Surrender (11 page)

Enid started. “That sounds dangerous, even for you. Are you going to help her?”

“I haven’t thought about it,” he lied.

“Well, she is clever and beautiful, and if she wishes for you to help her, I am sure you will be doing so, in no time whatsoever,” Enid said rather disparagingly.

Jack simply smiled. Enid Faraday thoroughly disliked Evelyn, and he was somewhat affronted by her hostility. Of course, a beautiful woman like Evelyn would naturally use her allure to gain friends and allies, and he could not really fault her for that. But he hardly thought her a clever, scheming seductress—as Enid apparently did.

“Be careful where she is concerned,” Enid said before she left.

Faraday clasped his shoulder. “Ignore her. She has always felt threatened by Evelyn, as if Lucille had to compete with her, which she did not. Women!” He sighed. “I hope there is a fortune in that chest. She has had a difficult life, and now she has a daughter to raise.”

Jack ground out his cigar. “I doubt we will ever learn how much is in that chest. Enid is correct. She will remarry sooner, not later, and she will forget all about the pot of gold D’Orsay left for her in France.” Or she could beseech her old flame Trevelyan.

Robert stared in disbelief. “You will not help her?”

“It is far too dangerous.”

Robert was incredulous. “Everything you do is dangerous. You thrive on danger! And you adore beautiful women....”

Jack felt very much like a hypocrite. “It is too dangerous,” he repeated firmly.

“I am stunned,” Robert said. “I was certain you would jump at the chance to throw yourself into such a fray, to outrace our navy, to elude the French army, to recover a chest of gold for a woman like Evelyn.”

Jack folded his arms and stared. “Are you asking me to reconsider?”

Robert was blunt. “Yes, I am.”

Jack kept his expression impassive, but inwardly, he felt like a small boy in the classroom, sitting in the corner, squirming.

“We go back eight years—and it has been a good eight years, for us both,” Robert said.

“So I am in your debt?” Jack asked slowly. He was stiff with tension now. “Or is that a threat?”

“We are friends,” Robert said flatly. “I would never threaten you. Nor would I suggest that you owe me anything, as we have both prospered through our association. No. I am asking you as a friend to help her, Jack. I am asking you because I know you are a gentleman, and a man of honor.”

“Touché,” Jack said, scowling.

CHAPTER FIVE

E
VELYN
HANDED
HER
coat to a liveried servant, glancing around at the vast entry hall she had just been let into. The floors were marble, the ceilings high, with a huge crystal chandelier overhead. Red velvet chairs lined the circular chamber. Works of art—clearly masterpieces—hung on the walls.

It was an imposing house, and she was not surprised. Since deciding to come to London and present her letter for Jack Greystone directly to his sister, Evelyn had familiarized herself a bit with the Paget family. Dominic Paget was a well-known figure in the ton. The son of a French noblewoman, he was an outspoken Tory, both vehemently opposed to the French revolution and as passionately supportive of Britain’s war against the new French republic. Considered one of the wealthiest peers in the land, he moved in society’s highest circles—and was close to Pitt and the governing elites. Although opinionated, his reputation was outstanding—he was considered a patriot and a man of honor.

There was even a rumor floating about that he had been a part of the La Vendée uprising in France. There were whispers that he had been one of Pitt’s secret agents.

Evelyn had dismissed that gossip. But interestingly, Paget had married far beneath him. For Evelyn had also investigated the Greystone family. While the Greystones could claim an ancient lineage that went back to the days of the Conquest—their ancestors had been Norman aristocrats—they had been seriously impoverished for many generations. The estate relied exclusively upon a mine and a quarry for its subsistence. The manor, located close to Land’s End in Cornwall on its most southern tip, had been closed up for several years. The Greystone patriarch had lost his title a century or so ago when on the wrong side of a rebellion.

Paget could have married a Hapsburg princess; he married Julianne Greystone instead.

It sounded rather romantic, but Evelyn was too experienced to believe that it had been a love match. Surely, a great many factors had gone into Dominic Paget’s choice of a bride, even if she had heard some strange gossip about her, as well—that she was an eccentric, and that she was somewhat radical. Lady Paget was rumored to have once been imprisoned in the Tower—for her Jacobin sympathies! Since the Earl of Bedford was a Tory, close to Pitt and attached to the war effort, Evelyn doubted very much that he had married a radical of any kind.

As Evelyn waited to be received, her curiosity was piqued. No matter how skeptical she was of the gossip she had heard, she was intrigued, and very curious to meet Julianne Paget.

But she was also terribly nervous, as she must convince Lady Paget to forward her letter to her brother, and Evelyn had no clue as to how the countess would be inclined.

