A Daughter's Destiny (7 page)

“I do not have it.”

“Then, why—?” He glanced out of the window as the coach slowed. “Never mind. Here we are.”

She tried to peer past him. When he laughed and drew her closer so she could see out his window, she gasped, “
This
is where you live?”

“I told you I lived on Grosvenor Square.”

“I know, but …” Her voice trailed off as she looked at the elegant townhouse. Only a wealthy man could own a townhouse like this one.

Who was this man who had invaded her life, bringing such disaster in his wake? Everything he had said came back to haunt her. If he had been as honest about other things as this, was it possible that the vase was truly valuable? Mayhap he truly had a friend who wanted it for some reason.

Again she was caught by how his blue eyes twinkled merrily. He was no more sincere than a suitor whispering court-promises in a lady's ear. Evan Somerset was many men, but she doubted if she had seen the real one yet. She was not sure who he really was, but he was not a legitimate art dealer interested in buying an odd piece of art from her family.

Then, why does someone want that old vase so badly?

She had no answer for that as she gazed at the house while the coachman jumped down and opened the door. She looked up through the dusk at the roof of the structure, four stories above the walkway. Marble edged the door and windows in a simple, classic style. An arch accented the door. Statuary, in fanciful designs, pranced over the arch and on top of the ground-floor windows. Every brick and bit of plaster announced that this house belonged to a member of the
ton
.

Evan said, drawing her gaze back to him, “To answer your question, Brienne—”

“I did not ask you a question.”

“Not aloud, but your face reveals what you are thinking, so I will tell you that a friend has been kind enough to allow me to use his house while he is visiting other friends at a country estate. I needed a place to live while I searched London for your vase.”

“You want me to believe that a friend of yours owns this?”

“Impressed?”

“Yes.” When she saw his eyebrow quirk, she added, “And didn't you expect me to be? Why else would you live here? You must want to impress your—”

“Clients.”

“I was thinking victims might be closer to the truth.”

He laughed. Stepping out of the carriage, he held up his hand to her. “We can enjoy this quarrel within the comfort of the house. Shall we go inside?”

When he held up his hand, she hesitated, then placed her fingers on it. The unwanted warmth slid along her arm. She did not
like
this man.
But you like his kisses
, taunted a small voice in her head.

With manners as polished as any lord's, he handed her out of the carriage. He reached past her. She whirled, not sure what he planned. Her eyes widened when he picked up the bag containing the box from under Maman's bed.

“I thought you might want this taken care of,” he said, “so I put it in the carriage when I sent your mother and grandmother here. They must have forgotten to take it in.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“I saw you give it to your grandmother; but she set it down while we were fighting the fire, and I was afraid it would get stolen if it was left on the walkway.”

“Thank you.”

“I wish we could have saved more.”

“I wish so, too. I—”

“What is it?” he asked, frowning.

“I don't know.”

“Brienne?”

“I don't know!” She stared at the front door of the house. “Something is wrong.”

“With the house?”

“I don't know!”

“You are making no sense.”

“I really don't know what is wrong, but something is.” She shivered. “I know it as surely as I know L'Enfant de la Patrie is ashes.”

She could not imagine explaining to him about the
feelings
she sometimes experienced. He would laugh at her, and she could not blame him. She knew these sensations often heralded trouble. More trouble. How could she explain when her stomach roiled as if a riot were taking place within it?

“Brienne?” called a voice from the front door.

“Grand-mère!” She ran up the steps to the door that had been thrown open.

Her grandmother threw her arms around her, squeezing her until Brienne could not breathe. “Oh, Brienne, thank heavens you are here!”

Breaking out of the near stranglehold, Brienne said, “I am safe, Grand-mère.” She stared at her grandmother's ashen face. “
Mon Dieu
, what is wrong?”

“'Tis your mother, child. I think Lucile is—” She choked, then whispered, “I fear she is worsening.”

“Worsening?” queried Evan as he motioned for Brienne and her grandmother to enter the house.

