A Daughter's Destiny (8 page)

Brienne hesitated when Evan put his hand on her arm, then let him steer her into the hallway. He led her to a room at the front of the house.

While Evan crossed the wide chamber to draw the drapes, she looked about. It seemed strange that she could admire the lovely mahogany furniture and overstuffed chairs as well as enjoy the scent of lavender which must be coming from the washstand next to the tester bed. How could she feel anything but grief? As she walked toward a chair, her toes sank into the thick burgundy carpet.

“It is so odd,” she murmured.

“What is so odd?” He pressed a glass into her hand. “Drink, honey. You look as if you could use it.”

Because she did not want to argue with him, she lifted the goblet to her lips. Even brandy could not cut through her fog of disbelief. A week ago, her only problems had been ordering mushrooms for her meals and how many bottles of wine she needed for the party that would be dining at her salon before a visit to Vauxhall Gardens.

“It is so odd,” she repeated.

His finger under her chin tilted her face up so she could see the worry in his expression. “What is so odd?” he asked again with a patience she had not expected.

“One minute Maman was alive. She could see and hear and talk. The next minute she is gone, but I can still see and hear and talk. It is so odd.”

Putting his glass on a nearby table, he dipped a cloth in the bowl on the washstand. He squatted in front of her and dabbed at the soot on her face.

“Don't do that!” she moaned, pushing his hand away.

“If you do not wish me to help—”

“Stop being so kind! If you keep on being so kind, you are going to make me cry.”

He stood and walked to an armoire. He opened it as he asked, “Why don't you go to bed, honey? I will have a light supper sent up to you after I speak with Père Jean-Baptiste.”

“I should—”

“Tomorrow is early enough to face everything you have to.” Closing the armoire door, he put a lacy nightgown in her hands. “Don't ask. Our host seems to have entertained his mistress here.”

She looked down at the lovely garment. “I am sorry for all of this, Evan. I had no idea that we would repay your hospitality like this.”

“I know.” Bending, he kissed her lightly on her cheek. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she whispered. She did not move until she heard the door close.

Rising, she saw a small bolt above the latch on the door. She slid it into place, wondering if Evan's friend wanted to be certain no one disturbed him and his mistress here.

The bag, which Evan had left on the bed, drew her gaze. She lurched to the bed and upended the bag. Ignoring her father's picture, which rolled along the blue coverlet, she picked up the wooden box that had been under her mother's bed and opened it. She pushed aside the money that was all remaining of her hard work at L'Enfant de la Patrie. Her fingers shook as she reached for the ball of unbleached linen.

She carefully unrolled it. As the blue vase appeared, unharmed despite its rough treatment, tears fell from her eyes. She ran her fingernail along the gilded streak of lightning etched across it.

“I promise, Maman. I will take it home. No matter what, I promise you that I will take it home for you.”

“I do not understand why you want to come back here,” Evan said. He rubbed his nose which was itchy with the pall of smoke. It was thicker on this narrow street than anywhere else in Soho. Although he had become accustomed to the heavy odor of London smoke, this was different. It held the reek of destruction.

“I need to see it in the daylight.” Brienne gasped with dismay as the ruins of the salon came into view. “
Mon Dieu!
”

He looked over the top of the straw bonnet that had come as had her black dress from the armoire in her room. He batted away a feather that was the same shade of bright blue as the ribbons beneath her chin. She would need to get a more sedate hat before her mother's funeral.

Swallowing his curse, he stared at the blackened timbers that were piled together like straws. Passersby had paused to stare at the rubble, forming a half circle around it.

When the carriage stopped, Evan opened the door and climbed out. He handed Brienne out, but did not release her fingers. She did not seem to notice as she continued to stare at the reeking remains of the salon. Holding up the hem of her dress, she stepped over the puddles that still gathered among the cobbles.

“It is really gone,” she whispered.

“Will you rebuild?”

She raised her shoulders and lowered them slowly. “It will cost more money than I have to clear this away and build a new salon.”

