reach Britain.” He turned to go.
It was as if there was an innuendo in his words. And somehow, she knew what that innuendo was. But surely she was mistaken. Evelyn did not think twice. She ran to him—and in front of him. “Sir! I am deeply in your debt. But to whom do I owe the lives of my daughter and my husband?”
“You owe Jack Greystone,” he said.
CHAPTER ONE
Roselynd on the Bodmin Moor, Cornwall
February 25, 1795
“THE COUNT WAS a beloved father, a beloved husband, and he will be sorely missed.” The parson paused, gazing out on the crowd of mourners. “May he rest eternally in peace. Amen.”
“Amen,” the mourners murmured.
Pain stabbed through Evelyn’s heart. It was a bright sunny day, but frigidly cold, and she could not stop shivering. She stared straight ahead, holding her daughter’s hand, watching as the casket was being lowered into the rocky ground. The small cemetery was behind the parish church.
She was confused by the crowd. She hadn’t expected a crowd. She barely knew the village innkeeper, the dressmaker or the cooper. She was as vaguely acquainted with their two closest neighbors, who were not all that close, as the house they had bought two years ago sat in solitary splendor on the Bodmin Moor, and was a good hour from everyone and anyone. In the past two years, since retreating from London to the moors of eastern Cornwall, they had kept to themselves. But then, Henri had been so ill. She had been preoccupied with caring for him and raising their daughter. There had not been time for social calls, for teas, for supper parties.
How could he leave them this way?
Had she ever felt so alone?
Grief clawed at her; so did fear.
What were they going to do?
Thump. Thump. Thump.
She watched the clods of dirt hitting the casket as they were shoveled from the ground into the grave. Her heart ached terribly; she could not stand it. She already missed Henri. How would they survive? There was almost nothing left!
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Aimee whimpered.
Evelyn’s eyes suddenly flew open. She was staring at the gold starburst plaster on the white ceiling above her head; she was lying in bed with Aimee, cuddling her daughter tightly as they slept.
She had been dreaming, but Henri was truly dead.
Henri was dead.
He had died three days ago and they had just come from the funeral. She hadn’t meant to take a nap, but she had lain down, just for a moment, beyond exhaustion, and Aimee had crawled into bed with her. They had cuddled, and suddenly, she had fallen asleep....
Grief stabbed through her chest. Henri was gone. He had been in constant pain these past few months. The consumption had become so severe, he could barely breathe or walk, and these past weeks, he had been confined to his bed. Come Christmastime, they had both known he was dying.
And she knew he was at peace now, but that did not ease her suffering, even if it eased his. And what of Aimee? She had loved her father. And she had yet to shed a tear. But then, she was still just eight years old, and his death probably did not seem real.
Evelyn fought tears—which she had thus far refused to shed. She knew she must be strong for Aimee, and for those who were dependent on her—Laurent, Adelaide and Bette. She looked down at her daughter and softened instantly. Aimee was fair, dark-haired and beautiful. But she was also highly intelligent, with a kind nature and a sweet disposition. No mother could be as fortunate, Evelyn thought, overcome with the power of her emotions.
Then she sobered, aware of the voices she could just barely hear, coming from the salon below her bedroom. She had guests. Her neighbors and the villagers had come to pay their respects. Her aunt, uncle and her cousins had attended the funeral, of course, even though they had only called on her and Henri twice since they had moved to Roselynd. She would have to greet them, too, somehow, even though their relationship remained unpleasant and strained. She must find her composure, her strength and go downstairs. There was no avoiding her responsibility.
But what were they going to do now?
Dread was like a fist in her chest, sucking all the air out of her lungs. It turned her stomach over. And if she allowed it, there would be panic.
Carefully, not wanting to awaken her child, Evelyn D’Orsay slid from the bed. As she got up slowly, tucking her dark hair back into place while smoothing down her black velvet skirts, she was acutely aware that the bedroom was barely furnished—most of Roselynd’s furnishings had been pawned off.
She knew she should not worry about the future or their finances now. But she could not help herself. As it turned out, Henri had not been able to transfer a great deal of his wealth to Britain before they had fled France almost four years earlier. By the time they had left London, they had run down his bank accounts so badly that they had finally settled on this house, in the middle of the stark moors, as it had been offered at a surprisingly cheap price and it was all they could afford.
She reminded herself that at least Aimee had a roof over her head. The property had come with a tin mine, which was not doing well, but she intended to investigate that. Henri had never allowed her to do anything other than run his household and raise their daughter, so she was completely ignorant when it came to his finances, or the lack thereof. But she had overheard him speaking with Laurent. The war had caused the price of most metals to go sky-high, and tin was no exception. Surely there was a way to make the mine profitable, and the mine had been one reason Henri had decided upon this house.
She had but a handful of jewels left to pawn.
But there was always the gold.
Evelyn walked slowly across the bedroom, which was bare except for the four-poster bed she had just vacated, and one red-and-white-print chaise, the upholstery faded and torn. The beautiful Aubusson rug that had once covered the wood floors was gone, as were the Chippendale tables, the sofa and the beautiful mahogany secretary. A Venetian mirror was still hanging on the wall where once there had been a handsome rosewood bureau. She paused before it and stared.
She might have been considered an exceptional beauty as a young woman, but she was hardly beautiful now. Her features hadn’t changed, but she had become haggard. She was very fair, with vivid blue eyes, lush dark lashes and nearly black hair. Her eyes were almond-shaped, her cheekbones high, her nose small and slightly tilted. Her mouth was a perfect rosebud. None of that mattered. She looked tired and worn, beyond her years. She appeared to be forty—she would be twenty-five in March.
But she didn’t care if she looked old, exhausted and perhaps even ill. This past year had drained her. Henri had declined with such alarming rapidity. This past month, he hadn’t been able to do anything for himself, and he hadn’t left his bed, not a single time.
Tears arose. She brushed them aside. He had been so dashing when they had first met. She had not expected his attentions! Mutual acquaintances had directed him to her uncle’s home, and the visit of a French count had put the household in an uproar. He had fallen in love with her at first sight. She had, at first, been overwhelmed by his courtship, but she had been an
