by Liz Carlyle
Some of the suspicion seemed to leave his face then, and he took the seat next to her—which he had doubtless meant to do all along.
“Thank you both, by the way, for a lovely evening,” Anaïs said, neatening the folds of her skirts. “It was quite the best meal we’d had in an age, my lord. Perhaps, Charlotte, your cook can be persuaded to give her soufflé recipe to Mrs. Janssen?”
“I shall see to it before we leave.” But Charlotte was looking wan and uneasy.
It was only then that Anaïs realized a maid stood in the doorway to Charlotte’s room, her arms heaped with clothing.
“Yes, all those, Louisa,” Charlotte said to her. “Thank you. You are too kind.”
“Oh, you are packing!” said Anaïs.
“Yes. Well, Louisa is doing it for me.”
Anaïs wagged a finger at her. “Well, if you mean to take the train, Charlotte, do be careful.”
“Careful? In what way?”
“Pack all your most important things in one small bag and keep it to hand,” said Anaïs warningly. “Things of sentimental value, especially. I once had my trunks stolen—in Gloucestershire, of all places! I was going to visit my grandmother, and one way or another my trunks were snatched! Can you believe it?”
“But how dreadful!”
“Oh, it was,” said Anaïs earnestly. “Luckily, Mamma had the foresight to pack all my keepsakes and a change of clothing in my handbag, or I wouldn’t have had so much as a pair of clean drawers when I got to—oh, your pardon, my lord!”
Lezennes lifted one eyebrow. “Not in the least, Madame MacLachlan,” he said coolly. “We all wear them, n’est-ce pas?”
Anaïs giggled. “To be sure, we do!”
They spoke on for a time about the pleasures of the seashore, and their various childhood memories. Anaïs had none, for her family had been too busy with the farm and their vineyards abroad—and she with her travels to Tuscany.
But she spoke of none of that, maintained her bourgeois façade, and spun instead a hilarious story about how her sister had once fallen headlong off the Cobb at Lyme Regis—and if anyone noticed that the tale was only slightly altered from one Miss Austen had once told in a novel, they were kind enough not to mention it. Anaïs’s fictional sister limped away with only her pride and her petticoats wounded, their family holiday intact.
Charlotte then began to speak of her plans to entertain Giselle with sandcastles and seashell hunting during their coming trip to the shore. But as if the topic made him uncomfortable, Lezennes jerked at once to his feet.
“Charlotte, really, you must have your rest if we are to travel tomorrow.”
Anaïs knew it was her cue to go.
“His Lordship is quite right, of course,” she said, swiftly rising. “Now, Charlotte, don’t get up. I am going to run home and send the kitchen girl back over with a little bowl of my calf’s-foot jelly. You must warm it up and spoon it slowly, now—oh, and a book!—I have a book I think you might like.”
“One of your unusual novels, madame?” enquired the vicomte, with only a faint curling of his nose.
Anaïs managed to blush. “Oh, no, my lord, ’tis just a volume of Mr. Coleridge’s poems,” she said. “But I thought it might make for easy reading during your travels tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” said Charlotte swiftly. “I’m sure it would prove diverting.”
Anaïs bowed her way from the room, wishing them a marvelous holiday and counting her steps as she went. And all the while she looked about for obstacles that one might most easily trip over in the dark.
Lezennes abandoned her at the top of the stairs after wishing her a good day, then returned to Charlotte’s sitting room. Anaïs watched him go, more certain than ever that she was grateful not to have Geoff’s gift. Grateful not to know—not to feel—the evil that lurked inside such men. For it did not take a gift to see that Lezennes watched Charlotte like a hawk, and meant to keep doing so until she was either betrothed or dead.
Anaïs was determined it would be neither.
Pensive and deeply worried, she went back across the Rue de l’Escalier and let herself in. After setting her basket aside, she trailed through the public rooms of the house. Seeing no one, she peeked through the back window to see a fourgon sitting in the alley at the end of the rear yard. Attired in tall boots and snug breeches, Geoff was on board, helping Petit strap the baggage down.