Grand-mère nodded, but held Brienne's gaze. “I think she is dying.”

Chapter Five

“Dying? Maman is dying?” Brienne ran for the stairs, rushing up them.

“Second door to your left!” her grandmother called after her before turning to Evan. “We must send for the priest at the Berwick Street Chapel in Soho.”

Evan stared at Madame LeClerc in astonishment. For once, her face showed every year of her life as grief stripped away its laugh lines. “Madame, was she injured in our escape?”

“'Tis the consumption. The smoke has sapped her, so she cannot breathe. Monsieur Somerset—”

He put his hand on Madame LeClerc's arm. It was the only solace he could offer her.

“I shall send for the priest immediately.” When she followed him as he reached for a bellpull, he added, “I shall tend to sending for the priest if you wish to return to your daughter.”

“Lucile wished to see Brienne alone.” Tears filled her eyes. “She wants to say good-bye to Brienne. I thought I would find the kitchen here and make some tea for all of us while we wait—”

“For the priest,” he hurried to finish for her.

She nodded. “Yes, for the priest. Where is your kitchen?”

“A moment.” Evan tugged on the bellpull so hard it almost ripped from the ceiling. A footman and Hitchcock, the butler, nearly collided running toward them. He gave quick instructions to the footman to get the priest. “Be sure to hurry. We need the priest right away.”

“Yes, Mr. Somerset.” The footman glanced at Madame LeClerc, then ran out of the house.

Hitchcock closed the door in his wake. The butler wore deep gray livery that never was wrinkled or showed a spot. As the butler looked down his nose at him, Evan resisted wiping cinders from his ruined coat. “Yes, sir?”

“Madame LeClerc would like some tea brought upstairs to her daughter's room.”

“Yes, sir.” He turned and walked toward the back of the house.

“Thank you,” Madame LeClerc murmured.

Evan helped her to sit on a backless settee beside the curving stairs. The gold color of the wallcovering added a sallow shadow to Madame LeClerc's cheeks. He knelt on one knee beside her. “The priest will be here soon.”

“Thank you,” she whispered again, then stared down at her tightly clasped hands.

Evan gripped the side of the settee and looked up the stairs. Brienne must be saying farewell to her mother. How much more could she endure before even her strength was gone? She must stay strong, for, he knew, her greatest trials might still be ahead of her.

Whoever else was seeking that vase might not give up pursuing Brienne simply because the vase had been destroyed. Neither could he.

In the beautiful bedroom, Brienne ran to the fancy tester bed where her mother was lying. She drew up the steps beside the bed and knelt on them. She did not want to think that this might be the final time she would be able to speak to her mother. No, she must not think of that. Then she would not be able to halt the tears which flooded her eyes.

“Maman?” she whispered in French. “Maman, I am here with you.” She got no answer. “Maman, 'Tis Brienne.”

Her mother opened her eyes with painful slowness. “Brienne, what has happened to your face?”

She almost smiled, for the scold sounded so familiar. Maman insisted that Brienne be the pattern-card of propriety even when she was cooking in a hot kitchen. Reaching up, she touched the soot on her face. “I did not wait to clean away the ashes. I wanted to come right away to see how you fared.”

“Am I so close to dying, then?” She raised her fingers off the white coverlet to halt Brienne's answer. “Do not lie to me, Brienne.”

“You need not talk, Maman. I will be glad to sit here and hold your hand while you rest.” Brienne fought the fear rising within her. Her mother's voice was breathless, even for her, and her chest strained for each breath.

“Brienne,
m'enfante
, tell me that you have not been hurt more.”

“I am fine.”

“L'Enfant de la Patrie?”

“It can be rebuilt.” She guessed that was a lie, but it no longer seemed odd that she protected her mother from the truth, for she had been doing it all her life. “I have the money that was in the box under your bed. We can start again, as we did before. We—”

Maman slid a skeletal hand over Brienne's. “Do not be so frightened by death. It is something I welcome. For so long, I have been waiting to be with your papa. Tonight I will be with him again. Do not mourn for me,
ma chere
. Promise me that.”

