The Making of a Gentleman (17 page)

“There are many choices,” Julien said. “Armand’s actions tarnish the girl, but he is not required to marry her.”

Sarah wrinkled her nose at him, but he shrugged. “It’s not my fault Society has a double standard. Besides, she’s obviously looking for money or to advance her position.” Julien folded his arms across his chest.

“Rubbish!” his mother said, “She was not the one who carried him off. Why should she pay? Besides, have you seen the two of them together? I think she is in love with Armand.”

Julien scowled. “
Ma mére
.”

“Love.” Armand nodded, recognizing the word. “Yes. I want to take her to the country after we marry.”

“You’re not marrying her! Haven’t you heard a word I said?” Julien ran a hand through his hair. “And what exactly are you going to do in the country? Up until a few weeks ago, you couldn’t even speak. And now tonight—well, how can I let you out of my sight?”

Armand stood slowly and advanced on his brother. “Just because I did not speak, does not mean I am an idiot. All of you treat me like I’m an idiot.” He looked at each in turn, and Sarah lowered her gaze, but his mother nodded.

“I don’t think you’re an idiot, Armand,” Julien said, “but I don’t think you know anything about running a country estate.”

“I can learn. I learn fast. I used to learn faster than you ever did.”

He saw his mother purse her lips as though she wanted to say something, but she remained silent. No matter. He knew it was true. Julien may have been the eldest and Bastien the most adventurous, but he, Armand, was the smartest.

Julien sighed. “I don’t know—”

“Did you take me from prison just to lock me in this house?” Armand turned to look at the dining room with its cushioned red chairs, its dark wood, and the sparkling light above the huge table. “This prison is beautiful, but if I can’t leave, it’s still a prison.”

Color jumped into Julien’s face, and he reached for Armand’s shirt. A chair fell over as he lunged, but Armand did not flinch. “Who the hell do you think you are?” Julien roared, slamming Armand into the wall. The soft red curtains crashed down behind him. “Do you know what I sacrificed to get you out? Do you know how many years I searched for you? Do you know I am still searching for Bastien?”

Armand had not known, and it gave him a moment’s pause. But he was still angry. “Do you want to lock him up, too?”

“You ungrateful—”

“Stop it!” His mother did not raise her voice, but the tone had them both backing down. “This fighting will not accomplish anything. Armand, you are not a prisoner here, and Julien, you are too overprotective. Your brother will do just fine at The Gardens. Give him a month, and he will probably run the place better than the steward you have there now—possibly better than you ever did.”

Julien shook his head. “I’d like to see that.”

“Give him the house. You do not care for it anyway. And that is not all.” She raised a hand when Julien would have turned away. “If he wants to marry Miss Bennett, I think we had all better give him our blessing. Armand was always a stubborn child and a decisive one. When he saw what he wanted, he usually got it. And he was usually right about it, too. He wants Miss Bennett. If she wants him, as well—and I think I have seen them together enough to know that she does—then why not condone the marriage? That will end the scandal broth tonight’s incident caused.”

Sarah raised her brows and glanced at Julien. “She has a point.” But Julien still looked undecided. Armand shook his head. He was done with being treated as an idiot.

“You can’t keep me here, and you can’t keep me from marrying Felicity. You want to protect Sarah, Julien. I want to protect Felicity. There won’t be any bricks through the window at The Gardens.”

Julien raised a brow. “Really? You don’t think the men who did that will follow you there? They found you here.”

Armand clenched his fists because he knew Julien was right. It was his own weakness that he had not wanted to think of that possibility. He wanted to pretend he could escape from his problems. But there was no running. He looked at his mother and Sarah. Even if he and Felicity did manage to escape the father and son, that would still leave those here in danger. He could not allow them to pay for his sins.

Armand leaned down, righted the chair, and sat. He did not want to do this. He did not want to have to remember what he had seen, what he had done. The first few years in prison, he had driven himself mad going over and over everything in his mind. Finally, he had pushed everything down, everything away until his mind was all but a clean slate. It was the only way he had survived all those years of caged solitude. But now he would have to dredge all of it up again. There was no other choice. And hadn’t he promised he would do anything to protect Felicity?

“I know something about the Treasure of the Sixteen,” he said finally.

Everyone in the room grew still, and Armand could feel their eyes bore into him.

