A Daughter's Destiny (23 page)

He drew her closer. “What happened to the Brienne who would have slapped my face for such a suggestion when we last stood here?”

“She has discovered how much—” A motion past him caught her eye. Whirling out of his arms, she ran to the stairs. “Grand-mère!”

Her grandmother came down the last steps at a reckless speed. She pulled Brienne to her and hugged her until Brienne feared she would be smothered. She did not pull away, because she wanted to comfort her grandmother.

“My child, my child,” Grand-mère whispered over and over again in French. “I have feared for your safety.” She put out her hand to Evan as she added in English, “Thank you for bringing Brienne back to me.”

“I would not have gone if I had not promised Maman,” she whispered.

“Lucile should not have asked that of you.” Grand-mère framed Brienne's face in her hands. “She knew the danger may be as great to you now as ever, child.”

“Grand-mère, what Evan told me about my father—”

“What is all this?” asked a man's voice from near the front door. “Who are you?”

Brienne kept her hand on her grandmother's arm and turned to see a stranger. He was not as tall as Evan, but had an air of arrogance that dominated the foyer. His short, black hair was brushed forward in a classic style. As he drew off leather gloves, she could not keep from noting that his clothes were as fine as anything worn by the patrons of L'Enfant de la Patrie. His knee-high boots glistened as brightly as the street lamps.

She was about to ask him who he was and what he was doing in the house when Hitchcock took the gloves and the man's hat with a bow and a broad smile. The man must be welcome here. Why hadn't Evan said anything about a friend calling?

A woman came into the house, her eyes becoming as wide as Brienne's. A pattern-card of elegance, the brown-haired woman wore a dress of the palest pink. The ribbons on the high bodice matched the ones on her bonnet and on her silk slippers which peeked from beneath her skirt. She carried a parasol, although the fog was dense on the square, now hiding the buildings on the far side.

Evan stepped forward. “Porter, what are you doing here? I thought you disdained the Season's beginnings.”

“Somerset!” The man laughed. “What to-do are you creating in my house now?”

Turning, Evan took Brienne's hand and drew her forward. She did not release her hold on her grandmother's arm, so Grand-mère stood on her other side.

“Brienne, Madame LeClerc, allow me to introduce our up-until-now absent host, Armistead Porter,” Evan said with a chuckle. “Porter, Madame LeClerc and her granddaughter, Brienne LeClerc.”

Mr. Porter bowed over Grand-mère's hand, then plucked Brienne's hand out of Evan's and raised it to his lips. “What a pleasurable and most lovely surprise to find awaiting me when I return home.” Taking the hand of the young woman who had entered when he did, he said, “Allow me to introduce my dear friend Louisa Woods.”

Evan greeted Miss Woods as graciously as Mr. Porter had welcomed Brienne and her grandmother. Brienne was not certain if she was more astonished by Louisa's accent that identified her as French or that Evan spoke all the proper commonplaces as if he were enjoying himself. He never had had patience with such things before.

“If you will excuse us, Monsieur Porter,” Grand-mère said in a tone that suggested arguing would be worthless, “Brienne needs to clean up. A bath is waiting for you, child.”

“Yes, do excuse us,” she added. “I am afraid our journey has left me a dashed shabrag.”

“Journey?” asked Mr. Porter, his eyes bright with interest.

Evan slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Brienne went to pay a call in the country. I escorted her back.”

“You? You hate daisyville.” Mr. Porter chuckled. “I suspect you would be glad to wash away those memories with some brandy.” He smiled at Miss Woods. “I trust you would like to refresh yourself, too.”

“Yes,” Miss Woods said in her breathy voice that was barely above a whisper. “This fog is so filthy. It is what I hate most about London.”

“Now, now, Louisa,” Mr. Porter replied with a strained chuckle. “It will be gone with the arrival of the sunshine. In the meantime, will you ladies join us when you have finished your ablutions?”

Brienne glanced at her grandmother. She had so many questions to ask her, but she did not want to offend their host. Nodding, she said, “Thank you.”

