Natalya

Natalya

Special Author's Cut Edition

Beauvisage Novel #2

by

Cynthia Wright

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 1991, 2011 by Cynthia Wright Hunt

Cover by Kim Killion

eBook design by eBook Prep
www.ebookprep.com

Thank You
.

For Bertrice Small, my colleague and faithful friend of 30 years. Love always to a true original & huge talent.

And for our dear friend Tom E. Huff (aka Jennifer Wilde), who lit up every room he entered and every page he wrote, and whose memory continues to light my heart.

Prologue

Unbidden guests

Are often welcomest when they are gone.

Shakespeare (1564-1616)

St. Briac-sur-Loire, France

March 27, 1814

"Soon it will be dark, m'sieur," the man in the black cloak said gruffly. "Here is payment for the ale you've served me. Now, kindly direct me to the chateau."

Brogard, the diminutive, white-haired proprietor of Le Chat Bleu, peered at the stranger. Other patrons, thirsty after a day's labor in the vineyards, were arriving and waiting to be served. "I don't like to send a man I don't know up to the chateau, although I owe M'sieur Beauvisage no allegiance. His father is the marquis, strictly speaking, but the elder Beauvisage has been in America for decades, and besides, we have no aristocrats in France anymore." He winked almost imperceptibly. "At least not at the moment."

"Vive le roi!"
slurred a man seated at the next table.

The stranger glanced over sharply. "Is it true that Louis the Eighteenth is returning from England to assume his brother's crown, and that Napoleon is expected to relinquish his power in a matter of days?"

"Where have
you
been, my good fellow? Locked in prison?" Brogard demanded, with a hearty laugh. "Those rumors have been circulating for weeks!" He paused again, assessing the man before him. Late thirties probably, educated, and most likely English, though he spoke French with ease. Yet something was not right. The stranger had an air of... danger, Brogard decided. He was tall and powerfully built, an imposing physical presence in the rustic taproom with its low, beamed ceiling. Something had brought the fellow low—he was unkempt and appeared half-starved. And the light in his gray eyes sent a chill down Brogard's spine. It was the look of a hunted animal, although the innkeeper sensed that this was a quarry that would fight back savagely if cornered.

"I cannot tarry another minute," the stranger said, with mounting impatience.

"Will you not at least confide the nature of your business with Nicholai Beauvisage? You're a stranger to me, m'sieur, while I've known the Beauvisage family for thirty years. I don't know whether you are friend or foe!"

"I assure you that I bear no ill will toward your revered Beauvisage. Now, I must insist that you tell me how to reach the chateau. Nightfall approaches, and a storm is brewing over the Loire. If you will not tell me the way, I'll ask elsewhere. Pretty girls are often more forthcoming." The stranger smiled thinly.

"D'accord,"
Brogard agreed, with a sigh. "I will walk with you to your horse and direct you."

They emerged onto the crooked rue de Juin, in the middle of the little village that staggered down to the golden banks of the Loire. Shadows were lengthening along the narrow, ancient streets as ominous clouds gathered overhead. Brogard turned and pointed out the roads that would take the stranger to Chateau du Soleil, which perched on a hillside a fair distance west of the village. There was a gatehouse at the end of the drive, Brogard said, but admittance was usually easy to obtain, unless the Beauvisages were entertaining or away.

"Tell the gatekeeper that you are a friend of the family," he advised. "He probably won't question you, though he ought to. You certainly look suspicious enough. Ambrochette is a kindly sort, and very fond of his afternoon wine. He probably won't rouse enough to think much about you. His wife is as fat as a cow, and a harridan as well, so no one blames him for drinking the way he does. If
my
wife—"