Prelude to Heaven (3 page)

He was studying her, and when she met his thoughtful gaze, she studied him in return. His eyes were truly black, so black the pupils disappeared, and surrounded by thick, sooty lashes. His face was lean and brown, with tiny creases carved from the sun and time and something more. There were stories written on that face, hidden in those eyes. Tess found herself unable to look away.

Abruptly he stood up and the strange spell was broken. He retrieved his sketchbook from the table by the window and walked to the door. He paused in the doorway, glancing over his shoulder at her, and said in a quiet voice, “Sleep now,
mon enfant
.” Then he left the room, closing the door behind him.

***

She did sleep, deep and dreamless, waking only briefly to take more soup or water, then drifting off again. But when she woke to the sound of a cock crow two mornings later, she felt no sharp pain of headache and no rush of dizziness as she sat up in the bed.

She glanced down at the swell of her abdomen under the sheets and gently rubbed it with her hand, wishing the baby would turn or kick, but she felt no flutters of movement, and she could only hope her illness had done the child no harm.

To prevent herself from dwelling on that possibility, Tess reached for the ladle and poured herself a cup of water. Her mouth felt as if it were full of cotton. When she ran a hand through her hair, it felt sticky. She grimaced, knowing she must look as disheveled as she felt.

She wondered about her mysterious host. She had seen no one but him, and she wondered if anyone else even lived here. If he did indeed live alone, Tess thought, glancing down at the nightshirt she wore, then it must have been he who had—

The door opened and Dumond entered the room, carrying a bowl and spoon. “
Bonjour
, mademoiselle. You appear to be feeling better.”

This man must have seen her without her clothes. With that realization, Tess pulled the nightshirt together at her throat, and as he came toward her, she eyed him warily. When he sat down on the edge of the bed, she tightened her grip on the nightshirt, working not to show any hint of either embarrassment or alarm as she thought of how he must have stripped her out of her clothes.

“You were soaking wet, mademoiselle,” Dumond said as if reading her mind. “And very ill. Here,” he added, thrusting the bowl toward her. “Eat.”

When she took the bowl, he rose and departed without another word.

She had finished eating by the time he returned. He carried a washbasin in one hand, and a pair of women’s shoes in the other. Draped over his arm were towels, a dress and several undergarments. He set the basin on the table by the window, then laid the clothes and towels at the foot of the bed. As he left the room again, he paused in the doorway to look at her over his shoulder at her. “Your clothes are in tatters and not fit to wear,” he said, and a small smile touched the corners of his mouth. “These will perhaps fit you better,
n'est-ce pas
? But, should you wish for your old clothes when you continue your journey, I have washed them for you.”

Tess watched the door close behind him. Continue her journey? He sounded as if he wanted her to leave as quickly as possible. She should, of course, but crossing France on foot had been harrowing and exhausting. During her three months of traveling, she'd slept in clean inns, then in dirty inns, and finally, when she'd run out of money for lodgings, she’d slept in ditches. She'd accepted rides in wagons until one farmer discovered that she wasn't a man and tried to rape her. From then on, she had walked, walked until her feet blistered, and she couldn't take another step. She'd bought food when she could afford it, then stolen it when she couldn't. Now, she was at the southern coast of France with almost no money left. Continue her journey? Where could she go?

Tess very much feared the answer was nowhere. To avoid dwelling on that fact, she rose and examined the clothes he had brought her. They were fine, the clothes of a wealthy woman, but several years out of fashion. Though clean, they smelled musty, with a faint tinge of lemon verbena. She wondered who they belonged to.

She used the water in the basin, bathing as well as she could, then pulled on the linen chemise, petticoat, and silk stockings. The high-waisted dress of blue muslin accommodated her pregnancy easily but was much too long. Not for the first time, Tess wished she were taller, and she knew she would have to be careful not to trip.

Her bedchamber was large, but simply furnished, with walls of whitewashed stone, carved oak furnishings, and a few rugs of hand-knotted wool rugs. There were two doors leading out of the room. One, she discovered, led into a corridor, and the other opened into a much smaller room, a dressing room. It was empty, save for a few white shirts and black trousers hanging on hooks. This was apparently Monsieur Dumond's room.

Closing the door, she rested her hand on her rounded stomach and returned her attention to her problem, for it had to be faced. What was she going to do next? She was five months into her pregnancy, and for the baby's sake, she doubted she could go much farther. She could only hope she had run far enough to hide from the authorities.

She thought again of Alexandre Dumond. Would he her stay here until her baby came? He seemed kind enough, for he had taken her in and cared for her, but now that she was well again, he probably wanted her gone, especially if he were the recluse he was rumored to be. And even if he let her stay here, would he expect some kind of payment in exchange? Or worse, was he a man like Nigel? She shuddered, remembering how she had once thought Nigel to be kind.

Suddenly, without warning, the baby moved. It was only a tiny flutter, but it was enough to remind her that it didn't matter if Monsieur Dumond were kind. As long as he didn't beat her, she knew her best option was to remain here, if he would allow it. “I won't let anything happen to you, my baby,” she promised, cradling her belly protectively with her hand. “I swear it.”

She grasped a fold of muslin in her hand and wondered what woman had worn this dress. She thought of Monsieur Dumond's unkept garden, crumbling castle, and torn clothes. She wondered why he seemed to have no servants. She thought of the rumors surrounding him and wondered what secrets hid behind those enigmatic dark eyes.

Suddenly, she had an idea.

***

Alexandre leaned his back against the stone wall of the courtyard and stared at the weeds flourishing between the paving stones. In his mind's eye was a picture of violet eyes and a blue muslin dress and lavender in bloom. He closed his eyes and fought back, struggling until the image disappeared.