“Maman—”

“Promise me!”

Not wanting her mother to overexert herself, Brienne murmured, “I promise, Maman.”

“Good.” She relaxed into the pillows. “Rejoice that I have found my release from pain.”

“Maman, I cannot rejoice, for I do not want you to die. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Brienne. That is why I must ask you. The vase. Do you have it?”

“Yes, Maman. It is still in the box, as you requested, but do not fret about the vase. It does not matter now.”

Her mother's eyes grew round and bright with zeal. “It matters more than you can know, child. Take the vase to France. Take it home to where it belongs. Promise me that you will take it home and present it to whoever is living there.”

“There? Where?”

“Home,” she answered so low that Brienne had to lean forward to hear her.

“But, Maman, I do not know where that is. You and Grand-mère never told me where—”

A spasm of coughs tormented her, but she whispered, “Go there. Do not let anyone know where you are going, not even your grandmother. You must do this. You must go. Promise me, Brienne.”

“I promise, Maman, but where do you want me to take the vase?”

“Go! It is what your father would have wanted for you. This is why I have guarded you so closely.” A shudder threatened to shatter her weak body. “But be wary, Brienne. The door will betray you. Do not forget to watch for the door.”

“Door?” Every word her mother said only confused her more. “Maman, I do not understand.”

“You will when you are home. It all, at last, will be yours.”

“What is mine? I do not understand!”

“Promise me that you will tell no one that you have the vase until you have claimed what is yours. Not even your grandmother must know.”

“Maman—”

“Promise me, Brienne. Promise me please.”

“I promise.” She could say nothing else.

Her mother closed her eyes. For a fearful moment, Brienne feared she had died. Then she saw the slow rise and fall of her mother's chest. Leaning her head on the edge of the bed, she tried to pray. It was impossible when she wanted so much. To have her mother well, to be safe, to understand why her world was self-destructing around her.

When the door opened, she looked up to see a priest entering the room. She stood and stepped respectfully aside. Her tears blurred Père Jean-Baptiste's familiar face. The balding priest had been the curate at the
émigrés'
church in Soho for as long as she could recall.

He took her hands between his. “Bless you, child, for all you have done for your mother.”

“I love her. I could have done no less.”

He nodded before moving to the bed to administer last rites to her mother as Grand-mère came into the room. Brienne put her arm around her grandmother, who was weeping. She wished for words to comfort her grandmother, but could not find any.

A hand settled on her arm. She did not need to look away from the bed, because the sharp pulse told her that the hand belonged to Evan. Wanting to lean her head against his strong shoulder, she did not move. She had to be here for her grandmother.

Brienne realized her mother had breathed her last when her grandmother sank to a chair and wept even harder. Going to Père Jean-Baptiste, she whispered, “Thank you.”

“Brienne,” he said, folding her hands between his, “as far as the memorial service—”

Evan stepped forward. “Father, I will be glad to discuss that with you if Brienne wishes to see to her grandmother.”

“Of course,” the priest said, clearly startled.

“Thank you,” Brienne whispered, drawing her hands out of Père Jean-Baptiste's and putting one on Evan's arm. “I am so sorry that you—”

“Take care of your grandmother,” he interrupted gently.

Brienne nodded. She went to help Grand-mère from the room. Now she owed Evan an even greater debt, for he had come to her assistance yet again. How could he be so kind and yet try to twist her into doing as he wished with a cacophony of lies? She had no answer as she brought her grandmother to her feet.

“I thought Madame LeClerc would like the room across the hall,” Evan said quietly.

Grand-mère shook off Brienne's hand. Taking Brienne's face between her hands, she whispered, “Weep, if you wish,
ma petite
.”

“I will, but …”

“In your own time.” She walked back toward the bed. “I would like to pray. Père Jean-Baptiste, will you pray with me?”