The Bride Wore Scarlet (17 page)

“Aye, I might do, at that.” Tucking it away, Geoff returned his gaze to Charlotte's back as the threesome strolled deeper into the park. “What
were
you doing with such a tawdry book, anyway?”

“Tawdry, hmm?” Anaïs crossed her arms over her chest. “Have you any notion, Geoff, what kind of money Mr. Reynolds makes selling that stuff? More than Mr. Dickens and the Brontë sisters combined, I'd wager.”

He crossed his arms as if to mirror her. “And your point would be?”

“Well, I—” She closed her mouth, then opened it again. “Not that it's any of your business—”

“No, no, none at all!” he agreed, a slow grin spreading over his face.

“—but I thought, frankly, that I might try my hand at it,” she finished, lifting her chin. “And do not laugh, blast it. I've known for an age you people in the
Fraternitas
would likely try to refuse me, and I must have something to do until—until—”

“Until your Mr. Right comes along?” Geoff suggested.

“Until I shove my way past your stupidity and prejudice,” Anaïs finished. “There. I'm not giving up, Geoff. Now, let us be serious. What is your assessment of this situation in which Charlotte Moreau finds herself?”

Geoff sobered at once, and let his arms fall. “Not good,” he conceded, his gaze still fixed on Charlotte's back. “She is cowed, if not outright terrified, by Lezennes. One doesn't need the Gift to see that.”

Anaïs frowned. “Indeed not,” she agreed. “Geoff, I have the most awful feeling that we mightn't have much time. Did you sense anything?”

He shook his head. “Only a measure of disquiet, but I feel as though I've begun to know her,” he said. “To form a connection to her. And I agree with you. She is innocent, and Lezennes does not have her best interest at heart. Worse still, I don't think we have months—possibly not even weeks—to get this business settled.”

“We are going to have to move faster than might be wise,” said Anaïs as the trio turned from the main path and vanished into the trees. “I am going to have to be bold, Geoff. To befriend her quickly. But that may backfire if she's as skittish as I fear.”

Geoff had picked up his sketch pad and was tapping it rather pensively against his thigh, in the way a stalking cat might twitch its tail in warning. His ice-blue eyes were still fixed on the distant path, and his jaw was set stubbornly again.

“Use your best judgment, then,” he finally said, his voice grim. “And yes, waste no time.”

“And if I fail?” asked Anaïs. “If I spook her? Are you willing to do what must be done?”

“To snatch the child?” said Geoff. “I should rather not. But without the child, Lezennes would have no use for Charlotte. He would let her go. You must try to persuade her to contact her family, Anaïs. Just in case there is some hope.”

“Oh, I will,” she answered. “I shall think of something, I promise you.”

Still staring down the path, Geoff said no more.

It had been a most extraordinary day—a day that was leaving Anaïs more confused than ever about the man who now stood by her side. Shoulder to shoulder, quite literally, they seemed to coexist as easily and comfortably together as two people could be in moments like this.

As if it were fated.

But it was not. It couldn't be. Nonna had spelled out her fate long ago, and it would be best if she remembered that.

“Here,” she said after a time. “Give me the pad and your pencils. I shall help you carry all this home.”

P
erhaps Anaïs and Geoff did not have fate on their side, but it was beginning to seem as though Charlotte Moreau just might. On Monday, Anaïs came downstairs for luncheon to find that the afternoon mail had brought a letter postmarked from Colchester.

Bernard presented it to Geoff on a salver with a little bow. “I hope,
monsieur
, that it brings good news?”

“It's in Sutherland's hand,” said Geoff, taking it.

“Your Preost's in Colchester?” Anaïs asked, following him into the parlor.

“Aye, he left London the day after you suggested he go.” Geoff took a paper knife from the desk and slit the letter open. “We are not so steeping in our—let's see, how did you put it?—yes, our
stupidity and prejudice—
that we cannot recognize a good idea when we hear one.”

Anaïs leaned round his shoulder. “Oh, just read it,” she insisted. “And never mind the sarcasm.”

