A Brother's Honor Page 24

  Abigail stiffened. Red knew about her and Dominic, so he must know she was here on Dominic’s behalf. She must pretend that his words had not unsettled her. “He finds the way the English use French very amusing.”

  “Must say ye seem a bit smarter than I expected Sir Harlan’s daughter-in-law to be.” Red eyed her with new respect. “Didn’t think no smart gal like ye would be marrying that mad lout.”

  “Sir—”

  “Red be my name.”

  “All right, Red. Here is what I can pay.” She pulled the emerald necklace from her bag and dropped it to the table.

  He snatched the necklace before it hit the dirty surface. Raising it so the gems caught the light, he whistled lowly. “These stones be real.”

  “Yes.”

  “’Tis worth St. Clair’s ransom.”

  She chuckled. “Exactly. In exchange for that, can you deliver this?” She set the sealed letter on the table, but kept her fingers on it. “Can you deliver it unopened?”

  “Aye, ’tis possible.” He scratched the stump of his leg. When he saw her flush at the intimate motion, his grin broadened. “Gal, do ye know what ye be letting yerself in fer with this game?”

  “Aye,” she answered. He rumbled with laughter at her imitation of his thick accent.

  He dropped the knife onto the table, ignoring its clatter and how she flinched, but tightened his grip around the necklace. “All right, gal. Who be the one to get this letter?”

  “Unopened.”

  “Unopened,” he agreed. “Who be the one?”

  “Ogier Broulier, first mate on La Chanson de la Mer.”

  Nodding with satisfaction, Red stated, “I suspected as much. That will cost ye more, darlin’, than even this necklace. I need plenty of money to quiet tongues. I have no interest in hanging next to St. Clair.”

  “Nor do I. How can I know I can trust you?”

  He laughed and rose. Hobbling to the keg, he drew two mugs of rum. He dropped one in front of her. When it splashed on the table, she stood, moving her arm away in distaste. If she came back to Lady Sudley’s house smelling of cheap rum, there would be all kinds of questions she could not answer.

  In an eye-blurring motion, Red grasped her hand and pinned it to the table. “Ye can trust me to make it easy for ye.” He picked up the letter and stuffed it back in her bag.

  “What? You will not have it delivered?”

  “Ye can deliver it yerself.”

  Abigail wondered if the man had lost his mind along with his leg. “That is impossible. Ogier is not in London.”

  “But Evan Somerset is.”

  “Evan Somerset?” She sank to the bench, ignoring the stickiness on it. “You know where he is?”

  “I know where ye can find every rat in London.” He chuckled and released her arm. “Ye gave me the necklace, so I give ye his address.”

  “All right. Where is he?” As he began to spout the directions, she asked for something to write with and drew a map on the back of Dominic’s letter. “Thank you,” she said as she stood.

  “Miss Fitzgerald?” Red called as she went toward the door.

  “Yes?”

  “Don’t ye want to know why I am willin’ to help ye?”

  “I thought you were Dominic’s friend.”

  His laugh brushed the rafters of the empty tavern. “He’s a Frenchie. No friend of mine.”

  “Then why are you helping me?”

  “St. Clair and ye have made yerselves Sir Harlan’s enemies. That makes ye my allies.” Standing, he slapped at where his leg had been. “’Twas because of his tryin’ to save money instead of buildin’ a decent ship that I lost m’leg. ’Tis time he learned that he can’t use people to line his pockets with more gold. Good luck to ye, Miss Fitzgerald. I hope ye and Cap’n St. Clair tweak the baronet’s nose good for him.”

  “I hope so, too.”

  Red sat and took another drink. “Now I think ye should be on yer way. Don’t need no ladies cluttering up m’place when they ain’t doing no business with me.”

  “Thank you,” she said, then reached for the door. She hoped she was one step closer to saving Dominic.

  Abigail was amazed to discover that Red’s directions led to a small French salon not far from Tottenham Court Road. She looked through one of the large windows, but saw no one within. Mayhap everyone was in the kitchen.

