Shev Page 3

  “My main concern,” Miss Crawford said, “is Jacqueline’s withdrawal.”

  “From what?”

  “Everything English. She’s convinced someone will come for her and take her back to France.” Her attention shifted to his shoulder a moment before settling back on his face. “Has no one explained the situation to her?”

  Shev didn’t know the answer to her question.

  The only information he had was a five-page letter from Giselle. She went into great detail as to the reasons why she had sent Jacqueline to him. One of which was her desire for Jacqueline to have the benefit of a strong father. She claimed to have seen through his rakish façade and knew him to be as honorable as her father. Another reason was the unstable political climate in France. Even though her parents had strong ties to Napoleon, Giselle believed Jacqueline would be safer in England.

  But Giselle had mentioned nothing of what she told her daughter. Within a day of her arrival, he had explained what he could. However, without verified details, he found the conversation challenging.

  How does one tell a five-year-old her father is not her father and that she should start calling the English-speaking stranger in front of her “Papa”? Given her young age, he couldn’t even be sure what she understood and what she didn’t.

  “I’m in the process of verifying Jacqueline’s mother’s death.”

  “You don’t know for certain?”

  His lips twitched. “I wondered how long it would take for that expression to appear.”

  “What expression?”

  “The one that conveys, ‘You’re an idiot.’”

  “You’re seeing no such thing. I’m simply confused by the circumstances.”

  “No more so than I, Miss Crawford. Until a month ago, I was blissfully unaware of my parental obligations.”

  She began pacing the narrow space. With one arm propped atop the other, she thrummed her fingers against her chin.

  “Let me see how much of this I understand,” she said. “Your French lover may or may not have died before sending her daughter to you—her natural father.” She glanced at him for confirmation.

  Shev did his best not to smile at her easy use of the word lover. “Correct.”

  “Jacqueline arrived on your doorstep with a letter, I’m assuming, from her mother.”

  “Also correct. A trusted servant of Giselle’s escorted Jacqueline and her nursemaid to London along with a letter addressed to me.”

  “Giselle, your lover?”

  Although he didn’t smile, he couldn’t keep the amusement from his tone. “A fact we’ve already established.”

  “Since you have not mentioned your lover’s name before, I wanted to make sure we were speaking of the same person.”

  “Former lover.”

  She lifted a brow.

  “You seem captivated by the details, so I thought I’d clarify my current relationship—or lack thereof—with Giselle.”

  The governess nodded and continued her circuit about the room. “I take it the letter identified you as Jacqueline’s father.”

  “Yes. Though one only has to look at the girl to divine the truth.”

  “Do you have a profligate brother? Uncle? Cousin? Someone who carries similar facial characteristics as you and might have had relations with Jacqueline’s mother?”

  “Only a sister, and I’m quite certain she is not responsible for Jacqueline’s birth.”

  She sent him a “none of that” look. An expression not dissimilar to ones he had received from his mother on occasion.

  “Why do you believe Giselle is dead?”

  “At the time she wrote the letter—a month and a half ago—her doctor predicted she only had a short time to live.”

  “Patients have been known to survive their doctors’ predictions.”

  “Precisely why I’m not taking any chances and have dispatched someone to the Continent to verify her existence or demise.” His indifferent statement sat between them, stark, raw, and perhaps far too revealing.

  “You don’t seem particularly upset about your former lover’s possible death.”

  “Upset, no. I knew Giselle for only a short time. However, for Jacqueline’s sake, I hope the news is otherwise. No child should lose her mother at such a young age.”

  “No, indeed.” Her gaze drifted away a moment before returning to his. “What’s become of Giselle’s husband, the gentleman who raised Jacqueline?”

  “According to Giselle’s letter, Bélanger turned his back on Jacqueline the moment he learned she was not of his blood. He banished both Giselle and her daughter to the country. After receiving her doctor’s diagnosis, Giselle sent her daughter to me on the misguided notion I would be a better father than the one she has known her entire life.”

  Miss Crawford’s open, analytical expression collapsed into sadness. Shev thought back over his words, and something that felt like regret twisted his insides before he brushed it away. Anyone who knew him would agree with his pronouncement. He was a master at surviving the ton and all its idiosyncrasies. How to father a child, especially a terrified girl, was as foreign to him as the ingredients in haggis.

  “My plain speaking upsets you.”

  The governess’s features shifted once again. This time, her countenance was considering. Thoughtful. She smoothed one long, feminine finger over her full lower lip. The careless action riveted Shev’s attention like a homesick sailor to a lighthouse beacon.

  Would her mouth be cold and hard, or pliable and warm? Would she open to him of her own volition or would he have to coax her lips into compliance?

  “I wonder what her French father thinks about his wife sending Jacqueline to England,” she murmured.

  “Relief, I suspect.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps not. Men can be contrary about such things.”

  “In what way?”

  “‘I don’t want it, but I don’t want you to have it even more.’”

  “Not in this,” Shev said. “I’m sure Giselle’s husband was glad to be rid of another man’s child. Few men could tolerate such a reminder of their failure.”

