by Brenda Joyce
He made her plan sound daunting and difficult, indeed. God, what if the gold was gone? “I have to attempt to retrieve it, Uncle. Henri said he left us a chest of gold,” she finally confessed.
His eyes widened. “That would be a good fortune, indeed! But then you have the problem of finding someone you can trust!”
How perfect his cue. “Have you ever heard of Jack Greystone? He smuggled us from France, and I was impressed with his courage and his skill. I have been trying to locate him since the funeral.”
Robert stared, flushing a little. “Of course I have heard of him, Evelyn. He is rather famous. Or should I say infamous? I didn’t know Greystone got you out of the country. Well, I am not surprised you think he is the man for the mission. I suppose, if anyone could retrieve that gold, it is he. And I would even trust him to do so, in this case—he is rather fond of beautiful women. Or so they say!”
Was he suggesting that Jack Greystone would help her because she was beautiful? “I am prepared to pay him well,” she added. “Once he retrieves the fortune.”
“I do not know if I can ferret him out,” he quickly said with another flush.
Evelyn was dismayed, but trying to decipher Robert’s somewhat odd behavior. She sensed he was withholding something. “Is there something I should know?” she asked.
“Of course not. I will begin making a few inquiries for you, immediately,” he said. “How is your daughter managing, Evelyn?”
She tried to hide her disappointment, wondering if she was engaging in more futile action. Briefly, they discussed Aimee, and Evelyn assured him that Aimee was doing well.
She was about to leave when she heard the front door open. Evelyn grimaced as she thanked her uncle and left the study, leaving him immersed in his papers.
But her aunt was not in the front hall; Annabelle was there, and so was Trevelyan. She was handing off her cloak, as he was his coat, and when she saw Evelyn, Annabelle faltered. Trev instantly came forward, smiling. “This is a delightful surprise,” he said with a brief bow.
The gesture was not affected—it was casual and elegant. Evelyn was as surprised to see them—and especially to see them together, but of course, they had all been friends since childhood. She smiled and came forward. “Hello, Trev. Have you been escorting my cousin about?”
“Actually, I was calling on Robert, and I bumped into her in the drive. How are you, Evelyn? You are looking very well today.”
“I am doing better, thank you,” she said, having briefly wondered if a romance might be brewing between Trev and her cousin. She turned to Annabelle. “We did not have a chance to speak the other day. You have become a beautiful young woman, Annabelle.”
Annabelle blushed. “Hello, Evelyn, I mean, Countess. Thank you. I am sorry I could not greet you properly the other day.” She stopped. She glanced at Trev. “I am also sorry it became a bit awkward. Lucille still has her temper.”
Evelyn thanked Thomas as he handed her cloak to her. “It is difficult, I suppose, after so many years have passed, to be reunited as we have. But we all have different lives now and a great deal has changed.”
“You are being patient and kind,” Annabelle said.
“Is there a point in being impatient and cruel?” Evelyn smiled.
Trev looked at them both. “Lucille has more than a temper, and she has always been jealous of Evelyn, for obvious reasons. She is now a married woman, so one would think bygones were just that. But there is no reason that the two of you cannot patch things up and become friends.”
While Evelyn looked at him in some surprise, Annabelle looked at him with obvious admiration. Evelyn said, “You are right, I think. When you feel like it, Annabelle, please call. You are Aimee’s cousin and she would love to meet you.”
Annabelle nodded. “I will try to come by next week.”
Trev took Evelyn’s cloak from her and draped it over her shoulders. “And may I come by, as well? Strictly as a family friend, of course?”
She started, wondering at his choice of words—wondering if he had a romantic inclination toward her. Surely, she was mistaken. “Of course you can call.” She stared closely at him. Trev’s father had always been as actively involved in the free trade as her uncle had been. She happened to have heard, in the past weeks, that he remained in good health, being about seventy years of age now, but that he had given Trev control of the estate and its affairs. Perhaps he had the information Evelyn sought. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”
Annabelle flushed again. “I must go anyway. It was nice seeing you, Evelyn. Good day, Trev.” She quickly left.
He smiled at her. “Hmm, should I be flattered?”
“Surely you are not flirting with me?”
“Of course I am flirting. You are impossibly attractive.” A dimple joined his smile.
She couldn’t help it—she smiled back. “I had forgotten how charming you are.”
“I do not believe it. I think you have been pining away for me for years.”
She laughed for the first time since Henri had died. It felt rather good. Then she became serious. “Can you help me locate Jack Greystone?”
His smile vanished. “Why?” His tone was sharp.
She was not about to tell Trevelyan her reasons. “He helped us flee France, Trev, but other than that, I cannot tell you why I am looking for him. It is a business matter.”
“Are you thinking of getting into the trade?” He was incredulous.
She did not want to lie, but misleading him was not lying, so she said, “Maybe.”
“You are a woman—a lady!”
She laid her hand on his arm, surprising them both. “I am sure you have noticed that I am in very strained circumstances. I need to speak with Greystone, Trev, and frankly, I am rather desperate.”
He was grim. “You could lose everything, Evelyn.”
“I know the risks.”
