A Daughter's Destiny (4 page)

Before Evan could do more than give a half bow in her direction, she trotted through the kitchen door. The light sound of her footsteps on the stairs leading up from the kitchen confirmed what he had guessed. The LeClerc family lived upstairs.

“Your grandmother is quite a lady,” he remarked with a smile.

“I do not wish to speak of Grand-mère.”

“And of what do you wish to speak, then?”

Her lowered brows could not cool her fiery beauty. “I do not want you to come here again. Play your games elsewhere, Mr. Somerset.”

“Game, Brienne? Hardly a game, as you have learned today.”

“I thought you did not know the men who did this.”

“No, I do not.” He laughed without humor. “I disdain violence myself.” He grasped her shoulders. “Just remember this, Brienne. If you are lying to me, you are hurting yourself. This was just a warning. Those men will come back if they did not get the vase. They will come back again and again and again until they get what they want or they destroy you and this salon.”

Brienne backed away. “No,” she whispered.

“Then, be honest with me.”

For a single heartbeat, she was ready to agree. Then, as she gazed up at him, she knew she would be a fool to trust him. If Evan Somerset refrained from violence, it was a conscious decision, because his intense eyes warned he could be a fierce foe.

“Where is the vase, Brienne?” he asked quietly.

“I told you—”

“You have told me nothing but lies.” He cursed, then smiled as his hands slipped along her shoulders. As she tried to pull away, his fingers encircled her throat.

Her heart faltered. This was no jest, for his eyes narrowed with fury. Would he strangle her? She held her breath.

In a blistering whisper, he said, “Mayhap they will be interested in selling it to me for Ł200.”

She put her hands over his. His grip tightened on her, but she gasped, “'Tis my vase!”

“Is it? Not if you no longer have it.”

“You would deal with the men who attacked me?”

With a shrug, he slid his hands up to curve along her cheeks. His mouth grazed her unbruised cheek. She fought the thrill rushing through her. She should despise him, not be taunted with the yearning for his lying lips.

“Business is business, my dear Brienne,” he murmured against her ear. “You cannot sell me the vase if you do not have it. What do you expect? That I will find your trinket and then pay you for it? Why would I do that?”

“It would be the decent thing to do.”

“I have never been described as decent.”

Pulling out of his grip, Brienne stepped behind the kitchen door. She needed some barrier between her and his tempting touch. “Put the Closed sign in the window on your way out.”

All humor left his face. “Brienne, for the love of heaven, I am just trying to help you.”

“And yourself.”

“Where is the vase?”

She did not answer. Running up the kitchen stairs, she paused at the top. She flinched as the street door slammed. Slowly she inched back down the steps. After turning down the lamp by the kitchen door, she drew back the torn curtains on the window.

Evan Somerset was stepping into an elegant carriage. She frowned. Only a fine lord or a wealthy businessman could own something so grand. Had he been honest with her?

No! He had been lying.

He must be lying. Otherwise, those men might be coming back.

“Brienne, what are you doing?”

She turned. “Grand-mère!”

Her grandmother leaned a broom against the wall. “May I assume that loud sound was Monsieur Somerset taking his leave?”

“Yes.” She wrapped her arms around herself and walked into the kitchen. “I am glad he is gone.”

“Are you,
ma petite?
” Grand-mère blew out the lamp. “Is that why you watch from the window?” She smiled. “He makes no secret of his pleasure with you.”

“Do not play the matchmaker. He only wants to cause trouble for us.”

“Are you certain of that?”

“More certain than I have been of anything in my life.”

“Then, you must decide how you will deal with him,
ma petite
.”

She faced her grandmother. “What do you mean?”

“Monsieur Somerset will be back.” Grand-mère's smile was as strained as her voice. “Of that, I am more certain than I have been of anything in my life.”

Chapter Three

Brienne rushed to the apartment door. The loud rapping sounded like a drummer going mad in the midst of a symphony. She threw open the door. “Evan!”

