A Daughter's Destiny (10 page)

She stood and refilled her glass. “There does not seem to be much of a reason to do that now, does there?” Her voice was rough as she added, “Maman is buried in Soho instead of beside Papa in France. I guess the only choice I have is to go into service.”

“Into service?”

An uncomfortable grin appeared on her pale face. “Do you need a cook, Evan? I am a very good one.”

“I know that.” He walked to where she sat again on the settee. “However, you need to face the truth.”

“Which is?” Before he could answer, she added bitterly, “As if I did not know. Do not bother to warn me about the men who want that vase. If they had really wanted it, they would not have set fire to the salon.”

“I would like to agree with you, but I cannot.” He sat beside her.

“So you think the fire was an accident?”

“About as accidental as the men coming into the salon to beat you.”

As always, when he mentioned that, she put her hand to the bruises on her cheek as if she could belatedly protect herself. “Leave off, Evan. I do not want your help.” She flushed. “I did not mean to suggest I am ungrateful—”

“You leave off, Brienne!”

“Is something wrong, sir?” asked a maid, peering into the drawing room.

“Nothing.” With a curse, he crossed the room and pulled the doors closed.

In horror, Brienne stared at Evan. He always had governed his emotions, hiding the truth. As he pinned her to the chair with his fearsome gaze, she wanted to say something. But what?

He moved closer without releasing her from his compelling stare. When he leaned forward to place his hands on the back of the settee, she slanted away, astounded. He gripped her face between his fingers.

“Listen to me!” he ordered in a low growl. “You are in more danger than you can conceive. You have been robbed, beaten, and nearly burned alive. How much more will it take to convince you that you need my help?” He sat beside her again and put his hand on her sleeve to keep her from standing. “Honey, you are going to sit here and listen until you admit that is the truth.”

“That I am being hunted by a bunch of fools?”

“Mayhap they are fools, but they are determined to see you dead if that is what is necessary to get what they want.”

“This is absurd!”

He cupped her chin and brought her face up. “Dammit, Brienne! You are intelligent. Don't be so dashed naïve. If you had not gone downstairs when you did, we might all be cinders now. Not just you. Not just me, but your mother and your grandmother. If you will not heed my warnings for your own sake, listen for your grandmother's. They killed your mother. Are you going to let them take the last member of your family from you?”

“She may not be—” Clamping her lips closed, she realized how easily she might reveal the secrets her mother had told her.

“Not the last of your family?”

“Must you pounce on everything I say?” She tried to pull away; then, with a sigh, she relented. “There must be others who remained in France after Papa died on the guillotine during the Terror.”

“He was killed by the guillotine? Then, why did you name your salon after the opening line of
La Marseillaise
?”

“You would have to ask Grand-mère, for she and Maman named the salon when I was just a child.”

He released her and sat back. “Your father was named Marc-Michel?”

“Yes,” she said, astonished. “Marc-Michel LeClerc, but how did you know?”

“Your mother spoke of him. She clearly loved him very much.”

She swirled the wine in her glass. How odd that Maman had spoken of Papa to Evan! Every time Brienne had asked about him, Maman had evaded the questions, telling her it was no longer important. Grand-mère had been as reticent.

“Explain something to me,” Evan said quietly.

“Yes?”

“Brienne, look at me.” When she did, he asked, “Isn't Madame LeClerc your mother's mother?”

“Yes, but you know that.”

“Then, why does she have the same name as your mother and you?”

“What business is that of yours?” Setting herself on her feet, she said in her most frigid tone, “If it is parentage we are discussing, it might be more interesting to explore yours which gave you your beastly manners.”

He laughed and stood. “Honey, years ago, my progenitors and I reached an agreement to part ways. They seem pleased with the arrangement, for they made only one attempt to contact me. I think it was after I was involved in a little episode in Bath.”

“One I should not ask about?”

“You might regret it if you do.” He smiled as if he were remembering a frolic, but she guessed it had more to do with larceny.

“I can only assume it went more successfully than this escapade?”

“You are a cruel woman, Brienne LeClerc, when I am trying to protect you and your family.”

“In exchange for finding the vase?”

With a sigh, he drained his glass and put it on a nearby table. “No, for that is useless, isn't it? Although you lied to me after you were attacked, the fire proved the thieves did not get what they wanted. So they wanted to be sure no one did.”

She put her glass next to his. “Now I understand why you were so anxious to go back there after the fire. How kind of you to take me when you were eager to sift through the ashes in hopes of finding the vase! I am sick of you and your schemes. Tomorrow I shall look for another place to live!” Silently, as she went to the door, she congratulated herself for steering the conversation in this direction. If Evan thought she was going to find another home tomorrow, he would not suspect what she had planned for just past midnight. “Good night.”

“Brienne?”

“Yes?” She glanced over her shoulder and discovered that he stood right behind her.

He put his hands on her shoulders as he moved between her and the door. “Honey, I know you have no reason to trust me.”

“You are correct about that!”

“Listen for once!” He frowned. “I am trying to save your pretty neck. I do not know who else is after the vase, but, until I do, I think you and Madame LeClerc should leave London.”

She hid her shock. “Where would we go?”

“I have a friend with an estate not far from Brighton.”

“Another friend? You have quite a few, don't you?”

“Brienne, I do not know why I care what happens to you. You are determined to get yourself and everyone else around you killed.” His hands stroked her shoulders as he drew her closer. “Despite myself, I find I do care about keeping you alive.”

When she saw his mouth lowering toward hers, she averted her face. “No,” she whispered, “do not do that.”

“You did not mind this afternoon.” He whispered in her ear, “In fact, you seemed very eager.”