She stared back at him, releasing his arm. He looked about to curse. “I will think about what you have asked.”
“Does that mean you know how to reach him?”
“It means, I will think about what you have asked.”
* * *
IT HAD BEGUN TO DRIZZLE, and as Evelyn looked up at the dark, cloudy sky, she knew it would soon rain. She shivered as the wind picked up, but she had just reached the iron front gates at the head of Roselynd’s drive.
Ahead, Roselynd was a three-story square house, statuesque in impression, and very current in design. Cast of pale, nearly white stone, it stood out eerily in the darkness. All the windows were dark except for one on an upper floor, which she happened to know was Laurent and Adelaide’s room.
It was later than she had thought, and her poor mare was tired—it had been a long difficult week for her, with all the traipsing about that Evelyn had done. The mare had hardly been used in the months prior.
She felt a pang, thinking of Henri, and a stirring of anger as she thought about the predicament she was in. Very firmly, she told herself that he had not left her destitute by choice; the revolution had done that.
She halted the mare before the barn, and as she did so, she heard Laurent calling to her. She smiled as she slipped from the gig, and Laurent approached from the house. “I was becoming very worried about you, madame.”
“I am fine. I had a very good conversation with my uncle, Laurent, and if I am fortunate, he will locate Greystone for me.” She was too tired to tell him about Trevelyan, and decided she would do so tomorrow. “It is later than I thought. Is Aimee awake?”
“She is asleep, and Adelaide has left a covered tray in your rooms. I will put the mare away.”
She thanked him, as the drizzle turned abruptly into a pounding rain. They both cried out, Laurent hurrying the mare into the stables, as Evelyn pulled up her skirts and ran for the house.
Inside, she slammed the front door closed, breathing hard. The front hall was in darkness, which pleased her—why waste candles to light the entry when she was the only one expected
? Evelyn removed her soaking cloak. The rest of her clothes remained dry, but her shoes and stockings were wet.
Her cloak over her arm, Evelyn went upstairs in the darkness, going directly to Aimee’s room. As Laurent had said, she was soundly asleep. Evelyn pulled the covers up, kissing her forehead, the rain now pounding on the windows and the roof above their heads.
In her own bedroom she lit a single taper, hung up her cloak and removed her wet shoes and stockings. Thunder boomed. Just after it did, she heard Laurent entering the house, the front door closing. She felt a moment of relief, for, like a child, she disliked fierce storms. But now, the mare was settled and fed for the night, Laurent was on his way upstairs and the house was securely locked.
She removed the pins from her hair, which always made her head ache at this time of the day, letting it down. As she shook her hair out, she realized that she was exhausted. Undressing would be a chore, but she somehow removed her gown and underclothes, donning her white cotton nightgown. In France, the loose but luxurious garment with its puffed sleeves and lace trim was called a robe innocente.
She was just about to uncover the tray Adelaide had left for her and try to eat a morsel or two when she heard a movement downstairs. She stiffened, alarmed, until she realized that it was the sound of a shutter banging against the side of the house.
She was going to have to close those shutters—she would never sleep with all of that banging. Evelyn took the taper she had lit and hurried down the hall. Then she hesitated, and as the wind ceased, the rain became a quiet steady pitter-patter and the shutter was silent.
Thunder boomed.
She jumped, her heart skipping, and scolded herself for being a fool. Now she heard nothing but the gentle steady rhythmic rain.
She was about to turn and go back to her room when a light went on below her.
She froze, incredulous.
And then, as she inched closer to the top of the stairs, she realized that a taper had been lit in the salon.
Her heart thundered with alarm.
She stared down the stairs, across the entry hall and into the salon, which was in shadow, but clearly, a single light shone within.
Someone was in her salon.
She almost called out, hoping it was Laurent, but he had gone up to the room he shared with Adelaide—she was certain.
She needed a gun. She had a pistol under the mattress of her bed. Should she seize it, or should she get Laurent? And as she debated what to do she saw a man cross the salon.
Evelyn froze again.
His stride had been unrushed, indolent—familiar.
Every hair on her nape had risen. Now her heart slammed.
He came to the doorway of the salon, holding a drink in his hand, and looked up at her.
And even in the shadows, even as their gazes locked, there was no mistaking who he was.
“I hear you are looking for me,” Jack Greystone said.
CHAPTER THREE
HE WASN’T SMILING as he spoke.
Evelyn seized the banister to remain upright. For an entire moment, one that felt like an eternity, she could not speak. She had found Jack Greystone—or, he had found her.
And he hadn’t changed. He remained so unbearably attractive. He was tall and powerfully built, clad now in a rather wet riding coat, fashionable lace cuffs spilling from the sleeves, a darker vest beneath. He also wore doeskin breeches and high black boots with spurs, now splattered with mud.
And his golden hair was pulled casually back, some of it escaping from its queue. But that only made his high cheekbones seem sharper, his jaw seem stronger. And his gray gaze was intent upon her.
Evelyn’s heart slammed another time—he was regarding her attire, rather thoroughly.
She knew she flushed. But she was dressed for bed, not for entertaining. “You have scared me witless, sir!”