It was the dress. He should have given all her clothes away. But he had not been able to give away any of Anne-Marie's things. Her dresses still hung in the armoire of her bedchamber, her undergarments still lay in her chest of drawers, her jewel case still sat on the bedside table covered with dust. It had been three years since Alexandre had been in her bedchamber, three years since she had died there. After the funeral, he had stepped out of that room and locked the door, never opening it again. Until today.

“Monsieur Dumond?”

Alexandre opened his eyes. There was the dress again, on the wrong woman. He straightened away from the wall, coming out of his reverie with difficulty, trying not to look at her. “You should be resting, mademoiselle,” he said, fixing his eyes on the lavender blooming in the courtyard.

“Tess.”

“
Pardon
?” He looked at her then. The dress hung on her thin frame, except around the gentle swell of her abdomen, and the hem swept the ground. There was a bit of color in her cheeks, though, and her eyes, dark green and huge, were clear as they met his.

“My name is Tess.” She gave him no last name. Instead, she turned away and looked about her. “Your gardener should be dismissed.”

Over her shoulder, she cast him an inquiring glance, probing for information that he had no intention of providing. “I will make a note of it.”

She straightened her shoulders and turned toward him. “Monsieur, thank you for your help. I am grateful. Truly, I don't know what I would have done if you had not found me.”

He shrugged, but he did not answer.

“I realize you know nothing about me, but as you can see, I am…” She paused as if searching for the right words. “I am in trouble.”

If she hoped for chivalry, she’d be disappointed.

“I'm concerned about my child,” she went on in the wake of his silence. “I don't know what to do.”

“I would think the solution to your problem would be obvious, mademoiselle. Go home.”

Her face went pale, and he caught a fleeting glimpse of the fear that had been so evident during her illness. She shook her head. “I can't do that.”

“Why not?”

“I have no home,” she answered in a low voice, turning her face away as if to hide her expression.

So that was the way of it? He had guessed as much. A harsh father who had thrown her out of the house, a dishonorable lover who had refused to marry her, and a family scandal. “What will you do, then?”

She met his gaze and took a deep breath. Instead of answering, she asked, “You live alone here, monsieur? No family? No servants?”

He stiffened and his eyes narrowed. He said nothing.

Tess continued, “I would be very grateful if you would allow me to stay. I could keep house and—”

“No.” The word was flat, unemotional, and final.

“I know how to run a household, monsieur.”

“Perhaps,” he acknowledged with a slight nod, “but I need no one to run my household.” The last word was said with deliberate mockery as he gestured to the overgrown courtyard. “I prefer it as it is.”

“I could cook for you.”

“I cook for myself.”

“Perhaps I could tend your garden?”

He glanced down pointedly at her swollen abdomen. “Not for long.”

Heat stained her cheeks, but she still didn't give up. “Well, I could mend your clothes, then.” She gestured toward his torn shirt. “That's something you obviously can't do for yourself. And I can clean and keep house for you. I beg your pardon if this sounds rude, but you seem to need a housekeeper. And I need a place to stay.”

He folded his arms across his chest and met her eyes. “You do not seem to understand, mademoiselle. I don't want you here.”

“I won't cause you any trouble. Please, monsieur, please let me stay.”

He stared at her long and hard, giving nothing away. When he spoke, his voice was harsh even to his own ears. “Why should I?”

“Because,” she said simply, “I have nowhere else to go.”

Martin Trevalyn drummed his nervous fingers against the leather case beside him and stared out the carriage window, oblivious to the rain-washed countryside of Kent. He wished there had been some way to postpone this meeting, but the earl had been adamant. And Martin knew better than anyone that Nigel Ridgeway, the Earl of Aubry, was not a man to be gainsaid.

Martin, as the family solicitor, handled all the earl’s private legal affairs, and the private legal affair of the moment was one requiring both discretion and finesse. Martin, fortunately, possessed both those qualities. He wished, however, that he had more time. But he sensed Lord Aubry was running out of patience.

The carriage turned down the tree-lined lane leading to Aubry Park. Martin removed his gold-framed spectacles and polished them with a linen handkerchief. Resting them once more on his broad nose, he pulled out his watch and was relieved to note that he would not be late. The earl was obsessed with punctuality. Martin put his watch back in his waistcoat pocket and pulled the leather case onto his lap. His fingers continued their agitated rat-a-tat as the carriage turned again, pulling into the drive.

Martin had been to Aubry Park many times, and as always, he was struck by its symmetrical beauty. Aubry Park was an elegant residence, with its long windows, marble columns, and classical sculpture. But now, in early summer, with the roses in bloom and the wide lawns lush and green, it was splendid indeed.

Martin gripped the handle of his leather case in one hand and alighted from the carriage. He ascended the wide flagstone steps, where he presented his card to the properly expressionless butler.

He was shown into Lord Aubry's immense library. He spared only the most cursory glance for the priceless paintings and artifacts, the exquisite rosewood tables, and the lavish carpets and draperies, but he cast a covetous eye over the leather-bound volumes that lined the long wall.

A lover of books, Martin knew that the Earl of Aubry was not. Traditionally, the Aubry men had always hunted, drank, and gambled, sometimes to excess, and would no more have opened a book by the fireside than Martin would have gone fishing. The present Lord Aubry was no exception. Martin knew all the books had been acquired simply to furnish a “gentleman's library,” and he doubted they had ever been opened.

Martin crossed the long room to wait beside one of the brown leather chairs opposite the earl’s desk, knowing that he would not wait long.