Chapter 2 #2
She hesitated before taking it and allowing him to lead her from the room.
“Forgive me for imposing,” she said in a low voice, “but although Maman speaks little English, she can understand some, and I would rather she not hear any of what I am about to tell you. She is vaguely aware of our situation, but not the specifics. As you can probably tell, she is generally suspicious of strangers, and it would alarm her to hear me tell you everything.”
That gave him pause. “Go on.”
“First, is there somewhere we can speak privately? This must remain between the two of us.”
Now he was definitely intrigued. “Will my study suffice?”
She cast him an arch glance. “As long as I can trust your lordship to behave.”
He smiled faintly. “I shall do my best.”
“If my father were here,” she said as they walked down the hall, “he would make sure you did.”
As he did before? he was tempted to say. But it was unwise to remind her of that one reckless kiss. “If your father were here,” he drawled, “I suspect we wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.”
She looked sad. “Probably not.”
They’d reached his study, so he stood aside to let her enter. When he came in behind her, he closed the door.
Her gaze shot to his.
“You said you wanted privacy.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “This is the only way to ensure it. Every town house in London has ears.”
“They are called servants, non?”
With a chuckle, he gestured to the Chesterfield sofa, but she chose to amble about the room, taking in the marble fireplace, the four glass-fronted cases filled with books and objects from his father’s many trips to France, and the large, walnut pedestal desk with ormolu trim.
“Your family certainly had a fondness for French décor,” she observed.
“My father had relatives—and property—in Normandy. They were the reason he and I traveled to France after the Treaty of Amiens was signed.” Not the only reason, but no point in telling her that.
Even Jon and Scovell didn’t know all the sordid details of his past. He hoped they never did.
“It was the first time Father had dared go since the Revolution. You saw how well that turned out.”
“Forgive me,” she murmured, her heart in her eyes. “I did not mean to pry.”
Her pity made him stiffen. “It’s fine. I’m merely pointing out that we aren’t typical Englishmen.”
She strolled over to the window to gaze out into his courtyard. “Your garden is grown over.”
He relaxed. He could handle small talk, even in this new England he was still trying to adjust to.
“You should have seen it when I first arrived in London. I haven’t had time to interview a full-time gardener, but Renham has managed to hire some of my fellow détenus to clean it up a bit.
” The French word for detainee had become the de facto term for those unlawfully imprisoned at Verdun.
Even those who couldn’t speak French used it.
“They have done it well,” she said. “But you could use some flower beds just there, and a flowering bush in the middle for interest. Perhaps even a statuary of some kind—”
“Miss Bernard!” he said firmly to stay her assessment of his gardens. When she merely continued to stand with her back to him, he said, “Please don’t keep me in suspense. Why are you here?”
With a sigh, she faced him. “Do you know a détenu named Lewis Nash?”
The unexpected question threw him off guard. “Is he residing in London?”
Her brow furrowed. “I suppose he could be. I am not sure. I met Mr. Nash in Bath at a gathering of détenus.”
He stared at her a long moment. “My estate is near Bath, you know,” he said, wondering if that was why she had come to him and not to Jon or Scovell. “So, I’ve met most of the détenus who live or have settled in that area. I don’t recall anyone named Nash.”
She seemed to take that in with some worry. “Your estate is called Longmead, n’est-ce pas?”
“Indeed, it is.” Perhaps Jon had told her. Or Tory. “Have you seen it?”
“I have heard of it. Everyone in Bath knows of Longmead. But unfortunately, when Maman and I go to Bath, we cannot tour the countryside, so I have not yet had the pleasure of viewing it. We must spend all our time in the baths, you see. Maman has very bad—I don’t know how you pronounce it in English—rhumatisme. ”
“Rheumatism. I’m sorry to hear that.”
She shrugged. “C’est comme ca. In any case, she derives great relief from the hot springs there. We go as often as we can, but it is a hard trip for her, and she prefers to live in London. She is a city lady.”
“And you?” he asked. “Are you a city lady?”
A faint smile crossed her lips. “I am. But I also like country towns like Bath and Verdun. I can be happy wherever there are amiable people.”
“Ah. That is the difficult part, isn’t it? Finding amiable people.” When she nodded, he said, “So, why do you ask about this Nash fellow?”
