Читать книгу Surrender - Бренда Джойс, Brenda Joyce - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

Roselynd on the Bodmin Moor, Cornwall

February 25, 1795

“THE COUNT WAS a beloved father, a beloved husband, and he will be sorely missed.” The parson paused, gazing out on the crowd of mourners. “May he rest eternally in peace. Amen.”

“Amen,” the mourners murmured.

Pain stabbed through Evelyn’s heart. It was a bright sunny day, but frigidly cold, and she could not stop shivering. She stared straight ahead, holding her daughter’s hand, watching as the casket was being lowered into the rocky ground. The small cemetery was behind the parish church.

She was confused by the crowd. She hadn’t expected a crowd. She barely knew the village innkeeper, the dressmaker or the cooper. She was as vaguely acquainted with their two closest neighbors, who were not all that close, as the house they had bought two years ago sat in solitary splendor on the Bodmin Moor, and was a good hour from everyone and anyone. In the past two years, since retreating from London to the moors of eastern Cornwall, they had kept to themselves. But then, Henri had been so ill. She had been preoccupied with caring for him and raising their daughter. There had not been time for social calls, for teas, for supper parties.

How could he leave them this way?

Had she ever felt so alone?

Grief clawed at her; so did fear.

What were they going to do?

Thump. Thump. Thump.

She watched the clods of dirt hitting the casket as they were shoveled from the ground into the grave. Her heart ached terribly; she could not stand it. She already missed Henri. How would they survive? There was almost nothing left!

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Aimee whimpered.

Evelyn’s eyes suddenly flew open. She was staring at the gold starburst plaster on the white ceiling above her head; she was lying in bed with Aimee, cuddling her daughter tightly as they slept.

She had been dreaming, but Henri was truly dead.

Henri was dead.

He had died three days ago and they had just come from the funeral. She hadn’t meant to take a nap, but she had lain down, just for a moment, beyond exhaustion, and Aimee had crawled into bed with her. They had cuddled, and suddenly, she had fallen asleep....

Grief stabbed through her chest. Henri was gone. He had been in constant pain these past few months. The consumption had become so severe, he could barely breathe or walk, and these past weeks, he had been confined to his bed. Come Christmastime, they had both known he was dying.

And she knew he was at peace now, but that did not ease her suffering, even if it eased his. And what of Aimee? She had loved her father. And she had yet to shed a tear. But then, she was still just eight years old, and his death probably did not seem real.

Evelyn fought tears—which she had thus far refused to shed. She knew she must be strong for Aimee, and for those who were dependent on her—Laurent, Adelaide and Bette. She looked down at her daughter and softened instantly. Aimee was fair, dark-haired and beautiful. But she was also highly intelligent, with a kind nature and a sweet disposition. No mother could be as fortunate, Evelyn thought, overcome with the power of her emotions.

Then she sobered, aware of the voices she could just barely hear, coming from the salon below her bedroom. She had guests. Her neighbors and the villagers had come to pay their respects. Her aunt, uncle and her cousins had attended the funeral, of course, even though they had only called on her and Henri twice since they had moved to Roselynd. She would have to greet them, too, somehow, even though their relationship remained unpleasant and strained. She must find her composure, her strength and go downstairs. There was no avoiding her responsibility.

But what were they going to do now?

Dread was like a fist in her chest, sucking all the air out of her lungs. It turned her stomach over. And if she allowed it, there would be panic.

Carefully, not wanting to awaken her child, Evelyn D’Orsay slid from the bed. As she got up slowly, tucking her dark hair back into place while smoothing down her black velvet skirts, she was acutely aware that the bedroom was barely furnished—most of Roselynd’s furnishings had been pawned off.

She knew she should not worry about the future or their finances now. But she could not help herself. As it turned out, Henri had not been able to transfer a great deal of his wealth to Britain before they had fled France almost four years earlier. By the time they had left London, they had run down his bank accounts so badly that they had finally settled on this house, in the middle of the stark moors, as it had been offered at a surprisingly cheap price and it was all they could afford.

She reminded herself that at least Aimee had a roof over her head. The property had come with a tin mine, which was not doing well, but she intended to investigate that. Henri had never allowed her to do anything other than run his household and raise their daughter, so she was completely ignorant when it came to his finances, or the lack thereof. But she had overheard him speaking with Laurent. The war had caused the price of most metals to go sky-high, and tin was no exception. Surely there was a way to make the mine profitable, and the mine had been one reason Henri had decided upon this house.