After permitting herself a few moments to admire the view, Anaïs let the curtain drop, then went directly upstairs and through her room into Geoff’s.
His volume of Coleridge poems still lay amidst the tidy stack of books. After flipping through it to be certain it contained the poem she wished, and that the flyleaf bore no sentimental inscription, Anaïs carried it back through the dressing room.
She tossed it on the bed, opened Nonna Sofia’s box, and shuffled through the tarot until she found the card she wanted.
Il Cavaliere di Spade. The Knight of Swords.
For an instant, she closed her eyes and pressed the card to her breast.
It was entirely possible, she knew, that she would not see the card again. After more than two centuries of being handed down from one generation to the next, her family’s tarocchi would be incomplete—and it would be her doing. The pack would be rendered utterly useless.
The thought left an odd catch in her throat.
At least it was not her card. It was not le Re di Dischi.
And yet, strangely, Anaïs no longer wished to take that card from the box, either. Her girlish fantasy—and her nonna’s prediction—seemed far, far in the past, and there was a longing inside her now that had nothing to do with a foolish pack of cards.
Anaïs had begun to feel the passage of time most acutely. She was suddenly tired of waiting. Indeed, she felt almost silly for having done so. She wanted a life, a husband and children to love. She no longer cared if her beautiful Tuscan prince never turned up.
In fact, she almost wished he would not. She almost wished . . .
Ah, but that would not do.
Still, while Anaïs had no wish to dishonor Nonna Sofia, there was no mistaking the fact that something had changed inside her. She was beginning to question the wisdom of waiting for the perfect man. In truth, the whole prediction seemed so harebrained, she wondered she’d ever believed it at all. And save for Maria, no one else knew. The story was too outlandish to bear repeating.
But Nonna Sofia had repeated it—or at least her tarot had. Time and again, the card had turned up for Anaïs. Time and again, the King of Pentacles had been her destiny.
But if she tossed le Re di Dischi to the four winds, if she never got il Cavaliere di Spade back from Charlotte, did it really matter? She did not want to read i tarocchi. She did not mean to consult the cards ever again in any seriousness. The reading she’d given Charlotte still troubled her. She did not want this Gift her blood had cursed her with; no, not even this faint, watered-down version of it.
It made her think again of Geoff; of the young boy he once had been, frightened and floundering in the dark with no one to guide him.
And suddenly the oddest thought struck her.
Why had there been no one?
How could his mother not have known the Gift for what it was? The blood had come either from her or from Lord Bessett. One of them should have recognized the signs, should have known Geoff needed help—and should have found it for him. A Guardian, a Preost to counsel him, a mentor within his circle of blood—someone, for God’s sake. It was how the Gift had been protected for eons.
Instead, his mother had taken him to doctors. She had feared him mad.
For the first time, Anaïs realized how little sense that made.
Good Lord, no wonder he had felt so deeply for Giselle Moreau—and for Charlotte, too. No wonder he understood so well the fear and uncertainty she suffered as a mother; why he had been unwilling to hurt her, to take the child away. It was likely what the doctors had tried to do with him.
&
nbsp; And Charlotte knew her daughter possessed the Gift. How much harder her life would have been had she not known! Anaïs could scarcely fathom the concern that such a strange, fey child would instill in an unsuspecting mother’s heart.
But Geoff’s background was a mystery that would have to wait—and wait forever, perhaps, for both Geoff’s past and his future were swiftly becoming none of her business. For good or ill, her days with him would soon be at an end. And she could not help but wonder—once he had returned to England, the Brotherhood, and his almost-fiancée—if he would not find himself a little relieved to be shut of her.
She had no wish to think about that, and her pathetic sniveling would not help Charlotte. Taking the book and the card, Anaïs bounded off the bed and went to her desk by the door, then yanked open the drawer to snatch a pencil. Turning the card to the light, Anaïs drew a fingertip down the drawing, taking in the knight’s bowed head. His drooping sword. The backdrop of a barren, colorless landscape.
