The Making of a Duchess (32 page)

   Everyone was tense, including Julien, who worried not only about the landing but about getting Sarah and himself deeper into the countryside. Stalwart still refused to say where they would land, though he had offered to escort them on the first leg of their journey.

   Julien knew if Stalwart wanted to be rid of them, now would be his opportunity. The captain could easily turn them over to the French authorities or sail without them.

   Of course, it would have been easier to simply throw them overboard, and Stalwart had not done that, so perhaps the man would be true to his word and wait for them to return. It would take him several days to contact his suppliers and load French luxury goods into his cargo hold.

   When darkness finally fell, Julien went below deck to the cabin he shared with Sarah. He opened the door, and she was beside him in an instant. Her face was pale and drawn. "Are we going to land soon? Is it safe?"

   He could not offer her any real assurances, so he took her in his arms and held her. He felt a moment of regret that they would not be sharing the cabin tonight. In the past two days, he had found her an eager and responsive pupil. But his ever-increasing desire for her would just have to wait to be slaked.

   "Stalwart wants to anchor at midnight. We'll row ashore with a few other members of the crew."

   "Where are we landing?"

   "Stalwart won't say. He promised to escort us on the first leg—not that I know where we should begin."

   "Paris," she said decidedly.

   He raised a brow. "You sound very sure."

   "I am. Your brother is in Paris."

   "And you know this because…?"

   She looked away, indicating that was all she would say for now. He had intended to start his search in Paris at any rate. He knew his old butler, Gilbert Pierpont, still lived there, but Armand could be anywhere in France—if he was alive at all. "You should try to rest," he told her. "We might be traveling all night."

   She pulled away. "Do you trust him—Stalwart?"

   Julien looked away, debating his answer. She obviously had the same questions and doubts he did. Finally, he met her gaze. "I don't see that we have any choice."

   At half past midnight, Julien and Sarah stood on deck, staring at the dark shore. They had anchored in a cove that was well-sheltered from the open water. A French warship would have to come quite close in order to spot them. Julien figured this location had been used by Stalwart before and possibly by other smugglers.

   "Are you ready?" Stalwart asked, indicating the long boats already bobbing in the black water below the vessel.

   "Ready."

   Julien climbed over the side of the ship and began to negotiate his way down the rope ladder. Sarah followed, with Julien helping her navigate the precarious descent.

   An hour later Julien, Sarah, and Captain Stalwart were in a carriage speeding toward Paris. The captain had insisted Julien and Sarah make the first part of the trip blindfolded so that, no matter what, they would not be able to share his secret landing spot. Julien had argued that they would not be able to find their way back to the ship if they did not know where it was anchored, but Stalwart was taking no chances.

   "I'll meet you in Paris in three nights," he said, finally removing the blindfolds. "A place called La Petite Coeur. It's in the Latin Quarter, near the river."

   Julien nodded. "Three nights isn't much time."

   "Take all the time you need, monsieur," Stalwart said, knocking on the roof of the carriage. "But if I don't see you in three nights, you'll have to find another way home."

   The carriage slowed and stopped, and Stalwart threw the door open. "Good night."

   Julien peered out the door. "There's nothing here but woods. Take us to a posting house where I can hire horses."

   "I'd love to, monsieur, but I have other business tonight. Get out."

   Julien sat forward. "Listen, Stalwart—"

   The captain reached beneath his cloak, and Julien saw the glint of the pistol. "Get out," Stalwart ordered again.

   With a scowl, Julien climbed out of the carriage and reached back to assist Sarah. He pulled her down beside him then retrieved their luggage—her knapsack and his satchel. "La Petite Coeur in three nights," Julien said. "You had better be there."

   "Good night." Stalwart closed the door, and the carriage drove away.

Sarah stood in the darkness, wishing she could see the moon through the trees. She had lived in London so long and had been in the country so infrequently that she had forgotten how dark it could be at night. She had forgotten the sounds as well. All around them, the wind rustled the trees, leaves crunched underfoot, birds chirped, and insects buzzed. She shivered.

   "What now?" she asked.

   "Speak only in French," he answered, taking her hand and leading her forward, God knew where. They walked for several minutes, and Sarah saw no sign of habitation. For all they knew, Stalwart could have left them stranded in Belgium. Was this even the road to Paris?

   "Are we even traveling the right way?" she asked after stumbling over a tree branch lying on the side of the road.

   "We'll find out soon enough." His tone was dark, and she decided she had better not ask any additional questions. She could tell by the firm set of his mouth that he was angry, and she did not want to provoke him further.

   It seemed to Sarah that they walked for hours, stumbling in the darkness. In reality, it was probably only three-quarters of an hour before they came upon a small farm. The farmhouse was dark, the inhabitants all asleep. But Julien made her duck behind a tree and pointed to an old cart standing near the barn. "We're taking that," he whispered.

   She gaped at him. "We're stealing it?"

   He gave her a sidelong look. "Borrowing it. And a horse."

   "Do you
want
to be put in prison?" she hissed. "We can't steal other people's property!"

   "Do
you
want to walk to Paris? It could be miles."

   She frowned and stared at the cart. Reverend Collier would not approve of stealing, and the very idea made her stomach churn.

   "Besides," Julien said, peering around the tree to get another look at the cart. "We need an excuse for having been out of the city. We'll say we went to visit your sister in Orléans. We'd need a cart to travel that far."

