Читать книгу Surrender - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 10

CHAPTER TWO

EVELYN STARED OUT of her bedroom window, still in her nightclothes, her hair braided. She was hugging herself.

She had just awoken. But she had slept fitfully, and her rest had been interrupted with terrible dreams. Oddly, she had been dreaming of her childhood. Of going to bed without supper, and being so lonely she had cried herself to sleep. And she had dreamed of Lucille and Enid, both of them mocking her for her airs, and declaring that she had gotten just what she deserved.

But then her dreams had changed, and she had dreamed that she was running through the night, being chased by evil. The night had become familiar, and she realized she wasn’t on foot—she was in a carriage, and Aimee was crying in her arms. But they were being pursued. The gendarmerie were after them, and if they did not escape, Henri might be arrested and executed. She was terrified. The hand of evil was right behind them, ready to snatch them back....

She had awoken in a sweat, shivering with fear, her stomach in knots, tears upon her cheeks. It had taken her a second to return to reality and recall that she was not in the midst of fleeing France on that particular summer night. Henri had been buried yesterday, at the local parish church. She wasn’t in France; she was at Roselynd.

Her chest seemed to tighten.

The sight of Jack Greystone standing at the helm of his black ship, all sails unfurled, his legs braced against the sea, his tawny hair whipped by the wind, assaulted her. The image was one of power and command.

She suddenly found it hard to breathe.

She hadn’t thought about Greystone in years—not until yesterday.

Was she really going to approach him and ask him for his services—again?

Did she have any other choice? Henri was dead, and she had to recover the gold he had left for them.

She trembled, because Henri’s death still felt unreal—as if a part of her dream. Grief rose up instantly, choking her. So did fear, and even the feeling of abandonment. God, she was so alone, so overwhelmed, and frightened.

If only Henri had retrieved the gold before his death. But he had left that monumental task up to her, Evelyn. She prayed she was up to it.

Aimee would never find herself in the straits that Evelyn had been left in as a child, she vowed. Evelyn’s father had loved her, or so she believed, but he had failed in his responsibility to her. He had been right to leave her with Robert, as he was too reckless and irresponsible to care for her, but it had been wrong to leave her penniless. She, Evelyn, must never fail her daughter.

“Mama? Are you crying?”

Aimee’s small, frightened voice cut through her thoughts. Evelyn realized she was battling rising tears, but some of them were due to the great strain she was under. She faced her daughter, but not before wiping her eyes quickly with her fingertips. “Darling! Have I overslept?” She swept her close, into a big embrace.

“You never sleep in,” Aimee whispered. “Are you tired today?”

“I was very tired, darling, but I am back to being myself now.” Evelyn kissed her. “I will always miss your father,” Evelyn said softly. “He was a good man, a good husband, a good father.” But why hadn’t he retrieved the gold in the past five years? Why had he left her with such a daunting task? When he hadn’t allowed her any duties except those of being a mother and a wife, when he was still alive? If she had been allowed more independence, she might not feel so overwhelmed now.

She stepped back from Aimee, knowing she must find the kind of courage she never had before.

“Is Papa watching us from Heaven?” Aimee asked.

Evelyn wet her lips and somehow smiled. “Papa is certainly still with us—he will always be with us, even when he goes further into Heaven, he will be in our hearts and in our memories.”

But suddenly she didn’t understand why he hadn’t at the very least made arrangements to have that gold brought from France to them. He had been of sound mind until the very end.

Was she actually angry with Henri now? She was incredulous. He had just passed, and she must not be angry with him! He had been so ill, he had loved her and Aimee, and if he could have recovered that gold for them, he would have done so!

And if Henri hadn’t been able to retrieve the gold, was she mad to think that she could do so now, when she was just a woman, and a somewhat pampered noblewoman, at that?

But she would not go to France alone. She hoped to go there with Jack Greystone, and he was certainly capable of achieving anything he set his mind to.

His image assailed her again, as he stood at his ship’s helm, the wind buffeting his shirt against his body, his hair streaming in it, as his cutter raced the wind.

