“Indeed.” Reynaud looked at his aunt. “You mentioned my sister. Is she well?”
“You don’t know?” Her brows snapped together in disapproval. “Did you not ask?”
“I have asked,” Reynaud replied as he ushered her to a chair. “But no one knows her as well as you do, Tante.”
“Humph,” said Tante Cristelle as she primly lowered herself to a chair. “Then I will tell you. You know your sister was widowed shortly after your… disappearance.”
Reynaud nodded. “So Miss Corning has told me.” He’d gone to look out the window again. London hadn’t changed much since his absence, but everything else had.
Everything.
“Bon,” Tante Cristelle said. “Then last year she married a rustic, a man from the Colony of New England. His name is Samuel Hartley.”
“That I’d heard as well,” he replied.
Strange to think that Emeline was now married to a man Reynaud had known in the army—a Colonial. Once again he felt that nauseating sense that his world was in motion, past and present conflicting, warring for his soul.
Tante Cristelle continued. “She ’as taken herself to live with her husband far, far overseas in the city of Boston. I do not know if such an action was wise on her part, but you know your sister. She can be quite the stubborn mule when she wishes.”
“And my nephew, Daniel?”
“Petite Daniel is fine and strong. Naturally his mother took him to live with her in America.”
Reynaud contemplated that. Ironic that he was now farther from his sister than he’d been before he’d sailed for England. Would he have delayed his return had he known she was in New England? He wasn’t sure. The need to regain his former life—his lands and title—had driven him for seven long years. Had in fact kept him alive and sane during the endless days and nights of his captivity. Nothing, not even the love for a sister, could keep him from his goal.
“Where have you been, Reynaud?” Tante Cristelle asked softly.
He shook his head, closing his eyes. How could he tell her, this gently bred aristocrat, what had been done to him?
After a moment he heard her sigh. “Bien. There is no need to speak of it if you do not wish.”
At that, he turned around. Tante Cristelle was watching him patiently. She was the elder sister of his late mother. Both women had grown up in Paris and had immigrated to England on his mother’s marriage. Tante Cristelle was in her seventh decade, but her snapping blue eyes were sharp, her mind one of the clearest he’d ever known.
“I intend to get my title back, Tante,” he said.
She nodded once. “Naturalement.”
“I have petitioned parliament to form a special committee to hear my case. When it is convened, I will have to appear before the committee in Westminster and plead my case. The current earl will present his side at the same time.”
Tante sniffed. “This usurper will not let go of his stolen title so easily, eh?”
“No,” Reynaud said grimly. “He’ll hold it for as long as he can, I’m sure. And he may ask to retain the title on the grounds that I’m mad.”
“Mad?” The old lady’s thin eyebrows rose.
Reynaud looked away. “I was delirious with fever when I arrived. I’m afraid there was a roomful of people to witness me raving like a lunatic.”
“And is that all?”
Reynaud grimaced uncomfortably. “There was an… incident yesterday. I was shot at—”
“Mon dieu!”
He waved away her concern. “It was nothing terrible. But I forgot myself somehow. I thought I was on the battlefield again.”
Silence.
Then Tante Cristelle drew breath. “Ah. Unfortunate. We will need good solicitors and men of business to combat the usurper.”
Reynaud looked up, hope making him feel suddenly weak. “Then you’ll help me.”
“Mais oui.” Tante Cristelle scowled. “And did you think otherwise?”
Reynaud helped her stand, feeling the fragile bones of her arm beneath his hand. “No, but it has been a very long time since I’ve had an ally.”
She shook her skirts into order. “We must plan a campaign, I think. I shall seek out these men of law, for I have maintained the estate of le petite Daniel whilst he sojourned in the Colonies and thus have many contacts. And you, you shall shave.”
“Shave?” Reynaud’s eyebrows shot up in amusement.
Tante Cristelle nodded sharply. “But of course, shave, and also you will need the new clothing, the proper wig, and the elegant shoes. For you must regain the aspect of the so-boring English milord, must you not? Thusly we shall confound our enemies with your very placidity.”
Reynaud clenched his jaw. He hated to ask, but he forced himself to. “I have no monies, Tante.”
She nodded, unsurprised. “I will lend you what you need, and when you become the earl again, you shall pay me back, yes?”
“Yes. Of course.” Reynaud bowed over her hand. “I cannot tell you, Tante, how relieved I am that you are on my side.”
“Tcha!” The old woman made a dismissive sound. “You have not lost your charm, I see, underneath that forest upon your face. But mark you this, nephew: a shave and a haircut are only part of what you’ll need to transform yourself into the respectable English gentleman.”
Reynaud frowned. “What else do you think I need? Name it and I’ll buy it.”
“Ah, but this is a thing not to be bought. For this you will need all your charm.” She turned at the door and looked him in the eye, her gaze level and solemn. “A wife is what you need. An English wife of good family. For what man can be mad with a sweet, not-too-pretty wife by his side? Obtain a chit such as this and you will be halfway to regaining your title.”
THE NEXT MORNING dawned bright and sunny. After making her toilet, Beatrice decided to consult with Cook. She was descending the stairs to the front hall when she heard male voices.
Beatrice halted at the landing and looked over the rail to the hall below. There stood the butler, two footmen, and a gentleman she did not know but who looked—at least from the back—somehow familiar. She continued down the stairs slowly, eyeing the man. He wore a freshly powdered white wig and a black coat of a very fine cut, embroidered about the cuffs in silver and green thread. The butler was saying something to him, but the stranger must’ve sensed her stare. He turned.