Mistaken for a Lady (6 page)

And then? Back at the palace, Francesca had hinted that she expected an annulment, what would she do after that? If she wanted children, she would need to marry.

He grimaced, there was a bitter taste in his mouth—the idea of Francesca remarrying didn't sit well with him. Why, he couldn't say. She had walked out of his life and was no longer his responsibility. In truth, he'd long ago come to the conclusion that the feelings she stirred in him—so all-encompassing they bordered on the obsessive—lessened him. They clouded his judgement. They weakened him.

Except that now he'd seen her again he realised that he couldn't simply wash his hands of her. This was Francesca, for pity's sake. What was he to do, have their marriage annulled and forget her?

It wasn't possible. He'd thought he could do it and that it would be relatively easy, but that was before he'd seen her with Kerjean, before that surge of jealousy had ripped through him. He couldn't forget her. Not Francesca. He would always want her. The emotions she stirred in him, though unwanted, made him feel truly alive.

Impatiently, he shoved his emotions to the back of his mind. What mattered was that on their wedding day, he had accepted responsibility for her and he wasn't one to shirk a duty. Tristan had felt that way before he knew of Count Myrrdin's illness and now, knowing Francesca would shortly be on her own in the world, his resolve had strengthened.
If Francesca wants to remarry, I shall have to ensure she marries well.

What would happen to her otherwise? She had no one else to watch out for her and clearly, despite the months that had passed, she remained an innocent. The softness of her lips under his, the way she had melted against him. Lord, it had been a grave error kissing her. He would have to ensure she married well. To a sensible, honourable man. Then, with Francesca safely remarried, he would see to his own nuptials.

It shouldn't be difficult finding Francesca a husband. Yes, he'd find her a husband, it wouldn't take long. After all, she was stunningly beautiful; she had a kind heart; and she was extraordinarily gifted in the bedchamber. Except...

Lord, that rendezvous with Sir Joakim was back in his head. He didn't seem to be able to shake it.

‘Sir Ernis?'

‘My lord?'

‘Have you heard of a Breton knight, name of Joakim Kerjean?'

‘Can't say that I have. Why?'

‘Sir Joakim was at the revel last night and I was wondering if he was a regular visitor to Provins.'

‘My lord, I have no idea. If you wish, I could make enquiries.'

‘I'd be glad if you would. Be sure to forward any intelligence about him to me at des Iles.'

‘Certainly, my lord.'

Tristan had sworn to protect Francesca, and if Kerjean thought to put himself forward as one of Francesca's suitors after their marriage was annulled, it was Tristan's duty to ensure the man was honourable.

In a sense, it was a pity Tristan couldn't remain married to her himself, that way he could really keep an eye on her.

Of course, he would have to overlook the fact that she'd run away after the revelation that Lady Clare was Count Myrrdin's true-born daughter. That didn't present many difficulties, Francesca had been so young and the circumstances had been unfortunate in the extreme.

What rankled most was her lack of response to his letters. He'd agonised over it, telling himself that likely she was ashamed that the revelations about her birth meant that she brought him the most meagre of dowries. Yet to go on not answering—it was hard to set that aside.

He grimaced. The scales were starting to weigh against her. Had last night been the first time Sir Joakim had met her? He found it hard to believe otherwise, but he couldn't stop wondering.
How well do I know her? Has the charming girl become a calculating woman?

Tristan gripped his steward's shoulder. ‘My thanks for your continuing loyalty, Ernis.'

‘You are welcome, my lord. I shall see to it the food is packed and given to Bastian.'

Tristan left Ernis and strode briskly across the yard. He wanted to see the main bedchamber before they set out. He'd not seen it in years and what Ernis had said about Francesca's plans to visit Monfort had roused his curiosity.

