The Bride Wore Scarlet (30 page)

And Charlotte
knew
her daughter possessed the Gift. How much harder her life would have been had she not known! Anaïs could scarcely fathom the concern that such a strange, fey child would instill in an unsuspecting mother's heart.

But Geoff's background was a mystery that would have to wait—and wait forever, perhaps, for both Geoff's past and his future were swiftly becoming none of her business. For good or ill, her days with him would soon be at an end. And she could not help but wonder—once he had returned to England, the Brotherhood, and his almost-fiancée—if he would not find himself a little relieved to be shut of her.

She had no wish to think about that, and her pathetic sniveling would not help Charlotte. Taking the book and the card, Anaïs bounded off the bed and went to her desk by the door, then yanked open the drawer to snatch a pencil. Turning the card to the light, Anaïs drew a fingertip down the drawing, taking in the knight's bowed head. His drooping sword. The backdrop of a barren, colorless landscape.

An empty life. An abandonment. A swordsman with no enemy to fight.

It was similar, she thought, to the life of a Guardian denied.

Anaïs slammed shut the desk drawer and bent her head to her task. In the thin margin at the bottom of the card she wrote but three words:

Tonight. Be ready.

Laying the pencil aside, she looked at it.

It was vague, but it would have to do. It was almost unnoticeable, too. Indeed, at first glance, it was merely an old card such as anyone might tuck into a book to mark one's place. A worn and slightly unusual one, yes, but most people would not likely give it a second glance.

Charlotte, however, would remember it well. It was the card that had brought tears to her eyes. When she saw it again, she might well study it in great detail, searching for some small sign of her father.

The father who was far, far from dead.

The father who wanted her very much.

Swiftly, Anaïs paged through the book of poetry looking for her favorite poem. It was “Frost at Midnight,” Coleridge's ode to the longing he felt for his home, for his birthplace in the English countryside.

She found it, and circled just a few words:

Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars,

To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft

With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt

Of my sweet birthplace . . .

It was unlikely anyone would look closely at a few circled words. Almost everyone marked passages of poetry, or bits of prose one wished to study or to remember.

It was also unlikely Charlotte would look closely. She probably wouldn't even open the book tonight.

Anaïs cursed aloud, and heartily. No, Charlotte would likely tuck it amongst her things—perhaps into that one piece of hand baggage Anaïs had warned her to prepare.

She heaved a great sigh.
That
likely had not occurred, either.

Indeed, it was rather more likely Charlotte would have tossed the book into the bottom of a traveling trunk, and would scream bloody murder when awakened tonight. And if she did not—if, by some miracle, Anaïs managed to quietly rouse her and plead their case—it was probable Charlotte would wish to dress, to pack a portmanteau, to search out her favorite hair ribbon or shoes . . . to do all those silly things women were apt to wish to do when leaving home—or in this case, leaving everything behind.

And then they would have to get past Lezennes' maid, and snatch Giselle.

Dear God, this was going to be impossible.

Anaïs felt her shoulders slump. But what choice did they have? Lezennes clearly did not mean to leave Charlotte's side, for he had been dressed for the privacy of his home. He certainly did not mean to permit Anaïs to speak with her alone.

Just then, there was a knock at the open door and Geoff strode in, his boot heels heavy on the floor, a riding crop in hand. Anaïs turned in her chair to look at him. He was breathtakingly handsome in his snug coat and form-fitting breeches, his long hair tossed into disarray by the spring breeze.

His eyes, however, were somber and questioning. “Well?” he said.

Anaïs shook her head. “He is suspicious,” she said. “He says Charlotte is unwell.”

“So you did not see her.” His voice was flat with disappointment.

“No, I inveigled my way in, though it took some doing,” she said.

Geoff sat down on the edge of her bed, looking disconcertingly as if he belonged there. “That's my girl,” he said, his smile wan. “Ever the devious one.”

“But Lezennes would not leave us alone,” she went on. “Not for an instant. But the maid is packing, and they go in the morning by train.”

“At least we know that much.” But he was tapping the crop pensively against his boot top.

Anaïs showed him the book and the card, and explained her plan. “What do you think?” she asked, perching on the bed beside him. “Too risky?”

