His arms clutched his knees to his chest as he continued to move back and forth, over and over. Madeline lifted her fingers to his forehead and gently brushed back his bangs. His skin was clammy to the touch. “I’ll try to open the hatch. Would you like that? Everything’s fine, Brazos. I’ll be right back.” Swiftly, she climbed the ladder. She pushed against the covering, straining with all her might. It would not budge. She banged with her fist and shouted, “Help, please! We’re trapped in the hold. Help!” Nothing.
Brazos made a sound—a strangled, tormented moan. Clenching her teeth, she heaved against the hatch one last time and cursed herself. She’d unlocked hundreds of doors in her years as a prowler—why couldn’t she manage one simple little hatch? What kind of thief was she, after all?
Thoroughly disgusted with herself, she picked up her skirts and carefully descended the ladder. “You poor man,” she murmured, kneeling beside her husband. Wrapping her arms around him, she brought his head to her breast, and they rocked. Together.
CHÂTEAU ST. GERMAINE, FRANCE
JULIAN DESSEAU lifted the white eyelet quilt from the crib and brought it to his face. With each passing day, the precious infant fragrance that clung to the blanket faded a little more. He set his teeth as he tenderly returned the quilt to the bed. “Damn Mary Smithwick to the lowest level of hell!”
A nervous cough interrupted his reverie. Turning, he noticed the servant waiting in the doorway. “Yes?”
“Excuse me, monsieur but the man from Paris has arrived. He is waiting in the library.”
Julian nodded abruptly and left the room. As he made his way from the fourth story in the family wing of the great house to the ground floor, he indulged in his favorite pastime of late: imagining new and varied tortures for Mademoiselle Smithwick.
He yanked open the library’s heavy walnut door and strode directly to the liquor cabinet. Without speaking, he poured a measure of brandy into two Baccarat snifters and offered one to his guest. “Well?” he asked as the man accepted the glass. The newcomer sipped his drink appreciatively before stating, “I have learned something.”
Desseau stiffened. “You found them?”
“No. I am afraid not. But I have traced her to Antwerp.”
“Belgium? Why Belgium?” Desseau gripped the armrest of a black leather chair and sat. The man from Paris, Pierre Corot, was more than an investigator. He was a friend. “Tell me all of it, Pierre, please.”
Corot settled back in his own chair and spoke. “It was chance that we found it at all. My operative located a hackman in Brussels who recalled a woman matching Mary Smithwick’s description. She used the name Madeline Christophe, and she traveled with a baby she called Rose. The infant developed a fever; and the driver delivered them to a doctor.”
“She’s sick! My Elise is sick?”
Corot shook his head. “No, teething, I’m told. My investigator asked the doctor specifically. The physician recalled that the woman appeared quite upset over the baby’s troubles. Her thinking must have been confused because she tripped up on the names, Julian. My man checked the patient book. She signed it ‘Mary Christophe and daughter Elise’.”
“It
is
her.”
“I’m certain of it. Anyway, the woman and child left Brussels on a coach bound for Antwerp. However, we could find no evidence of her in the city until we checked with the churches.”
His voice flat, Desseau muttered, “She died. My baby died.”
“Ah, Julian, have faith! No, Elise is not listed among burial records. But we did find Mary Smithwick.”
“She’s dead?”
“Married. In mid-January in St. Alban’s Church in Antwerp, Madeline Christophe married a Mr. Brazos Sinclair.”
Dessau’s brow furrowed. He stared at Corot and slowly shook his head. He’d never heard of the man before. “Brazos Sinclair. What do you know of this man?”
“He is a Texan.”
Julian smiled grimly. “That should make tracing the woman easier. Texans tend to attract attention in Europe, not always favorable, but usually memorable. Was he part of the kidnapping?”
“That I cannot say,” Corot answered, shrugging. “We only just discovered the marriage, and we are presently researching Sinclair. I knew you’d want to hear this new information we have concerning Elise’s whereabouts as soon as possible.”
Rising from his chair, Julian sighed and walked to the hearth. Two polished brass andirons shaped like ravens’ heads supported oak and cedar logs that crackled and spat as they burned, filling the room with warmth and a pleasing aroma. He absently stirred the fire with a poker, then thumped a raven’s head with a finger as he considered what he’d been told.
