The Bride Wore Scarlet (29 page)

P
romptly at half past ten, Anaïs stood on the Vicomte de Lezennes' doorstep in her most demure dress, her prayer book tossed into the market basket swinging from her elbow. To her surprise, one could not actually hear her knees knocking.

The door was opened by a gray-garbed servant whom Anaïs recognized vaguely as one of the downstairs maids. She bobbed a curtsy but did not open the door very wide.

At Anaïs's request, she shook her head.

“
Très
sorry,
madame
,” she said in stilted English. “But Madame Moreau is
mal de—de
—”

Fear stirred in Anaïs's chest. “She is ill?”

“
Oui, merci—
ill, and not to receive the callers.”

“How very dreadful.” Gingerly Anaïs pushed a foot over the threshold. “She seemed quite the thing last night.”

The maid bobbed again, and cast her gaze down. “
Désolé, madame
,” she said again. “It was—how do you say—
oui
, quick? She will be well soon, it is to be hoped.”

She moved as if to close the door, but Anaïs did not extract her foot, and in fact managed to wedge an elbow against the door frame. “Oh, but if I could just see her a moment,” she pleaded. “Just long enough to assure myself that it is on no account my fault! Oh, but this is frightful. We kept her up late—playing the pianoforte to entertain us, no less! How thoughtless we were. I feel quite horrible about it now.”

“
Non
,
madame
,” said the girl, her voice a little unsteady now. “It is the wish of His Lordship.
Madame
is not for disturbing.”

Anaïs put the other foot over the threshold, and wedged her basket in as well. As she'd hoped, the girl finally backed up a pace. “The vicomte, then?” she said, left with no alternative. “Might I speak with him? Just to reassure myself?”

The girl flicked a quick gaze up—almost a warning shot across the bow—then, after a final moment of hesitation, threw the door fully open. “
Bien sûr, madame
,” she said. “If you will just take the chair?”

Anaïs sat as instructed, and looked about the entrance hall. A longcase clock by the stairs. An umbrella stand by the door. A very fine rug. All appeared perfectly normal. For a moment, she closed her eyes and tried to move through the house in her mind. This was not the first time she'd done it, either. And she might well have to do it in the dark tonight.

Eyes still closed, she tried to relax. Perhaps something would come to her if she tried to open herself to the void. Some snippet of meaning, or hint of what Lezennes was thinking.

It was no use. Nothing came—not that she had really expected it would.

In short order the girl returned, eyes still downcast, and motioned for Anaïs to follow.

Anaïs rose and trailed after the maid, counting off her steps, mentally noting the distance from hall to stairs. The number of steps. Two paces across the landing. Six more steps.

Lezennes met them at the top of the staircase, and bowed smoothly. He wore an elegantly embroidered banyan over his white shirt, the sleeves folded back to reveal a band of black satin, and had not put on a cravat.

“Madame MacLachlan, you have returned,” he murmured, his gaze running almost clinically up her length. Perhaps seen in the light of day—and absent the lubrication of fine wine—Anaïs's actions of the previous evening seemed suspicious to him now.

“Oh, Your Lordship!” she said, setting a plaintive hand on his arm. “Do tell me how poor Charlotte goes on. Do, pray, reassure me. Oh, I am just beside myself at the thought we may have overtaxed her or overset her in some way last night?”

He smiled thinly, and gave one of those airy, elegant waves of his hand. “Not at all,” he said. “Do set yourself at ease. It is nothing—a little headache. I merely wished her to rest.”

“Well, thank heaven,” said Anaïs. “I had hoped she and I might walk to church together this morning.”

“I'm afraid that is out of the question,” said Lezennes.

Anaïs tried to look wide-eyed and innocent. “Might I go in to see her, then?” she begged. “Just for a moment? Perhaps I might bring her something. A little calf's-foot jelly, perhaps?”

He hesitated, a sort of smirk upon his face, then Lezennes gave a little bow. “You are all kindness,
madame
,” he said. “A brief moment will not hurt. But you will see that all is well. Please follow me.”

It was on the tip of Anaïs's tongue to tell him she knew quite well where Charlotte's room was, but she suspected at once that the vicomte did not mean to let her from his sight.

