“Did you hear me, Monsieur Bernard?”
Trent jerked with the belated realization that he was being spoken to. God, how he’d grown soft. He would have never failed to respond immediately to his cover name before. He set his mug down and flicked his eyes toward the table directly to his right and within easy hearing distance. “Non. Pardon me. What did you say?”
From the creaky wooden chair she sat in, Bridgette Morel gave him an irritated glance that made her so startlingly resemble Gwyneth, Trent was robbed of the ability to speak for a moment. His mind turned like a slow crank, foggily reminding him Bridgette was not Gwyneth, but the younger sister he’d never known existed.
Bridgette shook her head and muttered something about Englishmen Trent couldn’t quite make out. She cleared her throat and cocked her head. “I said it shouldn’t be long now.” Even when she spoke English, her heavy French accent made her hard to understand.
Trent nodded. Five months of research had uncovered the very well hidden, seemingly harmless Bridgette, who was a poor seamstress struggling to make ends meet. It hadn’t been hard to convince her he was a former discarded lover of Gwyneth’s who was still desperately in love with her and wanted to find her. It had been even less difficult to convince Bridgette to help him after she’d seen the full bag of coin he offered to pay her to contact her brother and find out for certain where Gwyneth was.
“Il est ici,” Bridgette murmured.
Trent took in her flared nostrils and tightened features.
His entire body tensed as he pushed his chair farther into the shadows. Without moving a muscle, he scanned the room. “Where. Where do you see your brother?” he asked low enough only she could hear.
“At the bar,” she said out of the side of her mouth.
Trent searched the row of men at the bar but did not see Pierre. He slowly retraced the men once more. Too short. Too tall. Bald. Pierre had a thick head of hair. The bald man lifted his hand and waived at Bridgette.
“Mon dieu,” Bridgette murmured, raising her hand and waving back. “Pierre looks terrible.”
Trent squinted through the haze of smoke at the bald man weaving his way toward Bridgette. Once the man was near enough to see his face, a cold knot formed in Trent’s stomach. He’d recognize Pierre’s slanted cat like eyes anywhere. Automatically, Trent hunched over his table, affecting the look of a man deep in his cups and pulled the hat on his head down farther to make it impossible for Pierre to see his eyes.
If Trent didn’t hate Pierre so much he’d pity the man. He’d been robust and healthy last time Trent had seen him. Now he was a hollow-eyed skeletal figure with a sallow complexion. Pierre was sick. Fate had found Pierre and dealt him the cards he so richly deserved.
As Pierre walked slowly past Trent’s table, a sneer twisted the man’s thin lips while he briefly took in Trent and dismissed him in the same instant. Trent held in a snort. Pierre clearly still considered himself better than most men. Blithering fool. Trent’s fingers twitched with the need to grasp the pistol hidden under his coat. He remained still, not breathing until Pierre stopped in front of Bridgette.
For a long moment, there was an awkward silence, and then Pierre leaned forward, appearing as if he would embrace his sister, but right before touching her, he awkwardly stopped himself. Trent frowned. It was as if Pierre had remembered something. He spoke with a scratchy, strained voice in rapid French. It took several seconds for Trent to start to translate fast enough to understand their conversation.
After saying hello, Pierre eased himself into the seat across from Bridgette. Bridgette was smiling, but her nostrils were still flared, her shoulders held rigid and her hands clasped tightly in front of her. Damnation. Don’t come apart, Bridgette.
Keeping up his charade, he took a sip of the bitter ale in front of him and swiped his filth-covered hand over his mouth. The scent of fish nearly gagged him. If he could stand this, then surely Bridgette could remember to pretend she was here to reunite with Pierre and Gwyneth. Trent knew she would have never agreed to meet her siblings and get the information he sought if she didn’t so desperately need the money. After tonight, he’d supply Bridgette with enough coin to move far away to a much cleaner, nicer place where Pierre and Gwyneth, if she was alive, wouldn’t find her, if she wished it.
