The Rake to Redeem Her Read online

  While keeping a weather eye out, he was still able to watch Elodie. Her unusual abstraction allowed him to stare at her with greater intensity than she would have otherwise allowed. He tried to keep warmth from welling back up as he studied her striding form and set face, every nuance of the body beneath those garments now familiar to his fingers and tongue.

  When his gaze wandered back to her face, he noted it was abnormally pale, her eyes bright, her expression as tense and rigid as her body. She paced rapidly, almost leaning forwards in her haste.

  Whatever ‘family matter’ she was about to address, it was both urgent and vitally important to her.

  From the hôtel, they passed through the streets of the Marais towards the Seine, south and west until they reached the Queen’s gate at the Place Royale. Though some of the houses inside that beautiful enclosure, like those of the Marais, were shuttered and forlorn, even shabbiness couldn’t mar its Renaissance beauty.

  Rows of lanes, presided over by trees serene in early summer leaf, were well populated by nursemaids with their charges, finely dressed ladies followed by their maids, men with the self-important air of lawyers conversing and a few couples strolling hand in hand. In the distance, on the lawn, several children frolicked.

  ‘Stay here,’ she demanded, startling him as she broke her silence. Where her face had been pale before, now hectic colour bloomed in her cheeks. Her eyes blazed, the tension evident in her body ratcheting tighter. Without checking to see if he heeded her directive, she set off.

  Neither curiosity nor prudent surveillance permitted him to obey. Will followed at a cautious distance, alertness heightened in him, too, as he sought to identify which of the wandering figures had seized her attention.

  As he inspected the several strolling gentlemen, his gaze caught on one who’d paused, leaning over the maid accompanying him. He was too far away to hear their conversation, but the hand the man rested on the girl’s shoulder, the juxtaposition of their bodies, nearly rubbing together even in this public space, hinted at intimacy. Had Elodie returned to find the man she loved romancing another woman?

  She stopped so abruptly, he had to catch himself before he got too close, though she now seemed so absorbed, he probably could have run right into her without breaking her concentration. Will was scrutinising all the people in the vicinity of her mesmerised gaze, trying to fix upon its object, when a nursemaid nearby called, ‘No, no, bring the ball back here, mon ange! I’ll throw it to you, Philippe.’

  A gasp of indrawn breath made him turn back to Elodie. She stood immobile, her gaze riveted on a dark-haired little boy, the basket clutched so tightly in her hand that the knuckles went white. Hope, joy, anxiety blazed in her face.

  Philippe. Philippe. Comprehension slammed into Will with the force of a runaway carriage, knocking all the preconceived notions out of his head.

  A ‘family matter’, she’d said. It wasn’t a lover she’d been so desperate to search for, but a little boy, he realised, even as he recognised her smile, her eyes, in the face of the child. She’d come back to Paris to find her son.

  Chapter Fourteen

  As she neared the children playing in the grass beside the gravelled allée in the Place Royale, Elodie picked up her pace. Her heart pounded and her skin prickled as if the mother’s love, trapped within her and denied expression for so long, was trying to escape her body and reach him before her feet could get her there.

  Discovering from the cook at the Hôtel de la Rocherie that Philippe was, indeed, still in Paris, playing with his nursemaid only a few streets away, had made her desperate to reach him, see him, clasp him once again in her arms. Frantically she raked her gaze from child to child while her thoughts chased one another as quickly as hounds after a fox.

  Would his hair still be ebony-black, his eyes still dark and alive with curiosity? He’d be slimmer now, more like a child than the sturdy toddler she’d left, ready for games and to sit a horse. Would he still love balls, play at soldiers, cajole for sweets?

  Then she saw him. Her heart stopped, as did her feet, while everything around her faded to a blur.

  He was taller, as she expected, his face more angular, having lost the roundness of babyhood. Pink-cheeked from exertions, his skin glowing with health, his eyes bright, his uninhibited laughter as he chased after his ball with that stubborn lock of hair curling down as always over his forehead, made her heart contract with joy.

