Chapter 2
After showing Pitney out, Heathbrook climbed the steps of his town house, fighting to regain control of his anger as he unfolded the piece of paper Pitney had scribbled on and passed to him on their way out.
Heathbrook blinked, then shook his head ruefully. Pitney was proving to be a very helpful attorney, even if he was going a bit far to keep his information from being overheard.
Well, the least Heathbrook could do was follow the man’s advice and strive for better regulation of his own emotions.
To be fair, however, he’d had two reasons for anger: not only his late father’s refusal to trust him, but also Yates’s idiocy.
Yates could have just handed guardianship over to him, but no, the arse had insisted on hanging on to it .
. . and in the process, hanging on to the boys’ property until at least Evan, the oldest, came of age.
That alone made him suspect in Heathbrook’s eyes.
All right, so the man was Mother’s cousin.
Still, Heathbrook refused to call Frederick Yates “my cousin” himself, although technically the man was his first cousin once removed.
Until Father had listed Yates as guardian in his will, Heathbrook had only known him by the moniker Mother had given him: Frigid Freddy.
Heathbrook’s image of the man had been of a cold fish who’d never married because no woman could warm to him.
So far, Heathbrook’s limited dealings with the older fellow had confirmed that image.
Was such a man, with the inability to show even familial affection, fit to look after Evan, Kit, and Zachary?
Not bloody likely. Heathbrook’s very occasional spates of bad temper— or his youthful mistakes—did not compare.
The worst of it was that even if Pitney’s investigators could discover how Yates was looting the boys’ property, the Court of Chancery would still have to do their own due diligence to make sure Yates was unfit. And as Pitney had said, the court wasn’t known for their speed.
Well, at least he had a chance now at seeing how the boys looked. Perhaps he could go riding in Hyde Park and pretend to encounter them by chance.
He entered the house. Or should he just—
“My lord,” his new butler said. Good God, the fellow had been hovering about ever since he and Pitney had left the study.
“What is it, Renham?”
“You have guests. I put them in the drawing room.”
“Guests?” When the bloody hell had “guests” slipped into his town house? Damn, had they heard him shouting?
He winced. Probably. All the more reason he must learn to better govern his temper. “Who is it, then?”
“Two ladies, sir. Madame Bernard and her daughter, Mademoiselle Bernard. You know. From Verdun.”
That brought Heathbrook up short. He definitely knew Giselle Bernard, Queen of Verdun.
Or so he’d dubbed the lovely French-woman whom he’d once had the audacity to kiss.
She’d had soft lips, a shy smile, and a figure that would have tempted any man with blood in his veins to ravish her.
Which, of course, he’d known better than to attempt.
Especially after Morris, who’d apparently seen them kiss, had warned him away, threatening to call him out if he persisted in showing her any attention.
So, Heathbrook had steered clear of her.
The last thing he’d needed in curst Verdun was to fight a duel.
Besides, he and his father had already been at odds—it hadn’t made sense to damage that tenuous relationship any further.
Only recently had he learned the real reason for Morris’s concern. The late Dr. Morris had sired her. But that knowledge made it even more imperative that Heathbrook leave her be. Now she was sister-in-law to one of his closest friends, so she was still very much forbidden to him.
And why in God’s name were she and her mother here, anyway?
He paused in the entry hall, weighing whether to go in the drawing room or have Renham tell them he wasn’t at home to visitors today. Given his present state, the latter was probably best.
But curiosity got the better of him. Not to mention the urge to see the French beauty once more.
After all, since arriving in England, he’d only encountered her twice—once at Jon and Tory’s wedding and once at Tory’s birthday celebration.
Neither time had she flirted with him, which in itself was enough to whet his interest.
He groaned. Don’t even think it. Jon will skewer you for going after his wife’s half sister.
Still, if she needed something while Jon and Tory were away, he should at least find out what it was. It was the only proper thing, the only gentlemanly thing to do. Right?
Trying not to probe too deeply into that facile excuse, he put on the mask he was forced to wear all too often these days, of a gentleman in complete control of his life.
