Prelude to Heaven (11 page)

These were all things a man had to be responsible for. Tess was right. A man should take care of what belonged to him. But the woman didn't belong to him. The donkey didn't belong to him. The cat certainly didn't belong to him. He didn't want to take care of them. He wasn't any good at it.

“Go back!” he repeated his command, glaring down at the tiny animal.

Augustus jumped up another step, closing the distance between them, and laid down right on top of Alexandre’s boot.

He stared down at the kitten for a moment, then he sighed and bent to scoop up the animal with his hand. Turning, he resumed walking up the stairs. “Your trust in me is sorely misplaced,
mon ami
,” he warned.

Augustus rubbed his tiny head against Alexandre’s chest, purring loudly, not seeming at all put off by the warning.

***

When Tess came back to the house, Alexandre was not in the kitchen as she expected, but though a chicken, plucked, dressed and wrapped in damp cloth, was on the worktable, Alexandre was not there to begin their evening cooking lesson.

Tess knew he wasn't happy about acquiring a donkey. In fact, he didn't seem to welcome anything or anyone into his solitude—not servants, not her, not even a few animals. She wished she knew why, but she knew she’d never learn the reason from him.

It was time to begin preparing the evening meal, and she supposed she should go in search of him. He was probably in his studio, but she hesitated to disturb him if he was working, and she knew enough now about cooking to prepare a meal by herself. She’d make dinner and take it up to him, she decided. A sort of peace offering.

She set to work, and two hours later, she was carrying a tray laden with roast chicken, a loaf of bread and a bottle of wine up to the tower, rather pleased with her efforts. Granted, it was a simple meal, but a few weeks ago, she would never have been able to prepare it.

As she’d suspected, Alexandre was in his studio. He was painting, and though his face was in profile to her, his preoccupation with his work was evident, for he applied paint to canvas in quick, almost frantic strokes, and he didn’t even look up as she entered the room. She hesitated by the stairs, not sure she should interrupt.

A flash of movement caught her attention, and she watched as Augustus ambled across the room, displaying none of her reticence about disturbing an artist at work. The kitten moved between Alexandre's feet, rubbing against the man's boots and purring loudly.

“Not now,
mon ami
,” Alexandre told the animal, his attention fixed on the canvas before him. “I know you're hungry, but you shall have to wait.”

Augustus responded with plaintive meow, but when this was ignored, the kitten curled his body over Alexandre's foot, his chin resting on the tip of the boot and his tail wrapped around the ankle.

Tess laughed, and Alexandre glanced in her direction.

“Mademoiselle,” he greeted and returned his attention to his work. “Something amuses you?”

“This is the man who hates cats,” she teased as she crossed the room and set the tray on one of the room’s less cluttered tables.

“The cat, unfortunately, does not hate me.”

“You say that, but if you really resented him as much as you pretend to, you wouldn’t let him stay.”

He heaved an aggravated sigh, but he didn’t debate the point.

“Are you hungry?” Tess asked as she poured wine into glasses. “I've prepared dinner.”

“Not that I don’t trust you...” He paused, glancing at the tray and then at her, and a rueful smile tilted his mouth. “But did you taste it first?”

She made a face at him. “If there’s anything wrong with it, you have only yourself to blame. You taught me how to make roast chicken.”

“Then let’s hope I’ve been a good teacher, because I’m famished.” He set the brush and palette on the table nearest him, then came to where she stood, reaching for the glass of wine she held out to him, his fingers brushing hers as he took the offered glass. A few weeks ago, Tess would have tensed at the brief contact, but now she found herself savoring it.

He took a sip of the wine, and set his glass beside hers on tray, then pulled out a pair of stools from beneath the table, giving her a look of apology. “I’ve no comfortable chairs up here. Will this do?”

“Of course.” She settled herself on one of the stools and he moved his to sit opposite her and maneuvered the tray to rest between them, shoving aside paint supplies and rags. He then picked up the knife, sliced the chicken into pieces with a few practiced strokes, and picked up a thigh.

She found herself holding her breath as he took a bite, unable to avoid remembering the first time he’d sampled her cooking, but her worry proved groundless.

“
Très bon
,” he complimented around a mouthful of chicken. “Perfect.”

It was only a chicken, but she felt a thrill of pride just the same. “Is it really?”

“No, but I have to say that. As you pointed out, it is my recipe.”

He was teasing. She knew it, for there was a smile lurking at the edges of his mouth and creasing the corners of his eyes. In retaliation, she kicked him under the table, and they both laughed.

How long, she wondered, looking into his black eyes, had it been since she’d laughed with a man? How long since she’d felt like this? Happy and relaxed, unafraid? A long time. Her laughter faded to silence. Too long.

“Mademoiselle?” Alexandre’s voice broke into her thoughts, and she blinked.

“Hmm?”

“Is something wrong? You look quite grave all of a sudden.”

“Sorry.” She shook her head. “I was woolgathering, I’m afraid.”

“What about?”

She was saved from answering by Augustus, who let out a loud wail of indignation from the floor below, reminding them of who did not yet have anything to eat. He began to circle the base of the table by their feet, voicing his displeasure with a series of plaintive meows.

Alexandre paused, leaning sideways to frown at the kitten below. “Augustus, lie down and be quiet. The mademoiselle will feed you when we are finished.”

Tess peered beneath the table as well, watching as the kitten changed tactics by rubbing his head against Alexandre’s leg and purring mightily.

Tess straightened, grinning at the man opposite her. “You have made a friend, I think.”

He sighed. “It would seem so.”

