The Duke of Dark Desires Page 25

  The duke had barely said a word to her when she and the Osbourne girls made their gliding entrance, merely bowed and welcomed her with a few formal words. He looked particularly magnificent tonight in a suit of clothes of ebony satin with the coat edged in silver embroidery with touches of blood red and a waistcoat to match. But his hair! Someone had neatened the remnants of her hacking and he now wore it as short as any of the other gentlemen, with a rakish black lock falling over his forehead. Judging by the whispered gossip circulating in the assembly before dinner, the duke’s new coiffure challenged the altered status of the governess as a topic of speculation. The loss of those beautiful tresses at her hand aroused a pang of regret.

  When the last course had been served and the covers removed, leaving only wineglasses, Julian rose to his feet. Without saying a word, he riveted people’s attention so that conversation died away and an expectant silence fell over the company.

  “Last night at about this time I showed off a collection of paintings. The best pieces were assembled by one French family and I would like to tell you how they came to hang at Denford Castle.”

  Murmurs rippled around the table and glances were cast at Louis and her before returning to the compelling figure at the head of the table. Jane’s nerves jangled. If Julian was going to publicly justify his ownership of the pictures, she would denounce him.

  “My tale begins when I visited Paris with a group of friends in 1789. The Bastille had fallen, but during a temporary lull much of aristocratic life continued, which is how we came to be invited to a rout at the house of the Marquis and Marquise de Falleron.”

  Jane remembered the occasion, her mother arguing for discretion while Papa was certain that after the king’s concessions all would be well. In the event it was the last grand entertainment at the Hôtel Falleron, and she had watched from an upper window as the company entered the courtyard. How strange that she might have glimpsed Julian that night.

  “My hosts received me politely but with no special attention. The marquis demonstrated the qualities of noblesse oblige and Madame was elegant and beautiful, like her eldest daughter.” He nodded at Jane, who felt wretched tears threaten again. It didn’t take much to overset nerves rubbed raw. She swallowed, clenched her fists, and looked away. “I was Julian Fortescue, a sixteen-year-old of no importance and back then I spoke French adequately, but without the fluency required of Parisian levels of wit. I spent most of that evening gazing in wonder at the Falleron pictures, never guessing at the part they would play in my life.

  “I returned to England in spring of ’93 without intending to return to France until I was approached by a man named John Smith, claiming to be an agent of the British Foreign Office. He offered the chance of a lifetime for a young man struggling to establish himself as a dealer in pictures. I’d picked up works here and there in Europe, especially France, and I was cultivating a clientele in England, but with no capital sum I couldn’t obtain the quality of works my aspirations demanded. Smith and I returned discreetly to Paris that autumn to arrange the escape from France of the Falleron family. We both visited the marquis, but I was the one who gained his trust, through our shared love of art and because of my distant connection to the Duke of Denford.”

  This Smith must be the man Jane had seen. Had she known there were two Englishmen calling on her father, she might have discovered the truth much sooner. Denford would be dead and her heart would not have broken.

  “I won’t go into the details of the plot. An influential member of the Committee of Public Safety supplied passports in exchange for half the Falleron collection of pictures. Smith and I were responsible for transporting them to northern France, where the division was to take place. However, as I discovered later, the Fallerons never managed to leave their house before their safe conduct was revoked and they were arrested for treason.”

  Although his face remained impassive, Jane knew that the tale was directed at her. The fact that the British government had been involved, not just a young man picking on the bones of the beleaguered French aristocracy, opened new vistas. Yet on the face of it his story was incredible.

  “This histoire about dividing the pictures in half is bizarre,” she said, raising her voice so that all could hear. “How would you and this official settle on the value of the picture and decide who got which? Were you going to slice the Raphael in two pieces, right down the middle?”

  “You are right, mademoiselle. That part of the plan was absurd. I never questioned it because I wanted them so much, even half. Even without the Raphael. I understand what it is to be led astray by blind ambition.” Ignoring the murmurs around him, he spoke to her directly. “I did not betray your family but neither do I excuse my part in their deaths.”

