Surrender. Brenda Joyce

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СКАЧАТЬ had but a handful of jewels left to pawn.

      But there was always the gold.

      Evelyn walked slowly across the bedroom, which was bare except for the four-poster bed she had just vacated, and one red-and-white-print chaise, the upholstery faded and torn. The beautiful Aubusson rug that had once covered the wood floors was gone, as were the Chippendale tables, the sofa and the beautiful mahogany secretary. A Venetian mirror was still hanging on the wall where once there had been a handsome rosewood bureau. She paused before it and stared.

      She might have been considered an exceptional beauty as a young woman, but she was hardly beautiful now. Her features hadn’t changed, but she had become haggard. She was very fair, with vivid blue eyes, lush dark lashes and nearly black hair. Her eyes were almond-shaped, her cheekbones high, her nose small and slightly tilted. Her mouth was a perfect rosebud. None of that mattered. She looked tired and worn, beyond her years. She appeared to be forty—she would be twenty-five in March.

      But she didn’t care if she looked old, exhausted and perhaps even ill. This past year had drained her. Henri had declined with such alarming rapidity. This past month, he hadn’t been able to do anything for himself, and he hadn’t left his bed, not a single time.

      Tears arose. She brushed them aside. He had been so dashing when they had first met. She had not expected his attentions! Mutual acquaintances had directed him to her uncle’s home, and the visit of a French count had put the household in an uproar. He had fallen in love with her at first sight. She had, at first, been overwhelmed by his courtship, but she had been an orphan of fifteen. She could not recall anyone treating her with the deference, respect and admiration that he had showered upon her; it had been so easy to fall in love.

      She missed him so much. Her husband had been her best friend, her confidant, her safe harbor. She had been left on her uncle’s doorstep when she was five years old by her father, her mother having just passed away, and she had never been accepted by her aunt, uncle or her cousins as anything other than the penniless relation they must raise. Her lonely childhood had been made worse by taunts and insults. Her clothes had been hand-me-downs. Her chores had included tasks no gentlewoman would ever perform. Her aunt Enid had constantly reminded her of what a burden she was, and what a sacrifice her aunt was making. Evelyn was a gentlewoman by birth, yet she had spent as much time with the servants, preparing meals and changing beds, as she had spent with her cousins. She was a part of the family, yet she was only allowed to reside on its fringes.

      Henri had taken her away from all of that, and he had made her feel like a princess. But in fact, he had made her his countess.

      He might have been twenty-four years older than she was, but he had died well before his time. Evelyn tried to remind herself that he was finally at peace—in more ways than one.

      While he had loved her and adored their daughter, he hadn’t been happy, not since leaving France.

      He had left his friends, his family and his home behind. Both of his sons from a previous marriage had been victims of Le Razor. The revolution had also taken his brother, his nieces and nephews, and his many cousins, too. Adding to his heartache had been the fact that he had never truly accepted their move to Britain; he had left his beloved country behind, as well.

      Every passing day in London had made him a bit angrier. But perhaps it was the move to Cornwall that had truly changed him. He hated the Bodmin Moor, hated their home, Roselynd. He had finally told her that he hated Britain. And then he had wept for everything and everyone that he had lost.

      Evelyn trembled. Henri had changed so much in the past four years, but she refused to be completely honest with herself. If she was, she might admit that the man she had loved had died a long time ago. Leaving France had destroyed his soul.

      Caring for him and their daughter, in such circumstances, had been exhausting enough, and when his illness had become so severe, it had been even worse. She was exhausted now. She wondered if she would ever feel young and strong again, if she would ever feel pretty.

      She stared at her reflection more intensely. If the tin mine could not be turned around, the day would come where she would not be able to feed or clothe her daughter. And she must never let that happen....

      Evelyn inhaled. A month ago, when it had become clear that the end was near, Henri had told her that he had buried a small fortune in gold bullion in the backyard of their home in Nantes. Evelyn had been incredulous. But he had insisted, right down to the details of where he had buried the fortune. And she had believed him.

      If she dared, a fortune awaited her and Aimee in France. And that fortune was her daughter’s birthright. It was her future. Evelyn was never going to leave her daughter destitute, the way her own father had left her.

      She ignored a new, terrible pang. She must do whatever she had to for Aimee. But how on earth could she retrieve it? How could she possibly return to France, to recover the gold? She would need an escort; she would need a protector, and he would have to be someone she could trust.

      To whom could she turn as an escort? Whom could she possibly trust?

      Evelyn stared at the mirror, as if the looking glass might provide an answer. She could still hear her guests in conversation in the salon downstairs. Tired and grief stricken, she was not going to find any answers tonight, she decided. Yet she was almost certain that she knew the answer, that it was right there in front of her; she simply could not see it.

      And as she turned, a soft knock sounded on her door. Evelyn went to her daughter, kissed her as she slept and pulled up a blanket. Then she crossed the room to the door.

      * * *

      LAURENT WAS WAITING for her in the hall, and he was stricken with worry. He was a slim, dark man with dark eyes, which widened upon seeing her. “Mon Dieu! I was beginning to think that you meant to ignore your guests. Everyone is wondering where you are, Comtesse, and they are preparing to leave!”

      “I fell asleep,” she said softly.

      “And you are exhausted, it is obvious. Still, you must greet everyone before they leave.” He shook his head. “Black is too severe, Comtesse, you should wear gray. I think I will burn that dress.”

      “You are not burning this dress, as it was very costly,” Evelyn said, ushering him out and closing the door gently. “When you see Bette, would you send her up to sit with Aimee?” They started down the hall. “I don’t want her to awaken, alone, with her father having just been buried.”

      “Bien sûr.” Laurent glanced worriedly at her. “You need to eat something, madame, before you fall down.”

      Evelyn halted on the landing above the stairs, very aware of the crowd awaiting her downstairs. Trepidation coursed through her. “I can’t eat. I did not expect such attendance at the funeral, Laurent. I am overcome by how many strangers came to pay their respects.”

      “Neither did I, Comtesse. But it is a good thing, non? If they did not come today to pay their respects, when would they come?” Evelyn smiled tightly and started down the stairs. Laurent followed. “Madame? There is something you must know.”

      “What is that?” she asked, over her shoulder, pausing as they reached the marble ground floor.

      “Lady Faraday and her daughter, Lady Harold, have been taking an inventory of this house. I actually saw them go into every room, ignoring the closed doors. I then saw them inspecting the draperies in the library, madame, and I was confused so I eavesdropped.”

      Evelyn СКАЧАТЬ