“I apologize,” he said, and she could not decide if he meant it. “But I rarely go anywhere in broad daylight, and I never use the front door.”
Their gazes were now locked. She continued to reel, remaining stunned by his appearance in her home. He was referring now to the bounty on his head. “Of course not,” she managed.
He said wryly, as calm as she was not, “I have not misheard, have I? Half a dozen of my acquaintances have alerted me to the inquiries you have been, rather recklessly, making. You are looking for me, Lady D’Orsay?”
“Yes,” she said, suddenly very aware that he had just identified her as the Countess D’Orsay, not the Vicomtesse LeClerc. She had never corrected the misinformation she had deliberately given him—when they had parted company, four years ago, upon landing just south of London, he had still believed her to be Lady LaSalle, Vicomtesse LeClerc. “I am desperate to have a word with you, sir.” As she spoke, she recalled their first meeting, four years ago. She had been desperate then, and she had said so.
But his gaze never flickered; his expression did not change. It occurred to her that he did not recall that meeting—and that he did not recognize her.
But how could he fail to recognize her? Was it even possible?
His stare was prolonged. It was a moment before he said, “That is an attractive nightgown, Countess.”
He did not recognize her, she was now certain. It was shocking! She had remarkable features—everyone said so. She might be tired and pale, but she was still an attractive woman. Trevelyan had thought so.
She was flushing, uncertain of what he meant, and whether there had been mockery in his tone. She did not know how to respond to such a remark—or what to do about his failure to recognize her. “I was hardly expecting to find a visitor, within my home, at this hour.”
“Obviously.” He was wry. “If it eases you, I have two sisters, and I have seen a great many female garments.”
She felt certain he was laughing at her now. It crossed her mind that a great many of those female garments had not belonged to his sisters. “Yes, I had heard.”
“You have heard that I am accustomed to the sight of women in their nightclothes?”
“You know that is not what I meant.” But of course, it was probably very true! “I am going to get a robe—I will be right back!”
He seemed amused as he sipped his wine, looking up the stairs at her. Evelyn turned and fled, her disbelief growing. In her chamber, she threw on a cotton robe that matched her nightgown. Maybe he would recognize her once she stepped fully into the light. But just then, she was feeling oddly insulted.
Didn’t he think her attractive?
She forced herself to a calmer pace and returned downstairs. He was in the salon—he had lit several tapers, and he watched her as she entered. “How do you know about my sisters?” His tone remained bland. “Have you made inquiries about them, too?”
She was trembling, and her pulse was racing but she stiffened, instantly sensing that she was venturing into dangerous territory. He was, she thought, displeased. “No, of course not. But they were mentioned in the course of a conversation.”
“About me?” His stare was relentless.
She shivered. “About you, sir.”
“And with whom did you have this enlightening conversation?”
“John Trim.” Was he worried about betrayal? “He admires you greatly. We all do.”
His gray gaze flickered. “I suppose I should be flattered. Are you cold?”
Her pulse was rioting but she was hardly cold—she was unnerved, undone, at a loss! She had forgotten how manly he was, and how his presence teased the senses. “It is raining.”
There was a wool throw on the back of the sofa and, very casually, he retrieved it. She tensed as he approached. “If you are not cold,” he said softly, “then you are very nervous—but then, you are also very desperate.”
For an instant, she thought he had inflected upon the final word—and that he recalled their first meeting, when she had been so desperate, after all. But his expression never changed as he laid the wool about her shoulders and she realized
that he did not remember her, not at all. “I am unused to entertaining at this hour,” she finally said. “We are strangers and we are alone.”
“It is half past nine, Countess, and you asked for this rendezvous.”
It felt like midnight, she thought. And clearly, he was not shaken by their encounter, not at all.
“Have I somehow distressed you?” he asked.
“No!” She quickly, falsely, smiled. “I am thrilled that you have called.”
He eyed her, askance. Thunder cracked overhead and the shutter slammed against the house. Evelyn jumped.
He had just raised his glass and now he set it down. “It is incredible, that you live in this house with but one manservant. I will close the shutter.” He left.
And when he was gone, she seized the back of the sofa, trembling wildly. How did he know that she lived alone with Laurent, her only manservant? Obviously he had made some inquiries about her.
But he did not recognize her. It was unbelievable, that she hadn’t made any impression on him.
He returned to the salon, smiling slightly, and shutting both doors behind them. Evelyn clutched the throw more tightly across her chest as their gazes met.
He walked past the sofa, which remained between them, and picked up his glass of wine. “I would prefer that no one here is aware of my presence tonight, other than yourself.”
“Everyone in this house is utterly trustworthy,” she managed, standing on the other side of the couch.
“I prefer to choose when to take risks—and which risks to take. And I rarely trust anyone—and never strangers.” His smile was cool. There was that odd, derisive, inflection again. “It shall be our little secret, Countess.”
“Of course I will do as you ask. And I am very sorry if my asking about you, so openly, has caused you any alarm.”
He took a sip of the red wine he was drinking. “I am accustomed to evading the authorities. You are not. What will you say to them when they come knocking at your door?”
She stared, dismayed, as she had not considered this possibility.