She had but a handful of jewels left to pawn.

But there was always the gold.

Evelyn walked slowly across the bedroom, which was bare except for the four-poster bed she had just vacated, and one red-and-white-print chaise, the upholstery faded and torn. The beautiful Aubusson rug that had once covered the wood floors was gone, as were the Chippendale tables, the sofa and the beautiful mahogany secretary. A Venetian mirror was still hanging on the wall where once there had been a handsome rosewood bureau. She paused before it and stared.

She might have been considered an exceptional beauty as a young woman, but she was hardly beautiful now. Her features hadn’t changed, but she had become haggard. She was very fair, with vivid blue eyes, lush dark lashes and nearly black hair. Her eyes were almond-shaped, her cheekbones high, her nose small and slightly tilted. Her mouth was a perfect rosebud. None of that mattered. She looked tired and worn, beyond her years. She appeared to be forty—she would be twenty-five in March.

But she didn’t care if she looked old, exhausted and perhaps even ill. This past year had drained her. Henri had declined with such alarming rapidity. This past month, he hadn’t been able to do anything for himself, and he hadn’t left his bed, not a single time.

Tears arose. She brushed them aside. He had been so dashing when they had first met. She had not expected his attentions! Mutual acquaintances had directed him to her uncle’s home, and the visit of a French count had put the household in an uproar. He had fallen in love with her at first sight. She had, at first, been overwhelmed by his courtship, but she had been an orphan of fifteen. She could not recall anyone treating her with the deference, respect and admiration that he had showered upon her; it had been so easy to fall in love.

She missed him so much. Her husband had been her best friend, her confidant, her safe harbor. She had been left on her uncle’s doorstep when she was five years old by her father, her mother having just passed away, and she had never been accepted by her aunt, uncle or her cousins as anything other than the penniless relation they must raise. Her lonely childhood had been made worse by taunts and insults. Her clothes had been hand-me-downs. Her chores had included tasks no gentlewoman would ever perform. Her aunt Enid had constantly reminded her of what a burden she was, and what a sacrifice her aunt was making. Evelyn was a gentlewoman by birth, yet she had spent as much time with the servants, preparing meals and changing beds, as she had spent with her cousins. She was a part of the family, yet she was only allowed to reside on its fringes.

Henri had taken her away from all of that, and he had made her feel like a princess. But in fact, he had made her his countess.

He might have been twenty-four years older than she was, but he had died well before his time. Evelyn tried to remind herself that he was finally at peace—in more ways than one.

While he had loved her and adored their daughter, he hadn’t been happy, not since leaving France.

He had left his friends, his family and his home behind. Both of his sons from a previous marriage had been victims of Le Razor. The revolution had also taken his brother, his nieces and nephews, and his many cousins, too. Adding to his heartache had been the fact that he had never truly accepted their move to Britain; he had left his beloved country behind, as well.

Every passing day in London had made him a bit angrier. But perhaps it was the move to Cornwall that had truly changed him. He hated the Bodmin Moor, hated their home, Roselynd. He had finally told her that he hated Britain. And then he had wept for everything and everyone that he had lost.

Evelyn trembled. Henri had changed so much in the past four years, but she refused to be completely honest with herself. If she was, she might admit that the man she had loved had died a long time ago. Leaving France had destroyed his soul.

Caring for him and their daughter, in such circumstances, had been exhausting enough, and when his illness had become so severe, it had been even worse. She was exhausted now. She wondered if she would ever feel young and strong again, if she would ever feel pretty.

She stared at her reflection more intensely. If the tin mine could not be turned around, the day would come where she would not be able to feed or clothe her daughter. And she must never let that happen....

Evelyn inhaled. A month ago, when it had become clear that the end was near, Henri had told her that he had buried a small fortune in gold bullion in the backyard of their home in Nantes. Evelyn had been incredulous. But he had insisted, right down to the details of where he had buried the fortune. And she had believed him.

If she dared, a fortune awaited her and Aimee in France. And that fortune was her daughter’s birthright. It was her future. Evelyn was never going to leave her daughter destitute, the way her own father had left her.

She ignored a new, terrible pang. She must do whatever she had to for Aimee. But how on earth could she retrieve it? How could she possibly return to France, to recover the gold? She would need an escort; she would need a protector, and he would have to be someone she could trust.

To whom could she turn as an escort? Whom could she possibly trust?

