man of short and stocky stature burst out of the remaining crowd like an arrow from a bow, bustling toward the baron with a curious mixture of humility, self-importance and fear. “I am Robert Chalfront, my lord,” he said in a rather high-pitched voice. “I have been the bailiff here for ten years.”
Etienne glanced at Gabriella Frechette. She did not like this man, although she was trying not to show any emotion at all.
Nevertheless, Etienne had spent years gauging reactions, so he was quite certain that she hated the bailiff. Yet he had been in her father’s employ for ten years. That was most interesting, and possibly another tool for him to use. “You may remain bailiff, Chalfront,” the baron announced, his decision made in that instant. “Your continued presence should ease the transition to my rule.”
A subdued murmur ran through the crowd, whether of approval or not, Etienne did not trouble himself to consider.
Chalfront did not stifle the relieved sigh that broke from his lips as he bowed to the baron. “I will serve you well, my lord. I give you my word. The reeve is here, my lord, and the woodward and the—”
“I expect nothing less than my due, from you or any of my people,” Etienne replied. “As for the reeve and the others, I will see them another day. Tell me about the late earl’s son.”
Her brown eyes gleaming with defiance, Gabriella Frechette stepped forward. “Baron, is this not an inappropriate place to discuss such matters?”
Etienne regarded the young woman with the mildest of disdain. “I do not recall addressing you.”
She flushed, and after a moment’s hesitation, looked down at the ground.
Etienne immediately turned back to the bailiff. “Answer my question, Chalfront,” he commanded, his voice still calm and unruffled.
“My lord, the present Earl of Westborough is—”
“There is no longer an Earl of Westborough,” Etienne observed.
“Yes, well, um, my lord, Bryce Frechette is somewhere in Europe at the moment, we think, and—”
“Where in Europe?”
“Nobody knows, my lord. Naturally we tried to locate him when his father fell ill, but to no avail, I’m afraid”
Etienne listened impassively, although he had been informed of this before He wanted to hear how the local people interpreted the childish action of the son of their late lord. It was quite obvious his sister did not condemn him for it—more fool her! “He did not say where he planned to travel before he left?” Etienne asked, already knowing the answer.
Chalfront cleared his throat nervously and gave a sidelong glance at the blushing Gabriella.
“He, um, left home rather abruptly, my lord,” Chalfront said, “after a quarrel with his father. His father claimed he did not care where his son had gone. When it became clear that the earl’s illness was mortal, Lady Gabriella sent men to find him. Unfortunately, by the time they returned with no news of her brother, the earl was dead. Lady Gabriella could not afford to send the men again and, being wiser in her handling of money than her father, she did not.”
Gabriella Frechette stiffened, but said nothing.
“This Bryce Frechette ... what do you think he would do, should he hear of his father’s demise?” Etienne inquired.
Chalfront looked down at his hands, then glanced at Gabriella Frechette. Her expression was murderous, and Chalfront’s tone changed to one of angry defiance, aimed not at the baron to whom he spoke, Etienne guessed, but at the woman beside him. “I cannot say, my lord. He was something of a wild youth, if truth be told, impetuous and spoiled. Some—nay, most—felt it was better that he had gone, although of course it is regrettable that any son should quarrel so with his father.”
“You felt it was better he was gone!” Gabriella Frechette cried impetuously, her hands drawing into fists at her side. “You were glad that there was no one to watch over you except my sick father! No one who might see your dishonesty!”
“Dishonesty?” Chalfront squeaked, growing red in the face.
“My steward has examined the account rolls of Castle Frechette and found nothing amiss,” Etienne said, believing Gabriella Frechette’s accusation was made of haste and hate. He had every confidence that Jean Luc, his steward of many years, would have noticed had anything been amiss with the castle’s financial records. “And I should not have to remind you again that you will speak only when you have been addressed,” the baron said to the young woman. He spoke not loudly, but with unmistakable firmness
Rather impressively and contrary to the reaction he had anticipated, she quickly regained her self-control. Her eyes still flashed with angry fire and she did not look at the bailiff, but it was clear she was capable of subduing her emotions when it was necessary. A most rare quality in a woman, and one completely unexpected.
“Why are you not married?” he asked suddenly, trying to confound her. When she did not answer, he said, “Well?”
“Excuse me, my lord, I did not realize you were addressing me.”
She was playing a dangerous game, this pretty woman with the defiant eyes standing before him in wounded pride and unbowed majesty. But she would lose. He would win this first test of his authority, because he must always win. “Why are you not married?” he repeated, and no one who heard the stern tone of his voice would have dared refuse to answer.
“Because I did not wish to be,” Gabriella Frechette said, some of her defiance replaced by obvious fear.
“My lord, if I may say so, Lady Gabriella tended to her parents most devotedly,” Chalfront stuttered, clearly terrified. “She said she would entertain no suitors while she did her duty to them.”
“I did not ask you for your opinion, bailiff,” the baron noted dispassionately. The man looked about to collapse, but that was of no concern to Etienne. He spoke only to the young woman. “Apparently your father was more shortsighted than I had been told, since his lack of concern for your future has left you on my hands. Is there no other family to whom you could go?”
“No.”
“You will address me as ‘my lord’ or ‘Baron,”’ he said.
“No, my lord,” she replied with undeniable scorn in her dark brown eyes.
What kind of creature was this? The boldest knights in England were more easily dominated than this wench. “Who fostered you?” he demanded.
“No one, my lord. My parents wished to raise us.”
“If you are as devoted to God as you were to your parents, you should go to a convent.”
“Excuse me, my lord?” Chalfront interrupted again, his voice like the squeak of a mouse.
The baron turned his impartial gaze onto the bailiff. “What is it?”
Chalfront cleared his throat nervously. “Lady Gabriella is penniless, my lord. It would cost some money for her to be accepted into a convent, and there is nothing left.”
“There
