Gypsy Jewel (36 page)

D
AMIEN HESITATED SLIGHTLY BEFORE
he stepped down from the open landau. Something was wrong at de Villette. The windows were shuttered and the chateau dark, as if it had been closed up for the season. Which was unlikely just before winter.

He frowned as he walked up the path, noting the unkempt gardens and empty stables. It was not like his mother to let anything go unattended in her absence. Damien had been gone almost two years, but it was not such a span of time that he expected any glaring changes. He felt a prickle of foreboding, wondering if something terrible had happened. The door knocker echoed through the empty chateau several times, and he found the door securely locked.

Immediately returning to the waiting coach, Damien gave brisk directions to the Dupre residence. Henriette would know what had happened to his mother. He sat back against the cushions, trying not to let his imagination get the best of him. It was possible Marcelle had simply gone abroad for awhile. He found himself tapping his fingers impatiently on the armrest. He simply was not in the mood for any guessing games after returning from the war.

It had been trial enough to learn of the slaughter of the Light Brigade after his return to the field quarters from Moscow. If it hadn’t been for his old unit, a French division of the
Chasseurs d’Afrique
, the loss in the North Valley would have been greater.

The war was over now, and a temporary truce signed, but the wounds would remain forever, especially the loss of Lord Raglan, who had passed away in the spring. Damien smiled a little sadly, recalling his old friend’s last words to him. James had thanked him for the covert information he had obtained, and assured the younger man that it had made a great difference in their tactics against the czar. Damien doubted it, but he had accepted the praise silently, no longer caring about winning a war when the cost was so dear.

Now he gazed broodingly out at the French countryside, wondering if the first skiff of snow had settled on Mistgrove yet. He had planned to visit England first, but realized his mother must be frantic for word of him since the war ended. So Damien had stopped in Normandy first.

Finding the countess gone was both alarming and annoying. Damien knew first-hand how flighty Marcelle could be, but now was not the time he felt like chasing her all across the countryside. He let out a sigh of relief to see that the Dupre mansion in Rouen had several carriages parked out front.

Damien disembarked, paid the driver to wait, and hurried to the front door. He was forced to exchange pleasantries for several minutes with the old boor, Henri Dupre, while his daughter was called down.

Recognizing the handsome earl standing in the hall, Henriette squealed softly and flung herself into Damien’s arms. “Is it truly you?”

While Monsieur Dupre moved discreetly away, Henriette stepped back for another look, failing to notice that Damien’s arms had not returned the embrace. She was too busy drinking in his dashing appearance in a black swallow-tailed coat over a white waistcoat. He was as handsome as ever, but there were tiny lines near his eyes she had not seen before, and a smoky cast to his night-dark hair. Damien looked dispirited. His blue eyes were weary as he greeted her formally.

“Henriette, you’re looking well.”

She made a
moue
with her red lips. “Oh, Damien, aren’t you going to kiss me? It has been years since we were together.”

“And if you will recall, the last time we were together was mutually agreed to be the last,” Damien replied. “I only came here tonight to find out if you know where Marcelle has gone. If so, please tell me.”

With an unhappy sigh, Henriette relented. “She has gone to Paris for the winter. She said she did not want to be all alone at the chateau this year.”

“Why not?” Damien frowned. This was indeed a drastic change in Marcelle’s behavior. The last time she had refused to be alone at de Villette was right after Edward had died. Was she mistakenly grieving for her son?

“I don’t know.” Henriette sounded petulant. “Maybe it had something to do with the chit who played such a cruel trick on her last year.”

“Chit?” Damien gazed at his former mistress curiously.

“A girl came to the chateau while I was there, claiming to be your wife. I knew at once she was lying, and I tried to convince the countess as well. Lady Cross was eager to believe the chit’s clever story about your wedding her, though. She took the little liar under her wing for a time, until she learned her lesson the hard way.”

Damien’s hands moved to urgently grip her upper shoulders. “What girl, Henriette? What did she look like?”

