Chapter 2
Mayfair, one week later.
Hawk dipped his quill, the sharp scratch of ink against parchment the only sound in the study. He was pressing the seal against the letter to Wellington when the knock came—indecisive and unwelcome.
“The runner is here, my lord. He brought the girl as well.” His secretary bowed, awaiting his reply.
Hawk stiffened as the weight of old promises settled across his shoulders.
“Bring them in.”
When the secretary left, Hawk leaned back against his chair. Exhaling, he searched for the lock of hair in his pocket. Slowly, as if guarding a flame in the wind, he opened his fingers. Color flickered in his palm. It was the only thing in the room that seemed to breathe.
Everything around him was uniform, grey on grey, the neat lines he demanded of all things. The desk was the color of stone, and the maps were the same. Only the lock in his hand broke rank. Alive in a way nothing else was.
Talavera had burned his sight to ash, stripped him of every hue but this. He had welcomed it. A world in black and white was easier to control than chaos in color. And he had been lucky.
That day had changed all their lives. His best friend dead.
Hawk’s wife lost in childbirth. Two graves.
One on foreign soil, the other in his own house.
He exhaled sharply through his nose, burying the grief before it surfaced.
Glory had proved indeed a fickle companion. But he had done his duty. Won the day.
He closed his fist. The red vanished, and with it, what little light the room had.
Had the runner found the right girl, or was this another attempt to trick him?
Crowther was the best in his trade. But a ballerina?
She had to be a coquette. And worse, a French coquette.
No matter. French ballerina or not, if she were Faversham’s daughter, she would be his responsibility.
The door opened.
Hawk’s spine stiffened as the runner entered his study, followed by a tall woman with the bearing of a queen.
Too old to be Lady Cecilia. Then, behind her, glided a concoction of tulle, the white contrasting with the dark paneled walls.
The girl—if there was one beneath all that tissue—took two steps inside and stood motionless.
A bonnet and a veil sealed her head, gloves swallowed her hands, and in her arms, she carried a ridiculous little mongrel like a defensive ball of fur.
“My lord,” Crowther said. “May I present to you Madam Katherina Fontaine, ballet mistress of the Covent Garden Theater, under whose guardianship the lady has resided these past years.”
The woman offered the briefest inclination of her head, her dark gaze meeting Hawk’s with cool assessment.
Then, Crowther stepped aside. “And here is Lady Cecilia Stratton, daughter of the Marquess of Faversham.”
Hawk crossed his arms. “Is this a joke? I don’t see Lady Cecilia, but a French bonbon wrapped in enough tulle to swaddle a battalion.”
The dog growled in the girl’s arms. Crowther sprang into a heated defense, and the tulle bonbon entrenched herself in the shadows.
Guilt pricked in his gut, but he smothered it.
One would think that after all these years, the adventuresses sniffing for Philip’s fortune would know he never surrendered to pretty tears or sad stories.
“If this is the sort of reception my pupil will receive, we will leave, Earl.”
The ballet mistress scowled like a sergeant major, enough to make a veteran double-check his buttons. But in his house, his authority was absolute.
Hawk leaned forward, addressing the girl. “I need to assure myself of your identity. I cannot determine whether you are the Marquess of Faversham’s daughter if I cannot see you. Remove the tulle and the dog, if you please.”
Katherina gasped. “This is certainly—”
“There is no terror in your threats, for I am armed so strong in honesty that they pass by me as the idle wind.” Her voice was lilting, edged with the faintest trace of France, but it trembled at the ends of words, like a violin string tuned just shy of breaking.
Hawk had braced for weeping, some coquette’s plea, or the kind of theatrics that turned men soft. But a quote from Julius Caesar? He had to admire her defiance, even if she had to borrow another man’s words.
He pushed his chair back, the legs scraping across the floor, and crossed the room toward her.
