Page 5 of Love Unraveled
—Charles Dickens,Great Expectations
Gaston picked ata fingernail. He should simply march up the steps ofle grand châteauand demand to see Sophie. He’d been watching her from afar for too long. He’d not spoken with her since she was seventeen. Although, he had seen her once before discovering her in London. His stomach roiled, and anger lit a fierce fire in his heart. Yes, he’d seen her. As another man’s wife.Countess Tessaro. He spit onto the ground and swallowed the remaining bile.
From his perch in the tree, he stared across the lake at the summerhouse. There was no movement. Sophie had left earlier, so there was no sense in heading to his lookout near her mansion. Besides, he could not approach her until he identified the man who lived in the summerhouse and, more importantly, what his relationship was to Sophie.
He’d not expected to run into Sophie, especially quite literally. She should have been busy hosting her masquerade, not running around her property in the dark. What had possessed her to stroll beyond her gardens? Could she possibly have known a traitor was going to be taken down? He could not fathom her involvement beyond her friendship with Lords Thornwood and Walford, and he knew, firsthand, their participation was accidental. Perhapsaccidentalwas not the right word, for while Thornwood remained unaware of the fact, Gaston had strategically arranged for the man’s involvement.
Perhaps Sophie had followed Thornwood that night out of curiosity. It was certainly not for a tryst. He’d been watching Thornwood for months too and knew him to be a loyal husband. Even the prostitute Gaston had used as a liaison to the man had not tempted him. So what had brought Sophie out into the woods a few weeks ago? Gaston shook his head in frustration. Too many questions were knotting and looping like ship’s rope in his brain.
After the masquerade ball, he’d circled back, but she’d returned to the ballroom, and her men had searched her property. He could not risk being found, so he’d left. When he’d returned to the inn, there’d been a missive he could not ignore, so he’d had to leave the countryside for a few days and return to London. When he’d returned, this man was ensconced in Sophia’s summerhouse. Gaston was determined to find out why before he decided whether to approach her.
He shimmied down the tree and strolled beyond the copse of trees, out of sight from any peering eyes on the opposite side of the lake. His legs ached from sitting like a sparrow for too long, and it was good to stretch them. Spring was his favorite season, all the promise of the splendor of summer bursting at the seams, waiting to come out. It was how he’d felt all those years ago with Sophie. He kicked the ground in frustration.Mon Dieu! When would he accept spring had passed him by? That his budding rose had passed him by? For an Italian count.
He heard the carriage before he saw it, its wheels grinding heavily on the drive. He hurried into his position under the large weeping willow, careful the men who roamed the property did not see him. They dressed the part, but they were no gardeners. He’d recognized one immediately asle garde du comte. Even though he’d aged, he was a hulking beast of a man who would be hard to forget. He’d stood by Tessaro’s side when the count had spoken of the arrangements with a local fisherman and ensured Gaston the boat would be waiting for them that night. The night that had never come.
After leaving Sophie, he’d headed back to the stables for some much-needed rest. The scent of their lovemaking clinging to him, he had drifted quickly and slept far too deeply. The stable master had awoken him midafternoon, demanding he leave, afraid of the consequences if a traitor to the emperor were found in his stalls. A deal had been cut, andVenisewas to be given to Austria. Gaston’s elation had been quickly quashed when the stable master, his body visibly shaking with fear, had insisted the French had lost their minds.
Gaston had quickly gathered his things and slipped out the back. Chaos had reigned. He’d darted between streets, determined to get to Sophie, but the canals had made it difficult to stay out of sight. French soldiers had been everywhere, and his skin had hummed with warning. He’d seen those rabid looks before. Permission to plunder was a heady, dangerous power.
It had been imperative to get Sophie out, but it would have been impossible to approach her house in daylight. Her aunt would have likely stood in the way as well. It was probably for the best, as it would not have been wise for her to be in the streets. Her beauty would have attracted attention. Instead, he’d made his way to the harbor, hoping to speak with the fisherman and ensure he remained ready to hasten them away. He’d known only the boat’s name.La Nymphe.
