Surrender to a Stranger (51 page)

“Then you would have been killed!”

“That is right,” he agreed. “I probably would have. But Angélique and Lucette and my mother would have lived.”

“But then you never would have rescued all the others whose lives you have saved,” she protested. “Don’t you see, Armand? You have done enough. There is nothing to be gained by your death.”

“The scales are not equal, Jacqueline,” he informed her. “And if I can still save a life and hurt the Republic of France in the process, then I will continue to do so. They murdered my family. They threw me into a filthy cell and robbed me of a month of my life. And they continue to slaughter their own people, all in the name of this new utopia, where everyone is free and equal. I will not simply stand by and watch, do you understand?”

She shook her head. “You once told me that I had to put the past behind me and get on with my life. I thought you could not possibly understand what it was to be driven with pain and hatred. Now I know you do understand. I am asking you to put your own past behind you and make a new life. Please.”

He stared gravely into her eyes, which were luminous with tears. She did not know what she was asking of him. She did not understand. “I cannot,” he said helplessly.

She felt herself begin to tremble with disappointment and fear. She bowed her head so he would not see the tears leaking from her eyes. “Then get out,” she said, her voice tight and stiff. “Now.”

He did not argue. He rose from the bed and began to dress. He would have done anything to alleviate her misery. Anything except agree to what she was asking of him. He never should have come here tonight. He could see that now. He had done it out of pure selfishness. But he had never dreamed that she would want to marry him. He had hurt her terribly, but he did not know how to undo what he had done. Feeling like anything else he might say could only hurt her more, he stepped into the hallway, cursing himself as he shut the door on the sound of her muffled sobbing.

“De…ship…sailed…a-long…de…shh…shh…” Philippe paused and looked up at Jacqueline in helpless frustration.

“Shore,” she told him.

Philippe bent his head and squinted at the black letters on the page. “Shoa-wer,” he repeated slowly. “Shoawer.”

Suzanne looked up from her exercise book and sniffed in disgust. “I don’t know why you are trying to teach him to read English when he doesn’t even know how to read French,” she commented acidly in English.

“He will learn to read both,” Jacqueline informed her sister.

“De ship sailed along de…shoawer,” repeated Philippe triumphantly.

“Très bien, Philippe,”
praised Jacqueline.
“Continue, s’il te plaît.”

Philippe bent his head over his textbook and studied the next line. “De…orse…ran…in…de…meddow,” he read.

“Horse,” corrected Jacqueline, emphasizing the
h
sound. “Ho-ho-ho-horse.”

Philippe looked at her skeptically. “Ho-ho-ho-horse.”

Jacqueline nodded and smiled.

“I don’t see why he needs to read and write anyway,” continued Suzanne petulantly. “After all, he is only a common stable boy.”

Philippe looked up from his book and stared warily at Suzanne. “What are you saying about me?” he demanded threateningly in French.

Suzanne smiled at him sweetly. “Philippe, you know we are not allowed to speak French in the classroom,” she scolded in English.

He looked at Jacqueline for help.

“Ignore her, Philippe,” she instructed. “Continue with your reading.”

He paused to throw Suzanne a final scowl before bending his head again. “Suzanne…is…a…little…bi—”

“Philippe,” interrupted Jacqueline in a warning tone.

“How dare he!” cried Suzanne, leaping up from her desk.

“Was speaking English,” he told her innocently.

“I won’t stay another minute in this room with him, the filthy, common peasant!” she shrieked. True to her word she ran from the room, a flurry of pink satin and bobbing blond curls.

“Now, that was not very smart,” commented Jacqueline in French.

Philippe shrugged his shoulders. “She thinks I’m beneath her,” he said, also reverting to French.

“You don’t do much to convince her otherwise,” pointed out Jacqueline.

“You never thought I was beneath you,” argued Philippe. “You risked your life for me, and you didn’t even know me.”

“That was different,” commented Jacqueline. “Suzanne has not had a chance to outgrow the beliefs she was raised with. She was never allowed beyond the grounds of the Château de Lambert, except after our father was arrested and I had to send her and Séraphine away. In her limited understanding, she believes it is people like you who took her home from her and killed her father and brother. She expresses contempt for you not only because she has been taught that she is better than you, but also because she is afraid of you.”

