Velvet Embrace (2 page)

Suzanne whirled to face the older woman, tears glittering in her eyes. "Katherine, I am so afraid! I know Papa means to challenge the
comte
, and I've been trying and trying to think of a way to prevent them from dueling, but I don't know how. I will never, never forgive Papa if he hurts Philippe!"

Appalled, Katherine sank into the chair Suzanne had vacated, closing her eyes. The girl could not possibly mean to take the
comte's
side. Or could she? Suzanne Durham was the product of a self-centered English father and a beautiful, aristocratic French mother. By nature, she was generous and loving, but she could also be stubborn and passionate. And she was no longer a mere child, Katherine reflected. At seventeen, Suzanne was both old enough and naive enough to fall prey to the handsome Comte de
Valdois
. She had always had something of an infatuation for their titled neighbor, in fact, but since she had frequently been away at school, her attraction had never developed into anything serious enough for concern.
Until now.
Now Suzanne was defending that terrible man.

Yet how could she have known what the
comte
was like? It had only been a short time ago that Katherine herself had considered the French nobleman no less than the gallant gentleman he appeared. Katherine had even felt sorry for him when his English wife had deserted him earlier in the year. Indeed, Philippe
Serrault
, the Comte of
Valdois
, had fooled them all with his elegant manners and
devasting
charm.
Especially Suzanne's mother,
Lisette
.
How foolish
Lisette
had been! Katherine's stomach churned as she recalled what had happened. Thank God Suzanne had been well chaperoned during her infrequent visits home.

"Suzanne, you must have nothing more to do with the
comte
," Katherine said abruptly.

Her voice, so unaccustomedly sharp, made Suzanne stare. "Why? What has he done?" Katherine's reply was a shudder.

Dismayed to see her pallor, Suzanne knelt before the older woman and began to rub her worn hands to return the circulation. "What did the letter say?"

Katherine shook her head. "I cannot tell you." Placing a hand protectively on the girl's dark hair, she held Suzanne's gaze. "I wish you to trust me, dear. It is better that you do not know. I can only say that your father has been deeply hurt. I cannot blame him for the anger he feels."

Suzanne's brows drew together in puzzlement. "You would condone the
comte's
murder? Papa will kill him if he can."

"Your father's honor is at stake," Katherine replied, looking away.

Suzanne pulled back and leapt to her feet. "What is honor, compared to a life? They will duel and Philippe will be killed!
And . . . and what of his son?
What will become of Dominic if his father dies? Can a seven-year-old understand the meaning of honor? Poor child! His mother
an English
witch who abandons him, and now this. No, Katherine. There has been one death too many. We must find a way to prevent the duel."

Katherine shook her head. From what she had heard in the village only a short while ago, there would be no duel. "Suzanne, your father has not challenged the
comte
. He has . . . submitted evidence to the authorities. The
comte
will be arrested."

Suzanne stared at Katherine in horror. "Arrested? But they will take him to Paris. He will be condemned to die without even a trial. No, I must warn him!" Not even waiting for a reply, she ran to the door and threw it open.

"Suzanne!" Katherine cried, coming to her feet. "Suzanne, I beg you, come back!" Her anguished words only echoed eerily as a rush of cold air invaded the chamber and made her shudder. "Dear God," she whispered. Then realizing she couldn't allow the girl to go rushing off like that, at night and alone, Katherine picked up her skirts and hurried out of the room.

Suzanne had already left the house and was racing across the rear lawn. She avoided the stables, heading for the woods that separated the Durham and
Valdois
lands. A narrow footpath led through the forest there, and she intended to save precious minutes by taking the path, rather than having a horse saddled.

When she reached the woods, Suzanne plunged recklessly into the dense vegetation and was immediately forced to slow her pace. Although it was autumn, the trees had not yet shed their leaves, and the light from the thin sliver of moon barely penetrated to the forest floor. Silver-black shadows danced all around her, making it impossible to see the brambles and low- hanging branches that choked the path.

The heavy growth impeded her progress as she tried to run. Gnarled roots and sharp rocks caused her to stumble; tough bark and prickly vines tore at her clothes and hair; branches lashed the tender skin of her face and hands. But she was oblivious to the pain. Her only thought was to go to the
comte
and warn him.

She was terrified to think what would happen if she were too late. Her sheltered life had not pretended her from learning what was happening elsewhere in France. The country was being swept up in the violent destruction of a long-abided social order. Chateaus were being burned to the ground by oppressed peasants, while noble families were driven from their homes and herded like animals into carts bound for Paris prisons. And in the capitol, hundreds of leagues away, the hideous instrument of the New Republic, La Guillotine, performed its grisly duty day after day without discrimination for the innocence or guilt of its victims.

For months Suzanne had listened to the horrible tales that filtered into the select boarding school she attended—tales of riots and massacres, of seething mobs demanding the country's noblest heads. But until now such incidents had touched her well-ordered life as only an extremely unpleasant dream might, and she had innocently clung to the belief that the horrors would soon end.