Aimee stared solemnly at her. “I want Papa to be happy now.”

Evelyn quickly hugged her. Aimee had seen how bitter and dark her father had become over the past few years. Children could not be fooled. She had sensed his anguish, his pain and his anger. “Your papa is certainly at peace now, Aimee, because he is in heaven with angels,” she said softly. Aimee nodded solemnly. “Can he see us, Mama? From heaven?”

“I think he can.” She smiled. “And that is how he will always watch over us. Now, can you leave me while I get dressed? And then we can take le petit déjeuner together.”

And as Aimee nodded, smiling, Evelyn watched her leave the room. The moment her daughter was gone, she let Jack Greystone fill her thoughts. Her chest seemed to tighten again. And she most certainly knew why—but she hadn’t expected to have such a silly reaction to the mere idea of him, not after all of these years.

Carefully, she sorted through her memories.

Henri had slept through most of the Channel crossing, and Bette had read to Aimee until the sea had lulled her back to sleep. Evelyn had stood by the porthole, watching the sunrise as it turned the sea pink and gold, marveling at the experience of crossing the Channel on a swift sloop with black sails. But she had been impatient. She hadn’t wanted to remain in his cabin—while he was on deck.

And as soon as Aimee was asleep, with the sun barely in the sky, she had gone up on deck.

The sight of Jack Greystone standing at the helm of his ship was one she would never forget. She had watched him for a moment, noting his wide stance, his strong powerful build, as he braced against the wind. His hair had come loose, and it was whipped by the wind. Then he had turned and seen her.

Evelyn remembered his gaze being searing, even across the distance of the deck. However, she was probably imagining that. He had seemed to accept her presence, turning back to face the prow, and she had stood by the cabin, watching him command the vessel for a long time.

Eventually he had left the helm, crossing the deck to her. “There’s a ship on the horizon. We’re only an hour from Dover—you should go below.”

She had trembled, their gazes locked. “Are we being pursued?”

“I don’t know yet, and if we are, there is no way they can catch us before we reach land. However, we could encounter other vessels, this close to Britain. Go below, Lady LeClerc.”

It wasn’t a question. Silently, she had retreated to his cabin.

And there had been no chance to thank him when they had reached their berth, just south of London. Two of his sailors, in striped boatnecked tunics and scarves about their heads, had escorted her and her family to land in a small rowboat. Somehow he had arranged a wagon for them, in which they had been transported to the city. As they got into the vehicle, she had seen him in the distance, astride a black horse, watching them. She had wanted to thank him and she had wanted to wave; she hadn’t done either.

As she got dressed now, choosing her dove-gray satin, she was reflective. He had haunted her for several days, and perhaps even several weeks. She had even written him a letter, thanking him for his help. But she hadn’t known where to send it, and in the end, she had tucked it away.

She was older and wiser now. He had rescued her, her husband and her daughter, and she had been somewhat smitten with him—not because he was undeniably attractive, but out of gratitude. Although she had paid him for his services—even if it was less than he had initially asked for—she owed him for the lives of her and her family. That cast him as a hero.

Trembling, she fastened the clasp of her pearl necklace, regarding herself in the mirror, surprised that she did not look half as haggard as she had yesterday. Her eyes held a new light, one that was almost a sparkle, and her cheeks were flushed.

Well, she certainly had her work cut out for her. She had no idea how to locate Jack Greystone, but now that she had thought about it, she was resolved. She trusted him with her life and she even trusted him, perhaps foolishly, with Henri’s gold. He was the man for the task at hand.

Before there had been fear and panic. Now, there was hope.

* * *

EVERYONE KNEW THAT the road between Bodmin and London was heavily used by smugglers to transport their cargoes north to the towns just outside of the city, where the black market thrived. Having been raised at Faraday Hall, just outside of Fowey, Evelyn certainly knew it, too. Smuggling was a way of life in Cornwall. Her uncle had been “investing” in local smuggling ventures ever since she could recall. As a child, she had thrilled when the call went out that the smugglers were about to drop anchor, often in the cove just below the house. As long as the revenue men were not nearby, the smugglers would boldly berth in plain sight and in broad daylight, and everyone from the parish would turn out to help them unload their valuable cargo.