Philippe gave her a doubtful look, obviously not convinced by her explanation.

“I would like you to work at easing her fear, not intensifying it.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t mean to scare her.”

“I know,” replied Jacqueline. “But you do, whether you mean to or not. She is also jealous of my relationship with you, and that is something I must work on. You are part of the family now, and Suzanne must understand that does not mean I love her any less.” She sighed. “I realize it has only been a few weeks, but we all have to try to help each other get through this period.”

“Séraphine doesn’t mind me,” Philippe commented, looking over at Jacqueline’s little sister. She sat at her desk drawing a picture, apparently oblivious to their discussion. Philippe thought she was as pretty as a china doll, with her white-blond curls spilling over the lace collar of her blue satin dress.

“Séraphine is only six, and has not absorbed as much prejudice and fear,” explained Jacqueline.

“That could be,” he allowed, rising from his chair and going over to see what she was drawing. “Or it could be that she just plain likes me.”

He picked up a pastel crayon from her desk, idly examined it, and then pretended to eat it, much to Séraphine’s amazement. He picked up another, and another, and made a great show of dropping them in his mouth and chewing them, all the while slipping them into the palm of his other hand, and from there into the pocket of his new coat. When the last one had disappeared he grabbed his throat, made a terrible gasping sound, and collapsed heavily to the floor.

Séraphine climbed down from her chair and went over to examine him, not too concerned about his health, but curious to see if he was in fact hiding the pastels somewhere. She pried open one hand, and found nothing. She pried open the other, and found a square of folded paper. She opened it to reveal a colorful drawing of a cat chasing a butterfly. She smiled at Philippe and returned to the desk with her new possession. Philippe leapt up from the floor and deposited the missing pastels on her desk.

“Tomorrow I will draw a fine horse for you,” he told her. “Would you like that, Séraphine?”

She ignored him and continued with her drawing.

“I am not sure what color to make it,” he mused. “I was thinking of bright green.”

She looked up at him and scrunched her face together, obviously displeased with his choice.

“No?” he remarked in surprise. “Very well then. How about blue, like your pretty dress?”

She looked down at her dress, as if she needed to evaluate its color. She looked up at him and shook her head.

“Not blue either?” He drew his brows thoughtfully together and pretended to think. “I’ve got it!” he pronounced suddenly. He hunched down beside her. “There is a little pony in the stables that is a soft gray, the exact shade of your eyes. Why don’t you come down to the stables with me this afternoon and take a look at him? If you like the color, then that is the color I will make your horse.”

Séraphine nodded brightly.

Jacqueline smiled. Philippe had a wonderful, easy manner with Séraphine. Although she still did not speak, Philippe regularly carried on conversations with her as if she were answering him. He was always trying to amuse her, by acting out little charades in her presence and presenting her with special gifts. Séraphine was the only friend he had made in the Harrington household, other than the men who worked with him in the stables. Laura was convinced he was a thief and was constantly mentioning that something had mysteriously gone missing and then looking pointedly at Philippe. Sir Edward and Lady Harrington had been most reluctant to take what they called “a street urchin” into their home and suggested that he should work full-time in the stables and sleep there as well.

Jacqueline would not hear of it. She had not brought Philippe back to England with her to turn him into a stable boy. He was permitted to work in the stables four hours a day, but only after he had completed his lessons to his tutor’s satisfaction, and then spent time with her and the girls practicing his English and learning the proper manners of a gentleman.

In four weeks he had learned enough English to carry on a basic conversation, and enough manners not to embarrass himself in almost any social situation. He had been outfitted in the clothes of a young nobleman and firmly instructed in the rules of regular bathing, which he grudgingly accepted. His dark hair had been trimmed to a neat length at his shoulders and he had been taught to brush it and tie it back with a ribbon. At first glance there was no reason to suspect he wasn’t the son of a wealthy aristocrat, except that he looked uncomfortable in his new surroundings. He was quiet and sullen in the presence of the Harringtons, obviously sensing that they did not like him, and not liking them much in return. Since he was not at all accustomed to having to take care with his clothes, they quickly became rumpled and soiled, and he had a habit of constantly pulling at his cravat as if he felt it was strangling him. However, he absolutely loved being around horses. He went riding every day and, according to his riding master, was a natural in the saddle. Jacqueline thought he was adjusting to his new life remarkably well.