As Tristan passed through the hall, he noticed for the first time the polished side-table and the smell of beeswax. He paused to take stock. There were changes since his last visit. Hundreds of miles from his county in Brittany, Paimpont was his most outlying manor. It had always looked rather run-down. Unlived in. Tristan's father had neglected it and Tristan had always intended to make up for that. Yet events had conspired against him and somehow he'd never been able to give Paimpont the attention it deserved. Yet now—the floor was strewn with fresh rushes; the cloth on the trestle table was crisp and white; and a jug of wild flowers sat in the centre, next to a polished silver candle stand. The hall had never looked so welcoming. His mouth went up at a corner. This wasn't the work of Sir Ernis. Clearly, Francesca hadn't been idle.

Upstairs, Tristan pushed through the bedchamber door and blinked at the travelling chests lined up against the wall. They weren't locked. Frowning, he flipped back the lid of one and peered in. Surely, these were her best gowns? Dropping to his knees, he turned them over. Here was the lavender gown she had worn on their wedding day. And this, surely this was the brocade cloak he had given her? Opening a cream leather pouch, he drew out a silver circlet set with amethysts. He'd given her this as his wedding gift.

Replacing the circlet where he'd found it, he shoved back another lid. Her Bible was tucked in between two other gowns; a coral necklace was wrapped in a woollen shawl. He recalled her telling him that Count Myrrdin had given her the necklace when she'd been a child. He opened the last coffer and found yet more of her treasures. A bone-handled eating knife; a beaded necklace; a scrap of finely worked embroidery. Francesca's belongings, reduced to three travelling chests. His frown deepened.

The trip she'd been planning had been more than any visit, she'd been leaving for good.

Well, not if he could help it, not with so much unfinished business between them.

He rubbed his chin, struck by a strange thought. Perhaps he should shoulder some of the blame for Francesca's disappearance from Brittany. He'd never told her how much he appreciated her. And in not wishing her to be frightened by the dangers posed by the conflict between King Henry and his sons, he'd not explained how vital it was that the duchy had his support.

He'd kept other things from her too, important personal matters. He'd never told her about Esmerée—his mistress before his marriage to Francesca.

Naturally, Tristan had ended his relationship with Esmerée before he'd met Francesca. Indeed, Esmerée was now happily married to Tristan's greatest friend, Sir Roparz de Fougères. None the less, perhaps he should have told Francesca about her. His only excuse was that Francesca had been so young when they'd married. She'd been so innocent. And so adoring. Tristan had never had anyone look up to him in that way and he'd been afraid of destroying it.

Should he have told her about Esmerée? His relationship with Esmerée had been purely physical, there had never been that disturbing sense of recognition and belonging that he'd felt with Francesca. He'd not seen any reason to mention past liaisons to his innocent wife.

He grimaced, he'd been deceiving himself, there had been consequences to his relationship with Esmerée. Esmerée had given birth to Kristina—his daughter and only child—and the moment she had done so, he should have told Francesca.

I should have told Francesca about Esmerée and I should have told her that I have a daughter.

However, it wasn't that simple. Tristan intended to acknowledge Kristina as his, but the continuing unrest in Brittany had been to blame for his silence. If the rebel alliance had got wind of the fact that the Count of the Isles had an illegitimate daughter, Kristina's life might have been put in jeopardy. Thus far only three people knew the truth—himself, Esmerée and his friend Roparz.

However, with the alliance broken and peace more or less restored, the need for discretion regarding Kristina was no longer so urgent. He was free to tell Francesca about her.

Except what was the point in him telling her? With them both considering divorce, did it matter?

He closed the chest with a thud and swore under his breath. It mattered. For some unfathomable reason he wanted Francesca to know about Kristina.

Obviously, he couldn't tell her immediately, she had enough on her mind with Count Myrrdin's illness. Soon though.

Yes, he would tell her about his daughter after she had bid farewell to Count Myrrdin—Papa, as she called him.

Tight-lipped, Tristan pushed to his feet and went to the top of the stairwell. ‘Ernis, are you still in the hall? Ernis!'

Heavy boots sounded on the boards below. ‘My lord?'

‘Secure Lady Francesca's coffers and have them sent on after us, will you? No need to send them to Fontaine, they can go directly to des Iles with your next report.'

Chapter Four

I
t was a glorious spring day as Francesca and Tristan clattered on to the highway ahead of Bastian and Mari. A handful of clouds meandered across the sky, the hawthorn bushes were bursting into leaf and the hedgerows were alive with sparrows.

