While the English danced to music here, others dear to Ruban languished in prisons, or starved in their camps.
A crackle of heavy footsteps through the leaves drew his attention to the large, broad figure approaching him. He wore the heavy, practical garb of a woodsman, but the axe he carried on his shoulder was merely for show. The villagers paid no attention to any common laborers they might see.
Jean-Pierre stopped as soon as he saw the gleam of the pistol and held up his empty hands. “Bonsoir.”
“Speak only in English.” How many times would he and the other men have to be told that? Ruban felt impatient. “Where are the others?”
“Deep in de woods.” The big man jerked his chin in the direction of Dredthorne’s back property. “Too cold to sleep on de ground, and we had to leave de other place. Old lady see us. We find a sheep-man’s hut.”
“Shepherd’s hut,” Ruban corrected. His English was appalling; perhaps it was better they speak in French.
Jean-Pierre shrugged. “Dat is where we wait for you.”
“I will be otherwise engaged.” Dropping the heavy haversack at his feet, Ruban nudged it with a boot toe. “Food, enough for three days. Do not light any fires, and stay out of sight until I signal you. Then meet me at the rendezvous point.”
He grunted. “You think de Raven will be at de old chateau.”
“Oh, yes.” Ruban looked at Dredthorne Hall. “Death so enjoys a good party.”
Chapter 5
Twilight had descended around the weathered grey slate tile roofs and worn buff stone and brick walls of Dredthorne Hall when Baron Greystone stepped out onto the second-floor balcony. A biting wind yanked at his cravat, and raked loose his black mane, determined to dishevel him. Over the years since he had departed Renwick, he had often recalled this old folly, built a century past by a merchant with too much wealth and too little restraint. The previous tenants had made some repairs, mostly to shore up the deteriorating structure and disguise the worst ravages of time, but Pickering had declared it perfectly suited to his scheme.
As he did for all things French, Greystone felt little admiration for the crumbling would-be chateau, but he would only have to tolerate it for one night. In a handful of hours this thing would be finished, and Greystone could return to London on the morrow.
Not that he especially wished to.
It surprised him how little Renwick had changed since he had left it; the countryside had remained rustic, peaceful and unreservedly charming, just as it had been in his boyhood, in fact. Prior to his arrival he had been obliged to arrange the hiring of more staff for Gerard Lodge in order to make a convincing show of taking up proper residence, but he had already decided to keep them on. His boyhood home had been neglected since his father’s illness, and needed to be thoroughly cleaned and refurnished. Once spring came his mother might be persuaded to move to the country, as long as someone else suggested it.
Lady Greystone would have nothing to do with her only son.
I understand you perfectly, William, the baroness had assured him the last time she had spoken to him. Your father and I raised you to be an honorable gentleman, but you have chosen another path. You also broke the heart of a dear young lady in the worst possible fashion. I only hope your conviction gives you comfort, for you will not have it from us.
Indeed. He had looked at his father. You are of the same opinion, sir?
Nothing more can be said, the baron said, his expression as cold as ever before he turned and left the room.
Before she followed, his mother had taken one long, last look at him. Please leave this house now, Mr. Gerard, and never again think of returning.
At his father’s funeral six years later, Greystone had watched his mother from the opposite side of the casket. He could see the tracks that tears had left in the rice powder on her cheeks, and the crumpled wad she had made of the handkerchief in her hand. For all his father’s coldness his mother had been a devoted, loving wife—just as William had been the silent, obedient son. Not once had the old baron ever attempted to free either of them from the prison of his own making.
Throughout the service Greystone refused to look at the casket holding his father’s remains. If he had, he knew he would have kicked it.
When he had tried to approach his mother after the funeral, her maid had stepped in his way, and shaken her head. He had watched as Lady Greystone made her way to a waiting carriage without looking back. The baroness could not even bring herself to acknowledge his presence.
Later, when his father’s attorney had met with him alone to discuss his inheritance and the barony, Greystone had given him a letter for his mother. In it he had broken the vow he had made to his father and told her the truth. A day later a footman returned it unopened to him at his club, along with her card, on the back of which she had written three words: Remember your choice.
Besides Greystone, only his father could truly appreciate the irony, but the old baron had gone to his grave as silent on that subject as he had been in life. He’d tossed the letter on the fire and burned his last hope of redemption.
The past wanted to haunt him tonight, Greystone thought as he went to the balcony’s railing. Soon the guests for the masquerade ball would arrive, providing what he had been assured would be a distraction essential to the success of their plan. Only after agreeing did he learn that among the guests would be the only woman he had sworn to avoid for the rest of his life.
“We must keep up appearances, and nothing says ordinary like a country dance,” Arthur Pickering told him over an after-dinner brandy they had shared during Greystone’s first visit to Dredthorne Hall. “I have invited all of the unattached young swains and ladies in Renwick, so there should be a large crowd. Jennet Reed will be among them. Once I have left for London, you may follow on the morrow, unless you have some particular reason to linger.”
“None.” He kept his expression as bland as Pickering’s tone.
“I am gratified to know it will not disturb you to see your jilted bride again,” Pickering said. “You will be in costume, so you need not reveal yourself to her. I expect we will all have a marvelous time.”
The other man’s notion of marvelous encompassed many things Greystone personally despised. “What are you playing at, Arthur?”
“Nothing at all. I enjoy the lady’s company, and there’s little else in this damned place to provide me with amusement. Not even a decent brothel within riding distance.” He toasted him with his snifter. “Never tell me you would have come here without seizing the chance to see her again.”
“I never expected nor desired to,” Greystone countered. “What would be the point?”
“Precisely.” Pickering drained his glass and set it aside. “But my ball will permit you the opportunity to see her without being seen. I am certain that will gratify you in the end. You must be curious. We know you have been making regular inquiries.”
The we meant London, which boded nothing favorable for Greystone.
A yawn would have been too deliberate a show of indifference, so he smiled lazily. “You must also be aware that I have inquired after the welfare of my mother, my cousin Germaine and her boys, and some old friends from school.” He shook his head. “Have you invited them to your masquerade as well?”