The Making of a Duchess (25 page)

   Julien stood in the doorway and cleared his throat. She glanced up and then down at her list again. "Yes, Julien?"

   He was not used to coldness from her. "Am I interrupting?"

   She did not look up. "No more than I interrupted you a moment ago."

   "I know how that must have looked—"

   "It was exactly how it looked," she said, dipping her quill in ink and continuing to write. "That's why I'm moving up the date of the wedding."

   "That's not necessary."

   She glanced at him, brows raised. "It looked necessary a moment ago."

   "I know. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

   "I certainly hope it will happen again—just not until after the wedding vows." She set down the quill. "Do you know what surprises me the most, Julien?"

   He shook his head.

   "I didn't think you liked her."

   He ran a hand through his hair and considered, took his time choosing the words. "She's not what I expected."

   "Nor I. She's nothing like her mother. Delphine is lively and vivacious. Serafina is quiet and unassuming, and her beauty surpasses that of Delphine." She held up a hand before Julien could protest. "But her beauty would be nothing to me if I did not see the way she looks when she speaks of you. Then, well, she's absolutely stunning."

   Julien froze and felt his heart clench. "What do you mean?"

   "I mean, it's obvious she's completely smitten with you. Her face lights up when she mentions your name."

   At her words, all the air in his lungs dried up. Could it be possible she felt something for him? That all of this was more than simply the work of a spy, that she truly cared for him? He did not know if he could trust her, but he knew he wanted to. Desperately.

   "I wasn't certain about this match," his mother was saying, "but now that I see you return her passion, I think we had better proceed quickly. You'll need to get a special license."

   "That's not possible right now." He took a seat in the small, curved-back chair opposite the desk. It was so dainty, he feared he would break it with his weight.

   "It had better be possible, if we're going to have the wedding in two weeks."

   "I may not be here."

   He allowed the words to hang between them. He had made no mention to his mother of the letter he had received with news of Armand or his planned voyage to France. They had traveled this road before, and it only brought her great pain. She preferred to believe her youngest sons were dead. Believing them still alive was too painful. And even more painful was hoping Julien would find them, only to be disappointed again and again.

   By implicit agreement, he had not mentioned his plans to travel to France, but he knew his mother was extremely astute. She knew what went on in her home, could guess why businessmen came in and out in a steady stream for the last several days.

   "I was afraid of this," she said quietly.

   "Perhaps it's best if we don't talk about it."

   "We haven't talked about it for years, and that hasn't yet stopped you from pursuing this foolish quest."

   Julien clenched his hands around the arms of the chair. "You wouldn't think it so foolish if you had access to the information I do."

   "A letter from Gilbert, our former butler, saying he knows where Armand is? That information?"

   Julien stared at her. "How did you—"

   "He sent me a letter as well, probably hoping one of us would believe it."

   "Why would he lie? He was always a loyal servant."

   She stared at him, disbelief in her eyes. "Were you there that night, Julien? Do you remember our
loyal
servants hacking down our doors, assaulting us with candlesticks and brooms and"—she looked down at his foot, and he felt a twinge of pain at the memory—"pitchforks."

   "That wasn't one of ours."

   "Don't be deceived. Our servants wanted us dead and gone."

   "Not all of them."

   She ignored him. "And do you know what Gilbert will do once he has you in France? He'll send you to the guillotine, his revenge complete."

   "Ma mère, I don't believe that."

   "Fine, then he'll threaten to reveal your identity or turn you into the authorities unless you give him money. Or perhaps he hopes to blackmail you into bringing him to England. I don't know."

   Julien rose and went to her, kneeling in front of her and taking her hands. "And what if, just possibly,

Armand is alive?"

   She shook her head. "I cannot believe that, Julien. I know he's dead."

   "And if he's not? If there's even the slightest possibility, shouldn't I go and investigate it?"

   "That's not your responsibility!"

   "Then whose is it?" He rose and turned away from her, stalking across the room. "Who's going to save him if not me?"

   Damn it! He had raised his voice and was fighting to keep his temper under control.

   She came up behind him, and he felt her hand on his shoulder. "It's too late to save him, Julien. And it was never your responsibility. If it was anyone's, it was mine. I failed him and Bastien, not you."

   "Father failed them." The words were out before he even knew what he was saying. Belatedly, he remembered Sarah's argument that he was not his father. Was she right? Was he trying to right his father's failures?

   His mother turned him around, put her hands on his cheeks. "Your father gave his life to give us a chance, Julien. He fought with everything he had so I might escape, so I might save you boys.
I'm
the one who failed."

   Julien sighed. "We're a family of failures." She smiled ruefully at the sarcasm. "It's none of our faults, ma mère. But I could never live with myself if I didn't respond to that letter. I have to go to France. I have to try once more to find Armand."

   She shook her head sadly. "He's dead, Julien."

   "How do you know?" He said it gently, seeing the

tears in her eyes.

   "I would have felt something if Armand or Bastien was still alive. I would have felt something, and I don't, Julien. I'm just dead inside."

   
"Ma mère."
He took her in his arms, holding her as she wept silently.

   A long time later, she parted from him, wiping her eyes with a handkerchief. "I don't want you to suffer the same fate I have, Julien. You don't have to die inside. Stay here, marry Serafina, start a family. Put this search for your brothers aside. It will only bring you grief. I know."

