A Daughter's Destiny Read online

  “Good afternoon, Grand-mère.” As always, she spoke in French while en famille.

  Setting the linens on the table, Grand-mère picked up the small vase. She ran a gnarled finger along the design. A sad smile deepened her careworn face beneath her thinning, white hair.

  “Why did you bring this vase down here, ma petite?” asked her grandmother. “I thought Lucile had it in her room.”

  “Take it if you wish.” Brienne was tempted to add that she would be delighted never to see the vase again.

  “It may ease Lucile’s discomfort.”

  Brienne nodded. Maman had always been sickly, and the sooty air of London made it impossible for her to leave her bed. Every year, she grew weaker.

  Grand-mère walked to the door opening onto the stairs. “I am going to get the desserts Lord Grantton ordered. Do you need anything while I’m out?”

  “I have everything ready for tonight. Finally.” She gestured toward the table. “Tip just arrived with today’s order.”

  “So it was his voice I heard?”

  “Yes.” She looked away, not wanting to let her beloved grandmother know she was not being completely honest.

  “I shall be back within the hour, ma petite.”

  “That will—Oh, no!” Brienne whirled as a telltale smell warned that the broth needed stirring.

  Grand-mère chuckled. “I believe the broth needs more basil.”

  Kissing her grandmother’s cheek, Brienne smiled. Cooking here was always a cooperative task, as long as Grand-mère did not catch her tasting the sauces.

  Brienne went into the salon. Seeing a man’s hat on a table, she sighed. Mr. Somerset must have left it. Dash it! That meant he would be coming back. Mayhap he would send a servant to retrieve it. She put the hat on a peg near the entrance. If she met Mr. Somerset at the door, she could have him on his way without delay.

  As the door opened, Brienne glanced over her shoulder. Her lips tightened, and she prepared to tell Mr. Somerset to take his hat and himself from L’Enfant de la Patrie.

  Her eyes widened as two men entered the salon. They were dressed in the shabby clothes of seamen.

  “May I help you?” she asked, hoping they would realize their mistake and leave.

  The taller man ran his fingers through his greasy, black hair and leered a broken-toothed smile. “Ye ain’t Brienne Laclerk, are ye?”

  “I am Miss LeClerc.”

  “Listen to that Frenchie talk. Right out of Boney’s court, eh, Lefty?”

  She followed his gaze to the man by the door. He reached for the drapes and closed them.

  “What are you doing?” Brienne asked.

  The black-haired man grabbed her arm. She gasped when he spun her to face him. Her breath snagged as she stared at the long blade of a knife he held close to her face.

  “Be quiet, darlin’. I wouldn’t want to be cuttin’ yer pretty face.”

  “Wh-wh-what do you want?” About a dozen guineas were cached in the box on the top shelf in the kitchen. Would that be enough to satisfy them? It must, because she could not let them upstairs where they could hurt her invalid mother.

  He shoved her into a chair. “Miss Laclerk, make it easy on yerself. Tell us what we want t’know. Where is it?”

  “Where is what?” She stared at the blade.

  “C’mon, darlin’. Tell us. If you don’t …”

  Scowling, she ordered, “Begone!”

  He laughed. “As soon as ye tell us where it is.”

  “Where what is? I don’t—” She gasped as he raised his hand. He would not strike her … would he?

  “Tell me, darlin’. Otherwise, I’ll ’ave to be searchin’ this place. Ye won’t be liking it.” He cracked the knuckles of one hand.

  “There, Ep! Look over there!” called the other man.

  When the black-haired man went to the sideboard, she started to rise. A heavy hand pressed her onto the chair.

  “Don’t be moving, lass,” the second man warned. “Give us what we came for, and we’ll be on our way.”

  “What do you want?” she whispered.

  “Shut up!” snapped the black-haired man. “Shut up, or I’ll be shuttin’ ye up.” He examined the vases Brienne had yet to fill with flowers.

  Horror filled her. Vases? Had Mr. Somerset sent them? Was this what he had meant when he told her she would regret not selling him the vase?