Wisely, she decided to change the subject. Glancing around the studio, her gaze moved past the stack of linen-wrapped portraits that leaned against the wall, suspecting he would not like to be asked about the woman whose portrait was amongst them. She chose a more innocuous topic. “Is this your ancestral home?” she asked, tearing a piece from the loaf of bread.

He nodded. “The Dumond family has held this land for five centuries.”

“How did you manage to keep it during the Revolution?”

“I didn't.” He paused a long moment, and Tess thought he was not going to say any more. “Robespierre accused my father of treason,” he said after a moment. “The Jacobins executed both my parents in Paris in 1792. I was five years old.”

Tess drew in a sharp breath. She, too, knew how painful it was to lose one's parents, but that must have been especially difficult for a five-year-old boy. ‘I’m so sorry.”

“I was here when it happened,” he went on. “Lucien, my father's wine master, adopted me, and I lived with his family. Our lands were taken over by a member of the Robespierre government. He only came here once a year, and the rest of the time, Lucien managed the estates for him.”

“How did you get the land back?”

“Later, when Napoleon was in power and began his Egyptian campaign, he took possession of my home for military purposes. Being situated right on the Mediterranean Sea, this land made an excellent military outpost.”

He gestured to their surroundings. “This tower was originally one of four, but in the sixteenth century Provence law had declared that towers were too ostentatious, and all four towers torn down, but Napoleon rebuilt this one as a watchtower to the sea. While I was in Italy, Lucien continued to manage the lands for Napoleon until 1814, making brandy and other wines for the army. When the Corsican fell and Louis came to power, I returned from Florence and petitioned the king to restore to me my lands and title. He agreed, and I have lived here ever since.”

“Title?”

“I can see I have been remiss.” He bowed his head to her. “Allow me to formally introduce myself, mademoiselle. I am the Comte de Junot.”

But who is the girl in the portrait
? Tess looked down at the blue dress she wore.
Who did this dress belong to
?

She did not ask him that, however. After all, she could not expect him to share his secrets if she was unwilling to share hers.

***

The Earl of Aubry was not a happy man. He stared down at the letter that had come in the morning post, scanning the lines of Martin Trevalyn's handwriting with growing irritation. Pushing aside his breakfast of kippers, bacon, and toast, Nigel read the letter once again, unable to believe that they had still found no trace of his wife.

Trevalyn had been in Paris for nearly two weeks now and had uncovered only one tiny scrap of information. It was now confirmed that she had been in Paris, staying at an inn on the outskirts of the city for several days. But her stay had been in April, three months ago, and Trevalyn had no clue where she had gone from there. He scowled down at the spidery handwriting.

“Is something wrong, Nigel?”

The earl gave a distracted glance at the woman seated at the opposite end of the table. He'd forgotten his mother was even there. But then, that wasn't surprising.

The dowager countess was a small woman who looked much older than her fifty-three years. Though she sat rigidly straight in her chair, there was something about her that reminded him of a drooping flower. Perhaps it was the way she could never look him in the eye, or the apologetic way she spoke, or the perpetual expression of martyrdom she wore. She irritated him immensely. She always had. “No, Mother,” he answered, “nothing at all.”

He returned his gaze to the letter in his hand. He was not worried about finding Teresa. She had run away twice before, and he'd had no trouble locating her. Also, she was without means. The money she’d gotten for the emeralds would run out soon if it hadn’t already. Still, he had hoped to find her by now. The longer she was gone, the more difficult it became to explain her absence.

He crushed the letter in his fist and tossed it onto his plate, where it landed atop a slice of marmalade-covered toast. “I want Sullivan!” he shouted, rising from his chair.

The nearest footman scurried off, and within minutes, his valet appeared. “Sir?”

“We are journeying to Paris immediately. Begin making the necessary preparations. Since I have no idea how long we will be forced to remain there, pack enough for an extended stay.” He paused, then added, “Have Lady Aubry's maid pack some of her things as well.”

It wasn't Sullivan's place to ask questions. “At once, my lord.” He bowed and left the room to carry out his orders.

“Nigel?”

He gave his mother another distracted glance. “What is it?”

“Since you are off to France, I will return home to Northumberland.”

“Do as you like.” He returned his attention to the crushed letter on his plate. If that bumbling nodcock Trevalyn couldn't find Teresa, he would. Oh, yes. He'd hunt her down from post to pillar, but he'd find her. He always did. It was only a matter of time.

Alexandre was chopping wood in the courtyard. Resting the basket of folded laundry on her hip, Tess paused by the open window to watch him, noting with pure womanly appreciation the flex and play of his muscles as he worked. A long time, she reflected, since she had been able to appreciate a man’s strength instead of fearing it.

After a few moments, her gaze shifted past him and past the tumble-down courtyard wall to the pasture. There Betsy and Sophie were grazing, free to move about now that Alexandre had repaired the fence. The two had gotten off to a rather bad start when introduced, but Sophie had quickly asserted her authority, poor Betsy had capitulated without so much as a whimper, and now, after only a few days together, the pair seemed boon companions.

A movement by the gatehouse beyond the pasture caught her attention, and Tess tensed as she watched a man turn to come up the lane to the château. Strangers never came here. And there was something purposeful about the man’s quick stride and squared shoulders that made her uneasy.

She set down the basket, but she’d only taken a few steps toward the door before she stopped. She couldn’t allow herself to be seen, for she didn't know if the British authorities were searching for her. If this man saw her and was later asked about her, he would tell the authorities she was living here.

Tess returned to her place by the window, careful to stay out of sight but peeking around the edge of a drapery panel as the man entered the courtyard, and when she saw the harness in his hand, his purpose became clear. Her uneasiness deepened into dismay.