“His two sisters live there, and so does his brother, or so I have heard.”
* * *
EVELYN STARED AT the letter she was trying to write.
Dear Lady Paget,
I hope I am not offending you by writing to you now. We have never met, and you may find my request presumptuous, but it has come to my attention that you are Jack Greystone’s sister. I was briefly acquainted with him several years ago, and am currently trying to contact him. If you could help me do so, I would be greatly in your debt.
Sincerely,
Lady Evelyn D’Orsay
It did not seem right—it seemed terribly forward and bold. Evelyn laid her quill down and tore the parchment into shreds.
Any woman receiving such a missive would instantly dismiss it. If she received such a letter, she would assume that some lovesick woman was pursuing her brother! Yet Evelyn could not state why she wished to locate Greystone, and therein lay the problem.
She might have to go to London, and boldly call on either the Countess of Bedford or the Countess of St Just, Evelyn thought grimly. As she did not know either woman, the notion was daunting. However, she had learned that Lady Paget was married to a man with French relations, so she might be able to use that as some kind of entrée. But before she took such a trip, which would require some expenses and take several days, she would leave no stone unturned in Cornwall.
She felt some despair. Having already spent the past week unearthing a great many Cornish stones she did not have very many left to turn over.
Greystone had a bounty on his head. If caught, there would be no pleading down the charges of smuggling, no simple transportation. If caught, he could be imprisoned indefinitely—habeas corpus had been suspended last May—or he could hang, as John Trim had said. And that meant…Jack Greystone was in hiding.
Of course he was. She happened to know firsthand how clever, resourceful and adept he was. She had no doubt that he was also an extremely wary man. A few days ago, she had been so hopeful, and so certain, that she would be able to find him and convince him to aid her in recovering the gold in France. Now she was filled with doubt. It almost felt as though she was looking for a needle in a haystack. If he did not wish to be found, would she ever be able to locate him?
She had spent the past week asking everyone she thought could be even remotely helpful about him. She had gone to the various shopkeepers in the local village, one by one, but while everyone knew of him, no one knew him personally. He was most definitely notorious, and held in the highest esteem by the local Cornish people.
Then she had turned her attention to Fowey. She had spoken to the owner of the White Hart Inn, as John Trim had suggested, but he had been purposefully unhelpful.
She had spent two days in town, speaking with the shopkeepers and merchants there, but to no avail. She was beginning to think that there were very few stones left to turn. Of course, there did remain one—and it was a rock.
She was going to have to call on her uncle.
* * *
EVELYN STARED AT the imposing front entrance of her aunt and uncle’s home. A tall square stone house, the front entrance was in the style of a temple, with large columns supporting a pediment. She inhaled. She had not been back to Faraday Hall since her marriage, almost nine years ago.
As she slowly got out of the gig, she thought about her childhood: her aunt’s constant harping, Lucille’s cruelty, and spending most of her time by herself, doing various chores. A wave of loneliness swept over her. It was accompanied by a wave of grief. How had she survived such a lonely childhood? Her husband had changed all of that, by taking her away from this place, by giving her Aimee. But in that moment, as she stood there looking at the entrance of the house, she felt just as lonely as she had as a child. In that moment, she missed Henri, and realized how alone she was, even though she was a mother, and Laurent, Adelaide and Bette were as loyal and beloved as family.
It was foolish nonsense, she decided, shaking herself free of such despondency.
Evelyn rapped on the front door, using the brass-ring knocker. A moment passed before Thomas answered. The butler, whom she had known for years, took one look at her and gasped. “Miss Evelyn?” he asked.
She smiled at the short, bald manservant. “Yes, Thomas, it is I—Evelyn.”
He flushed and bowed. “I beg your pardon, Countess!”
She smiled, and in doing so, shook off the last vestiges of her past. “You must not bow to me,” she said.
She meant it. The staff had always been kind to her—far kinder than her own family.
A few moments later, she was escorted in to see her uncle, and she was relieved that her aunt was not at home. Robert greeted her warmly, surprising her. “I am so glad you have called. I have been meaning to send Enid to do so, to see how you are faring,” he said. “But you look well, Evelyn, considering what you are going through.”
She wondered if she had misjudged her uncle, if his indifference had been nothing more than that. “We are managing, and do not put Aunt Enid out, please, not on my account. I have decided to ask you for help, if your offer stands.”
He gestured for her to sit in one of the two chairs before his desk. A tall window was behind it, and through it, she could see the gardens behind the house, and the sea, just above the treetops. He turned to the butler, asking for tea and cakes. Then he sat down behind his desk. “I would love to help you if I can.”
“Will you keep what I am about to tell you in confidence?” she asked. “I am in an unusual position, and I hardly wish to have anyone know—not even my aunt.”
His smile was amused. “I keep a great many confidences from my wife, Evelyn, and I hardly failed to notice that she did not care for you greatly when you were a child.” He sighed. “I have never understood the ladies.”
She had no comment to make on that sore subject. “I am sure you have noticed that I am currently somewhat short on funds. However, Henri left a fortune for me and Aimee—at our home in France. The time has come for me to find a way to retrieve the family heirlooms he has left us, and I have decided to hire someone to do so.” She had decided not to tell her uncle that she meant to go with Greystone to France to retrieve the fortune there.
“I am relieved to hear that D’Orsay left something for you, but by God, how will you ever convince anyone to go to France now to retrieve the valuables? And are you sure that whatever Henri left for you, it is worth the risk?”
“It is quieter in France now than when we left, isn’t it?”
“It is hardly quiet! The countryside remains up in arms over the secularization of the clergy. Mobs continually attack the priests who