When Brienne hurried up the stairs with her grandmother in tow and Miss Woods following at a more decorous pace, Evan noticed his friend watching with obvious interest. Not Miss Woods, but Brienne. He smiled. Porter never had been able to resist a pretty lass, and Brienne must be one of the prettiest his friend had ever seen.

“So why are you in Town so early?” Evan asked as they walked more slowly up the steps to the book-room where Porter kept his best brandy. “There cannot be much to interest you now, unless you have your eye on a special lady. Miss Woods, I assume.”

“Louisa is a friend, not someone I would consider for more.”

Evan glanced at where Miss Woods was vanishing around the top of the stairs. She must be the mistress whose clothes Brienne had borrowed during her last stay here in this house. It seemed that Porter had finally tired of his previous convenient.… What had been her name? Evan could not recall. Not that it mattered. He doubted if Porter could. His friend enjoyed
à suivie
affairs, what Porter judged to be the proper fare for a bachelor during the Season. It was unfortunate that Porter had selected a French mistress just now.

“So there must be another you are considering, Porter, if you are here so early.”

“I cannot fool you, can I?” Porter opened the door to a musty smell, and Evan guessed the room had not been used since the end of the past Season.

“So who is this paragon of femininity?”

Porter frowned when he realized no brandy awaited on the table. Ringing for a bottle to be brought posthaste, he sat in a leather chair and stretched his legs out onto a low stool. “Her identity should remain private at the moment, for she does not yet know of my interest in her.”

Evan sighed as he let a thickly padded chair embrace him. Although he would rather have been in Brienne's soapy arms as he helped her wash herself and him, he had not enjoyed such comfort as this chair since he had left here weeks ago. He might have reconsidered his plan to bring Brienne here if he had guessed that Porter would be arriving to take up residence on Grosvenor Square now. Mayhap it would all work out well. If Porter was intent on the pursuit of some young miss, that would keep the eyes of the
ton
on him, so they might not take note of Brienne.

“You are quiet, my friend,” Porter said.

Standing to collect the tray from the maid who came to the door, Evan set it on a table between them. “I am trying to imagine which young woman has touched your heart enough to steal your attention from Miss Woods.”

“You are thinking of Miss Woods?” Porter chuckled. “I had thought you might have been thinking of the one who has clearly caught your interest.”

With an off-hand laugh, he said, “If you mean Brienne, do not conjecture anything by the fact that I retrieved her from the country. It was as a favor for her grandmother.”

“Then, you are a beef-head. She is lovely even with mud and dirt on her face.” He took the glass Evan handed him. “I assumed because she is living in my house that you brought her here.”

“I did. She and her grandmother were made homeless after a fire, so I offered to let them stay here until they could find another place to live.”

“Are you endeavoring to be granted sainthood?” Porter laughed again, this time more heartily. “A change in occupation for you, isn't it?”

“I was getting bored with my old one.” Sitting again, Evan listened as his friend spoke about his own journey from the country. He replied when Porter seemed to expect him to, but his thoughts were on Brienne.

He
was
a beef-head. Porter was right about that. If Brienne could catch Porter's attention when she was as dirty as a fusty lugs sitting near the gutter, she would garner the gaze of every man in the Polite World when her hair was not hanging limply by her muddy face. Bringing her back to London might have been a mistake. But where else could she go? She was no longer safe with Teatro Caparelli. Going to Château Tonnere du Grêlon was out of the question, for she would be walking into a war.

You could have sent her to your family
. He silenced that thought with a curse. He would rather send her into Napoleon's war than inflict his family's battles on her.

“Ah, how stunning you look,” Porter said, drawing Evan's gaze to the door.

Evan came to his feet as he delighted in the sight of Brienne standing in the doorway. Her ebony hair was damp, so wiry curls dropped out of her chignon to edge her face. She must have scrubbed her face hard, because her cheeks were a luscious pink. In her simple gown, she was more beautiful than any befeathered and jeweled lady of the
ton
.

Going to the door, he offered his arm. He smiled as he offered the other one to Madame LeClerc. “You must admit, Porter, that I am a fortunate man to have two such wondrous ladies upon my arms.”

