A Daughter's Destiny (9 page)

“I like walking in the rain,” he said as they walked in the same direction the carriage had taken.

She looked at him, startled. “So do I. Things are somehow slower when it rains. Mayhap it washes away the hectic parts of life.”

“Or it simply keeps most sane people indoors?”

“Mayhap.” She was amazed she could smile as she looked at the puddled street. “I like to listen to the raindrops on the cobbles and to take a deep breath of the hot smell when they strike the dry road.” She edged around a puddle. “It has been years since I thought about running about in the rain. I guess I have been too busy with L'Enfant de la Patrie.”

“Did you grow up in London?”

“Yes, and you?”

He smiled. “You may not believe me when I tell you that I had the advantages of a country childhood.”

“I believe you.”

“You do?”

“I do not know what you are now, Evan, but I suspect you were raised in comfort in the country. You seem to fit very well into your life on Grosvenor Square, so I believe your life is now like it should have been.”

“What it should have been?” He grinned. “Dammit, I should have known you were an intuitive woman and steered wide of you.”

“I told you to leave more than once.”

He did not answer as they paused at the curb to wait for a dray to pass with its load of soggy vegetables for Covent Garden. As it bumped over the cobbles, a basket of carrots bounced off and crashed onto the road. Before the teamster's apprentice could retrieve it, another wagon drove over the vegetables, smashing them. Instantly a loud argument erupted.

“Let's go,” whispered Brienne. “I am tired of quarrels.”

She expected Evan to answer, but again he remained silent as he led her along the walkway to a spot where they could cross the street. The silence grew uncomfortable between them. She wished for something to say, but she could think of nothing.

When Evan spoke, she flinched, not just with surprise, but with dismay at his question. “What do you remember about your life in France?”

“Very little. I have a few memories, but they are a child's memories of being loved and taken care of. I do not recall coming to London. As I was barely three years old, that is understandable.”

“Yes.” He swore.

“Evan?”

He chuckled wryly. “Sorry. That rain that just trickled down my back was as cold as a winter Friday.”

“Take more of the umbrella.” She edged away from him. “I am staying quite dry.”

“And you shall stay that way. After all, your grandmother entrusted you to me, and I do not want to break a pledge to her.”

She halted in the middle of the street. Hastily, he readjusted the umbrella over her. She reached up and pushed it aside. Instantly the rain matted her borrowed cloak and battered down her bonnet's feathers.

“Get under the umbrella!” Evan ordered.

“No!”

Grasping her arm, he tugged her to the other walkway and under the umbrella. When she tried to step back, he pulled her up against his chest.

“Don't say it!” He swore, before adding, “I shall treat you like a child if you insist on acting like one. Why do you always let your pride get in the way of your common sense?”

“Because I—”

His mouth slanted across hers, silencing her. When she gasped, his tongue brushed hers. Fiery desire exploded through her. She gripped the front of his coat and discovered she wanted to touch him. Her fingers rose to stroke his strong back as he deepened the kiss until she softened against him. All of her senses were overmastered with a sweetness which erased the horror of the past week.

Horror … she choked as the dampness on her eyelashes became tears instead of raindrops. She hid her face against his waistcoat and sobbed. His hand caressed her gently as he leaned his cheek against the top of her bonnet. While she grieved for her mother, he simply held her.

“That is better,” she heard him say when her weeping eased.

“Better?” she whispered.

Gently, he wiped the pool of tears from beneath her eyes with one crooked finger. “Keeping your sorrow inside you forever is impossible. I learned that a long time ago. Grieving hearts have to grieve before they can be healed.”

“I did not realize you were an expert on grief.” She flushed when his lips tightened. How could she guess when he was being sincere and when he was trying to twist her into the webs of deceit he spun so well? “I am sorry, Evan. I should not have said that. You were trying to be comforting.”

“But not succeeding.” His thumbs beneath her chin tilted her face back. “Honey, I know you question everything I tell you, but believe me when I tell you that I am so very sorry that your mother died. I have seen that you will miss her so much.”