Geoff snapped the letter open, and his eyes darted swiftly over it. “Good Lord,” he murmured. “That was quickly done.”

“What?” said Anaïs. “
What?
”

Geoff shifted his gaze to hers. “You were right again, my girl.”

“Yet another phrase that rolls beautifully off your tongue,” said Anaïs. “But do go on. Precisely how brilliant was I?”

Geoff didn't even bother to rise to the bait. “Charlotte Moreau's family awaits her return with open arms,” he said, a look of pure relief spreading over his face. “The prospect of a grandchild has them over the moon. And they had not heard of Charlotte's widowhood.”

“Well, how could they when they cut her off?” said Anaïs a little bitterly.

“A circumstance they have sorely regretted,” said Geoff muttered, looking again at the letter. “It sounds as if they have been mourning all those lost years. Anaïs, they want to give her a home.”

Anaïs closed her eyes. “Thank God.”

“God had help from you and Sutherland.” Geoff handed Anaïs the letter. “Well done, all of you. Here, read for yourself, but don't burn it. We may yet need it.”

“Thank you.” She began to skim over the words, scarcely daring to believe them.

But Geoff had begun to roam restlessly about the parlor. “The
Fraternitas
has two good men near Colchester,” he said, dragging a hand pensively through his hair. “Guardians both—and men whom we can trust. We can appoint one of them to Giselle; to oversee her safety for now, and later to help her understand and cope with the Gift.”

With a sense of intense relief, Anaïs refolded the letter, and tucked it in her pocket. “But first we must get her there.”

“Indeed.” Almost absently, Geoff extracted Charlotte's handkerchief and looked at it. “First we must get her there—and safely.”

Just then Petit came in to announce that luncheon was ready. They dined in comparative silence, Anaïs remarking on little more than her hope that Charlotte would actually turn up for tea this time, rather than send another last-minute cancellation.

Geoff seemed lost in thought, but not as tense—or as cross—as he had been during their first days in Brussels. For her part, Anaïs could not escape the strong belief that their short time together was rapidly drawing to a close.

There was a part of her that would be relieved.

Geoff, too, would be glad to see England again, Anaïs thought, watching him across the table. Or perhaps he would merely be relieved to see the back of her. Anaïs did not think she flattered herself by imagining there was a strong physical attraction between them, one that had been building throughout the whole of this trip. But he had fought it, while she had not.

Well, not entirely.

Perhaps she had been lucky. A less principled man would have said yes to her offer, and shown far less concern for her.

Or perhaps it was not entirely a matter of his concern for her?

Geoff had made it plain he'd no wish to be trapped into marriage. Anaïs understood that. But perhaps it was something more complicated. A devoted mistress? A secret lover? She had not considered the possibility that there might be someone else in his life. Heaven knew it would not be the first time she had fallen into that fool's trap.

Again, she let her gaze run over him, and felt that familiar little rush, a sweet ache that went straight to the pit of her belly. With his mane of leonine hair and those intense, almost lupine eyes, Geoff struck Anaïs as some half-tamed creature, attached to no one, roaming the forests of life alone.

But there was nothing to be gained by allowing her thoughts to run in that direction, and everything to be gained for Charlotte and Giselle Moreau in getting them back on English soil as swiftly as possible. Anaïs finished her meal in silence, trying to keep her eyes on her plate, then excused herself and went downstairs to make the final preparations for tea.

T
hat afternoon, Charlotte Moreau surprised Anaïs by arriving ten minutes early.

It was a good sign, Anaïs thought. It did not take long, however, for her to realize that the darkness had settled over Charlotte again. The vibrancy her eyes had so briefly held the previous afternoon was gone.

They settled in the front parlor by the windows that overlooked the Rue de l'Escalier and the entrance to Lezennes' house, idly discussing the weather as Petit set out the tea service.

“I was so glad we had the chance to meet your uncle in the park,” said Anaïs after their plates had been filled and all the small talk exchanged. “He seems a most distinguished gentleman.”

“Yes, he is,” said Charlotte noncommittally. “And he has been very generous toward Giselle and me.”