  “Where is it?” the black-haired man demanded.

  “If you would tell me what you want, I could—”

  With a growl, he swept everything off the sideboard. Dishes crashed to the floor, splintering. When he scowled at her, she feared her punishment was just beginning.

  If only they would explain.…

  “Where is it, darlin’?”

  “Please tell me what you want.”

  “All right, darlin’. We’ll pretend yer as stupid as ye act. The vase. The one with the lightning bolt. Where is it?”

  In disbelief, she stared at him. For almost twenty years, the vase had been here. Why was someone interested in it now? “I don’t know.” She could not take them upstairs. Maman was too fragile. The shock of seeing these wretched men could kill her. “Honestly, I … d-d-d-don’t know.”

  He seized her hair, tilting her head back. “When yer brains are loosened a bit,” he growled, “ye might be more likely to be rememberin’ where ye put it.”

  “Stop,” she whispered, but he did not heed her as he raised his hand again. It swung at her.

  The pain lasted only a heartbeat before it, along with her fear, disappeared into blackness.

  The warm, sweet scent of starched linen teased Brienne. Slowly she became aware that she was moving. Odd, for her feet were not on the ground. It was as if she were floating.

  Sound intruded. A low, repetitious rumble close to her ear, like a distant church bell tolling matins. The cadence grew more rapid as she heard a soft squeak. A door opening?

  “Miss LeClerc?”

  A man’s voice! Whose?

  Something hard and flat pressed against her back. Cool dampness caressed her forehead. She tried to reach up to touch what lay across her brow. Her arm was too heavy.

  “Miss LeClerc, can you hear me?”

  Yes, she could hear him. She tried to find words to answer.

  The dampness moved from her forehead to her cheek. Agony erupted through her. Her eyes opened as her hand clasped a wool sleeve. She stared up at Evan Somerset.

  “What …” She groaned when the single word ached through her head.

  “It might be better if you don’t say anything right now.”

  Brienne looked past him. She was in the kitchen. She was lying on the kitchen table if her blurry eyes were not playing her false. That smell—the broth was burning! With a moan, she pushed herself up to sit.

  “Be careful,” he warned.

  She cradled her throbbing head in her hands. She doubted if she could move any way but carefully right now. Any sudden motion threatened to send her head flying off.

  “The stove,” she whispered, closing her eyes. “The broth … it needs stirring.”

  He muttered something; then she heard his footsteps cross the wood floor. He yelped. Metal clattered. She moaned as the noise struck her.

  “Those handles were hot,” he grumbled as he came back to the table.

  “You should have used a cloth.”

  “Thank you for the sympathy.”

  “I’m sorry.” Weak tears billowed into her eyes. “I don’t have much sympathy for anyone else at the moment. My head hurts so horribly.”

  His arm slipped around her shoulders as he put the damp cloth in her hands. She raised it to her forehead. When she swayed, he placed her cheek against his chest. The scent of starch and the low sound of his heartbeat were shockingly familiar.

  “I brought you in here,” he said as if he could hear her confused thoughts, “because I did not want you to wake up and see the other room.”

  “What is wrong with the oth
er room?”

  “How much do you remember?”

  Brienne frowned, then wished she had not. Another slash of pain cut across her face. She touched the puffiness by her left eye. What had happened? Her eye was as sore as when she had fallen as a child and suffered a black eye. What if she had another one now? How was she going to explain that to her patrons or to Grand-mère?

  “Brienne, how much do you remember?”

  She stared at Mr. Somerset, shocked he would use her given name. As the fuzz clouding her vision cleared, she saw his straight lips.

  “Brienne?”

  “I remember you,” she retorted, irritated at his impatience. “What are you doing back here?”

  “I came back for my hat, but I found something quite unexpected.” He pushed aside the door to the salon.

  Brienne slid from the table. Smoothing her dress around her, she took a single step, then wobbled. She forced her feet to take another step.

  “Mon Dieu,” she whispered.

  Every table and chair in the salon was upset. Shards of broken glass and mounds of dented silver covered the floor. All the cabinets gaped open. Even the plants edging the window had been tipped over.

