The Prince’s Bride (8 page)

“Yes, sir. He arrived home just over an hour ago. I apologize for not rolling out
the red carpet for you upon your arrival the other night, but I was instructed to
keep your presence here a secret.”

“So you knew about me.”

“Indeed.” The butler stared with loathing at Pierre.

Wondering what else this man knew, Nicholas fought to calm the raging fire in his
blood.

“Now, sir,” Fournier said, “if you will allow me to escort you this way, Lord d’Entremont
will see you in the library and answer any questions you may have.”

Nicholas considered his options as Pierre limped to pick up the pistol.

So much for a midnight escape,
Nicholas thought.

He wondered if Véronique was aware of this.

At that precise moment, as the butler led him to the door, the sound of a woman’s
heels clicking down the long corridor in a frantic rush reached his ears.

Véronique and Gabrielle nearly skidded to a halt as he crossed the threshold with
the two men brandishing pistols on either side of him.

Nicholas met Véronique’s eyes and knew immediately that she had nothing to do with
this. She was as surprised as he.

Then he set eyes on Gabrielle for the second time since the incident at the window.
She was a pretty young girl with fiery red hair and a rather frightened-looking countenance.
No wonder. Men in the corridor with pistols was not usually a welcome scenario.

“Where are you taking him?” Véronique asked.

“Good evening, mademoiselle,” Fournier said.

“They are taking me to the library to meet d’Entremont,” Nicholas explained as he
passed. “He just arrived this evening.”

Obviously, their plan was foiled, and he hadn’t yet decided what to do about it. If
something happened to him, he hoped Véronique would at least have the decency to send
word to his brother, Randolph, in Petersbourg.

He wanted to tell her to leave now and report this outrage to someone, but then she
would not be guaranteed the recovery of her home. He realized with regret that he
could not trust her to put his needs before her own.

As he walked down the corridor with Pierre and the butler, he was keenly aware of
the women following close behind—curious, no doubt, as to this unexpected unfolding
of events.

The marquis had returned home early.

But for what purpose?

Chapter Eight

The hot fire in the cherry- and oak-paneled library was blazing in the hearth as Nicholas
was shown inside. There were a number of candles lit on tall standing candelabras,
and the room smelled of woodsmoke and spices.

He turned at the last minute to see the butler backing out, closing the double doors
behind him, and shutting out Véronique, who looked as if she wanted to accompany Nicholas
inside to act as a witness. But a witness to what?

The doors clicked shut.

Suddenly he was alone in the room with the crackling fire and the sound of hard, pelting
raindrops against the windows.

Then he noticed a large high-backed chair facing the fire. It concealed the figure
of a man. Nicholas saw only the top of his head and the toes of his boots.

A hand with a giant ruby ring reached over the armrest and beckoned him closer.

“Do not call me over like a dog,” Nicholas bellowed. “Stand up and face me, d’Entremont,
and tell me the meaning of this.”

The hand disappeared again while Nicholas waited for the marquis to reply.

At last he spoke in a low, gravelly voice. “I regret to inform you that I cannot stand,
Your Highness, for I am a cripple. A weak, pathetic invalid. Come and see for yourself.”

Nicholas felt a tightening in his chest as he comprehended the marquis’s strange greeting,
which was not at all what he had expected, based on Véronique’s description of the
man. Nicholas had imagined a towering, imposing figure.

Nevertheless, he knew better than to underestimate an enemy, so he moved forward cautiously,
all his senses on high alert. As he approached, his gaze fell upon d’Entremont’s legs.
They were covered by a green woolen blanket.

Stepping around the high-backed chair, Nicholas finally beheld the marquis’s face.

He was about sixty years of age with prominent dark features. His hair was thick and
wavy with only a few traces of gray. His nose was slender and straight, his eyes hazel,
his shoulders broad. Nothing about him struck Nicholas as weak or pathetic. Standing
at his full height, d’Entremont had no doubt been an imposing figure at one time,
but tonight, he did not get up.

