Love's Peril (Lord Trent Series) (38 page)

“I have.”

“You are one of the few people on Earth who has seen him and lived to tell about it, are you not?”

“I am. I definitely am.”

“Tell us about your encounter.”

“I was sailing on a ship with my husband off the coast of Spain. We were attacked in the middle of the night. When the mêlée started, I was down in our cabin, but as it progressed, I grew afraid, and I went up on deck.”

“What was transpiring?”

“There were pirates everywhere, and my husband was engaged in a fierce sword fight with the lead brigand.”

“You approached this brigand?”

“Yes. He stabbed my husband, and my husband collapsed. I thought he was dead.”

“How close were you to The French Terror?”

She extended her arm. “Close enough to touch him.”

“You saw his face, his hair, his eyes?”

“Yes.”

“I daresay, you’ll never forget him.”

“I never will.”

“Look carefully at the man on your right, the man in chains, the man you’ve identified as your brother.”

Harriet shifted in her chair. For an eternity, she studied Jean Pierre.

“Is this the man who attacked you? Is this the man who stabbed your husband? Is this the man who threw you overboard to die?”

Harriet frowned, keeping her focus on Jean Pierre as she spoke. “Of course it isn’t. This is my brother, John. It’s ludicrous to accuse him.”

“Describe The French Terror for us.”

“He had very black hair, a bushy beard, rotten teeth. He was short and stout and not very clean. I could smell him from clear across the deck.”

She paused, waiting for something, and finally it arrived. Jean Pierre dipped his head—in acknowledgement, in thanks, in shame.

Harriet nodded and yanked her gaze to Thumberton. “Will that be all you need? I am very distressed. May I be excused?”

The prosecutor was flummoxed, the judge aggravated that the trial had unraveled so thoroughly.

Harriet retrieved her cloak and started out as another ruckus erupted down below. People were craning their necks and whispering again as a man came into view. He was tall, dark-haired, fit and handsome.

He clasped Harriet’s hands and murmured in her ear. Together, they went to Thumberton and had a brief conversation.

Thumberton turned to the judge. “Your Honor, Mrs. Harcourt’s husband, Tristan Harcourt, is here. He would like to testify about The French Terror.”

The judge scowled. “Let me guess: He saw the pirate, and it is not the defendant.”

“That’s correct, and I would point out that Mr. Harcourt is also half-sibling to John Sinclair. If his brother was The French Terror and had attacked him that night out on the water, he would certainly know.”

Sarah stared down at Tristan Harcourt, at Jean Pierre. Their angry glances caught for a moment, held, then Mr. Harcourt whipped away. He rested a palm on Harriet’s shoulder, as if saying to Jean Pierre,
I’m doing this for my wife, not for you
.

“May I speak, Judge?”Mr. Thumberton asked.

“Can I stop you?”

The audience laughed.

“The Harcourts and Sinclairs are reputable, respectable British families. Lord Trent is a peer of the realm. John Sinclair is his natural son. He is half-sibling to Mr. and Mrs. Harcourt as well as to Mr. Harcourt’s brother, Lord Westwood. You have their assertions stacked against those of a renowned French har…” Mr. Thumberton bit down the term
harlot
. “… renowned French trollop, with an ax to grind.”

Miss Dubois leapt to her feet. “I am no trollop. I have told only the truth.”

“Be seated and be quiet,”the judge warned, “or I will have you forcibly removed by the bailiffs.”

Thumberton continued, “I ask the court to consider the source of her testimony. I ask the court to weigh her word against the word of the Sinclairs and Harcourts. I’m sure the court will find there is no comparison.”

The prosecutor jumped up. “May I reply, Your Honor?”

“No, you may not,”the judge said. “We’ll be in recess for half an hour while I deliberate a verdict.”

He banged his gavel and left in a swirl of black robes. Jean Pierre was dragged out after him. There was a minute of silence, the spectators too shocked to react, then pandemonium erupted. Most people rushed for the exits. Others rushed to the bar, reaching out with beseeching hands to Harriet as if she was a famous actress or princess.

“Harriet! Harriet!”they cried.

Her husband pulled her away, and Thumberton guided them to the door by which the judge had just escaped. They raced through and disappeared.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

“Where do you suppose they are?”

