Fairchild's Lady (Culper Ring Series) (3 page)

Something tickled the back of her neck.
L’espoir
. Which proved her a fool yet again. Why should she hope? There was nothing left to hope for—she was trapped in this web life had woven for her. Promised to a man she didn’t want, who couldn’t claim her yet was too influential to be refused.

Non
. No hope rested in the stranger who had surely not been what he seemed anyway.

A stranger who had been just as tall as the man before her proved to be upon straightening. With shoulders just as broad. A chin just as strong, though little else had been visible beneath his mask. This man, though, had a face clearly discernible and handsome enough to warrant the way her heart sped. He certainly carried himself as a noble, with confidence and poise in every line.

So had the man from the masquerade. But his voice, his accent…

Julienne clasped her hands together, the pressure of fingers upon fingers the only way to school her wayward thoughts. She would
not
dwell on the stranger—not that one nor this. Even if the first had
spoken to her very soul on their walk, and if the one before them now tempted her to flutter her fan and play the coquette just to earn a smile.

She was too old for such nonsense.

But he smiled despite her lack of fan fluttering, and dimples winked out on either side of his mouth that made her glad she sat, for surely they would have turned her knees to melted wax.

The man placed his cocked hat back upon his head. “
Merci
, madame. I have need of nothing and only stopped because of how familiar you look. You must be the daughter of the marquis de Valence,
n’est-ce pas
?”

That quickly, Mère went from stiff and cold to warm and friendly, ushering him nearer with a wave of her hand. “
Oui
, I am the comtesse de Rouen. You know my father?”

The man inclined his head and smiled again, those dimples wreaking havoc on Julienne’s heart as he came a few steps closer. “Does anyone at Versailles
not
know him? Though I confess I am at my château more often than at court.”

“And you are?”

He bowed again, though not so deep this time. “Charles Mercier, the comte d’Ushant.”

Julienne kept her brow from creasing, but only barely. There, as he said his name…that accent. So very slight—her mother certainly didn’t seem to notice it, given the way she preened and held out a hand—but it was there. Just as it had been that night.

Was it possible? Was this man, the comte d’Ushant, the man from the masquerade? The very question made her pulse redouble and her palms go damp. It couldn’t be. It was her imagination again, surely. A bit of rebellious, unreasonable hope. Nothing more.

She’d nearly convinced herself when he looked over and caught her eye. Then she nearly choked on the air she had just drawn in.

Mère cleared her throat. “Have you met my daughter, Julienne? The two of you seem as though you are trying to place each other.”

He extended his hand, and her fingers moved of their own volition toward his, though higher reason said she ought to withhold them. But before she could command her mutinous limb back to her side, her fingers settled on his palm. Warmth washed over her, just as it had done
that night. That unexplainable yearning to wrap her arms around him and beg him to take her away from here filled her.

Ridiculous.

His dimples made no appearance now as he held her gaze. “I believe we shared a dance at a masquerade some months ago,
non
? I did not learn your name at the time, of course, but I remember your eyes.”

A dance. Simple words, yet she read so much more in his own eyes. Didn’t she?

“Ah.” Mère smiled even as she settled her gaze upon their still-touching hands, reminding Julienne that she ought to have pulled her fingers away already. Yet cold swept up her spine when she obeyed the silent command. “My Julienne is indeed unforgettable. The duc tells me so regularly.”

Julienne swallowed against the acrid taste in her mouth, but it would not go away. As she watched, the light in d’Ushant’s eyes dimmed, as though a lamp were being trimmed. “Your husband?”

Julienne raised her chin. “No. I am not married.”

“He is her fiancé,” Mére said, not so quickly that it would sound pointed, but not so slowly as to allow even a moment of hope.

Hope again—such a foreign thing to be coming up so often.

Julienne wanted to argue the point about her betrothal, but she dared not. Instead, she prayed that as he studied her face, he would see it wasn’t so simple. That she wasn’t so despicable as to wander in a garden with one man while betrothed to another.

Yet she was. For surely a woman despicable enough to let a man court her while still married could easily cross that other line, could she not?

Take me away, Father in heaven. Show me how to escape from this guilt
.

The comte nodded at her mother’s pronouncement and retreated a step. From his stoic countenance she couldn’t determine anything of his thoughts. He smiled, but it failed to light his eyes again. “The duc is blessed indeed to have won the hand of so fetching a mademoiselle. And doubly blessed to be gaining such a lovely mother.”

There, again, that
je ne sais quoi
in his speech. What was it that felt odd? The timbre? Perhaps it was nothing—a result of being more often in Ushant than at Versailles. A regional difference. Perhaps…

Mère laughed, her posture relaxing a bit. “You are a charmer,
monsieur. I cannot understand why you say you are not often at court. You would surely be a favorite.”

Ah,
oui
. One dimpled grin and surely all Julienne’s friends would fall over themselves for his attention. Her stomach went tight as she imagined Marie and Georgette fluttering lashes and fans his way. Not that she had any right or reason to begrudge them his regard. He was not for her. She dare not encourage any other man, and besides…this one, she had already decided, hid something. And until she could determine what, wisdom dictated she stay far from him.

Wisdom did not always make the most beguiling companion.

The comte chuckled and looked around the grotto. Was he imagining it in moonlight? Picturing himself on this very bench beside her? “I confess I prefer the quiet of country life. Though I am quite fond of this particular niche in the gardens.”

Again it was a struggle to draw in a breath.

Her mother hummed a bit as she looked around. “I never cared overmuch for it, though it has of late become Julienne’s favorite spot as well.”

His gaze arrowed into her again, and she felt heat creep up her neck and into her cheeks. The smile he gave her was lopsided. “Has it?”

