Historical Romance Boxed Set (84 page)

“No!” Jeannette tried to move forward but Treynor held her back. “The lieutenant is injured, and he has nothing to do with this,” she said. “I ran away on my own. He has merely kept me safe.”

Lord St. Ives gazed at her, eyes gleaming with righteous indignation. “And you have, no doubt, repaid him generously.” He tapped his cane on the floor as if to emphasize his words. “I give my word,
as a gentleman
,” he said to Darby.

Then, with Ralston Moore dogging his footsteps, he left.

Chapter 22

Snowflakes twirled lazily past the window as Treynor gazed out, watching the sunrise on another cold day. He had slept little. After the baron left, Jeannette had departed with her parents and Lord Darby, throwing him a last look of regret and apprehension.

Then the inn’s proprietor had stormed up the stairs to demand an explanation for gunfire in his establishment. The man had wanted to throw Treynor out-reminding him of his stay at the Stag the first night he met Jeannette-but after a sincere apology and some fast talking to convince him that he had every intention of paying for the broken window, Treynor had been left to sleep in peace.

Only he hadn’t closed his eyes. The night had dragged by like a ship snagged in a narrow channel until Treynor thought he would go mad, especially because his thoughts seemed to make one continuous round.

He should feel relieved, he told himself. Jeannette was back with her family, her future dependent on a fight he knew he could win. What more could he ask for? Why did he feel so dissatisfied?

Because he wanted Jeannette for himself.

He knew he should walk away and never see her again. It was the kindest thing he could do for her. The wife of a naval officer was lonely indeed. He would return to sea in a few weeks and remain away for months at a time, even if the war ended soon. And should she be free to wed again, her family would certainly discourage a match to a bastard with no name and no inheritance. Jeannette had once been accustomed to the wealth and status his mother enjoyed. Whether the king knighted him or not, he could provide her with neither.

She was better off with someone else.

But that thought brought him no comfort.

Gingerly, he pulled the jacket of his uniform over his injured arm and buttoned it. Regardless of what he could or could not have, he hoped to rid England, and Jeannette, of one worthless baron. But first he had a promise to keep.

* * *

After a day and a half of riding in the drizzling rain, Treynor arrived at his mother’s estate. He’d almost turned back time and again, except he owed his mother an apology. And he had decided while on the
Superbe
that if he ever had the chance, he would deliver it in person.

A stablehand spied him through the rain and came out to hold the reins while he dismounted, then led the horse away with a tip of his hat.

Treynor watched him before approaching the grand columns of the front entrance.

He rang the bell, wondering as he waited how his mother would receive him. Would she rebuff him? Mock his sudden change of heart? For how could she not think it sudden after all these years?

He wished he could explain what had happened to him the day Amelia gave birth. How watching her baby be born had touched something deep in his soul. How coming so close to death on the
Superbe
had taught him the value of life. How all the changes in him seemed to be wrapped up in loving Jeannette—

The door creaked open and his mother’s elderly butler peered out at him. “Master Treynor. It is a pleasure to see you, sir.”

“Thank you, Godfrey,” he said. “Is my mother in?”

“Indeed, sir. She told me you were here. She can see the drive from her study.”

The butler showed him inside a luxurious entry hall with mahogany paneling and marble-topped tables, tapestry-covered chairs, and an ancient mural of the Last Supper. “Lady Bedford asked me to show you upstairs. She has not been feeling well,” Godfrey announced, taking his wet coat and giving it to a silent maid. “Put that by the downstairs fire, Agnes,” he said.

With a quick, shy smile, she bobbed a curtsy and folded the coat over her arm before scurrying off.

Treynor followed Godfrey to the top of a grand staircase, then down a hall to a balcony overlooking a ballroom. Eventually, they came to a small sitting room where his mother stood gazing out the window.

“I am surprised to see you.” Once Godfrey had withdrawn and closed the door, she turned to face him. “I read of your daring naval battle in the paper today. There was even mention of a possible knighthood. I thought you would be glorying in your success, not traveling out in the cold to visit me.” She offered him a thin smile. “What brings you here?”

Not knowing where to begin, Treynor ignored the question. “Godfrey tells me you are not feeling well.”

She laughed softly. “It is nothing. Old age and bad weather, both of which sneak up on the unsuspecting.”

“It is warm enough in here.” He strode to the fireplace, collected the poker, and jabbed the fiery logs. They sparked and popped before falling into a pile of glowing embers. “Is your husband home?”

“He is visiting a lady friend in Exeter. It seems they have something to celebrate.”

“A lady friend?”

His mother shrugged. “May I offer you some tea?” Obviously, she was more interested in trying to unravel the riddle of his presence than in talking about the marquess.

“I would enjoy that. Thank you.” He saw her confusion as he set the poker aside, but she moved dutifully to the bellpull to summon a servant.

“Do you want to tell me about the capture of the
Superbe?
”

Treynor gave her a wry smile. “Mother, I didn’t come here in hopes of earning your approval, at least in the sense that used to be important to me.”

Her eyes widened. “Something has changed. What?”

Treynor cleared his throat. “I came to offer you an apology.”

She didn’t respond, but her eyes lingered on his face. While waiting for him to explain, she seemed to falter and took a seat on a rose-damask settee.

“Perhaps I have been unfair to you.” He ran a hand through his damp hair, feeling more self-conscious than he’d imagined.

“I beg your pardon?”

He soldiered on. “Since I became a man I have never given you a chance to know me, or to care for me. Nor have I opened my heart to you.” Unable to read his mother’s face, he swallowed hard. “I have been too busy holding grudges. I am sorry.”