  She shivered as memory burst upon her as viciously as the black-haired man’s blow. “Two men came in here and did this. Did you send them?”

  “Me? Why do you think I sent them?”

  Evan Somerset tried to be patient when Brienne did not answer him, but he could think of only one reason why she would accuse him of having a hand in this. He hoped he was wrong.

  She lurched to the window. Kneeling, she set a plant on the sill. Her shoulders quivered, but when he put his hands on them, she shook them off. She stood and crossed the room, clearly trying to keep as much distance between them as possible.

  Pretty Brienne LeClerc was anxious to be rid of him. Pretty … she was that. Her trim figure was outlined so perfectly by her plain gown. She did not need the bows and flounces that decorated the frocks worn by the élite. Her loosened hair cloaked her in an ebony sheen, tempting his fingers to entangle in it. How soft it had been when it had draped over his arm as he carried her into the kitchen!

  He went to the sideboard. It had been knocked onto its side and one leg broken off. Ramming his fist against his other palm, he wished he could find the blackguards who had attacked this salon … and Brienne. He would find them. Then they would rue this.

  He knew who was responsible for this. Evan Somerset. How could he have been so stupid? That he had come to L’Enfant de la Patrie twice must have tipped his hand. He had been a complete idiot not to expect competition. Lagrille trusted him as much as England trusted Napoleon.

  The vase! If those men had the vase now, he should be giving chase.

  Instead, he went to where Brienne was struggling to lift a table back onto its legs. Without a word, he set it upright. He smiled as she held out his ruined hat. Taking it, he poked his fingers through the holes. “What did they want, Brienne?”

  “Ain’t it obvious?” At the deep, frigid voice, Evan turned to meet the iron gray eyes of the man entering the salon.

  Evan recognized the stench of authority. Although he usually found it prudent to stay far from any forces of the law, he did not move. He recalled a headmaster who once had tried to daunt him with a superior scowl such as this. That teacher had suffered many cruel tricks before Evan had ended their mutual duress by leaving school on a moonless night.

  “I am Evan Somerset,” he said with a cool smile. “Who are you?”

  “Haviland. I oversee the watch here.”

  “Do you? Then, what pub were you hiding in instead of protecting this woman and her business as you are paid to do?”

  Brienne surprised him by saying, “If you gentlemen wish to talk, please do it outside. I must restore my salon for my patrons.”

  “Let us help,” said Haviland so kindly Evan chuckled under his breath. The watchman must be smitten with Brienne, although not enough to risk his skin.

  As Haviland seated Brienne at the table, she hunched her shoulders to avoid touching him. Good. She was sensible. Haviland would be no help, but Evan had to make certain that calling in the Bow Street Runners was not suggested. Those lads might find the men who had done this before he could. That would lead to all kinds of complications.

  He had to get that vase! Even a piece of it would be enough. Why, he had no idea. Nor did he care, for all he wanted was to find the vase, collect his pay, and go on to his next assignment, which he would make sure was less complicated than this one was becoming.

  Leaning against the wall, he crossed his arms over his chest in a negligent pose guaranteed to bring out the worst in Haviland.

  Haviland glowered at him. “What in the hell—Excuse me, Miss Laclerk. What are ye doin’ here, Somerset?”

  “This is a place of public business. I came here on business.”

  “What business?”

  “My business.”

  Haviland kicked a table. It collapsed with a crash. He ignored the flare of dismay in Brienne’s eyes as he stepped toward Evan. “Somerset, if ye don’t cooperate, ye’ll find yerself rottin’ in prison.”

  “No!” cried Brienne, leaping to her feet. “You cannot put a man in jail for no reason.”

  Haviland whirled to face her. “I can give ye lots of reasons, Miss Laclerk. One is gettin’ in my way.”

  “Now, now,” Evan said, “there is no cause for such words to Miss LeClerc.”

  When Haviland growled something incoherent, Evan looked at Brienne. Her dark eyes still flashed. Her impassioned defense was a surprise. He would have guessed she would gladly pay the turnkey to put shackles on him.