Farmers would loan their horses and donkeys to help move the goods inland; young tubsmen would pack ankers from the beach to the waiting wagons, huffing and puffing with their load; batsmen would be spread about, bats held high, just in case the preventive men appeared....

Children would cling to their mother’s skirts. Casks of beer would be opened. There would be music, dancing, drinking and a great celebration, for the free trade was profitable for everyone.

Now, in hindsight, Evelyn knew what had brought Henri to Cornwall and her uncle’s home in the first place. He had been investing in the free trade, as well, as so many merchants and noblemen were wont to do. It wasn’t always easy making a profit, but when profits were made, they were vast.

She suddenly recalled standing with Henri in his wine cellars, in their château in Nantes, perhaps a year after giving birth to Aimee. He had insisted she come down to the cellar with him. His mood had been jovial, she now recalled, and she had been in that first flush of motherhood.

“Do you see this, my darling?” Still dashing and handsome, exquisitely dressed in a satin coat and breeches with white stockings, he had swept his hand across the rows of barrels lining his cellar. “You are looking at a fortune, my dear.”

She had been puzzled, but pleased to find him in such good spirits. “What is in the barrels? They look like the barrels the smugglers in Fowey used.”

He had laughed. “How clever you are!” Henri had explained that they were the very same kinds of casks used by smugglers everywhere, and that they were filled with liquid gold. He had untapped a barrel and poured clear liquid into the glass he held. She now knew that the liquid was unfiltered, undiluted, one-hundred-proof alcohol, which in no way resembled the brandy he drank every night, and had been drinking a moment ago.

“You can’t drink it this way,” he had explained. “It will truly kill you.”

She hadn’t understood. He had explained that after it arrived at its final destination in England, it would be colored with caramel and diluted.

And he had hugged her. “I intend to keep you in your silks, satins and diamonds, always,” he had said. “You will never lack for anything, my dear.”

Like her uncle, and a great many of her neighbors, Henri had financed and invested in various smugglers, both before and after their marriage. She knew he had stopped those investments when they had left France. There hadn’t been enough in their coffers for him to finance those ventures anymore; he had become averse to taking risks.

He had intended to make certain that she had the resources with which to raise her daughter in luxury, but he had failed. Instead, she was the one fighting for enough funds to raise Aimee. She was the one seated in a carriage now, about to enter the kind of establishment no lady should ever enter alone, because she had to locate a smuggler, in order to provide for her daughter.

The Black Briar Inn was just ahead on the road, and Evelyn stared. Her heart skipped. She had taken the single horse curricle by herself, ignoring Laurent’s protestations. If she was going to locate Jack Greystone, she would have to begin making inquiries somewhere, and the inn seemed like the most logical starting point. Surely John Trim knew Greystone—or knew of him. Surely Greystone had, at some time or another, used the coves in and around Fowey to land his cargoes. If he had, they would have had to traverse this road in order to reach London’s black markets.

There was no other dwelling in sight. The inn sat upon the Bodmin Moor and the road to London in absolute isolation—a two-storied whitewashed building, with a slate-gray roof, a white brick stable adjacent. Two saddled horses and three wagons were parked in the stone courtyard. Trim had customers.

Evelyn braked her gig and slowly got out, tying her mare to the railing in front of the inn. As she patted the mare, a young boy of eleven or twelve came running out of the adjacent stables. Evelyn told him she wouldn’t be long, and asked him to water the mare for her.

Evelyn pulled her black wool cloak closed, while removing her hood. As she crossed the front steps of the inn, she pulled off her gloves. She could hear men speaking in casual conversation as she pushed open the front door.