“I will tell you what I know. I will remember,” he said, closing his eyes to keep the memories at bay for the moment. “Tomorrow.” He was too tired, too drained to allow that blackness to seep in tonight. He needed to rest, to be sure this was the only way. He would need all his strength for what lay ahead.

“Tomorrow?” Sarah whispered. “You’ll talk to us about—before?”

He nodded. His mother rose and put her hand on his shoulder. There was a stab of pain, but it was less than usual. He could almost ignore it. “Tomorrow will be soon enough. You need your rest. After all, we now have a wedding to plan.”

He trudged to his room, feeling heavy and weary. He all but collapsed on the floor, forgoing even the luxury of a blanket tonight. The lights in the room burned bright. The window was open, but still the dreams started as soon as he closed his eyes.

Paris. He was a child again, and he was afraid for his father. There were more and more executions every day, and there seemed to be nothing anyone could do to save the doomed aristocrats—not that anyone wanted to do anything.

The peasants wanted blood, and there were days it ran in the streets like wine.

The first time he saw the small man and his large son, they had not appeared to notice him. Many men and women went in and out of the prison yard where his father was being held. Few paid any mind to a small, mute boy.

But he made the mistake of going there too often and at the same times, and soon, when Armand stood in the prison courtyard, he could feel the eyes of the small man on him. He was watched, assessed.

Armand knew he should stop coming to the prison, but how could he leave his father alone in there? He had never yet seen his father, but he had not been one of the haggard men and women loaded into the carts as fodder for Madame Guillotine. The duc must still be in the prison, and Armand hoped one day he would catch a glimpse of him.

He stood in the courtyard for an hour each day and stared at the windows, hoping to see his father’s strong, dignified face. Instead, one day another man’s face appeared before his. “You are beginning to attract attention,
mon
ami
.”

Armand blinked at him and then followed his gaze to the small man and his large son. The small man was staring at him, his gaze malevolent.

Armand glanced up at the new man. He was an average-looking man, dressed in peasant clothing. He had a kind face but hard eyes that seemed to miss nothing. “I see you here every day, mon ami. Do you have a friend in the prison?”

Armand shook his head. To have a friend in the prison would mean he sympathized with the aristos.

“Then why do you come here, mon ami?”

Armand shrugged and looked down. He wanted to leave now, to go back to the tavern and busy himself until he was invisible again.

Now another man joined the first. They looked remarkably alike. “This is my brother, mon ami. His name is Jacques. My name is Jacques, as well. You can call me Jacques One and him Jacques Two.” He laughed, showing a mouth full of uneven teeth.

Armand frowned. Both brothers named Jacques? But then he remembered many of the revolutionaries used this name in order to hide their true identities. Jacques Two leaned close to study Armand. “Do you have a name, mon ami?”

Armand stood silently, knowing any word would give him away as an aristocrat.

“Perhaps your name is Jacques,” Jacques One said, laughing again. “You can be Jacques Three!”

Armand nodded then, smiling a little. He needed to get away now. The small man was still watching him, and the two Jacques made him nervous.

“Can’t you speak, Jacques?” Jacques One asked.

Armand shook his head then put his hand to his throat. It was a gesture he made often to signal his voice would not work.

The Jacques nodded, exchanged a glance. Then Jacques Two said, “Why don’t you come with us, Jacques? We have work you can do. We could use a boy who works hard and won’t be tempted to spread our secrets.”

Armand took a step back, unsure if he really had any say in the matter. “I’ve seen you at that little tavern where so many of our fellow Jacques meet,” Jacques One said. “You work hard. Why don’t you work hard for us?”

The small man was coming toward him then, making his way across the prison courtyard. Armand watched him, praying he was not coming for him.

The Jacques turned, saw the small man coming. “And we can protect you from that one,” Jacques Two said. “He won’t touch you if you work for us. As it is now, he doesn’t like you much, mon ami.”

Armand swallowed. He could see the hatred in the small man’s eyes, the suspicion. He looked at Jacques One and Jacques Two, nodded, and followed them out of the courtyard…

“Oh, Armand,” Felicity said.

He looked up, surprised to see the whole family gathered around the dining-room table. The morning light streamed through the dining-room windows, and he squinted at it. He was not in Paris, and he was not dreaming. He had woken early this morning and been anxious to relay what he remembered to his family. Now they all sat around him, his mother dabbing at her eyes and Felicity’s voice bringing him out of his reverie.

He glanced at her and, for a moment, he was caught by her beauty. The dirty streets of Paris, the Jacques, and the fears of a small boy were swept away. And then his brother spoke.

