Madeleine's Christmas Wish (2 page)

He shook himself. Now was not the time to think about his reaction to her.

She sucked in a harsh breath. “
She knows about . . . ?
”

“Only that you are here and need help.” Georges took her hand. “I wouldn't tell anyone.”

“I—I did not think she would accept me.”

He supported Madeleine across the rough ground until they reached the carriage. Once she had settled, he took the seat across from her. “It has been a very long time. Ever since your father decided to remain in France, my mother has been worried about you and your family.” The coach lurched forward. “Madeleine, how did your father allow this to happen?”

A sob escaped her, and he practically lunged across to the other seat, wanting to hold her until she could speak.

“My father is dead. I believe he was murdered.”

“D
ead? When?”

Even in the darkness, Madeleine could make out the shock in Georges's face.

“About three months ago.” She blinked back her tears. “We were told he died after falling from a horse. Which makes no sense. He gave up riding after he injured his hip. They showed us his body and said his neck had been broken.”

“How many people knew he no longer rode?” Georges asked, his voice unusually calm.

She shook her head, trying to remember. “Hardly anyone. He did not wish to show any weakness. He'd always taken the coach when he traveled for business.”

“What of your brother?”

Armand was her twin and elder by five minutes. They had always been so close, she was surprised she hadn't felt his death. Her head began to ache, and she rubbed her temples. “We have not heard from him since the war ended. All of us assumed the worse. My father was searching for Armand, or his body, when he was murdered.”

Georges's brows snapped together. “Where was your brother?”

“With the army.”

“
He fought for Napoleon!
” Georges's tone was so furious she flinched.

What did he know about anything? His family had left France. She glared at him. “
He fought for France!
He fought for his family. When they offered him the commission it was a test of our loyalty. Armand dared not refuse.” Madeleine was surprised by how much she wanted Georges to understand, wanted his help in rescuing her mother and sister. “He would have done anything for us.”

When he spoke again, the anger had leached from his voice. “Like you did. Which, if he is dead, leaves you . . . ?”

“Comtesse du Beaune.” She had not wanted the burden; still it was hers, as was the responsibility to protect her family.

Perhaps when she had discovered the men transporting her were avoiding Paris, she'd been stupid not to insist they take her to the capital, so that she could seek help. Yet she'd been so afraid for her sister. If the men had lost her, they might have gone back for Genevieve.
Non.
She could not think that way. She'd find a way to bring her family here, where they would be secure. Then she'd return to Beaune and preserve her family's heritage and what her father had loved.

“I was going to say
alone.
I'd forgotten your family's title could be inherited by a daughter.” Georges's voice washed over her like a soft caress. “You're tired. We can speak more later. I have a feeling there is more going on than one might at first suspect.” He squeezed her hand. “I'll get to the bottom of this infamy.”

Now he sounded more like the young man she had known so many years ago, so sure of himself. She wanted to leave it all in his capable hands, and feel his arms around her again. Still, the fact remained, he no longer knew France, and had apparently done nothing during the war. How could he help her?

 

 

The next morning dawned clear and colder than the night before. Madeleine ate breakfast in her room before joining Georges in the inn's yard.

Just as they were departing, a man on horseback rode up. “Jamison wants to see you both. Immediately.” He handed a piece of paper to Georges. “Go to that address.”

She waited until the rider left, before asking, “Who is this Jamison, and what does he want? How does he know about me?”

Georges cast a glance at the lady's maid. “I'll explain later. It will delay our arrival in Berkshire, but there is nothing to worry about.”

“Very well.” She would have liked to discuss the topic now, yet if it had anything to do with her being taken from her home, she could not speak in front of a maid she did not know, and it was far too wintry for the woman to ride with the coachman.

Resigned to wait, Madeleine read the cover of the book Georges's mother had sent.
Sense and Sensibility
. It was a good thing Madeleine had kept up with her English.

By late afternoon, they'd reached the outskirts of London. Hundreds of people seemed to be milling around. She hadn't been to Paris since she was young, yet that had appeared large enough. London was even bigger, over one million people, she'd been told.

On one of their short stops to change horses, Georges had explained Jamison worked for the Home Office, and they wanted as much information as she could give them about the French plan to use the women sent over as prostitutes.