She had been shocked to be summoned from school in order to attend her own mother's funeral.
Lisette
Durham's death had not been remotely connected with the revolution, but it had brutally awakened Suzanne to what was happening around her. The revolution was spreading. Like a voracious predator, it was creeping across France, engulfing the country and its people. And now her father had harnessed the beast for his own purposes! She had been right to fear the hatred and rage she had seen burning in Sir Charles' eyes, even if she had mistakenly assumed he would abide by the strict codes that governed affairs of honor.

Suzanne's breath caught on a sob as she considered what would happen if she failed to reach
Valdois
in time. She had heard few people ever escaped with their lives once they had been imprisoned. Some simply rotted in the filthy cells where they had been incarcerated, while most felt the deathly caress of the knife. No matter what the
comte
had done, he didn't deserve such a fate.

Blindly, she raced on through the forest, while throbbing shafts of pain pierced her sides and her breath came in ragged shudders. Stumbling once again, she lost her balance and fell to the forest floor with an impact that left her stunned. She lay there a moment, her face pressed into the dirt. But her determination, born of fear, gave her the strength to clutch at a tree limb and drag herself from the ground.

For what seemed like an eternity, Suzanne compelled her legs to move. At last, though, she reached the end of the path that gave way to the side lawns. Beyond were the elegant, formal gardens and the magnificent
Valdois
chateau.

Suzanne drew up, gasping for breath, unable to go farther for a moment. When she recovered, she began to run again toward the great house. She could see a strange, flickering light coming from the front lawns, and it drew her like a strong magnet.

Threading her way past beautifully clipped hedges, she rounded the corner of the house,
then
stopped abruptly. Staring at the flaming scene in horror, she fought the scream that tore at her throat. She was too late! The drive was crowded with horses and soldiers, some of the men carrying pitchforks or other crude weapons but most brandishing firearms. Philippe
Serrault
, the Comte de
Valdois
, stood at the foot of the stone steps, his arms pinned roughly behind him by two of the soldiers.

Suzanne had a clear view of Philippe's proud profile, for his face was illuminated by torchlight. He held his dark head high, almost arrogantly, as he demanded to know the charges brought against him.

The captain of the troops swaggered up to the
comte
and spat on the ground at his feet. "Citizen, you no longer
have
the right to demand anything.
Sacre
! You
aristos
think you own the world. Much good the world will do you when you no longer have your head." Laughing at his own jest, he spat again. "But I will tell you," he added with obvious relish. "You are charged with acts of treason against the New Republic of France."

The
comte
raised a contemptuous eyebrow. "You know as well as I that I have committed no crimes against your precious Republic."

The grin of malicious enjoyment spread across the captain's face as he fingered the hilt of his sword. "But there is more.
Citizen.
You are also accused of the murder of Madame
Lisette
Durham."

Unable to move, Suzanne watched in frozen silence. She expected the
comte
to refute the accusation, but, oddly, he didn't appear to be surprised by the charge of murder. He only stared coldly at the captain. Just as Suzanne was about to take a step closer, however, the
comte
spoke again, asking who had accused him. Suzanne clearly heard the captain's reply.

"Why none other than the late woman's daughter," the man taunted.
"Mademoiselle Suzanne has denounced you as a murderer and a traitor."

It was a moment before Suzanne understood the implication of what he had said. Then she gasped, realizing what her father had done. Sir Charles had used her name because she had tried to defend the
comte
!

"No," she cried, "it isn't true!" Outraged, she sprang forward, pushing her way through the crowd and startling the soldiers with her sudden appearance. The sneering grin on the captain's face vanished as she thrust herself in front of him. "You cannot arrest Monsieur le Comte," she insisted. "He has done nothing."

The captain glared at her as if he would have liked to make her disappear. "You should not have come, mademoiselle. We already have your signature on the arrest warrant."

"But it is a forgery! I signed no warrant—"

The captain cut her off, not giving her a chance to explain the part her father had played. "It is obvious that you are disturbed, mademoiselle. When you come to your senses, I am sure you will remember making the charges. Corporal, escort this man to his horse."

"No!" she said desperately. "I won't let you take him!" She threw herself at the captain, clinging to his arms while his soldiers looked on in astonishment.

The captain fell back several steps, swearing. When at last he gathered his scattered wits, he seized Suzanne by the arms and flung her to the ground.

She lay there a moment, sobbing,
then
raised a tear-streaked face to the
comte
. "I had nothing to do with it," she whispered hoarsely. "Please, you must believe me."

Philippe
Serrault
only stared down at her, his dark eyes void of expression. "It is of little consequence now, mademoiselle," he said tonelessly. Then his gaze swung to the captain. "Shall we
go,
monsieur?"

Suzanne wanted to beg, to plead, but she realized her entreaties would be useless. She watched helplessly as the
comte
was escorted to a waiting horse.

He went without protest. When he was mounted,
however ,a
child's anguished cry made the
comte
glance over his shoulder. At the top of the steps, a very young boy was struggling wildly in the arms of a servant.

"Dominic," the
comte
murmured, giving a last, lingering look at his son. But he spared not a glance for the young woman who lay huddled and grieving on the ground as he was borne away by the soldiers.