Geoff cocked one brow, and read over the verse. “Well, the verse proves nothing,” he murmured. “I've circled a dozen such passages in the book myself. As to the card, it's old, it's worn, and the words almost blend into the design. One would have to look awfully closely to notice. No, by gad, it could be brilliant.”

Anaïs beamed up at him for a moment, then her face fell. “Ah, Geoff, what are the chances?” she asked. “Why would she look at it tonight? What if she really does have a headache? She'll likely just toss it aside.”

But Geoff caught her upper arms in his hands. “It is a
good
idea, Anaïs,” he said firmly. “Besides, it's all we've got. And if that doesn't work—well, then we pray she doesn't scream the whole house awake, and we try to persuade her to go.”

Anaïs held his gaze a little sadly. “Oh, we will persuade her,” she murmured. “You should have seen Charlotte today. She looked . . . frightened. I think she knows, Geoff. Is it possible Giselle has—I don't know—
seen
something?”

Geoff had risen, and begun to pace the room. “It's hard to say,” he murmured. “Children and their parents generally cannot read one another.”

“Nonna Sofia could read my cards,” said Anaïs.

Geoff considered it. “But you were the fourth generation down,” he said crossing his arms and leaning back against the doorframe. “The blood was thin. Still, who knows? The Gift is strange, especially when it's strong. It is more likely Giselle can read Lezennes, or sense the evil in him. Hell, I can sense that much without laying a hand on the bastard—I beg your pardon. My language suffers from my frustration.”

“Lud, never mind that!” Anaïs sighed. “At the very least, I think Charlotte knows Lezennes means to propose marriage to her one last time. And she knows she means to refuse him.”

“Aye, and that alone might be enough to make her run,” Geoff muttered, arms still crossed resolutely. “I pray to heaven, Anaïs, that I'm doing the right thing. That Charlotte will be well and that we will get her child safely away. And by God, if I have to stab that bastard Lezennes through the heart to get the job done, then so be it.”

And that, Anaïs later realized, was the moment she fell completely, utterly, head-over-heels in love with the formerly cold and aloof Lord Bessett. The moment when the prince of her dreams became not a dark, dashing Tuscan rogue, but a practical and quietly ruthless Englishman with eyes like arctic ice and hair kissed by the sun. The moment when she realized that her great-grandmother's dream was not necessarily her own, and that fortunes, perhaps, could be altered if one truly willed it so.

Of course they could be altered.

Wasn't that precisely what they were doing here? They were saving Charlotte from an awful fate. Snatching Giselle from a man destined to use her ill. None of it was written in stone—and if it was, then why were they any of them there? Of what use was the Gift at all?

The reality—the
possibility
—caught her breath and stole it away with her heart.

Nonna Sofia was gone, and allowing her dream to keep living would not bring her back to Anaïs. It would not make her any less dead—and it need not make her any less important. Nonna Sofia had been right about a great many things—well, everything, really.

Just not this.

On this score, she was wrong—or at the very least, Anaïs prayed she was.

A little unsteadily, she rose from the bed and went to him. Setting a hand to Geoff's cheek, she stood her tiptoes and kissed him lightly. “Has anyone ever told you, Geoffrey Archard, that you are utterly amazing?” she whispered.

His eyes warmed. “Oh, aye?” he answered. “What was that for?”

Anaïs drew away, but did not remove her hand. “I am not perfectly sure,” she admitted. “But I'll tell you when I have finished working it out.”

At that, he threw back his head and laughed. Anaïs flashed him a wry smile, then went to the bed, and jerked the coverlet off.

His arms fell, his brow furrowing. “What are you doing with that?”

Anaïs draped it over her arm. “I don't think Monsieur Michel will grieve over it when he gets his house back,” she said, “any more than he will grieve over those old blades he keeps upstairs.”

“His swords?” Geoff's eyes widened. “Rolling them up and taking them along, are we?”

“Just the sharp ones,” she said, breezing past and kissing him again. “After all, they do say if you mean to sup with the devil you'd better bring a long spoon.”

“Oh, aye, they do say that.” He followed her from the room. “And the connection here would be . . . ?”