Cold fear pierced her. In France people entered an official building and were never seen again. “We are going to the government office?”

“No. The address he gave us is in an area called Mayfair. That is where most of the aristocrats live.” Georges turned from monitoring the horses, and smiled at her.

“I'm glad to hear that.” Her heart skipped. He was the most handsome man she had ever met. Not to mention in the past when he'd taken Madeleine's side during a squabble between her and Armand. Even as a child, she'd been upset that the betrothal had come to nothing.

“I forgot to ask,” he said, his forehead creasing, “how did you recognize me?”

“I remembered what you looked like.” It would have been impossible to forget him. His dark, sable-brown hair and light green eyes were the same. Yet his frame,
Mon Dieu
. She did not remember those shoulders, nor had he exuded the power and confidence he did now. “You are not so very different.”

“Older.”

She shrugged. “We are all older.” And without much to show for it, as far as her life was concerned. If not for the revolution, she would have been married with children by now. Which raised the question of how Georges had recognized her. She'd been so very young when he'd left France, only nine years old. “I suppose I've changed a great deal.”

His eyes warmed and a tiny shiver of pleasure sliced through her. “Yes, though your hair and eyes are the same. You look so much like your mother, I'd have known you anywhere.”

She searched his face. “I'm surprised you have not married.”
Curse her tongue!
What if she was wrong? He'd held her, but had made no attempt to kiss her. Was it because he already had a wife? “Or have you?”

“No. No woman has ever tempted me.” Except Madeleine. He drank in the sight of her. Skin as smooth as a rose petal, and a nose that turned up at the end, not at all like most Frenchwomen. If only he could trust her as he wanted to. Yet, with her brother being in the army . . . There was nothing for it. Georges must ensure she never discovered what he'd done during the war.

The coach came to a halt. “I believe we are here.”

“Whose house is this?” she asked as she looked out the window.

Before Georges could respond, a footman opened the carriage door. “My lord, my lady, Lady Palmerton bids you welcome.”

“Well. That answered that question.” Madeleine gave a small grin.

“Indeed it does.” Georges stepped down, holding his arm out for her. “Allow me.”

She trembled slightly, and he bent his head to hers. “What is wrong?”

“Will
she
know why I was brought to England?” Madeleine whispered in a panicked tone.

If only he could hold her until she forgot. “No. That is not something that would have been shared with anyone. Trust me when I tell you, there is no need to worry.”

She took a breath. “Lead on.”

They were shown to a small parlor in the back of the townhouse. An older lady, with graying curls mostly covered by a lace mobcap, smiled, and came forward. “Welcome. I do hope you speak English, I'm afraid my French is quite rusty.”

Madeleine dropped a curtsey. “My English is good, I think. Thank you for opening your home to me.”

Georges wondered for a moment if he was meant to leave, until Lady Palmerton said, “My lord, you're welcome to stay here as well. My nephew told me you don't keep rooms in Town.”

“No. I do not.” Not anymore, and the ones he had kept were much closer to Covent Garden than Mayfair. He bowed, kissing the hand she'd held out. “Thank you for your kindness, my lady.”

Her cheeks flushed, and she giggled. “Oh my, you'll have me feeling like a girl again. I was fortunate to have visited Paris when I was young, and I look forward to going back.” Lady Palmerton glanced at the door. “I see tea has arrived. When you're finished, ring the bell-pull, and you'll be escorted to your rooms. Please ask for anything you want. Jamison will be here in an hour or so. I understand you have some things to discuss.”

Still talking, she left the parlor.

Madeleine stared after the older woman. “She is”—Madeleine frowned for a moment—“
exuberant
is the word, I think.”

“Very.” Georges wondered if Lady Palmerton was nervous of Jamison, and how the devil he'd got her to agree to host Madeleine and him. “If you will pour, we should finish tea, and change. I foresee a long session with Lord Jamison.”

Her hands were steady and sure as she picked up the teapot, filling two cups. “He is English, how much should I tell him?”

If he only knew what was going on in her beautiful head. Did she sympathize with Napoleon? Yet how could she when so many of their friends had been murdered. On the other hand, her father had remained in France.