Squatting between two abandoned barrels, he’d eyed the waterfront, scanning forLa Nymphe.Like ants at a picnic, the soldiers had both followed regulated lines and scattered randomly. French ships had crowdedles Vénitiens. Ribbons of men had boarded ships, while others had dotted the shore, demanding seamen vacate their boats.
“Bastardo!”
The shout had drawn his attention, and his stomach had sunk along with the boat that had been scuttled.La Nymphewas not taking Gaston and Sophie, or anyone, anywhere ever again. There had been no point hanging around and watching the carnage, so he’d slunk back into the laneways. He’d had no choice but to return to Count Tessaro and ask for his assistance.
Sophie’s laughter floated on the air, drawing him back to the present. He parted the sweeping branches so he could see her. She was talking to Tessaro’s man and shaking her head but smiling. He wished he were closer to hear what she was saying. To see more clearly the smile on her face. To see how it lit those dark eyes.
Instead of climbing the steps to the manse, she hooked her arm in the man’s elbow, and he steered her around the side of the house. Their easy familiarity galled Gaston. Sophie had always been too free with her affection and too trusting of others, especially men. She never understood she put herself at risk. Sophie had no true appreciation for her place in society. Of course, that had always been part of her charm. Her acceptance of everyone had been learned at the skirts of her mother, and for that he would be eternally grateful. Had her mother not wed her French scholar, there would have been no Sophie in Paris. And he’d not regret knowing her then, despite what time and circumstance had wrought. He shook his head, dislodging wistful sentiment, trying to regain the anger he felt, for it was more familiar and of more comfort than warm memories.
While the sun was in descent, it was still too light to move about more freely. He should stay hidden under the willow, but jealousy and curiosity spurred him forward. Besides, Sophie was with the one gardener, and the other was in conversation with the coachman. He was fairly certain no servant within the manse would notice any movement.
Gaston eased out from under the tree, darted across the open space, and slipped in behind a hedgerow. He followed it along the perimeter of the lawn. It bordered the east side and would lead him to the back gardens where, presumably, Sophie had gone. Sophie’s laughter rang out, and he froze. He could not see her, but he was now close enough to easily hear what she was saying.
“I cannot believe this of you, Raimondo. The count would be as astonished as I.”
“And as amused, I’m sure,” the gardener replied in Italian.
Raimondo. Gaston carefully stepped closer to the hedge. How could he have forgotten the man’s name? It had been an apt one for a man charged with seeing to the safety of the count and his family.Mighty protector.
“Sì, the count would see much humor in it. But we are lucky, no, that you can spend your days propagating new roses? That your knife is used for the stems of flowers and not for…”
Sophie let the sentence drift. Gaston could picture her raising her shoulders and shrugging off the weight of such a serious topic. She was never blind to the ugly side of life, but she refused to dwell on it. It was one of the many reasons he’d fallen in love with her.
He had been eleven when the riots had broken out in Paris. ThePrise de la Bastillewas forever ingrained in his memory, not only because of the chaos and confusion of the time, but also because it was the day he’d met Sophie. She’d been a child, but she’d taken him by the hand and led him away from the gunfire and shouting. She’d smiled at him and hummed off-key as they’d woven through the streets. He’d taken shelter with Sophie and her mother until her father had returned from college. Professeur Auclair had escorted Gaston home.
The next day, he’d found his way back to her. And the day after. And the day after that. And, suddenly, his eight-year-old friend had been a beautiful fourteen-year-old, and at seventeen, if they could get permission from their parents, he could marry her. But fate could be cruel and mobs crueler. He closed his eyes, wishing he could block out the images of the last day he’d seen Sophie in Paris. But he knew they would never leave him.
“You move and you’re a dead man.”
Memories of Paris slipped away at the cold tip of the gun pressed against Gaston’s temple. He shifted his eyes to look sideways. The man from the summerhouse. Gaston sighed heavily, but a quiver of excitement ran up his spine. It would seem he would speak with Sophie today after all.
Chapter Three
How like a winter hath my absence been
From Thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year!