“Brienne, I see we are friends once more,” he said with a smile. Again he was dressed as a stylish gentleman should during the Season. Taking off his hat, which was as fashionable as the ruined one had been, he asked, “May I come in?”

“No.” She pushed the door, but his arm kept her from closing it. “Mr. Somerset—”

“Miss LeClerc, I do think you need to decide what you are going to call me.”

“How did you get in here?”

His smile broadened as he slowly forced the door open wide enough for him to enter. Putting his hat on a nearby table as if he were a regular caller, he said, “You should be more cautious, Brienne. Your kitchen door is unlocked.”

“It cannot be unlocked. I locked it last night after you left.”

“Mayhap a breeze blew it open.”

“That is impossible. It—” She saw amusement twinkling in his eyes. He knew any breath of wind that might find its way along the alley would not have been strong enough to ruffle a hair on a lady's coiffure. Someone would have to help that breeze open a locked door. And that someone must have been Evan Somerset, fine gentleman. On the outside, that was, but what was behind the façade?

“What do you want?” she asked, too tired to argue. She had spent the night tending Maman and cleaning up downstairs.

“Just now? I would like to talk with you.”

“If you want the vase—”

“I said I wanted to talk, Brienne. I said nothing about buying anything.”

Stepping aside, she agreed, “All right, but you can stay only a few minutes. I have more work to do downstairs.”

“You have done wonders in the salon.” He brushed invisible dust from the navy coat he wore over a sedate, light blue waistcoat. “It looks almost as pleasant as it did before.”

“May I remind you,” she retorted in her haughtiest voice, “that you alone doubted we would reopen tonight? I knew I could count on my neighbors to lend me what I needed.”

“Probably because they have been able to count on you many times in the past.”

“How did you know that?”

“You are well known about here.”

“Have you been asking about me?”

He shook his head. “No need. The hubbub here yesterday is all that is being talked about along the street. Everyone is agog about it.”

Walking across the parlor, he paused by the settee which once might have been gold but had faded to a sad tan. He looked around the room with indifference, but Brienne recognized this pose. It was the same one he had used in the salon yesterday before he offered her all that money for Maman's vase.

When a frown ruffled his brow, she resisted defending her home from his upper-class snobbery. She knew the parlor looked threadbare compared to the fine townhouse where he claimed to live. But this room, along with the two bedrooms and the tiny storeroom, held the memories of generations past. The furniture was shabby, but the wood glowed with care, and the tops of the two small tables were covered with books and lamps.

When Mr. Somerset picked up a framed miniature, Brienne took it from him. “Be careful with that!”

He tipped her hand so he could see the face in it. “Is this your father?”

“Yes.”

“Where is he?”

“Dead.”

At her terse answer, he said, “You don't sound very sad.”

“He died when I was not much more than a baby. I find it impossible to mourn for a man I never knew.” She put the portrait in its special spot on the table.

“Yet he gave you a legacy.”

“A legacy?”

“You cannot have failed to note how much your eyes and stubborn chin are shaped like your late father's.”

“So Maman has said often.”

“May we sit while we talk?” He lavished that charming smile on her again.

She pointed to the settee. “Please make yourself comfortable, Mr. Somerset.”

“You should call me Evan, as we are about to become business partners.”

His words froze her. When she realized she was poised halfway between sitting and standing, she dropped onto the chair. “Partners?”

From beneath his coat, he pulled a handful of pound notes. He tossed them on the table in front of her. “Take it. Ł100.” He smiled, and she knew she had revealed her shock. “Half of what I offered you yesterday.”

“Ł100,” she murmured. There was not that much money in the cash box now hidden under Maman's bed.

He slid the pile of money toward her with a single finger. “Take it.”

“What gave you the idea I need a partner in the salon?” She stood and moved behind the chair, so she would not be tempted to accept this money she needed so much.

He set himself on his feet and leaned one knee on her chair. His hands clamped hers on its back, pinning her in place, although she was unsure if she could have moved anyway when his gaze locked with hers. “I don't have any interest in becoming a partner in your salon. My talents run in a very different direction.”

