It hurt more now than it had years ago, but what had he expected—that Vienne had changed? Or that he would impress her so much, she would have no choice but to fall desperately in love and declare herself his forever? Such things happened in sensational novels, but not in actual life.
So, he would have to accept what was and move on before his brothers beat him senseless for being so maudlin. Archer had already threatened to do just that. “Shite or get off the damn pot,” had been his exact words. “Either pull your head out of your arse and go after her, or shut the hell up before I slap you silly.”
Archer was a dirty fighter, and certainly not one he wanted to tangle with. He had scars from his childhood to prove it.
Shite or get off the pot
. It was quite possibly the best advice his brother had ever given him. However, it didn’t matter what he did or said when Vienne’s mind was so jumbled. How could she actually blame herself for what had happened? Her family should be heartily ashamed of themselves.
It was the thought of her family that spurned him into action. He knew what he had to do. It was the only way he could convince her of the truth—if it worked. If it backfired, it would ruin everything.
Upon his return to the Barrington late that evening, he poured himself a healthy measure of scotch and went directly to his desk, despite the wariness in his bones and the ache in his side. His physician warned him that he might be sore and stiff for some time given the internal damage done by Gibbs’s bullet.
Bloody lunatic.
Attempting to murder someone over a foolish collection of shops. He would never understand people who blamed others for all the misfortune in their lives. Likewise, he could not understand Vienne shouldering unnecessary guilt.
It was his opinion that one learned from one’s mistakes and moved on. A grudge could only be carried for so long before you either had to give it up or let the weight smother you. Granted, he should have taken his own advice when it came to Vienne, but he didn’t consider her a mistake, not back then and not now.
Trystan took paper from one of the drawers and then reached for his steel pen, which delivered ink from a chamber inside.
Remarkable
little thing. He had seen others like this before, but this one wrote extremely smoothly. He had invested in the inventor and had already seen a tidy profit from the venture. No dipping required. All one had to do was refill the internal chamber when it ran dry. Trystan cleaned it on a regular basis to prevent clogging.
His hand paused over the stationery as he mentally composed what to say. Only when he had it right in his head did he commit to it with ink on paper. When he was finished, he folded it, slipped the two pages into an envelope, and sealed it with glue. He would post it first thing tomorrow morning. If nothing came of it, so be it. But, if he received a favorably response, he would go forward.
And hope Vienne would forgive him.
T
rystan did not have to wait long for a reply—it came via telegraph a few days after he sent his letter. It simply read, “Will be in London within the week. Accept your offer.”
When the day arrived, he contrived a reason to have Vienne come to the Barrington. It wasn’t difficult; he simply told her his schedule was swamped that day and could she please meet with him to discuss a few of their employees? Of course there was nothing to discuss, but he knew the request would bring her quickly as she had hired most of them and liked them all.
Vienne was always quick to defend the underdog.
She breezed into one of the private parlors on the ground floor with the grace and speed of a shark about to strike. She was probably the only woman of his acquaintance who could wear that particular shade of mustard and still look good. The velvet swished around her boots and molded to the curve and contour of her corseted torso. Her hair was up in a fashionable sweep with a jaunty little hat perched upon it, feathers bobbing. She looked more herself these days, and he wasn’t too certain it was a good thing. Call him selfish, but he somewhat liked knowing that she was as miserable as he.
“Trystan, I do hope you have not decided to terminate any of our employees. They have been working day and night to have Trystienne’s ready to open, and I will not have them cast aside like rubbish now that we are so very close to completion.” Her sharp gaze fell upon the table and its array of cold luncheon. “What is this?”
“I thought you might be hungry. I know you have chosen work over food lately.”
She shrugged. “I have been very busy. Now, tell me. What is the problem with the employees?”
“There isn’t one,” he admitted. “They’re all wonderful, which I do not have to tell you. I’m afraid I invited you here out of pretense.”
Her jewel-bright eyes narrowed, but not before he saw a glimmer of hope in their pretty depths. “What is this?”
How to best approach this? He scratched the back of his neck. “I recently made some inquiries on your behalf.”
One sharp ginger brow jumped. “What manner of inquiries?”
She was already on the defensive. Perhaps he should approach from a different angle. “I wrote to one of your sisters. Aline.”
All color—not that she had much—leached from her face. “You did what?”
He didn’t know if she was going to explode or faint. He pressed on. “It wasn’t difficult to find her after you told me about what happened. Do you know she’s been looking for you for ten years?”
“What?” She looked shocked. “No.”
Trystan watched as she gripped the back of a chair at the table for support. “Apparently they looked all over France for you. They even made trips across the Continent and had inquiries everywhere. She was astounded to learn you were here. They never thought you’d come to London.”
“No.” Her voice had a hollow sound to it as she stared at the tabletop. “My family is not exactly fond of the English.”
“Yes, well, be that as it may, there is someone here I want you to see.”
Her head jerked up, and her wild gaze locked with his. “Trystan, what have you done?”
Christ, he had known this might bite him on the arse, but it was too late now. “You can come in,” he called out.
A door off the back of the room that adjoined to another parlor opened and three women entered the room. One was older, with graying ginger hair and sparkling eyes Trystan would recognize anywhere. The other two were younger, but older than Vienne. One had rich auburn hair and blue eyes while the other had hair the exact same color as Vienne’s, though her eyes were a lighter color. Still, there was no denying who they were.
Vienne reacted as though they were ghosts. She was so very pale, her eyes so huge. Her mouth dropped open on a sharp gasp that she seemed to try to shove back in with her palm. Her body physically reacted to the sight of them—he saw her spine tighten.