Evelyn stared at the mirror, as if the looking glass might provide an answer. She could still hear her guests in conversation in the salon downstairs. Tired and grief stricken, she was not going to find any answers tonight, she decided. Yet she was almost certain that she knew the answer, that it was right there in front of her; she simply could not see it.

And as she turned, a soft knock sounded on her door. Evelyn went to her daughter, kissed her as she slept and pulled up a blanket. Then she crossed the room to the door.

* * *

LAURENT WAS WAITING for her in the hall, and he was stricken with worry. He was a slim, dark man with dark eyes, which widened upon seeing her. “Mon Dieu! I was beginning to think that you meant to ignore your guests. Everyone is wondering where you are, Comtesse, and they are preparing to leave!”

“I fell asleep,” she said softly.

“And you are exhausted, it is obvious. Still, you must greet everyone before they leave.” He shook his head. “Black is too severe, Comtesse, you should wear gray. I think I will burn that dress.”

“You are not burning this dress, as it was very costly,” Evelyn said, ushering him out and closing the door gently. “When you see Bette, would you send her up to sit with Aimee?” They started down the hall. “I don’t want her to awaken, alone, with her father having just been buried.”

“Bien sûr.” Laurent glanced worriedly at her. “You need to eat something, madame, before you fall down.”

Evelyn halted on the landing above the stairs, very aware of the crowd awaiting her downstairs. Trepidation coursed through her. “I can’t eat. I did not expect such attendance at the funeral, Laurent. I am overcome by how many strangers came to pay their respects.”

“Neither did I, Comtesse. But it is a good thing, non? If they did not come today to pay their respects, when would they come?” Evelyn smiled tightly and started down the stairs. Laurent followed. “Madame? There is something you must know.”

“What is that?” she asked, over her shoulder, pausing as they reached the marble ground floor.

“Lady Faraday and her daughter, Lady Harold, have been taking an inventory of this house. I actually saw them go into every room, ignoring the closed doors. I then saw them inspecting the draperies in the library, madame, and I was confused so I eavesdropped.”

Evelyn could imagine what was coming next, as the draperies were very old and needed to be replaced. “Let me guess. They were determining the extent of my fall into poverty.”

“They seem amused to find the draperies moth-eaten.” Laurent scowled. “I then heard them speaking, about your very unfortunate circumstances, and they were extremely pleased.”

Evelyn felt a new tension arise. She did not want to recall her childhood now. “My aunt was never kindly disposed toward me, Laurent, and she was furious I made such a good match with Henri, when her daughter was far more eligible. She dared to say so, several times, directly to me—when I had nothing to do with Henri’s suit. I am not surprised that they inspected this house. Nor am I surprised that they are happy I am currently impoverished.” She shrugged. “The past is passed, and I intend to be a gracious hostess.”

But Evelyn bit her lip, as memories of her childhood tried to rush up and engulf her. She suddenly recalled spending the day pressing her cousin Lucille’s gowns, her fingers burned from the hot iron, her stomach so empty it was aching. She couldn’t recall what mischief she had been accused of committing, but Lucille had habitually fabricated attacks upon her, causing her aunt to find some suitable punishment.

She hadn’t seen her cousin, now married to a squire, since her wedding, and she hoped Lucille had matured, and had better things to do than amuse herself at Evelyn’s expense. But clearly, her aunt remained inclined against her. It was so petty.

“Then you must remember that she is merely a gentlewoman, while you are the Comtesse D’Orsay,” Laurent said firmly.

Evelyn did smile at him. But she had no intention of throwing her title in anyone’s face, especially not when her finances were so strained. She hesitated on the threshold of the salon, which was as threadbare as her bedroom. The walls were painted a pleasing yellow, and the wainscoting and woodwork were very fine, but only a striped gold-and-white sofa and two cream-colored chairs remained in the room, surrounding a lonely marble-topped table. And everyone she had seen at the funeral was now crowded into the room.

Evelyn entered the salon and turned immediately to her closest guests. A big, bluff man with dark hair bowed awkwardly over her hand, his tiny wife at his side. Evelyn fought to identify him.

“John Trim, my lady, of the Black Briar Inn. I saw your husband once or twice, when he was on the road to London and he stopped for a drink and eats. My wife baked you scones. And we have brought you some very fine Darjeeling tea.”

“I am Mrs. Trim.” A tiny, dark-haired woman stepped forward. “Oh, you poor dear, I can’t imagine what you are going through! And your daughter is so pretty—just like you! She will love the scones, I am certain. The tea, of course, is for you.”