“Undoubtedly!”

“Be sarcastic if you wish. However, the fact remains we are going to be partners. We must recover your vase.”

She frowned. “I thought you said you were not going to talk about the vase.”

“I said, if you will recall, that I did not plan to buy the vase today. I said nothing of not talking about it.” His fingers caressed hers as his voice dropped to a husky whisper. “If I fail to bring my employer that vase by summer, I shall pay with my life.”

“You are lying!” She tried to pull away. When he did not release her, she looked into his face. What she saw startled her. Honesty.

He shook his head. “I had not intended for you to know, but I need your help. If that means telling you the truth, I must. I was hired by a gentleman to bring that vase to him. If I do not, he has vowed to make me pay most dearly. He has, I must admit, reasons to mistrust me.”

“I can believe that!” Slowly she pulled her hands out from beneath his. “Who is this man? Why does he want the vase?”

“I cannot tell you that. I must keep such information confidential.”

“And you expect me to be honest when you tell me nothing?” She turned to the door. “I think you should leave.”

He came around the chair. “Brienne, I need your help. Did you see the men take the vase? Did you see anything to identify them other than that they were from the docks?”

Evan clenched his teeth as Brienne's face paled and she touched the swollen spots by her eye. Even rice powder could not cover the bruises. If she had an ounce of sense, she would have sold him the vase yesterday. Word would have spread quickly that Evan had it, and he would have been the focus of the hunt.

He wondered how she would react if he told her she was lucky she had not suffered worse. Lagrille had intimated that no crime was too low if it gained him the vase. With a silent curse, Evan forced those thoughts from his head. Once he found the vase, Brienne would be safe.

He was astonished. Why did he care what happened to this woman? In the years he had been involved in the shadowy world of antiquities and art, he had thought only of himself. Yet, since he had seen her dark eyes gazing out at him from the kitchen, he had been able to think of nothing but Brienne LeClerc. Strong and yet fragile, stubborn but tender-hearted, an innocent temptress.

“Why the money, then, Evan?”

He forced himself not to smile when she used his given name. It would seem he was finding a way to captivate Miss LeClerc after all, but captivating her was not the only thing he wanted to do with her. He fought to keep from drawing her into his arms. Such a sweet armful she was.

Keep your mind on the vase. What good will Brienne do you if you are dead?
Lagrille would fulfill his threats. Not for the first time, Evan wondered if he had been offered this commission simply as an excuse to kill him. Brienne was right. That vase had no value, save for this family.

“The money is because I need your cooperation. I will buy it if you will not give it any other way.” He smiled. “As I told you, everyone has a price. I thought yours might be Ł100.”

“How dare you! I—” A bell chimed softly, and she raised her chin. “I must ask you to excuse me, Mr. Somerset. Maman is calling. I assume you can find your own way out as readily as you found your way in.” She picked up the money from the table and jammed it into his hand. “Finding a way in and out of a kitchen is a skill all rats have.”

He tossed the money on the floor, and astonishment widened her eyes. “Brienne, you are in danger! Tremendous danger! Help me find the vase, so they will leave you alone.”

Again she blanched. The insistent sound of the hand bell sent color flying across her cheeks. “Go away, and take your lies with you! That vase is not worth anyone …”

“Anyone doing what?” he demanded. “Beating you? They have done that already! Ransacking L'Enfant de la Patrie? That did not work. Who will be attacked next? Your grandmother? Your mother?”

“Go away!”

“My leaving shall not change anything.”

“It shall! I shan't have to listen to your lies!” Brienne ran toward her mother's room, trying to compose herself. Maman must have heard their argument. Seeing her mother's dark eyes, which were sunk in the colorless expanse of her face, she asked, “You wanted me, Maman?”

Maman looked past her in amazement. Glancing over her shoulder, Brienne fought the rage boiling through her. Evan Somerset had no manners. How dare he enter Maman's sickroom without waiting for an invitation!