Dragging in a heavy breath, she glided about the room. He didn’t mind. Her wandering was pure pleasure to watch. She was the most graceful woman he’d ever met, and that included his well-bred mother.
She finally answered him. “When Maman and I were in Bath a week ago, Mr. Nash approached me to ask who had ‘created’ the English passports that Maman and I use.”
He sucked in a harsh breath. So that was why she was here. “And you, of course, didn’t want to tell him they were forged by our mutual friend Mr. Beasley.”
She whirled on him in alarm. “You knew this? A-About Monsieur Beasley?”
“Not for a fact. But I suspected as much. Beasley is adept at creating such documents.” He searched her face. “What did you tell Nash?”
“That we got our passports legitimately, of course.”
He shook his head. “So, you lied.”
“What else was I to do?”
“Indeed.”
A frown formed on her brow. “Does everyone know our documents are ‘forged’?”
“I doubt anyone does. Until you confirmed it, even I wasn’t entirely sure.”
And he probably shouldn’t tell her that Beasley had forged French passports for him and his friends for their escape.
Not that it had helped them. Someone had reported their escape plans to the diabolical commandant of Verdun’s detainee camp.
Before they could get away, they’d been caught by the gendarmes and summarily packed off to the dungeon in Bitche, France, where they’d remained for three years, until Napoleon’s abdication this past April.
He forced a smile. “But I did know that Beasley . . . er . . . doctored Morris’s will for Jon so Tory wouldn’t guess that her father hadn’t actually left a dowry for her. So, when I heard that you and your mother were in England, I thought perhaps your papers . . . well . . .”
Relief spread over her face. “Ah, yes, I remember the press claiming that Tory’s ‘dowry’ did not actually come from her father, but from Jon.”
“Exactly. Thankfully, no one speculated about how she and her father’s attorney came to believe otherwise. It would have been very bad for Beasley if they had. Forgery is treated severely in England.”
“I know.” She gazed down at her hands. “That is why I am here to speak with you.”
“You’re worried about Mr. Beasley?”
Her troubled gaze shot to him. “To be honest, I am worried about me and Maman. What will become of us if anyone questions the validity of our passports? Or, worse yet, realizes they are forged.”
“I don’t see why anyone would.”
She stiffened. “Obviously, this Mr. Nash does.”
“Right. Of course.” He narrowed his gaze on her. “But I’m not sure what you want me to do about it.”
“I was hoping . . .” She returned to circling the room and not meeting his eyes. “You have friends in the government, do you not?”
He cocked his head with a frown. “Some. Why?”
“Might they be willing to do a favor for you? To procure—perhaps—new, legitimate papers for Maman and me without revealing that the old ones are suspect?”
Well. This was an interesting turn. And come to think of it, not necessarily a bad one. “Is there a reason you aren’t asking this favor of Jon or even Scovell, who has multiple contacts in government?” Or are you asking me because you know I’m attracted to you?
She stared at him as if he were a fool. “Jon and Tory are in the north seeing to his estate right now, so I am not sure what they could do. And the captain’s brother is on his deathbed, so I do not think I should bother him at such a time.”
“Ah. Right.”
So, perhaps she didn’t remember that foolish kiss Heathbrook had given her years ago, after all. Although he wasn’t sure how she could have forgotten it. The memory was burned in his brain, not to mention other parts of his anatomy.
Stop thinking like a randy nineteen-year-old. You know what trouble that got you into. And you’re not that chap anymore, even if your cousin thinks you are.
But Yates’s “spies” couldn’t be very good.
Heathbrook had practically lived like a monk since his return.
His every day was consumed with three things—finding out who’d betrayed them to their French captors in Verdun, setting his estate to rights, and getting his brothers back home with him.
In his six months back, he hadn’t even been allowed to see them, for God’s sake. It was maddening.
He rounded the desk to stand behind it, if only to put some distance between them. “One more question: Do you remember seeing Nash or meeting him in Verdun?”
She knit her brow. “I do not think so. I certainly did not recognize his name or even face. But there were many English soldiers to whom I paid no mind. You may recall, I did not spend time visiting the Verdun theater or the gambling places that Wirion and, later, Courcelles set up to steal from the détenus. I encountered few détenus beyond you, Papa, and your friends, and then only because I worked for your landlady.”
“Can you at least describe Nash?”
“I can do better than that. I can show you what he looks like. I sketched him. Wait here.” And with that, she hurried from the room.