  She believed him and she felt herself weakening. Before she had excluded him from suspicion because of his youth, only twenty years old. Now she wanted to excuse him for the same reason. His face as he regarded her was impassive, but she, who knew him so well, could detect the anxious pleading in those astonishing blue eyes. She frowned back, her mind racing this way and that, unable to decide what she thought. Without someone to hate, someone to blame, her life would be empty. For so many years she had held on to her hatred of Mr. Fortescue. For a time, a short time, love had made her want to let go of revenge. How could she live with neither?

  So intent had she been on Julian that she forgot Louis’s interest in the proceedings. “And so conveniently for you,” he said, “you ended up with the entire collection. My cousins lost their lives and you got everything you wanted.”

  “Believe me, Monsieur le Marquis, I would rather they had lived and I had nothing. As for convenience, we were betrayed too, and I almost lost my life. Smith was killed and I only escaped with the pictures through the fighting skills of one brave Fleming. I have my suspicions about who would benefit.” His eyes narrowed. “Sir Richard Radcliffe, a Foreign Office official who could have known about Smith’s secret operation, has shown himself uncommonly interested in acquiring the Falleron collection.”

  This inference caused a sensation in the room. Lady Belinda, seated between Julian and Lord Cazalet, fainted into the arms of the surprised peer. It seemed to Jane that the lady’s swoon was more effect than genuine loss of consciousness. Certainly she recovered soon enough and Cazalet regained his aplomb, handing her a glass of wine and retrieving her brooch that had come loose and attached itself to his waistcoat.

  “Thank you, dear Lord Cazalet,” she said in her huskiest tones. “That piece is a favorite I would be devastated to lose.” She pinned the butterfly-shaped ornament on her bosom as she smiled at Louis, then cast Denford a reproachful look, as though the entire scene was intended to upset her and make her mislay her jewelry.

  Sir Richard remained calm in the face of Julian’s inference and his wife’s theatrics. “I’ve never made a secret of my interest in the acquisition of important pictures, nor of my ability and willingness to pay well for them.” He smiled smoothly at Louis, who looked smug. The earlier impulse to trust Sir Richard faded. In this if in nothing else Denford was correct: The man was vile.

  Julian continued. “After that disaster I was powerless to find those who betrayed Smith and me as well as the Fallerons. Fortuitously, though, I am no longer an ordinary man. I intend to wield all the influence I can as Duke of Denford to discover the truth.”

  Jane had to give Radcliffe credit for sangfroid. He merely shrugged, despite having attracted the avid curiosity of the entire company, a vicious frown from the usually equable Lady Windermere, and a stare from Julian that would freeze the wine in his glass.

  “Nevertheless I want to make one thing clear. I swore on my honor that the Fallerons would be safe, ignoring my doubts about the plan. I’m not the only one responsible, but I will not deny my share of guilt.”

  It was what she wanted to hear and what the world would soon know. With a dining room full of guests and a full complement of servants, the news would spread quickly. Yet she w
as disappointed. She realized the plan she’d proposed to Louis, of exposing Denford to public scorn, would fail. By confessing, Julian had made himself appear more hero than villain. Cazalet didn’t look appalled; he was nodding in approbation. She wouldn’t wager a sou against the probability that her family’s pictures would end up in the possession of the King of England.

  She was not going to cry again.

  “I believed that the Fallerons were all dead. While I rejoice in learning that the eldest daughter, Jeanne, survived under circumstances that she may reveal herself, if she wishes, I can never repay the debt I owe her for the loss of her family through my carelessness.” Julian walked around to her chair. Before she could gather her wits, he had led her from her place to the hearth, visible to everyone at the table. Framed by the arches of a vast stone mantelpiece, he took her hand. Every muscle stiffened and she turned her neck to avoid the impact of his intense gaze.