‘You're still riding Flint, I see,' Francesca said, glancing at Tristan's raw-boned grey.

‘He suits me.' Expression softening, Tristan gestured at Francesca's mare. ‘I see you kept Princess. I did wonder. Thought you might have left her behind.'

‘She's perfect, I would have been mad to leave her in Brittany.' Francesca folded her lips firmly together. In truth, Tristan had given Princess to her at their betrothal. She was a glossy black and much adored. Francesca was reluctant to reveal exactly how much the horse meant to her. Every time she rode her, which was often, she thought of Tristan.

Tristan gave her a brusque nod, leaving Francesca to wonder whether she had imagined the softness in his expression.

‘I'd like to make the most of this weather,' he said, giving the heel to Flint. ‘It won't stay dry for ever, and a dry road is infinitely preferable to having the horses slog through acres of mud.'

Francesca urged Princess on. Her heart was heavy. Count Myrrdin had played such a large part in her life. She hadn't seen him in two years and yet he lived in her mind as though they'd spoken only yesterday. For eighteen years she had adored him as a loving and generous father.

The count had many eccentricities—the forgetfulness which seemed so at odds with the way he never failed to revere the memory of his beloved wife, Countess Mathilde; the wildness of his snowy-white hair and beard; his extraordinary mismatched eyes—one grey, one green. Each eccentricity merely served to point up what a quirky, lovable man he was. The day that Francesca had discovered that Count Myrrdin was not her father had been bleak indeed.

Her life had, quite simply, fallen apart. At a stroke, she'd lost a beloved father and she'd lost her place in the world. It had been well-nigh impossible to accept that she had no connections with Fontaine whatsoever. She was a changeling and her standing as a noblewoman was nothing but a lie. She cast a sidelong glance at Tristan—she'd lost the respect of her husband too. With not a drop of noble blood flowing through her veins, she had lost her purpose in life.

However, this was not the time to dwell on her disastrously inappropriate marriage. The man she would always think of as her father was dying.

‘Count Myrrdin is the kindest man I know,' she murmured, eyes stinging. ‘I pray he isn't suffering.'

She didn't think Tristan had heard her, he was looking over his shoulder at Mari and Bastian. Bastian had a packhorse on a leading rein, other than that they were travelling light as Tristan had suggested.

Following Tristan's gaze, it dawned on Francesca why Tristan had insisted that they wore practical, everyday clothing. No one would take them for the Count and Countess des Iles. The Count and Countess des Iles would surely ride through the land in bright silks and fine linen. They would have a grand entourage—guards and servants to fuss over their every whim. This way, with only Mari and Bastian and a solitary packhorse, they would pass through the towns and villages much faster. There would be no pomp and certainly no ceremony. They were riding incognito. With sackcloth covering Tristan's shield, the three black cinquefoils were hidden from view.

Her gut tightened. Did Tristan want them to travel unobtrusively because he was ashamed of her? His low-born wife. With a shake of her head, Francesca pushed the thought aside. Tristan was a proud man, not a cruel one.

Tristan cleared his throat. ‘Your maid Mari is no longer young. Are you sure she can keep up?'

‘I'm sure. Mari is livelier than many women half her age, she never keeps still. And her father was a groom at Fontaine, she learned to ride at an early age.'

‘That's good to hear. It's safer if we keep together.' Tristan set his face forward and urged Flint on. ‘Francesca, I don't think you need worry about Count Myrrdin suffering. I have heard Lady Clare is very competent.'

‘Aye, so she is.'

Penetrating blue eyes met hers. ‘I wasn't sure how well you knew her.'

‘Well enough to know that she wouldn't withhold the poppy juice if Papa was in pain.'

Tristan held her gaze. ‘I doubt that poppy juice will be necessary. Knowing Count Myrrdin as we do, I think we may safely assume he is more likely to have fallen into one of his deep abstractions.'

Eyes misting, Francesca stared straight ahead. ‘I pray so.'