There was some tension as she stepped directly inside the inn’s taproom. She realized she hadn’t been inside an inn’s public rooms in years—not since she had briefly paused with her family in Brest, before fleeing France.

Eight men were seated at one of the long trestle tables in the room, and all conversation ceased the moment she shut the front door behind her. One of the men was John Trim, the proprietor, and he leaped to his feet instantly.

Her heart raced. She felt terribly out of place in the common room. “Mr. Trim?”

“Lady D’Orsay?” His shock vanished as he came forward, beaming. “This is a surprise! Come, do sit down, and let me get the missus.” He guided her toward a small table with four chairs.

“Thank you. Mr. Trim, I was hoping for a private word, if possible.” She was aware now of the silence in the room, that all eyes were trained upon them, and that every word she uttered was being heeded.

Trim’s dark brows rose, and he nodded. He led her into a small private dining room. “Please, have a seat, and I will be back in one minute,” he said, and rushed out.

Evelyn sat down, rather ruefully, certain he was racing to his wife to tell her that she had called. She laid her gloves down on the dining table, glancing around the simple room. A brick fireplace was on one wall, several paintings of the sea on the others. He had left the door open, and she could see into the common room if she wished to do so.

She had no intention of explaining to Trim why she wished to engage a smuggler, and a specific smuggler at that. But she did not expect him to press her.

Trim returned, smiling. “The missus is bringing tea.”

“That is so kind of you.” Evelyn smiled as he took a seat, now clutching her reticule tightly. “Mr. Trim, I was wondering if you are acquainted with Jack Greystone.”

Trim was so taken aback that his eyes widened and his brows shot up, and Evelyn knew his answer was yes. “Everyone knows of Greystone, Lady D’Orsay. He is the greatest smuggler Cornwall has ever seen.”

She was aware of her heart racing. “Do you know him personally, sir? Has he passed through this inn?”

His expression of surprise was as comical as before. “My lady, I mean no disrespect, by why do you ask?”

He was wary, but of course he was—smugglers were hardly free men. “I must locate him. I cannot explain why, exactly, but I am in need of his services.”

Trim blinked.

She smiled grimly. “Greystone got my family out of France, almost four years ago. I prefer not to say why I must speak with him now, but it is an urgent matter.”

“And it isn’t my concern, of course,” Trim said. “Yes, Lady D’Orsay, he has passed through my inn, once or twice. But I will be honest with you—I haven’t seen him in several years.”

Her disappointment was immediate. “Do you know how I can find him?”

“No, I do not. The rumor is that Greystone lives in an abandoned castle on a deserted island, in the utmost secrecy.”

“That is hardly helpful,” Evelyn mused. “I must find him, sir.”

“I don’t know if you can. There’s been a bounty on his head, which would explain why he lives on that island. He is wanted by the British authorities, Lady D’Orsay.”

Evelyn was slightly amused. “Aren’t all free traders wanted by the preventive men?” Smuggling had been a capital offense for as long as Evelyn could recall. Bounties were hardly uncommon. However, a great many smugglers got off scot-free, once they agreed to serve in His Majesty’s navy, or find a few friends to do so in their stead. A smuggler might be able to plead down his case, as well, if he had the right solicitor. Many smugglers were deported, but they often returned, illicitly, of course. No smuggler took a bounty very seriously.

Trim shook his head grimly. “You don’t understand. He has been running the British blockade. If His Majesty’s men catch him, he will hang—not for smuggling, but for treason.”

Evelyn froze. He was running King George’s blockade of France? He was supplying the French in a time of war? Suddenly she was cold. “I don’t believe it.”

“Oh, he’s running the blockade, Lady D’Orsay—they say he brags often and openly about it. And that is treason.”

Evelyn was shaken. “Is he a spy, then, too?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

She stared, but rather than seeing Trim before her, she saw Jack Greystone at the helm of his ship. So many Cornish smugglers were spies for the French. But he had helped them escape France. Surely a French spy would not have done that.

She did not know why she was so dismayed. “I must speak with him, Mr. Trim, and if you can help me, I will forever appreciate it.”