“What sort of work does he do for the French?” Anaïs paused to sip her tea. “Something frightfully important, I should guess.”

Charlotte cut her gaze away. “I'm not certain,” she said, returning her cup to her saucer. “He doesn't speak of it, and I think it is not my place to ask.”

“But he must have met King Leopold, mustn't he?” said Anaïs, widening her eyes ingenuously. “Perhaps, Charlotte, you will get to meet him, too! Wouldn't that be exciting? After all, he is still so divinely handsome.”

For a moment, Charlotte hesitated. “Uncle does have private meetings with the King,” she murmured. “I heard one of his aides discussing it. That a meeting was to be set up—something very discreet. And I wondered, of course—” Suddenly she stopped, and snatched another biscuit from the tray on the table. “These are delicious. Will you ask Mrs. Janssen to give me the recipe?”

“She will be flattered you asked,” Anaïs assured her. “As to the King, he is still deeply beloved by many in England, you know. After all, he was once intended to be
our
King.”

“Well, the consort, I believe,” Charlotte acknowledged. “And he was very dear to his niece Victoria, especially in her childhood.”

Anaïs smiled and leaned forward to warm their cups. “One wonders though, if things mightn't have changed between them over the years,” she murmured suggestively. “Leopold's position is very different now.”

“Indeed.” Charlotte was slowly circling her spoon in her tea. “He is a powerful king in his own right, and Uncle says that . . .”

Anaïs leaned intently forward. “Oh, go on, Charlotte, do!” she pleaded. “It sounds as if you have gossip—and who can resist a little tittle-tattle over tea?”

Charlotte flushed guiltily. “Uncle says that Leopold must now look to himself first, and take care of his own long-term interests,” she whispered. “He says that Leopold's connections to England, loose though they are, could one day be to his disadvantage politically.”

“Oh,” said Anaïs. “Well, that is all too complicated for me to grasp. I just think he is handsome. And his wife—someone said she suffers from consumption. I wonder if it is true?”

Charlotte seemed to stiffen slightly. “The Queen is very ill,” she answered. “I think she hasn't long to live.”

Anaïs leaned very near. “And I have heard the King's mistress is with child,” she whispered, dropping one of DuPont's juicier tidbits. “Or may already have given birth.”

At that, Charlotte looked suddenly stricken. “But . . . But that is tragic!” she said, one hand going to her breast. “It's said his wife adores him—even if their marriage was politically arranged.”

Anaïs shrugged. “Little good that does Leopold now that his father-in-law has been booted from the throne of France,” she remarked. “No wonder he is worried about making new French alliances. As to poor Queen Louise, one wonders if love is worth the pain. I am glad, I think, to have married for practicality this time.”

Charlotte dropped her gaze to her tea again. “Well,
I
shan't do it!” she said, her voice low and fervent. “I do not disparage your choice, Anaïs. Truly, I do not. But I should rather feel the ache of loss, however acute it might be, than to marry where I do not love.”

Anaïs set her teacup down with an awkward clatter. “Poor Charlotte, you are thinking of your husband, are you not?” she murmured, feeling rather like a cur. “I collect you have not been long widowed?”

Charlotte's face softened with a mix of grief and what was obviously affection. “Pierre died last year,” she said softly, “but it seems like only yesterday. Some days—
most
days—I wake up, and for a moment, I expect him to be lying there beside me. Then the grief strikes me anew when he is not.”

Anaïs reached out and touched her hand. “How inconsiderate I am,” she murmured. “Charlotte, I am so sorry. But you do not need to marry again. You have your uncle. He has not suggested you should leave him, has he?”

But Charlotte did not look up. “I have thought of you, Anaïs, so much since that day we first met,” she said out of nowhere. “I have thought about how much we have in common. We both married for love, and against our family's wishes, to men who were not wealthy—and we have neither of us regretted it. Have we?”

Anaïs felt a shaft of remorse pierce her heart, but she shook her head. “No, never.”

“And we both have dear daughters,” Charlotte continued. “We are young widows of similar background in a foreign land where we cannot always speak the language.”

Yes
, thought Anaïs guiltily,
or so you believe.