No Regrets (30 page)

   Fire licked at her cheeks. "Lucas. I—"

   François stepped forward. "Sir, this is my house. You are interrupting a private conversation."

   Caro gasped. He was making things worse. "François, please."

   Lucas stiffened, his gaze flicking from Caro to the Chevalier. "Both private and intimate, I see." He narrowed his dark, blazing eyes. "Apparently, on this occasion, I am
de trop
." He bowed with infinite politeness. "I must beg both of your pardons." He turned and left.

   Caro stared at the empty space in the doorway and then whirled on François. A satisfied smirk curved his lips. Something hot and unreasonable buzzed in her head. "You had no right to speak as you did. This is my aunt's house too."

   He recoiled. Anger rolled off him in waves before he let out a long ragged breath. "Excuse me, cousin. I did not like his tone. He was not polite."

   "No, he was not. But you gave me no chance to explain."

   Something flashed in his eyes. Something akin to triumph. But it was gone in a moment, and she decided she must have been mistaken when he gave her a rueful grin. "I'm sorry. Would you like me to go after him and set matters straight?"

   Damping down her anger, she gave a terse shake of her head. "I don't think it would help." Slow to ignite, Lucas's temper burned hot and long. Anything said now, especially by François, would only fan the flames. "I will speak to him in the morning."

   He nodded. "As you wish. If I cannot be of service, then I will take my leave."

   She forced a smile. "I am truly sorry things turned out this way."

   His eyes clouded. "As am I. No matter what happens, I hope you will understand I have only your best interests at heart."

   She accepted his farewell salutation with a breath of relief.

   What she really wanted was a nice warming pan in the middle of her bed to ease her aching back and a cool damp cloth on her forehead.

   She would straighten it all out with Lucas tomorrow.

Lizzie frowned at the shadows beneath her mistress's eyes. "How tired you look this morning, my lady."

   The wan smile Lizzie received in the mirror gave her a sinking sensation. It wasn't like Caro to be out of sorts.

   "Not still feeling poorly, are you?" she asked. "How about a nice cup of tea and a nap? Not that the fancy chef down below would know a good cup of tea if he had it poured over his head."

   Caro sighed. "I have to see Lord Foxhaven this morning."

   An odd flutter caught at Lizzie's throat when Caro avoided her gaze. There was something going on. Lizzie threaded a blue ribbon through her mistress's fine hair. "Monsooer this, mamselle that, chevron the other, 'tis no wonder you look so peaky. Your father would turn in his grave."

   Her ladyship's back stiffened, and Lizzie wished she'd bitten her tongue.

   "That's quite enough, Lizzie. These are my mother's family. I know you don't like it here, and quite honestly, I am hoping Lord Foxhaven will take us back to England, but there is no need for rudeness."

   A rush of joy filled Lizzie's heart until she thought her stays would burst. Her grin stretched so wide she could swear her ears were waggin'. "We're going home?"

   "Perhaps."

   "Heaven be praised. I've had enough of these Frogs. Not one of them can understand a word I say, 'cept young 'Enri."

   A small smile curved Lady Foxhaven's lips. "Did it never occur to you that you should speak French in France?"

   "Lawks, my lady, me, learn that gabble? Not on my best bonnet. So, we're really going back to Norwich?"

   "Don't get too hopeful." She heaved a sigh. "Lord Foxhaven was none too pleased to find the Chevalier alone with me last night."

   Lizzie stared at her young mistress. "So that's the cause of the megrims this morning." She put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. "Mark my words, his lordship ain't one to reckon with no rival, I'll bet a pound. Dead jealous, he'd be of that there chevron." She nodded her head. "All gentlemen are like that. Why, I remember a time with young Ned . . ."

   A rush of warmth heated Lizzie's cheeks as the rest of the saucy story popped into her head. "Never mind that. You tell him you're ready to go back with him, and he will be as happy as a grig."