Perhaps he’d find his daughter, after all.
“There is something else,” Corot commented, standing and stepping to the liquor cabinet to refill his drink.
Julian looked over his shoulder, his eyebrows lifted in question.
“Mary Smithwick is from England, not France, as she led you to believe. Prior to her arrival at Château St. Germaine, she resided in a boarding school for young women of means in Brighton. I followed this lead myself and spoke with the school’s headmistress.”
Corot returned to his seat and stretched out, crossing his legs at the ankles. “I tell you, Julian, the headmistress is an absolute terror. I do believe I’d have turned criminal myself if I’d been raised by the likes of Mistress Poggi.”
Impatiently, Desseau gestured for the investigator to continue.
“The old harridan was only too pleased to talk as long as pound notes continued to paper her hand.” Corot grinned, adding, “I’m spending an inordinate amount of money on this case. It’s fortunate you have so much of it, my friend.”
“Please, Pierre, get on with your story,” Julian demanded. He paced to one of the large windows that looked out over the rose garden and fingered the heavy damask drapery as he listened.
“Mary Smithwick’s family enrolled her in the school when she was little more than a baby. The child’s mother provided sufficient funds to support the girl until she reached eleven years of age. She left the school at that time, returning some seven years later to accept a position as a teacher.”
“Where was she in the intervening years?” Julian asked.
Corot shrugged. “That my investigator has yet to discover. But he will. ‘Tis only a matter of time.”
“Did she come to St. Germaine straight from England?” Julian asked, glancing over his shoulder.
“Yes. According to the blustering Mistress Poggi, Mary Smithwick received a letter from France one day and left the next. The old battle-ax wasn’t too happy about it, either. It was right in the middle of a term.”
Julian slammed a fist against the wall beside the window and bellowed, “How in the hell did my wife find this woman, this stealer of children? It makes no sense. Celeste knew no one in England; she’d never even traveled there. Why did she send for a stranger and then lie to me about it?”
The investigator absently studied the mural painted above the mantle and sipped his drink. Frowning, he asked, “Explain to me again, Julian, the circumstances under which Mary Smithwick came to Château St Germaine.”
“It was shortly before the baby was due,” Julian said, scowling as he straightened the frame of a portrait his blow had jostled. “Celeste said she needed help and that Mistress Smithwick’s name had come to her highly recommended.” Hesitantly, he added, “My wife and I were experiencing difficulties in our marriage. I believed it was due in part to the coming baby. Celeste was emotional, withdrawn. I thought perhaps with a woman around, Celeste would feel better. I let her have her way.”
He heard the bleakness in his voice as he looked at his friend and confessed, “It’s my fault that Elise is gone. I allowed Celeste to pressure me into hiring the chit without personally checking her references. I believed Celeste when she told me that Mary Smithwick had served in some of the finest homes in France.”
Corot shook his head. “Do not blame yourself, Julian. Celeste was expecting your child. You pampered her wishes, just as many a loving husband has done.”
“Ah, but there’s the difference,” Julian replied, his knuckles whitening around the snifter of brandy, “I was not a loving husband. At least, not at first. I was a man bent upon revenge. I married Celeste because I hated her mother and wanted to hurt Bernadette Compton in the worst possible manner—by stealing away her daughter.” He tossed back a drink, and the brandy burned his throat as hatred scorched his heart. “I’ve had experience with that type of grief.”
Scowling, Corot studied his friend. “You’ve never recovered from your first daughter’s disappearance, have you, Julian?”
Desseau stared into his empty glass. “A man never gets over losing a child, even after twenty years have passed. And the fact that there’s never been a trace…we never found Nicole’s body …it simply doesn’t end. And now, to have the same thing happen with Elise…”
“It’s not the same,” Corot insisted. “We’ll find Elise. We know who took her. We know where they went. It’s just a matter of time, man. Give me and my men a little more time. Don’t give up hope.”
The anguish ravaging Julian’s soul was reflected in his voice when he looked Pierre and asked, “Why? Why did she do it? What possessed Mary Smithwick to steal an innocent baby?”
Corot set his glass on the table beside his seat. “Julian, what about Celeste’s mother? Could Bernadette Compton have something to do with this crime?”
