Surrender to a Stranger (52 page)

He shook his head. “Sweet Jacqueline, is that how you see it?” he asked painfully. He sighed. “I confess, I did go along with Nicolas’s request, but it was only so I could be with you again. I was out of my mind, I was so worried about what would become of you and your sisters. I wanted to live, yes, but not for me, for us. The thought of you tormented me day and night, thinking of you being destroyed by your grief for your father and Antoine, and the loss of everything you had once known. I had to get out of there so I could see for myself that you were all right, and if you were not, so I could take you in my arms and dry your tears and absorb at least some of your terrible pain.”

He reached out and grabbed her, crushing her against the lace of his shirtfront in a passionate embrace. The scent of sweet cologne filled her nostrils. “You are everything to me, Jacqueline,” he told her dramatically. “My life, my soul, my very heart. Without you, I am nothing. How can you be angry with me for trading a stranger for the opportunity to be reunited with you? I love you, my dearest heart, more than life itself. You are everything to me. When we are married, I will worship you like a goddess. You will see what it is to be loved by a man who is enslaved by his devotion for you, who would do absolutely anything to make you happy.” Before she could stop him he lowered his head and pressed his lips to hers.

“How perfectly touching,” drawled a sarcastic voice in English.

Startled, Jacqueline pushed herself away from François-Louis. Armand stood leaning against the doorway, blandly watching the pair of them as if they were actors performing a little play for his entertainment. “De Biret, I had no idea you were sacrificing me for such a noble cause. I suppose I should have felt privileged to have been a part of it.”

François-Louis humbly inclined his head toward him. “I fear I must apologize, Monsieur St. James, for the terrible situation I put you in. I hope you will be able to forgive me?”

“No.”

François-Louis sighed. “I understand,” he said sadly. “Perhaps one day I can make it up to you.”

“I doubt that.”

He abruptly shifted his gaze to Jacqueline, as if the marquis no longer warranted his attention. He leisurely looked her up and down, visibly demonstrating to François-Louis that he felt he had the right to do so. She felt herself grow warm under his scrutiny.

“I see you are well, Mademoiselle.”

“The marquis and I are almost finished,” stammered Jacqueline, her face flushed, her voice tight with embarrassment. “If you would like to wait in the library a few minutes—”

“I did not come to see you,” interrupted Armand. “I have some business to conduct with Sir Edward, and then I will be on my way.”

“I see,” she replied, flinching at his scornful tone. “Perhaps, if it does not inconvenience your busy schedule too much, you might find a moment to speak to Philippe. He has been working very hard at his lessons these past weeks, and I am certain he would enjoy the opportunity to tell you about it.”

“I will look in on him,” he replied. “Please, do carry on as you were. I believe the marquis was promising to worship you like a goddess when you are married.” He swept into a courtly bow.
“Mademoiselle,”
he drawled, his mockery unmistakable. He straightened up and cast a look of absolute loathing at François-Louis.
“Monsieur le Marquis,”
he added, his voice thick with contempt. He turned and left the room.

“That man has the manners of a peasant,” commented François-Louis in disgust.

A well of anger boiled up inside Jacqueline. “And just what did you expect him to do?” she demanded furiously. “Accept your pretty little apology for getting him thrown in La Force for a month when he was risking his life to save you? You almost got him killed, François-Louis. Did you think he would shake your hand and thank you for it?”

“I expect him to act like a gentleman in your presence, Jacqueline,” he told her firmly. “His anger should be directed at me, not you. I will not tolerate rudeness toward the woman who is to be my wife. He is lucky I did not call him out for his loutish behavior.”

Jacqueline sighed. “I do not need you to defend me from him, François-Louis.”

“You are my betrothed,” he insisted. “You are the daughter of the Duc de Lambert, and soon you will be the Marquise de Biret. I expect men to treat you with the respect you deserve.”

“I am not going to be your wife, François-Louis.”

He looked at her in amazement. “You are breaking our betrothal?” he demanded.