Where was Gwyneth? He scanned the room and as he did, Gwyneth’s name being spoken in conversation caught his attention. He abandoned searching for her and concentrated on the conversation going on at the table beside him. As if Bridgette had read his thoughts, she voiced the same question to Pierre. Gwyneth’s brother shook his head, his face falling. “Morte.”
Dead. Trent leaned forward, his pulse quickening. There was no reason for Pierre to lie to Bridgette. Still, Trent wanted to hear the details, watch Pierre’s expression and discern his voice to judge the truth of the matter. Then once he thought he had heard the truth, he would meticulously check what he had heard. Bridgette knew this. She unclasped her hands and swiped at the moisture pulling in her eyes. “Comment est-elle morte?”
Trent listened intently as between bouts of coughing Pierre’s voice hitched and wobbled while he described Gwyneth’s death from consumption and Pierre standing with Nicolaus Comier, the priest who had blessed Gwyneth, read the last rites to her and stood with Pierre as they burned her body for fear of the consumption lingering and spreading. Trent’s gut twisted tighter with each gritty detail revealed. She had wasted away day by day, coughing up blood and shrinking to nothing. Icy pinpricks danced across his skin. Pierre took a shuddering breath, grew quiet and then coughed violently into a handkerchief. He was young, but a stranger would never know it by glance. His sallow skin clung to his bones. When his coughing bout was over, Pierre laid the wadded linen square on the table, the crimson clots of blood against the cream easily discernible.
Trent’s stomach clenched with a strange mixture of emotions. Bitter sadness, disbelief and pity squeezed his chest. No matter what Gwyneth had done, he wouldn’t have wished such a slow, torturous death on her. Pierre coughed again.
Bridgette swiped at the tears coursing down her face. “Et vous?”
Pierre nodded. He too had consumption.
An hour later with Pierre freshly departed, Trent stood alone in the bitter cold and dark with Bridgette. She took his hand and squeezed. “I’m sorry you never got to see her again, but I fear it was for the best. She had an unkind heart.”
Trent nodded. He didn’t want his voice to betray to Bridgette how much he agreed with her. There was no point causing her unnecessary pain.
Bridgette sniffed as she took the blunt and coin and then her eyes widened considerably as she counted the money. “Monsieur, this is not what we agreed on.” She held some of the money out to him.
He shook his head. “Take it. Move away if you wish. Buy a new life. You seem a nice woman. Give yourself the chance your sister never got.”
Bridgette sniffed again. “Thank you,” she whispered and then looked up at him with tears shimmering in her eyes. “What will you do now? Go home to England?”
First he would double-check what Pierre had told Bridgette and speak to the priest who had delivered Gwyneth her last rites, but he would not tell Bridgette any of this. Trent nodded. “Yes, home to England. Shall I fetch you a carriage?”
“No. I’ll walk to clear my head. Part of me wants to flee this place immediately but part of me feels obligated to care for my brother since he’s dying.”
Trent wanted to encourage her to flee Pierre, but he kept his silence. It was her decision to make and Pierre was so sick now, Trent didn’t think he could gather enough energy to harm anyone. Besides, why would the man harm the sister he seemed to love? “I need to be going.”
She gave him a tremulous smile. “Au revoir. I hope you meet a nice Englishwoman to fall in love with.” She pulled her coat closed and walked in the opposite direction he would be going.
Trent fought memories of Gwyneth and Audrey as he waited for a hac
kney to pass by that he could wave to him. All he needed to concentrate on now was the task at hand. After a few moments, a hackney rattled down the cobblestone street and pulled up to him. He directed the driver to the small church that had been near where he and Gwyneth lived for the short time he thought they were happily married. If that was not Nicolaus Comier’s parish, perhaps someone there would know of him and could point Trent in the right direction.
As the hackney rattled across the bridge he studied Notre Dame Cathedral, determined not to think on his future but simply the architecture, yet all he could think was he would love to bring Audrey here and roam the streets of Paris, filling her inquisitive mind with the rich history of the city. He balled his hands into fists. If he received the needed confirmation of Gwyneth’s death from the priest, he intended to head home and see if he could convince Audrey to marry him, if she still hadn’t met anyone else.