“And so these men took you in, took care of you, and protected you from the small man. What does any of this have to do with the Treasure of the Sixteen?”

Armand swallowed, not sure of the answer to that himself. It seemed information came to him slowly and in its own time. He could not force it, nor could he stop it.

“I don’t know what it has to do with the treasure,” Felicity said, giving him time to think. He gave her an appreciative look. “But the small man and his son. You said it was his son, my lord? Those are the men I saw in the garden. Those were the men digging the holes and who threw the brick at the window.”

“But what are they doing here?” Sarah asked, sipping her tea. “Why have they appeared in London and after all of these years?”

“They want the treasure,” Armand said simply.

“And they think you know where it is,” Julien said.

Armand nodded.

“Do you?”

Armand took a deep breath, and then the door opened. Grimsby gave a short, cursory bow.

“What is it, Grismby?” Julien’s voice was sharp and impatient.

The butler cleared his throat. “I am sorry to interrupt, Your Grace, but there is a man here who wishes to see Miss Bennett.”

Felicity’s hand flew to her throat. “Me?”

“Yes, miss. He says his name is”—he held a card by two fingers and glanced down at it—“Charles St. John. He claims to be your husband.”

The world went black. Outside, she could see the sun shining, the light streaming in through the drawn curtains in the cheery dining room. Carriages clopped past—horses’ bells jangling jauntily and the coachmen calling out “hup.” Men with their tall hats and women with their parasols lingered in the park at Berkeley Square, enjoying what might be the last mild day of the year. It was now December, but cold, dreary winter had held off a little longer.

Except that Felicity felt colder than she ever had before. She shivered, looked around, and saw all eyes were on her. The only gaze she could meet was Armand’s. There was no condemnation there. Not yet. He probably did not understand all the implications of what the butler said.

“Shall I tell him to go on his way, Miss Bennett?” the butler asked. “We do not need rabble of that sort here.”

Felicity swallowed. She would have liked to say yes and have Charles sent away, but she knew he would be back. She knew he would not be that easy to be rid of. “No, Grimsby,” she said. “I had better see him.”

The duchesse put a hand to her throat, and in her eyes Felicity could see all the censure the others must have felt. She did not know what Armand had told them last night, but she did know that this morning there had been a sense of acceptance about her. The duchesse and the dowager had welcomed her warmly, and even the duc had nodded at her. Perhaps they had not suspected. Perhaps she might have kept this position after all.

Now all of the family’s earlier warmth was gone, replaced by suspicion and indignity.

“I…” She wanted to say something to reassure them, but what was there to say? Charles had not lied. He was, but for one small detail, her husband.

She rose on wobbly legs and made her way to the vestibule. The butler left the dining-room door open, and behind her, she imagined the Valères pouring more tea and going about their breakfast formally. Decorum demanded they give her privacy. But Armand had no such compunctions. He knew nothing of decorum and would not have cared if he had.

She could feel him at her side. He had risen with her, followed her into that cavernous entryway. She glanced at him, gave him a small smile. He did not smile back. Oh, how she wished she were still sitting beside him, listening as his rich voice—it grew deeper and richer with more use—painted a picture of revolutionary France. His slight accent drifted over her, until she could hear the voices and the sounds, feel his anguish at his father’s imprisonment.

She wished she could turn to him now, throw herself in his arms, bury her head against his shoulder. But when she looked ahead of her again, there stood Charles St. John.

“Felicity!” He stepped forward, holding out his hands. He would have taken her hands, perhaps taken her into his arms if Armand had not emitted a low warning sound beside her.

Charles jerked back, his eyes flitting to Armand and then back to her. Felicity knew what he must see—a man dressed in only a white shirt and trousers, his feet bare, his neck bare, and his long hair down about his shoulders.

Growing up, she had thought Charles St. John was the most handsome man of her acquaintance. But now that she had the two men practically side by side, Charles’s looks paled in comparison to Armand’s. Charles dressed in the height of fashion, but the starched cravat, embroidered waistcoat, and polished riding boots looked like an affectation beside Armand’s careless style of dress. She had always loved Charles’s blond hair, the way it curled over his forehead in a careful style, but now she could not imagine how she had found it appealing. Armand’s wild locks were sensual and untamed. There was no affectation in the comte.

“Charles.” Felicity tried not to allow her anger and annoyance to show. “I don’t know what to say.”