“More than you know.” Her voice broke. “More than I knew.”

“You are right, for I cannot imagine being so hurt by the loss of my family that—” His irreverent grin returned. “Can we discuss this somewhere warm and dry? I am getting drenched.”

Although she wanted to ask him why he cared so little about his family, Brienne nodded. Asking him would be futile. Evan would converse charmingly on any subject
he
chose, but could close up more quickly than a pickpocket's fingers on a purse when he wished.

As she walked by his side, she sighed. In a way, she knew him better than she knew anyone else in her life, for they had shared so much since she had met him. He was good in a crisis. He was not afraid to speak his mind. He had a kind heart, although he tried to hide it. He had wits honed by his work, and he was handsome enough to draw eyes as they walked along the street.

Yet, in truth, she knew nothing about Evan Somerset, and she could not ignore the temptation to learn more. She was curious if he was actually this kind gentleman or a hard-hearted thief who was treating her with compassion only because he wanted something from her.

But she must ignore that temptation. She had made a vow to Maman. Now she must do as she had promised.

Brienne quietly shut the door to her grandmother's room. Nodding to the maid who would answer Madame LeClerc's call, she hurried along the wide hallway to the graceful curve of the staircase. A cup of tea would be pleasant before she went to sleep, too. She paused at the top of the stairs, and her gaze went, as it did every time she passed this way, to the door of the room where her mother had died.

Through the long, wet afternoon, Brienne had prepared to fulfill her promise to Maman. No one had disturbed her, believing she had secluded herself to mourn. She was ready to leave London, but her plans beyond that were uncertain. There were only a few ways to reach France during this war.

The vase was packed in the very center of the few things she was taking with her. When she returned, she would find a way to repay Evan's friend for the clothing that she had packed in the small bag she had found at the back of the armoire. If she returned.… She must, because she could not leave Grand-mère here dependent on Evan forever. She did not want to now, but she was not sure what else to do.

Brienne sighed as she looked at a japanned chest at the end of the hallway. Behind the doors covered with crimson lacquer, there must be treasures far finer than her small, blue vase. So why would anyone want it? That no longer mattered. All that was important was her promise to Maman.

Putting her fingers on the banister, she walked slowly down the stairs. She gazed about in awe, struck anew by the opulence she could not have imagined a few days ago. So proud she had been of her salon, but it could not compare to this splendid house. She recalled how on cold winter evenings she and her family had crowded around the single grate in the parlor, while Grand-mère had spoken of their comfortable home in France.

Had that house been as grand as this one? Silk wallcovering glowed warmly in the candlelight. The delicate furniture lining the long hallway below was as ornate as the house's exterior.

When she heard the clock in the dining room chiming the hour, she counted each stroke with a step down the stairs. It was only nine o'clock, even though she had been sure it was past midnight. Today had been eternally long.

She sighed as she crossed the marble floor of the expansive foyer. The light from the chandelier sparkled through crystal drops into every corner, but could not ease the darkness surrounding her. She wanted to awaken from this nightmare and be back at L'Enfant de la Patrie preparing for the patrons who stopped in before going to the theater. Then she could joke again with Grand-mère and run up the stairs to answer Maman's bell with a tidbit of gossip.

“Miss LeClerc?”

Jerking herself out of her wishful thoughts, she turned to see Hitchcock standing behind her. The butler frowned. He had made it clear that he did not like having her and Grand-mère here.

“Good evening, Hitchcock,” she said.

“Mr. Somerset asks for you to join him in the gold parlor.” His tone suggested that he liked having Evan here as little as he did her and Grand-mère.

“The gold parlor?” She glanced at the five sets of doors opening off the foyer. “Which one leads to the gold parlor?”

For a moment, she thought he would not answer her. Then he pointed to her left. “There, Miss LeClerc.”

“Thank you.”