  As her eyes left his face, she noted that his clothing had been fashioned from quality materials and fit him well. The nursemaid tossing him the ball regarded him with an affectionate eye and a husky footman stood nearby, obviously keeping watch.

  One anxiety dissipated. She’d for ever blame herself for not recognising the trap before she walked into it, but at least her instincts about the Comtesse de la Rocherie had been accurate. Philippe was well treated and cared for.

  But he was hers, she thought with a furious rush of determination. Despite all the odds, she’d survived her ordeal, connived her way back to Paris. She would reclaim her son at last and nothing but death would prevent her.

  Another swell of emotion shook her and she almost tossed down the basket to run to him, starved for the feel of him in her arms.

  She took a shaky breath, fighting off the urge. He hadn’t seen her for eighteen months, an eternity in the life of a young child. She mustn’t startle him, but approach quietly, let him notice her, inspect her, rediscover her at his own pace.

  Then she would work out how to steal him back.

  Hands shaking now on the basket, she strolled down the path, on to the grass near her son.

  It took two attempts before she could get the words to come out of her tight throat. ‘Would you like an orange, little man?’

  He looked over at her, his gaze going from the fruit to her face. Elodie held her breath as he studied her, willing recognition to register in those dark eyes, as lively and energetic as she remembered.

  After a moment, he looked away, as if concluding she was of no interest. ‘Jean, get me an orange,’ he commanded the footman before turning back to the maid. ‘Throw the ball again, Marie, harder. I’m a big boy now. See how fast I can run after it?’

  Hands raised to catch his ball, he trotted off, all his attention now on the maid. Consternation welling within her, Elodie set down the basket and hurried after him.

  ‘Come back, young gentleman,’ she coaxed. ‘Let me show you my fine oranges. They’ll please you as much as your ball.’

  ‘Not now,’ he said with a dismissive wave in her direction, eyes still on the maid.

  ‘No, please, wait,’ she cried, catching up to him and seizing an arm.

  He tugged away from her, but she held on, desperate for him to look at her again, really look at her.

  He did indeed look back at her, but instead of recognition, as his gaze travelled from her fingers clutching his shoulder to her face, the puzzlement in his eyes turned to alarm. His chin wobbling, he called out, ‘M-Marie!’

  He didn’t recognise her. Even worse, she’d frightened him! Aghast, appalled, she stared at him mutely, while denial and anguish compressed her chest so tightly she couldn’t breathe.

  The tall footman strode over, menace in his face as he pushed her roughly away from the child. ‘What d’ya think yer doing, wench?’ he growled, while her son ran from her towards the outstretched arms of his nurse. ‘I’ll call the gendarme on you.’

  Then, somehow, Will Ransleigh was beside her, one hand protectively on her shoulder while he made a placating gesture towards the footman. ‘No harm meant, monsieur. Just trying to get the gamin a treat, that’s all. Gotta make a living, you know.’

  ‘Better she sells her oranges at the market,’ the man retorted before walking back to the nursemaid, who handed him the child’s ball and hefted the frightened child into her arms. With a wary glance at them, the maid hurried off, the footman trotting beside her.

  Philippe, his small hands clutching the maid’s arms, didn�
��t look back at all as he buried his head against the nursemaid’s shoulder.

  Just as he used to nestle into her embrace, Elodie recalled with an agonising stab of loss. Had it been that long? Could the eighteen months of separation have erased from his memory every trace of her three years of tender love and constant care?

  She stood, staring after them, heartsick denial rising in her, watching until the small party turned the bend of the allée and disappeared out the gate. She couldn’t, wouldn’t believe it.

  Suddenly she felt as if the pressure of all the anguish and anxiety, fear and doubt churning within would make her chest explode. Her feet compelled into motion to try to relieve it, she set off pacing down the pathway, light-headed, nauseated and only dimly aware of Will Ransleigh keeping pace beside her.