   Lady Foxhaven turned in her seat, openmouthed. "Jealous? Lucas?" Her laugh crackled like tissue paper.

   Lizzie resisted the temptation to rap her stubborn mistress over the knuckles with the silverbacked hairbrush. "Lord love you. What else would it be?"

   The shrug Lady Foxhaven gave as a reply seemed unsure. "Whatever it was, it is imperative I speak to him as soon as possible, so please hand me my bonnet and spencer."

   Having sent a lackey to find her aunt's butler, Caro buttered one of the delicious sweet rolls served each morning in the small breakfast room on the second floor. Aunt Honoré never arose much before midday, and Caro quite often broke her fast alone. This morning she felt particularly in need of sustenance—something to fortify her for her coming meeting with Lucas.

   Cedric, in his usual somber black, strolled in. "Cousin Carolyn. You arose early today."

   She smiled and held out her hand. "I did not expect to see you back so soon. Did you return with the Chevalier?"

   "No, indeed. He and I had business in different directions. He has returned, then?"

   "Last night." She smiled. "I hope your business prospered?"

   A wry grimace twisted his thin lips. "It was satisfactory."

   He wandered over to the buffet. "May I pour you a cup of coffee?"

   "Yes, please."

   The butler entered with a brief knock and a stiff bow. "You wanted me, mademoiselle."

   "Yes, Philippe. I would like the carriage brought around at once. I have an errand to run."

   The butler's eyebrows rose to crumple his usually bland forehead. "Now, mademoiselle?"

   A flicker of anger rose in her breast. "Yes, now." This man treated Lizzie in a very ill manner, Caro gathered from the little Lizzie had let drop about life below stairs.

   "I regret, it is not possible, mademoiselle. Madame Valeron never goes out before noon. Nothing is prepared."

   "My carriage is at the door," Cedric announced. "I would be honored to take you to your destination."

   "As always, you come to my rescue. What would I do without you?" She smiled. "If it is not too much trouble, I need to visit Lord Audley's residence."

   Cedric nodded. "I am pleased to be of service." He poured coffee into two cups. "I hear Foxhaven is in Paris staying with Audley," he said over his shoulder.

   "Yes," Caro said, aware of her heart's little leap at the sound of Lucas's name.

   He handed her a cup and turned to the waiting butler. "That will be all."

   "Yes, monsieur." The butler bowed himself out.

   She sipped the coffee and made a face. Even with all the sugar and cream Cedric had added, it tasted burnt. She would never get used to the strength of French coffee.

   "Is it your plan to return to London, Caro?" Cedric asked.

   "I am not sure. At least, I think so. But I must speak with Lucas at once."

   "I see. Well, drink your coffee, and then we can leave."

   "I'm not sure I want it."

   "Nonsense. I insist you drink it before we leave. It will put heart into you."

* * *

   "Toot sweet," the stuck-up French butler said and snapped his fingers.

   "What does the old goat want now?" Lizzie grumbled at Henri, the under-footman perched on a stool in the corner while he hunched over his daily task of cleaning the silver. The fair-haired, tall, young man was the only servant in the household who admitted to speaking English, and even he had trouble understanding her.

   "Goat?"

   "Philippe. The mater dee."

   Henri huffed on the coffeepot clenched between his knees and gave it a hard rub. "He says the Chevalier demands your presence immediately."

   "Demands?"

   "He said demands, immediately."

   After shooting him a sharp glance, Lizzie sniffed. Henri had a wicked sense of humor underneath a humble demeanor, but he never lied.

   She rose to her feet and flicked her skirts straight. "Demands, does he? We'll see about demands when I'm having my first cup of tea of the morning." She followed the stiff-backed butler out of the kitchen.

   The Chevalier met her in the entrance hall. "Ah, the good Lizzie, is it not?"

   Lizzie bobbed a curtsey. "Yes, sir."