  A bell rang as she opened the door. The scents of spices and chicken stock welcomed her. For a moment, she imagined herself in Aunt Velma’s kitchen, although the garlic and basil here were much more pungent than in anything Aunt Velma had prepared.

  She glanced around and saw another door on the far side of the room. A quartet of tables were topped with pale blue dishes and fresh flowers set in small, clear vases. More dishes were stacked in a corner cupboard beyond the salon’s larger window.

  The other door opened. A dark-haired woman smiled as she came into the salon, wiping her hands on the apron. She was obviously pregnant. “I am sorry,” she said. “We are not open for service this early in the day. If you wish to come back later …”

  “I am looking for Evan Somerset,” Abigail replied, knowing that she might not be able to return if she went back to Lady Sudley’s house with her errand not completed.

  “He is in the kitchen. One moment.” She went to the door and opened it. “Evan, you have a caller.” Coming back to Abigail, she motioned toward a table. “Please be seated, miss.”

  “I should not.” She batted at her cloak, which still stank of the tavern beside the Pool. “Your chairs are so lovely, and—” She looked past the woman as a man came through the door.

  His hair was light brown, glistening golden where the sun touched it. Of a height with Dominic, he was not quite as broad in the shoulders, suggesting that this man had not led the rough life Dominic loved on his ship.

  “Good afternoon,” he said. “I am Evan Somerset. This is my wife, Brienne.” He put his arm around the dark-haired woman who regarded him with obvious love.

  Abigail tried to smother the envy that raged through her. She wanted to be in Dominic’s arms as he gazed at her with the affection in this woman’s eyes, which were as dark as his. “My name is Abigail Fitzgerald. You do not know me, Mr. Somerset, but we have a mutual …” She hesitated, then said simply, “Friend. Dominic St. Clair.”

  “Dominic?” Mr. Somerset chuckled. “I was just talking with Brienne about him the other day. About our last trip to France. Remember, Brienne?”

  His wife laughed. “How could I forget your outrageous tales of the adventures you shared with Dominic?” She motioned again for Abigail to sit, then dropped gracefully into a chair herself. “Have you heard the story of their escapades in Bordeaux?”

  “No.” Abigail sat and fought not to tap her fingers on the table. She did not want to talk about the past. She needed to find help for Dominic right now.

  “Evan, you should tell her about it.”

  Abigail jumped to her feet. “No!” When the Somersets stared at her, she took a steadying breath and sat again. “Forgive me.”

  “What is wrong?” Mr. Somerset asked, his easy smile gone.

  “I need your help. Dominic is in terrible trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” His face became serious, his eyes matching the intensity she had seen in Dominic’s.

  “He is in prison here in England and is about to be put on trial as a spy or as a captain of a ship on the French blockade or something. He will be hanged. Mr. Somerset—”

  “Evan,” he corrected, then sat beside her at the table. “Dominic is here in England now? Is he mad?”

  “We were shipwrecked when my father’s ship’s crew blew up the Republic and—”

  “Whoa!” He raised his hands. “Slow down and start at the beginning.” As she did, he listened intently for a moment, then said, “Brienne, I think Miss Fitzgerald could use something to drink to steady herself.”

  “All set.” Brienne placed a tray with a pot of tea and c
ups on the table.

  Abigail tried to smile her thanks, but failed. She had not even noticed Brienne leaving the room. Taking the cup Brienne handed her, she continued with the complicated story of how her and Dominic’s lives had intersected and then taken such a peculiar series of turns to bring them to where they were now.

  “This is for you,” she finished, drawing the letter out of her bag. She hesitated, then asked, “Do you read French?”

  “What I cannot figure out,” he said with a taut smile, “Brienne will help me with. She was born in France.”

  Abigail handed him the letter. She tried to sip her tea as he broke the seal and began to read. It was impossible to swallow past her fear, so she set the cup back on the table.

  She dared not breathe as Evan began to read aloud, translating from the French.

  “My friend, I need your help. The woman who has had this message delivered to you is Abigail Fitzgerald. You must find her, either in London or at Sir Harlan Morris’s estate, and get her out of England without delay. She has saved my life more than once, mayhap because she knew that by keeping my heart beating it would long to become hers.”