“I have no idea. They could be halfway to China by now.”

Sarah peered out the window, staring down the long lane that led from Bramble Bay Manor and out to the road. She’d been home for several days, but the road remained just as empty as it had been when she’d arrived.

“Will we ever see them again?”Caroline asked.

“I wouldn’t try to guess.”

“If Raven doesn’t come back for me, I’ll kill him.”

“You’ll have to find him first,”Sarah acidly said.

“He swore we’d always be together. How could he abandon me?”

“Be glad you were able to wring a vow out of him. All I received were a bunch of empty promises that turned out to be lies.”

“Did Jean Pierre tell you he’d always stay? That you’d always be together, too?”

“Yes, and it’s obvious how sincere he was.”

They were in the front parlor, squawking like a pair of jilted spinsters. They’d spent the summer immersed in passionate affairs, but that season was over, and the world was so quiet and boring.

She wasn’t the person she’d been the previous spring, and the tedium was driving her mad. Where once her tranquil country existence had been a soothing balm, it currently provided no solace. She was chafing at the monotony and anxious to get away.

When she’d been in love with Jean Pierre, life had seemed so bright and merry, colors vivid, the sounds and smells riveting. Now everything was painted in shades of gray. She felt deflated too, as if some of her vitality had leaked away.

“Could they be at his castle in France?”Caroline pondered.

“Perhaps.”

“What if we booked passage and went there ourselves? Wouldn’t it be better to find out than to sit here day after day wondering?”

“I couldn’t locate the spot, Caro. I haven’t a clue where it was.”

The Sinclairs had succeeded in their effort to help Jean Pierre. A week earlier, the heralded trial of The French Terror had ended, having fizzled to a ridiculously pointless conclusion.

After the judge had left the bench, there was a lengthy delay. Then suddenly, he’d hurried in, banged his gavel, and announced that Jean Pierre was
not
The French Terror and was
not
guilty. He’d ordered Miss Dubois placed under arrest for perjuring herself, then he’d banged his gavel again and fled.

There was a shocked silence, then a group of guards surrounded Miss Dubois, tied her hands, and whisked her away. She’d spit and hissed and cursed, but they’d wrestled her out without too much difficulty.

As the doors had shut behind her, the crowd erupted. They’d heard the evidence that indicated Jean Pierre’s innocence, but they were indignant that there wouldn’t be a hanging.

Quarrels started, then brawls broke out, and chairs were smashed. Bailiffs hustled people out, urging them on with whips and clubs. In the street, a mêlée had ensued, with windows shattered and shops ransacked.

Through it all, Sarah had sat in the theater, waiting in vain for something to transpire. She’d assumed Jean Pierre would reappear or that Raven would come to fetch her. Or that Mr. Thumberton might emerge so she could inquire as to Jean Pierre’s whereabouts.

She’d tarried on her bench at the top row of the balcony. Afternoon had faded to evening, then to night, and a cleaning crew arrived to repair the mess the spectators had made. A man told Sarah she had to leave.

She’d gathered her belongings and walked out. By that hour, the mayhem had eased. She’d hailed a hackney cab and was delivered to her hotel.

Where she waited again, for three more days.

Ultimately, she’d written a note of thanks to Harriet and Lord Trent—hadn’t received a reply from either—packed her bags, and headed to Bramble Bay.

News of Jean Pierre’s acquittal had reached even their isolated corner of the kingdom. Caroline had been frantic for information as to what had become of everyone. She’d expected Raven to send for her or—at the very least—for him to mail a letter that would apprise her of where he was or what would occur next.

But the two men had vanished, and gradually, Sarah’s and Caroline’s hopes were vanishing, too.

After all, what did they know about the wily duo? Not much.

Why would they stay in England? Why would they risk more trouble?

They were a pair of cunning liars and libertines who didn’t deserve what they’d been given by Sarah and Caroline. Sarah kept telling herself to get over Jean Pierre. During his incarceration, he’d been extremely clear as to his feelings about Sarah.

He’d been far down the road to being executed, yet he’d refused to see or speak with her. She couldn’t figure out why she persisted, but her liaison with him was the only truly remarkable event that had ever happened to her.