His desire for her burned no less than the day he last saw her. In fact, it was like a disease consuming him. If he could have her in his bed, the ache for her, the need to be near her, see her, touch her, hear her, would go away. Or lessen to a dull roar he could live with. It had to.
The hackney jerked to a halt and Trent descended, gave the man some coins and strode into the tiny white chapel not three streets from where he and Gwyneth had lived. His footsteps echoed on the wooden floor as he strolled toward the front of the chapel where a priest, dressed in his robes, stood lighting candles. Trent quelled the anticipation building within him. Likely, this would be the first of many chapels he had to visit.
The priest looked up as Trent neared the front of the church. He blew out the candle he held and walked down the steps to Trent. The man was young with kind blue eyes and a bulbous nose. He smiled, showing rather brown teeth. “Puis-je vous aider?”
Trent certainly hoped the priest could help him. And in English preferably. “Parlais-vous anglais?”
The priest broke out into a grin. “Yes, but of course. What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for a priest named Nicolaus Comier.”
“But that is me!” he exclaimed, his deep voice echoing in the empty room.
Trent felt his lips pull into a smile. “Excellent. Finding you is the least uncomplicated thing I’ve done in a long time.”
The priest tipped his head. “I’m glad to be of service, monsieur.”
Trent dug into his coat pocket and pulled out the only picture he had ever had of Gwyneth. It was the size of the ends of two of his fingers and encased in a silver locket. He ran his hand over the smooth outer surface before opening the locket. He handed it to the priest. “Do you know this woman?”
The priest held the locket close to his face and squinted. A memory of when he had accidentally found her locket flashed in his head. She has asked him to hand her some unmentionables. The rough wood of the drawer scraped his fingers as he pushed the skirts aside to look for the unmentionable. Something cool was at the bottom. He took the locket out and grinned. He would have her picture fitted into a nicer one and surprise her.
Forcing his attention back to the church, he found the priest staring at him. “I knew her. She’s dead. Of consumption. I helped her brother burn her body. I’m so sorry. Was she a friend of yours?”
No. “Yes. I had heard she was dead, but I wanted to be certain.”
The priest clasped a hand on Trent’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Would you like a minute alone? Or I could stay and pray with you?”
“Alone would be good,” Trent replied. He would feel an utter phony praying with the priest over Gwyneth. Once he was alone he sat in the first pew and stared at the tiny picture of her face. He had dropped the locket when Gwyneth knocked him over the head with the end of a pistol. When he had gone back to the house after escaping prison and seen her burned body, he had picked up the locket, which was lying by the door on his way out. He did not know why. Maybe to remind himself never to be a damned fool again for love.
She was dead. He did not feel happy, thank God. He felt sad for her. For himself. Placing the locket on the dark pew, he stood and walked out the door.
England
Audrey stood in the middle of her entrance hall while directing which trunks to load onto the carriage first and which should be settled last. Somewhere above stairs, the sound of her aunt’s humming, as she undoubtedly dressed for their trip to London, drifted down to Audrey. Her stomach tightened with nerves. Soon she would be in London and attempting to reenter Society and find a husband. It was imperative nothing went wrong.
A knock at the door made her smile. Lord Thortonberry was punctual as always. She wasn’t sure how she could ever repay him for all his kindnesses. These past few days, he had been an invaluable help getting the house ready to depart for the Season. The man didn’t have a pretentious bone in his body, and she’d grown to value his friendship, even as she’d come to suspect he might possibly want to be more than friends.
She still wasn’t sure how she felt in that regard, since her heart had yet to flutter when he entered the room. Then again, considering the devil who’d last made her heart flutter then broke it, a calm heart was probably a good thing.
“Shall I get the door, my lady?”
Audrey glanced at Mr. Barrett, who precariously balanced an enormous trunk on his shoulder. “Goodness, no. I’ll get it. You can take that trunk to the carriage.”
