The Virgin's Daughter (29 page)

He didn’t care. Whatever she felt or didn’t, whatever her purpose, Julien must speak or forever hate himself for his cowardice.

“I wondered,” he began, and had to clear his throat in order to continue. “Might we go riding tomorrow? One last time before you leave. There is something I would like to say to you.”

He would never get over the effect of those blue eyes fixed on him as though daring to read all his secrets. “I don’t know if—”

“Please.”

He added the plea in English and thought her lips trembled. But she managed to smile. “Yes, let’s talk. There is something I’d like to tell you myself, before…”

He did not like that hesitation. “Before what?” he prodded.

“Before someone else can.”

What could she possibly fear him hearing?

That she’d cracked the Nightingale Plot and knew him to be innocent? That she’d had orders from Walsingham to arrest him? (He’d like to see her try.) Maybe she had decided to extend her stay in France.

As the galliard drew to an end, there was the usual chatter of the crowds, and then, unusually, a brief flourish from the musicians that drew everyone’s eyes to the top of the steps.

It was not Charlotte who stood there, nor even Renaud, to thank their guests for coming to Blanclair. It was Nicolas, taking his place as the eldest son, heir to the estate, something Renaud had long wanted Nicolas to do. It should have made Julien happy, to see his brother more engaged in the world. But guilt was a habit with him, and he distrusted happiness.

“Thank you,” Nicolas said. “It has been a great pleasure to have you in our home. But it has been an even greater pleasure to have had for some weeks the company of our guest, Lady Lucette Courtenay. Though, of course, she has always been more than a guest to our family. She has belonged to Blanclair since the day of her birth, and so I have at last moved to make that permanent by asking her to be my wife.”

Julien froze, certain that he’d heard wrong. Nicolas couldn’t get married. And even if he’d asked her, Lucette would not have said yes. She wasn’t here to fall in love, with either of them.

But then he looked down at her, as frozen as Julien was, and he knew it for truth.
There is something I’d like to tell you myself, before someone else can
.

He came back to himself suddenly and shoved himself through the crowds, knowing only that he had to get as far away from her as possible.

—

For one terrible moment, when Nicolas spoke so easily of their being betrothed, Lucette thought she might faint. What the hell is he doing? she thought profanely. But even through her shock, she recognized that he had chosen his words with care. He’d said he had
asked
her to be his wife; he did not claim that she had accepted. From Julien’s reaction, Lucette knew that few would have parsed his words that carefully. And from the almost instant swell of cheerful voices surrounding her, everyone took it for granted that she and Nicolas were officially betrothed.

She found she was still clinging to Julien’s arm only when he pulled away violently. She wanted to stop him. She wanted to follow him and explain…what? That she had trapped his brother into coming to England in order to deliver him to Walsingham? That, if she was right, Nicolas had done all in his power to implicate Julien in the plots? That she had no intention of marrying Nicolas, or anyone else, for that matter. That there was only one man she could now imagine marrying—

And he had just looked at her as though she were less than the dust beneath his feet.

She could not remain frozen or give way to fury or despair, for almost at once she was surrounded by well-wishers.

Charlotte gave her an enormous hug. “Oh, Lucette,” she said. “You know this is what I’d hoped for! Although I do wonder…”

“Wonder what?” Perhaps Charlotte could sense her shock.

But her friend simply shook her head. “I wonder how fast the news will fly upstairs to Felix, and how quickly he will fly down the stairs to welcome you.”

Oh, no. She did not want Felix to be part of the joyous aftermath of Nicolas’s announcement. This wasn’t about Felix. This was about Nightingale and her suspicions, and she hadn’t actually said yes, but how could she tell that to a boy who would rejoice at the thought of her staying at Blanclair with his father?

But better to face Felix than the other LeClerc men. Even without being able to see Renaud through the throngs that pressed around to congratulate her, she imagined she could feel his disapproval beating at her and knew a difficult interview lay in her immediate future.

But Renaud’s disapproval would be nothing in the face of Julien’s outrage. He had vanished from her side before she had even been able to draw breath, and somehow she thought he would keep out of the way until he could confront her on his terms.