She turned in the passageway, the coverlet still draped over her arm. “Well, one of us might have to stab Lezennes through the heart,” she said breezily, “but I should like us to have a good length of blade when we do it.”

Chapter 18

Secret operations are essential in war; upon them the army relies to make its every move.

Sun Tzu,
The Art of War

A
s in most large cities, night never really fell over Brussels, and by the time the city's clocks were striking three, traffic in the main thoroughfares had thinned but slightly. Keeping carefully to the shadows, Geoff crouched utterly still against the fence behind the Vicomte de Lezennes' town house, his legs long ago gone numb.

Tonight the moon was peeking from behind gathering clouds, and at times Geoff could barely make out the utilitarian space, which consisted of a privy, a sort of garden bothy at the rear, and a storage shed attached to the house. Far down the alley, the horses were stamping with impatience, their harnesses faintly jingling.

They would not have long to wait, Geoff considered. In a very few minutes, he and Anaïs would have either succeeded, or failed utterly. Silently, he motioned for Anaïs's attention, then tilted his head toward the shed.

Anaïs flashed her fingers.
Eight feet.

He agreed, and considered their options again. A lifetime ago, it seemed, he had scoffed at her notion of going in a window. But neither of them had any experience picking locks, and even had they managed to do it, he had to weigh the danger of making their way through the house and back out a ground floor door, as opposed to shinnying in and out a window. According to Petit, a servant usually slept near the front hall.

So the window it would be. And much of it would depend upon Charlotte's bravery. The child—assuming she was as disciplined as Geoff believed—could be handed down. Charlotte could not.

Geoff looked again at Anaïs, and marveled at the transformation. Her hair was braided ruthlessly atop her head such that a hat might cover it in a pinch. She wore, however, nothing but soft boots, a loose shirt and waistcoat, and her brother's trousers.

Just an hour earlier, he had watched her prepare much as he had done; a knife sheathed in a wrist strap, another in her boot, and a length of rope hitched round her waist. She had dressed with outward calm, and since leaving the house had followed his every signal, as if she understood that tonight they must move and function as one.

Between them, they carried two small pistols, countless blades, a vesta box, a candle stub, and a small bottle of modern ether—one that von Althausen had obtained for Geoff prior to their departure—and one that he prayed to God they would not need. He looked at the window again, and decided.

He set his head very near hers, barely whispering. “Can you tell if anyone is still awake?”

She caught his gaze, and gave a little jerk of her head. Slipping from the shrubs, she eased her way up the yard, moving low and always in the shadows, setting every foot right. She really was like a cat in the dark.

Geoff followed an arm's length behind. At the back of the house, she stopped and began to move across the length, utterly silent, pausing from one window to the next. When she reached the shed, she knelt and set one hand to stonework.

He leaned nearer.

“Someone is snoring down by the kitchens,” she whispered. “Otherwise, no one stirs.”

He nodded, rose, and made his way up the side of the shed, setting one boot against a rain barrel, and the other against the door frame, then hefting himself up and over the sloping eave. That done, he reached down and pulled Anaïs up after him. Already balanced atop the barrel, she came up easily and silently.

They had already agreed that Anaïs should go in Charlotte's window first, though he did not like it. But if Charlotte should awaken, she was far more apt to recognize Anaïs's voice. Motioning toward the downspout, she gave it a solid jerk to test its bracketry. It did not budge. Anaïs turned and began to climb, shinnying up like a monkey, using the pipe, the ledges, and even a few chinks in the stonework.

It was perhaps the hardest thing he'd ever done, standing on that shed roof in the shadows of Lezennes' house and watching Anaïs make her way toward possible danger. But she had argued for it, and she had been right. He would follow her up if—and only if—she got the window open.

And that would be the tricky part. It was no easy task to slide up a window from the outside, using only one hand while hanging on to a downspout. But she wedged a palm against the center glazing bar and lifted the lower sash inch by inch, the counterweights rumbling gently in the frame.

He only prayed it would not be enough to awaken Charlotte. He started up after her just as Anaïs braced both hands on the sill and lifted herself through. By the time he stuck his head through the blessedly thin draperies, Anaïs was crouched by a large white object—the bed, he quickly realized as his eyes adjusted.