He laughed then, and she saw he was truly enjoying this. “You don’t need to say anything. I can see it all in your face.”

Felicity smiled tightly. She held her breath, waiting to see what he would do.

“You must be surprised to see me here.”

She nodded. “Quite.” She did not know what to say next, and she was saved from having to think of something when the comte stepped forward. Felicity watched him, unsure what he would do, and when he raised a brow at her, she quickly recovered her manners. “My lord, this is Charles St. John, an old friend of my family. Charles, this is the comte de Valère.”

Charles bowed. “My lord.”

“A friend of Miss Bennett’s is a friend of ours,” Armand said without any warmth. He moved to stand closer to Felicity, claiming his territory—or so it seemed to her. “I haven’t seen you before, Mr. St. John.”

Charles laughed again. “Well, it’s the damndest thing. I’ve been in London for weeks and had no idea Felicity was here, as well.” He winked at Felicity, and she guessed it was supposed to indicate they would keep their previous meetings here a secret. “Then this morning what do I see in the papers but a mention of a Miss Bennett playing exquisitely”—he glanced at Felicity—“that’s the word the papers used, by the way. ‘Exquisitely.’ Anyway, I see that she had been playing for a Lady Spencer and that she was staying with the duc de Valère and family. Well, I knew right away that had to be my Felicity. No one can play like she does.”

“I haven’t seen the paper this morning,” the comte said. Felicity raised a brow. She could not remember the comte ever reading the morning paper. But he was frowning, and Felicity knew he hated being caught off guard like this. She also had a feeling the papers had mentioned more than Charles was telling her. After all, she had run off—or been carried off—with the comte de Valère. Surely, no report would omit that detail.

Charles narrowed his eyes, and then Felicity was certain the papers had mentioned something about her dramatic exit. “I think you’ll find it interesting reading, my lord.” He focused his green eyes on her again. “How are you, my dear? You look quite well, considering you must still be in mourning.” He seemed to take in her light blue gown with reproach in his eyes, though he knew as well as she there had been no money for any mourning clothes.

Felicity gave him a cold look back. “I am doing as well as can be expected.” As always, the thought of her father brought her emotions to a head, and her words were tinged with pain, something she would have preferred Charles did not hear. Armand must have heard it, as well. He put his hand on her back, a gesture of comfort.

Charles saw it, too, and he frowned at the intimacy. “Again, imagine my surprise to learn you are here in London. I had to see you. I wanted to claim my bride.”

She felt the comte’s hand on her back tense, but he did not remove it. “Our butler said you were her husband,” Armand said, his voice quiet—almost too quiet. “That means that you are married.” He looked at Felicity for confirmation.

“No, but there was an—”

“Husband means married, correct?” he interrupted.

She nodded, resigned. “Correct.”

Armand’s eyes met Charles’s again. “Are you married to Miss Bennett?”

“The ceremony will be but a formality. Our marriage was her father’s wish. I nursed the poor vicar during his last days. Before he passed away, the reverend signed an agreement betrothing me to his daughter. I have a copy of the agreement, if you’d like to see it.” He glanced at Felicity, his arm hovering by the pocket of his tailcoat.

“No.” She cleared her throat. “I’ve seen it.”

“So you understand your father’s wishes then.” He glanced at Armand again. “The reverend promised his daughter to me.”

Felicity did not want to look at Armand. She could not imagine what thoughts must be going through his mind, but she could not stop herself. She turned to him, just as he drew his hand away from her back. “I owe Mr. St. John a great debt.” But there was no warmth in her words.

Charles waved a hand, dismissing her words. “You don’t owe me anything, darling. I’m just so glad to see you, and I want to take you home.”

His words were ridiculous. There was no home to take her to. He was trying to scare her, to let her know he wanted his money. “Now?” She floundered, unsure what to say or do. She did not have the money. “But… I…” She looked at Armand and then back at Charles. What would he say, what would he do, if she said she did not have his money?

“You can’t take her now,” Armand said. Felicity jumped in surprise, both relieved and apprehensive at his imperative.

Charles’s eyes narrowed dangerously, and Felicity cleared her throat before he could speak. “What I think he means is I’m not ready to leave right this moment. Perhaps we should discuss this and make arrangements…”

“Of course.” Charles waved that hand again. “I did not expect you to go with me immediately. We might go for a walk to reacquaint ourselves, as it were. We have much to discuss—in private.” In other words, he wanted to get her alone to make his demands. And she was not the least comforted to speak to him in private. What was that but a veiled threat that he would go public with their betrothal, with any lie he chose, to get what he wanted?

