Louisa Rawlings (37 page)

Père François looked horrified. “Not I, as God is above!”

“You’ll stay the night, of course,” said Adelaïde quickly.

Lucien strode to the fireplace and warmed his hands at the blaze. “I’d hoped to stay for a few weeks. To renew acquaintances.”

Père François quivered in distress. “But the disgrace! How would it look?”

Adelaïde ignored him and looked at her husband. “Hubert? May he stay?”

Hubert shrugged. “Well, why not? As long as he’s here. It might be amusing to see what…Monsieur Renaudot is up to.” He beckoned. “Come, Justine. I’m tired.”

“Justine?” Lucien stepped in front of the girl. He smiled and flicked at a ribbon on her bosom. “Not a member of the family, surely. Someone new. For I’d never have forgotten
you
.” Justine’s eyes opened wide. She blushed and giggled nervously.

Hubert clutched at her elbow and pulled her toward the door. “I see you’ve brought your sword, nephew,” he said softly. “You might have occasion to use it.”

“Why?”

Hubert smiled coldly. “True. Dueling is a gentleman’s sport. Poaching, on the other hand”—his eyes flashed to Justine—“is practiced by ruffians. It’s a serious offense. The lord of the manor can apply any punishment he chooses. Whipping, perhaps. Even hanging.”

Lucien laughed, a chilling sound. “It must be gratifying to be lord of the manor.”

“It is indeed. Now, where the devil is my valet?” Hubert nodded and left the room, pushing Justine before him.

Bonnefous took the still quaking Père François by the arm and the two men bade the company good night. “I look forward to your visit, Monsieur Renaudot,” said Bonnefous.

Lucien raised a mocking eyebrow. “Another carrion crow, eager to feed on the scandal?”

“Not at all. I’m sworn to uphold the laws of France. I don’t have to like some of them. Your servant, monsieur. Come, Reverend Father.”

Léonard had been silent all this time, playing with the backgammon stones. Now he stood up, waves of color washing his face. “I r-r-remember you, Cousin L-L-Lucien.”

Lucien softened. “I’m glad. Perhaps we can fish together, as we did in the old days.”

Adelaïde sighed. “Help me up, Véronique. You must be tired, Lucien. How did you come?”

“I rented a horse in Parthenay.”

She moved slowly to stand in front of him. “Before I retire, I’ll see that you’re unpacked, and your horse is stabled. Would you like to be in your old room?”

His eyes were hard. “I’d prefer not.”

“Of course, my dear. I understand.” Her voice broke. She lifted her hand to touch his cheek, trembling fingers reaching toward the scar. He scowled and jerked his head away. “Good night,” she whispered.

Topaze frowned. Damn the man! He’d never even left a message to tell her he was coming tonight. And now to behave so recklessly…it was madness! She stamped her foot, her amber eyes blazing. “If you mean to be welcomed back, Cousin Lucien, you’ve made a poor beginning!”

He made more of an effort to be civil the next day. At least to Adelaïde and Bonnefous, for whom he harbored no grudge. He was icily cold to Père François, who wrung his hands and muttered a prayer each time their paths crossed. Topaze wouldn’t have been surprised if the priest, distraught at the presence of an “unbeliever” in the château, had pulled out a cross and held it up to Lucien, in the manner of exorcists. By evening his distress had sent him to bed with a painful attack of gout.

Lucien saved most of his venom for Hubert, responding to the simplest of remarks with veiled insults, and bending attentively to Justine whenever he could. By the time supper was finished, and they met in the secret passageway by prearrangement, Topaze’s blood was boiling. She glared at him in the light of the lantern. “If you’re trying to make me jealous by dancing attendance on that silly creature, don’t waste the effort.”

He grinned. “I? I wouldn’t dream of making you jealous.”

“Well, I certainly hope it isn’t to anger Hubert. I didn’t think you were such a fool as that.”

He put his arms around her. “Perhaps I just like to make mischief.”

“And perhaps you’re sorry you can’t find anyone to hate. A sickly woman. A self-indulgent old fool of a priest. Poor greedy Uncle Hubert, with his vain trollop. It’s not very satisfying, is it?”