She would have given a great deal to know precisely the nature of Julien’s outrage. And what it was he’d wanted to say to her tomorrow.

Knowing herself for a coward, Lucette stayed glued to Charlotte’s side in order to protect herself. She let the wash of French voices flow over her, smiling and confining herself to a murmured “
Merci
” whenever there was a pause. Though Charlotte looked at her curiously once or twice, she did not press.

Although Lucette was not generally the last reveler at a party, tonight she wished desperately that things would continue until morning. But long before she was prepared (though when might that have been?), the last guests drifted away to the guest chambers and local inns and she was left with only the fragile guard of Charlotte and a quizzical Andry against the combined might of the LeClerc men.

Renaud had never seemed more the commander of men he was, anger beating beneath his calm exterior.

He kissed his daughter on the forehead. “Thank you,
ma chère
. You must be tired. I’ll see you in the morning.” It was clearly a dismissal.

Andry shot a look at his father-in-law, and with a quick read of the situation, tucked his wife’s hand through his elbow and led her out before she could protest.

“I think my study would be the best place for this,” Renaud said, and Lucette could not decipher the neutrality of his voice. “Julien, go to bed.”

Only when he addressed his second son did Lucette realize that Julien was present. She could not help but look. He stood in a far corner, half the chamber away, with face locked down. She wondered if he would protest being sent away—did she want him sent away?—but Nicolas intervened.

“I’d like Julien to be there, if you don’t mind. He has always been intimately involved with my…affairs.” The look between brothers was of a nature that Lucette thought might lead to drawn weapons.

Renaud drew breath, surely to refuse, then shot a keen glance at Lucette. “What do you say,
mademoiselle
?”

That I want this to be over as quickly as possible
. Without looking at Julien, she said formally, “I have no objections.”

Nicolas put a possessive hand at the small of her back as they followed Renaud and Julien to the comfortable study. Fortunately, she’d had a lot of practice feigning disinterest and the illusion of perfect control. She’d been able for years to hold off the penetrating interest of both her mother and Queen Elizabeth as to her emotional state—Renaud LeClerc should pose little problem.

Nicolas sat next to her and held her hand, facing Renaud behind his desk. Julien lounged behind them, leaning against the wall, but Lucette fancied she could see tension radiating off him in streaks of black.

“I wish,” Renaud said softly, “that you had spoken to me first, Nicolas. Now you have put the lady in an extraordinarily awkward position when she is forced to decline. As she must.”

“Why must I?” Lucette asked.

“Nicolas knows why. I don’t know what he was thinking—”

“He told me,” Lucette interrupted bluntly. Might as well get that awkwardness over with at once.

She heard Julien’s breath hiss between his teeth. Renaud’s expression flickered, and she knew he was shocked. “Told you what?”

“What happened to him in Paris. I know the nature of his injuries. And why you believe him unsuited for another marriage.”

“It is not a matter of belief,” Julien said through tight throat. “He
cannot
marry again. The Church would never allow it.”

“I am not Catholic, and who says your Church has to know about it?” Lucette shot back without looking at Julien. It was Renaud she needed to have on her side. “I believe the matter of marriage lies primarily between the man and woman concerned.”

Renaud lifted his eyebrows in mock surprise. “Surely the daughter of Minuette Courtenay knows better than to believe that.”

She flushed, but did not waver. “As her daughter, I also know that she will be well persuaded by my own wishes in the matter.”

“But Nicolas is my son, and I am not persuaded by the wishes of a girl too young to know what she would be giving up. Surely you must want children.”

“Father,” Nicolas broke in. “I have discussed the implications with her.”

Julien let out a choked laugh and shoved himself off the wall behind them and into Lucette’s sight. “That must have been an interesting conversation. How detailed did you get, brother?”

“That’s enough.” Renaud’s tone was familiar—that of a man used to command.

Julien choked back whatever else he’d wanted to say. Renaud kept his eyes fixed on Lucette. She stared back, willing him to be reasonable, knowing that if he did not make some concession, she would have ruined things with Julien for no reason at all.

