The Making of a Duchess (2 page)

   Slowly, carefully, he edged along the ledge. Pausing, he looked back at the window. "Mother, hurry!"

   It seemed an eternity before one white-clad leg appeared at the window. Soon the other followed. She hung in midair, her feet dangling as they searched for the ledge. She wavered, her grip weakening. But just as Julien feared she would fall, one foot then the other found the ledge. Slowly, she released the window sill.

   Julien stared at her in admiration. His mother was no coward.

   "Go," she hissed. "They're almost through the door."

   He inched along the wall of the chateau—step, slide; step, slide. He moved quickly, watching his mother from the corner of his eye. And yet it still startled him when several heads poked out the window. One of them was, indeed, Matthieu.

   "There they are! Get them."

   The heads disappeared again, and Julien kept moving. Step, slide. Step, slide. Step—

   Something arced out the window and thudded to the ground below them. Julien froze and watched as the vase shattered on the cobblestones. Then another object came at them, this one better aimed. The brass candleholder barely missed his mother's shoulder.

   Step, slide. Step, slide. Step, sl—
houp-là!
He'd reached the corner of the house and would now have to climb down. His mother was still sliding closer, and the peasants were aiming the second candleholder at her. It grazed her arm, causing her to flinch and sway.

   "Hold on!" Julien screamed. He felt a stab of terror, sharp as any sword blade, pierce his chest.

   And then she was steady again.

   The peasants booed, and Julien wished he could go back and personally strangle each and every one of them.

   But he hadn't the luxury of daydreams, even those of vengeance. It would take time for the peasants to reach the back of the house, but he knew they were coming. He began to climb down, using the ornate stonework as hand and footholds. He climbed quickly, reaching the bottom long before his mother. She was less agile, and as he stood there, he worried that her white night robe would act as a beacon to any who came this way. Each step down seemed to take forever. How he wished she would hurry. How he wished he could run away.

   And then he was ashamed of himself. What would his father think if he knew his son had even considered leaving his mother to fend for herself? Why, no Valère would ever act in such a cowardly fashion.

   At this very moment, his father was probably fighting the peasants. He would win, too. The duc de Valère was strong and good. He would beat these peasants and save them all.

   His mother was almost to the bottom, and Julien reached up, putting his hand on her back to let her know he was behind her. He looked up just in time to see a half-dozen books rain down, and he grabbed his mother, pulling her around the corner and out of danger. The two of them, mother and son, fell to the ground, leaning against the house for a moment's respite.

   On the other side of the wall, the books thudded to the ground, and he heard the peasants in the window yell, "Around the corner! They're getting away."

   Julien was on his feet again, taking his mother's hand. They had not a moment to waste. If the peasants caught them—

   No. He would not think of that.

"Mother, the stables!"

   She nodded, and lifting her skirts, ran beside him. As one, they arrowed for the stables. Julien felt invisible hands grasping at him, but he was too afraid to look over his shoulder and gauge how close the peasants truly were. He could not slow. He could not stop.

   They rounded the side of the chateau, and the stables came into view.

   Julien gasped. The stables were on fire, and he could hear the horses screaming. Why hadn't the grooms freed them? Without thinking, he ran for the stable doors, slamming into them and pulling them open. He would have to go inside, freeing each horse individually.

   "Julien, watch out!"

   The attack came from the side. At first he could not comprehend why Claude, one of the Valère grooms, would attack him. Julien raised a hand to fend off the assault. Pain sliced through him as the shovel Claude held came down hard on his arm..

   Behind him, the peasants chasing them had caught up. They stood back, cheering the groom on.
"Mort
à l'aristocratie!"

   Julien swayed, and the groom smiled.

   So even their servants had betrayed them.

   Raising the shovel again, the groom brought it down swiftly. This time, Julien ducked, kicked the groom hard, and darted around him. He might not be strong, but he was quick.

   "Ma mère, get away!"

   She was holding a pitchfork, the look in her eyes maniacal as she waved it at the peasants. Most were armed with only dull knives or fire pokers, and they stayed back. Waiting for their opportunity.

   She glanced at Julien, and he raised his arms, nodding to her. She tossed him the pitchfork, and he caught it easily—just in time to fend off another blow from Claude. The handles of the tools clashed together, and Julien pushed back, throwing Claude off balance. Julien struck again, and the groom fell. Grasping his chance, Julien turned the tines of the pitchfork on the servant.

   "Don't get up or I'll kill you." He looked at the men and women closing in on the stable. Men and women with hate and bloodlust in their eyes. "I'll kill all of you."

   "No, little boy," one gray-haired woman missing several teeth hissed. "We're going to kill all of
you
.
Mort à l'aristocratie!"

   The peasants charged, and Julien threw the pitchfork and ran.

   Into the fire. Into the sound of screaming horses.

   He ran blindly, hitting a solid wall of warm, trembling muscle.

   "Julien, get on. Hurry!" His mother's voice, coming from the right. He could barely discern her white robe and curtain of black hair in the smoky dark. She was atop a dancing dappled mount.

   Reaching high, Julien grasped the mane of a large bay gelding and pulled himself up. The horse reared, and Julien held until his muscles felt they would snap from strain. One of the peasants approached, and the gelding skittered. Julien struggled with his nightshirt, tugging it over his head and wrapping it around the horse's eyes. His mother had done the same with her robe and, clad in her chemise and petticoats, she was now urging her blind horse forward, through the open back of the stable.

   Julien turned his mount to follow just as the old peasant woman ran for him. She was brandishing the pitchfork now, and he kicked at her with his bare foot. The tine sliced through the tender flesh of his foot, and Julien cried out

   With his good foot, he kicked desperately at his gelding. The beast jumped and ran forward. Julien held on with all his strength, trying to steer the horse through the doors. He could see his mother waiting, and just beyond her, the woods beckoned.