“Would you care for a brandy?” the marquis asked. “It’s my finest.”

Nicholas was tempted to tell him to take his fine brandy and choke on it, but restrained
himself. Instead he turned and spotted a sparkling crystal decanter and an empty glass
on a table near the desk.

He crossed to it, poured himself a drink, then returned to sit on the matching chair
that faced the fire across from the marquis.

“I am waiting for you to explain yourself,” Nicholas said. “Why am I here, and why
all the secrecy? If you wanted to see me, why not just send a letter and invite me?”

“I couldn’t take the chance that you would refuse my invitation and return to Petersbourg,”
d’Entremont replied.

“Then why not come to Paris and call on me at my hotel? Clearly you knew I was there,
for you had me abducted out of a private ballroom.”

“I was farther down the coast,” the marquis explained, “trying to arrange for a ship
to America.”

“For yourself?”

“No.” D’Entremont regarded him shrewdly, as if waiting for Nicholas to guess the true
answer.

“For Bonaparte?”

“Yes.” D’Entremont pinched the bridge of his nose as if he were in pain. “Unfortunately,
I was unsuccessful. The emperor has surrendered. He is now in the hands of the British.”

Nicholas was relieved to hear it, but was no less on guard. To calm his temper, he
took a sip of the brandy, which was indeed very fine. Perhaps the best he’d ever tasted.
He hoped it wasn’t laced with laudanum.

“So what do you want from me?” he asked. “To arrange Bonaparte’s escape? I assure
you, you’re wasting your breath—and your fine brandy—if you think I will be pressed
into helping that tyrant get away.”

D’Entremont stared at him intently. When at last he spoke, his voice was quiet and
solemn. “You have your mother’s eyes.”

The words sent a jolt into Nicholas’s heart, and he frowned. “Did you know my mother?”

And what the devil did his mother have to do with anything? She had been dead for
over twenty years.

“Yes,” d’Entremont replied. “I knew her very well, which is why you are here now,
Nicholas.” He waved a hand dismissively through the air. “But I will not drag this
out and force you to continue to ask why this is happening. I will answer your question
now. I sent for you with such haste because I am dying. I will not be long for this
world.”

Nicholas cleared his throat. “I am sorry to hear it.”

The marquis began to cough. He clutched his stomach, then recovered his composure.
“As am I. You may or may not know that I lost my only son at Waterloo, which has caused
me much sadness and grief.” His voice quavered, and he paused.

“My condolences,” Nicholas softly said.

The marquis sipped his brandy, set it down on the table beside him, then managed to
continue. “When he fell on the battlefield, I lost my only heir. Now I must decide
what to do with this estate and all my worldly possessions.”

Nicholas thought of Pierre, the marquis’s illegitimate nephew, but remained silent
as he waited for d’Entremont to finish.

“That is why you were brought here, Nicholas. I wanted to meet you in person and explain
all this myself.”

“Explain what, exactly?” Nicholas sat very still as an ominous feeling settled into
his stomach.

“That I wish to name you as my sole heir, with the exception of one small property
near Paris, which I will bequeath to my nephew, Pierre.”

“Why me?” Nicholas rubbed the back of his neck while the answer to that question was
already filtering uncomfortably into his brain.

“Because the man you knew to be your father—King Frederick of Petersbourg—was not
your real father. I must tell you now that that man is
me.
”

A sudden coldness swirled in Nicholas’s head as he stared speechless at the marquis.
“No,” he said firmly. “I do not believe that to be so.” He rose from his chair and
stood, then set down his glass and started for the door.

“Please come back,” d’Entremont pleaded. “You must give me an opportunity to explain.
Do you not want to know the truth?”

Nicholas halted with a tight grip on the doorknob while his gut churned with sickening
anger over all that he had endured these past few days.

And now this …

Nevertheless, he let go of the knob and turned around to face the dying marquis, while
the wind and the rain outside beat more violently upon the glass.

