Fairchild's Lady (Culper Ring Series) (6 page)

She only smiled and moved to walk past him, careful to time her words just as she was nearest him on her way by. “Will you meet me tonight?” The need to speak with him more, to be with him again without pretense, burned so hot it set an ache in her chest.

Never in her life had she planned a tryst with a man, even an innocent one. And with any other man, she wouldn’t dare, lest he think it an invitation for more than intended. But Isaac was not any other man, and she knew he would not make such assumptions. Especially given the impossibility of speaking with him frankly through normal means.

He looked long into her eyes, nodded, and mouthed the word, “Midnight.”

No need to specify where.

All her skill at stoicism was required to keep from smiling as she swept by and joined her mother, though Mère must have seen something in her face, given the weary sigh that accompanied her probing gaze.

“Julienne, take care as to why you are inclined to the decision you are. Whether it is because you believe his warning, because you wish an acquaintance with family…or if it is something far more foolish swaying you.” Mère linked their arms together and leaned in close. “Please,
ma fille
. Do not set your heart in that direction. It will only end in disappointment. You are still the daughter of a comte. You must not marry an impoverished officer.”

An invisible hand took hold of Julienne’s throat. Always, always she was bound by what she
must
do. When would she ever be able to do what her heart said was right? Fearing tears would choke her if she opened her mouth, she made no reply.

She was glad she hadn’t given them reign when a familiar contingent approached, their coats all the height of fashion, their postures all confident and sure. Their figures ranged from too-thin to too-round, gangly to stocky.

And in their center strode the duc de Remi. Though no more than average in height or build, there was no doubt he was the most powerful of his company. He wore his authority as one would a cloak, visibly yet absently.

Julienne’s fingers curled into her palm, and her nails bit her flesh in an attempt to keep the churning of her stomach at bay. He was a handsome man, if every bit as old as her mother. Clever, if without compassion. The other young women all whispered about how well
they
would receive his attention—and how they failed to understand why he had set his sights on Julienne.

He set his sights on her anew now, a smile possessing his lips that would have sent tingles through her had it come from Isaac. But from Remi, it lit a fuse of fear. Still, she gave him the smile she always did, warm but a bit reserved. Mystery, Mère had always said. Nothing drew a man like mystery.

Obviously, she knew of what she spoke. Even Isaac had first been drawn to Julienne when she was a nameless woman behind a mask, had he not? But oh, how tired she was of never being who she was. How she wondered, these days, if there was anything left of the girl she had been when she first came to Versailles.

As the duc’s group joined them, Julienne held out her hand as expected, and Remi took the fingers Isaac had so recently held and pressed his lips to them. She barely repressed a shudder. “
Bon matin
, duc.”

“
Ma chérie
.” He lowered her hand but held it tightly—too tightly. “You had a pleasant ride, I trust?”

Was that suspicion in his eyes?
Non
…but it was purpose. She inclined her head. “The morning was pleasant, though I would wish the company had been yours.” Would wish it, anyway, were she the devotee he thought her.

“Soon,
mon amour
, our every day will be spent together.” He ran his thumb over her knuckles. “I just received word that my wife has breathed her last, may God give rest to her soul.”

Lord God, help me!
She could only pray her face reflected what it should, and not so much as a hint of the ice that flowed through her veins. But words—they would not come. All she could do was open her mouth and blink at him.

Praise be to
Dieu
, Remi seemed to expect nothing more. He kissed her hand again. “I know. So long…it is finally over. Her suffering and ours. I must repair to the château at first light tomorrow to see to the funeral. She has no family left, so it will be a small, quiet affair. I will be gone a week at the most. And when I return…”

Her
life would end—or all pretense of freedom, at the least. If she did not escape, did not go to England, he would force her to wed him upon his return, mourning period be hanged. He had already made as much clear. Given that his wife had been out of her mind for years, neither recognizing anyone nor capable of a coherent conversation, everyone accepted that he had already mourned.

Mère’s arm slid around her waist, and the small squeeze she gave Julienne was exactly what she needed to find her voice. “I will miss you while you are gone, Remi.”

His gaze burned into her like a torch. “And I you,
mon amour
. But
it shall not be for long, and then never again.” That firebrand of a gaze swept down her, as if already he possessed her, already she were his. Then he released her hand and bowed, sending a wave of relief through her. “Now if you will excuse me, I have much to arrange before I depart in the morn. I will see you this evening, Julienne. Comtesse.”

Her mother pulled her onward toward their apartment while the duc continued in his set course. Julienne had all she could do to remain upright.

One week. She had one week to convince her mother of the need to escape Versailles before the duc could return and force her into the role of duchesse.

T
he midnight moon hovered overhead like a great silver disc, full and brilliant. Fairchild tilted his face toward it, even though its gilding couldn’t reach him here in the shadow of Apollo’s cave. The stone was cool against his hands, soothing some of the nervous fire in his stomach. Still, each trill of a nearby nightingale sent his pulse galloping.

Where was she? Had she been unable to break away from the duc’s throng? News of his wife’s death had been the subject of all the gossip that afternoon, and the whole court had seemed determined to pay their respects to him at the meal that evening. Julienne had sat silently by his side the entire time, her face pale but lovely, her lips never making a reply to anyone.

But tongues aplenty had been wagging about her. About how glad she must secretly be despite her somber show. About how the wedding would no doubt take place within the fortnight. About whether she had really held off the duc all this time or if they would merely be legitimizing a relationship long-since consummated.