“I will do my best. I will make some inquiries on your behalf. But my understanding is that he lies very low, to avoid His Majesty’s Men. If he is not at sea, he is on his island. I do know that, once in a while, he has been seen in Fowey. You might try the White Hart Inn.”

Faraday Hall was just outside Fowey. Was it possible that her uncle might know, or know of, Greystone?

“You might also go to London,” Trim said as his wife entered the room with a tray filled with tea and refreshments. “His two sisters live there, and so does his brother, or so I have heard.”

* * *

EVELYN STARED AT the letter she was trying to write.

Dear Lady Paget,

I hope I am not offending you by writing to you now. We have never met, and you may find my request presumptuous, but it has come to my attention that you are Jack Greystone’s sister. I was briefly acquainted with him several years ago, and am currently trying to contact him. If you could help me do so, I would be greatly in your debt.

Sincerely,

Lady Evelyn D’Orsay

It did not seem right—it seemed terribly forward and bold. Evelyn laid her quill down and tore the parchment into shreds.

Any woman receiving such a missive would instantly dismiss it. If she received such a letter, she would assume that some lovesick woman was pursuing her brother! Yet Evelyn could not state why she wished to locate Greystone, and therein lay the problem.

She might have to go to London, and boldly call on either the Countess of Bedford or the Countess of St Just, Evelyn thought grimly. As she did not know either woman, the notion was daunting. However, she had learned that Lady Paget was married to a man with French relations, so she might be able to use that as some kind of entrée. But before she took such a trip, which would require some expenses and take several days, she would leave no stone unturned in Cornwall.

She felt some despair. Having already spent the past week unearthing a great many Cornish stones she did not have very many left to turn over.

Greystone had a bounty on his head. If caught, there would be no pleading down the charges of smuggling, no simple transportation. If caught, he could be imprisoned indefinitely—habeas corpus had been suspended last May—or he could hang, as John Trim had said. And that meant…Jack Greystone was in hiding.

Of course he was. She happened to know firsthand how clever, resourceful and adept he was. She had no doubt that he was also an extremely wary man. A few days ago, she had been so hopeful, and so certain, that she would be able to find him and convince him to aid her in recovering the gold in France. Now she was filled with doubt. It almost felt as though she was looking for a needle in a haystack. If he did not wish to be found, would she ever be able to locate him?

She had spent the past week asking everyone she thought could be even remotely helpful about him. She had gone to the various shopkeepers in the local village, one by one, but while everyone knew of him, no one knew him personally. He was most definitely notorious, and held in the highest esteem by the local Cornish people.

Then she had turned her attention to Fowey. She had spoken to the owner of the White Hart Inn, as John Trim had suggested, but he had been purposefully unhelpful.

She had spent two days in town, speaking with the shopkeepers and merchants there, but to no avail. She was beginning to think that there were very few stones left to turn. Of course, there did remain one—and it was a rock.

She was going to have to call on her uncle.

* * *

EVELYN STARED AT the imposing front entrance of her aunt and uncle’s home. A tall square stone house, the front entrance was in the style of a temple, with large columns supporting a pediment. She inhaled. She had not been back to Faraday Hall since her marriage, almost nine years ago.

As she slowly got out of the gig, she thought about her childhood: her aunt’s constant harping, Lucille’s cruelty, and spending most of her time by herself, doing various chores. A wave of loneliness swept over her. It was accompanied by a wave of grief. How had she survived such a lonely childhood? Her husband had changed all of that, by taking her away from this place, by giving her Aimee. But in that moment, as she stood there looking at the entrance of the house, she felt just as lonely as she had as a child. In that moment, she missed Henri, and realized how alone she was, even though she was a mother, and Laurent, Adelaide and Bette were as loyal and beloved as family.

It was foolish nonsense, she decided, shaking herself free of such despondency.

Evelyn rapped on the front door, using the brass-ring knocker. A moment passed before Thomas answered. The butler, whom she had known for years, took one look at her and gasped. “Miss Evelyn?” he asked.