Finally, Renaud sighed. “As I stand in France in lieu of your parents,
mademoiselle
, then I cannot give consent. I should send you back to England, away from my sons, and give thanks to see the last of you.”

“But…” Lucette prompted into the space he left at the end of that speech.

“But frankly, I fear the impulsive lengths to which you might go if I issued a flat refusal. Only one man can give consent to this marriage, and that is Dominic Courtenay. Nicolas, if you are convinced of the merits of your argument, then you may make them yourself to Lord Exeter. I will send you to England with Lucette and Dr. Dee. Whatever Dominic decides I will abide by.”

Because you know there’s no chance Dominic will agree, Lucette thought cynically. Fine. All she needed was to get Nicolas to England and see what followed. There was only one more piece to the Nightingale puzzle, and she would bet her soul that Nicolas would solve it for her.

She had memorized the words of the Spanish letter sent to her by Anise:
To travel as her intended would be for the best as it would attract the least notice. The window for action is narrow and the nightingale grows impatient
.

Nicolas had made his play for her, and she must see it through to the end. Julien might hate her now, but how much more would he hate her if he knew she intended to deliver his brother to Walsingham? No, best to let him despise her for a foolish girl who had finally landed the brother she’d wanted since she was ten years old.

“I’ll go with them as well,” Julien said abruptly. “If Nicolas does not object?”

“I insist upon it,” Nicolas replied. “Who else would I rather have by my side in this than my brother?”

Renaud shook his head, as though recognizing the disaster that could only ensue. But he did not object.

She escaped to her chamber, glad to get away from all of them, and Charlotte’s efficient Parisian maid had her out of her ballgown and into her nightdress and robe in short order. She took the pins out of Lucette’s hair, but then Lucette dismissed her. Unplaiting and brushing her hair would give her something to focus on. Something she could cope with.

Two hours later she still sat before the table. She had tried working
in her Memory Chamber, but the ledgers in her mind kept dissolving into images of Julien; laughing at her at Wynfield when she was little, insulting her in Paris, surprise writ all over his expression when she’d asked him to kiss her.
I shall be brave for the both of us
.

She could have used some of his bravery now.

There came a single knock on her door, then it was pushed open even as she got to her feet. The moment she saw Julien, Lucette knew that he was very, very drunk. It must have been instinct, or something in his eyes, because he moved into her chamber with the same arrogant grace, and when he spoke, his words were perfectly distinct.

“Why so shocked, Lucie?” he asked with that mocking tone that had made her hate him when she was ten years old. “Never had a man in your bedchamber before?”

Though she knew she coloured, she would not cower. “I do have brothers.”

He laughed, and that did sound a bit slurred. “And that statement proves your entire innocence. But of course you are innocent, or you would not possibly be entertaining my brother’s insane proposal.”

“It is none of your affair.”

“The hell it isn’t.” He strode closer and looked her up and down so that she was very conscious of how little fabric clothed her. Only her linen nightdress and a thin silk robe. Compared to the yards of fabric she was usually draped in, she might as well have been naked. Her hair hung loose as well; she had brushed it but never replaited it.

Julien let his breath out, and that, too, was shaky. “Do you think,” he whispered, “that Nicolas doesn’t know exactly how I feel about you?”

“Then he knows more than I do,” she snapped.

“Oh, Lucie, how can you be so smart and so damned stupid at the same time?” He took another step closer and she knew she should back away, put distance between them, but she didn’t think she could make herself move. Julien continued to speak in that low, seductive voice. “You do not even know what you will be giving up. I’ve no
doubt Nicolas can please you. He had a lot of practice when young—far more than I ever did at his age—and he’s not so cruel as to not want to give you what pleasure he can.”

Julien’s right hand touched her shoulder, so light but with that ever-present promise of strength that made her swallow hard. “He will touch you,” he said, suiting his actions to his words, “run his hand across the soft skin beneath your throat, then trace your curves—you have such curves, Lucie—to your hips.”