The worst of it was that even if Pitney’s investigators could discoverhowYates was looting the boys’ property, the Court of Chancery would still have to do their own due diligence to make sure Yates was unfit. And as Pitney had said, the court wasn’t known for their speed.
Well, at least he had a chance now at seeing how the boys looked. Perhaps he could go riding in Hyde Park and pretend to encounter them by chance.
He entered the house. Or should he just—
“My lord,” his new butler said. Good God, the fellow had been hovering about ever since he and Pitney had left the study.
“What is it, Renham?”
“You have guests. I put them in the drawing room.”
“Guests?” When the bloody hell had “guests” slipped into his town house? Damn, had they heard him shouting?
He winced. Probably. All the more reason he must learn to better govern his temper. “Who is it, then?”
“Two ladies, sir. Madame Bernard and her daughter, Mademoiselle Bernard. You know. From Verdun.”
That brought Heathbrook up short. He definitely knew Giselle Bernard, Queen of Verdun. Or so he’d dubbed the lovely Frenchwoman whom he’d once had the audacity to kiss. She’d had soft lips, a shy smile, and a figure that would have tempted any man with blood in his veins to ravish her. Which, of course, he’d known better than to attempt.
Especially after Morris, who’d apparently seen them kiss, had warned him away, threatening to call him out if he persisted in showing her any attention. So, Heathbrook had steered clear ofher. The last thing he’d needed in curst Verdun was to fight a duel. Besides, he and his father had already been at odds—it hadn’t made sense to damage that tenuous relationship any further.
Only recently had he learned the real reason for Morris’s concern. The late Dr. Morris had sired her. But that knowledge made it even more imperative that Heathbrook leave her be. Now she was sister-in-law to one of his closest friends, so she was still very much forbidden to him.
And why in God’s name were she and her mother here, anyway?
He paused in the entry hall, weighing whether to go in the drawing room or have Renham tell them he wasn’t at home to visitors today. Given his present state, the latter was probably best.
But curiosity got the better of him. Not to mention the urge to see the French beauty once more. After all, since arriving in England, he’d only encountered her twice—once at Jon and Tory’s wedding and once at Tory’s birthday celebration. Neither time had she flirted with him, which in itself was enough to whet his interest.
He groaned.Don’t even think it. Jon will skewer you for going after his wife’s half sister.
Still, if she needed something while Jon and Tory were away, he should at least find out what it was. It was the only proper thing, the onlygentlemanlything to do. Right?
Trying not to probe too deeply intothatfacile excuse, he put on the mask he was forced to wear all too often these days, of a gentleman in complete control of his life. As he strode into the drawing room, he fought not to notice how Mademoiselle Bernard’s hair gleamed like molten chocolate in the light filtering through the drawing room curtains. How the enigmatic smile she perpetually wore lent a mysteriousness to her expression that intoxicated him.
How her eyes were the exact shade of blue as Tory’s, but somehow more evocative.
He shook off those oddly poetic sentiments when the two ladies rose. He wasn’t surprised to see Mademoiselle Bernard wearing a lavender gown. She’d always preferred lighter, more cheerful colors in Verdun. And she looked like a violet in spring in that one.
As he approached, she curtsied, although her tight-lipped mother merely watched him advance.
“Come now, mademoiselle,” he told the younger woman as hewalked over to take her gloved hand and press it, “there’s no need to stand on ceremony withme.We have known each other too long for that. How many years has it been since we first met in Verdun? Ten?”
“At the very least.” She withdrew her hand, then went on in her charming French accent, “I was nearly nineteen when we met.”
“And I actually had just turned nineteen.”
“We are almost the same age? I had no idea.” Her dazzling smile caught him off guard. “I always assumed a man of the world like you must be far older.”
He cocked up an eyebrow. “I’m not sure if you’re trying to flatter me or insult me.”
“I would never presume to do either,” she said, her eyes laughing at him.
“Or perhaps you’re presuming to do both, mademoiselle.”
She shook her head. “You might as well call me ‘miss.’ As I am resolved to live in England, I must get used to English ways and become more English.”
“Oh, never do that.” He gazed at her warmly. “Much as I hate Napoleon and his cohorts for my banishment from England, I could never hate the French people as a whole.” Certainly, he could never hate French women. They were by and large quite wonderful, and she was as perfect a specimen as any he’d seen.