She smiled at the short, bald manservant. “Yes, Thomas, it is I—Evelyn.”

He flushed and bowed. “I beg your pardon, Countess!”

She smiled, and in doing so, shook off the last vestiges of her past. “You must not bow to me,” she said.

She meant it. The staff had always been kind to her—far kinder than her own family.

A few moments later, she was escorted in to see her uncle, and she was relieved that her aunt was not at home. Robert greeted her warmly, surprising her. “I am so glad you have called. I have been meaning to send Enid to do so, to see how you are faring,” he said. “But you look well, Evelyn, considering what you are going through.”

She wondered if she had misjudged her uncle, if his indifference had been nothing more than that. “We are managing, and do not put Aunt Enid out, please, not on my account. I have decided to ask you for help, if your offer stands.”

He gestured for her to sit in one of the two chairs before his desk. A tall window was behind it, and through it, she could see the gardens behind the house, and the sea, just above the treetops. He turned to the butler, asking for tea and cakes. Then he sat down behind his desk. “I would love to help you if I can.”

“Will you keep what I am about to tell you in confidence?” she asked. “I am in an unusual position, and I hardly wish to have anyone know—not even my aunt.”

His smile was amused. “I keep a great many confidences from my wife, Evelyn, and I hardly failed to notice that she did not care for you greatly when you were a child.” He sighed. “I have never understood the ladies.”

She had no comment to make on that sore subject. “I am sure you have noticed that I am currently somewhat short on funds. However, Henri left a fortune for me and Aimee—at our home in France. The time has come for me to find a way to retrieve the family heirlooms he has left us, and I have decided to hire someone to do so.” She had decided not to tell her uncle that she meant to go with Greystone to France to retrieve the fortune there.

“I am relieved to hear that D’Orsay left something for you, but by God, how will you ever convince anyone to go to France now to retrieve the valuables? And are you sure that whatever Henri left for you, it is worth the risk?”

“It is quieter in France now than when we left, isn’t it?”

“It is hardly quiet! The countryside remains up in arms over the secularization of the clergy. Mobs continually attack the priests who have taken the new oaths required of them while opposing mobs attack the priests who have refused to do so. Vigilantes hunt down the terrorists, or what remains of them. The need for revenge remains as strong as ever—it is just directed at different groups. How will you find someone capable of getting to France—and then getting to your country home there? And again, what if nothing remains of the heirlooms? There has been a great deal of looting and theft in the great châteaus.”

He made her plan sound daunting and difficult, indeed. God, what if the gold was gone? “I have to attempt to retrieve it, Uncle. Henri said he left us a chest of gold,” she finally confessed.

His eyes widened. “That would be a good fortune, indeed! But then you have the problem of finding someone you can trust!”

How perfect his cue. “Have you ever heard of Jack Greystone? He smuggled us from France, and I was impressed with his courage and his skill. I have been trying to locate him since the funeral.”

Robert stared, flushing a little. “Of course I have heard of him, Evelyn. He is rather famous. Or should I say infamous? I didn’t know Greystone got you out of the country. Well, I am not surprised you think he is the man for the mission. I suppose, if anyone could retrieve that gold, it is he. And I would even trust him to do so, in this case—he is rather fond of beautiful women. Or so they say!”

Was he suggesting that Jack Greystone would help her because she was beautiful? “I am prepared to pay him well,” she added. “Once he retrieves the fortune.”

“I do not know if I can ferret him out,” he quickly said with another flush.

Evelyn was dismayed, but trying to decipher Robert’s somewhat odd behavior. She sensed he was withholding something. “Is there something I should know?” she asked.

“Of course not. I will begin making a few inquiries for you, immediately,” he said. “How is your daughter managing, Evelyn?”

She tried to hide her disappointment, wondering if she was engaging in more futile action. Briefly, they discussed Aimee, and Evelyn assured him that Aimee was doing well.