He dropped his hands. “Damn you,” he muttered.

“Try to remember why you’re here. Not to spend your petty hatreds, but to woo your cousin, and marry her. For the Marcigny inheritance. And quite aside from
my
wanting to be courted, you have to make it look convincing to the others.” She snorted. “If you’re capable of it.”

“I’d forgotten what a saucy miss you can be,” he growled.

“But such a prize.” She put her arms around his neck, pulled his head down to hers, and kissed him with passion. “Just a reminder,” she said, laughing, and skipped away to the library door.

By the next morning he seemed to have decided to smile now and again. Topaze saw him from the window, taking tea on the lawn with Adelaïde. She watched in pleasure as he laughed, held Adelaïde’s chair for her. And when the older woman smiled and put her hand on his, he let it stay.

How sweet they looked together. Lucien, tall and dark-haired, standing beside Adelaïde. Her blond curls glinting in the morning sun. She thought,
I love them both. My mother and…
and
who?
She trembled. Oh, God, whom had she seen just then, when she’d looked at them? The word “Mother” had come so naturally. But Fleur wasn’t her mother! She closed her eyes, pressed her fists into them until she saw rainbow colors. Think.
Think!
What did she have to remember? It wasn’t her imagination. She couldn’t pretend to herself anymore. She
belonged
here. She felt it every time she walked in the gardens, looked at Adelaïde. And she’d played the harpsichord. Or rather, her hands had. Was Véronique dead? Had her spirit come back to haunt her? To possess her body?

Ave Maria
,
she thought.
I’m frightened.

“It’s a ghost.” The voice was quivery and spectral.

Topaze whirled in terror, then gasped her relief. “Oh, Gilles, what a turn you gave me!”

The old valet bent his head in salute. “Forgive me, Mademoiselle Véronique. I only meant to say that Monsieur Lucien, there, is so much like his father.”

“You served him for a long time, didn’t you? Uncle Simon.”

“From the time he was a boy.”

“Tell me about him. I think I was a little bit afraid of him, when I was growing up.”

They chatted for a few minutes. Then Hubert appeared, scowled at his servant. “Have you nothing better to do than gossip?” Gilles blinked his rheumy eyes, bowed to his master, and shuffled away. Hubert smiled coldly. “You seem to have won over every heart in Grismoulins since your arrival. Do they all tell you their secrets?”

“Do you begrudge me, Beau-père? Are we such enemies as that?”

“Enemies? No. But you’re a worthy adversary.” He nodded and moved off down the corridor.

Topaze hurried into the garden. She greeted Fleur with a kiss, and smiled at Lucien. “Good morning, cousin. Oh, is that tea?”

“I’ll pour for you, my pet.” While Adelaïde busied herself with the tea, Topaze waited for Lucien to pull out a chair.

He made no move, but the bland smile on his face showed that he knew what she was waiting for. “Good morning, cousin,” he said. “Aunt Adelaïde has just been telling me of the miracle of your return.”

She was still the little chit to him. The street urchin. She smiled and seated herself. She thought,
I’ll make you pay, Lucien.
She looked up. Carle-André and Denis were racing their horses up the long drive to Grismoulins. “Oh, look!” she cried. She jumped from her chair and waved at the two men. “What are you doing here so early in the morning?” she chided, as they leaped from their horses and ran to her.

Denis picked her up, swung her around, and kissed her on the cheek. “It’s spring, we both adore you, and we want to take you on a picnic.” He glanced at Lucien. “Do I know you, monsieur?”

Carle-André whistled. “Lucien, is it you?”

“Montalembert?” Lucien bowed stiffly.

Carle-André stared at the scar, the spikes of white at Lucien’s temples. “Good God, man, what’s happened to you?”

“Life.” Lucien jerked his chin in Denis’s direction. “Will you introduce me to
this
one, cousin?”

“Monsieur le Marquis Denis de Rocher. A friend of Carle-André’s.”

Lucien gazed fixedly at the arm that Denis still kept about Topaze’s lithe waist. “And a friend of
yours
, no doubt, cousin.” He smiled at the man. “Monsieur le Marquis. And I’m Lucien Renaudot, Véronique’s bastard cousin. Montalembert can give you the details later,” he added, as Denis gaped in surprise.