Another manservant appeared at the hall’s far end, wearing the identical royal-blue-and-gold livery as the doorman, and the same powdered wig. His gray brows lifted rather imperiously as he approached. Evelyn quickly smiled, knowing that she did not look as destitute as she truly was—appearances now meant everything! She was clad in her finest black velvet gown, and she was wearing both her pearls and her diamond engagement ring. She had removed her gloves so her ring would be obvious, and now she held out her calling card. “Sir, I was hoping to call upon the Countess of Bedford, if she is in.”

His brows shot up impossibly higher.

Evelyn knew she was not following the proper etiquette, which required that she leave her card, and return only when her call had been accepted. She continued to smile, and said, “I have spent the past two days and nights speeding across the country in coaches, and the matter I wish to broach is a fairly urgent one. I have yet to even acquire a hotel room.” That was the truth. She was, in fact, exhausted from the madcap trip, just as she was exhausted from the events of the past month.

The butler placed her card on his tray and glanced at it. He looked up quickly, bowing. “Countess, I will tell Lady Paget that you have just arrived in town.” His tone was vastly respectful.

Evelyn thanked him, her heart leaping with exultation—he could have sent her away. She had felt certain that Lady Paget would see her sooner or later, but she did not want to linger in town, far from Aimee, with every passing day adding to her hotel bill and depleting her small purse.

She followed the butler into a stunning gold salon with a dozen seating arrangements, and sat down to wait. Her heart continued to thunder. Sitting seemed impossible, so Evelyn stood and paced.

The letter she had written Greystone was tucked into her purse.

Dear Mr. Greystone,

My dear sir, I am writing to you to apologize. But I also must make a confession. Four years ago, you helped me, my husband, my daughter and our three servants flee France. I realize you do not remember the event, but I also hid my true identity from you, and wore a hood as a disguise. I was and remain vastly indebted to you, for saving the lives of my husband, my daughter and myself.

I will always be in your debt and I will never forget what you did for me and my family. The last thing I ever wished to do was impose upon you. Too late, I realize now that my having asked you for your aid, yet again, was a vast and reckless imposition.

And it put you in the position of having to refuse me. I understand now that my proposition was beyond folly, it was sheer madness. For you were very right. Returning to France now is far too dangerous for any one man. Of course you had to refuse.

Since then, I have had a great deal of time to reconsider. No family heirlooms are worth risking your life. I regret the misunderstanding we have had. I also beg you to accept this apology.

I want you to know that you are always welcome at my home. If I can ever entertain you in the future, please, do not hesitate. It is the least I can do for you, after all you have done for my family.

Sincerely,

Lady Evelyn, the Countess
D’Orsay

Evelyn trembled, recalling her every word perfectly. She had thoroughly disliked writing such a dishonest letter, even if she had little choice—because Aimee’s future was at stake. Of course, she would always be in his debt, and that much was very true. Still, she had yet to fully recover from their encounter. Not only did she remain hurt, she could not dismiss it.

How would Greystone react when he finally read her letter? Would he believe what she had written? Would he call on her at Roselynd, as Laurent thought? She had come to London with the gold in mind, but now, she genuinely wished to end the strife that had arisen between them. Maybe then, Greystone would cease to haunt her.

She heard soft, rapid footsteps—the clicking of feminine heels—and she tensed, turning.

A tall, slender red-haired woman in emerald-green satin and a matching headdress paused on the threshold of the salon. She was very beautiful, and close to Evelyn in age. Although her hair was curled beneath the headdress, she wore it loose to her waist, without a wig. As their gazes met, she smiled. “Hello, Countess D’Orsay. I am Lady Julianne Paget.” Her expression was curious, not imperious, and her tone was rather friendly.

Evelyn was instantly relieved, as she was accustomed to pretensions. “Thank you for seeing me, Lady Paget. I realize this is rather improper, but I have decided to take my chances.” She smiled warmly, hoping her anxiety did not show.

Julianne Paget came into the room, smiling in return. “I am not wedded to propriety, and anyone who knows me would say so,” she said, laughing.

Evelyn wondered what was so amusing, as she recalled the odd gossip about Lady Paget being rather eccentric and having been a prisoner in the Tower.

Lady Paget said, “I have ordered tea for us. You are not French.”

“No, but my husband was a Frenchman from Le Loire. He is deceased,” she added.

“I am sorry,” Julianne Paget exclaimed softly.

Evelyn smiled. “Thank you. He was a wonderful father, and a good husband. But he was a great deal older than myself, and he was ill for many years. His death was not unexpected. But I will always miss him.” She hesitated. “I believe he was a friend of the Dowager Countess, your mother-in-law.”

“That may very well be,” Julianne Paget said. “Please, do sit.” She sat down on one long gold sofa, and Evelyn sat down, as well. “The Dowager Countess was from Le Loire, and my husband had an ancestral home there.” She sobered. “Of course, it is charred and ruined now.”

Evelyn inhaled. They had so much common ground, she thought. “I do not know the state of our home, Lady Paget—we fled France four years ago. Friends did tell us it remained intact, but that was before Robespierre.”