She was about to leave when she heard the front door open. Evelyn grimaced as she thanked her uncle and left the study, leaving him immersed in his papers.

But her aunt was not in the front hall; Annabelle was there, and so was Trevelyan. She was handing off her cloak, as he was his coat, and when she saw Evelyn, Annabelle faltered. Trev instantly came forward, smiling. “This is a delightful surprise,” he said with a brief bow.

The gesture was not affected—it was casual and elegant. Evelyn was as surprised to see them—and especially to see them together, but of course, they had all been friends since childhood. She smiled and came forward. “Hello, Trev. Have you been escorting my cousin about?”

“Actually, I was calling on Robert, and I bumped into her in the drive. How are you, Evelyn? You are looking very well today.”

“I am doing better, thank you,” she said, having briefly wondered if a romance might be brewing between Trev and her cousin. She turned to Annabelle. “We did not have a chance to speak the other day. You have become a beautiful young woman, Annabelle.”

Annabelle blushed. “Hello, Evelyn, I mean, Countess. Thank you. I am sorry I could not greet you properly the other day.” She stopped. She glanced at Trev. “I am also sorry it became a bit awkward. Lucille still has her temper.”

Evelyn thanked Thomas as he handed her cloak to her. “It is difficult, I suppose, after so many years have passed, to be reunited as we have. But we all have different lives now and a great deal has changed.”

“You are being patient and kind,” Annabelle said.

“Is there a point in being impatient and cruel?” Evelyn smiled.

Trev looked at them both. “Lucille has more than a temper, and she has always been jealous of Evelyn, for obvious reasons. She is now a married woman, so one would think bygones were just that. But there is no reason that the two of you cannot patch things up and become friends.”

While Evelyn looked at him in some surprise, Annabelle looked at him with obvious admiration. Evelyn said, “You are right, I think. When you feel like it, Annabelle, please call. You are Aimee’s cousin and she would love to meet you.”

Annabelle nodded. “I will try to come by next week.”

Trev took Evelyn’s cloak from her and draped it over her shoulders. “And may I come by, as well? Strictly as a family friend, of course?”

She started, wondering at his choice of words—wondering if he had a romantic inclination toward her. Surely, she was mistaken. “Of course you can call.” She stared closely at him. Trev’s father had always been as actively involved in the free trade as her uncle had been. She happened to have heard, in the past weeks, that he remained in good health, being about seventy years of age now, but that he had given Trev control of the estate and its affairs. Perhaps he had the information Evelyn sought. “Can I speak with you for a moment?”

Annabelle flushed again. “I must go anyway. It was nice seeing you, Evelyn. Good day, Trev.” She quickly left.

He smiled at her. “Hmm, should I be flattered?”

“Surely you are not flirting with me?”

“Of course I am flirting. You are impossibly attractive.” A dimple joined his smile.

She couldn’t help it—she smiled back. “I had forgotten how charming you are.”

“I do not believe it. I think you have been pining away for me for years.”

She laughed for the first time since Henri had died. It felt rather good. Then she became serious. “Can you help me locate Jack Greystone?”

His smile vanished. “Why?” His tone was sharp.

She was not about to tell Trevelyan her reasons. “He helped us flee France, Trev, but other than that, I cannot tell you why I am looking for him. It is a business matter.”

“Are you thinking of getting into the trade?” He was incredulous.

She did not want to lie, but misleading him was not lying, so she said, “Maybe.”

“You are a woman—a lady!”

She laid her hand on his arm, surprising them both. “I am sure you have noticed that I am in very strained circumstances. I need to speak with Greystone, Trev, and frankly, I am rather desperate.”

He was grim. “You could lose everything, Evelyn.”

“I know the risks.”

She stared back at him, releasing his arm. He looked about to curse. “I will think about what you have asked.”

“Does that mean you know how to reach him?”

“It means, I will think about what you have asked.”

* * *

IT HAD BEGUN TO DRIZZLE, and as Evelyn looked up at the dark, cloudy sky, she knew it would soon rain. She shivered as the wind picked up, but she had just reached the iron front gates at the head of Roselynd’s drive.