  How could Philippe have forgotten her? His image was etched into her brain. With her first conscious thought every morning, her last every night, she recalled his face, wondered what he was doing, worried about his welfare.

  In the depths of her pain after St Arnaud’s savagery, his image burning in her heart had given her the will to struggle out of the soothing darkness of unconsciousness. Determination to return to him kept her from despair and lent her patience and courage during the long slow recovery, through tedious hours of needlework, each completed piece adding one more coin to the total needed to fund her journey back to him.

  When she pictured their reunion, she always imagined him fixing on her an intent, assessing gaze that would turn from curious to joyful as he recognised her. Imagined the feel of his slight frame pressed tightly in her arms when he threw himself against her, crying, ‘Maman! Maman!’

  Instead, he’d called for Marie. He’d clutched her arms, buried his head against her shoulder.

  But he was only a small boy and she had been missing almost half as many years as they’d had together. It had been unrealistic and probably foolish of her to expect he would remember her after so long.

  What under heaven should she do now?

  Despite the footman being alerted and the maid alarmed, Elodie knew that with a change of clothing and manner, she could weasel her way close to him again, into the house itself if necessary. She’d always envisioned picking him up, telling him to hush as they played a ‘hide-and-seek’ game while she stole away with him.

  She couldn’t do that if he were afraid, crying out, struggling against her to escape.

  She couldn’t do that to him, even if he didn’t struggle. The idea of tearing him from all that was comforting and familiar and carrying him off, alone and terrified, filled her with revulsion.

  Yet she couldn’t simply give him up.

  She walked and walked, circuit after circuit, her thoughts running in circles as unchanging as the perfect geometry of the Place. In continuous motion, but always ending up at the same point.

  He was young, he’d recover from the trauma, she argued with herself. He’d adjusted to living with the comtesse; he’d adjust again to living with her … even if he never truly remembered her. He was flesh of her flesh; he belonged with her. No one else alive had as much right to claim him as she did.

  But could she live with herself if she put him through such an ordeal? Other than the closest kinship of blood, what could she offer him that might compensate for the terror of being stolen away by a stranger?

  As she worked patiently in Vienna, she’d always imagined taking him away to a little village somewhere. Using the funds she’d obtain from selling the last of her jewels to buy a small farm in the countryside, where she could plant a garden, eke out a living selling herbs and doing needlework, watch her son grow to manhood. But now?

  She was alone with no friends, no allies and very little money. Somewhere St Arnaud might still lurk, a dangerous enemy who might be the force behind those who’d been trailing them. She’d fallen back into the hands of Will Ransleigh, whose tender care was meant to ensure her delivery to England, where he’d press her into a testimony that might send her all the way to the gallows.

  Leaving her son, if she stole him away, an orphan in an alien land.

  Was it right to catapult him into poverty, peril and uncertainty? Cut him off from the love, security and comfort of a privileged life in Paris?

  If he truly was loved, secure and comfortable.

  A sliver of hope surfaced, and she clung to it like a shipwrecked sailor to a floating spar. Perhaps, though his physical needs were being met, he was not well treated by the comtesse. Perhaps his adoptive mother neglected him, left his upbringing to servants. Kind nursemaids and protective footmen were well enough, but wasn’t it best for him to live with the mother who doted on him, who would make his comfort and well-being the focus of her existence?

  If St Arnaud’s sister, the Comtesse de la Rocherie, was not providing that, wouldn’t she be justified in stealing back the son she’d been tricked into leaving, despite the dangers and uncertainty of her present position?

  Elodie would never have the funds to provide the luxuries available in the household of a comtesse. But did the comtesse love and treasure Philippe, as she would?

  Elodie had to know. She would have to return to the Hôtel de la Rocherie and find out.

  And then make her terrible choice.

  Watching, as Elodie was, the footman and nursemaid’s rapid exit from the square, Will was startled when she suddenly set off down the gravelled path. Quickly he caught up, about to seize her arm and warn her he’d not let her escape again, when the stark, anguished face and hollow eyes staring into the far distance told him she was not trying to elude him; she was barely aware of where she was or who walked beside her.