   "Mademoiselle Torrington is leaving for London, and she asks you to pack her things."

   They were going home. Her spirits soared. "Right away, Chevron Valeron."

   "
Bon.
Philippe, send a footman up for mademoiselle's trunks in half an hour." He turned his gaze on Lizzie. "You will have them ready by then?"

   His cold-eyed stare sent a shiver down her spine. Something about him always made her nervous. "Not a minute longer, your honor."

   "
Tiens,
it is good. In one half hour, I shall return with the carriage."

   Lizzie rubbed her hands together and whisked up the stairs. It was the best news she'd heard in weeks.

   Before the half hour was up, Henri appeared to carry down the trunk, his mouth turned down in his pale, fine-boned face. "You leave us, Mademoiselle Lizzie?"

   She swept a glance around the room. Nothing left behind. She nodded. "We're going 'ome, young 'Enri. 'Ome to civilization."

   "I will miss you."

   The wistful note in his voice dampened her joy. An orphaned noble without proof of his birth or any relatives to speak for him, he'd formed an alliance with her against the formidable butler these past few weeks.

   She softened her tone. "Ah, love, you'll do fine. You'll get a position worthy of you one day."

   He straightened his thin shoulders. "You are right. I do not lose hope." He hefted the trunk and staggered off.

   With a light heart, Lizzie picked up the remaining portmanteau, closed the door behind her with a snap, and followed him down the stairs and out the front door.

   Beside the shiny black carriage hitched to four impatient brown horses, the Chevalier watched the loading. He stepped between her and the carriage. "But no, Lizzie. You misunderstand. You are not going."

   Her heart picked up speed. "Of course I am going."

   "
Mais non.
There is not enough room."

   Anger and fear churned in her belly. She understood the word
non
, right enough. "Now you listen here, Chevron Charmin', I go where my lady goes and no mistake about that."

   He smiled, all nice and friendly like to a babe. "Just go inside, and I will explain."

   She shook her head. "Explain it out here."

   A frown darkened his face. "You are impertinent. Do as you are told."

   Something wasn't right. She lunged for the carriage door.

   His eyes turned hard, and his mouth thinned. He shot out a hand and grabbed her wrist. Pain shot up her arm. "If I say you are staying, that is what you will do. Understand?"

   "No."

   His hand whipped out with a slap to her cheek, and her head snapped back. She cried out. Henri's shout of horror rang in her ears.

   She kicked the Chevalier on the shins. He loosened his grip. She made another dive for the door. He grabbed her shoulder and swung her around, his fist raised.

   She dodged. Too slow.

   His fist slammed into her jaw. She sprawled on her rump, the jolt jarring up her spine and pinpricks of light flashing in her eyes. Daylight faded to black.

   The sensation of being carried made her feel sick. She heard a moan. Hers. She blinked to clear her sight. Henri had a hold of her feet, and the coachman was holding her under the arms. Puffing and blowing, they lugged her down the basement stairs.

   She lashed out with feet and hands. "Get off me, you great lummoxes."

   "Lie still, mademoiselle," Henri said in agonized tones. "The master will punish you more if you do not be good."

   Tears welled up in her eyes. "Please 'Enri, she can't mean for me to stay here."

   The other man said something in Frog, and Henri's face flushed dull red.

   "What did he say?"

   Henri turned his face, away biting his lip.

   "'Enri?"

   He shrugged.

   A scream ripped from her throat. Something bad was happening, and the only person she trusted in this dreadful place now refused to speak to her.

* * *

   What the hell did Audley want in such a damnable hurry? Lucas wondered. The note had been vague to the point of silent, a demand he come to the embassy right away.

   He strode along the rue du Faubourg St. Honoré until he reached number thirty-nine. Built for the guillotined Duc de Charost, and once home to Bonaparte's sister, Princess Josephine, the magnificent eighteenth-century Hôtel de Charost had been commandeered by Wellington for the British.