“A bonbon who quotes Shakespeare…” He lowered his voice. “I do not seek to terrify you. But I must see you. It is not a threat—it is a necessity. Surrender your veil and your little beast.”
After a sigh, she passed the dog into Katherina’s arms. Then her tapered fingers worked on the buttons on her neck.
The pelisse slid from her shoulders, whispering over a slender silhouette hugged by a silk bodice.
She was graceful, poised, more woman than girl.
When she reached for the veil that covered her face, Hawk leaned in, his breathing shallow, as if he were a boy by a Christmas tree, waiting for the unwrapping of a gift.
Which was ridiculous. Soldiers had no use for gifts, and this girl would prove to be another adventuress angling for Philip’s estate.
The tulle brushed against the curve of her jaw and went up, revealing pale skin splattered with the occasional freckle. Her mouth—shaped like a heart and lifted in the corners as if laughter liked to play there—was so like Angélique’s that for a moment, he thought he had traveled back in time.
The lock of hair in his pocket seemed to pulse, and he covered it with his hand. What was wrong with him?
Her gaze was tremulous as she reached for the ties of her bonnet. He could not discern the color of her eyes, but would stake every medal he had earned that they were green.
With a flick of her wrist, the hat was gone. Her hair tumbled down her back, cascading in waves he could almost feel brushing against his hand. The strands burned and gleamed, deep as hammered copper, bright as molten gold.
He knew that hair. Intimately.
Hawk stopped breathing. He felt the same shock he remembered as a boy, when the lid lifted and the hidden treasure was his. Only now, the treasure breathed, and it carried the only color in his world.
His center split in two. The part that kept him alive through a dozen campaigns rallied at once. Hold the line. Reinforce the breach. Beauty was no gift. It was a weapon, and men had been felled by it as surely as by musket fire.
But the other part had already dropped the saber, needing to feel that color and erase the years of gray.
He lifted his hand, inches away from her face.
She ducked beneath his arm, and in a blur of copper hair and tulle skirts, flew across the room, and scooped the mongrel into her arms.
“Othello gets suffocated in confined spaces,” she said, too quickly, too brightly. “May I take him to the garden?”
Hawk lowered his hand—damned traitorous thing—and shoved it into his pocket. “You named a poodle Othello?”
She hugged the creature tighter, chin lifting with that strange blend of yielding and defiance. “He is a tragic figure.”
“By all means,” Hawk said, opening the doors wide.
She did not meet his eyes and made sure not to brush against him as she passed. And then she was gone, leaving him with the echo of color still burning behind his lids.
***
Hawk stood rigid, watching through the glass as she crossed the garden.
His hand gripped the door handle with enough force to rip it off.
Madness. He had reached for her like a raw recruit dazzled by the glint of steel.
Her hair. Could a man be blamed if it had nearly blinded him, after years of ash and greys?
A general who never surrendered, felled by a bonnet string and a spill of hair.
Unacceptable. His jaw locked, spine iron-straight. He had let instinct drive him—no more. She was Philip’s daughter. His ward. His duty. Instead of yielding to impulse, he needed a battle plan.
“Mr. Crowder, you can leave,” Hawk said. “I’ll send your payment this afternoon. I trust your absolute discretion in this matter.”
After the runner left, Hawk inspected the ballet mistress. She stood like a sentinel on retreating ground, chin high, fingers tightening on the folds of her skirts. He had several questions about his new charge, and this was the woman to answer them.
“Madam—”
“Before you even ask, nothing is wrong with her.” Her reply came too quickly, a volley fired before the order.
“She is frightened. Can you blame her? You receive us in a war room, carved into the heart of Mayfair like a forward command post in enemy territory. And you—” her gaze flicked over him, then skittered aside, “you must know that your appearance is quite impressive.”
Hawk didn’t dispute. “If she cannot face me, how will she withstand society?”
“She is perfectly civil,” Katherina said.
“And before you worry about her manners, I taught her proper etiquette. Before the invention of the guillotine, I was a lady-in-waiting for Marie Antoinette.” Her jaw clenched, just slightly.