   "I don't like it," she said, pressing a fist into her stomach. "I think we should walk."

He nodded. "Alright. You walk. I'll drive the cart."

   In the end, she helped him steal it. She figured she was probably going to hell for all the lies she had told, so what did it matter if she added stealing as well? She did make Julien promise to return the cart. God might look favorably on that action.

   By the time the sun was coming up, Sarah knew they were indeed on the road to Paris. She had never been to Paris, but she could not imagine anywhere else so many of the peasants from the country would be traveling. Most were laden with fruits and vegetables from their farms, and Julien bought some grain and vegetables to pile in the back of their cart.

   Though he spoke the language perfectly, the peasants eyed him with suspicion. His clothes and manners were simple and plain, but there was something of the aristocrat in him he could not hide.

   Nobility was in his accent, in his bearing, in the structure of his bones. For the first time, Sarah realized the danger they were in. If Julien was discovered to be an imposter, they would probably die here. Napoleon might not have continued the policies of the peasants during the Reign of Terror, but his government would not look kindly on their visit. Like the English government, the officials would assume the worst.

   By the time they reached the gates to Paris, Sarah's head was pounding, and her stomach was tied in knots. It might have been hunger, but more likely, she was terrified of discovery.
Chin up
, she reminded herself as they waited in the line of carriages while soldiers checked the papers of all who wanted to enter. Sarah could not image London ever being so closely guarded, but then France was still recovering from its recent revolution.

   Not to mention it was at war with almost the whole of the European continent.

   But the soldiers seemed less worried about an invasion from the English than missing an opportunity to flirt with the pretty farm girls. Thus, when it was Julien's turn to pass, a young soldier took their papers and barely glanced at them, all the while smiling and carrying on a rapid conversation with a plump brunette dressed in peasant clothing.

   They drove into the city, and Sarah breathed a sigh of relief.

   "We need to find Gilbert," Julien said when they were well away from the gates.

   "Who's that?"

   "Our former butler and the man who can help us find Armand."

   "Did you write and arrange to meet him?"

   Julien shook his head. "Too dangerous."

   "Then how shall we ever find him? Paris is huge and crowded."

   "I have an idea. We'll find him."

   She wondered if this Gilbert would corroborate Sir Northrop's information about Armand, if the former butler would know of the attic, would know of Le Grenier.

   As they continued through the city, Sarah took in the sights and sounds of Paris. It was difficult to believe she truly was in Paris. She was in France— England's mortal enemy! She knew she was in danger every moment she spent in this city. Her French was flawless—the accent that of a native. But what if she accidentally reverted to English? There were a myriad of tiny mistakes that could give her away.

   She watched Julien navigate the stolen cart through the city. He appeared confident and unperturbed, despite the fact that he was in more danger even than she. How had he done this before? How had he mustered the courage to return to a place whose people had murdered his family?

   He had more courage and more honor than anyone she had ever met.

   And he was her husband. She looked down at the ribbon she still wore about her finger, touched it briefly.

   She wondered where they would sleep tonight and almost blushed remembering the last time they had been in bed together. She had never imagined lovemaking could be like that. She did not realize she could feel such heightened awareness, such agonizing anticipation, or such sweet pleasure.

   No man but Julien could have made her feel that way. Of that she was certain.

   And of course now she was even more in love with him. How could any woman who had been touched and stroked and cherished the way she had been fail to fall in love with Julien?

   But was he in love with her? He had not said he was. He had called her
mon amour
, but had he meant the words, or were they just a meaningless endearment?

   She glanced at him again, noting his strong jaw, his bronze skin, and the way a section of hair had come free from his queue. Except for that aristocratic nose and the hauteur that could creep into his eyes, he looked very much the rugged laborer. She would not have minded buying her bread from him. She saw some of the ladies they passed eyed him with admiration as well. He had garnered a fair share of smiles from the opposite sex.

   Why would he love her? She was no one. A poor governess. Was she expecting too much to hope he might fall in love with her as she had with him?

   Suddenly he glanced at her and flashed her a smile. "It's still here."

   She followed his gaze to the street sign that read
Rue du Valère.

   Her eyes widened. "You have a street named after you?"

   He shrugged. "My grandfather, really. He built a grand home here when there had been nothing but a field before."

   "Is it still standing?"

   Julien shook his head slightly. "This is the first time I've been back to this place, but we'll soon see."

   The horse turned the corner, and the cart began down a small, tree-lined street that looked mainly residential. The houses were in various states of disrepair, but when Sarah saw the charred gray remains of a large structure, she knew Julien's town house had not survived.

   She reached over and squeezed his arm, but he didn't respond. His look was stoic and grim. Sarah wondered what was next, as it was obvious Gilbert was not living in the Valère residence, but she did not speak, merely sat with her hands in her lap as Julien slowed the horse and climbed out of the wagon in front of the house.

   She was aware that this was dangerous. If anyone walked by and saw them, their presence could elicit suspicion. But she had to give Julien a few minutes to make peace with this part of his past. He stood in front of the rubble, hands on his hips, face unreadable. His shoulders were back, his head high, but she could feel the pain within him. She wished she could take it away.

   Wanting to give him privacy, she looked away, studying the nearby houses that were still standing. A curtain rustled in the small ramshackle home across the street. She could tell it had once been a fine building, but it was sorely neglected now.