Fairchild pushed off the faux cave wall and paced five steps. Try as he might to tell himself her relationship with Remi was no concern of his, it was a lie, blatant and glaring. He could not suffer the thought
of her in his arms—especially knowing now how loath she was to be there.

But it would be better when it was someone other than Remi, would it not? When it was some English nobleman courting her and then taking her hand. One of a rank worthy of her father’s, with an ancestral estate on which he could situate her, with family gems and secure fortunes. That, certainly, was what she deserved. For no matter how high up the ranks he might rise in the army, Fairchild would never be his eldest brother, never an earl, never the possessor of Fairmonte. Never able to provide for her as her family would expect.

Soft footfalls sounded from the path, and Fairchild turned that way just as Julienne stepped into the clearing. She must have spotted him at the same moment, for she flew past the pond and its bench and straight toward him.

Why did it feel as though he had lived this a thousand times? Why did his arms open without his conscious command, and why did they close around her so confidently when she surged into them, as if this was how they had always been meant to be?

Nay, ’twas foolishness, he knew that. Still, he pressed his lips to the top of her head and pulled her back into the grotto’s shadows with him, his arms refusing to loose their precious captive. And she held on, let it be noted, and buried her face in his chest.

“You would have heard.” Her voice was barely audible, which was no doubt best.

He positioned his lips just over her ear so he might make his reply no louder than a breath. “Of course. But it means he will be away. It may make it easier for you and your mother to leave.”

“If she will. She would not speak to me this afternoon. She just stayed closeted in her chamber with the letter.” The way her hands fisted in his waistcoat and her cheek pressed to his chest made his heart thunder. Surely she would hear it, would realize he was not unmoved by her closeness.

He ought to pull away, at least a little. ’Twould be better for his peace of mind, better for the relationship they must establish of mere guardian and sojourner.

Yet was it not safest to whisper like this? “She must, and soon. I will get you away from here, Julienne, away from him before he returns.”

A shiver worked through her, and he trailed his fingers up her back to soothe it away. She let go of his waistcoat and slid her arms around him.

How was it that a sliver of heaven could find him here, of all places, when danger could pounce from any side?

“Isaac…” Again her voice was the softest of sighs. “Tell me it will be well. That the trip will be quick and my father and brothers will receive me happily. That English society will not hate me for being raised French.”

“How could they?” His fingers reached for the curls tumbling artfully over her shoulder and tangled in them as he had forbidden them from doing earlier. He found her hair as silken as he had expected. “There will no doubt be some bumps, as there always are. But it shan’t take much for them to see that you have everything they most admire. Beauty and wit. Good blood and excellent connections. All the young ladies shall be eager for your friendship, and all the young lords will be vying for your hand.”

The tips of her fingers brushed along his jaw and bade him turn his head. He obeyed them so he might find her eyes, luminous and striking even in this low light. Though now her lips were but a whisper away. Too tempting, too alluring. But she mattered too much for a simple, quick indulgence.

When she drew in a breath, he heard a quaver. “I do not want any of the young lords.”

His arms tightened around her, though he commanded them to relax again in the next moment. Much as his heart might thrill at her implication, ’twasn’t a matter of what they wanted. “Your mother will certainly want one for you—and your father too, no doubt. You are the daughter of an earl.”

“And you are the son of one,
oui
?”

He closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. For the families of so many other young ladies, his pedigree would be enough to earn him approval. Why must he always fall for those for whom it did not? First Winter, whose family had decided she ought to wait for the richer Bennet Lane. And now Julienne, whose family would aim for a titled match. “I am not enough—”

Her hand rested on his cheek. “You are everything. I dreamed of
you every night, imagined a million times that you had come back. That you had found me somehow.”

“I dreamed a million times of the same, and yet I feared that if ever I did find you, you would be out of my reach. And so you are.”

“
Mais non
.” Her hand pressed more firmly. Her tone bespoke fervor. “It need not be so impossible, Isaac. My father obviously trusts you and respects you or he would not have asked you to come here on his behalf. Surely—
non
. You are not married already, are you?”

“No.” He pulled away just enough to capture her gaze again. “Never.”

She shook her head, relief and bewilderment dueling for a place in her eyes. “I cannot fathom how that could be. Surely the young ladies all swoon when you enter a ballroom.”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “To be sure. I leave piles of fainting females in my wake wherever I go.”

“I knew it.” She smiled, though it lasted only a moment. “There has to have been someone at some point who stole your heart,
non
?”

He sighed and toyed with the curls still wrapped around his fingers. “A decade past, an American girl. During the Revolution. She came from a fine Loyalist family. She was beautiful and cheerful.”

Compassion welled in her eyes. “What happened?”

“She fell in love with another. And, as it turned out, she was not as loyal to the Crown as her guardians were, but she and her husband remain dear friends of mine. All worked out there as it needed to.” Which of course made him ask the question yet again—had the Lord led him all along to this place, this woman? Yet if he again had to face losing the one he loved because of a more appropriate suitor…

Julienne, at least, seemed to feel as strongly as he did. Winter had been fond of him but never in love with him. This would not be the same, even if he inevitably lost her.

Not the same at all. It would no doubt hurt even worse, because he would see her unhappiness.

“I cannot imagine why she would choose another, though I am grateful for it.” With a small smile, Julienne leaned into his hand.

Heaven help him, but he was sinking even deeper. Why, why must love happen again here? Why not in some drawing room in London, where he was well received and the obstacles would be few? “And
what of you? How have you remained unwed when you are so lovely and highborn?”