Evelyn was speechless.

“Come down to the inn when you can. We have some very fine teas, my lady, and you will enjoy them.” She was firm. “We take care of our own, we do.”

Evelyn realized that this Cornishwoman considered her a neighbor, still, never mind that she had spent five years living in France, and that she had married a Frenchman. Now she regretted never stopping by the Black Briar Inn for tea since moving to Roselynd. If she had, she would know these good, kind people.

And as she began greeting the villagers, she realized that everyone seemed genuinely sympathetic and that most of the women present had brought her pies, muffins, dried preserves or some other kind of edible gift. Evelyn was so moved. She knew she was going to become undone by all of the compassion her neighbors were evincing.

The villagers finally drifted away, leaving for their homes. Evelyn now saw her aunt and uncle, as only her family remained in the room.

Aunt Enid stood with her two daughters by the marble mantel above the fireplace. Enid Faraday was a stout woman in a beautiful gray-satin gown and pearls. Her eldest daughter, Lucille—the initiator of so many of Evelyn’s childhood woes—also wore pearls and an expensive and fashionable dark blue velvet gown. She was now pleasantly plump, but she was still a pretty blonde.

Evelyn glanced at Annabelle, her other cousin, who remained unwed. She wore gray silk, had brownish-blond hair, and while once fat, she was now very slim and very pretty. Annabelle had always followed Lucille’s lead and had been very submissive to her mother. Evelyn wondered if she had learned how to think for herself. She certainly hoped so.

Her aunt and cousins had seen her, as well. They all stared, brows raised.

Evelyn managed a slight smile; none of her female relations smiled back.

Evelyn turned to her uncle, who was approaching her. Robert Faraday was a tall, portly man with a rather distinguished air. Her father’s older brother, he had inherited the estate, while her father had taken his annual pension and gone gaming in Europe’s infamous brothels and halls. In appearance, Robert hadn’t changed.

“I am terribly sorry for your loss, Evelyn,” Robert said gravely. He took both of her hands in his and kissed her on the cheek, surprising her. “I liked Henri, very much.”

Evelyn knew he meant it. Robert had become friendly with her husband when he had first come to stay at Faraday Hall. When Henri wasn’t courting Evelyn, he and Robert had been hacking, hunting or taking brandy together in the library. He had attended the wedding in Paris, and unlike Enid, he had enjoyed himself extremely. But then, he had never shared his wife’s antipathy toward Evelyn. If anything, he had been somewhat absent and indifferent.

“It is a damned shame,” her uncle continued. “I so liked the fellow and he has been good to you. I remember when he first laid eyes on you. His mouth dropped open and he turned as red as a beet.” Robert smiled. “By the time supper was over, you were strolling in the garden with him.”

Evelyn smiled sadly. “It is a beautiful memory. I will cherish it forever.”

“Of course you will.” He remained grave, his gaze direct. “You will get through, Evelyn. You were a strong child and you have obviously become a strong woman. And you are a very young woman, still, so in time, you will recover from this tragedy. Let me know what I can do to help.”

She thought about the tin mine. “I wouldn’t mind asking you for some advice.”

“Anytime,” he said firmly. He turned.

Enid Faraday stepped forward, smiling. “I am so sorry about the count, Evelyn.”

Evelyn managed to smile in return. “Thank you. I am consoling myself by remembering that he is at peace now. He suffered greatly in the end.”

“You know we wish to help you in any way that we can.” She smiled, but her gaze was on Evelyn’s expensive black velvet gown and the pearls she wore with them. Diamonds encrusted the clasp, which she wore on the side of her neck. “You must only ask.”

“I am sure I will be fine,” Evelyn said firmly. “But thank you for coming today.”

“How could I fail to attend the funeral? The count was the catch of your lifetime,” Enid responded. “You know how happy I was for you. Lucille? Annabelle? Come, give your cousin your condolences.”

Evelyn was too tired to decipher the innuendo, if there was one, or to dispute her version of the past. Now she hoped to end the conversation as quickly as possible, as most of her guests were gone and she wished to retire. Lucille presented herself. As she stiffly embraced her, Evelyn saw that her eyes glittered with malice, as if the past decade hadn’t happened. “Hello, Evelyn. I am so sorry for your loss.”

Evelyn simply nodded. “Thank you for attending the funeral, Lucille. I appreciate it.”

“Of course I would come—we are family!” She smiled. “And this is my husband, Lord Harold. I don’t believe you have met.”