Felicity looked at Armand, who looked right back at her. She knew he did not want her to go, but how could she refuse? She feared what Charles would do or say if she did refuse.

And she grew weary of being afraid! Perhaps she should allow him to do his worst, and then at least she might face the consequences instead of constantly fretting over them.

She thought about Armand and his family. Could she confide in them? Would they be angry she brought this horrible man and his blackmailing into their home? They were unsure of her now. The dowager and the duchesse seemed to like her well enough, but the duc didn’t trust her. And all of them wanted, more than anything else, to protect Armand.

She wanted to protect him, too. What would the family think once they knew the truth of her situation? Would they suppose she had used Armand, played with his emotions when she was promised to another? Or would they believe her if she told them Charles had forced this engagement on her?

Would they help her? Could they help her?

She didn’t know. But she still possessed some self-respect. Charles was her problem, and she must at least try once more to handle him and his humiliating demands on her own.

She blinked and looked down, unable to meet Armand’s gaze. “I need to fetch my cloak. If you’ll give me a moment, Mr. St. John.”

“Of course.”

With a bit of reluctance, she broke away from the two men and started up the stairs. A quick backward glance revealed they were standing face-to-face, not speaking. The dining-room doors were cracked, and she could see the rest of the family peering out. No doubt they had heard all.

She fetched her cloak and reticule quickly and then made her way back down the stairs. Charles was waiting at the door, and Armand stood at the foot of the stairs. She looked at both men. Why did she feel as though this walk with Charles symbolized something more to Armand? She wanted to tell Armand she was not choosing Charles over him. How could she, after all they had shared last night?

With a quick look at Armand, she walked to Charles. Grimsby opened the door, and Charles held out his arm. She turned back to Armand one last time, but he had turned away from her. He was making his way back into the dining room, where his family waited.

***

“I don’t understand why she never mentioned anything,” Sarah was saying. Her voice was indignant, Armand thought—not entirely certain that was the correct word, but reasonably sure. His vocabulary was slowly coming back to him. But her eyes did not match her voice. She was looking at him with pity in those brown eyes. He hated their pity more than anything else.

“Why would she say anything?” Armand asked, his voice harsher than he intended, but he had to wipe the pity off their faces. “They are not married yet. He said betrothed.”

“That’s a promise to marry. It’s not taken lightly,” Julien said, leaning back in his chair. He was the only one who did not look at Armand as though he felt sorry for him. “She didn’t say anything because she wanted this position.” He glanced at Sarah. “Would you have hired her had you known?”

Sarah shook her head.

Julien steepled his hands. “But why would he come here now? Expose her? I don’t believe he just realized she was in Town.”

“He wants something,” Armand said. The man obviously wanted Felicity, but it was more than that.

“Money,” his mother said on a sigh. “She might not have mentioned the betrothal because it was irrelevant and something neither party intended to honor. But he saw her name in the papers, associated her with us, and now he thinks he can get money.”

Sarah shook her head. “But why would
we
give him money?”

“We won’t,” Julien said. “But she may have to if she does not want him to enforce the agreement.”

“That’s blackmail!” Sarah argued.

“Of course. He doesn’t want to marry her. She pays him, or he makes it very difficult for her to find another position.”

“She won’t need another position.” Armand stood. “I will marry her.”

His mother shook her head. “It is not that simple. She is promised to another.”

“She’s mine.”

“And if St. John discovers you feel that way, he’ll want money from you, too,” Julien said.

“Then we give him money.” Armand turned, intent on going outside. The dining room—the house for that matter—was too confining. He needed air and sunlight so he could breathe and think.

And he wanted to make his rounds, to check the house was secure. If the small man and his son were in London, no one in this household was safe.

“We’re not giving him money.” Julien followed him out of the dining room. “I’m not going to be blackmailed. You think you’ll pay once, but it never works that way. Better to let her go. I don’t want this man raking the Valère name through the muck.”

Armand stopped, turned to his brother. “I will not lose her.” Even now it killed him that she was not with him, that he did not know where she was. Was St. John touching her? Holding her hand? No—she would never allow that.

But was she safe with that man? He should have followed them, been there to protect her.

But even a man such as he—a man who had suffered every sort of abuse and ignominy imaginable—still had some pride. He was no puppy to nip at her heels.