Adelaïde rattled the cups. “As long as you’re here, Lucien, why don’t you join them on the picnic?”

Lucien was a morose companion the whole of the day, frowning each time Topaze laughed with her cavaliers. But she was determined to extract her revenge. She flirted with the two men, enjoying Lucien’s discomfort. And when she kissed them both for being such jolly friends, and refused to kiss her cousin because he wouldn’t smile, Lucien was positively apoplectic. His blue eyes burned with more heat than she’d ever seen.

But suppertime brought a dramatic change: He smiled warmly and held her chair for her. “You look quite beautiful tonight, cousin. That gown becomes you.” He laughed at the look on her face. “Have I made you blush, Véronique? It becomes you as well, that sweet flush of your cheeks.”

Adelaïde smiled. “Do you intend to turn your cousin’s head, Lucien?”

“I intend to try. I watched her with those callow pups this afternoon. Has poor Cousin Véronique returned merely for
that
?”

The arrogance of the man! Topaze sniffed. “Do you think you can do better?”

He grinned. “Yes. I’ll turn your head, sweet cousin, before I return to Guadeloupe. Just to show you what it is to be wooed by a man.”

She laughed and took a sip of her wine. “I defy you, Cousin Lucien.”

Hubert helped himself to a slice of mutton. “Have you become a braggart, Lucien?”

“Not at all, Uncle Hubert. I simply want my visit here to be a memorable one. And since the charming Mademoiselle Dubois”—he nodded at Justine—“is otherwise occupied, why can’t I have a harmless flirtation with my lovely cousin?”

For all her annoyance at his manner, Topaze had to admire his cleverness. He’d announced his intentions openly to the family; now he was free to pursue her without constraint. It was a game, wasn’t it? He was simply amusing himself and his cousin until he returned to the Indies. It would be a simple enough matter, when the time came to leave, for him to say that the game had turned into genuine affection, and to sue for her hand in marriage.

His campaign began the very next day. As was her habit, Topaze climbed to the mill just before noon, in case there should be a message. The white handkerchief announced its presence. She pulled the note from above the lintel, and blushed when she read the words.
Surrender to me, my angel. My nights are cold. My bed is empty without you. Bring me your sweetness or I die.
She leaned against the open doorway of the mill, her heart thrilling to the longing in his words.

No! He could be charming; she’d seen it before. But it wasn’t enough. Perhaps she wanted
his
surrender. She reached for the crayon, scribbled
No
across his message, and returned to the château.

At supper that night, he smiled across the table, but spent the evening with Léonard, patiently explaining the production of indigo. She felt a twinge of pique at his indifference. But when she went to bed, she found a single rose on her pillow. She slept with it against her cheek.

He confounded her again and again in the days that followed. Her two suitors were constant guests at Grismoulins; indeed, she suspected that Lucien had invited them. The men were reasonably friendly to him: his family’s disgrace scarcely seemed to have disturbed them. Topaze wondered if his purpose in inviting them was to have her see the differences between them.

When they played backgammon, Carle-André and Denis let her win, then protested that the game had been fair, and she’d simply been more clever than they. Lucien battled her with every throw of the dice, doing her the honor of treating her as an equal. And when she won (which wasn’t often—he
was
a master of the game), his genuine praise added to her triumph at the win.

While Carle-André and Denis flattered her with effusive compliments, flowery and overblown, Lucien would turn away, silent and distant. Then he’d stop her on the lawn, and tuck a flower into her bodice, and smile. “Your plain sister,” he’d murmur. “But it’s the best that nature can do, to challenge your beauty.”

She was enchanted by a part of him she’d never seen before. Yearning for his intimacy, she went to the mill every day, in hopes that his plea would be repeated. But there were no notes. There was just Cousin Lucien at the château, seeming contented with only her smiles.

One day he proposed a horse race to the men. They found a broad meadow on the edge of the woods and rode out together. Topaze was still awkward in the saddle, but she had a gentle horse. She dismounted while they discussed the rules of the contest.