The older woman’s eyes filled with tears that she did not even attempt to hide. “
Ma petite fille
,” she murmured, holding out her arms.
Trystan held his breath as he watched Vienne’s face for a flicker of emotion. Slowly she rose to her feet with hesitant movements as though she feared her legs might not support her.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
The lighter haired sister responded in French, then looked at Trystan. “Excuse me, please. I do not mean to offend you by leaving you out of the conversation. I told Vienne we came because you were so very kind as to let us know she was here.”
He nodded and smiled. “I will leave the four of you alone. I’m sure you have much to discuss.”
Just as he was about to leave the room, a strong hand caught his arm. He turned to look into Vienne’s unnerving eyes. “Why did you do this?” she demanded. “Did I hurt you so badly, you had to return in kind?”
He shook his head and removed her hand with a gentle grip. “I don’t want to hurt you, Vienne. Neither do they. They came because they wanted to see you. Go. Talk to them and see for yourself.”
She backed up, spine rigid, mouth tight. “I’m not sure I will ever forgive you for this.”
He flashed a sad smile. “That makes two of us.”
W
hen the door closed behind Trystan, Vienne didn’t know what to do. If she turned around she would have to confront her family. If she didn’t turn around she would be a coward. She had felt much braver with Trystan in the room. Much angrier as well. How dare he interfere in her life!
When she gathered the courage to face her family, she found all three of them weeping silently. They looked heartbroken but happy at the same time. Hopeful and anxious.
She supposed she wore a similar expression, though she had yet to burst into tears.
“My little girl . . .” her mother began in French. “Why did you run away?”
Vienne swallowed hard. “I thought you all wanted me gone. I thought I wasn’t part of the family anymore.”
This caused her mother to cry even harder. Aline had to put her arms around her. They had all aged so very much. Her mother was still handsome, but there was gray in her thick hair.
Marguerite came toward her. She stiffened, uncertain and wary. Those emotions quickly gave way to stunned horror as her eldest sister slowly sank to her knees at her feet. She seized Vienne’s hand as tears ran down her face. “Forgive me, Vienne. This is all my fault. If I had only been a better sister, you would not have felt unwanted. If I had taken your word over that lothario I married.”
Vienne’s entire body—her entire world—went silent for a split second. “Marcel?”
Her sister nodded. “You were not his first young girl and you were certainly not his last.” Her tone was as bitter and sharp as a bite of rhubarb.
“I . . . please, stand up. You do not need to kneel before me.”
“I want to beg your forgiveness,” her sister insisted.
“You have it.” And she did. It was that simple. Vienne had never blamed her family, so it was as easy to offer forgiveness. “Please, get up.”
Her sister rose, brushing her palms over the skirts of her rust-colored gown to smooth out wrinkles. “You have no idea how much your forgiveness means to me. Or how many times I prayed we would find you so I could ask for it to your face.” She wrapped her arms around Vienne in a fierce hug. “It is so very wonderful to see your beautiful face.”
Tears burned the back of Vienne’s eyes. Since Trystan waltzed back into her life she had cried, or almost cried, a record number of times. The same went for laughing as well. It was as though he took her emotions and magnified them a thousand times.
“Marguerite, you are not the one that has to beg forgiveness. What I did was a horrible thing and I hope that someday you forgive me.”
“You!” she and Aline exclaimed at the same time. Marguerite shot their sister a silencing glance. “Sweet girl, you have nothing to be sorry for. You were little more than a child. You had no idea what sort of man my husband was. He took advantage of your innocence and your sweet heart.”
Only one word in that entire speech jumped out at Vienne. “Was? What sort of man Marcel
was
?”
Marguerite grimaced and gave a curt nod. “He was shot and killed ten years ago by the father of a fourteen-year-old girl he had seduced and left with child. She was not the only one. Scarcely a girl over thirteen was safe in our village. The monster preferred them to be in the early throes of womanhood. You would not believe the paintings I found in his studio after he was killed. I burned them.”
Vienne pressed a hand to her heart as it hammered against her ribs. This was like a dream. A very strange dream.
Marcel was dead?
Shot because he had impregnated a young girl. He liked young girls.
“Mon Dieu.”
She sank onto a spindly, fashionable chair. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“I did not want to think so ill of Marcel,” her mother said, coming to sit beside her, the dark green of her gown making her eyes all the brighter. “I am ashamed to say that I believed him when he said you came to him. You were such a willful girl. I knew you would never want to hurt your sister, but you all thought the man was wonderful, especially you.”
Especially me.
“I should have never have left.”
Marguerite took her hand. “In some ways it was good that you did. It spared you the pain of having him toss you aside as he did all the others. I wish you had let us know where you were.”
“I didn’t think you would welcome contact from me.”
The hand on hers tightened. “We are family. No matter what you do, we love you.”
“That cockstand cost us almost twenty years without our sister,” Aline said, her voice tight with outrage. “I hope the devil is flaying the skin from his bones with a dull knife.”
Vienne’s mother made a small noise, obviously distressed to hear such vehement language coming from her second youngest daughter.
“How is Papa?” Vienne inquired. She had always enjoyed time with her father, and being the youngest he often indulged her more than he perhaps should have.
Her mother and sisters exchanged anguished glances. It was Marguerite who answered. “Papa passed away six years ago. He left this for you.” From her reticule, she pulled a slightly tattered letter sealed with a glob of red wax—her father had been so old-fashioned.