Surrender (3 page)

She inhaled. Oddly, she trusted him, and clearly, he was not
going to allow her to come.

Aware of her surrender, he opened a drawer and removed a small
pistol and a bag of powder with a flint box. He closed the drawer and his stare
was piercing. “The odds are that you will not need this, but keep it with you
until I return.” He walked around the desk and held the gun out to her.

Evelyn took the gun. His eyes had become chilling. But he was
about to aid and abet traitors to the revolution. If he was caught, he would
hang—or worse.

He strode to the door. “Bolt it,” he said, not looking
back.

Her heart slammed in unison with the door. Then she ran to it
and threw the bolt, but not before she saw him striding across the ship’s deck,
two armed sailors falling into step with him.

She hugged herself, shivering. And then she prayed for Aimee,
and for Henri. There was a small bronze clock on the desk; it was five-twenty
now. She went and sat down in his chair.

His masculinity seemed to rise up and engulf her. If only he
had let her join him to retrieve her daughter and husband. She leaped up from
his chair and paced. She could not bear sitting in his chair, and she wasn’t
about to sit on his bed.

At a quarter to six, she heard a sharp knock on the cabin door.
Evelyn rushed to it as he said, “It is I.”

She threw the bolt and opened the door. The first thing she saw
was Aimee, yawning—she was in the smuggler’s arms. Tears began. He stepped into
the cabin and handed Aimee to her. Evelyn hugged her, hard, but her gaze met
that of the captain’s. “Thank you.”

His glance held hers as he stepped aside.

“Evelyn.”

She froze at the sound of Henri’s voice. Then, incredulous, she
saw him being held upright by two seamen. Laurent, Adelaide and Bette were
behind them. “Henri! You have awakened!” she cried, thrilled.

And as the seamen brought him inside, she set Aimee down and
rushed to him, putting her arm around him to help him stand.

“You are not going to England without me,” he said weakly.

Tears fell now. Henri had awoken, and he was determined to be
with them as they started a new life in England. She helped him to the bed,
where he sat down, still weak and exhausted. Laurent and the women began
bringing in their baggage as the two seamen left.

Evelyn continued to clasp her husband’s hands, but she
turned.

The Englishman was staring at her. “We are hoisting sail,” he
said abruptly.

Evelyn stood, their stares locked. His was so serious. “It
seems that I must thank you another time.”

It was a moment before he spoke. “You can thank me when we
reach Britain.” He turned to go.

It was as if there was an innuendo in his words. And somehow,
she knew what that innuendo was. But surely she was mistaken. Evelyn did not
think twice. She ran to him—and in front of him. “Sir! I am deeply in your debt.
But to whom do I owe the lives of my daughter and my husband?”

“You owe Jack Greystone,” he said.

CHAPTER ONE

Roselynd on the Bodmin Moor,
Cornwall
February 25, 1795

“T
HE
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.

* * *

L
AURENT
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.”