   If they could only reach the woods.

   The gelding veered crazily to the right, and Julien pressed hard with his leg, urging the horse left. They cleared the stable with mere inches to spare, and then he was out in the open, beside his mother. He pulled the nightshirt off the horse's eyes and hunkered down, allowing the beast to gallop for the woods. He would slow the animal when they were closer. Farther from danger.

   Their way was lit from behind, the light of the fire making the dark night as rosy as a sunrise. But Julien did not dare look back. He looked only at his mother, who rode right beside him.

   They ran through a small brook and into a line of trees. By unspoken agreement, they slowed their mounts, and the duchesse de Valère turned to look at the chateau. Reluctantly, Julien turned to look as well.

   The house was engulfed in fire—the bright red and orange flames surging into the sky like angry, grasping hands. Around the fire, the peasants danced and sang a macabre song.

   Julien felt ill. His head ached, and he couldn't catch his breath. His foot was bleeding and throbbed whitehot with pain. But it was nothing to the pain of losing his brothers.

   No.

   "I'm sure they escaped," he said through gritted teeth. "Father saved them."

   His mother turned and looked at him. "Your father—" she began, and then glanced down at her bloody nightgown.

   "No," Julien whispered. "No!"

   She looked away, but not before he saw the heartrending grief in her eyes. The anguish pulled her face down, etching deep grooves where only faint lines had been the day before.

   "No." The word was a mere breath.

   "We must go," she said. "Come first light, they'll be looking for us."

   Julien nodded. He looked one way and then the other, unsure where to lead—even if he should lead.

   "We'll go home. To England," his mother said. "My parents will take us in."

   "England?" Julien had heard his mother talk about her homeland, but he had never been there. "How will we travel? We have no money."

   "We won't let a small thing like that stop us." She looked away from the fire and met his gaze. "We're Valères. What would your father say?"

"Ne quittez pas,"
he said automatically.
Never give up.

"You're the duc de Valère now."

   Julien swallowed. He was the duc, a heavy burden for a thirteen-year-old. But Julien would shoulder that burden. He would make his father proud.

   He would avenge this day, and he would never give up, not until justice was done.

"Ma'am, Sir Northrop has asked for you."

   Sarah looked up from the geography book she and her two pupils were bent over and frowned. "Me?"

   The butler did not respond. Wrisley merely raised one salt-and-pepper eyebrow and waited. He was the picture of forbearance, though Sarah knew he must detest errands like this.

   She removed her reading spectacles from her nose, leaving them to dangle from the chain around her neck, and dusted her hands on her shapeless, gray gown. It was a nervous gesture, and her teachers at the Ladies Benevolent Society Academy for Young Girls—the Academy, as the girls there called it—had told her countless times the gesture did nothing to improve her deportment. And yet Sarah could not seem to resist the action when she was unnerved.

   Why would Sir Northrop want to see her? As she interacted almost exclusively with the lady of the house, Sarah had not thought Sir Northrop knew she existed.

   Wrisley cleared his throat, and Sarah stut tered, "Sir Northrop? Certainly. Tell him I will be along momentarily."

   Wrisley sighed and closed his eyes briefly, his look pained.

   Sarah winced. When she was flustered, she could be such an idiot. Wrisley would want to escort her, of course. She turned back to her charges. Both waited, hands in laps and eyes on her, for the lesson to continue. Anne, nine years old, and Edmund, age seven, were sweet, good-natured children. It had been a joy to tutor them these past two months, and Sarah sincerely hoped her employ would not end today.

   Not that she had any reason to suspect it would. She had done nothing wrong.

   Had she?

   "Children, I must speak with your father," she said, stating the obvious. "It's almost tea time. Why don't you wait for your tea and toast in the nursery? I shall meet you there."

   "Yes, Miss Smith," Anne said obediently. She rose and straightened her white and blue gown.

   Edmund followed, less concerned with the wrinkles in his clothing. As he passed, he leaned over and whispered, "I'll save you the marmalade, Miss Smith."

   She smiled. "Thank you, Edmund."

   When the children were gone, she followed Wrisley into the corridor, leaving the clean, bright schoolroom behind. With its solid desks, comforting books, and pretty yellow and white checked curtains, the schoolroom was her haven. She felt safe inside, sure of herself and her position. Outside, she felt uncertain.

   The schoolroom was on the third floor of the town house, along with her own tiny room and various other servants' quarters. As the governess, Sarah did not associate with the lower servants. Custom dictated that she might socialize with Lady Merton's maid as well as the housemaid, but she had not been in the Merton household long enough to form much of an acquaintance with these or any of the other upper servants. Consequently, when Sarah was not with the children, she was rather lonely—a strange sensation after years of sharing quarters with dozens of girls at the Academy.

   Wrisley had not so much as turned to be certain she was following, and near the stairs that led to the house's lower levels, Sarah felt safe to steal a peek in the gilt-edged mirror that hung there. She blew out a breath at what she saw. The sleek bun she had coiled her hair into this morning was no more. She had taken the children on a nature walk in the garden earlier, and between the wind and the sudden spring shower, her neat coiffure was ruined. She tried to smooth it back into place, but it was hopeless.

   And then there was the state of her dress. The serviceable gown was wrinkled and stained at the knees. She should have changed after kneeling in the garden, but it was such a chore that she had intended to save it until dinner. A little soil would not hamper her teaching geography and French this afternoon. Of course, clean clothes and tidy hair were important, but so was digging in the dirt and playing in the rain. The children understood that. Sir Northrop might not be so open-minded.