“She’s the first person I thought of. I’ll always believe that she was behind whatever happened to Nicole. In my grief following the death of Nicole’s mother Anne, I was easy prey for a woman like Bernadette. She hated Nicole, and was a poor stepmother to her. That’s something I’ll always regret, that my daughter knew so little of a mother’s love.” He closed his eyes as remorse overcame him. Softly he added, “I waited so many years to remarry, and when Celeste told me we were expecting a child, I swore not to make the same mistakes as I had with Nicole. I wished so much more for Elise; it made my grief over Celeste’s death that much more difficult to bear.”
Corot stood and straightened his jacket. “I’ll begin an investigation of Bernadette Compton immediately.”
Julian waved a hand. “Sit back down, Pierre,” he said, carrying the two empty glasses toward the cabinet. “There’s no need to rush off. Even as I set you and your men upon Mary Smithwick’s heels, I sent my own people after Bernadette. They will find her eventually, and I intend to question her quite thoroughly.”
Corot eyed Julian, who tipped the brandy decanter and splashed the amber liquid into the snifters. “Don’t kill her, Julian,” Pierre said.
“Now, how could I possibly kill Bernadette Compton, or should I say, Bernadette Compton Desseau?” An evil smile stretched across Julian’s face as he handed Corot his drink, then lifted his own glass in salute. “You know my beloved second wife, Bernadette, drowned at sea over twenty years ago. It would be rather redundant to kill someone who’s been legally dead for years?”
MADELINE HAD lost her perception of time. An hour had passed, maybe two. Enough time that she no longer gagged at the fetid stench permeating the hold. Long enough that she’d developed a craving for water. She was more uncomfortable than worried. Lillibet would look for her after Rose’s nap, and when Madeline turned up missing, Lil would certainly suggest a search of the hold.
At first, Madeline hadn’t been content to wait. She’d shouted for help until it pained her already hurting throat. Giving up on that, she’d talked to an unresponsive Brazos until her mouth was as dry as—no, she wouldn’t think about the corpse. She wouldn’t wonder as to its identity or worry over the sinister possibilities its presence suggested.
Instead, she’d continue to talk in gentle, soothing tones to the man who so recently almost choked her to death.
Brazos no longer rocked; he sat with his head buried against his knees. The only movement she noted was the frequent quiver of a muscle beneath her hand as she stroked him, her touch a constant offer of comfort.
“Oh, Brazos,” she murmured softly. “You are a tortured man. I sensed you had secrets, but now…” Her voice trailed off. Madeline knew that his mysteries were of a different nature than those she kept confidential. The proof sat physically before her, and mentally, he was worlds away.
Yet, as he had shown her the night of the storm, her touch, the sound of her voice, must in some way reach through whatever terrors lived in his mind. She curled her fingers in his silky hair, and with her thumb wiped away a rivulet of sweat that dripped down the whisker-rough surface of his face. During the past hour, she’d given Brazos’s situation considerable thought.
“You’re not afraid of the dark, Brazos. I've heard you above deck on the blackest of nights talking and laughing with the sailors.” Standing behind him, she massaged the tight muscles at his shoulders, gladdening at the slight give she felt beneath the linen as the tendons relaxed.
“I’m certain it has something to do with being inside closed places. You never go below deck, not even at midday, when the sun is shining and the lamps are lit. But you’re not really
afraid
of enclosed spaces, are you? Fear isn’t the proper word for what holds you in its grasp.” Her fingers stilled, and her hands moved across his shoulders to his upper arms. Beneath her left hand, she felt the hard edge of the metal armband.
Madeline wrapped her arms around him, hugging him and saying, “Judging by your actions, I think it’s something that goes beyond even terror.”
She paused a moment, listening. Oh, how she wished that she’d get through to him, that he’d suddenly speak to her in a clear and rational voice. “I guess I shouldn’t complain. At least, you’re not choking me. That was the reason for the knife, wasn’t it? You were afraid you’d hurt me.”
Inside the circle of her arms he shuddered. She paused and listened, thinking for a moment he might have heard her. The air around them throbbed with snip sounds, but it was the silence here with her that sounded thunderous in her ears.
She detested it. She absolutely hated the way the cocky, egotistical, totally charming Texan had lost himself in this silent, wretched man.