Fairchild's Lady (Culper Ring Series) (2 page)

’Twas pity that had moved him, though, to try to find the missing Countess of Poole and Lady Julienne Gates. Pity for the father’s fathomless eyes.

“Personal, eh?” Jean-Paul smirked.

“Hmm.” Fairchild shifted in his saddle and tried to keep his mind from conjuring up another set of fathomless eyes. Tried but failed. Just as he had for the last three months. Every time he blinked, it seemed, he saw those ice-blue irises, so striking behind their mask that he had scarcely noticed anything else about the young woman at the masquerade. At first.

Then would come the memories of her smile. Her laugh. The dance they had shared, the stolen promenade through one of the gardens at Versailles. The uncounted hours they had spent talking in that night of moonlight that had since seemed removed from this reality, of a world unto itself.

He didn’t even know her name. He had asked, but she had laughed and declared the mystery to be the whole point of a masquerade.

His fingers contracted around the reins and then relaxed again at his command. He knew enough of the court of King Louis XVI to understand that more often than not, that “mystery” was to allow for infidelity and trysts. And more than once he had wondered if the young lady who filled his mind so fully was someone else’s wife.

Father above, please, let it not be so. And if it is, please remove her from my thoughts, from my heart
.

He shook himself and focused on Jean-Paul. On the task at hand, which was the earl’s wife and daughter, not a pretty French aristocrat he would likely never see again, save for in the dreams that had plagued him these months. “I must seek out the daughter of the marquis de Valence. Do you know him?”

Jean-Paul sniffed in that way only a Frenchman could. Nothing but a small motion, hardly a sound, yet it conveyed more meaning than Fairchild could hope to interpret. “I know
of
him, of course, as everyone does, but being an untitled noble myself, I have never moved in his
échelon
, shall we say. Nor have I met his daughter or granddaughter, though I have seen them at court. Beautiful women, both.
Très, très belle
.” Jean-Paul arched a brow. “Which is it you have an interest in, mother or daughter?”

“Neither and both.” Seeing no need to volunteer more, Fairchild offered only a smile and nudged his horse into a trot. “You know the ladies to see them, then? You could point them out to me? If I could bypass the marquis altogether, that would be preferable.” More expedient, he hoped.

Please, Father God
. How often had he prayed this same thing on the journey to France?
Please let Lady Poole and Lady Julienne hear me out. Let them be swayed. Help me remove them from harm’s way
.

Jean-Paul inclined his head. “I know not where their residence is, but if we happen across them, then
oui
. The marquis will no doubt be embroiled in the meetings of the
états-general
.”

A chill swept up Fairchild’s back despite the warm summer sun. “They convened it, then.” Proof that the news he had brought back to England with him three months ago was accurate. France was in dire straits, out of money and out of options.

A snort matched the look of wariness in his friend’s eyes. “
Oui
, they convened it. And the commoners declared themselves a National Assembly. There is rumor that they intend to remain assembled until they have drafted a constitution.”

Fairchild opened his mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Not when he caught sight of the field of soldiers drilling. Nay, then his throat went altogether dry. He had seen such formations often enough, though usually the men he regarded bore the scarlet jackets of his own regiment. “Why so many soldiers?”

Jean-Paul chuckled. “The king may have given in to the demands of the Third Estate, but he is no fool. The military has been arriving both here and in Paris, I am told.”

Though the masses of enemy soldiers inspired another drumroll of nerves, Fairchild drew in a deep breath and sent heavenward a deep prayer. He realized the mustering might actually be a blessing. With so much turmoil surrounding the court, no one would pay any heed to him. No one would pause to wonder why he sought out a certain madame and her daughter.

And indeed, no one looked twice at him as he followed Jean-Paul to the massive stable complex. He grinned at the same boy who had taken care of his mount upon his last visit, tossed him a coin, and followed his friend back out.

“
Un moment
.” With his gaze fastened on a few gaily clad young ladies in the distance, Jean-Paul hastened away. Fairchild leaned against the building and watched the young man weave his charm. Bowing, fawning over ivory hands, speaking words Fairchild had no hope of hearing from here—and which he suspected would only make him fight a roll of the eye were he nearer.

One of the ladies huffed and lifted her chin, but Jean-Paul only grinned and motioned toward Fairchild. Whatever he said seemed to appease the girl, for she smiled and made reply. A few moments later Jean-Paul strode his way again, satisfaction gleaming in his eye.

“Come,
mon ami
. To the
Grotte des Bains d’Apollon
. They say your ladies made mention of heading that way this morning.”

Nay. Fairchild pushed off the wall, careful to keep his features calm. Surely the young ladies were mistaken. Of all the acres of gardens, of all the acres of palace, why,
why
would the countess and her daughter
be in the grotto? The very one he had wandered to that night while the masquerade reeled on inside? The very one where his ice-eyed lady had strolled with him, her fingers woven through his?

Jean-Paul turned toward the nearest garden path. With little choice but to follow, Fairchild drew in a long breath.
She is Yours, Father in heaven. You know her name, as I never will. You love her as I can only imagine doing. She is Yours. And so I give her, again, to You. Help me put her from my mind. Help me focus, instead, on the earl’s family. Help me to find them, dear Lord above
.

The paths through the gardens were a veritable maze of crisscrosses and odd angles, making him grateful for the guide. It had been quite by accident he had ended up at the legendary statue of Apollo and the nymphs three months ago, and he doubted he would have been able to find his way there again without a few wrong turns.

At last the grotto came into view, its stones carefully placed to look natural and chaotic. They formed a cave where the main statue resided, as if it were the very one in which Apollo took his repose after bringing the sun into the sky. To the sides stood the lesser sculptures of his horses being tended, and before it stretched a small pond with grasses and flowers to give it a primordial look. All within the protective shield of an English-style thicket.