  Knowing he would likely get nothing from her in her current state, Will settled for keeping pace, while he wondered about the story behind Elodie Lefevre—and her son.

  He couldn’t deny a soaring sense of relief that the mysterious Philippe had turned out to be a child of some five summers, rather than a handsome, strapping young buck. Thinking back, her soft laughter and oblique answer—’something like’—to his question about whether Philippe was her lover should have alerted him to the fact that the ‘family matter’ might not involve the rival he was imagining. He might have realised it, had a foolish jealousy not decimated his usual ability to weave into discernible patterns the information he gathered.

  ‘Something like’ a lover. Ah, yes; he knew just how much a small boy could love his mother.

  The son in Paris was obviously what St Arnaud had used to compel her co-operation in Vienna. How had he finagled that? A man who’d beat a woman half to death probably would not have many scruples about kidnapping a child.

  Had she thought, once she’d got back to Paris, she would give him the slip and then simply go off and steal the boy out from under the noses of the family with whom he’d been living?

  Will smiled. Apparently she’d thought exactly that. With her talent for disguise and subterfuge, she probably had in her ingenious head a hundred different schemes to make off with the boy and settle with him somewhere obscure and safe.

  Until Will Ransleigh had turned up to spoil those plans. He understood much better now why she’d run.

  He wondered which of those hundred schemes she intended to try next. After he gave her time to recover from the shock of seeing her son again, he’d ask her. There was no reason now for her not to confess the whole story to him.

  And then he would see how he could help her.

  He startled himself with that conclusion. It was no part of his design to drag a small boy back to England. But he had already conceded, despite his anger over her duping him, that he’d moved far beyond his original intention to barter her in whatever manner necessary to win Max’s vindication.

  Somehow, he’d find a way to achieve that and still keep Elodie safe. Elodie, and her son.

  Because, as much as he had initially resisted it, a deep-seated, compulsive desire had grown in him to protect this friendless, desperate woman without family or resources
, who with courage and tenacity had fought with every trick and scheme she could devise to reclaim a life with her son. Too late now to try to root that out.

  He was beginning to tire of the pacing when, at last, she halted as abruptly as she’d begun and sank on to a bench, infinite weariness on her face. Quickly he seated himself beside her. He tipped her chin up to face him, relieved when she did not flinch or jerk away from his touch.

  ‘Philippe is your son.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘St Arnaud used him to make you involve Max in his Vienna scheme.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did he choose someone he had to coerce? Surely he knew other families with Bonapartist sympathies. Why did he not ask one of their ladies to join his plot?’

  She sniffed. ‘If you were at all acquainted with St Arnaud, you wouldn’t need to ask. He thought women useful only for childbearing or pleasure, much too feeble-minded to remain focused upon a course of action for political or intellectual reasons. No, one could only be sure of controlling their behaviour if one threatened something they held dear.’

  ‘How did he get the child into his power?’

  ‘Because I was stupid,’ she spat out. ‘So dazzled by his promise of a secure life for myself and my son, I fell right into his trap.’

  Having been homeless and penniless, he could well understand the appeal security and comfort must have had for a war widow with few friends and almost no family. ‘How did it happen?’

  ‘As I told you, my brother, Maurice, suggested to St Arnaud that I serve as his hostess at the Congress of Vienna. I dismissed the possibility, for with all his contacts, why would St Arnaud choose a shabby-genteel widow with little experience of moving in the highest circles?’

  ‘Why indeed,’ she continued bitterly. ‘What a fool I was! I should have been much more suspicious that he invited a woman with few resources and no other protector but a man already deeply in his debt. Instead, I was surprised and flattered when he confirmed the offer, insisting that my “natural aristocratic grace” would make up for any inexperience. St Arnaud promised if I performed well, in addition to letting me keep the gowns and jewels he would buy me for the role, he would settle an allowance on us. Later, when my son came of age, he’d use his influence to advance my son’s career.’