Lady Paget looked utterly sympathetic now—Evelyn had been attempting to curry favor. “I will pray that your home still stands. How can I help you, Countess? Gerard said that the matter that brought you here is an urgent one.”

Evelyn smiled pleasantly, though inwardly, she was on pins and needles. Deception had never been a part of her life, and lying was not in her nature. She preferred to stay as close to the truth as possible. “I am in a bind,” she said softly. “I was hoping you could relay a letter for me.”

Lady Paget started. “Who is the letter for?”

Evelyn took the sealed letter from her purse, her heart skipping. “Your brother.”

Lady Paget’s eyes widened. It was a moment before she asked, “Which brother, may I ask?”

“Mr. Jack Greystone.” And Evelyn knew she was now blushing, ever so slightly, for her cheeks were warm. She knew she must be careful. She did not want Lady Paget to suspect that there was anything untoward between the two of them.

Julianne was now staring closely, and with surprise. “You have a letter for Jack?” She fell silent and Evelyn knew her mind was racing. Then she said, “How do you know my brother, Lady D’Orsay? What do you want with him?”

Evelyn had expected the question. “He helped me, my husband and our daughter flee France, four years ago. We had arranged for a Belgian seaman to evacuate us, but he simply failed to wait for us to arrive on the day we had scheduled for our departure. Mr. Greystone happened to be in the harbor that night. Our contact sent us to him, and he agreed to transport us. I am in his debt, of course.”

Her brows high, her eyes wide, Julianne said, “I see. But that was quite some time ago. Are you trying to repay that debt?”

Evelyn smiled. The rest of her explanation was difficult. “Not exactly. Actually, Mr. Greystone doesn’t recall helping me and my family flee France.”

Julianne’s brows lifted. “Really?”

Evelyn thought her color might be higher. “I am a Cornishwoman, Lady Paget. I understand that you were born and raised in Cornwall, as well. I have been around the free trade since I was a child, and recently, with my husband’s passing, I have decided I need the services of a smuggler.”

Julianne simply stared, a slight smile on her face, and Evelyn knew she was trying to decipher what was truly going on.

“My husband left some terribly sentimental family heirlooms at our home in France. Now that he is gone I must retrieve them. I had hoped your brother would do so for me.”

Julianne stood up, still smiling politely. “I am sorry—I am rather lost. You are sending my brother a letter to ask for his help—but it sounds as if you have already spoken with him, as you said he does not recall you.”

Evelyn also stood, her heart racing. “I have actually already asked him for his aid. He refused me.”

Julianne’s smile vanished. Her eyes were wide. “Really?” she said again—oddly.

“I believe we had a misunderstanding,” Evelyn said swiftly. “And of course, being as I am so indebted to him for saving our lives, it is bothering me immensely.”

Julianne stared for another awkward moment. “Lady D’Orsay,” she finally said, “my brother would never forget a woman as remarkable as you.”

Evelyn stiffened.

“I’m sorry—I do not mean to dispute your tale. But I know Jack. We are very close. He is most definitely a ladies’ man—with a terribly appreciative eye for beauty. If he evacuated you from France, he would never forget it.” She was firm.

Evelyn was rigid with tension. “He did forget,” she whispered truthfully. “He failed to recognize me.”

Julianne kept staring intently. “No,” she said now. “I am sorry. I do not believe it for a second.”

Was she about to have a dispute with her hostess over her brother’s character and memory? Evelyn quickly said, “Maybe I am mistaken, then. But in any case, I have been terribly unsettled since that encounter. Because I am in his debt. My letter is actually one of apology.”

“So now you must apologize? For what?”

Evelyn knew what to say—she had expected such a question. Trembling, she walked away from Julianne, glancing outside at the gardens. “I am apologizing because I am in his debt, he is right—it is too dangerous in France now—and I do not like misunderstandings.” She was as firm as possible.

“I am confused,” Lady Paget declared. “Jack would
love
to help a woman like yourself! He would love to be your hero!”

Evelyn had to turn and look at her. She seemed incredulous. “My brother adores danger. He cannot live without it,” Julianne continued. “It does not make sense that he would tell you that such a quest was too dangerous! I almost feel that we are discussing two very different men.”

Evelyn realized that her hostess was very suspicious now. “I’m sorry,” Evelyn whispered in a strained voice. “But that is exactly what he said, that it was far too dangerous, and not worth the risk! That is why he refused—and he is right, of course!”

“Is he?” Julianne’s red brows lifted. “It was far more dangerous to be in France four years ago—when he helped you and your family flee. As you know, my husband is half-French, and we follow the events in France very closely. I’m sorry, but I am so curious now. You are defending Jack, strangely, or so it seems to me.”

Very uncomfortable now, not wanting to argue, Evelyn said, “It was a misunderstanding, my lady. It is actually as simple as that.”

Julianne studied her, clearly trying to decide what to believe.