His mother closed her eyes and covered her mouth with a hand that shook ever so slightly. After a moment, she stood, holding her head at a proud angle. “I have always admired you so. If I have done nothing in this life but give you birth, I have achieved one success.” She stopped talking long enough to control the quaver that had crept into her voice. “And although I bitterly regret some of the decisions I have made, I am grateful that I can call you my son.”

Treynor had never touched his mother before, had not been permitted more than a brief, formal kiss on the cheek. But for a moment he took her in his arms and held her close, feeling the fledgling tenderness inside him grow stronger, healthier.

“I love you, my son,” she murmured. “I have always loved you.”

Pulling back, she wiped away the tears that streamed unheeded down her cheeks. Then she crossed to a tall secretary and opened its doors.

After withdrawing something Treynor could, at first, not see, she turned and handed him a folded paper sealed with red wax. “This is for you.”

* * *

“Do you love him?” Jeannette’s mother sat across from her in the earl’s well-appointed drawing room, peering over the rim of the delicate china cup she held to her lips.

“Love whom?” Jeannette kept her eyes cast down. Her father and Lord Darby were out, and Henri had gone searching for a book upstairs in the library. She and her mother were alone for almost the first time since she had returned nearly two days ago.

“The lieutenant, of course.”

“I barely know him, Maman.”

“Nonsense.” Rose Marie set her cup on its saucer and scooted her chair back. “We found you in his room. Barely dressed.”

Jeannette felt herself blush. “I am sorry for that, Maman. I know it distresses you. I was …I was frightened and lonely, and the lieutenant had been good to me.”

“He is not even a first lieutenant, Jeannette. And England is at war. Truly, is that the sort of man you wish to become involved with? To think you once dazzled every young aristocrat in France.”

The balls and soirees she had attended, her ardent admirers, her pampered life—none of that mattered to her anymore. Her sentimental longing for the past had vanished. Were she given a chance to marry Lieutenant Treynor or reclaim what she had lost in France, she would marry the lieutenant without a backward glance.

But he hadn’t asked for her hand, so there was no use discussing the subject with Maman.

“Those days are gone. I wish I could get them back, for the sake of you and Papa and Henri, but I cannot.”

“Ah, Jeannette. Fate has conspired against us.”

“Indeed. We are now merely poor relations to an English earl. Should St. Ives let me go, I must settle for whatever new suitor Lord Darby can find.”

“He did not do so well the first time,” her mother said tartly.

Jeannette had to agree. “No, but he had no way of knowing St. Ives was a dishonorable fellow. A proper marriage to a man of means and good family would allow me to provide for you and Papa. And there is Henri to think about—he will need entrée to society and a gentleman’s education. I care about nothing beyond that.”

Rose Marie smiled patiently. “Your father and I are getting old and have lived our lives. Henri is young and can make his own way. Do not choose a husband for what he can do for us, my child. You made that mistake with St. Ives, no? We were fools to go against our better judgment. After what has happened, I shall never put you at risk again.”

“But you have so little here in England!”

“We have you and Henri and each other. Is there anything more important? Our dearest friends were not so blessed when they went to the guillotine.”

Jeannette fell silent. Those final days in France had been terrifying. “Still,” she ventured after a moment, “if I make the right match, you will know no want in your old age—”

“And you may know no happiness. I have thought so since meeting Treynor at the King’s Arms.”

Jeannette’s eyes widened with surprise.

“Choose your lieutenant, Jeannette. That is what your heart tells you, is it not?”

“He—he is a bastard, Maman. Would that bother you?”

Rose Marie grimaced, but laughed. “
Ma cherie
, if you love him, you love him.”

“Thank you, Maman,” she began, “but …you need not worry about my marrying him. He does not …care for me in the same way.”

“He is risking his life for you.”

Jeannette winced at the reminder. She had been trying not to think about the coming duel. St. Ives walked with a cane. His movements revealed stiffness and pain in every joint. It was unthinkable that the baron dared challenge Treynor—unless he planned to ensure his own success. “I fear St. Ives will not fight fairly.”

Rose Marie considered her words. “He risks much if he does not. Surely the lieutenant will walk away unscathed. You need not worry.”

“I would have said the same thing not more than an hour ago.” Lord Darby had just entered the room with Jeannette’s father.

Jeannette looked up in surprise, then followed the earl with her eyes. “And now?”

“Your father and I learned some interesting news today.” Doffing his hat, he sank onto the sofa. “Evidently the baron likes to duel. He has been at it for years.”

“But the gout—”

“Is in his leg,” the earl finished.

Jeannette and her mother glanced at each other. “There must be some mistake—”

“I am afraid not.” With a sigh, Darby crossed one leg over the other. “He nearly killed a young upstart not too long ago. Boasted of it all over the gaming hells. And there are …rumors as to how he accomplished it.”

“He cheats?” Jeannette cried.

Darby’s eyebrows went up. “No one dares accuse such a powerful man, but …the rumors suggest that, yes.”

“Then we must warn the lieutenant!”

“I already sent my coachman to the King’s Arms to deliver the news. I felt it only fair that Treynor know what he might be up against.”

“What if that isn’t enough?” Jeannette asked.

“The rest resides in God’s hands,” her father said.

“No,” she argued. “We must go to the duel, make sure the baron fights fairly.”

He gave her a pointed glance. “We will do no such thing.”

* * *

That night, Jeannette tossed and turned as thoughts of the duel at dawn faded into nightmares of Treynor being killed. She told herself she worried for nothing. The lieutenant was well trained and capable. If he won, she would be free of the baron. But if he lost …it was too frightening to consider.