  Evan chuckled. “You French are such romantics, Brienne.”

  His wife ruffled his hair and smiled. “And you love it, don’t you?”

  “I cannot disagree with that.” Bending over the sheet, he ran his finger along the words and read,

  “Arrange for her to be returned to her family in America, if you can. There she will be safe and begin her life anew. I thank you, my friend.”

  Evan put the sheet of paper down on the table.

  Abigail gasped, “There must be more.”

  “Only his signature at the bottom.” He handed her the letter. “See for yourself.”

  Although she could not decipher the words written in a bold scrawl, Dominic had been correct when he told her that enough words were similar to English that she would be able to pick out some of them. The letter said nothing of asking Evan to contact his crew to help him get out of prison.

  She looked up when a hand settled on her arm.

  Brienne Somerset gave her a sympathetic smile. “He clearly loves you very much, Miss Fitzgerald, because all his thoughts are for you.”

  “I will not leave him there in that prison to die.” Abigail came to her feet again. Her voice rose, too. “Until he is free, I shall not leave England. You cannot force me to do so.”

  “Force you?” The door from the kitchen opened again. “Who is forcing you to do something against your will?”

  Abigail’s face grew hot as an elderly woman came into the room. The woman’s French accent was even stronger than Dominic’s.

  Brienne went to her and said, “Grand-mère, this is Abigail Fitzgerald, a friend of Evan’s friend Dominic St. Clair.”

  “Forgive me for acting so out of hand,” Abigail said, sitting when the old woman did. “It has not been an easy day. I fear I overreacted to what was so unexpected.” She clenched her hands on the table. “If he thinks I shall leave him here to die, he—”

  Mme. LeClerc gasped and grabbed Abigail’s hand. “Where did you get this?” She ran her finger along Dominic’s ring.

  “Dominic gave it to me. He thought I could trade it along the docks for help in having his letter delivered to his ship, but I was told to come here and Evan Somerset would help me.” She drew her hand away from Mme. LeClerc, unsettled by the fervor in the old woman’s eyes.

  The elderly woman’s face became as gray as her hair. She stared at the ring. “May I see it more closely, Miss Fitzgerald?”

  Abigail hesitated, then drew it off and placed it in Mme. LeClerc’s trembling hand.

  Mme. LeClerc unwound the material and tilted it to look inside. “I do not believe it!”

  “Believe what?” Abigail asked, glancing at the Somersets, who seemed as baffled as she was.

  “The design on the side.” She ran her finger along the bolt of lightning. Looking up at Evan, she asked, “Do you recognize it?”

  “The thunderstone design that is on Brienne’s vase.”

  Abigail did not want to waste time on this conversation that seemed to be going nowhere. “Yes, it is a thunderstone. Dominic told me that. Is it a popular design in France for a wedding ring?”

  “Not in the least. See here?” Mme. LeClerc pointed to the etched letters that had been nearly worn away by Dominic’s life on the sea. “Can you see the initials?”

  “No.” Abigail squinted, but still could not see anything along the polished gold.

  “I can. My eyes may be old now, but they were much younger when I first saw this ring.”

  Brienne asked, “In France?”

  “At Château Tonnere du Grêlon.”

  “Château Tonnere du Grêlon?” Abigail gasped. “Dominic said that was his father’s home. You were there, too?”

  Mme. LeClerc whispered, “I was there when the duc brought these rings home from Paris so he might marry his beloved Sophie. See inside? It is engraved MML & SR. Marc-Michel Levesque and Sophie Rameau.”

  “Levesque?” Abigail shook her head. “Impossible. Dominic said this was his father’s wedding ring, and his father’s name was St. Clair.”

  “It was Levesque.” She turned to her wide-eyed granddaughter. “Do you remember me telling you that you were not the eldest; that you had a brother?”

  “Yes.” Brienne put her hands on her stomach as if to embrace her unborn baby.