Evelyn somehow smiled at the plump young man who nodded at her.

“It is so tragic, really, to be reunited under such circumstances,” Lucille cried, jostling in front of her husband, who stepped backward to accommodate her. “It feels like yesterday that we were at that magnificent church in Paris. Do you remember? You were sixteen, and I was a year older. And I do believe D’Orsay had a hundred guests, everyone in rubies and emeralds.”

Evelyn wondered what Lucille was doing—certain that a barb was coming. “I doubt that everyone was in jewels.” But unfortunately, her description of the wedding was more accurate than not; before the revolution, the French aristocracy was prone to terribly lavish displays of wealth. And Henri had spent a fortune on the affair—as if there were no tomorrow. A pang of regret went through her—but neither one of them could have foreseen the future.

“I had never seen so many wealthy aristocrats. But now, most of them must be as poor as paupers—or even dead!” Lucille stared, seemingly rather innocently.

But Evelyn could hardly breathe. Of course Lucille wished to point out how impoverished Evelyn now was. “That is a terrible remark to make.” It was rude and cruel—Evelyn would never say such a thing.

“You berate me?” Lucille was incredulous.

“I am not trying to berate anyone,” Evelyn said, instantly retreating. She was tired, and she had no interest in fanning the flames of any old wars.

“Lucille,” Robert interjected with disapproval. “The French are our friends—and they have suffered greatly—unjustly.”

“And apparently, so has Evelyn.” Lucille finally smirked. “Look at this house! It is threadbare! And, Papa, I am not retracting a single word! We gave her a roof over her head, and the first thing she did was to ensnare the count the moment he stepped in our door.” She glared.

Evelyn fought to keep her temper, no easy task when she was so unbearably tired. She would ignore the dig that she was a fortune hunter. “What has happened to my husband’s family and his countrymen is a tragedy,” Evelyn said tersely.

“I hardly said it was not!” Lucille was annoyed. “We all hate the republicans, Evelyn, surely you know that! But now, you are here, a widow of almost twenty-five, a countess, and where is your furniture?”

Lucille hated her even now, Evelyn thought. And while she knew she did not have to respond, she said, “We fled France—to keep our heads. A great deal was left behind.”

Lucille made a mocking sound as her father took her elbow. “It is time for us to go, Lucille, and you have a long drive home. Lady Faraday,” Robert said decisively to his wife. He nodded at Evelyn and began guiding Enid and Lucille out, Harold following with Annabelle.

Evelyn slumped in relief. But Annabelle looked back at her, offering a tentative and commiserating smile. Evelyn straightened, surprised. Then Annabelle, along with her family, disappeared into the front hall.

Evelyn turned, relieved. But the feeling vanished as she was instantly faced with two young gentlemen.

Her cousin John smiled hesitantly at her. “Hello, Evelyn.”

Evelyn hadn’t seen John since her wedding. He was tall and attractive, taking after his father both physically and in character. And he had been her one somewhat secret ally, during those difficult years of her childhood. He had been her friend, even if he had chosen not to engage his sisters directly.

Evelyn leaped into his arms. “I am so glad to see you! Why haven’t you called? Oh, you have become so handsome!”

He pulled back, blushing. “I am a solicitor now, Evelyn, and my offices are in Falmouth. And…I wasn’t sure I would be welcome—not after all you endured at the hands of my family. I am sorry that Lucille is still so hatefully disposed toward you.”

“But you are my friend,” she cried, meaning it. She had glanced at the dark handsome man standing with him, and recognized him instantly. Shocked, she felt her smile vanish.

He grinned a bit at her, but no mirth entered his dark eyes. “She is jealous,” he said softly.

“Trev?” she asked.

Edward Trevelyan stepped forward. “Lady D’Orsay. I am flattered that you remember me.”

“You haven’t changed that much,” she said slowly, still surprised. Trevelyan had evinced a strong interest in her before Henri had swept into her life. The heir to a large estate with several mines and a great tenant farm, it had almost seemed that he meant to seriously court her—until her aunt had forbidden Evelyn from accepting his calls. She hadn’t seen him since she was fifteen years old. He had been handsome and titled then; he was handsome and commanding now.

“Neither have you. You remain the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

She knew she blushed. “That is certainly an exaggeration—so you are still the ladies’ man?”

“Hardly. I merely wish to flatter an old and dear friend—truthfully.” He bowed. Then, he said, “My wife died last year. I am a widower, my lady.”