*   *   *

It had been more than an hour since Nicholas was taken to the library. Véronique waited
impatiently in her chamber until at last, a knock sounded at the door. In a rush of
movement, she leaped out of her chair and hurried to answer it.

“Who’s there?” she asked, in case it was Pierre.

“It’s Nicholas.”

She pressed her hand to her breastbone and let out a breath of relief as she opened
the door.

There stood Nicholas alone—unharmed and alive—in the corridor.

Her euphoria vanished, however, when she saw the look in his eyes. His brow was furrowed,
and he was running a hand through his hair, as if he were lost and uncertain which
direction to turn.

“What happened?” she asked.

He leaned in to see Gabrielle rising from her chair before the fire, peering at him
curiously. “I must speak with you,” he said to Véronique. “Alone.”

She immediately turned to her sister. “Will you excuse us?”

“Of course,” Gabby replied, and sat back down.

Véronique followed Nicholas into the corridor and closed the door behind her.

“Come this way,” he said, taking her by the hand.

His touch sent a current of energy through her body, and she found herself focusing
all her attention on the snug, warm grip of his hand upon hers.

She was grateful that he was alive.

They came to the room where he had been held captive, and he led her inside. She noticed
that the servants had been there, for the bed was made and a fire was burning in the
hearth.

Nicholas let go of her hand and moved to the mantel. He found matches and lit five
candles on a candelabra on the desk. The room brightened while the wind howled through
the eaves outside.

Véronique hugged her arms about herself and shivered.

“Are you cold?” he asked.

“I am fine,” she replied. She was eager to learn what had occurred in the library
with Lord d’Entremont.

Somehow he knew she was lying about not being cold, for he glanced at the freshly
made bed and reached for a wool coverlet that was draped over the footboard. He brought
it to Véronique and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Is that better?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Their eyes held for a moment. Her body grew warm, but not because of the coverlet.
The heat was something else—a tingling brush of desire.

She was deeply attracted to this man—that was obvious—but she realized suddenly that
it was so much more than that. She truly, genuinely cared for his welfare, perhaps
because she felt responsible for bringing him here.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I am not sure.” He turned away and sank into the chair before the fire.

Véronique followed and sat down across from him. “What did he say to you?”

Slouching low, Nicholas rested his temple on a finger. “I doubt you’ll believe it.
I certainly didn’t. Not at first, but now…” He sat in silence, then leaned forward
until their foreheads touched. He covered her hands with his own. “I apologize for
being rough with you today. That was inexcusable.”

“It’s fine, Nicholas. What did d’Entremont say?”

Without looking up, he answered the question at last. “He told me that he knew my
mother many years ago, and that they were lovers.”

Véronique drew back in surprise.

“D’Entremont said he loved my mother deeply and passionately, and that he never loved
anyone else as he loved her.”

Véronique shook her head in disbelief. “But he was married for almost twenty years
and had three children with his wife. From what I know of it, it was a happy marriage
until the day she died.”

“Happy. Content. Yes. D’Entremont held his wife in the highest regard, but he never
let go of the undying love he felt for my mother.”

Véronique leaned closer. “Was this before she married your father, or after?”

Leaning back, Nicholas said flatly, “It was after.”

Véronique paused and wet her lips. There was obviously a great scandal brewing here,
and she was uneasy about pressing Nicholas for more information, but she had so many
questions.…

“After my brother, Randolph, was born,” he continued, “my mother spent time in Paris—a
full year with distant relations while my father was immersed in the rising tide of
the Petersbourg Revolution. He was a general in the army then, not yet king. According
to d’Entremont, he and my mother met at a political assembly in Paris and fell in
love, almost at first sight. Many months later, my father discovered her adultery
and threatened to take Randolph away from her, and never allow her to see him again,
if she did not return to Petersbourg immediately.”

“What happened after that?” Véronique asked.

Nicholas leaned his head back on the chair and gazed up at the ceiling. “She went
home like a proper, dutiful wife.”

Véronique touched his knee. For a long while he did not move. Then he lifted his head
and regarded her intently in the flickering light from the candles.