Anaïs pointed two fingers at her eyes, then stabbed her index left and right. He swiveled his head. A bedside lamp, and a chair on the opposite side of the window. He nodded. Then, maneuvering deftly around them, Geoff slid through and into the room.

Charlotte lay on her side, turned away from them, her body curled round a bolster beneath the covers. Anaïs stood, and set a hand over Charlotte's mouth.

Geoff felt it the instant Charlotte startled awake, fear surging through the room.

“
Shh
, it's Anaïs,” she whispered. “Just me. For God's sake, Charlotte, don't make a sound. Nod if you understand.”

Geoff heard Charlotte's hair scrub the pillow.

“Thank God,” said Anaïs, removing her hand.

Charlotte rolled up onto her elbow. “Anaïs! What on earth?”

“Charlotte, we've no time,” Anaïs whispered. “You are in grave danger. I think you know that.”

“Y-yes.” Her voice tremulous, she dragged herself up in bed.

“Charlotte, we must get Giselle away,” Anaïs murmured. “I think you know why. The French Brotherhood of the
Fraternitas Aureae Crucis
has sent us. A man named DuPont. Do you know him?”

Charlotte shook her head, and drew the covers to her chest. “How can I trust you?” she whispered, her voice sharp. “How can I know?”

“I haven't time to tell you everything,” Anaïs pressed. “And really, you haven't much choice. But we know about your husband. The French Brotherhood thinks Lezennes killed him.”

“Oh, God! I . . . I think so, too.” She sounded on the verge of tears.

“Charlotte, now is not the time,” said Anaïs sternly. “Now, I am marked—I bear the mark of the Guardian, and so does Geoff.”

For the first time, he moved from the shadows. Charlotte gasped.

Anaïs plowed on. “You know what the mark means,” she said. “Once we've got some light, I'll show you. You can decide later who you'd sooner trust—me, or Lezennes.”

“
You
,” said Charlotte tremulously. “Anyone but Lezennes.”

“Good, get up and get one bag, Charlotte,” Anaïs ordered. “We haven't time to dress.”

“I packed it,” said Charlotte. “The one bag, as you said. And the card in the book . . . I wondered—”

“Good, now just find it without tripping. We'll get your other things later—if we can.”

It was a testament to Charlotte's fear that she did not hesitate. “Just the bag in the chair,” she whispered. “It will do.”

Geoff felt his way to it, and in a trice had the portmanteau roped and run out the window while Charlotte was up and putting on her shoes. It scraped a little when it hit the shingles of the shed, otherwise all was silent.

It was then that they struck another bit of luck.

“I'm going to get Giselle,” said Anaïs. “Is she a sound sleeper?”

“She is here,” Charlotte whispered, pointing at the lump, which was not a bolster after all. “She was frightened—has been frightened for days now. Lezennes will not usually let her leave her bed, but tonight he relented.”

Her words sent a shiver down Geoff's spine. He knew precisely why the child was frightened, and why Lezennes had relented. The devil believed full well that Giselle would be entirely his in a matter of days—and that Charlotte would be dead.

“Wake her,” Anaïs ordered. “We are going to lower her out the window first.”

“Out the window?” Charlotte clapped a hand over her mouth.

“We cannot risk waking the footman downstairs,” Anaïs pressed. “She will be fine. We do this all the time.”

“You
do
?”

“All the time,” Anaïs repeated.

Then, in a few short words, she laid out the plan. Charlotte's voice began to shake to the point that Geoff could feel her raw fear. It was best to keep them moving, to press on.

Anaïs understood. “Wake her, Charlotte,” she ordered. “Be utterly calm and clear in your directions.”

Charlotte nodded, shaking the child awake and speaking to her in a French so soft and swift Geoff could not follow. But in a matter of moments, the child was up but groggy, and nodding at her mother's instructions. As Geoff had expected, Giselle was fully cooperative though she spoke not a word to anyone. It was almost as if she
knew
why they had come—or perhaps she merely understood the evil forces that threatened her mother.

Whatever it was, Geoff thought, it was a burden no child so young should bear, and his heart wrenched again for Giselle Moreau.