As he strode into the drawing room, he fought not to notice how Mademoiselle Bernard’s hair gleamed like molten chocolate in the light filtering through the drawing room curtains.
How the enigmatic smile she perpetually wore lent a mysteriousness to her expression that intoxicated him.
How her eyes were the exact shade of blue as Tory’s, but somehow more evocative.
He shook off those oddly poetic sentiments when the two ladies rose. He wasn’t surprised to see Mademoiselle Bernard wearing a lavender gown. She’d always preferred lighter, more cheerful colors in Verdun. And she looked like a violet in spring in that one.
As he approached, she curtsied, although her tight-lipped mother merely watched him advance.
“Come now, mademoiselle,” he told the younger woman as he walked over to take her gloved hand and press it, “there’s no need to stand on ceremony with me. We have known each other too long for that. How many years has it been since we first met in Verdun? Ten?”
“At the very least.” She withdrew her hand, then went on in her charming French accent, “I was nearly nineteen when we met.”
“And I actually had just turned nineteen.”
“We are almost the same age? I had no idea.” Her dazzling smile caught him off guard. “I always assumed a man of the world like you must be far older.”
He cocked up an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if you’re trying to flatter me or insult me.”
“I would never presume to do either,” she said, her eyes laughing at him.
“Or perhaps you’re presuming to do both, mademoiselle.”
She shook her head. “You might as well call me ‘miss.’ As I am resolved to live in England, I must get used to English ways and become more English.”
“Oh, never do that.” He gazed at her warmly.
“Much as I hate Napoleon and his cohorts for my banishment from England, I could never hate the French people as a whole.” Certainly, he could never hate French women.
They were by and large quite wonderful, and she was as perfect a specimen as any he’d seen.
“Daughter,” her mother said in French, casting him an assessing glance, “you did not tell me that you and the earl were friends. He’s a handsome one, I’ll give you that, but can we trust him?”
Trust him with what, for God’s sake?
“He is Jon’s friend, Maman, so that makes him our friend.”
“Please do introduce me to your lovely mother,” he told Mademoiselle . . . Miss Bernard, in English, fighting to hide his sarcasm. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
Miss Bernard did so with aplomb, proving she was already learning to be at home in English society. Her mother, on the other hand, clutched her cane and flashed dark glances at her daughter the whole time.
Still, Heathbrook could tell where Miss Bernard’s beauty had come from.
Madame Bernard’s skin showed few lines, and she had the fine bones of a small bird.
Her hair was jet black, probably dyed with one of many treatments French hairdressers used, but it did make her look more youthful.
Except for the cane she gripped, of course.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Madame Bernard,” he said in French as he bent over her hand.
Her light brown eyes narrowed. “You speak French, my lord?”
“Un peu.”
Miss Bernard eyed him askance and said in English, “You didn’t speak even ‘a little’ French when I knew you.”
That was because he and his father had found it advantageous in the camp to hide how much they could speak. But his father had made sure his son was schooled in French from the time Heathbrook was young. Part of the family legacy. Still, she didn’t need to know that.
He shrugged. “There wasn’t much to do in the dungeons of Bitche but learn French and fisticuffs.”
Sympathy crossed her pretty features. “Jon has told me the same thing, although he did not learn French and fisticuffs. I believe he was more intent on helping my father.” When Heathbrook blinked at her, surprised that she would call Morris “father” so readily, she raised an eyebrow and added, “Jon said he revealed the truth of my lineage to you and Captain Scovell.”
“He did. And may I say, if I haven’t before, that you have my deepest condolences for the death of Dr. Morris. He was one of the finest gentlemen I’ve ever met.”
Her lower lip trembled. “Thank you.”
“But surely you haven’t come here just to speak of Morris and exchange pleasantries with me.”
She swallowed, her delicate throat undulating as she did so.
“You have guessed correctly, my lord.” After murmuring a few words to her mother and helping the tiny, cantankerous woman sit again, she approached him to say in English, “Perhaps you would be so good as to give me a tour of your lovely home while Maman rests.”
“Of course.” He offered her his arm.