She was to be proven right. They strode through the passageway and past Charlotte's room to a door at the very end of the hall. Lezennes opened it to reveal a small, elegantly furnished sitting room with additional doors to either side—a connecting room, she realized, between Lezennes' bedchamber and Charlotte's. The man was utterly without shame.

Charlotte reclined upon a divan by the windows, the door to her bedchamber open. “No, Louisa, the red shoes, please,” she said, motioning to someone beyond Anaïs's line of sight.

“Look,
ma petite
, who I have brought you,” said Lezennes, striding into the room.

Charlotte's head turned slowly. “Anaïs!” she said, moving as if to rise.

“No, no, you mustn't get up!” said Anaïs. “I know you are unwell, and I can stay but a moment.”

A ghost of some inscrutable emotion passed over Charlotte's face. “Lezennes wishes me to rest,” she said. “Tomorrow we travel. But how lovely to see you. Do sit down.”

“Only for a moment,” said Anaïs, glancing up at Lezennes as she sat. “Perhaps the vicomte will join us? We promise not to chatter about bonnets or ribbons, sir, if you will? And then you will see that I mean to keep my promise. I will stay but briefly.”

Some of the suspicion seemed to leave his face then, and he took the seat next to her—which he had doubtless meant to do all along.

“Thank you both, by the way, for a lovely evening,” Anaïs said, neatening the folds of her skirts. “It was quite the best meal we'd had in an age, my lord. Perhaps, Charlotte, your cook can be persuaded to give her soufflé recipe to Mrs. Janssen?”

“I shall see to it before we leave.” But Charlotte was looking wan and uneasy.

It was only then that Anaïs realized a maid stood in the doorway to Charlotte's room, her arms heaped with clothing.

“Yes, all those, Louisa,” Charlotte said to her. “Thank you. You are too kind.”

“Oh, you are packing!” said Anaïs.

“Yes. Well, Louisa is doing it for me.”

Anaïs wagged a finger at her. “Well, if you mean to take the train, Charlotte, do be careful.”

“Careful? In what way?”

“Pack all your most important things in one small bag and keep it to hand,” said Anaïs warningly. “Things of sentimental value, especially. I once had my trunks stolen—in Gloucestershire, of all places! I was going to visit my grandmother, and one way or another my trunks were snatched! Can you believe it?”

“But how dreadful!”

“Oh, it was,” said Anaïs earnestly. “Luckily, Mamma had the foresight to pack all my keepsakes and a change of clothing in my handbag, or I wouldn't have had so much as a pair of clean drawers when I got to—oh, your pardon, my lord!”

Lezennes lifted one eyebrow. “Not in the least, Madame MacLachlan,” he said coolly. “We all wear them,
n'est-ce pas
?”

Anaïs giggled. “To be sure, we do!”

They spoke on for a time about the pleasures of the seashore, and their various childhood memories. Anaïs had none, for her family had been too busy with the farm and their vineyards abroad—and she with her travels to Tuscany.

But she spoke of none of that, maintained her bourgeois façade, and spun instead a hilarious story about how her sister had once fallen headlong off the Cobb at Lyme Regis—and if anyone noticed that the tale was only slightly altered from one Miss Austen had once told in a novel, they were kind enough not to mention it. Anaïs's fictional sister limped away with only her pride and her petticoats wounded, their family holiday intact.

Charlotte then began to speak of her plans to entertain Giselle with sandcastles and seashell hunting during their coming trip to the shore. But as if the topic made him uncomfortable, Lezennes jerked at once to his feet.

“Charlotte, really, you must have your rest if we are to travel tomorrow.”

Anaïs knew it was her cue to go.

“His Lordship is quite right, of course,” she said, swiftly rising. “Now, Charlotte, don't get up. I am going to run home and send the kitchen girl back over with a little bowl of my calf's-foot jelly. You must warm it up and spoon it slowly, now—oh, and a book!—I have a book I think you might like.”

“One of your unusual novels,
madame
?” enquired the vicomte, with only a faint curling of his nose.