  “I’m sorry, Jane,” he said softly, then for all to hear. “The only reparation I can make to Mademoiselle de Falleron is to return her family’s pictures to her. They are hers, given freely, to do with as she pleases. I have certain hopes but I make no demands.”

  Hand over her mouth, Jane organized her scrambled wits at this unexpected offer.

  Before she could answer, Louis shot to his feet. “You would turn over my property to a lying adventuress? The collection is mine as the heir to the marquis.”

  “You forget yourself,” Denford said in a voice cold with menace. “You will speak of Mademoiselle de Falleron with respect.”

  “This woman is not my cousin. I don’t know who she is—I suspect a former servant of my family—but I do know her to be a whore. Has she told you about the men, lowborn Jacobins, who had her in their beds? She is no Fall—”

  The last word was cut off by Julian’s grip around his neck. The duke shook Louis like a rat and might have killed him had Jane not run to tug at the hands choking the flailing Frenchman. A couple of other gentlemen assisted her intervention. Reluctantly Julian stepped back, a dark angel of naked rage.

  Jane still didn’t know what she wanted, but it wasn’t Julian’s arrest for killing Louis. “Your Grace,” she said. “Will you accompany me to the gallery to see my pictures?” The possessive pronoun emerged without forethought.

  Breathing heavily, he stared at her. “Really? You’ll leave this room with me? Will you come alone, or do you think you need protection?”

  “Alone. There are a few things we need to discuss.”

  “Thank you.”

  The assembly seemed to know they had not been invited, with three exceptions who waited for them at the door. Fenella had appointed herself their spokeswoman. “We want to see Mademoiselle de Falleron’s pictures too.”

  “You saw them last night,” Julian said.

  “I wish to speak to His Grace,” Jane said. “I leave you in Maria’s charge.”

  “Are you are still our governess?” Fenella said. “Do we have to obey you?”

  “You have to obey me because I can ruin your life and I will if you don’t leave us alone,” Julian said, and closed the door in Fenella’s outraged face.

  Chapter 21

  Jane didn’t say a word on the way upstairs, and Julian held it a helpful sign that she wasn’t attacking him with her bare hands. There was no room to hide her knife in that incredibly gorgeous gown. She was beautiful in the sparkling pink stuff and his family pearls, and he ached to hold her in his arms again.

  Small steps.

  “Are they really mine?” she asked at the threshold of the gallery. “Do you have the right to give them away? I would think they belonged to Louis now.” Her spirits remained subdued but she was still Jane: practical, direct, and altogether enchanting.

  “I bought them from your father, paying him in gold, as well as with the passports out of Paris. I choose to give them to you. I hope you won’t feel bound to turn the collection over to your loving cousin, but I shall not stop you if that is what you think is right.”

  “Louis will dispute you and I think Sir Richard Radcliffe will help him. Lawyers are expensive, yes?”

  “Very expensive but I don’t fear them. I have more weapons at my disposal than Radcliffe guesses.”

  “Radcliffe would buy them from me, instead,” she said, as ready to defy and challenge him as she had been the day she walked into Fortescue House and he had wanted her on sight.

  “You must do as you wish, but don’t trust Radcliffe. He tried to steal the pictures from me last year, using Lady Windermere as a hostage. He may also have been involved in the original business. I regard him as a candidate for your betrayer.”

  Jane sighed. Dark shadows under her eyes emphasized the pallor of her usually glowing complexion. She was a strong woman, amazingly so, but confronting the truth of her tragic past must be straining her endurance. He yearned to offer comfort, and there were a thousand things he would like to do for her. Given the chance, there was nothing he wouldn’t give her.

  “Do you think I will ever know the whole story?” she asked.

  “There are people in the Foreign Office who know more than we do. Windermere has gone to London to see if he can coerce the truth out of someone. He has never been able to break through the wall of Radcliffe’s influence, but we hope your reappearance may shake loose at least part of the truth.”

  “I feel the switching of papers is the key to the truth. If only I knew why I became Jane Grey.”

  “I don’t know how I will stop thinking of you as Jane, now that you have resumed your real name.”