Without thinking, she said, “Evelyn. We can hardly stand on formality, can we? And I am sorry to hear that.”

He smiled at her, but his gaze was filled with speculation.

John stepped in. “And I am affianced. We are to wed in June. I wish for you to meet Matilda, Evelyn. You will like her very much.”

She took his hand impulsively. “I am so happy for you.”

Evelyn realized that she was now standing alone with the two gentlemen—everyone else had left. Her salon mostly empty, she became aware of just how exhausted she was—and that, as happy as she was to see both John and Trev, she desperately needed to lie down and rest.

“You seem tired,” John said. “We will take our leave.”

She walked them to the front door. “I am so glad you called. Give me a few days—I can’t wait to meet your fiancée.”

John hugged her, rather inappropriately. “Of course.”

Trev was more formal. “I know this is a terrible time for you, Evelyn. If I can help, in any way, I would love to do so.”

“I doubt that anyone can help. My heart, Trev, is sorely broken.”

He studied her for a moment, and then both men stepped outside.

Evelyn saw their mounts tied to the railing as she closed the door—and that was the last thing she saw. Instantly, blackness claimed her and she collapsed.

* * *

“YOU ARE SO exhausted that you fainted!”

Evelyn shoved the smelling salts with their sickly odor from her nostrils. She was seated on the cold, hard marble floor, a pillow between her and the front door. Laurent and his wife knelt beside her, both extremely concerned.

And she was still light-headed. “Is everyone gone?”

“Yes, everyone has left—and you swooned the moment the last guest was gone,” Laurent accused. “I should have never allowed the guests to stay as long as they did.”

“Aimee?”

“She is still asleep,” Adelaide said. She stood. “I am going to get you something to eat.”

Evelyn saw from the look on her face that protesting that she was not hungry would not dissuade her. Adelaide walked away, and she looked at Laurent. “This has been the longest day of my life.” God, the tears threatened her again. Damn it. She would not cry!

“It is over,” he soothed.

She gave him her hand and he helped her to stand up. As she did, a terrible migraine began. And with it came the now-familiar surging of panic and fear. “What are we going to do now?” she whispered.

He had become her confidant in these past few years, and she did not have to elaborate. “You can worry about Aimee’s future tomorrow.”

“I cannot think about anything else!”

He sighed. “Madame, you just fainted. We do not need to discuss finances tonight.”

“There are hardly any finances to discuss. But I intend to start going over the estate ledgers and my accounts tomorrow.”

“And how will you read them? They befuddled the count. I tried to help him, but I could not understand the numbers myself.”

She studied him. “I heard you and Henri discussing the arrival of a new foreman. Did the previous foreman leave?”

Laurent was grim. “He was dismissed, madame.”

“Why?”

“We have suspected theft, Lady D’Orsay, for some time. When le comte purchased this estate, the mine was doing handsomely. Now, there is nothing.”

So there was hope, she thought, staring at the dapper Frenchman.

“I am afraid to ask what you are thinking,” he said.

“Laurent, I am thinking that I have very little left to pawn.”

“And?”

He knew her so well, she thought. And he knew almost everything there was to know about her, Henri and their affairs. But did he know about the gold? “Two weeks ago, Henri told me that he had buried a chest filled with gold at the château in Nantes.”

Laurent simply met her gaze.

“You know!” she exclaimed, surprised.

“Of course I know—I was there—I helped him bury the chest.”

Evelyn started. “So it’s true. He did not leave us penniless. He left a fortune for us.”

“It’s true.” They stared at each other. “What are you going to do?” he said unhappily.

“It has been quiet in France, since the fall of Robespierre.”

He inhaled. “Please do not tell me that you are considering retrieving the gold!”

“No, I am not considering it—I have made up my mind.” And she was resolved. Her decision was made. “I am going to find someone to take me to France, and I am bringing that gold back—not for myself—but for Aimee.”

“And who could you possibly trust with such a fortune?” he cried, paling.

But even as he spoke, the image came to her mind of a tall, powerful man standing on the deck of a ship racing the sea with unfurled black sails, his golden hair blowing in the wind....

She could not breathe or move. She hadn’t thought about the smuggler who had helped her and her family escape France in years.

My services are expensive.

Thank me when we reach Britain.

Evelyn looked up at Laurent, stunned.

“Whom could you possibly trust with your life?” he added desperately.

She wet her lips. “Jack Greystone,” she said.