Anaïs managed to blush. “Oh, no, my lord, 'tis just a volume of Mr. Coleridge's poems,” she said. “But I thought it might make for easy reading during your travels tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” said Charlotte swiftly. “I'm sure it would prove diverting.”

Anaïs bowed her way from the room, wishing them a marvelous holiday and counting her steps as she went. And all the while she looked about for obstacles that one might most easily trip over in the dark.

Lezennes abandoned her at the top of the stairs after wishing her a good day, then returned to Charlotte's sitting room. Anaïs watched him go, more certain than ever that she was grateful not to have Geoff's gift. Grateful not to know—not to
feel
—the evil that lurked inside such men. For it did not take a gift to see that Lezennes watched Charlotte like a hawk, and meant to keep doing so until she was either betrothed or dead.

Anaïs was determined it would be neither.

Pensive and deeply worried, she went back across the Rue de l'Escalier and let herself in. After setting her basket aside, she trailed through the public rooms of the house. Seeing no one, she peeked through the back window to see a fourgon sitting in the alley at the end of the rear yard. Attired in tall boots and snug breeches, Geoff was on board, helping Petit strap the baggage down.

After permitting herself a few moments to admire the view, Anaïs let the curtain drop, then went directly upstairs and through her room into Geoff's.

His volume of Coleridge poems still lay amidst the tidy stack of books. After flipping through it to be certain it contained the poem she wished, and that the flyleaf bore no sentimental inscription, Anaïs carried it back through the dressing room.

She tossed it on the bed, opened Nonna Sofia's box, and shuffled through the tarot until she found the card she wanted.

Il Cavaliere di Spade.
The Knight of Swords.

For an instant, she closed her eyes and pressed the card to her breast.

It was entirely possible, she knew, that she would not see the card again. After more than two centuries of being handed down from one generation to the next, her family's
tarocchi
would be incomplete—and it would be her doing. The pack would be rendered utterly useless.

The thought left an odd catch in her throat.

At least it was not her card. It was not
le Re di Dischi.

And yet, strangely, Anaïs no longer wished to take that card from the box, either. Her girlish fantasy—and her nonna's prediction—seemed far, far in the past, and there was a longing inside her now that had nothing to do with a foolish pack of cards.

Anaïs had begun to feel the passage of time most acutely. She was suddenly tired of waiting. Indeed, she felt almost silly for having done so. She wanted a life, a husband and children to love. She no longer cared if her beautiful Tuscan prince never turned up.

In fact, she almost wished he would not. She almost wished . . .

Ah, but that would not do.

Still, while Anaïs had no wish to dishonor Nonna Sofia, there was no mistaking the fact that something had changed inside her. She was beginning to question the wisdom of waiting for the perfect man. In truth, the whole prediction seemed so harebrained, she wondered she'd ever believed it at all. And save for Maria, no one else knew. The story was too outlandish to bear repeating.

But Nonna Sofia had repeated it—or at least her tarot had. Time and again, the card had turned up for Anaïs. Time and again, the King of Pentacles had been her destiny.

But if she tossed
le Re di Dischi
to the four winds, if she never got
il Cavaliere di Spade
back from Charlotte, did it really matter? She did not want to read
i tarocchi.
She did not mean to consult the cards ever again in any seriousness. The reading she'd given Charlotte still troubled her. She did not want this Gift her blood had cursed her with; no, not even this faint, watered-down version of it.

It made her think again of Geoff; of the young boy he once had been, frightened and floundering in the dark with no one to guide him.

And suddenly the oddest thought struck her.

Why
had there been no one?

How could his mother not have known the Gift for what it was? The blood had come either from her or from Lord Bessett. One of them should have recognized the signs, should have known Geoff needed help—and should have found it for him. A Guardian, a Preost to counsel him, a mentor within his circle of blood—
someone
, for God's sake. It was how the Gift had been protected for eons.

Instead, his mother had taken him to doctors. She had feared him mad.

For the first time, Anaïs realized how little sense that made.

Good Lord, no wonder he had felt so deeply for Giselle Moreau—and for Charlotte, too. No wonder he understood so well the fear and uncertainty she suffered as a mother; why he had been unwilling to hurt her, to take the child away. It was likely what the doctors had tried to do with him.