  “I’m not sure that I can either. Jeanne seems like a different person.”

  Encouraged by her smile—a faint one but the first sign of light he’d seen since she learned of his perfidy—Julian curled his fists and tested his luck. “Jane,” he said softly, stepping forward so she was tantalizingly near to his touch, “I never thought I would ask for pardon for the unforgivable, but I am doing it now. Will you forgive me?”

  He had to bend to catch her words. “I don’t know.”

  “That is better than no. Last night I offered to marry you, not perhaps under the best of circumstances. I intend to ask you again.”

  She met his wretched proposal with her roguish tilt of the head. God, he was pleased to see that again. “To get back the pictures after you have given them to me?”

  “I would say that was unworthy except that I know when you’re teasing me and that encourages me even more. I shall not, however, ask you now. Just remember that if you decide you can forgive me, I will make you a duchess and pamper you with luxury. I’ll make you forget every privation you have had to endure.” His throat grew thick and parsimonious with words.

  “I would like to be happy, but I dare not try. It’s unfair that I am alive. What did I do to deserve it?”

  He looked at her bent head and tried to find an argument to contradict her. He’d often felt the same way, never more than when witnessing her sisters’ execution. But he had culpability to justify his remorse. “If I thought it would do any good,” he said, “I would say that you were an innocent victim. Capricious fortune picked you to survive, and that is no more your fault than the deaths of your family. But I doubt anything I can say will dispel your guilt.”

  “You do understand.” She touched her fingertips to the back of his hand for a fleeting moment. “I wish I didn’t feel like this. I fear that I always will until I have avenged my family.”

  “I wish I could relieve you of the burden.”

  “You cannot.”

  “I am optimistic enough to hope that learning the truth will lighten it. Look at me, Jane.” He placed his hand over his heart. “We will find out who is responsible for the loss of your family and if he is alive, whether it’s Radcliffe or someone else, I promise you he will pay. Together we will make him.”

  “Together?”

  “You are no longer alone.”

  He waited an age, observing the parade of expressions on the f
ace he loved: a gleam of tears swiftly blinked away; slow relaxation of a pinched mouth; then a deep breath and a smile. Not a deep, heartfelt smile that reached the eyes, but it was a beginning.

  “Thank you, Julian. Now,” she said briskly, “I am going to look at my pictures and pretend to be happy.”

  “May I accompany you?” He offered his arm, and when she accepted he felt the triumph of a boy coaxing a wild bird to take food from his hand. “I looked forward to showing them to you. Ironic that I hadn’t the least notion that you already knew them well.”

  “You gave me a Fragonard. Did you know that my father had a similar pastel of the same model? It’s not here, is it?”

  “The prints and drawings were not included in the purchase. I don’t remember the marquis showing me that.”

  “It was one of his favorite pieces and he kept it in his private rooms. He said it reminded him of me. I am very glad to have the other one since his is likely lost forever. I thank you for it.”

  Now was not the time to press her to let him keep the flesh and blood woman. Instead he asked her to talk about the Falleron collection. They walked arm in arm the length of the Long Gallery and she told him the stories behind the paintings as she knew them.

  “I’ve always judged a work of art rigorously, according to quality alone,” he said, in response to her story of lighting candles with her sisters in front of the Raphael Madonna on feast days of the Virgin Mary. “I now appreciate how much the viewer’s personal feelings and experience enhance the act of observation.”

  “I shall turn you into a sentimentalist.” She cocked her head at him. “Or perhaps not.”

  They came back to an exquisite painting of musicians in a garden, one of his favorites. “Fragonard, again.”

  “We always loved this one because the garden reminded us of that at Bel Etang, our château in Normandy. It may not even be there anymore. So many great houses were burned down during the Revolution. I thought Papa was good to his people but it didn’t save him and perhaps not his house. When I went to the coast nearby to find passage to England I did not dare ask.” She blinked a couple of times. “I can imagine that it is just as lovely as ever and one day I may see it again.”