  “Failure?”

  “To please their wife in bed and in life.”

  “Oh.”

  The innocence in her one-word response shifted something inside him. Like a long-barred door cracking open for the first time in centuries.

  Suddenly anxious to be away, Shev said, “I’ll see you and Jacqueline in the dining room in an hour.”

  “My lord, I don’t think—”

  “We are not going to argue about this, are we?” She looked as though she might do just that, so he delivered his coup de grâce. “There are my mother’s feelings to consider.”

  Her lips firmed in disapproval though he saw the exact moment she relented.

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  He nodded and strode toward his bedchamber, already analyzing every word of their discussion, every one of her facial expressions. The exercise came to him as naturally as breathing. He had picked apart conversations and their hidden secrets for over a decade. It was one of the many things that made him an effective spy.

  While his mind ground through detail after detail, he kept his stride even, his features affable. He even pondered changing into his new pale-blue-and-gray striped waistcoat.

  He ran a finger between the smooth edge of his neckcloth and throat, surprised to feel the material was damp with perspiration. Perhaps he would ask Marsdon to draw him a bath as well.

  Chapter Four

  Paris, France

  “Did the nursemaid talk?”

  “Oui, monsieur.”

  “What did my wife do with the girl?”

  “She sent Jacqueline to Britain, monsieur.”

  “Not to General and Madame Trudeau’s?”

  “Non, monsieur.”

  Bélanger closed his eyes at the unwelcome news. “Britain,” he repeated in a low, controlled voice. “Back to her English father, no doubt.”

&
nbsp; “Oui, monsieur.”

  “Who is he?”

  “The Marquess of Shevington.”

  Shevington. Of all the gentlemen in England Giselle could have lain with, she had chosen one of society’s most useless, self-absorbed aristocrats. An English lord who made a sport of dismissing his country’s foreign policy and mocking France’s ever-changing government.

  And he was Jacqueline’s father. The daughter Bélanger had doted on, loved to distraction. A child not of his loins. Giselle’s vile, hateful words came back to him with blood-thickening clarity…

  “You wish to exile me?”

  “I have no choice, Giselle. Your behavior of late has reached the emperor’s ear. Did you not see him turn us away tonight?”

  “How do you know it was for something I did and not an action of yours?”

  “Because I do everything in my power not to lose the emperor’s favor.”

  “If not for my family, you would have lost his support after your investment scheme failed.”

  “You know nothing of it.”

  “I will not let you banish me to the country.”

  “There is nothing you can do to stop me. My mother is already expecting you. I will keep Jacqueline in the city with me, away from your poor influence.”

  Anger flared in her almond-shaped eyes. “You would not dare.”

  “I would and I do. Preparations are already underway.”

  A mixture of sorrow and panic gripped her beautiful face. She pushed out of her seat and began pacing in front of the hearth. “Please do not separate me from my daughter. It is too cruel.”

  Bélanger’s resolve wavered. He hated seeing her so upset. “It is my hope that time away from inappropriate influences will tame your wild ways.”

  She began circling him like a lioness assessing her prey, looking for weaknesses. Then a slow, calculating smile brightened her countenance, transforming her exquisite features into a mass of hideous intent. “Have you never noticed how Jacqueline does not resemble either one of us?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Perhaps it would help you to think back to when we visited London, several months before Jacqueline’s birth. For weeks, you tended to business. Secret meetings behind closed doors, staying out until the early hours of the morning, leaving me to fend for myself in a foreign land for days on end.”

  The meaning behind her vindictive words crystallized into sharp understanding. “Giselle, there are innumerable ways to show your anger. But not at the expense of our daughter. Never that.”

  As if exorcised of a demon, the triumph sparkling in her eyes vanished and shame took its place. Even so, she kept her shoulders squared and her chin lifted. And that was when he realized her revelation was born of truth.

  “No, Giselle. We were only there for two months.”

  “It only takes one night with a virile gentleman,” she said in a flat tone.

  He rubbed his chest, feeling his world melt into a sea of betrayal. A greater, more terrifying concern struck him. Seven years of marriage had failed to produce a single offspring. Except for another man’s.

  “I am sorry, Jérôme. I never intended to tell you, but your high-handedness has forced me to reveal the truth.”

  “Save your excuses.” He strode to the window overlooking the street. “I have changed my mind about sending you to my mother.”

  “Thank you, Jérôme. I will do what I can to redeem myself.”

  “Instead, you will be escorted to my estate near Pontoise.”

  “But that’s more than a day’s ride from Paris.” Panic edged her words. “I cannot be away from Jacqueline so long. Please, Jérôme, do not do this.”

  “Oui.” He turned to face her. “Your bastard child will join you.”

  “In the eyes of the law, she’s your child. No one needs to know otherwise.”

  “You are correct. No one will learn the truth. But I know it, and I want you both out of my sight.”

  “For how long?”

  “For however long it takes to sort through the mess you have created.”

