Historical Romance Boxed Set

by Brenda Novak

  A heavy hand pounded on the door, nearly causing Jeannette to collapse in a heap on the floor. She’d heard no tread and felt completely unprepared to meet her husband, regardless of Agatha’s ministrations.

  How could she be such a coward? she wondered, feeling ashamed. Would she shrink from her duty to those she loved?

  “Entrez,” she said, steadying her voice.

  The word had scarcely left her mouth when the door burst open, but it wasn’t St. Ives. It was Henri, and his narrow face was as pale as her own.

  Jeannette dragged the heavy counterpane from the baron’s bed and used it to cover herself. “What are you doing here? What is the meaning of this?”

  Henri didn’t seem to notice what she was or wasn’t wearing. “Jeannette, thank God I have arrived in time. Come with me. We must leave at once.”

  “But I cannot—”

  “Hush! They were talking about you. The baron is not the man we thought he was. He—he has plans to dishonor you.” His dark eyebrows, thick like their father’s, drew together as he made an effort to compose himself, but he couldn’t quite manage it. “Never mind.” He gestured as if he could sweep the confusion away that easily. “The details are too ugly. Come away!”

  Jeannette stiffened in surprise. “I understand that you are worried about me, Henri, but Maman and Papa were strangers when they married and—”

  “This is different.” His lip trembled as he pushed her toward the door. Although he as tall as she already, he was reed-thin.

  “But I am not dressed!”

  For the first time, Henri seemed to realize she was dragging the counterpane. His face grew red, but he remained steadfast in his purpose. “There is no time to delay. I heard them …outside …placing wagers….”

  “On what? Henri, do not frighten me.”

  His chin jutted out in defiance. “You have no need to worry. I am your brother. I will not let anything happen to you.”

  Grabbing his slender shoulders, Jeannette gazed into his big brown eyes and gave him a gentle shake. “Stop this. I am a married woman now. I have no choice but to stay here. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Listen to me!” His fingers bit into her elbow as though he’d drag her away if he had to. “I have learned the baron cannot father a child, Jeannette.” His whispered words came in a torrent. “He is bringing others to your bed, to acquire an heir any way he can. And the men he has chosen are eager for the opportunity, even placing wagers on whose seed will take in your belly!”

  At this announcement, all the strength threatened to leave Jeannette’s limbs. She gripped Henri’s arm for support. Was that what Richard Manville had meant? Why Sir Thomas had fairly salivated at the touch of her? Were they anticipating a turn in her bed? She knew the baron had been married before, that the late baroness had borne him no children….

  “Come, vite!” Henry tugged harder, but she wrenched away.

  “No! You must go back down and act as if nothing has happened. Detain St. Ives, if possible, while I leave on my own.”

  “But Maman and Papa …we should all go!”

  Jeannette’s heart sank. How she wished that were possible. She wanted nothing more than for her whole family to be miles and miles away. But St. Ives would never sit idly by and allow her parents to take her from Hawthorne House. His standing and reputation would be ruined. And, if alerted, he could easily stop them. He had power here in England, knew everyone. “Think, Henri! I belong to the baron. And we are refugees, paupers! All he has to do is deny our accusations and follow through with his plan. Who would stop him, except Papa? And I will not have Papa dueling over me.”

  “But you cannot go alone! Who will protect you? A woman on her own is not safe.”

  “I can take care of myself. You know I can. But you must promise me something, Henri.”

  Agitated and still eager to grab her and leave, he shifted on his feet. “Yes, anything!”

  “Do not breathe a word of this to anyone, even Papa, until I am well away.”

  Warring emotions twisted his face into an agonizing grimace, but he finally sighed and nodded. “Where will you go?”

  “To London, of course. Our cousin Darby will help me, I am sure, if only I can get to him. After I am off, tell Mama and Papa where I have gone. The three of you can meet me at Lord Darby’s in two weeks.”

  “But how will you travel so far? You have no money!”

  “I will manage. Just do as I say!”

  “What choice do I have?” he asked, his bravado crumbling.