Leather creaked as Tristan reached across to briefly squeeze her hand. ‘Our main concern will be whether he is able to speak to you when we reach Fontaine.'

Francesca's throat closed. Tristan meant well, bless him, he was warning her that they might arrive too late. Blinking hard, she nodded and Tristan lifted his hand from hers.

‘I shall do my best to ensure we get there as swiftly as humanly possible.' He paused. ‘Francesca?'

‘Aye?'

‘What happened when Lady Clare came to Fontaine to claim her inheritance?'

Francesca felt herself go rigid. Shame. Hurt. Bitterness. However, Tristan's blue eyes were kind. Thoughtful. ‘Tristan, I am sure you have already been given a full account.'

‘So I was, but I'd like to hear your version of events.'

‘Very well. Lady Clare's arrival was most unexpected, she arrived without any fanfare—with only one knight as her escort.'

‘Sir Arthur Ferrer, yes, that much I knew. How soon did she reveal her identity?'

Chest tight, Francesca stared down at her hands. ‘She didn't have to. The moment Papa set eyes on her he saw Countess Mathilde in her.' She shook her head. ‘As did half the retainers. Lady Clare has red hair. But the most telling thing is her eyes, they are mismatched.'

‘One is grey and one green?'

‘Aye, they are
exactly
like Papa's.'

Tristan grunted. ‘Count Myrrdin's eyes are certainly exceptional.'

Francesca's saddle creaked. ‘When you see them together—' her voice broke ‘—
if
you see them together, you will realise there is no doubt. Papa was as shocked as I was, but he was quick to recognise her as his legitimate daughter.' She gripped the reins. ‘Tristan, I am truly sorry you married me under false pretences. If I had known, I never would have agreed to marry you.'

Tristan made a sound of exasperation. ‘
Bon sang
, Francesca, I would never think that of you.'

Her throat closed and her eyes misted. ‘Thank you.'

He grunted. ‘Francesca, all your life you've been thought of as Count Myrrdin's daughter. Did anyone try to find out how such a terrible mistake might have been made?'

‘Yes, indeed, Papa did investigate and the castle priest, Father Alar, came forward. He had, years before, heard the confession of one of the villagers.'

Tristan leaned towards her, a slight pleat in his brow. ‘Priests do not generally reveal what is said in a confession.'

‘That is true, but given the lapse of time since the confession, and the importance of what was at stake, Father Alar told Papa that one of the villagers had confessed that her sister had stolen a child and run off with it.'

‘A villager stole Lady Clare from her cradle?'

‘So it seems.'

‘And then? How was it that no one noticed the difference between you and Lady Clare?'

Francesca sighed. ‘To answer that question we venture into the realm of speculation, I'm afraid. Countess Mathilde died giving birth to Lady Clare and Papa was grieving so much I don't think he had much time for a baby.'

Tristan nodded. ‘That fits, my own father was out of his mind when my mother died.' His gaze sharpened. ‘With regard to you, the wet nurse must have known she was nursing a different child. She must have been in on it. Is she still alive?'

‘Sadly not. Though I agree she must have known. I can only suppose she panicked when Lady Clare vanished and I replaced her. Father Alar told Papa that he'd had no confession from the wet nurse.'

‘If the wet nurse did substitute you for Lady Clare, likely she would have been too terrified to admit it. Francesca?'

‘Aye?'

‘Where did you come from? What about your real parents? Did Count Myrrdin learn anything about
your
background?'

She lowered her gaze. ‘No. Apart from that one confession about the stealing of Lady Clare, we know nothing. I'm sorry, Tristan, my background is a complete mystery. I am truly no one.'

‘Lord, it's not your fault. Francesca, I want you to know how much I regret that I wasn't at your side when Lady Clare rode into Fontaine. Was there much awkwardness between the two of you when it became clear who she was?'

Francesca shot him a startled glance. With her mind on Count Myrrdin and his illness, she hadn't expected an apology from Tristan. And she certainly hadn't expected all these questions. She fixed her gaze on a vineyard to the right of the highway. The vines were pruned and staked, bright curls of green were unfurling from the rootstocks. ‘Lady Clare is very warm-hearted. I like her, everyone does.'