  Bélanger pushed away thoughts of the past and focused on his present complication—Giselle’s parents. Even though her keen-eyed mother sensed all was not well in her daughter’s marriage, Madame Trudeau kept unusually silent on the matter. And Giselle had been careful not to involve her influential parents in their conflict, hoping he would forgive her and allow her to return to Paris. That hope had died after two years of exile and the news of her impending death.

  When Jacqueline went missing, he had assumed Giselle had sent the girl to the general and his overpowering wife. Especially since they had settled a significant inheritance on their only grandchild in the event of Giselle’s death.

  Had they known Jacqueline was another man’s daughter?

  He could not worry about such things now. At the moment, he needed to coordinate Jacqueline’s return. Trudeau’s solicitor refused to release control of the girl’s inheritance until her well-being was confirmed. In person.

  Could he stomach seeing the child again? He had not seen her for two years, and the pain of her true blood was as fresh as ever. Perhaps, in time, he would come to care for her again.

  Miracles happened every day, after all.

  Chapter Five

  Anne carefully cut her roasted duck into small, bite-sized pieces. Not because she was fastidious in her eating habits, but because she wanted to avoid the Marquess of Shevington’s soul-splintering gaze.

  Barely an hour before the midday meal, the marchioness had announced her intention to take Jacqueline on a picnic-sightseeing-Gunther’s-ice adventure. Anne had intended to eat in her room before receiving the marquess’s demand-wrapped-in-a-request invitation to join him below stairs.

  The first day she had shared a meal with Lord Shevington’s family, his staff had placed him at one end of the twenty-four-chair table, his mother at the other end, and his daughter and Anne in the middle. Within minutes of everyone straining to hear and see each other around the elaborate centerpieces, his lordship had directed the footmen to move his, Anne’s, and Jacqueline’s place settings near his mother’s end of the table.

  No one had moved or spoken for several seconds. Not the servants, nor Anne or Jacqueline. Not even his mother, who had appeared unfazed by her son’s luncheon invitation to the governess and his young child.

  Finally, Lady Shevington had broken the silence. “What a splendid idea, Marcus.”

  While the footmen jumped into action, Anne remained seated, dazed by his lordship’s consideration. She would not have expected him to be bothered by the separation in distance. What concerned her most about the situation was the jolt she had experienced upon hearing his Christian name. Fixation followed awareness. Daydreams followed fixation. The syllables of his name played over her tongue like warm chocolate on a cold evening—rich, delicious, comforting.

  “What do you plan to do with your free afternoon?” Lord Shevington now asked, interrupting her inappropriate musings.

  Swallowing, she improvised, “I thought I might work on a new way to encourage Jacqueline to speak English.”

  “Is there no one you wish to visit?”

  Other than her aunt and uncle, she had no other family to call upon. Even if she had, she would likely not do so. She looked forward to her silent, unobligated freedom each week.

  “No, my lord.”

  He swiped a crisp, white serviette across strong, supple lips. Lips Anne suspected most women would long to taste, to possess. His linen plopped down on the table, and Anne blinked hard to force away her improper thoughts. Thoughts that had begun to plague her with increasing regularity.

  “If you have nothing of import to do,” Lord Shevington said, “you shall accompany me to Bond Street.”

  “Whatever for?” Strolling in the most fashionable shopping district with the Marquess of Shevington was not for the likes of her.

  “Jacqueline arrived a few days after her fifth birth
day. As of yet, I have not given her a present.”

  “My lord, I know nothing of the shops on Bond Street. Lady Shevington would be a more appropriate companion in your search for a gift.”

  “Oddly, my mother detests shopping.”

  “Even for other people?”

  “Especially for other people. She’s a kind-hearted soul. Loyal beyond measure. But when it comes to selecting gifts, she enlists my sister’s help.”

  “Then perhaps your sister would be willing to assist with finding Jacqueline a present.”

  “And bankrupt me in the process.” He studied her a moment. “Most ladies would rejoice at the opportunity to shop on Bond Street.”

  “Most ladies of your acquaintance are not governesses, my lord.” She glanced down at the half-eaten contents of her plate. “Even if I had the desire, I would not belong there.”

  “Nonsense. People can belong anywhere if they set their minds to playing a part. All too often, we allow our demons to control our fate.”

  “‘Playing a part,’” Anne repeated. “Is that how you see the world? Everyone is acting out a role?”

  “Of course.” His strong fingers toyed with the stem of his wineglass. “Take now, for instance. You’re acting out the part of a demure governess eager to keep the master of the house content so as not to lose your position, while frigid desperation flows through your veins, urging you to retreat to the safety of your bedchamber.”

  Anne’s blood did indeed run cold, but not out of desperation. Fear created the icicles raking across her nerves. Fear that he could read her so easily, yet she could read him not at all. His assessment left her exposed, raw, and vulnerable. Angry.

  And relieved.

  Relieved that he had not detected the truest reason for her desire to remove herself from his presence.

  “No words of denial?”

  She resumed her assault on the roasted duck. “No, my lord. To do so would force me to break out of my demure character.”