  “Exactly. Now go, so I can change.” She hugged him, a close, poignant embrace, then half-shoved him out the door, frantic now lest the baron appear.

  “Au revoir,” he murmured softly, his somber expression looking years older than his age.

  Jeannette couldn’t answer for the lump in her throat. She managed a quick wave and closed the door, then dropped the counterpane and flew to the armoire. The maids had placed her gowns and other belongings in the clothes cupboard just that morning, but nothing fancy would do. She needed plain clothing, like the peasant’s blouse and skirt she had worn when her father smuggled her out of France. She’d kept them, but would she be able to find them?

  A tread outside in the hall made Jeannette freeze at the very moment her hands laid hold of the thick wool skirt she sought. She turned frightened eyes toward the door when she heard the baron’s voice. He was seconds away from striding into the room to find her nightgown at her feet, along with almost every other garment she possessed.

  “Who wants a word?” he asked someone else whose voice Jeannette couldn’t quite make out.

  She stood, transfixed, expecting the door to swing inward at any moment. But the baron’s voice receded along with his steps, leaving Jeannette shaking like one with a palsy.

  Another few moments, then. She had been spared another few moments.

  Tearing the skirt from the wardrobe, she launched into a new search of the armoire for her blouse—and spotted a corner of white lying on top of her shoes. In her frenzy, she’d knocked the garment down.

  Jeannette’s fingers flew over the laces and buttons as she dressed. The night they had escaped France, she’d had her family about her. Now she had only herself and a strident inner voice that urged her to move. Now. Fast.

  Scooping up the slippers she’d worn with her wedding dress, she flew to the door. Her nerves could not tolerate another moment in the room.

  She pressed her ear to the hard wood of the door, trying to hear above the heavy tramp of her heart, but only a few distant voices filtered up to her. She had no idea whether or not it was Henri who had taken St. Ives away, which direction her husband had traveled, or when he’d be back. She could only hope that her younger brother would waylay the baron if he hadn’t already, while God directed her feet to safety.

  Cracking the door, she peeked into the long, dark hall before slipping outside. Shadows alerted her to heavy furniture arranged along the left wall, but she couldn’t carry a candle, and without one, she feared she’d become lost.

  Laughter tinkled on the air, rising from the ballroom below as Jeannette tried to decide the best way to get out. She’d visited Hawthorne House for the first time only that morning. She knew nothing of its mazelike corridors. But heading down the stairs she had climbed with Agatha wasn’t a possibility. She had to find another way out.

  And she could. In a grand house such as this, double entrances into almost every room facilitated the servants’ movements; she was bound to find an exit. Besides that, the lateness of the hour boded well. St. Ives employed many servants and had hired more to help with the ball. Most of the belowstairs help would be too preoccupied with cleaning up or seeing to the remaining guests to notice a plainly dressed woman who could easily be one of their own.

  Stuffing her hair up under the crushed bonnet that had been crammed into the pocket of her skirt, she moved cautiously through the darkness. The floor beneath her creaked, the noise stretching her nerv
es taut, but she didn’t slow. Seconds mattered, fractions of seconds …

  If only she could slip outside, the thick trees surrounding the baron’s mansion would hide her. But not for long. She had to get to London and to Lord Darby before her new husband found her.

  The corridors of Hawthorne House twisted and turned past so many rooms, Jeannette lost count. Eventually she found the back stairs and headed down into a large, hot kitchen. Pans clanged as a tired-looking slavey washed dishes. A tall man dressed in livery flung orders at several young women busy stacking plates in a cupboard he waited to lock. The pungent smell of onions and roast duck permeated everything, along with the gentler aroma of the baked goods lining a deal table.

  Jeannette blended with the bustle as she passed through the pantry, pushing aside baskets of turnips, potatoes, and sacks of wheat to find the back door.

