The Bride Wore Scarlet (25 page)

Geoff turned his face back to the window. “Nothing, Petit. Thank you.”

He watched the landscape skimming past until at last the sun struck the window at an angle, throwing his own glowering expression back at him. Almost dispassionately, he let his gaze drift over his face.

He was a handsome man, he supposed. Women always told him so, at any rate. Save for his hair, he looked very like his mother, thank heaven. If he had looked like his father—well, God help them all.

But he did not; he was an Archard through and through, for his mother had been Lord Bessett's cousin. Their May-December marriage, if one could call it that, had been arranged by his grandfather for the purposes of political expediency. The Earl of Jessup had wished to be rid of his only daughter—and his future grandson—as quickly as possible. So he had dumped them upon his late wife's family and pressed on with his ambitions.

But Geoff's Archard blood had held true, at least outwardly. He was tall and lean, and possessed the traditional Archard eyes, though his were cold while his mother's were anything but.

Perhaps that burning blue warmth came from within a person? For as often as Geoff's lovers had whispered to him of his handsomeness, to a one they had told him—in the end, and not in a whisper—that he was cold. Eyes like winter's ice on a February day, his last had said.

He looked at himself again, his image like water in the wavy glass. Did Anaïs think him handsome? She had said so, yes, but she'd not seemed overly impressed by it. Perhaps a woman such as she did not value outward appearance so very much. Not that she wasn't beautiful; she was. Dramatically so. Not in the way of a pretty flower or a sunlit garden, though.

No, Anaïs possessed the beauty of a cool, dark forest.

And the tongue of a shrew. He had not lied about that.

Again, he fisted his hand. An awful longing rushed over him; an emotion such as he had never expected to feel, and still did not quite understand. Was it love? Would it fade? He feared the answers were yes, and no, in that order.

He wished he could speak to his father just now. He would ask him what it was like to suffer unrequited love for years on end. Would it eat the heart out of a man? Was
that
where he was headed? And was there nothing to be done but suffer it?

Or could a woman be bent to one's will?

Oh, knew the answer to that one.

Anaïs de Rohan would be bent to no man's will. And he would not want her if she could be.

Chapter 15

Of all those in the army close to the commander, none is more intimate than the secret agent.

Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

F
or Anaïs, the evening at the Vicomte de Lezennes' began as a strained affair, and did not much improve.

Geoff arrived home just in time to dress and go across the street after a fruitless trip to Mechelen to find a man who apparently did not wish to be found. Based on what little she could learn amidst his scowls and grumbling, Anaïs concluded he and Petit had been taken on a merry chase, in the end learning little save for the whereabouts of all the back lanes between Brussels and Mechelen.

At Lezennes' they were received warmly by Charlotte and with overpolished charm by the vicomte. Throughout the first half of dinner neither gentleman said a great deal, leaving Anaïs to lead the conversation. Lezennes did not seem to mind, choosing instead to lavish an almost cold, relentless attention on Charlotte.

Anaïs did her best to be witty and flirtatious, albeit in a lighthearted, almost silly way. It seemed to smooth the evening, by the time the last course was removed, she had succeeded in deflecting some of the attention from Charlotte, thereby allowing their hostess to relax and make light conversation with Geoff.

Afterward, Lezennes declined the bottle of whisky Geoff had brought, suggesting that perhaps they should accompany the ladies into the salon for cards.

Geoff was happy to oblige him.

“Shall we play bouillotte?” Charlotte proposed, taking out the deck.

“Oh, I'm afraid I do not know that game,” Anaïs lied.

“Just a rubber of whist will do,” said the vicomte in a blasé voice. “That is what the English prefer,
n'est-ce pas
?”

Anaïs caught Lezennes' arm, and insisted they partner—which they would likely have done in any case. But the move coaxed a doting smile from the vicomte, and she proceeded to play like a featherbrain amidst a vast deal of giggling—and a little more flirting. Geoff, however, merely got quieter, his eyes colder.

They were ten tricks into the last hand when Charlotte raised the topic of their holiday. “And you will never guess, Anaïs, what Lezennes has planned for Giselle!”

Seated at the card table, Anaïs tossed down a deuce by way of a sacrifice.

“No, no, Charlotte, I am sure I cannot,” she replied, cutting a deliberately warm glance at Lezennes. “Something splendid, I am sure, given the gentleman's exquisite taste.”

“Splendid, indeed,” said Charlotte as Lezennes trumped the hand, snapping down his card victoriously. “He has taken a beautiful cottage by the sea for a whole fortnight—just for the three of us.”

Anaïs tried to hide her alarm. “How lovely,” she said, turning to Geoff, who sat at her elbow. “Perhaps we should do that, my dear, if Brussels becomes a little dull?”

“Why should Brussels be dull?” Geoff's tone was cold, his attitude at breakfast having followed him across the street for dinner. “Brussels suits my purpose admirably. Besides, a cottage by the sea would come too dear, I am sure.”