“The luckiest man in London, I would aver.” Porter bowed his head toward them.

“Miss Woods shall be down shortly, Mr. Porter,” Madame LeClerc said.

“You do not need to feel obligated to deliver messages,” he replied. “You are my friend's guests. Therefore, you are my guests.”

Brienne smiled when her grandmother did. Grand-mère had been fearful that Mr. Porter would ask them to take their leave. In fact, Grand-mère had spoken of little else. Brienne had understood why when a maid came out of the dressing room to help her change. Grand-mère had wanted no one else in the house to have an inkling of the truth of where Brienne had been and why.

Did that mean that the tale Evan had told her was the truth? She wished she knew, but that conversation would have to wait until they endured this polite one.

While Evan sat her and her grandmother on a lush settee, Mr. Porter rang for tea for them. Mr. Porter returned to his chair and began prattling with Grand-mère as if they had known each other for years. Grand-mère told entertaining tales of their life at L'Enfant de la Patrie, never hinting that any other sort of life should have been Brienne's, not even pausing when the tea tray was brought.

Brienne glanced at Evan, who wore an innocuous expression. When his gaze met hers, she saw his amusement with Grand-mère's deft handling of Mr. Porter's questions. She noticed wariness in his eyes as well. Although Mr. Porter was his friend, she guessed Evan did not trust him completely. She wondered if he trusted anyone.

Or if she did any longer. That lesson he had taught her well … as he had taught her to fall in love with him.

Out of sight of the others, she slipped her hand over his. Again he glanced at her. The amusement had vanished, replaced by the glow of fierce desire that set her heart beating against her chest like a bird on a window.

He drew his hand out of hers as he stood when Miss Woods came to the door. Brienne could not keep from staring, for Miss Woods looked even more elegant in her tea gown of cream bedecked with gold lace. Her cap accented her hair that was nearly the same shade as the lace. When she smiled, the room seemed to get brighter.

“Oh, I am so pleased that you did not wait for me.” She took the cup that Grand-mère held out to her. “Thank you, Mrs. LeClerc.” She dimpled. “I would prefer, as I guess you would, to say
merci
. My English is very poor, so I hope you will not make note of it.” She ran her hand along Mr. Porter's shoulder as she chose a chair next to him. “Armistead wishes me to use only English, so I will learn to speak it with more skill.”

“So you are the one who has brought the French style into this house,” Grand-mère said. “The touches of the decorating as well as some of the excellent dishes I have sampled have had a definitive Gallic touch.” She smiled. “Although yours remain superior, Brienne. I wish you would speak with the cook about the amount of basil she uses.”

“And the garlic,” added Miss Woods. “It is supposed to enhance instead of hide the flavors. These English!”

Seeing both their host and Evan frowning, Brienne wanted to ask what was amiss. She had no chance. Miss Woods monopolized the conversation with her light-hearted comments about everything and everyone connected with the Polite World. She claimed not to know the English language well, but she clearly had learned enough to heed all the gossip. Louisa Woods had, Brienne discovered quickly, very definite opinions on whom one must defer to and who put on silly airs. London, in Miss Woods's estimation, was a barely tolerable place to live, but it was necessary if she wanted to enjoy the entertainments of the Season.

Mr. Porter said, with a gentle chuckle, “Louisa, you shall wear our ears out with your prattle. Please allow one of the rest of us to make a comment.”

She pouted, then gave him a glorious smile. “Of course, Armistead. I want to know all about your guests, so that we can become friends. Tell me, Armistead, how you met Mr. Somerset.”

“Evan and I met when I arranged for him to purchase some pieces of art for me.” He turned to Evan. “You and St. Clair did great work then, persuading folks to sell work that they had not planned to part with. Is St. Clair still smuggling art from the Continent?”

Brienne expected her grandmother to be shocked at the question, but Grand-mère smiled, her eyes twinkling as brightly as Evan's when he teased her. Grand-mère must have known about this. She wondered how much Evan had told her grandmother on the night he chased after her. Not the complete truth, she guessed, for he now wore that grin that suggested he was keeping the most important secrets to himself.