She wished she could say the same for herself.

In the past four weeks she had neither seen nor heard from Armand. She had no idea if he was still in England, or if he was already making trips back to France. She had thought several times of writing to him, and then decided against it. She did not know what to say to him, and if he was about to leave for France, he would never reveal such a thing to anyone.

She knew she should try to forget about him and focus on putting her life together. She had returned from France with the last few jewels from the De Lambert jewel collection sewn into her underclothes. They were valuable, but not valuable enough to support herself, her sisters, and Philippe for more than a year or two. Her plan was to sell the jewels and invest the money, but without Armand to advise her she was lost as to how to go about doing so. She considered speaking to Sir Edward, but he had inherited all of his money and land, and she was not convinced he knew anything about taking a small amount of money and turning it into a fortune. On her own, she was not confident she would even get a fair price for the jewels, and if she were cheated, they would be destitute. And so for the moment she did nothing, living on a mixture of Sir Edward’s charity and the severely reduced funds she had sent from France for Suzanne and Séraphine.

“Excuse me, your ladyship, the Marquis de Biret is here and awaits your presence in the small salon,” announced Cranfield, interrupting her thoughts.

“Merci, Monsieur Cranfield,”
replied Jacqueline. “Tell him I will be down directly.”

Cranfield gave her a small bow and left the room.

“Qui est le marquis?”
demanded Philippe suspiciously.

“He is my betrothed,” replied Jacqueline in English. “The man Monsieur St. James was trying to rescue when he was caught.”

“The man who let him be trapped, you mean,” clarified Philippe in French, his disgust obvious.

Jacqueline nodded. “So it would seem,” she replied. “Philippe, I want you to stay with Séraphine while I go downstairs. You may continue with your lessons until I return.”

Jacqueline hurried along the hall to the stairs. Although she had not seen François-Louis since her return, she was still officially betrothed to him. That was a blessing on the one hand, because it had enabled her to refuse all invitations to balls and parties, telling Lady Harrington that she was betrothed and simply did not wish to go out. On the other hand, she had no intention of marrying François-Louis and really should let him know. Given that she no longer had any money, somehow she did not think he would be overly distraught by the breaking of their contract.

She found him standing in the salon with his back to her, staring out the window that looked onto the garden. He wore a striped yellow and green jacket with mustard-colored breeches and a snowy-white wig tied back with a matching green velvet ribbon. Great quantities of lace were blooming out from underneath the cuffs of his jacket. At one time she had thought his attire to be wonderfully fashionable and was pleased that her betrothed took such care with his appearance. Today she found him utterly ridiculous.

“Bonjour, François-Louis,”
she said coldly.

He turned and smiled at her. “Jacqueline, my love, what a relief that you have returned safely,” he gushed in French. He bent low over her hand and pressed a long kiss to it. “When I heard from Sir Edward that you had disappeared, I was absolutely sick with worry for your well-being.”

“Really?” remarked Jacqueline. “If you were so concerned, how is it that you have taken over a month to come and see me?”

“I apologize for not coming sooner, but I was staying in the countryside with a friend and only just received word of your return,” he replied smoothly. “I came as quickly as I could, my dearest. And how wonderful you look!” he added, stepping away from her so he could better see her.

“We need to talk,” said Jacqueline, stepping away from him to look out the window.

“Of course we do,” he agreed, moving to stand beside her. “I have spoken with Sir Edward, and he informs me that you were successful in your bid to rescue your friend, which of course I think is wonderful. Tell me,” he continued casually, “has the man offered you any kind of remittance for saving his life?”

She turned to him, appalled by the question. “I cannot see that it is any of your concern whether he did or not.”

“Come now, Jacqueline,” he said easily, “I am, after all, your betrothed, and it is my right to know the details of your finances.”

“You trapped him, François-Louis.”

He lifted his eyebrows in surprise. “How can you accuse me of such a terrible thing, Jacqueline?”

“Do not waste your breath denying it,” she returned darkly. “You knew if you wrote me that letter I would not be able to stand by and do nothing. You struck a bargain with Nicolas, trading your freedom in exchange for the man who had come to save you. And then you came to me, with an elaborate lie about how he was injured and could not go on.” She glared at him with unmitigated disgust. “What you did was cowardly and despicable.”