“You’re hurting me,” she whined, and when his grip slackened, she rubbed her shoulder and muttered, “She called herself
Avril
.”

Henriette used the French word, but Damien knew at once whom she meant. His blue eyes softened, and he murmured hopefully, “April. My wife was here?”

At the longing in his voice the other woman felt a stab of bitter jealousy. So, he had wed the chit after all.

Henriette quickly changed her tactics, babbling, “I finally realized she was really your wife, Damien, but by then it was too late. She fled, without so much as a
merci
for all Lady Cross had done for her. And your poor
maman
was so devastated she moved into an apartment in Paris. She could not bear the thought of such betrayal.”

Damien suspected there was more to the tale, but he merely nodded. Why had April come to France? He thought she had gone back to the gypsies after learning of his own betrayal. He had tried to find her in the band camped outside Constantinople, and though Jingo had insisted he knew nothing of April’s whereabouts, Damien could tell the gypsy king was lying. He assumed they were helping April hide from him. Now he had to wonder, and he gazed thoughtfully down at Henriette, not missing the gleam of cold satisfaction in her eyes.

“Where did April go? Do you know?”

“
Non
. Marcelle tried to find her for several weeks, and then gave up. It is just as well, Damien. The girl only came here to take advantage of your good name.”

He brushed her aside as he turned to leave. “I will find her, Henriette,” he vowed softly. “If it takes a hundred years, I will find her again.”

T
HE COUNTESS MOVED TO
extinguish the oil lamp on the desk where Damien had finally fallen into an exhausted sleep while writing another letter. She glanced down at the half-finished parchment pinned under his elbow.

…
and if you should hear word of a young woman fitting such description, or of any lady calling herself April or Lady Cross, please contact me immediately at the following address
…

Marcelle smiled sadly, patting her son gently on the head. His soft snores echoed in the den. She knew how many months he spent writing letters, following up on any leads about April. She herself had felt the same desperation when she had found the girl had taken her stallion and gone. But April had executed her flight with incredible skill, because generous bribes and greased palms had failed to produce any word of her whereabouts.

Marcelle had been hurt at first, but then she listened to her heart instead and understood April had felt it necessary to leave. She suspected the reason had something to do with Henriette Dupre, because the other woman did not seem surprised when Damien’s wife suddenly vanished.

And now, too late, Marcelle learned April was truly the love of Damien’s life. She felt a mother’s sympathy and a sense of helplessness that she could not magically restore her son’s wife to his side.

Damien had convinced her to move back into the chateau in case April should return there. But Marcelle’s womanly intuition sensed April was long gone, possibly never to return here. She had not shared the feeling with Damien, not wishing to dash his small hopes But it was spring again, and over a year had passed since April had been at Chateau de Villette.

With a soft sigh, Marcelle moved to look at the portrait of the previous earl hanging above the fireplace. Edward Cross appeared to be gazing sternly down upon his son, and she raised a finger to waggle it up at him.

“This is one time when you shall not have your way, Edouard,” she scolded the frowning visage. “I always said Damien should marry for love, and so he has. I only wish you were here to find the girl now for your son.”

“
Maman
?” Damien’s head rose with a jolt, and he gazed blearily at the woman across the room. “Is somebody here?”

“
Non
. Why don’t you go up to bed. You fell asleep with the lamp on, which is dangerous.”

Damien rose, his shoulders seeming to sag with a hidden weight. He blundered past Marcelle unseeing, as if he could not bear the pain of reality. She felt something prompt her then, and she called out softly after him, “Why don’t you take a little trip? Visit Mistgrove. It has always been your favorite place.”

“I haven’t the heart for it anymore,
Maman
,” Damien muttered as he headed up the stairs.

Marcelle glanced up at the portrait again. Was it her imagination, or did Edward actually seem to be smirking down at her?

“Bah!” she said forcefully as she departed the den after her son. “You’ll see, old man. Love always triumphs in the end.”