“But she is timid around men. You see, she was sheltered from the opposite sex—”
“If she was raised in the theater, how is that even possible?”
Katherina’s head came up sharply. “We run a ballet company, My Lord, not a brothel.”
Hawk narrowed his eyes. He had no business discussing such matters with her. And yet, something in him eased at the words. He was glad the sort of men who prowled theaters had not touched her.
Exhaling, Hawk’s gaze sought the girl in the garden. She glided along the pathways, the dog trailing after her. She seemed at ease with nature, a fairy princess among his regimented hedges, painting color where no color belonged.
“You called her Celeste,” he said. “Why, if her name is Cecilia? And why did you hide her all this time?”
“I didn’t hide her, Earl. I’ve raised her.”
Hawk studied her, the set of her shoulders, the flare of pride she couldn’t suppress. He’d seen men defend their regiments with less conviction.
“The question remains,” he said. “Why did you end up raising her in the first place?”
“That is fate’s doing,” Katherina said, and her voice softened.
“When my best friend was sent to La Force, she besieged me to take her daughter away. To escape to London. At first, it was just Helene and two more girls, daughters of other ladies of the queen. But when we were on the boat, preparing to leave in the dead of night…”
Her hands palms trembled faintly as if cradling a memory.
“A maid appeared, carrying a baby in her arms. She was frightened and pleaded with us to take her mistress’s daughter.
” Katherina’s breath hitched. Her eyes flicked toward the garden.
“I was against it. You see, it was enough that I had to look after the other girls. But a baby?” She shook her head, and her eyes glossed.
“But Helene clutched the girl to her chest. And the dogs were coming closer, and the shouts—” She stopped.
Pressed her lips tight. “We named her Celeste because she had this light about her. Impossible to ignore.”
Against his will, his gaze found her again. Celeste. A light impossible to ignore.
A faint smile broke through the ballet mistress’s reserve. “She was a handful, to be sure, but of the four girls who came with me from France, she is the most affectionate—”
“From now on, I will be responsible for her,” Hawk cut in, anchoring the moment back into the territory he knew—duty, not sentiment.
Katherina’s head rose sharply, her mouth parting in protest. “Celeste is special. If her transition into society is to be made successful, it has to be slow.”
“She inherited money and property from her father, and she is the last member of a line of French aristocracy that traces back to Saint Louis and the kings of France.” Hawk’s tone darkened.
“What do you think will happen when this becomes public? She will have more suitors than fleas in a French camp. I need her safely married before then.”
Katherina’s fingers whitened around her pearl necklace. “Then we keep it a secret. No one has to know—”
“Ms. Katherina, the nation is at war. I can be called back to the front at any moment. There is no time to waste. Before this summer ends, I will turn her into a proper English lady.”
“And how do you plan on doing that?” Katherina demanded, her chin high.
“I have my methods.”
Hawk had molded the most wastrel sons of the aristocracy into competent officers. He had hammered indolence into discipline, arrogance into obedience, boys into men. He was more than prepared to deal with a French bonbon swaddled in tulle and her ridiculous poodle.
“Don’t tell me you plan to enlist her in your regiment and teach her to lob grenades at her suitors!”
“Enlisting her is not a bad idea,” Hawk said dryly. “But I dare say she’d blow herself up before she learned to arm the fuse. Still, discipline and order will do her good.”
“Celeste is sweet, a dreamer. She will wilt in such a sterile world.”
Beyond the glass, sunlight caught in Lady Cecilia’s hair, and Hawk’s fingers itched to touch the fiery strands.
Katherina’s gaze moved from him to the nymph drifting through his garden. “Then again… knowing Celeste, perhaps she will bring some cheer into your house.”
Hawk’s mouth curved, humorless. Napoleon’s best had failed to breach his lines. He would not be undone by a slip of a girl in tulle.