‘Were you angry?'

‘Not for a long time, I think I was in shock.'

‘That's understandable.'

‘At first I couldn't believe she was Papa's daughter, even though the evidence was there every time I looked at her.'

‘Your father's eyes; Countess Mathilde's hair.'

‘Exactly. Tristan, when you meet her, you will see it is impossible to question Lady Clare's parentage, she is the Fontaine heiress. She was kind to me. She seemed to understand my confusion, and when she said she was following Sir Arthur to Troyes, I decided to accompany her.'

Tristan's gaze was watchful. ‘I was surprised when Roparz sent word that you had taken up residence in Paimpont. I was up to my neck in duchy business at the time, keeping a sharp eye on Prince Geoffrey.'

‘That must have been a challenge.'

‘It was like walking on eggshells. King Henry didn't trust the prince—Lord, no one trusted anyone. I was sent to England for a time.'

Francesca gave him a sharp look. ‘How long were you there?'

Francesca had always wanted to know more about the extent of Tristan's involvement in Breton politics and this was the first time he'd spoken openly of it. In the past he'd been tight-mouthed about his work and she'd hated it. Hated that he'd kept things from her; hated that so much of his life was out of bounds to her. She had fallen in love with him and, naively, she'd thought he would open up to her.

How strange that he should choose to start talking when their marriage was in shreds.

‘Roughly a year—I was sent there on account of the revolt against Henry of England.'

‘The Princes' Revolt.'

Francesca knew a little about it. King Henry's sons, wanting more in the way of land and revenues than their father was prepared to grant them, had rebelled against their father. Henry's Queen, Eleanor, had even been implicated. However, the princes and their mother had not prevailed and King Henry's punishment had been swift and sure. Queen Eleanor had reportedly been carted off to England, where she had been incarcerated; and the rebel lords who had supported the princes had also been punished—King Henry's army had laid waste huge tracts of land in Brittany.

Tristan gave a rueful smile. ‘Aye. King Henry wanted to keep an eye on Prince Geoffrey, so he summoned him to England. And since I was keeping an eye on the prince—on behalf of the duchy—I had to go too. In the end, settlement with the king and his sons was reached at Montlouis. Later, the treaty was confirmed in Falaise.'

‘Sir Ernis told me that after the revolt, the duchy was ready to fall apart.'

Tristan grimaced. ‘That's putting it mildly. There was a complete breakdown of law and order. Disgruntled lords and self-styled knights with no pretensions to chivalry jumped at the chance to grab what they could. Every knight with a half-baked claim to the meanest acre fielded a minor army to bolster his claim. It was chaos.'

Slowly, Francesca shook her head. ‘I heard rumours, of course, but I didn't realise the extent of the trouble.'

Something was niggling away at the back of her mind. Her breath caught. Her letters! Had they gone astray? With Tristan moving hither and yon, it was easy to see that they might have got lost. Meeting his eyes, she watched carefully for his reaction.

‘Tristan?'

‘Mmm?'

‘Did you get my letters?'

He must have jerked on the reins, for his horse jibbed. ‘What letters?' His expression was puzzled, other than that it was unreadable.

‘Tristan, you have to know I have been writing to you. I sent you several letters, long ones, the last in October.'

‘Where did you send them?'

‘Château des Iles.'

Tristan's gaze burned into her—he was watching her as closely as she was watching him. ‘I received no letters. When I was in England, I left instructions for Roparz to forward me my correspondence. I never got anything from you.'

‘That can't be right.'

‘I received no letters from you.'

Francesca ached to believe him. Their life together had been short and her knowledge of Tristan's character was limited, but she'd never known him to lie. She made her voice light and managed a small smile. ‘I suppose that might explain why you never replied.'

‘Francesca, I couldn't reply to letters I never received, but I did write to you.'

Francesca lost her breath. ‘You did?'

‘Don't tell me—' his voice was flat ‘—you never got them.'

She shook her head.

‘They couldn't have been lost,' he said. ‘Not all of them.'

She frowned. ‘How many did you write?'