Wearily she went over to the sofa and sat down. “When you and my father worked out this match, it was a union that made sense,” she began. “My father was anxious to find me an appropriate suitor, and since you lived close by and came from impeccable bloodlines, you were an excellent choice. We were uniting the De Biret and De Lambert families, and all the lands and investments that went with them. We did not know each other very well, but neither of us found the other disagreeable, and in time, I am sure, we would have come to care for each other as husband and wife.” She stood and began to pace. “But everything is different now. We have been forced to leave our homes and possessions, we don’t have any money, and I do not believe that the union of our bloodlines is an adequate reason to go forth with a marriage, since those bloodlines have very little relevance in this country.”

He looked at her in dismay. “Jacqueline, dear heart, do you really mean it?”

She stopped pacing and looked at him. “Yes,” she told him, feeling a little sad. “I do.”

He looked unconvinced. “You really don’t have any money?”

“For God’s sake, François-Louis,” she snapped heatedly, “if that is all that matters to you, go find yourself a wealthy English girl to marry.”

“I wish it were that easy,” he commented bitterly, going over to look out the window once again. “These Englishwomen are a mercenary lot. They are impressed by titles and accents at first, but very quickly they want to know just exactly what it is you have brought with you from France.”

“It would seem you have been doing a little investigating,” commented Jacqueline dryly.

“Harmless flirtation, my love, harmless flirtation,” he quickly assured her.

“You don’t need to explain,” replied Jacqueline. She was hardly in a position to be critical.

“Perhaps you are right,” sighed François-Louis. “Given my limited funds, you would probably do much better to marry some nice, wealthy Englishman.”

“Marriage is not at the forefront of my plans.”

He looked at her in confusion. “What is it you intend to do?”

“I have a little money left. I am going to try investing it.”

“Investing it?” he repeated incredulously. “Dear Jacqueline, you know nothing of investing. What if you lose it all?”

“I will worry about that only if it happens,” she returned.

“I see.” He was silent for a few moments, staring pensively out the window. “Before I go, there is something I think you should know,” he said finally, turning to face her.

She looked up at him expectantly. “Yes?”

He went to the sofa and seated himself beside her. “I don’t want you to get overly excited, because the information I am about to share with you is probably false, do you understand?” he demanded. “I was not even certain I was going to tell you, and as your betrothed I felt it was my responsibility to make that decision on your behalf. However, since we are no longer betrothed, I feel I must tell you. But remember, this information is coming from an unnamed source, and therefore must be treated with enormous skepticism. Do you understand what I am saying?” he asked seriously.

Jacqueline’s heart began to beat a little faster. “What is it?”

“Yesterday I received a message that your brother Antoine may still be alive.”

The blood drained from her face. “What?” she managed, her voice barely a whisper.

“It may be lies, Jacqueline,” he repeated firmly. “We have no reason to think it is true.”

“Who did you hear this from?” she demanded.

“The counterrevolutionary network runs deep, even in England,” he replied. “Last week I received a message from a man who would not identify himself and would not reveal how he had come upon his information. He would only say that the Marquis de Lambert was alive and being hidden by friends, in a small farmhouse near the Austrian border. The fellow said he had been gravely ill and was so weak he could not be moved, or else they would have worked to get him out of there.”

“Oh my God,” breathed Jacqueline.

“It could be lies, Jacqueline,” he repeated firmly.

“But it could also be true!” she protested, desperate to believe that Antoine was alive.

“Either way, it doesn’t really matter,” François-Louis told her. “The messenger said that the marquis was so ill it was not thought he would survive.”

Jacqueline felt a cold chill of despair grip her. “Not survive?” she repeated blankly. She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to make sense of what François-Louis was telling her. “I was told he was dead—that he died in La Conciergerie,” she murmured.

“Apparently his jailer thought he was,” replied François-Louis. “But this fellow said that when they were taking his body off the cart to bury it, he moaned. Well, peasants are a superstitious lot, and the poor fools who were carrying him were convinced it was the work of the devil, bringing a dead aristo back from hell to haunt them, so they ran off. A couple of counterrevolutionary sympathizers who were assigned to report on the number of bodies buried each day were watching, and they took him to a place where he could be cared for, and that is where he has stayed ever since.”

