Adele Ashworth (19 page)

“Annette-Elise is wearing them as we speak—”

“What!” Michel nearly jumped from his chair, his features turning from their natural look of mild weakness to controlled rage.

Henri’s head flipped around. “Be quiet, Michel!” he said vehemently in a whisper, face taut. “A servant will hear, or perhaps someone walking the halls.”

Alain reddened and began to sweat profusely. He mumbled under his breath and reached into his breast pocket for a handkerchief, using it to pat his face with shaking hands. Michel sat again, staring rigidly at his host, raising one gangly arm to rest the elbow on the back of the chair in an unsuccessful attempt to find a comfortable position.

Henri gave them both a second or two to calm, finishing off his whiskey with three large gulps. “The emeralds are secure,” he insisted. “They’ve been locked in my personal safe for weeks until thirty minutes ago when I clasped them about my daughter’s neck myself.” His eyes grew bright and round as he confronted them both with logic. “Who, do you suppose, is going to steal them from there, hmm? At a party of five hundred guests? Ridiculous thought! Half the women invited are wearing precious gems—”

“Not like these,” Alain cut in once more, his voice choked.

Henri placed his empty tumbler on a shelf and leaned toward them, his impatience brewing as he forced his voice to drop to just above a whisper. “They are exquisite jewels, made to be worn by queens and empresses. It is only fitting they should be worn for the last time by my beautiful, innocent daughter at her only debut.”

“Arrogant bastard,” Michel sputtered between velvety soft lips and strong, clenched teeth.

Henri smirked boastfully. “Perhaps I am. But tonight they are still mine, gentlemen. I have been the one to take the risks, not either of you, and certainly not others who are only half inclined to agree with our policies to protect a rightful king.” Pulling himself up to stand erect, he smoothed his tailcoat and grumbled in light warning, “Tomorrow they will be sold so that legitimate French nobility, who have waited decades to reclaim the throne for Louis’s heir, can also regain their deserved power and position given them centuries ago by church and God himself. Tonight is a prelude. Tomorrow it begins.”

It was a bold statement, grossly exaggerated, filled with uncertainties, and they all knew it. Still, it had its dramatic effect, as the three men, for a static moment, all looked at each other, weighing decisions, the cost to reputations and bank accounts, the pleasure of the pursuit, and victory overriding the grave situations that might arise if they were wrong, if they were discovered. But they had been planning for far too long to turn back now. And not one of them would admit they wanted to.

Faint music and muffled laughter filtered through the floorboards from the ballroom below. Then Alain swallowed hard and pursued the essentials. “Time is short. If we are to be on guard when your daughter makes her debut wearing priceless jewels, you’d better tell us quickly about Paris, Henri. . . .”

N
atalie climbed the stairs to the second-floor landing, arranging her wide skirts with purpose to keep from tripping. Nearly everyone was in the ballroom; only one or two guests lingered in the foyer, most of them making their way down the hall to the smoking and withdrawing rooms. Nobody appeared to notice her, and if they did they would think her only a mere woman lost as usual, or looking for her wandering husband, perhaps herself intent on meeting a lover for a few passionate kisses in the darkness. All very common occurrences at parties.

Her intent was to find Jonathan, who was undoubtedly engrossed in some escapade or another, probably searching for the count’s personal antiques, which the Frenchman likely kept in his study or personal library. Or maybe, with any great hope, he was even now engaged in conversation with the Black Knight. These were the two things that could best explain his disappearance, other than his own involvement with a woman in the shadows, and that she refused to consider at all, even knowing his personal inclinations. She couldn’t imagine Jonathan lounging away the evening in the smoking room, discussing politics and the hunt with other men. It wasn’t his style. He would more likely be dancing and charming the ladies who were so neglected by their own.
That
was Jonathan, but she knew he wasn’t in the ballroom right now, nor in the rooms on the first floor, where she’d already quickly peeked.