Pushing away from him, she opened the door. “That was a mistake. Good night, Evan.” She ran across the foyer, then skidded along the slippery floor to avoid bumping into Hitchcock. Grasping the newel post, she careened around it and up the stairs to her room.

She closed the door, sliding the bolt into place, before she dropped into a chair. Hiding her face in her hands, she wondered how she could have ever thought she had control over any conversation with Evan. Or any control over her longing to be in his arms. She could not halt herself from imagining the rapture of his mouth against hers. It was so perfect and all wrong.

She closed her eyes as she leaned her head back against the chair. He shredded all her defenses with his facile, seductive lures which drew her to him even when she knew how dangerous he could be for her and her family.

Her family!

Rising, Brienne went to the armoire and pulled out the bag. After tonight, she doubted if she would ever see Evan again. She would catch a late coach to Dover. There she would find someone willing to take her to France. When she reached France.… She had no idea what she would do then, but she must find her way to her father's grave.

She opened the bag and drew out the note she had written to her grandmother. Tilting it, she read:

Dear Grand-mère
,

Maman asked me to do one last thing for her. I vowed I would go to France to find Papa's grave. I shall return as soon as I can. With this letter, I have left enough money so you can rent a room and buy food for about two months. If I am gone longer, Père Jean-Baptiste will help you
.

I love you
.

Do not worry about me. Maman would never ask anything of me that was dangerous
.

Tell Evan thank you for all he has done for us
.

I am

Your loving granddaughter
,

Brienne LeClerc

Brienne bit her lip as she folded the page over the pound notes she had taken from the box. That left her with far less money than she should have for such a journey, but she could not leave her grandmother to starve. Evan might allow Grand-mère to stay here while he lived in this house. After that, Grand-mère must have money to live on.

Now all she needed to do was wait for everyone in the house to fall asleep. Then she could be on her way, far from London and far from Evan Somerset. Certainly she would forget him once she was in France.

As she clutched the bag holding the small vase, she vowed that in a soft whisper. She would forget him.

She must.

Chapter Seven

In the afternoon sunshine, Dover's docks were worse than Brienne had expected. They stank of things she did not want to identify. Wrapping her cloak closer to her, for the briny breeze was icy, she shivered. If she succeeded in reaching France, she still had to find her family home, then return somehow to England and the security she had taken for granted. Common sense begged her to find a dray and go back to London. No one would admonish her for breaking her vow to her mother when France was at war with the rest of Europe.

No one but herself.

The bales and crates and barrels created a maze along the wooden planks. As she threaded her way through them, she tried to ignore the men watching her. Soon their attention was drawn away by a woman sashaying along the uneven cobbles.

“C'mon 'ere, dearie!” called a man.

Brienne hurried away. She did not want to witness a business transaction between a dockside whore and her customer, who stroked her more boldly than Evan had ever touched Brienne.

Begone!
She was furious that Evan continued to invade her mind. She wanted him gone so she could concentrate on her task of finding a way to France instead of thinking how he had tried to buy her with his offer of Ł200. Clutching her bag close to her chest, she sighed. She could not allow her longings to persuade her to go home to London and his kisses that teased her to believe his lies.

She passed a handcart selling sausages. Her mouth watered, and her stomach growled, reminding her that she had not eaten since dinner last night. She stared at the greasy sausages which had such a delightful spicy scent. She could not waste a single farthing if she wanted to go to France, do as she had promised, and come back to England.

When the man by the cart looked at her, she asked, “Do you know Captain Marksen?” She had heard during the ride from London that Captain Marksen had a reputation as a smuggler who was willing to do anything for the right price.

“Mayhap.” He continued to stir onions in a pot. The pungent odor kept him wiping his eyes with the back of a hand covered with thick, black hair.

“I am looking for Captain Marksen.”

“Heard ye. Ain't deaf.”

“And?”

“And what?”

She understood what she should have before. Opening her bag, she put a coin beside the pot. He glanced at it and away. When she put another coin next to it, he regarded her in silence. Searching for a third coin, she added it to the pile. Easily he made them disappear.

“What d'ye need to know?” he asked quietly.

“Where I can find Captain Marksen.”

Hooking a thumb toward a bench where a trio of men sat, he said, “Middle one.”

In disbelief, she stared at the man who returned to cooking the food he was hawking. Her money had bought her too little, but at least she knew where to find Captain Marksen.

She walked to the bench which was set next to a tavern door. Raucous sounds burst from the tavern. When a man reeled out, she moved hastily aside, then turned to see the men on the bench appraising her candidly. In her black dress under the long cape, she did not look like the harlots strutting along the quay. She would not let their stares intimidate her.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” she said. A quick look told her all three men were dressed like the seamen who had invaded her salon. She was glad the curve of her plain bonnet hid her cheek and the bruises.

The man sitting in the middle of the plank balanced on two buckets met her gaze steadily. His narrow face was deeply tanned. Puffing on a pipe, he drew it from his mouth and blew the acrid smoke into her face. As his friends chuckled when she coughed, he said, “Go 'ome to where good little girls should be. We do not need yer preachin' 'ere.”

She waved away the smoke and glared at the man whose heart must be as black as his thinning hair. He reeked, and she wondered when he had last washed his clothes. Probably the last time he had bathed, which must have been several fortnights ago.

“I shall be on my way,” she returned, “if you are not interested in earning a few extra pounds, Captain Marksen.”

“A few extra pounds?” he asked, instantly intrigued.

She smiled as coldly as he had. “Do you always do your business in public?”

He did not speak, but a glower at his companions must have been some sort of signal. The two men stood. Brienne gasped when one ran his hand along her back and laughed.

“Leave 'er alone,” Captain Marksen ordered. “Cain't ye see she be a lady?”