He’d made her so happy, and she couldn’t return to being the woman she’d been before she met him.

“I wouldn’t have done anything differently,”Sarah muttered. “Not a single blasted thing.”

“Neither would I.”

They sighed over their fond memories, but with regret, too.

Motion out on the lane caught her attention. She pulled her gaze from Caroline and stared out the window.

A horse and rider were passing by, which wasn’t odd. But when the rider turned and trotted up the drive, her pulse began to race.

She rose halfway, barely able to keep from dashing outside like a fool.

“What is it?”Caroline asked.

“There’s a rider approaching.”

Caroline lurched up and ran over to the window. She studied him as he neared, as his size and features grew more distinct. Then she looked over her shoulder.

“It’s Jean Pierre.”

Sarah was glad she was seated. If she hadn’t been, she might have swooned. She took a deep breath, forcing herself to remain calm.

“Are you sure?”

“Very sure.”

“Is he alone?”

Caroline sniffed with offense. “Quite alone.”

Sarah pushed herself to her feet, then started out. She’d planned to maintain her dignity, to stroll slowly with grace and composure, but after three short strides, she realized poise was impossible.

She flew from the room, down the hall, and out the door, her feet scarcely touching the steps as she sprinted down them. As he reined in, she was waiting for him, awhirl with emotion: fury, relief, dread, elation.

He peered down at her, his expression enigmatic, the corner of his lovely mouth hinting at a smile. He was French again and dressed for traveling. Flowing white shirt, tan trousers, black boots, a sword on one hip, a pistol on the other. The pirate was on full display, the gold earring in his ear.

“Ah,
chérie,
”he murmured, “you are just as beautiful as I remembered.”

“Where have you been!”she practically shouted.

“I take it you have missed me.”

“I’ve been mad with worry.”

“And why would you be? Haven’t I always told you not to fret? I am Jean Pierre. Nothing bad will ever happen to me.”

“You lout! You cad! You boor! Have you any idea how frightened I’ve been?”

“We’ve been parted for so long,
chérie
. I could have sworn you’d be happier to see me.”

“I will wring your neck, Jean Pierre! I will wring your lying, deceitful neck!”

With the elegance of a ballet dancer, he jumped to the ground as she leapt into his arms. Then he was kissing her and kissing her and kissing her, right there in the front drive where anyone could observe them.

“Where have you been…what have you been doing…why wouldn’t you talk to me….”

She bit out the words between kisses, trying to speak, trying to tell him how upset she’d been, how aggrieved and hurt. Yet she didn’t want him pausing to justify or explain. He was home, and he was with her, and they could hash it out later.

He climbed the steps, carrying her, her legs wrapped around his waist. Caroline held the door, the servants hovering behind her in the foyer. Some of his sailors were still in residence, and they eagerly watched him enter, clapping and merrily hailing him in various foreign tongues.

“Where is Raven?”Caroline asked as Jean Pierre marched by her.

“Coming in a day or two,”he responded and kept on up the stairs.

They proceeded directly to Sarah’s room, not caring what the servants thought or what stories might circulate in the village. He kicked the door shut with his heel, dropped his belt of weapons on the floor, then continued on to the bedchamber. He toppled onto the mattress with her, and he still hadn’t stopped kissing her.

Obviously, he’d missed her and was delighted to be with her again. What did it mean? There were a thousand questions plaguing her: Was he planning to stay? Was he
free
to stay? Could they marry now? Would he like to marry her?

But she knew him well. If he didn’t wish to reply, he wouldn’t.

She rolled them so she was on top, so she could stare down at him. She was desperate for him to understand how distressed she’d been, how infuriating he was, but when he viewed himself as wonderful and always in the right, how could she ever make him feel any genuine remorse?

“You wouldn’t let me visit you in prison,”she complained.

“No.”

“You would have been lowered into your grave without a goodbye.”

He shrugged, unrepentant and unapologetic. “It was better that way.”

“You scared the life out of me. Have you the slightest notion how afraid I was?”

“With no reason,
chérie
. Everything is fine now.”

“It’s
not
fine. I didn’t think you were coming back.”