Chapter 1 #2
Until he had refrained from kissing her again. Rumor had it he had kissed plenty of other unattached women in the camp, but apparently she had not warranted a second kiss.
She sighed. Obviously, she had not attracted him in the least.
Fortunately, it had taught her not to allow any man such freedoms. A dangerous enough game in France, it was positively disastrous in England, where men of rank used women, then tossed them aside.
Besides, she had seen Lord Heathbrook engage in flirtations with many a woman at Verdun in their early days there.
He had even had affairs with a widow and two married women, and those were only the ones she knew about.
For all she knew, he had ruined a dozen others.
She did not wish to find herself discarded by him here.
Nonetheless, she must convince him to help her and Maman.
To that end, she had worn her best gown of violet taffeta, the one that showed her slender figure at its best. She wished she had more ample breasts, since men seemed to prefer them, but such was life.
And since his lordship had kissed her once, he must have found something in her figure to attract him, even if it had not gone anywhere.
She only hoped she could be forgiven for using any small attraction he had to her to get what she needed without becoming too enamored of the fellow.
If he still had such an attraction after all these years. And if she could keep her wits about her.
She scowled. She must. There was Maman and their future to think about.
Calling herself an imbecile for her unwise response to the earl, she strained to hear what the men were saying. Fortunately, their voices had risen just enough for her to do so.
“It’s been months, Pitney,” Lord Heathbrook was saying. “How much longer must I wait? You’re already my third attorney in this matter.”
“I’m aware of that. But sometimes it takes years for the Court of Chancery to act,” Mr. Pitney said. “I did warn you when I took on your case.”
“Yes, but Evan won’t be twenty-one for more than two years. By then, Yates could loot his property entirely.” Lord Heathbrook let out a surprisingly rough oath. “Why Father chose that man to be their guardian, I’ll never understand. If Mother had lived—”
“But she didn’t.”
Behind Giselle, her own mother had risen and ventured close enough to pull at Giselle’s arm and hiss, “Come back, you foolish girl, before they see you!”
Giselle shrugged off her mother’s hand and made a motion for her to return to the settee. Maman did so, muttering about “girls who don’t listen to their mothers,” then sat turning her cane round and round in her hands as Giselle leaned closer to hear.
“My point is,” Lord Heathbrook said to his lawyer, “Father should have listed me as guardian when he wrote his will.”
Mr. Pitney released a heavy sigh. “We went over this, my lord. You were sixteen at the time.”
“Then he should have done it once I turned twenty-one,” the earl said irritably.
Mr. Pitney shook his head. “You were being detained in Verdun.”
“So was my father,” Lord Heathbrook bit out. “God knows he had plenty of leisure to change his will. There was nothing else to do in that godforsaken place. And by the time he died, I was twenty-six, more than old enough to be their guardian.”
“And still, again, in a French prison,” the attorney pointed out.
“The prison came later,” Lord Heathbrook snapped.
“I was at that time in Verdun, technically not a prison. In any case, Father could have written a codicil to the will and given it to me, so I could become guardian the moment I set foot on England’s shore.
Then I wouldn’t be having to endure this Court of Chancery nonsense. ”
“Forgive me, my lord, but from what I’ve determined of your situation before you went to France, he was concerned that your temper would make you inadequate to be your brothers’ guardian.”
“I was sixteen then, for God’s sake! Show me a sixteen-year-old who has not got a temper!”
“You’re showing your temper right now, sir.”
As a frosty silence ensued, Giselle arched an eyebrow. Touché, monsieur. You tell him.
Then Lord Heathbrook dragged in a heavy breath that made his broad back rise, then fall. “You’re right. Forgive me. I’m not putting my best foot forward.”
His apology surprised her. Her stepfather had never apologized for his temper, not even in situations that warranted it far less than this one. That the earl would do so relieved her a bit. But only a bit.
Meanwhile, Mr. Pitney winced as if realizing he might have spoken too boldly to his lofty client.
“I am merely saying that perhaps your father believed that a more . . . shall we say . . . even-tempered guardian was in order. And he did also seem to think that your . . . er . . . fondness for the ladies might be a problem.”