D
AMIEN REINED IN THE
prancing dark bay just above the last rise over the sea. Already he could taste the salty tang in the air, and his skin tingled with anticipation. Home. His mother was right, after all. Mistgrove was just the thing to restore his spirits.

He prompted the restless steed beneath him and they galloped down the last stretch of road, sending dark clods churning up behind. Damien felt his coattails flying in the brisk spring breeze and grinned. The English weather was as ungodly as ever, already starting to drizzle as he approached the mansion, but he felt a contentment he hadn’t experienced in months.

Damien drew the bay stallion down to a ringing trot across the cobblestones of the drive. The mansion was dark, but he noted with consternation that the staff had failed to shutter the windows properly when they had left.

He dismounted and started to hitch his mount to the iron post. Then a shrill bugle came from nearby and his own stallion responded to the blood-curdling squeal with one of his own.

“Bloody hell!” Damien cursed, trying to control the fractious bay. His horse laid back its ears and skittered on the cobbles, wildly trying to free itself in order to answer the challenge that echoed across the misty yard.

Finally, he managed to herd the animal into a nearby stall, bolting it securely. The bay immediately thrust out its head and bugled again, nostrils flaring as it caught the scent of a rival stallion.

Now Damien was able to turn and see the black horse galloping out in the pasture, neck arched proudly, mane and tail flying. He watched Prince Adar pause and paw the wet ground, steam rushing from his distended nostrils, a knowing glint in his wild, dark eyes.

He felt a rush of euphoria. “I know just how you feel, boy,” he said, and turned toward the house. A light upstairs had just flicked on. April was here. Somehow it made perfect sense, and the months of painful separation and sleepless nights were instantly forgotten.

Damien ran towards the mansion, conscious of being watched from a window above. He mounted the steps with mixed emotions, a sense of foreboding and excitement combining to set him on razor-edge. He hesitated slightly before he entered the mansion. What had prompted April to run away from the chateau and come here?

He was surprised when he stepped into the hall. The downstairs furniture was still covered with protective sheets, and obviously unused. He glanced up the staircase, toward the single light burning up there. She had taken only a small corner for herself, like an animal in hiding.

Damien ascended the staircase. He was only halfway up when the slight figure came barreling down toward him.

April froze on the landing, her green eyes huge in the dim light. She was dressed in a forest-green velvet riding habit, her blonde hair tumbled loose about her shoulders. Her posture was defensive, as if by virtue of living here in isolation she had again retreated to the wild.

“April.” Damien spoke her name softly, like a caress, and saw her shiver with emotion. “Why did you run away from Chateau de Villette, little girl?”

For a moment April could not find words. She could not believe Damien was here, after so long, after she had given up daring to hope or dream. She had hidden herself here, totally absorbing her mind and body and secret longings in creating a safe haven. She had not intended to stay at Mistgrove longer than a month, but she had become a part of it. Damien threatened to take that away from her now.

Her eyes flashed at him like a cornered cat’s. “I thought I could forget you, and the lies you told,” she whispered. “But when I went to France, I found I couldn’t. Everywhere I turned, there were reminders. Sleeping in your bed, seeing your mother each day, talking to your mistress —”

Damien started to protest, but she shook her head fiercely at him.

“Listen to me. I came here only because I had no choice. I tried to go back to the Lowara, but Tzigane had died and I was no longer welcome. I will never be able to forget or forgive myself that she died alone.”

Damien’s face reflected sorrow to match her own, and April was thrown off-guard. She did not want to accept the fact that he could care about anyone except himself, and yet his eyes met hers with understanding reflected in the dark blue depths.

April swallowed hard and forced anger into her voice as she finished. “Because my people no longer held their arms open to me, I had nowhere to go, but I remembered what you told me about France. And I thought, why should I suffer anymore? I will take the money Tzigane left me, and make a new life for myself in a new land.”

She raised her chin proudly, as if daring him to dispute her decision. To her surprise, Damien only nodded. Her voice dropped to a whisper again. “For over a year I have succeeded in forgetting. I live here alone, bothered by nobody. And now you shatter my world around me like glass.”