When she stepped away from him, Evan did not follow. He watched her in silence, wondering what she would do now. She could not be thinking of going to France any longer. Her mother had died, saving Brienne from the imperial madness Napoleon was spreading across the Continent. His lips straightened as he recalled his last trip to France. This, most definitely, was not the time for a social call on long-lost relatives.

As she threaded her way through the crowd, he heard grumbles from the people who had paused to gawk. He wondered what she hoped to find. Splinters of glass sparkled in the sunshine, but could not brighten the depressing sight. A few spirals of smoke still wisped up into the garishly blue sky.

He followed as she bent and picked up a blackened item by what had been the front door. It was a silver fork, tarnished black by the flames. He guessed scavengers had already picked through the ruins.

“Good morning, Miss Laclerk.”

Evan kept an innocuous expression on his face when he turned to see Haviland behind him. The watchman's face was streaked with black. Putting his hand under Brienne's elbow, Evan drew her to her feet and away from the vulture who had swooped down from his usual roost at the pub half a block away as soon as word must have reached him of Brienne's arrival.

“Good morning, Constable,” Brienne said with the same lack of emotion that had stained her voice since her mother's death. “You remember Mr. Somerset, don't you?”

Haviland's smile was as frosty as his eyes when he tilted his head slightly in Evan's direction. “I heard that you and your mother and the old lady had escaped. I am glad to see you unharmed. I am sorry about the fire destroying your salon.”

“It was, after all, only a building,” she said as she walked away to look at another section of the charred boards.

Evan let Haviland stare at her for a long minute before saying, “She is not wearing mourning for her salon, but for her mother. Madame LeClerc succumbed last night.”

“I thought they all got out of the fire.”

“They did.” He smiled coolly. “Luckily for them, I was calling. They could not have gotten out alone.” He paused, then added, “Especially because someone had barricaded the front door before setting the fire in the kitchen.”

“You have it all figured out, don't you?”

“It was not difficult when I saw the fire and the barricade myself.”

Haviland sneered, “It sounds as if it has been lucky for you. I would guess you do not get a chance to play the hero often in the art business.”

Evan knocked his boots against a board to loosen the cinders from them. “You are right. I do not have as many opportunities as there are for a watchman who maintains his post so diligently next to a keg of rum.” With a sigh, he added, “Of course, my efforts on behalf of Brienne's mother were futile.”

“She is dead? How?”

“The smoke was too much for her. The funeral will be tomorrow.” He glanced at Brienne. Although he had offered to help, she had handled the arrangements alone and with too much ease. If he had not held Brienne in his arms, he might believe she was unfeeling. But he had held her and kissed her soft lips, and he knew how strong her passions were. He wondered how much longer she would be able to restrain her grief.

The constable's crude voice cut into his thoughts. “I should warn you, Somerset, that a man matching your description was seen creeping along the alley behind the salon yesterday before the fire started.”

He smiled. “I am sure that someone saw a man who looked exactly like me back there, for I was there.”

“You admit that you were in the alley?”

“Of course, because it is the truth. Ask Miss LeClerc, if you doubt me.” He turned. “Good day, Haviland.”

The watchman did not reply as Somerset walked away. If Somerset was this willing to own that he had been behind the salon, he must be hiding something else. He did not trust this man who, for some reason, had attached himself to the LeClercs. Despite Miss LeClerc's assertion that Somerset was a favored caller, Haviland could not remember seeing him here before the last few days. He would have noticed anyone who called on Miss LeClerc.

He watched silently as Brienne took Somerset's arm. She called a pleasant farewell to him, but he watched emotions sweeping like storm clouds across her face as she walked with Somerset to the fancy carriage.

It was Somerset who looked back. Haviland was curious about what he was hoping to see, but Somerset turned to say something to Miss LeClerc as he helped her into the carriage. Haviland was tempted to shout to her to be careful and not trust Somerset.