She rolled her eyes. She could have told the lawyer that. Lord Heathbrook had come by his reputation honestly.
Lord Heathbrook sighed. “Knowing my father, I’m sure he thought precisely that. No matter what I did to change his opinion of me in our later years together at Verdun, it remained fixed.” The touch of bitterness in Lord Heathbrook’s voice saddened Giselle. “And whose side are you on, anyway?”
Mr. Pitney colored. “I’m merely pointing out that appearances are everything to the Court of Chancery, and their investigators probe everywhere.
Your cousin is older than you and seems less .
. . susceptible to strong emotions when he comes before the chancellor.
You must learn to be just as dispassionate.
Or at least give the appearance of being so. ”
“Right.” The earl rubbed the back of his neck. “Certainly. I will try. Besides, how do you know so much about my father’s opinions?”
“I have my own investigators, my lord.”
“Well, I hope they are investigating Yates, sir, and not just me. Or, for that matter, my relationship with my father.” “Investigating your cousin is their first priority, of course. But it always helps to know what the other side plans to use against you as well.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” Lord Heathbrook said, a bit stiffly.
“Next week should be better. By then, my spies will undoubtedly have turned up information we can use to reinforce your opinion of Mr. Yates when we counter his arguments for keeping the lads.”
“I hope so. My friend, Captain Scovell, speaks highly of you, so I’m willing to give you a chance.”
She knew Captain Scovell because he, too, had been in Verdun, living in the same house where she had worked and where her father and his other friends had lived. It did not surprise her that his lordship would trust the captain’s recommendation.
The earl went on. “God knows the other two lawyers weren’t as knowledgeable as you. Or as blunt.”
Mr. Pitney blinked. “Sir, I—”
“Don’t apologize,” Lord Heathbrook said wearily.
“I’d rather a blunt man than a sycophant.
Besides, you were right to take me to task.
My temper landed me in trouble in my youth, and in this particular situation, I seem incapable of being ‘even-tempered.’ But I realize I cannot let it get the better of me. ”
The attorney nodded his agreement. “And you will consider the other recommendation I made? It wasn’t only your father’s concern about your temper that guided his decision, after all, and my recommendation—”
“I’ll consider it.” The earl sighed. “But I don’t have to like it.”
“What man does? Still, it’s a trial all men must bear.”
“An interesting way to look at it.”
They both laughed inexplicably and began chatting of other things.
Giselle shook her head. What was that about? What trial must all men bear? She was so busy trying to puzzle it out that she didn’t see the maid heading toward the door with the tea tray before the young woman was practically upon her.
Managing to step back just in time, Giselle hurried over to the settee to take a seat beside her mother. The maid nodded to them as she entered and bustled over to set down the tray before bustling out again.
“Shall I pour the tea, Maman?” Giselle asked.
“There’s no coffee?” her mother asked.
“The English mostly drink tea,” Giselle reminded her.
“Bah, I hate tea,” her mother complained.
“I know you do. But English tea is stronger than French, so you might enjoy it more.”
As Giselle poured her a cup, her mother said, “Hmm. We shall see.”
Giselle added the same amount of sugar that her mother preferred to have in coffee. “The English even prepare their tea differently. Fortunately, my sister has taught me how to make a proper English tea.”
“The duke’s wife, you mean. Your half sister.”
Giselle sighed. “Yes, Maman. My half sister.” Whose father was your lover once, the man whom you refused to marry.
No, she could never say that to her mother, who grew more ashamed of her past the older she got.
At least she had borne Giselle within the confines of a legitimate marriage, with only Maman— and eventually Giselle’s real father, Monsieur Morris—knowing Giselle had not been conceived within the marriage.
So, the world thought Giselle was legitimate, and Giselle had thought the same.
Until she had met Monsieur Morris. After that, she had come to England and acquired her wonderful English family—Tory and her little brother Cyril and the rest of them— who had accepted her and been kind to her and made her feel welcome in her new home.
Now that she had them, she never wanted to lose them.
Fine. She would do whatever she must to gain the earl’s help, short of letting him take her innocence. Because if he could not help them, all was lost, anyway.
And she did not think she could bear that loss this time.