The Making of a Duchess (38 page)

   And Armand… Sarah could not tell what Armand felt. His emotions were hidden behind an impenetrable wall. He sat across from her, radiating danger. It had been a struggle to force him into the closed carriage, and he bore the confinement with locked jaw, clenched fists, and narrowed eyes. She was not afraid of him, but she sensed her husband's brother could be just as formidable, just as strong and powerful as Julien.

   She glanced at Julien again and wished they could have stayed on the ship forever—not that she was overly fond of Captain Stalwart or sea travel, but the ship was safer than London. Sir Northrop could not reach her on the
Racer
. And for the most part, she'd had Julien all to herself. It seemed they could not be alone together for five minutes without him stripping her bare and finding some new, inventive way to bring her pleasure.

   She blushed when she thought of all the ways he had made love to her, all the skillful ways his hands and mouth found to please her. And she knew she pleased him as well. Even now when he looked at her, she could see his desire for her smoldering behind those dark lashes.

   But desire was not the same as love. He had still not said he loved her.

   Did he? Would he ever?

   It seemed inconceivable that a wealthy, handsome duc could love her—a plain governess. She was an outsider in his world and always would be. As if to punctuate her thoughts, the hackney slowed in front of the Valère home. It was as magnificent as ever and not at all like coming home. Even though Julien took her hand and led her to the door, she did not feel as though she belonged.

   They had just reached the front door when Grimsby pulled it open. Sarah barely had a moment to nod to the servant when the duchesse sprang forward to pull them inside. "Julien! Serafina! You're home! You're safe. You don't know how worried we were. And—" She stared at Gilbert as though trying to place him, and then her arms went about him as well. "Gilbert!"

   
"Duchesse, merci."
Gilbert said.

   She broke into a stream of rapid French, welcoming Gilbert and offering him shelter, and the old servant nodded and wiped his eyes.

   And then Sarah saw the duchesse's gaze fall on Armand. They had cleaned him up as best they could. His clothes had been paper-thin rags and his hair an unkempt mat, so Gilbert had found him new garments, washed him, and trimmed his brown hair so it swept back from his aristocratic forehead and fell in waves over his neck and shoulders. Armand had reluctantly consented to being shaved, and looking at him now, there was no doubt this man was related to Julien. The nose was the same; the eyes, while not the same color, had the same slant. And though Armand was taller, he held himself in the same regal way.

   The duchesse took a tentative step toward Armand and held out her arms. Armand did not respond. He stared fixedly at his mother, his cobalt blue eyes focused and sharp. Sarah could tell he wanted to go to her, but after years without kindness, without touch, he could not or would not embrace her. Finally, she went to him, taking him in her arms in a fierce hug. Sarah watched as he raised his arms and awkwardly patted her shoulders. It would take something or someone very special to thaw the ice around Armand's heart, to heal his tortured soul.

   The duchesse held her lost son and looked at Julien. "You found him," she sobbed. "I didn't believe in you, didn't believe he was still alive. But you found him." She opened her arms to him, and Julien embraced her. Sarah watched as the duchesse held both sons, her family all but reunited once again.

   But how long would that last? How long would Julien be safe and free while Sir Northrop and the Foreign Office were determined to charge him with treason?

   Not long. And it was up to her to ensure that this

family was never separated again. She might never truly belong to this family, but she could at least be certain she did all in her power to protect them.

   Julien reached out for her, took her hand, and pulled her close. "Ma mère, we have other news as well. Sarah and I are married. We married on the ship."

   The duchesse looked surprised, and Sarah tried to smile.

   "Oh, but this is good news!" the duchesse exclaimed. "Serafina, not only have I found a son, I've gained a daughter."

   Sarah but her lip. "Actually, there's a little more to the story. My name isn't Serafina…"

   A few hours later, Sarah lay in Julien's arms as he stroked her bare shoulder. They had made love in his bed, and even though she was his wife, she felt as though she would be caught any moment.

   "Relax," he whispered.

   She tried, but she had too much on her mind. How long would it take Sir Northrop to realize she was back? Would he come looking for her?

   "Are you worried about my mother? She doesn't care who you are. If I'm happy, she's happy."

   Sarah raised a brow at him. "Julien, she's in denial. When you told her I was a governess, she laughed."

   "Well, look at you. It is difficult to believe."

   Sarah didn't think it was difficult to believe at all. But the duchesse had done more than just laugh. Sarah had expected the duchesse to express shock or disbelief at their story, but she only shook her head. "Do you think I'm a fool? That I don't know what goes on in my own home? I know who she is."

   Sarah had blinked in surprise. The duchesse had known she was a governess all along? Why had she never said anything? "H-how did you know?" Sarah stammered.

   "You thanked the maid who poured your tea—that first day in the drawing room. It was as though you had never been served before. I knew something about your story didn't fit. I did a little investigating and made my own conclusions."

   
"Je regrette,"
Sarah said, reaching out to take the older woman's hand. "I'm sorry I lied to you, and I'm so sorry I pretended to be Serafina."

   The duchesse frowned at her. "Sorry you pretended to be Serafina? Child, don't you know?" Her eyes locked on Sarah's. "You
are
Serafina. I knew your mother, your father. You are the comtesse du Guyenne."

   "What? No, I—"

   But the duchesse had not let her continue. In fact, she would hear no more about it. When she finally realized Julien and Sarah spoke the truth, how would she feel? And the duchesse did not even know the worst—the Foreign Office still considered Julien a traitor. What the duchesse would soon realize was that Sarah was not just an imposter but their enemy.

