooked the Rue de l’Escalier and the entrance to Lezennes’ house, idly discussing the weather as Petit set out the tea service.

  “I was so glad we had the chance to meet your uncle in the park,” said Anaïs after their plates had been filled and all the small talk exchanged. “He seems a most distinguished gentleman.”

  “Yes, he is,” said Charlotte noncommittally. “And he has been very generous toward Giselle and me.”

  “What sort of work does he do for the French?” Anaïs paused to sip her tea. “Something frightfully important, I should guess.”

  Charlotte cut her gaze away. “I’m not certain,” she said, returning her cup to her saucer. “He doesn’t speak of it, and I think it is not my place to ask.”

  “But he must have met King Leopold, mustn’t he?” said Anaïs, widening her eyes ingenuously. “Perhaps, Charlotte, you will get to meet him, too! Wouldn’t that be exciting? After all, he is still so divinely handsome.”

  For a moment, Charlotte hesitated. “Uncle does have private meetings with the King,” she murmured. “I heard one of his aides discussing it. That a meeting was to be set up—something very discreet. And I wondered, of course—” Suddenly she stopped, and snatched another biscuit from the tray on the table. “These are delicious. Will you ask Mrs. Janssen to give me the recipe?”

  “She will be flattered you asked,” Anaïs assured her. “As to the King, he is still deeply beloved by many in England, you know. After all, he was once intended to be our King.”