Surrender to a Stranger (53 page)

The butler looked down at him with raised eyebrows.

“If him not here, I must wait,” explained Philippe awkwardly, searching for the proper English words. “He would want.”

“He will not return until tomorrow,” said the butler, obviously reluctant to let him in.

Philippe knit his eyebrows together. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. When was tomorrow? he wondered in frustration. Tomorrow. It did not matter. “I must wait,” he repeatedly stubbornly.

The butler sighed. “Very well,” he said, evidently not pleased. He opened the door and stood to one side. “Come in.”

Philippe stepped inside.

“This way,” said the butler.

He picked up a candelabra and began to lead him down the hallway and up an enormous staircase. They traveled along a dark corridor until they reached a door. The butler opened it and gestured for Philippe to follow him inside.

Philippe watched as the butler lit several candles around the room, revealing it to be a bedroom. He frowned in confusion.

“You will sleep here,” said the butler slowly. “And tomorrow you may see Mr. St. James.”

Tomorrow. Tomorrow. Philippe struggled to remember what tomorrow meant. It seemed the butler wanted him to rest here until Armand returned. He was not sleepy, but he did not argue. He nodded. “You tell Monsieur St. James I am here?” he demanded.

“Yes,” replied the butler. “Tomorrow.” He closed the door.

Philippe threw himself onto the bed, bursting with restless energy. He had ridden for almost three hours trying to find Armand’s estate. One of the men in the stables had drawn a map for him, but he was still forced to stop several times along the way to ask for directions. Fortunately people seemed to know the St. James estate. But Philippe found their accents extremely difficult to understand, and directions were not something he had studied in his English lessons. He would have to speak to his tutor about that.

A clock began to chime from somewhere down the hall. Philippe counted nine chimes and cursed. He went looking for Armand as soon as he finished eavesdropping on Jacqueline and the marquis, thinking to tell him right away of their plan. But Armand had left, without even speaking to Sir Edward, which he had claimed was his only reason for being there. Philippe knew he would have to find him, but he had four hours of work ahead of him in the stables, and since he was always supervised as he worked, there was absolutely no chance of him sneaking away with a horse. At six o’clock he started out with his map, thinking it would take only about an hour and a half to reach Armand’s estate, and then the two of them could head back to the Harringtons’ and stop Jacqueline from leaving at midnight, or at least go with her. But the roads were dark and unfamiliar, and it had taken him twice as long to find this place, only to learn that Armand was not even here. If he did not return soon, they would have no chance of stopping Jacqueline.

He laced his fingers behind his head and sighed. He was extremely weary. Although he loved to ride, he seldom went out for more than an hour or so. His whole body was stiff and aching. He groaned and closed his eyes. Perhaps he should use this opportunity to rest. As soon as Armand returned they would be heading out once again. He could only hope that for the return trip they would take his carriage.

He was awakened by the sound of glass shattering. He opened his eyes and instantly leapt from the bed, preparing to defend himself. He looked around in confusion. The candles had gone out, telling him that he had been asleep for at least two hours, possibly longer. A feeling of panic assaulted him. He swore softly and went out into the hall to see if Armand had returned.

The muffled sound of someone cursing was coming from the end of the corridor. Philippe moved toward the sound, thinking to ask whoever it was if Monsieur St. James had come back. He came to a closed door with light spilling out from underneath it. He raised his fist and rapped firmly on the door, only to be rewarded by the sound of something shattering against it.

“Get away from there, do you hear me?” demanded a furious, alcohol-thickened voice.

Philippe hesitated. He was sure the voice was Armand’s, but experience had taught him that an angry drunk was not to be trifled with. He cleared his throat.

“It is Philippe Mercier, Monsieur St. James,” he said in French. “I must speak with you immediately.”

Silence. Philippe waited.

“Did she send you?” the voice demanded suspiciously in French.

“No, Monsieur. She does not know I am here.”

Silence again. Philippe began to wonder if Armand had heard him.

“Come in, then, for God’s sake,” Armand snapped irritably.