Anaïs feigned a little pout. “Tell us, Lezennes, all about this cottage,” she said wheedlingly. “Is it quaint and charming? Shall you have sand and sea at your doorstep?”

“Yes to all those things,” said the vicomte in obvious self-satisfaction, “or so I am told. And it is a little more, Charlotte, than just a cottage. We've been given the loan of it by the French ambassador himself.”

“See, my dear?” Geoff interjected. “Lezennes is well-placed in the government. We may not look so high, I fear, in our amusements. You'll have to content yourself with an afternoon stroll along the Senne.”

Lezennes laughed. Anaïs wrinkled her nose. “Charlotte, when do you go?” she asked. “I shall miss you both, for the two of you are my only friends here in Brussels.”

“The day after tomorrow.” Charlotte turned an almost brittle smile upon her benefactor. “I am so happy for Giselle. She has never really been to the seashore.”

The play was finished with Geoff taking the remaining tricks. He and Charlotte had beaten them soundly, but at Anaïs's dithering apology, Lezennes tossed his elegant hand and said, “Oh, it scarcely matters.”

Nonetheless, the vicomte kept one eye upon Charlotte at all times, and once the cards had been put away, he suggested she might go to the pianoforte and play for them. She agreed a little shyly, and went to choose her music.

It was time, Anaïs realized. She mightn't get another chance.

Her hand shaking a little, she reached up and removed a strategically placed pin from her hair, then edged up alongside her hostess.

“Oh, drat!” she said. “Might I trouble you, Charlotte, for a place to repin my hair? Really, I must have the silliest maid in all Christendom, for she cannot keep a curl of it in place.”

As if it were second nature, Charlotte flicked an uneasy glance at Lezennes. “Why, I daresay you might use my room,” she finally said. “It is on the next floor, the last door on your right.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Anaïs.

After exchanging a quick, knowing glance with Geoff, she started up the steps just as the opening notes of a Chopin waltz rang out.

Upstairs she went straight to Charlotte's room, a small but comfortably fitted chamber at the back of the house. At the foot of the bed a small traveling trunk sat open, soon to be heaped with clothing, no doubt.

Moving swiftly, Anaïs shut the door, unlocked both windows—just in case—then went to the mirror to twist up her hair. In less than two minutes, she started back out into the corridor, glancing surreptitiously in both directions.

Just as she moved to pull the door behind, however, she felt a presence stirring. Someone very near.
Not Lezennes
, said her instincts. She breathed a sigh of relief. Just then the door across the passageway swept open to reveal a large, far more lavishly furnished chamber. A slight, well-dressed man came out.

Upon seeing her, his gait hitched, then he gave a small bow. “
Bonsoir, madame
,” he said before moving swiftly past her and up the next flight of stairs.

Lezennes' valet. It had to be. He had the downcast gaze and quick step of a much-harried servant. Still, his eyes had been furtive, and Anaïs trusted no one.

When his steps had faded, she drew a deep breath, willing her nerves to settle, then hurried about her business.

The first door she opened was a sort of maid's pantry filled with linen and housekeeping supplies. The next was a small, obviously unoccupied bedchamber. Thwarted, Anaïs looked up and down the passageway, trying to figure where she'd gone wrong. Petit had been sure Giselle's room fronted the house.

Beyond the staircase the corridor made a sharp turn. There had to be another room, but the corner would make it far harder to hear anyone's approach.

Downstairs, Chopin still tinkled from Lezennes' piano keys. Surely no more than three minutes had passed. With a quick glance at the stairs, Anaïs passed them by and turned the corner. There was but one door beyond. Swiftly she opened it.

It was a small, narrow room. Giselle lay curled in a tiny wrought-iron bed to the left of the single window. A lamp burned low near the sill, and on the opposite side an upholstered chair held a basket of darning. One sock lay across the arm, as if someone had just walked away for a moment.

It would be just like Lezennes to never leave the child alone, Anaïs realized.

Peeking behind the door, she indeed saw another bed, this one not much larger than the child's. She shut the door, drew aside the drapery to unfasten the window lock, then looked hurriedly around the room. A basket of toys sat near the hearth. Anaïs hastened toward it, rifling through in search of something small, soft, and well-worn.

A stuffed dog with a tattered ear and one missing eye looked promising, but it was a trifle too large for her pocket. It was just the thing, though, that a doting mother would have given her child.

Thinking quickly, Anaïs snatched it, hitched up her skirt, and stuffed it down her drawer leg such that it hung just behind the crook of her knee. Then, gingerly readjusting her garter, she secured both stocking and drawer leg as one.

But when she straightened, every hair on the back of her neck prickled.

Anaïs went perfectly still inside. Closing her eyes, she opened herself to the space around her. There was a presence. Something moving through the house. Very near. It felt . . .
malevolent
. And this time it was not Lezennes' valet.