Jacqueline stood up suddenly, her spine rigid with purpose. “I am going to get him,” she stated flatly.

He looked at her in disbelief. “Jacqueline, you cannot,” he told her. “We do not even know if this information is true, and besides, even if it is true, it would be far too dangerous for you to return.”

“But I must know if Antoine lives, and if he does, I must help him to get out of France,” she told him.

“You have just returned from a very dangerous mission,” he said. “You must not risk your life again for an unsubstantiated rumor.”

“He is my brother, François-Louis,” she countered. “If he lives, I must find him.”

“Jacqueline, I cannot let you do this,” he protested. “Why don’t you ask Monsieur St. James to go and investigate? I am sure he would be willing to help you in this matter.”

Jacqueline thought for a moment. She had asked Armand not to return to France again, for her sake, because it was too dangerous for him. How could she then turn around and ask him to go back? To do so would be enormously selfish and hypocritical. It would be like saying,
Do not risk your life to save those who need your help, unless it is someone who matters very much to me.
He would never respect a request like that. Besides, if Antoine was ill and could not be moved, she wanted to be with him and care for him herself. She would make him strong again, strong enough that he could be moved. If Armand went to France, he would never allow her to go with him, and that might cheat her of her last chance to see her brother alive. No, she could not ask Armand to go.

“I will go myself,” she stated flatly. “I do not need Monsieur St. James’s help.”

François-Louis sighed. “I should have known you would feel this way if I told you,” he said. “Since I cannot dissuade you from going, then I will go with you.”

She looked at him in astonishment.

“I feel somewhat responsible for having put you in this position, by sharing this information with you,” he informed her. “If anything happened to you while I was sitting safely here in England, I should never be able to forgive myself.”

“François-Louis, do you know what you are saying?” she asked incredulously. “This mission will be extremely dangerous. Are you certain you want to risk your life for it?”

He swept into a courtly bow. “I am ever your devoted servant, Jacqueline,” he told her gallantly. “When do you wish to leave?”

“We will take a coach to Dover tonight,” she replied without hesitation. “No one must know of our plans. I will leave a note for Sir Edward saying that I have decided to join you at your friend’s house in the countryside. He may not like the fact that I am traveling unchaperoned, but he will have no reason to suspect anything else. We will find a ship to take us to Calais tomorrow.”

“I will contact the messenger who gave me this information and find out exactly where Antoine is supposedly being held,” offered François-Louis. “And I will arrange for our traveling papers in France. In my flight from Paris to the coast I did make a few useful connections. I think I will be able to get us everything we require.”

“Do you need any money?” asked Jacqueline, remembering how exorbitantly expensive the bribes and false papers had been in France.

He smiled and shook his head. “I told my hostess I was expecting some funds in the near future, and she was kind enough to grant me a loan until those funds arrive. I will use that money to pay for the necessary arrangements.”

“Your hostess is very generous,” observed Jacqueline.

He shrugged. “I am a very fascinating guest,” he assured her. “She has reason to be generous.”

“I shall be ready to leave at midnight,” said Jacqueline, not really caring to know what it was François-Louis was doing to keep his hostess so “fascinated.” “Everyone will be asleep by then, so no one will see me leave.”

“I will be back with a coach at that time,” he assured her, swooping low and pressing a kiss to her hand. He turned to leave the room.

“François-Louis.”

He turned to look at her.

“Thank you.”

He hesitated, gave her a brilliant smile, and left the room.

The massive oak door swung open slowly, revealing a white-haired butler who regarded him curiously. “Yes?” he asked.

“Monsieur St. James,” said Philippe breathlessly, panting with exhaustion from his long ride.

“Mr. St. James is not at home,” replied the butler stiffly. He began to close the door.

“Attendez!”
cried Philippe, slamming his foot inside the door.