But he hadn't long to think about it. With knots that would have made a sailor proud, Anaïs tied the child at the shoulders and waist. Soon he was going back out the window and down to the roof. As Anaïs lowered her inch by inch, Giselle clung a little to the drainpipe, but otherwise made not a sound. Geoff pulled her into his embrace, and at once the child's arms went round his neck. And still she spoke not a word.

Soon Charlotte was coming backward out the window, a heavy wool cloak thrown over her shoulders, her white nightdress flapping in the growing breeze. Though Anaïs had tied a rope round her chest and hitched it tight beneath her arms, Charlotte managed to more or less climb down on her own, losing her footing but once. She made a little sound, a sort of short, sharp scream, but caught the drainpipe and clung.

Anaïs dragged back on the rope, and Charlotte stopped swaying. She finished the climb, but her whole body was shaking. They would be bloody lucky, though, Geoff thought, if no one heard.

Moments later, they all stood on solid ground. Geoff had the child hitched onto his hip but her arms were still round his neck, clinging as if for dear life.

“Let's go.” Anaïs snatched Charlotte's portmanteau, then froze.

“What?” Geoff mouthed the words.

Anaïs tried to listen. “Someone is awake,” she whispered. “Someone inside the house.”

Charlotte started to speak, but Anaïs clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Quickly,” said Geoff. “Through the alley.”

Anaïs moved swiftly, her heart in her throat, and one arm hitched through Charlotte's. Thus far, all had gone according to plan, though how much longer Charlotte's nerves would hold was not at all clear to Anaïs.

Dieric van de Velde's coachman had nerves of steel, Anaïs would give him that. He threw open the door and bustled Charlotte and Giselle inside with utter calm, then leapt up onto the box smoothly, as if he fled in the middle of the night once or twice a week.

Geoff untied his mount from the rear, then pulled Anaïs behind the carriage door to swiftly kiss her. “Well done, love,” he said, his voice low. “I just pray I never have to watch you do it again.”

Anaïs leaned in to kiss him back, but at once, the hair on the back of her neck prickled. Her heart sinking, she cast a quick glance over her shoulder at the house.

Someone had lit a lamp in Charlotte's room.

Anaïs cursed beneath her breath. “We are found out,” she muttered. “Mount up, St. George. Your dragon has awakened.”

The coachman set off slowly at first, going as quietly as he could, then picking up speed as the center of Brussels vanished. After drawing the curtains down and lighting the small carriage lamp, Anaïs managed to help Charlotte and Giselle dress. She had taken the precaution of having Mrs. Janssen procure a few extra articles of clothing, but Charlotte had packed well in her small bag.

“You took my advice, I see,” she said, smiling into the gloom.

“Yes, and I saw the note on your card,” she confessed as she wrapped Giselle's cloak tightly round her. “But it looked so old and so strange. Though I did wonder . . .”

Anaïs watched Charlotte's hands tenderly tucking the wool round the child, and felt a moment of admiration—and a little envy, too. Giselle was a lovely, if shy child, and obviously more normal than the vicomte had let on.

“A penciled message on the card was all I dared,” she murmured. “Lezennes had become too suspicious.”

“Oh!” Charlotte turned to rummage through her bag. Extracting the book, she took out the card and gave it to Anaïs.

With mixed emotions, Anaïs tucked it inside the coat she now wore over a brocade waistcoat and a hastily tied cravat. The whole of it had once been her brother's, and Anaïs had decided that simply wearing it on to Ostend was the wisest thing.

She was quite certain the first thing Lezennes would do after waking his household and searching every room was to go across the street and demand she and Geoff be rousted from their beds. But he would find nothing save a house shut up, and all the servants gone as quickly as they had come.

Lezennes was no fool, however. He would draw his own conclusions. Should he then manage to guess their route and enquire after them along the way—both of which were likely—he would be looking for two ladies, not a lady and a young man.

But they would likely make better time than Lezennes. The roads were good, their carriage light and well-sprung, and drawn by four good horses. They carried virtually no luggage. Petit had gone ahead to arrange for fresh teams along the route. With some luck they would reach the coast by mid-afternoon.