He did not bother. She had refused to listen to his warnings that Somerset would bring disaster to her. His words had been proven true. If more horrible things happened to her, it was no longer his fault.

He had warned her, he reminded himself as he walked back to the pub. Now whatever happened to her was
her
fault.

Chapter Six

Brienne hunched beneath the black umbrella Evan held as they walked out of the cemetery. Although the wind blew fitful, chilly rain at her, she ignored its sharp slap against her face. Her teeth clenched as she struggled to swallow past the pain in her constricted throat. Next to her, Grand-mère sobbed under another umbrella. Brienne wished she could release her grief, too. Mayhap, she could once she had done as she had promised Maman.

Père Jean-Baptiste comforted her grandmother. When he turned to her, she tried to smile, but it was impossible.

“Thank you, Père,” she said softly.

“If you need me, Brienne, do not hesitate to send for me.”

“Thank you.”

When she added nothing else, the priest looked past her. “It is very generous of you to escort Madame LeClerc's family today, Monsieur Somerset.”

“Generous is not the word I would use,” Evan answered, keeping the umbrella over Brienne's head as a gust tried to pull it away. “I have an obligation to this family.”

“Really?” the priest asked before he could halt himself.

Evan smiled. “Really.” Looking at Brienne, he put his hand on her elbow. “I think we should get your grandmother home. She might take ill in this inclement weather.”

When Brienne's gaze rose to meet his, he knew he had never seen so much pain in anyone's eyes. That she could hide it while she tried to ease her grandmother's grief astonished him, although he had learned not to judge Brienne LeClerc by the standards he had set for other people. She did what she had to.

His lips tightened at that thought. Her mother's death would not change that single-minded stubbornness. Yesterday, she had admitted that she would not rebuild the salon. So what was she intending to do now? That question plagued him, keeping him from sleeping and forcing him to guard his tongue. He told himself that he should not care, that he had paid his debt for bringing this trouble to her. He had opened Porter's house to Brienne and her family, so now he owed her nothing. Trying to persuade himself of that had been a waste of time.
It is bad for business
—
your business
—
to get involved
. How many times had he repeated that to himself during the past few days to no avail?

And he was no closer to guessing what Brienne would do now. She would not accept his charity much longer, even if he had been in a position to offer it. Somehow he had to discover what she planned and halt her before she created more problems for herself. He had failed to convince her that she had enough trouble already. Once the person who had set fire to L'Enfant de la Patrie learned that she had survived, he would be looking for her and the vase again. That man would not believe that she no longer had the vase. Why should he? Evan didn't.

He listened as she spoke to her grandmother. Together they assisted Madame LeClerc to the carriage. Although weakened by grief, the old woman was not feeble. Her voice was clear as she thanked them for helping her.

He turned to aid Brienne into the carriage, but she drew away, saying, “I would like to walk.”

“Walk? In the rain? It must be almost a mile from here to Grosvenor Square.”

“Evan, I want to walk. I need to be alone for a while.”

He nodded. “I agree to the walk, but you should not be alone.”

“
Agree?
” Her eyes snapped with ebony fury. “I did not realize I needed your permission.”

Before he could answer, Madame LeClerc said through the carriage window, “Heed him,
ma petite
. I think you should have someone with you. I shall order a bath for you, so you do not take a chill.”

Brienne bit back her retort. Everyone seemed determined to tell her what she should or should not do. It had not been this way before the fire … before Evan Somerset came into their lives. Swallowing her irritation, because she did not want to add to her grandmother's grief, she said, “Very well, Grand-mère.”

Brienne stepped back as the carriage pulled away and drove toward Mayfair. Pulling her cloak more tightly over her thin gown, she was grateful for the clothes she had found in the armoire, although she tried not to think that they had belonged to Evan's friend's mistress. She had to have something to wear.

Evan offered his arm, and she put her fingers on his damp wool sleeve. She noticed for the first time how the shade of his coat matched the color of his light brown hair. When he drew her closer, she did not resist. The rain was cold beyond the umbrella.