Philippe twisted down the handle and opened the door. The heavy, sweet stench of whiskey immediately filled his nostrils. He blinked and looked around the room, which was a shambles of overturned furniture, broken glass, empty bottles, and spilled liquor. Armand was sitting in an armchair before the fireplace, holding a bottle of amber liquid in his lap and moodily staring at the dead coals. His jacket, waistcoat, and cravat were carelessly strewn across the floor, along with books, papers, and smashed figurines that had evidently been foolish enough to get in his way. His wrinkled shirt was rolled up at the sleeves and largely unbuttoned; his coppery hair had come loose from its ribbon and spilled wildly on his shoulders. He looked like a common drunk, not at all unlike the men who passed out in the cheap cafés in Paris and then got tossed onto the street when the owners wanted to close.

Armand looked up and tried to focus on Philippe. He had no idea how long he had been in here. Time had ceased to mean anything. All he knew was that from the moment he had seen Jacqueline kissing De Biret, had heard that fool driveling on about how it would be when they married, he had been overcome with a rage so painfully intense nothing but alcohol could begin to numb it. One drink. That was all he meant to have. But one drink was useless, and so he allowed himself another, and another, until finally he decided that if he was going to drink he might as well allow himself the pleasure of a roaring good drunk. But the alcohol did not set him free. Instead it trapped him, forcing him to confront his rage, intensifying it, filling him with loathing for himself, for Jacqueline, for France, for the world.

He was a failure. He was a bastard. He had been an unfit son, an unfit husband, and an unfit father. He had not been able to keep his family safe, and so they had been killed. And though it went completely against every rule he now lived by, he had purposefully seduced Jacqueline. And then he had rejected her, which sent her right back into the arms of her marquis. Of course. After all, De Biret was titled. He was worthy of her. As for himself, he still had to make up for his sins. That was a life-long sentence he had given himself. Falling in love and marrying again did not factor into it. And so now he was alone, free to continue to go to France and wage war against the demons of his past, not caring if he lived or died. Except that suddenly he did care, and that realization terrified him.

As Philippe took in the state of the room and the number of empty bottles, he realized Armand had been here all along. He had obviously informed his butler that he did not wish to be disturbed, and his butler, aware of his drunken state, had no wish to violate that order.

“Come over here and have a drink,” ordered Armand.

Philippe shook his head. “I don’t drink.”

“Neither do I,” said Armand darkly. He tilted his head back and took a long swig from the bottle. The liquor trickled down the sides of his mouth and dripped onto his shirt. He raised his arm and wiped his mouth on his sleeve.

“Monsieur St. James, Jacqueline needs your help,” began Philippe, desperately wondering how Armand could do anything for Jacqueline in his current drunken state.

“Is that so?” sneered Armand. “What’s her problem this time? Does she have another suitor who needs rescuing?”

Philippe ignored the bitter sarcasm in his voice. “No,” he replied. “But I overheard the marquis giving her some disturbing information when he visited her today—”

“Ah, the marquis,” interrupted Armand mockingly. “This must be serious.” He took another slow swig from his bottle.

“The marquis told her he received a message that her brother might still be alive,” continued Philippe, “and Jacqueline decided she would return—”

“I should have killed him,” interrupted Armand, his voice deadly calm.

Philippe looked at him in confusion. “Jacqueline’s brother?”

“He was touching her,” growled Armand furiously, re-creating the scene in his mind. “The bastard was pressing himself against her and kissing her, showing her how it will be when she marries him. And she was
letting him.
”

“Monsieur St. James, I don’t think now is the time to be discussing the marquis,” pointed out Philippe. He did not like the way Armand was speaking of Jacqueline.

Armand took another long mouthful of whiskey and stared thoughtfully into space, completely oblivious to Philippe’s presence. “Won’t he be surprised on their wedding night,” he drawled scornfully. His lips curved into an ugly smile.

His meaning was unmistakable. “Shut up,” choked Philippe, feeling his stomach tighten.

“I had her first,” boasted Armand, his voice a mixture of bitterness and triumph.

“Shut up,”
commanded Philippe, clenching his jaw with anger.