  She rocked almost off her feet as Haviland pushed past her, and Evan swore under his breath. This was not the time to enjoy poking fun at Haviland. She was ready to collapse. That was no surprise either.

  Evan grasped her hand and drew her to him. She almost tumbled into his arms. When she stiffened and was about to pull away, he murmured, “I need you to cooperate if you want to get rid of him.”

  She glanced at Haviland, then nodded.

  Slipping his arm around her shoulders, he turned her to him. The lush softness of her breasts against his chest threatened to take his breath away. His fingers sifted through her thick hair that swept over his arm, and he gazed down into her eyes which were lustrous with unshed tears. He had never seen such courage … or such temptation.

  He brushed his lips against hers, savoring the sweet flavor of her mouth. She stared up at him, astonishment lighting her eyes until they glowed like dark jewels. Smiling, he kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes and rested her cheek against his chest.

  Looking over her head, Evan said, “As you can see, Haviland, I am here because Brienne is my dear friend.”

  “Dear friend?” He snorted. “She don’t have gentleman callers.”

  “If you watch this salon closely enough to know that, you should have seen the two men who attacked her.”

  “Two?”

  Evan cursed his own glib tongue. If Brienne’s warmth were not so distracting, he might keep his mind on getting rid of Haviland and getting his hands on the vase. Although, he had to own, getting his hands on Brienne was not a bad consolation at the moment.

  “Miss Laclerk, is this true?”

  Brienne hesitated, not wanting to lie. Mayhap with this bit of information, Mr. Haviland would leave. Her salon was destroyed. It would take more money than she could imagine to repair the damage. Money! Mr. Somerset would give her Ł200 for that silly vase. As soon as the watchman left, she would sell it to him.

  “Yes, Mr. Haviland,” she said quietly. “Two men. They smelled of the docks.”

  Mr. Somerset tilted her face toward his. “Ma chère Brienne, how will you ever forgive me for letting you face this alone? How can I ever forgive myself for allowing such evil to hurt the one I love most in the whole world?”

  She bit back her retort that Evan Somerset loved no one bu
t himself. His blue gaze surrounded her as his fingers stroked her arm. The light touch urged her to forget everything else as she brought his mouth to hers again.

  “Brienne!”

  Pulling away from Mr. Somerset, Brienne ran to her grandmother, who was staring at the broken chairs and tables. “Grand-mère, be careful! Will you go to Maman? She must have heard the noise here.”

  “No doubt about that.” Grand-mère picked up a tablecloth and frowned at the dirt on it.

  “Please reassure her that everything will be all right. I can handle this.”

  In haughty, very correct English, she demanded, “Will you handle this, ma petite? Or will you be the one handled?”

  “Grand-mère!” She forced a smile. “Please do not tease me about Evan. Have you forgotten what he asked me this afternoon?” She hated lying, but she did not want to see anyone, even Evan Somerset, sent to prison. She had heard too many stories of the horror of the Bastille.

  “This afternoon?” Her eyes narrowed.

  Evan stepped forward, took the old woman’s hand, and bowed over it. “Bon après-midi, madame. Je voudrais—”

  “Do not try to charm me by speaking French, young man.” A smile tipped her lips. “However, you do speak it well for an Englishman.”

  “A friend taught me well.”

  “A friend? A friend like Brienne?”

  Amusement glittered in his eyes. “A very different type of friend, madame. I should have said a business acquaintance.”

  “I shall not ask what business that was.”

  “A wise decision.”

  With a chuckle, Grand-mère turned to Brienne. “We still have much to discuss before I allow you to mix up your life with such a scoundrel, ma petite.” She did not give Brienne a chance to answer as she added to Haviland, “I trust you have suspects to capture and be tried for this crime against us, sir.”

  The watchman opened his mouth, then clamped it closed as he strode out of the salon. The door crashed behind him, rattling the gilded glass.

  “Good riddance,” Evan said with a return of his smile. Bowing his head, he said, “Evan Somerset, madame—”