Standing at the top of the stairs at last, she found herself unsure. She would have to make a choice—right or left—and one guess was as good as the next. Then she saw a thin, brown-haired girl in a smart, starched gray gown and white apron and cap step onto the landing from the nearly invisible servants’ staircase, pressed gentlemen’s shirts in hand, who turned toward the north hallway and disappeared around the corner.

She was heading to the family’s private quarters, Natalie speculated, which meant the library was probably to the left. Not necessarily, but a decent guess.

Natalie turned the corner, chancing one last glance behind and down the stairs to make sure she wasn’t being followed, and fairly tiptoed through the deserted hallway, feeling a bit guilty for trespassing on private ground. In her mind, however, her excuse was valid.

Unexpectedly she heard voices, rich and deep, though cushioned enough from thick paneled walls to hush the words. She stopped in the center of the corridor, intending only to listen long enough to decide if Jonathan’s voice was one of them, then the intrigue enveloped her, and she pressed her ear against the door.

J
onathan heard the voices, too, as he stood in total darkness, coming from the count’s library in the room behind the wall safe.

It took him by surprise, as all was silent until the muted conversation started. He waited several moments, trying to distinguish words and phrases or if the discussion was of great importance, but ultimately he couldn’t understand anything from his location. More to the point, if he couldn’t learn anything by eavesdropping, there was no reason to risk being found in the count’s darkened study. He would be better caught in the hallway if at all.

In four strides he was once again at the door. Then he heard rustling from the library—a clunk, a raised voice.

It was possible they were leaving, and if true he would be stuck in the study until they were gone. With any luck they would head toward the ballroom and not his direction, but he had to be prepared for the possibility of being discovered.

Calmly, his quick mind shifting into alert as he prepared a plausible scenario for his being there when there really wasn’t one, he reached for the knob, opened the door a crack, and peered down the hallway. What he saw both startled and unnerved him.

Natalie was there, hips swaying in her full-skirted ball gown as she walked swiftly toward the main landing. Just as she rounded the corner, the count emerged from the library followed by two men, one average in height, the other incredibly tall and ungainly. All French nobles; all with common interest in deposing the current king of France.

What the hell was
she
doing there? Listening—or looking for him? It was possible she knew the French language to some degree, as most English ladies were so taught, but it was unlikely that she spoke it fluently or she would have used a few words in his presence while they were in France. Most chilling of all, he realized in that instant, was the consideration that she might have been observed in the shadows or rounding the corner by the count himself. In that case, knowledge on her part was irrelevant. A very powerful and wealthy French count, if he had been discussing national security issues, and by all accounts they were discussing precisely that, would have to assume she knew something and would be inclined to take action.

Jonathan sucked in a breath, standing motionless, door opened to a crack only the width of his eye, as the count glanced in his direction. Then with haste the three men turned and strode in the direction of the ballroom.

He waited nearly five minutes, which dragged immeasurably slowly. But he couldn’t chance one of the Frenchmen noticing him following. Finally time grew critical, and he had to move.

Smoothly he opened the door and stepped into the deserted corridor. With haste, and without observing a soul, he walked to the center landing, down the stairs, and into the ballroom. Already the noise level had risen as the area had become more crowded. It took him another five minutes to find Natalie, standing with Madeleine near one of the long windows, now opened to cool the room with a more imagined than obvious breeze, her side to him as she fanned herself while listening to an enormous woman, pink-cheeked and perspiring, bellowing with laughter at herself and a comment she was making.

Then slowly Natalie turned to him, as if feeling his presence more than realizing it, a delicate, almost indistinguishable smile parting her lips when she looked into his eyes.

Jonathan felt ridiculously like an adolescent; his heartbeat increasing, mouth drying from nothing more than staring at her beautiful face softening for him alone. He saw neither fear nor anxiousness in her gaze, but rather yielding warmth and questions she was aching to ask. Whatever she’d heard in the count’s private library, if anything at all, either wasn’t enough to concern her—or she was hiding it flawlessly.

Clasping his hands behind his back, he sauntered up to the ladies, who stopped talking as he approached. “Walk in the garden with me, Natalie?”