An empty life. An abandonment. A swordsman with no enemy to fight.
It was similar, she thought, to the life of a Guardian denied.
Anaïs slammed shut the desk drawer and bent her head to her task. In the thin margin at the bottom of the card she wrote but three words:
Tonight. Be ready.
Laying the pencil aside, she looked at it.
It was vague, but it would have to do. It was almost unnoticeable, too. Indeed, at first glance, it was merely an old card such as anyone might tuck into a book to mark one’s place. A worn and slightly unusual one, yes, but most people would not likely give it a second glance.
Charlotte, however, would remember it well. It was the card that had brought tears to her eyes. When she saw it again, she might well study it in great detail, searching for some small sign of her father.
The father who was far, far from dead.
The father who wanted her very much.
Swiftly, Anaïs paged through the book of poetry looking for her favorite poem. It was “Frost at Midnight,” Coleridge’s ode to the longing he felt for his home, for his birthplace in the English countryside.
She found it, and circled just a few words:
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birthplace . . .
It was unlikely anyone would look closely at a few circled words. Almost everyone marked passages of poetry, or bits of prose one wished to study or to remember.
It was also unlikely Charlotte would look closely. She probably wouldn’t even open the book tonight.
Anaïs cursed aloud, and heartily. No, Charlotte would likely tuck it amongst her things—perhaps into that one piece of hand baggage Anaïs had warned her to prepare.
She heaved a great sigh. That likely had not occurred, either.
Indeed, it was rather more likely Charlotte would have tossed the book into the bottom of a traveling trunk, and would scream bloody murder when awakened tonight. And if she did not—if, by some miracle, Anaïs managed to quietly rouse her and plead their case—it was probable Charlotte would wish to dress, to pack a portmanteau, to search out her favorite hair ribbon or shoes . . . to do all those silly things women were apt to wish to do when leaving home—or in this case, leaving everything behind.
And then they would have to get past Lezennes’ maid, and snatch Giselle.
Dear God, this was going to be impossible.
Anaïs felt her shoulders slump. But what choice did they have? Lezennes clearly did not mean to leave Charlotte’s side, for he had been dressed for the privacy of his home. He certainly did not mean to permit Anaïs to speak with her alone.
Just then, there was a knock at the open door and Geoff strode in, his boot heels heavy on the floor, a riding crop in hand. Anaïs turned in her chair to look at him. He was breathtakingly handsome in his snug coat and form-fitting breeches, his long hair tossed into disarray by the spring breeze.
His eyes, however, were somber and questioning. “Well?” he said.
Anaïs shook her head. “He is suspicious,” she said. “He says Charlotte is unwell.”
“So you did not see her.” His voice was flat with disappointment.
“No, I inveigled my way in, though it took some doing,” she said.
Geoff sat down on the edge of her bed, looking disconcertingly as if he belonged there. “That’s my girl,” he said, his smile wan. “Ever the devious one.”
“But Lezennes would not leave us alone,” she went on. “Not for an instant. But the maid is packing, and they go in the morning by train.”
“At least we know that much.” But he was tapping the crop pensively against his boot top.
Anaïs showed him the book and the card, and explained her plan. “What do you think?” she asked, perching on the bed beside him. “Too risky?”
Geoff cocked one brow, and read over the verse. “Well, the verse proves nothing,” he murmured. “I’ve circled a dozen such passages in the book myself. As to the card, it’s old, it’s worn, and the words almost blend into the design. One would have to look awfully closely to notice. No, by gad, it could be brilliant.”
Anaïs beamed up at him for a moment, then her face fell. “Ah, Geoff, what are the chances?” she asked. “Why would she look at it tonight? What if she really does have a headache? She’ll likely just toss it aside.”
But Geoff caught her upper arms in his hands. “It is a good idea, Anaïs,” he said firmly. “Besides, it’s all we’ve got. And if that doesn’t work—well, then we pray she doesn’t scream the whole house awake, and we try to persuade her to go.”
