Surrender to a Stranger (27 page)

He shrugged his shoulders indifferently. “Because there was always so much more coming in from other sources,” he explained. “I hold investments in sugar, tobacco, tea, cotton, silk—anything the European market has a constant and insatiable demand for. When your investments are extensive and diversified, it doesn’t matter if some of them don’t pay off in a given year. In fact, you expect it. So the fact that my work was suffering as a result of my drinking did not seem reason enough to stop.” He paused.

Jacqueline waited for him to continue. It was obvious this was difficult for him to talk about, and undoubtedly not a subject that was broached often. She thought back to Viscount Preston, and his scathing remark when Armand cut in on him the other night.
St. James, I must admit I never expected to see you here. Tell me, what is the occasion? Too close to Christmas to sit at home alone? Or did your wine cellar run dry?
Obviously his battle with alcohol was well-known, and had made him an object of contempt. She felt a rush of protective anger. If anyone ever chose to make such a foul comment in her presence again, she would lash into them with an intensity that would cut them to the bone.

“What made you finally stop?” she asked, sensing his reluctance to continue.

Armand struggled for a moment before giving her the answer. This was not a topic he had imagined they would discuss as they dined, but now that it was open, he had no choice but to tell her. He felt as if he was admitting something to her that was intensely personal, and therefore not relevant to their relationship. But others knew, and it was only a matter of time before the gossip reached her ears. The only reason she had not yet heard about this sordid aspect of his personal life was because she had locked herself up in the Harringtons’ home these past few weeks, and the Harringtons, he was certain, would never talk about it. Sir Edward had been a close personal friend of his father for years, and out of respect for that friendship, and a genuine affection for Armand, he had told Armand what was past was past, and not to be opened again.

“Because of me, several people were killed,” he stated harshly, punishing himself with the words. “I was off on one of my many drunken binges, and unable to prevent it.” He paused, as if to let the words sink in. “And that, Mademoiselle, is when I decided to give up drinking.”

There was a finality to his tone that clearly said the subject was closed. His expression seemed calm and composed, except for a tightening of his jaw, so slight as to be almost imperceptible. It was that tightening Jacqueline focused on, for it told her how difficult this admission had been for him. She wished she had never brought the subject up. She felt as though she had been witness to something terribly personal and painful for him, and in her heart she felt a rush of compassion, which she most decidedly did not want to feel. She firmly reminded herself that her relationship with him was one of business, and nothing more. He was not her friend. He had saved her in exchange for money. And now he would save François-Louis in exchange for her body. Everything to him was a question of economics, of trading something in exchange for his remarkable ability to rescue people. It was coarse and base, which was what one must expect from a man who is not of noble birth, and therefore not raised with the ideals and principles of an aristocrat. And yet this glimpse into his past had moved her, had made her want to alleviate some of his pain by telling him those deaths could not possibly have been entirely his fault.

“How is your English coming?” he asked, interrupting her thoughts.

“Not so well,” she admitted, grateful to have a new topic to discuss. “I don’t believe I have a particular aptitude for languages.”

He frowned. “You mean you are not trying,” he said accusingly. “You must work at it, Mademoiselle. You cannot live in England and not speak English.”

Since she had absolutely no intention of remaining in England, that warning did not disturb her in the least. Armand might not take her with him when he went to rescue François-Louis, but as soon as her betrothed had been safely brought to England, Jacqueline was going to find a way to return to France. Nicolas had to be killed, and she would see that it was done. “How is it you speak French with no accent?” she asked, changing the subject.

“My mother was French,” he explained, smiling as a look of surprise registered on her face. “Although she made England her home, she insisted from the moment my sister, Madeleine, and I were born that we have only French nannies. She believed French to be a far more beautiful language than English, and wanted to be sure that when we traveled to France we would not be regarded as foreigners. Eventually I was sent to France to study. I remained there for several years before the revolution began in 1789, and that is when I became aware of the innate problems eating away at the French monarchy and the seigneurial system.”

“Why did your mother leave France?” asked Jacqueline, wondering how anyone could give up the beauty and elegance of France for England.

Armand smiled again, and Jacqueline was captivated by how terribly handsome he looked when he did so.

“She had fallen madly in love with my father, who was English, and could not imagine living without him. He was traveling in France when they met. When the time came for him to return to England, she agreed to marry him secretly and sail with him.”

“Why did she have to marry him secretly?” Jacqueline asked. “Was it because your father was English and taking her away to another country?” She knew in her heart that her own father would never have agreed to a match where she would have had to live in another country. He had barely accepted the fact that once married to François-Louis she would be moving into the Château de Biret, even though it was not far from the Château de Lambert.

“No, Mademoiselle, my father’s nationality was not the issue. My mother was the eldest daughter of the Marquis des Valentes, and he did not believe his daughter should marry a lowly, untitled businessman, not when her own noble bloodlines ran back as far as the fourteenth century. After all, how could such a match be of any advantage to him? What sort of mongrel children would come from such an ungodly union?” His voice was heavy with sarcasm and contempt.

Jacqueline shifted uneasily in her chair, sensing that some of his hostility was directed at her. What he was describing was, she realized, the attitude of almost every noble father toward his daughter, including her own. Love, or even mutual affection and respect, was rarely a factor in these unions. If two people from noble backgrounds fell in love and wanted to marry, that was purely a matter of luck, and most people simply were not that lucky. The nobility felt it was important to perpetuate itself, and to keep its bloodlines strong and pure. Everyone understood that, including the wealthy bourgeois who railed against the injustice of the system while at the same time desperately trying to marry into even an impoverished noble family so they could elevate their own social status.