He spun on his heel and walked stiffly away.

Brienne guessed that if the situation had been different, she would have enjoyed a good laugh about the officious butler. As it was, she was too tired to laugh tonight or to talk long with Evan. She hoped she could find a way to put a quick end to this conversation without making him suspicious.

Pushing her feet forward, she opened the door Hitchcock had indicated. She paused in the doorway, leaning her hand against the varnished molding which ended in an arch high above her head. She stared at the grandeur within the room.

By the standards of this house, this chamber was a cozy one, but it could have held the apartment that had been over the salon. A pair of tall windows reached for the ceiling and flanked a floor-to-ceiling mirror that was topped by a pair of rearing, golden lions. Luxurious gold carpet waited beneath the chairs and settees covered in glistening blue brocade. Paintings filled the spaces above the Oriental art set on mahogany tables beside each chair.

A long shadow rose near the fireplace. Evan crossed the room and held out his hand. When she took it, he drew her into the sable dusk that was edged with firelight. She stared at him, realizing that except in the wake of the fire, she had never seen him before without a coat and perfectly tied cravat. She admired the smooth motion of his muscles beneath his lawn shirt. With it open at the throat, he seemed less arrogant. Her fingers tingled, and she looked at them in amazement, for they longed to reach up and explore the rough skin of his neck. She clasped them in her lap as she sat on a settee.

“I believe that you could use some wine, Brienne,” Evan said, his hushed voice not disrupting the crackle of flames from the hearth.

“I believe you are right.”

His lips twitched as he poured two glasses of wine and handed one to her. Sitting in a chair facing her, he asked, “How is Madame LeClerc?”

“Sleeping. I gave her a pinch of tincture of opium in some brandy.” She took a sip. “She is fond of brandy, which she has had so seldom since leaving France.”

“My friend is an excellent host. He forgot no luxury when he offered me the use of his house.”

“Are you staying in London long?”

Lowering his wine, untasted, he rested his elbows on the arms of his chair. “As long as I must. And you?”

“I thought I might go to Almack's this week for my debut into the Polite World.”

“No need to be sarcastic.”

“At least it is an answer!”

With a laugh, he tilted his wine in her direction. He took a leisurely sip and leaned back in the chair. With a smile flirting across his lips, he mused, “Mayhap you should go to Almack's. You would create quite the sensation among all those misses who aspire to buckling themselves to a titled lord. They flutter about like mindless moths, spouting French phrases totally out of context.”

“You sound very familiar with Almack's.”

“Do you doubt that I have spent an occasional evening there?”

“No more than I doubt that I am the Prince Regent's wife!”

Again Evan chuckled. “You are a shrew tonight, Brienne.”

Her eyes sparked as brightly as the embers beneath the blue-hot flames. “And you are an ass, my Lord Somerset.”

“What did you say?” He stood, putting his glass on the table. Although he wanted to grasp her shoulders and pull her to her feet so he could discover the truth that would be plain on her pretty face, he strode to the window that gave him a view of the square that was nearly swallowed by the fog. He sat on the sill and folded his arms in front of him. Even from this distance, he could see how she recoiled from the anger in his voice.

“Evan, I did not mean to insult you—I mean—”

He waved his hand and grumbled, “Forget it.”

Could she heed his advice better than he had? He had spent the past decade trying to forget everything that had happened before. It had been easy until he accepted this commission to find that accursed vase. Surrounded by the LeClercs, he could not help comparing his own family to this one. There was no comparison. Brienne had no idea that the love she received from her mother and grandmother was something unique. He tried to imagine his father turning down a good business opportunity because it might hurt his family. It was impossible, but Brienne had not hesitated to keep the vase to please her mother when the LeClercs could have used the money he offered.

Looking back at Brienne, he saw her forehead ruffled with bafflement. He must not let her guess why her words had infuriated him. As she started to apologize, he interrupted by asking, “So what will you be doing … truthfully? Will you be leaving London?”