She strolled to the door, opened it to a smiling Lord Thortonberry and waved him in as Mr. Barrett made his way out the door. Lord Thortonberry frowned as he stepped inside. “I wish you would allow my servants to come over and assist you.”
“No. I don’t want any charity.”
Something kindled in Lord Thortonberry’s eyes, but exactly what she was seeing, she wasn’t sure. He held out a small purse to her. “My solicitor sold your jewels.”
She took the purse and struggled to resist the urge to look inside to see if the jewels had brought enough money to survive the next couple of months.
A gentle smile pulled at his lips. “I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of requiring my solicitor check with me before accepting an offer for your gems.”
Audrey's brows pulled together. “Why did you do that?”
“I wanted to make sure he secured the best possible price. I think you’ll be pleased. Why don’t you look?”
Her fingers tightened involuntarily around the silk purse. “I’ll wait.” She was dying to peek, but her situation was already far too embarrassing without displaying her desperation.
He plucked the purse out of her fingers and opened it before she could protest. Withdrawing the money with a flourish, he handed it to her palm-up with a stern expression on his face. “There is no shame in wanting to make sure you have enough money to live on. Please don’t ever feel embarrassed over such a thing with me.”
His words tugged at her heart, but in a warm, fuzzy way, much like how she felt when Sally, Whitney and Gillian had shown up here. She glanced down to hide the confusion stirring within her. She cared for him as a friend, but if he asked to court her, could she think of him as more?
As she counted the money in her hands, her heart raced and an unstoppable grin spread across her face. There was enough money to live on for the next four months if they were very careful. Looking up, she caught him gazing intently at her. Her breath caught in her throat. She’d seen that look before in Trent’s eyes and thought it had meant he cared for her. Seeing it now in Lord Thortonberry’s eyes did not rouse the same breathless joy within her as when she’d believed Trent loved her, but she did feel something for Lord Thortonberry. Maybe she would never feel for a man what she’d felt for Trent. Maybe what Trent had inspired in her only came along once in a lifetime, or maybe she just needed to truly forget the devil in order to really open her heart to another man. Not that Lord Thortonberry was asking for her heart.
“Lady Audrey.”
His deep voice startled her out of her musings. Heat singed her cheeks. What must
he think of her standing here staring into the air and not talking? “I’m sorry. I was woolgathering.”
“Over Davenport?”
The heat burning her cheeks made its way rapidly down her neck and chest. She didn’t need to glance down to know her chest was splotchy. Clearing her throat, she prayed she sounded convincing. “Certainly not. I never think of that scoundrel.”
Lord Thortonberry’s eyebrows shot up and an amused smile pulled at his lips.
Perhaps the use of the word scoundrel had given her away. Drat it all. She longed to be able to say truthfully she’d forgotten the glittering green-eyed thief of hearts.
Lord Thortonberry’s gaze raked over her twice before he spoke. “He’s not worth you, nor the heartache you still nurture for him.”
Her heart pounded viciously against her breastbone. Lord Thortonberry may well be right. After all, she’d had the same thoughts, but it didn’t change how she felt. Still, maybe if she tried harder, she could really forget Trent. She swallowed, her throat dry with her nerves. “Do you have a suggestion?”
“As a matter of fact, I do. I propose you need to fall in love with another man.”
His gold-flecked eyes smoldered. If she’d been uncertain previously, she wasn’t anymore. Lord Thortonberry wanted her. Her stomach knotted with anxiety. With a little encouragement, he would probably court her and all her financial problems would be solved. She knew exactly what to say, but the words stuck in her throat.
When the front door swung open and Mr. Barrett strode in with an armful of packages, her relief was so immediate her legs trembled. “Mr. Barrett, what do you have there?”
“These packages were just delivered for you, my lady.”
She frowned and waved a hand toward the hall table. “Set them there.” She followed Mr. Barrett to the table. There were seven packages in all, each labeled from Madame Marmont’s dress shop. Behind her, she could feel Lord Thortonberry gazing over her shoulder.
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