There was no point in hiding. The vicomte had seen her go up the stairs. He would search until he found her. And situated around the blind corner as she was, with only the one door . . .

Hastily she jerked a handkerchief from her pocket, and thought of the most painful thing she could bring to mind. She thought of Giovanni lying cold in his coffin in the Grand Salon at San Gimignano. Of Raphaele standing in the doorway, his hat in his hand, his brown eyes pleading.

She yanked open the door, and slumped against it. She had no more drawn breath when she was seized with a violence, and hauled into the passageway.

“
Madame
, how dare—”

Anaïs cut him off with a hideous, sniveling sob.

Lezennes' words broke away, but his grip did not relent. “
Nom de Dieu!
” he uttered. “What are you about here?”

“Oh, my lord, do forgive me!” she whimpered into her handkerchief. “But I just slipped round for one quick peek!”

His hand fell away, but Lezennes stood so near Anaïs could feel the heat and the anger that emanated from him. “You have no business here!” he hissed. “Where is the girl?”

Anaïs widened her eyes and felt a tear leak out. “Why, she is right there, my lord!” she whimpered. “Asleep in her own dear little bed! And I did not wake her. Indeed, pull the door shut, pray, before we do so! Children must have their rest.”

A shade of red passed over Lezennes face as he reached past her. “I meant the servant girl,” he gritted, closing it.

“Why, I'm sure I do not know, sir,” Anaïs whispered. “I peeked in just this instant to have a look at the poor, wee thing, and she was quite alone.”

“And why would you do such a thing?” he demanded, his eyes narrow slits in the gloom.

Anaïs let her face go slack. “Why, as I said, I j-just wanted to see her,” she whimpered, “for the little mite does put me so in mind of my own dear Jane, and I am s-s-so afraid . . . Oh, bless me, sir! I'm so afraid I shall never have her
with m-me again—!
” This last was said on a sob as Anaïs clasped the handkerchief to her face again.

“
Mon Dieu, madame,
what can you be talking about?”

But Anaïs was trembling now. “Oh, my lord!” she whispered. “Pray do not tell my husband!”

“Your husband?” At last Lezennes was looking more irritated than angry. “What can your husband have to do with any of this?”

“Oh, it really is too terrible!” Anaïs said it witheringly, dabbing at her eyes. “He does not love her. Indeed, I really don't think he wants her at all!”

“Who?” he demanded. “What are you babbling about?”

“I'm n-n-not babbling,” Anaïs wailed softly. “I'm talking about Jane, my lord! Did Charlotte not explain? My father arranged my marriage without telling him
about Jane
. And I ask you—how can I be blamed for it? How can little Jane be blamed for it? But you—oh,
you
have taken little Gisette in, and loved her like your own!”

“
Giselle
,” said Lezennes, an edge of suspicion still in his voice. “And a child, you say? How old is this child, Madame MacLachlan? Surely not so old as Giselle?”

Anaïs felt his gaze drifting over her, assessing her age. “No, Jane is just four, my lord, but her coloring—well, 'tis so very like Giselle's.” Here, she paused to dab at her eyes. “Or perhaps my grief has made me fanciful. But Geoffrey does not miss her at all, I vow.”

She sensed Lezennes begin to relent. “Perhaps in time he will grow fond of the child.”

“Perhaps, but why can he not be more like you?” asked Anaïs. “Here you are, so very good! So kind to dear Charlotte and her little angel. Indeed, you are quite put out with me just now, but how could I be angry about that?
You
love Giselle. You have her best interests at heart.”

The last of the anger had fallen from his face.

Perfect timing.

Anaïs launched herself at him, and fell into his arms. “Oh, how can she be so fortunate as to have you, sir!” she whispered, throwing an arm around his neck. “What poor widow would not account herself lucky indeed to have your broad, good shoulder to lean upon?”

Lezennes let his hand snake up her spine, then gave her a perfunctory pat between the shoulder blades. “You are too kind,
madame
, I am sure,” he said.

Anaïs released him, giving him a generous view of décolletage as she did so. “Oh, no. I speak with a mother's heart.”

An awkward silence settled over them. The vicomte opened his mouth as if to say something, then apparently thought better of it.

Anaïs dabbed away the last of her crocodile tears. “There, I believe I am presentable.” She managed a watery smile. “Will you show me back down, my lord?”

Lezennes offered his arm, and they fell into step with one another. “Perhaps you might explain to Charlotte how fortunate she is, Madame MacLachlan?” he suggested as they neared the bottom of the stairs. “I sometimes fear for her welfare. I am not entirely certain she understands how very hard life can be for a widow alone.”

“I shall tell her, of course, and most strongly, too.” Then Anaïs feigned a look of chagrin. “Oh, what a watering pot I am!” she whispered just beyond the drawing room doors. “I will make you think very ill of my husband, I fear. I daresay he is a very good man.”