  Freedom hit her with the first icy blast of the wind. Then silence engulfed her, along with a thick, cloaking mist that didn’t permit so much as the moon’s light to penetrate. She half-expected someone to cry out her name, for the entire house to descend upon her. But there was only the fog. And though its fingers were as cool and impersonal as the baron’s own, she gladly accepted its embrace as she ran quietly into the night.

  Chapter 3

  By the time Jeannette stumbled into Plymouth, the fog had turned into thin wispy tentacles mixed with rain. The five- or six-mile walk in the damp, chilly night had been grueling. Every carriage that had rumbled by on the road to town had sent her fleeing into the brush for cover, leaving her scratched and bruised by thorny branches, and her slippers ruined, worn through and caked with mud.

  Concentrating on the sound of the rain splashing into puddles, she tried to ignore the scurrying of unseen animals, the presence of which set her teeth on edge. Even when her lungs began to burn and her skirts became sodden and heavy, she pressed on, wondering where to go now that the village rose like a dark giant climbing out of the sea.

  Several minutes later, Jeannette wiped drops of rain from her face with her sleeve as she passed through the narrow, cobbled streets. Would she have to spend the entire night without shelter? Plymouth was one of His Majesty’s great naval bases and often in the news, but she’d never visited the city before. She’d stayed in London until she met Lord St. Ives. Then he’d brought her, along with her parents and brother, to a quaint but expensive inn outside Liskeard.

  A drunk man lying amid the garbage in the gutter sat up as she passed by. “Ahoy thar, pretty maid,” he cried out.

  Startled into a run, she flew around the next corner, hoping to find light and people near the water. Sailors were reputed to be an unsavory lot known for carousing the night away, but their company was better than no company at all.

  The street sloped down to meet the wharves and the rest of the fog cleared, giving Jeannette her first glimpse of the night’s moon. A mere sliver of light that appeared to curve into a jeering smile, it mocked her fear and her flight. It touched the harbor with a silvery glow that caused the black, inky sea to glisten like a field of crushed diamonds. Large merchant brigs, smaller clippers, and a frigate farther out rocked upon the waves. The lanterns attached to their masts looked, from a distance, like so many yellow eyes staring back at her.

  Two men approached on a street intersecting her own. Before they could see her, she darted into the shadows to wait for them to pass.

  The stench of wet wool and sweat trailed after them. They had to be heading toward the noisy taverns along the harbor. That was the only section of town that had any life at this hour. The light and music tempted Jeannette, as well. She hesitated to visit such disreputable establishments, but she hardly felt any safer on the streets.

  In the end, the miserable weather became the deciding factor. She followed them before she could lose sight of their stocky forms, telling herself she’d let them lead her through the streets. She longed for the warmth of a fire and a safe place to rest, if only for a few minutes.

  A chorus of music, laughter, and male voices swelled as her guides stepped into a pub named, by a crudely lettered sign, The Stag.

  A moment later, Jeannette followed.

  Glad to escape the rain that was dripping into her face despite her beleaguered bonnet, Jeannette hovered near the entrance, feeling rather conspicuous in her peasant garb. Surely only women of ill-repute frequented these taverns. But she would have crawled into a beast’s lair if it meant a reprieve from the dark, the wet, and the cold.

  Although the Stag wasn’t crowded, it smelled strongly of ale, wood smoke, and foul cheroots. The barmaids were haranguing a few snoring stragglers, trying to get them to remove their slumbering bulks to the rooms upstairs. But judging by the empty glasses cluttering the vacant tables, most had already moved on.

  A huge fireplace took up one whole wall. Eager for its warmth, Jeannette sank down on its hearth and rubbed her freezing fingers before the crackling flames. Her hair lay plastered against her face and neck. And her skirt clung to her shivering body. Ah, for a warm bed, or a change of clothes …But she had no coin to purchase either.

  Content that she was safe for the moment, she stared into the flames and tried to think. She couldn’t stay long, would have to press on come morning. Otherwise, St. Ives stood a good chance of finding her before she reached Lord Darby. And, as her husband, the baron could legally drag her back to his home, beat her, do almost anything he pleased.

  Jeannette thought of Henri and her parents and hoped they fared well. No doubt they were worried about her.