Ahead, Roselynd was a three-story square house, statuesque in impression, and very current in design. Cast of pale, nearly white stone, it stood out eerily in the darkness. All the windows were dark except for one on an upper floor, which she happened to know was Laurent and Adelaide’s room.

It was later than she had thought, and her poor mare was tired—it had been a long difficult week for her, with all the traipsing about that Evelyn had done. The mare had hardly been used in the months prior.

She felt a pang, thinking of Henri, and a stirring of anger as she thought about the predicament she was in. Very firmly, she told herself that he had not left her destitute by choice; the revolution had done that.

She halted the mare before the barn, and as she did so, she heard Laurent calling to her. She smiled as she slipped from the gig, and Laurent approached from the house. “I was becoming very worried about you, madame.”

“I am fine. I had a very good conversation with my uncle, Laurent, and if I am fortunate, he will locate Greystone for me.” She was too tired to tell him about Trevelyan, and decided she would do so tomorrow. “It is later than I thought. Is Aimee awake?”

“She is asleep, and Adelaide has left a covered tray in your rooms. I will put the mare away.”

She thanked him, as the drizzle turned abruptly into a pounding rain. They both cried out, Laurent hurrying the mare into the stables, as Evelyn pulled up her skirts and ran for the house.

Inside, she slammed the front door closed, breathing hard. The front hall was in darkness, which pleased her—why waste candles to light the entry when she was the only one expected? Evelyn removed her soaking cloak. The rest of her clothes remained dry, but her shoes and stockings were wet.

Her cloak over her arm, Evelyn went upstairs in the darkness, going directly to Aimee’s room. As Laurent had said, she was soundly asleep. Evelyn pulled the covers up, kissing her forehead, the rain now pounding on the windows and the roof above their heads.

In her own bedroom she lit a single taper, hung up her cloak and removed her wet shoes and stockings. Thunder boomed. Just after it did, she heard Laurent entering the house, the front door closing. She felt a moment of relief, for, like a child, she disliked fierce storms. But now, the mare was settled and fed for the night, Laurent was on his way upstairs and the house was securely locked.

She removed the pins from her hair, which always made her head ache at this time of the day, letting it down. As she shook her hair out, she realized that she was exhausted. Undressing would be a chore, but she somehow removed her gown and underclothes, donning her white cotton nightgown. In France, the loose but luxurious garment with its puffed sleeves and lace trim was called a robe innocente.

She was just about to uncover the tray Adelaide had left for her and try to eat a morsel or two when she heard a movement downstairs. She stiffened, alarmed, until she realized that it was the sound of a shutter banging against the side of the house.

She was going to have to close those shutters—she would never sleep with all of that banging. Evelyn took the taper she had lit and hurried down the hall. Then she hesitated, and as the wind ceased, the rain became a quiet steady pitter-patter and the shutter was silent.

Thunder boomed.

She jumped, her heart skipping, and scolded herself for being a fool. Now she heard nothing but the gentle steady rhythmic rain.

She was about to turn and go back to her room when a light went on below her.

She froze, incredulous.

And then, as she inched closer to the top of the stairs, she realized that a taper had been lit in the salon.

Her heart thundered with alarm.

She stared down the stairs, across the entry hall and into the salon, which was in shadow, but clearly, a single light shone within.

Someone was in her salon.

She almost called out, hoping it was Laurent, but he had gone up to the room he shared with Adelaide—she was certain.

She needed a gun. She had a pistol under the mattress of her bed. Should she seize it, or should she get Laurent? And as she debated what to do she saw a man cross the salon.

Evelyn froze again.

His stride had been unrushed, indolent—familiar.

Every hair on her nape had risen. Now her heart slammed.

He came to the doorway of the salon, holding a drink in his hand, and looked up at her.

And even in the shadows, even as their gazes locked, there was no mistaking who he was.

“I hear you are looking for me,” Jack Greystone said.