Madeleine looked at him. “Oh, yes, go,” she insisted.

“But the count’s daughter is expected now. It would be rude,” Natalie argued without conviction.

Jonathan leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “What better time could there be? Everyone will be in here.”

He watched her hesitate, eyes shifting over the crowd, weighing the possibility of learning something from him that perhaps he couldn’t divulge in the presence of others. Madeleine had turned her attention to the large woman again, both in discussion once more, this time in French, which meant they’d already taken note of their impending absence. He took Natalie’s arm and, without another word, led her by the elbow into the foyer, out the front doors, and into the garden.

They weren’t alone, as yet. Three or four other couples strolled along the brick path that meandered through the grounds, most arm in arm, communing in muted tones, laughing softly. The scent of flowers and freshly cut grass filled the calm night air. Lamplight brightened the walkway in hues of dimmed yellow; music and conversation from the ballroom filtered through the partially opened windows to mix with the buzzing insects of nighttime and the far distant sound of the sea.

The warm, serene atmosphere enveloped them both, as Jonathan laced his arm through Natalie’s, drawing her closer without confrontation on her part. She hadn’t spoken since they’d walked outside, but she wasn’t rushed or bothered, and in fact seemed quite comfortable alone with him in the somewhat intimate atmosphere.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked politely.

“Enough. It’s beautiful here.” She glanced at him sideways. “And you?”

He watched her face, half in shadows, half illuminated by the golden light of the house behind them. She was smiling, though her eyes pierced his for enlightenment. “I suppose. I especially like that you’re here with me.”

It was the manner in which he said the words—subdued and serious—that took her aback. Her smile faded a little, then she turned her head so that she faced the garden once more. They walked in silence a few more steps, until he spied a wrought-iron bench near the southeast corner and directed her toward it.

“Jonathan—”

“I have something to ask you, Natalie,” he cut in pensively.

She hesitated, then allowed herself to be seated, straightening her skirts once more as he stood slightly to her side, arms crossed over his chest.

“Please,” she acknowledged with a wave of her palm.

He knew she was anxious to delve into matters of her concern but was purposely holding her abrasive tongue in check lest he decide to forgo the all-important meeting that had brought her to France. He felt another surge of modest power over her at that moment as he stared down at her face, illuminated dimly by golden lamplight.

Tilting his head, he asked cautiously, “How well do you speak French?”

That surprised her, as he knew it would, and her expression of mystification was what he wanted to see. She had no idea where the conversation was heading.

She squirmed a little, wringing her fan in her lap. “That’s a rather odd thing to ask.”

He looked to the brick pathway, rubbing his leather-soled shoes along the pebbles. “It’s not an embarrassing or even unusual question, Natalie.”

She waited several seconds, then sighed and relaxed against the back of the bench. “I speak fluent French, although I can’t imagine why it should matter to you that I do.”

He wasn’t amazed by the answer, and yet somewhere in the back of his mind he began to heed a caution, as yet unclear. Looking into her eyes once more, he reasoned, “And you learned the language from a fastidious governess?”

She gave him a flat smile. “My mother made it imperative. She insisted I not lose my heritage, for what it’s worth.”

His brows rose. “Lose your heritage?”

Her features grew serious, and she hugged herself at the elbows, causing her breasts to flow together into swells of creamy softness. He tried not to glance down at them as he concentrated on her face.

At last she murmured, “My maternal grandfather was the count of Bourges.”

The air stilled around them as Jonathan suddenly became absorbed by her words. He stared openly at her as the seconds ticked by, but she continued without notice.

“Actually, he was a wealthy and well-respected count before the Revolution of ninety-two. In one night he lost everything as peasants stormed his country home. Through a bit of luck he paid off a jailer with bits of gold he had hidden on his person, and two days before he was to be shipped to Paris for trial and certain death, with the help of the bishop of Blois and various hard-line clergy, he managed to wade his way through the country until he found passage to England, as did a few other lucky French nobles. A few years later, after building a small fortune in trade, he married my grandmother and had three daughters and a son. My mother was the youngest.”