Anaïs held his gaze a little sadly. “Oh, we will persuade her,” she murmured. “You should have seen Charlotte today. She looked . . . frightened. I think she knows, Geoff. Is it possible Giselle has—I don’t know—seen something?”
Geoff had risen, and begun to pace the room. “It’s hard to say,” he murmured. “Children and their parents generally cannot read one another.”
“Nonna Sofia could read my cards,” said Anaïs.
Geoff considered it. “But you were the fourth generation down,” he said crossing his arms and leaning back against the doorframe. “The blood was thin. Still, who knows? The Gift is strange, especially when it’s strong. It is more likely Giselle can read Lezennes, or sense the evil in him. Hell, I can sense that much without laying a hand on the bastard—I beg your pardon. My language suffers from my frustration.”
“Lud, never mind that!” Anaïs sighed. “At the very least, I think Charlotte knows Lezennes means to propose marriage to her one last time. And she knows she means to refuse him.”
“Aye, and that alone might be enough to make her run,” Geoff muttered, arms still crossed resolutely. “I pray to heaven, Anaïs, that I’m doing the right thing. That Charlotte will be well and that we will get her child safely away. And by God, if I have to stab that bastard Lezennes through the heart to get the job done, then so be it.”
And that, Anaïs later realized, was the moment she fell completely, utterly, head-over-heels in love with the formerly cold and aloof Lord Bessett. The moment when the prince of her dreams became not a dark, dashing Tuscan rogue, but a practical and quietly ruthless Englishman with eyes like arctic ice and hair kissed by the sun. The moment when she realized that her great-grandmother’s dream was not necessarily her own, and that fortunes, perhaps, could be altered if one truly willed it so.
Of course they could be altered.
Wasn’t that precisely what they were doing here? They were saving Charlotte from an awful fate. Snatching Giselle from a man destined to use her ill. None of it was written in stone—and if it was, then why were they any of them there? Of what use was the Gift at all?
The reality—the possibility—caught her breath and stole it away with her heart.
Nonna Sofia was gone, and allowing her dream to keep living would not bring he
r back to Anaïs. It would not make her any less dead—and it need not make her any less important. Nonna Sofia had been right about a great many things—well, everything, really.
Just not this.
On this score, she was wrong—or at the very least, Anaïs prayed she was.
A little unsteadily, she rose from the bed and went to him. Setting a hand to Geoff’s cheek, she stood her tiptoes and kissed him lightly. “Has anyone ever told you, Geoffrey Archard, that you are utterly amazing?” she whispered.
His eyes warmed. “Oh, aye?” he answered. “What was that for?”
Anaïs drew away, but did not remove her hand. “I am not perfectly sure,” she admitted. “But I’ll tell you when I have finished working it out.”
At that, he threw back his head and laughed. Anaïs flashed him a wry smile, then went to the bed, and jerked the coverlet off.
His arms fell, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing with that?”
Anaïs draped it over her arm. “I don’t think Monsieur Michel will grieve over it when he gets his house back,” she said, “any more than he will grieve over those old blades he keeps upstairs.”
“His swords?” Geoff’s eyes widened. “Rolling them up and taking them along, are we?”
“Just the sharp ones,” she said, breezing past and kissing him again. “After all, they do say if you mean to sup with the devil you’d better bring a long spoon.”
“Oh, aye, they do say that.” He followed her from the room. “And the connection here would be . . . ?”
She turned in the passageway, the coverlet still draped over her arm. “Well, one of us might have to stab Lezennes through the heart,” she said breezily, “but I should like us to have a good length of blade when we do it.”
Chapter 18
Secret operations are essential in war; upon them the army relies to make its every move.
Sun Tzu, The Art of War
As in most large cities, night never really fell over Brussels, and by the time the city’s clocks were striking three, traffic in the main thoroughfares had thinned but slightly. Keeping carefully to the shadows, Geoff crouched utterly still against the fence behind the Vicomte de Lezennes’ town house, his legs long ago gone numb.