“Something we have in common, monsieur.” Her lips tugged up even as her mind spun, recalling all the other things they had discovered they had in common that night. Their opinions on Mozart’s
Don Giovanni
, on the writings of Rousseau and Montesquieu and Pascal. Their thoughts on the fledgling United States, on faith. On everything.

Mère stood and urged Julienne up too with a hand under her elbow. “We will let you enjoy it. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, monsieur, but please excuse us. We have an engagement pending with the duc.”

“Certainly. Thank you for taking the time to speak with me.” He bowed again.

Julienne couldn’t have explained, had anyone asked, why she so wanted to pull away from her mother. Why she wanted to reach out so she might brush his hand as they walked past. She mustn’t—she didn’t. But she wanted to. And the moment they swept past him, the sun seemed to dim.

Her mother’s fingers tightened on her arm. No doubt once they were out of hearing, a lecture would be forthcoming. Yet another hushed reminder that they could not possibly cross the duc.

“Oh, madame?”

Mère halted. They were nearer him now than when they had been seated, only a step beyond him. Close enough to reach out and touch. Though her mother pasted on a smile, Julienne still felt her impatience in the fingers on her arm. “
Oui?
”

The comte’s smile had gone cool. Almost.…hard. Some might even call it calculating. “I bring you greetings from your husband.”

Julienne would have dismissed the statement as confusion on his part had her mother not gone deathly pale. “Pardon? You must have mistaken me for someone else after all, monsieur. Le comte de Rouen has long been deceased.”

He positioned his hat back on his head. “Yes,” he said—in English.
English! That
was the accent! “But the Earl of Poole is still quite well.”

Whatever in the world? “Mère?”

“Hush, Julienne.” Her mother’s fingers dug even deeper into Julienne’s arm, and her voice was low as a secret. Her gaze hadn’t left the comte’s face. “I cannot think what you mean, young man.” Yet her words, too, were in English.

His eyes softened again, though they barely flicked to Julienne before focusing on her mother. “We both know you do, Lady Poole. Please, hear me out. Your husband wants to see you. And his daughter.”

For a long moment, the words seemed to hover outside Julienne. They made no sense, and not only because they were in a tongue she rarely used at Versailles. How could her mother possibly have married someone else before her père? Who was this other daughter?

Then his meaning hit and a gasp slipped out before she could restrain it. Never had her father been anything but a specter in their family, a once-man who was rarely spoken of and then without affection. But never had she considered that he might not
be
her father.

Her mother squared her shoulders. “We really must be going.” Her words were again in French, and at a normal volume. “But my daughter and I were planning a ride through the country in the morning, just after breakfast. Perhaps you would be so good as to escort us, monsieur?”

He tilted his head. “I would be honored.”

“Tomorrow, then.” Mère let go of her daughter’s arm and spun around again.

Julienne remained rooted to her spot, her gaze fixed on the handsome face only a step away. Questions wanted to riot, but they settled when his eyes locked on hers. Nearly every night she had dreamed of those eyes, as warm a brown as a cup of
café
. They were trustworthy eyes. No matter the questions, no matter the unexplained, that much she knew. Whoever this man really was, she could trust him.
Did
trust him.

Somehow her fingers laced with his. She didn’t realize she had lifted her hand, but there it was, halfway between them. She shifted so that if Mère turned around, Julienne’s body would block her view.

His fingers tightened around hers, his thumb stroked over her knuckles.

“Come,
ma cherie
.” Impatience colored her mother’s voice.

Both squeezed, both let go. Julienne sighed even as he grinned at her and said, “
A demain
, Julienne.”

She nodded and memorized his face so that her dreams could recall it without flaw that night. “Until tomorrow.”

Her mother linked their arms together, no doubt to propel her more quickly away. All too soon they had left the grotto behind them, though Julienne couldn’t resist turning her head as they were about to round a corner. Yes, he was still there, watching them go.

“Foolish girl.” Mère pulled her onward, worry now making her voice heavy and low. “Please remove that look of longing from your face. You cannot know…if the duc realizes…”

Julienne lifted a brow, though even as argument sprang to her tongue she took note of the lines around Mère’s mouth and eyes, deepened just in the last minute. “If he realizes what, Maman? That I find another man handsome, or that I am apparently not the daughter of the comte de Rouen?”

Though she had spoken at a bare murmur, for a moment she thought her mother would clap a hand over her mouth, so frantic were the eyes she turned on her. “Hush, child! Well you know that the hedges at Versailles have ears, just as surely as the walls and rooms.”

“We are safer out here than anywhere. Tell me, please. What did he mean? Who is the Earl of Poole?”

Mère shook her head and pressed her lips together, urging Julienne to a faster pace. “Nothing. He is no one.”

“Maman—”

“I will not speak of this here, not now. Tomorrow,
ma fille
, I will explain, but today…” She offered a smile, but it looked…frightened. Which was strange. Never in her life could Julienne remember seeing her mother frightened. “Today you must concentrate on the duc. He is expecting us.”

Dread churned into nausea. And left her wondering if it was this Englishman her mother feared…or the duc de Remi.

F
airchild settled on a bench within view of the stables and tilted up his face to receive the warm morning sunshine. The air was still cool and damp, and it reminded him of home. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine he sat in the gardens at his father’s Hampshire estate. He could pretend he was still a boy, with no cares beyond avoiding his tutor as long as he could manage it and devising a new trick to play on his older brothers.

Sometimes he could scarcely believe that he had wandered so far from what had once been home. That he had seen the Americas, the Caribbean, the Mediterranean. That he had fought in wars, had commanded troops, had watched so many friends fall beneath the sword.