   "I can't, ma mère."

   "You can't marry Serafina or you can't forget your brothers?"

   "Either. Both. I don't know. I just know that I leave for France in two days."

   She closed her eyes, pain making her features stark. "What can I do, Julien? What can I do to help?"

   He smiled. His mother had never let him down. He leaned down, kissed her on the cheek.

   "Just pray."

Sarah sat on the couch in the library, still and silent for a long time. Her mind went over and over the kiss she had shared with Valère—Julien. In her thoughts, at least she could call him Julien.

   She could not believe she had been so wanton, that she had completely lost her reason and allowed him to touch her so intimately. But she knew why she had been carried away.

   For the first time, she had actually believed he might want to marry her. For the first time, she dared to believe he wanted her, might feel something for her. Not as much as she felt for him. No, she did not think he was in love with her, but he said he wanted her.

   Still, she could hardly believe that he, a duc, would marry her, a mere governess. Everyone knew the aristocracy did not marry for love. His two completely business-like proposals proved that well enough.

   No, he would marry someone of his own station, someone who would bring him wealth or power or prestige. Sarah knew she could give him none of these things. She was not silly enough to believe love would win the day.

   Which meant, she still had a job to do. She had to exonerate him. If she could not, and the Foreign Office learned she had helped him make travel preparations for France, she might be considered equally guilty of treason.

   It was common knowledge that women convicted of this crime were not hanged, drawn, and quartered. Unfortunately, the prospect of being burned at the stake was no more appealing to her. She had once read a book describing the practice, and the punishment was gruesome indeed.

   She wanted to go with him to France. She wanted to see firsthand his search for his brother, be able to prove without doubt that he was not selling secrets to the French.

   And yes, she wanted to be with him. How could she stay here in London while he risked his life abroad? She would lose him soon enough when he returned.

   And there was another concern as well. If she were here in London and it became known that Julien was away, Sir Northrop would not waste a moment in finding her. She shuddered to think what he would do to her. She was probably safer in France.

   But if she wanted to go to France with Julien, she would need documents. She would need papers that gave her a false identity. Julien would need the same. Suddenly, she looked at his desk with new interest. There were several documents on top, most likely those Mr. Thompson, who had left just before her arrival, had brought.

   She glanced at the library door. It was ajar, and no one was in the vestibule. She fumbled in her reticule until she found her spectacles, went to the desk, and keeping her eyes on the door, scanned the papers lying in front of her.

   She gasped when she moved the top sheet. Underneath were French papers for a Monsieur Julien Harcourt. There was no mention of his title. In fact, his profession was given as
baker
. This was exactly what she needed. She would find this Mr. Thompson and persuade him to make her false documents. She would be Madame Harcourt, the baker's wife.

   She glanced at the door again, making sure she was not seen as she rummaged through the papers, looking for Mr. Thompson's address. She found it quickly enough and made note that he was located on Fleet Street.

   She would go tomorrow and then—

   What?

   Julien was not going to welcome her along on the voyage, and he might change his plans altogether if she told him her suspicions about Sir Northrop. She could not allow that. Finding his brother was the only way to ensure his safety. She would have to surprise him. She would have to find a way to make it impossible for him to refuse. Her life might depend on it.

   She began to rearrange the documents so they looked undisturbed, but her hands stilled when she saw the list stuffed under the false identification papers. She stared at it for a long moment.

   
The attic.
That was where Sir Northrop had said Julien's brother Armand was located. But could he have meant… She heard a sound and quickly restored the papers to their original order. Yes, she was definitely going to France, and right now she had packing to do.

The remainder of Julien's preparations went smoothly. His mother looked worried each time he saw her, but she no longer tried to persuade him to stay in England.

   Sarah was distant. There had been no repeat of the kiss they had shared in the library the day before. In fact, he had hardly seen her.

   That evening he escorted her and his mother to the opera, and he pulled Sarah aside during the intermission. "Is everything well with you?"

   They were in the privacy of his box, his mother having gone to speak to friends in their box, but that did not mean they had any real privacy. The
ton
was watching everything that went on.

   Sarah smiled and waved her fan. "
Oui, bien sûr.
Why do you ask?"

   "Where have you been lately?"

   "Busy."

   "With our friends?" He did not want to mention the Foreign Office. He was to sail for France tomorrow evening, and the last thing he needed was to slip up and have someone hear him reveal something he should not this close to his departure.

   "Who else? I've promised them the moon, and I must give them something soon."

   He nodded, though something about the way she would not meet his eyes made him question. But why would she lie to him? Who would she have gone to see if not Sir Northrop? "As we discussed, I'll leave you the letter to show them. It might not be enough to persuade them, but when I return with Armand, I should have no trouble convincing them."

   She nodded and looked back at the stage.

   "You will be all right while I am gone? There's no danger?"

   She smiled, though it did not quite reach her eyes. "Of course not."

   He was hardly reassured, but he had little other choice but to trust her. The Foreign Office would not hurt one of its own. And she would be safe in his home while he was away. He realized this might be their last chance to be alone together. "Sarah," he whispered.

   She glanced at him, alarm in her eyes. He was a fool to use her real name, but he could not call her Serafina. She was Sarah to him now. "You will be here when I return?"