  “It seems that he did not die in Paris when the duc was beheaded on the guillotine. The little boy’s nurse was a St. Clair from the village outside the château, if I recall correctly.” She laughed. “Just as your nurse was a LeClerc, ma petite. I believe this Dominic is your lost brother, Brienne.”

  Abigail glanced from one face to another. Mme. LeClerc was still staring at the ring. The Somersets wore identical expressions of shock.

  “I’ll be damned,” Evan said as a smile stole his amazement. “Dominic is a duc’s heir? I daresay the residents of Château Tonnere du Grêlon are in for a shock when they meet their new duc.”

  “My brother,” Brienne breathed. “My brother is alive.”

  Abigail hated having to ruin their happiness, but she said, “Dominic shall not be alive much longer if a way is not found to free him from that prison. Once I am married—”

  “Married?” Evan asked sharply. “I thought you and Dominic are lovers.”

  “It is not that simple.” She sighed. “Please listen to what else I have to tell you, and then mayhap you can help me find a way to help him soon. If not, he will die.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Abigail rushed into Dominic’s cell, then paused, looking back to be certain Pritchard had closed the door behind her and left. He must not be privy to what she had to share with Dominic. She slid the panel closed and leaned against the door, glad to be here. Her fears that she would not find a way to sneak away from the house had been for naught. Sir Harlan had returned home and immediately gotten into an argument with Captain Fitzgerald. That had given her the chance to come here.

  Dominic swept her into his arms. His lips, eager for love, claimed hers. She clung to him, for just touching him helped her believe the nightmare was over.

  When he raised his head, he whispered, “I missed you, chérie.”

  “I missed you, too.” She brought his mouth back to hers.

  His kiss was swift before he drew back to ask, “Did you talk to Red?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?” he prompted when Abigail added nothing else.

  “He sent me to your friend Evan Somerset.”

  “Evan is in London?”

  She smiled. “He told me to tell you that you would not recognize him now that he is a happily married man with a child on the way.”

  “Married?” Dominic chuckled. “He was right. I cannot imagine him giving up his vagabond ways.”

  Abigail gripped his fingers more tightly. “Dominic, that is not all. We believe his wife, Brie
nne, is your sister.” She drew off the ring and pressed it into his hand. “The symbol on this ring belongs to the duc who held Château Tonnere du Grêlon. Brienne Somerset is his older daughter. There was another sister, who may be alive somewhere in France.” She closed his fingers over the ring. “And a son. You, Dominic.”

  “I have a sister?”

  “Two.” Putting her hand over his, she said, “Brienne believes that your father gave you to the care of your nurse, as she was given into the care of hers when your father died during the Terror. Your mother fled with your other sister, who was only a baby.”

  He slowly opened his fingers and stared at the ring. “I never guessed.”

  “That you had two sisters or that you are the heir of a duc.” She laughed. “Duc Dominic Levesque.”

  “Levesque?”

  “Your father’s name. Your name, Dominic, when you claim Château Tonnere du Grêlon.”

  “It matters not.” He handed her back the ring.

  “What?” She frowned. This was not the excitement she had anticipated.

  He sat her on the edge of the straw-topped bed. “Chérie, while you were in London, my long-delayed trial was held.” He gave her an ironic smile. “You would have been furious at the quick disposal of my case which will lead to the quick disposal of me.”

  “Dominic! Why are you jesting about this?”

  “What other choice do I have?”

  Abigail closed her eyes as her shoulders sagged beneath the weight that had been lifted so briefly by the glad tidings she was bringing to him. She could not answer his question.

  “When?” she whispered.

  “By week’s end. I had thought Fitzgerald would have me dragged from the trial to the gallows, but he did not protest the delay.”

  She bit her lip to keep from speaking the truth. Dominic’s trial must have been the last detail before the wedding that Sir Harlan had mentioned. No wonder he had been so eager to take her to London. Not only could he court the Sudleys’ favor, but he kept her away during the trial.

  And the reason the hanging was being delayed was just as simple to understand. Sir Harlan knew she would not marry Clive unless he had this threat to hold over her head.