“When my father went to the marquis to ask for my mother’s hand in marriage, my grandfather went into a rage. He ordered my father out of his home and forbade him to ever lay eyes on her again. Then he told my mother if she ever attempted to see my father again she would be cast out of the family, stripped of her title, and left destitute.” He paused and looked at her, as if he was condemning her for being a part of a class that could be so rigid.

“Obviously your mother did not think much of his threat,” commented Jacqueline.

“She ran away from home that same night. She and my father married, and left for England almost immediately.”

“And what of her father?” asked Jacqueline curiously. “Did he carry out his threat?”

“He decided the marriage could not possibly last, and so he offered my mother another chance. After waiting three months, during which he convinced himself that she was undoubtedly living in absolute misery and had likely learned her lesson, he wrote and told her if she came back immediately, he would arrange to have the marriage quietly annulled and all would be forgiven. He even had a young comte selected for her to marry, one who would be most understanding about the fact that she was no longer a virgin.”

The mention of virginity caused Jacqueline a moment of discomfort, not because of the delicacy of the topic, but because it reminded her that it was a state she would no longer find herself in by tomorrow. She firmly pushed that thought aside as something she would worry about later, if at all. Still engrossed in the story of Armand’s parents, she asked, “What did your mother do then?”

Armand shifted back in his chair and smiled. “She sent a letter to my grandfather, informing him she had no intention of leaving my father, that she was happier than she had ever been in her life, and that if he could not bring himself to accept their marriage, then she would simply renounce her title and her ties to the Valentes family.”

“And did your grandfather accept that?” demanded Jacqueline.

“No. He was a determined old bastard. A few weeks later he sent word to my mother that he was dying, and asked her to come home so he could see her before he died. He was most specific, however, that he did not wish my father to accompany her. My father did not want her to go, and they fought, but ultimately my mother defied him and went home to her father’s side, only to discover he was as healthy as a horse. He locked her up and tried to quickly have the marriage annulled, thinking to force her to marry the comte before my father became suspicious and came for her.

“But my father only waited a day before setting out after her. When he arrived at their château he was refused entry, and told by my grandfather that my mother had changed her mind about the marriage and never wished to see him again.”

Jacqueline looked at him in shock. “Did he believe him?”

“No. He pulled out a gun and calmly told the old man if he didn’t hand his wife over to him then and there, he would do him the service of putting a hole in his chest. But my grandfather didn’t believe for a moment he would carry out his threat, and so he just laughed.” Armand paused and thoughtfully took a drink of water.

“Well?” demanded Jacqueline. “What happened?”

He sighed. “I am afraid my grandfather was right. My father might have been an enraged, determined husband, but he was not a murderer. Since he could not exactly rush into the château, grab my mother, and run out amidst all the servants who were ordered to stop him, he calmly put his gun back into his waistband and left.”

“He left?” sputtered Jacqueline in disbelief. “Just like that?”

Armand smiled. “He did not go very far. He went to the stables and found the marquis’s favorite horse, which he led onto the lawns in front of the château. Then he called to my grandfather, telling him if he did not want to see his horse’s brains splattered all across the lawn, he had better produce my mother by the time he counted to ten.”

Jacqueline nodded with approval, thinking his actions very clever. “What did your grandfather do?”

“Well, my grandfather was exceptionally fond of his horse. And while he was fairly certain my father was not insane enough to shoot him, he was not nearly so certain he would not shoot his horse. To hear my father tell it, he did make rather a grand show of holding the beautiful animal steady as he held his pistol at its head and slowly counted. And finally, out of sheer terror for the well-being of his horse, my grandfather relented and allowed my mother to go down to him. After that my mother renounced all ties to her family, and vowed never to set foot in France again.”

Jacqueline looked at him incredulously. “Do you mean to say after all that trouble of luring her back, locking her up, finding her another husband, and risking having a gun pointed at his chest, he traded his daughter for a horse?”

“It makes one wonder where his priorities were, doesn’t it?” remarked Armand.

“Would your father have shot the horse?” she asked curiously.

Armand looked at her with amusement. “Never. He later teased my mother that if she had not come down, he simply would have taken the horse to England instead. He said it was a damn fine animal.”

Jacqueline began to laugh, a light, silvery sound that surprised and pleased him. It was the first time he had heard her laugh with sincere pleasure, and the sound was so sweet and musical he leaned back in his chair and drank in the feeling of her bringing the room to life with her presence.

When her laughter was finally spent she leaned forward to take a hearty drink of her wine. “It would seem rescuing people from France is a family tradition,” she mused as she twirled the stem of her glass in her fingertips. She took another swallow of wine, enjoying the easy rapport that had fallen between them. It had been a long time since she had laughed, and the sensation made her feel light and free, as if nothing else in the world mattered except this moment and the fact that she had started to enjoy herself. She took another sip, and to her surprise found her glass was already empty.

“More wine?” suggested Armand.

“Thank you,” she replied. She really ought to try not to drink too much, but the wine was excellent, and if it helped to relax her a little, that was probably a good thing. “Tell me,” she began conversationally, “how do you plan to rescue François-Louis?”

His look instantly became shuttered. “I never discuss my plans with anyone,” he stated flatly. “It is too dangerous, both for the person I am rescuing, and for me.”

“Of course,” stammered Jacqueline.

There was awkward silence for a moment before Armand casually asked, “What is he like?”

She looked at him curiously. “Why do you want to know?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Call it professional curiosity. I like to know something about the people I am saving. Let’s start with his looks.”

“He is quite tall,” she began.

“Taller than me?” he demanded. For some reason he hoped he wasn’t, which was, of course, utterly absurd.

“No—not quite as tall as you,” she replied. She thought for a moment. “And he is not as heavyset as you are—but that is not to say he is not strong,” she quickly added, lest he think she was betrothed to a weakling.