Fairchild’s fingers flexed, as if expecting to find smaller ones held within them. Rather than the rustle of the grasses, his ears strained to hear that of ice-blue silk.

He shook it off and sent his gaze around the grotto, seeking flesh-and-blood ladies instead of the apparition of memory. There, on a bench amid the trees, he found two. He nodded their direction. “It is they?”

Jean-Paul squinted and tilted his chin up. Then he bobbed his head, sending his plume waving. “I believe so,
oui
. Though I cannot introduce you, as I am not acquainted with them.”

“No need to worry,
mon ami
. I will handle this part on my own.”

“In that case, I will seek you out later. In fact, I will go now to be sure they assign you the same apartment you had last time.” That was why he and Jean-Paul got on so well—the Frenchman knew when to smile and take his leave.

Their entrance into the vicinity hadn’t disturbed the ladies a bit.
No doubt they were well accustomed to the passing by of other nobles out for a promenade, which suited Fairchild fine. He took a moment to study them, to try to discover by mere observation if they could be the women he sought.

The mother would be the right age. Though her hair was more gray than brown, what color he saw matched the auburn Lord Poole had instructed him to look for. He edged closer, though careful to remain behind the shield of a flowering bush. Yes, her eyes were green. She was seated, so he couldn’t be sure of her height, but his guess was that her stature matched the description as well.

And the daughter—her profile was all he could see, but that was encouraging. The same nose that both the Gates brothers had, with its gentle slope. The same set to the eyes, hair with the same golden glint as the elder son, though this young lady’s seemed to borrow a bit of her mother’s red-brown as well. Lovely, to be sure, also as he expected, given the well-acclaimed looks of the rest of her family.

A bird flitted overhead warbling a tune, and the young lady turned her eyes to follow it.

Eyes of an icy, glacier blue.

J
ulienne watched the golden plover wing its way out of sight. Far better that distraction than the conversation she wished she could keep from having. Again.

“Julienne, heed my words. It is crucial you follow my direction, or the duc may yet lose interest.”

Would that he would. Julienne tried to summon a smile—a difficult task, with the memory of last night’s encounter with the duc still so fresh in her mind. “Mère, please…I cannot. It is disrespectful and…and wrong to be making such plans. He is yet married.”

Her mother waved that away. “His wife will pass away within the month. It is a sad reality,
ma fille
, but reality nonetheless. And a duc must be looking toward the future of his line. When this terrible disease takes his wife, he must move quickly for a new one, one who can give him heirs.”

Julienne turned her face toward the grotto’s grass-edged pond. The trees gave them a semblance of privacy, but solitude was never complete at Versailles. And so her face must always be free of any emotion she didn’t want to hear as the next topic of gossip.

Free of the yearning. Free of the guilt. Free of the fear.

But inside, her thoughts raged. Three years now she had put her
life on hold to await the duc’s proposal—a proposal that couldn’t come until his sickly wife succumbed to the disease eating her away.

Three years to bear the guilt of claiming a connection to a man not free to seek one.

Three years to feel his gaze slide over her, to parry his advances, to refuse his ever-increasing whispers that no one would expect anything else but that they taste now what they would enjoy fully once wed.

Three years to come to hate him. And hate herself for being the means by which a man abandoned his wife, and in the time when the duchesse needed him most.

“Mère, I…” She drew in a long breath and lowered her voice to a bare murmur. “He does not love me. It is only an attraction, and I am hardly in my first blush of youth anymore. He will not want me once my looks fade. When my waist thickens with that heir he so needs. He will seek another then, a young mistress, and I cannot…I cannot bear it. I
will
not bear it.”

Mère’s soft touch bade her look at her again, and Julienne found her eyes to be, as always, full of love. “My darling girl, you know I want only the best for you. And I would not urge you this direction did I not believe it to be best. The duc is unmatched in all of France. He can offer you security, happiness, and affection. You underestimate his feelings for you,
ma chérie
. He loves you.”

Did he? No, Julienne thought not. She had acquaintance with enough men to know the difference between lust and love. To know when interest was only in the facade so carefully crafted and when it went deeper.

She had learned through pain and tears how to tell. Though until three months ago, she had thought them
all
interested only in the facade.

Mais non
, she couldn’t think about that night, the stranger. He was more dangerous than any aristocrat with an eye for seduction. Still, she could hardly sit in the grotto and escape thought of him.

Her eyes slid closed. And with the darkness came the image of stars twinkling above that midnight stroll. The sensation of a large, strong form beside her, leading her onward with a gentle surety she had never experienced before. The feel of her fingers caught in his. The sound of his laughter.

But memories of his laughter always led to his voice.

“Pardonnez-moi
, mesdames.”

Her heart seized. Julienne’s eyes flew open, though she focused her gaze on her hands. Why look up, after all? It wouldn’t be him. It never was. How many times had she let herself imagine over the last months that he had sought her out, had found her?
Mais non
. She always looked up to find someone too short, too round, too thin, too broad, too narrow, too
something
. And then she would realize the voice wasn’t quite so deep a baritone, didn’t have quite the right timbre.

Didn’t have that accent that had made dread snap her lips shut when he asked for her name.

Yet she had dreamed of him all these months. Ah, what a fool she was.

Mère stiffened on the bench beside her. “
Bonjour
, monsieur. Can I assist you?”

Julienne snuck a glance just in time to see the intruder bow. He, as most other fashionable men these days, was dressed
à l’Anglais
, in simple breeches that molded to muscular legs, an unadorned waistcoat, a well-tailored but unembroidered coat. He had doffed his hat, revealing hair of a warm brown, bound at the nape.