   She glanced at Julien and saw his eyes were closed. He was finally drifting off to sleep. Good. As soon as he slept, she would sneak away to see Sir Northrop. She could not afford to wait until the morrow.

   The back gate was just ahead, but when she reached it, she found that the latch was rusty and difficult to maneuver. She struggled with it until her fingers were raw and then jumped when a hand reached around her and jerked the latch free.

   Sarah spun around and gasped at the sight of Armand, standing behind her. As usual, his eyes were shadowy and unreadable, but under the slash of his dark brows, his gaze was focused on her. She took a shaky breath and stepped back. She had not noticed before how handsome he was—the hard planes of his face, the cut of his jaw, the breadth of his shoulders. He was barefoot, his white linen shirt open at the throat. He wore no cravat or tailcoat. And still, his stance, his bearing told the story of his aristocratic heritage. But that was not what would draw women to him. Underneath the trappings of civility, there was something primitive and feral about him. Something waiting to be tamed.

   "Th-thank you," Sarah said, willing her heart to slow. "I know this must look strange, my being out here in the middle of the night."

   He raised a brow, and she wasn't certain whether he understood her words or not.

   "But I have an important task that cannot wait. I have to go see my old employer, Sir Northrop. I'll be back as soon as I can."

   She would be back, wouldn't she?

   Armand merely gazed at her as she slipped out the

gate and closed it behind her. He did not speak, but she could almost sense his displeasure with her actions, feel those dark eyes burn into her spine. Well, he wasn't going to tell anyone, and she would be back before Julien realized her absence.

   She made her way across Mayfair to Sir Northrop's elegant but small home. It was not far from Berkeley Square, but she felt like a different person from who she had been when she left just a few short weeks ago. When she stood in front of the house, she realized she could not exactly knock on the front door and rouse the occupants. Perhaps if she went around to the garden, where Sir Northrop's library was located, she might find a footman to wake him for her.

   But when she entered the garden, she saw that a lamp still burned in Sir Northrop's office. She crept to the French doors and quietly tapped on them. There was a long, silent pause, and then the doors were thrust open and she was yanked inside.

   "What the bloody hell are you doing here?" Sir Northrop hissed. "You almost got yourself shot. You make more noise than the crowd at Ascot."

   "I wasn't trying to be quiet." She shook his hand off her arm. "I was hoping to rouse you. I need to speak with you."

   He shut the French doors behind her, locked them, and went to his desk. As he poured a glass of brandy, he said, "Oh, so now you need to speak with me. You didn't seem to feel the need to do so before you traipsed off to France with your lover."

   "There wasn't time," she lied.

   "No time." He drank heartily. "Was that it, or did

Valère seduce you until you decided to turn traitor as well?"

   "He's not a traitor." She looked about the room, remembering the last time she had stood here. Then she had been terrified, afraid of losing her position and searching for the poker in case Sir Northrop accosted her. Now she could hardly believe she was that same girl. So much had changed.
She
had changed. "He's not a traitor," she repeated. She was not afraid to stand up for Julien, for herself.

   "Is that so?" Sir Northrop gave her a long, hard look, perhaps seeing the change in her as well. Finally, he set his glass on the desk, opened a drawer, and pulled out a pistol. "A short time ago, you were wiping snotty noses and playing blind man's bluff. Now you're telling me who is and is not a traitor to my country."

   "I can prove Julien isn't a traitor. We found his brother and—" Sarah's words died out as Sir Northrop hefted the pistol and pointed it at her.

   "You couldn't just do what I asked, could you? All I wanted was proof that Valère had contacts in France, proof that he had traveled there. It was simple, really. Any idiot could have done as I asked. But not you."

   "He wasn't a traitor," Sarah repeated, eyes on the pistol. Surprisingly, she was not afraid at all. She was angry. How dare Sir Northrop point a pistol at her! Did he think he could bully her into betraying Julien? "I couldn't lie."

   "You didn't want to lie," Sir Northrop boomed, his voice filled with rage. Sarah sucked in a breath and watched the pistol waver. "And do you know the trouble that has caused me?"

Sarah shook her head.

"They're after me now.
Me!"

   "What?" His words made no sense to her, and yet she could see the fear and fury in his eyes. "What are you talking about? You should be glad Julien is not a traitor. Now the Foreign Office can find the real traitor."

   He shook his head and gave her a sad smile. "They already have."

   Her eyes widened as the import of his words washed over her. She should have known. She should have guessed when The Widow disappeared. "
You.
You're the traitor," she whispered. She straightened, and her gaze flew to the locked French doors. She could not stay here. She had to get away, tell Julien, tell someone. "And you hoped to implicate Julien."

   "The Foreign Office was growing suspicious. I needed to point the finger elsewhere. It should have been a simple matter. I've been a double agent for years—long before you were even born. The French simply pay better than the English. King Louis was extremely generous." He was bragging now, sauntering about the room as though he were the king, waving the pistol as though it were his scepter. "But now—now things have changed. Bonaparte doesn't trust me, and that's why I'm working to restore the monarchy. Unfortunately, I was forced to sell information to Bonaparte to fund my efforts. The Foreign office grew suspicious. I needed a scapegoat."

   She stared at him, hatred brewing within her. He had used her to trap Julien. "You used me." She clenched her fists to control the anger. "You knew Julien was innocent, and yet you used me."

   "And I'll use you again, little fool. You should never have traveled to France with the duc. With his long-lost brother returning, I may not be able to prove Valère is a spy, but you've just sealed your own fate."