“At first she thought I was beneath her,” muttered Armand, ignoring him. “The noble daughter of a duc was far too good for the untitled likes of me. But once she lay naked in my bed, she was only too willing to spread those long, aristocratic legs—”

Philippe’s small fist crashed into Armand’s jaw, snapping his teeth together and sending his brain spinning. He shook his head and stared at the boy in astonishment. “What the hell—”

“Shut your filthy mouth, you
goddamn bastard
!” Philippe blazed, his whole body trembling with rage. “You don’t know anything about her, and you aren’t fit to touch her, do you hear?” He stood before him, his hands balled into fists, fighting the impulse to strike him again. “She risked everything for you. Her life, her jewels, her future—everything. She never cared what happened to her, only that you got out. Nothing else mattered.”

Armand stared at him, dumbfounded.

“Did you ever see her home?” Philippe demanded furiously. “It was far grander than this place. But they took it away from her. They destroyed it. She walked through it like a queen. She didn’t cry. She didn’t say a word. Because all she cared about was getting her jewels so she could use them to get
you
out.

“She hates it here,” he continued, his voice beginning to shake. “She never goes out. She never sees anyone. Maybe she was not much better off when we were in France, but she was different then. Do you know how I know she was different?”

“No,” said Armand, his mind swimming with alcohol and yet suddenly deadly serious. “How?”

“She never cried in France,” Philippe told him.

“She cries?” he asked hoarsely.

Philippe’s eyes narrowed. “You made her cry that night on
The Angélique,
” he said accusingly. “You used her, and you made her cry. And she has cried every night since.” He turned away from him in disgust. “She isn’t going to marry the marquis,” he sneered. “He isn’t nearly good enough for her.” He turned to look at Armand. “And neither are you,” he spat, his voice thick with contempt.

Armand stared at him in wonder. This young, abused, thieving urchin, who had ever reason to hate the aristocracy with his entire being, was passionately defending Jacqueline. And why not? She had saved him from a life of violence and misery. She had seen beyond his filthy exterior, and taken him off the streets of Paris and made a life for him that held some hope. But more than that, she became his friend. From the beginning she made it clear that he was not a servant, but part of her family. He was humbled by the boy’s devotion to her. And he was humbled by Jacqueline’s devotion to him. She had changed a great deal since that first day he had seen her on trial for the crimes of her class.

“You are right,” he admitted softly. “I am not nearly good enough for her.”

“I came here because I thought you could help her,” continued Philippe, his voice still taut with anger. “At this very moment she is leaving for the coast, to take a ship to France and find her brother. I hoped you would be able to stop her, or at least go with her to make sure she was safe. But look at you,” he said with disgust. “You could not even make it to the stables, let alone to France. I would have been better to just follow her myself. I never should have come here.” He turned to leave.

“Wait,” called Armand, desperately trying to comprehend everything Philippe was telling him. “You say she is returning to France?” he repeated, hoping he had misunderstood.

Philippe turned. “She is on her way to Dover right now,” he informed him.

“Alone?” demanded Armand, pulling himself up out of his chair and fighting to keep his balance.

“The marquis is with her,” replied Philippe.

Armand knit his brows together and frowned. François-Louis was going with Jacqueline to France? But why? Philippe had said something about Jacqeline’s brother being alive. But that was impossible. Wasn’t it? He was not sure. What he was sure of, even in his drunken stupor, was that the marquis was not the kind of man who risked his life for others. If he was returning to France with Jacqueline, somehow he must believe that in doing so he was not placing himself in any grave danger. But that was pure foolishness. Wasn’t it? What would make him think he would not be arrested and imprisoned the minute he stepped onto French soil? And if he really wanted to help Jacqueline, why didn’t he just go to France alone and get her brother for her? If he cared for her as much as he claimed, why risk her life by taking her with him?

Understanding dawned on him like a wave of icy water. “My God,” he breathed in horror. “It’s a trap.” The room began to spin.

Philippe looked at him in bewilderment. “How do you know?”

Armand shook his head impatiently, unable to explain. “Call the butler,” he ordered, desperately trying to keep the room steady. “Tell him to bring coffee. Some food. Get the carriage ready. We must leave tonight. We have to try to stop her before she gets on a ship.
Move.
”