Watching her closely for any indication of where her sympathies lay, Georges set his cup down. “He helped me rescue you, and has aided Louis. Tell him the truth. All of it.”

Madeleine lifted her cup to her lips. “Very well. As long as you think it best.”

“I do.”

Once she'd finished, he stood, taking two steps to the bell-pull. “It's best we are ready when Jamison arrives.”

She rose gracefully, and held out her hand to Georges. “I shall be prepared.”

He hoped so. He also prayed he was right, and that Madeleine was not in league with Napoleon.

 

 

When Madeleine arrived in her chamber, she was surprised to find the bath tub already set up. Fine linen towels lined the copper vessel. Andrews was arranging items on the dressing table. Madeleine would have to find a way to do some shopping while she was in London. She wanted at least some things of her own. Not trusting either the men who had her or whoever would be waiting for her in England, she'd given her French maid all her items of value, with the exception of some money she'd sewn into the hem of her cloak before her maid left.

Andrews glanced up. “The wash water should be here in no time, my lady. If you'll step behind the screen, I'll help you undress while they are filling the tub.”

Madeleine had, quite frankly, not expected such kindness from Lady Palmerton. “Thank you.”

By the time Madeleine had donned the borrowed wrapper, the bath was ready. Handing the garment to the maid, Madeleine sank into the warm water. Heaven. She'd not had a bath in a week.

“Here, my lady, I'll wash your hair for you.”

After what Georges had said, she would probably not have time. “I believe I am wanted downstairs soon.”

“Don't you worry, my lady. Lady Palmerton's maid told me her ladyship said the gentlemen could wait until you were more yourself.”

Madeleine grinned to herself. It appeared her ladyship was neither a fool nor one to be bullied. An hour later, she had changed into a muslin day gown, and her hair had been dressed in a way that allowed some tendrils to frame her face.

“There.” Andrews stepped back and nodded with satisfaction. “That's much better than having your pretty curls scraped back so's no one knew you had them.”

“It does look very nice.” Though Madeleine doubted her appearance would change the types of questions Lord Jamison had for her, at least she felt better. “Thank you.”

The maid blushed. “You make it easy, my lady. There's not much for me to do at all.”

A knock sounded on the door.

Andrews stuck her head out, spoke to someone, then shut the door. “The gentlemen are waiting.”

Madeleine donned a warm shawl, and attempted to stop her heart from knocking against her chest. Surely Georges wouldn't allow the Englishman to hurt her. “I am ready.”

Georges stood in the corridor. His eyes widened slightly, then he searched her face, and smiled reassuringly. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She returned his smile, though hers wobbled a little. “I had a bath. It was heavenly.”

“I like your hair.” He tucked her hand securely into the crook of his arm. “You should wear it that way more often.”

“Perhaps while I'm in England I shall.”

He raised a brow. “But not in France?”

“No.” Being safe in England, how could he possibly understand what she'd been through? Especially after Armand had disappeared and Papa had been killed. At times she'd wished her father would have taken them and fled, but then, they would have lost their lands, as Georges had his. “It is better I appear plain.”

Georges escorted her to a room across the corridor from the one she was in earlier for tea. Books lined the walls, and a sturdy desk of dark walnut stood in front of the long windows lining the wall. A tea service had been set on the low table situated in between two small sofas next to the fireplace.

A large, stocky gentleman rose and bowed. Georges shook hands with the other man, before turning to her. “Comtesse, allow me to introduce Lord Jamison. My lord, the Countess of Beaune.”

“My lady, I am pleased to meet you.”

She inclined her head and held out her hand. “It is my pleasure to meet you as well, my lord.”

He gestured toward the sofas. “Please come and be comfortable while we chat.”

The now familiar feel of bile rose in her throat. He was being very pleasant, almost too pleasant. She made herself smile, and sat at the end of one of the sofas, nearest to the warmth of the fire.

Their discussion began simply enough. He asked how she was managing in France and expressed condolences for her father and brother, but did not ask how they died. When she mentioned Monsieur Coupe's name, Georges, who sat next to her, exchanged a sharp glance with Lord Jamison, though no questions were asked about the Frenchman.