  How she wished she were back in France, safe in her home. She longed for the life she’d known before the Revolution. But every morning when she opened her eyes to England, she knew those days were gone, probably forever.

  Leaning wearily against the stones, she forced back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. Her nose was beginning to run. She reached into her pocket for a handkerchief, but, realizing she didn’t have one, shrugged and wiped her nose on her sleeve, too dejected to care.

  A clatter brought Jeannette’s head up. Guffaws rang out from a group in the corner as a barmaid tried to keep the tankards she hadn’t dropped from joining the one she had.

  “That ought ter cool yer ardor,” she said, swinging her hips as she moved around the table.

  Jeannette pushed the straying tendrils of hair out of her eyes. Five sailors, roughly dressed, sat at a table with three others, dressed in the formal blue-and-white uniform of officers in the Royal Navy. Ignoring the overturned cup and spilled ale at their feet, they laughed as mugs of the same brew were placed in front of them.

  The girl who delivered their drinks giggled as the man she’d doused pulled her onto his lap. “Not ‘ardly,” he vowed.

  Another barmaid, taking an interest in the revelry, sauntered toward them and leaned so low over the table that Jeannette expected her to knock over more drink.

  The sailors didn’t notice—the ale, anyway. Their eyes were riveted to what Jeannette could only assume was a spectacular display of cleavage. All except one particular officer, who wore the single epaulette of a lieutenant. Tilting his chair back against the wall, he watched the maid with a scowl.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t ye like what ye sees?” she teased, singling him out.

  Another young man with short-cropped hair spoke up. “Ah, don’t mind Lieutenant Treynor, Molly. He’s been dour all night. Besides, he’s not all he’s cracked up to be.” He shot the officer in question a quick smile, as if to soften his quip, but the man called Treynor merely shrugged.

  “Well, I’m not askin’ ‘im ter marry me,” Molly retorted.

  The others hooted with laughter.

  “‘E’s in love then? Got a jealous wife?”

  “No,” the young sailor replied. “He’s just too concerned with his duty to enjoy a good romp. At least one he’ll tell about.” He winked. “A lieutenant’s got a lot on his mind, you know.”

  The man called Treynor set his chair back on
all fours with a bang. “Indeed. I must make sure you gentlemen make it back to the ship come morning, along with the beef we were sent for.”

  “You know you can trust us, Trey,” the younger man said. “Anyway, the Tempest puts in at London before we head back out to sea. If I was going to desert, I’d do it there, where I have family.” He stood and took the barmaid’s hand. “Come on, Mol. My coin’s as good as his, and I’ll keep you warmer.”

  Molly paused, her reason obvious, at least to Jeannette, who had never seen a more handsome man than the lieutenant. White, straight teeth gleamed between full lips. A slight cleft in his chin and a strong, square jaw complemented a rather crooked smile. Brows a shade darker than his sandy-colored hair arched above light eyes. Although Jeannette couldn’t determine the exact color of those eyes, they seemed intelligent and expressive, even from across the room.

  “That’s the way of it, then?” the maid asked with obvious disappointment.

  “I’m not worthy of your charms, Molly love,” Treynor answered with an unexpected grin. “Go and enjoy yourself with Dade. He’s a much younger man and will no doubt be quicker, if not more to your liking.”

  The sailors chortled at Treynor’s insult, and someone close enough to Dade nudged him in the ribs.

  “I wish ye’d let me be the judge o’ that,” the girl sulked, but when Dade appeared wounded, she curved her lips into a grudging smile. “Oh, all right. ‘Tis gettin’ late, and I’m not one ter plead fer a man in my bed. Most o’ the time, the likes of ye are beggin’ me!”

  “No doubt.” The lieutenant agreed amiably enough, but Jeannette couldn’t help wondering if he was merely being kind.

  Molly and Dade moved away from the table with the other maid and the man who’d captured her. The four of them headed to the stairs as Treynor got up. Impressive by any standard, he stood a head taller than his comrades.