She followed a trail behind the gardens beyond the low stone wall into the woods. The trees were now bereft of their leaves, which had fallen and dried. They made a pleasant crunching noise beneath Noir’s hooves. Soon the chateau disappeared behind her. About her in the branches, the rooks chattered companionably to each other as they preened. Autumn followed the trail until she came to a brook that rushed swiftly over a rocky streambed. Stopping, she debated whether they might cross it without injury to herself or the horse.
“It is not safe,” a voice suddenly cut into her consciousness.
Startled, Autumn looked across the water and saw a man, dressed as casually as she was, sitting beneath a tree, while his own horse browsed nearby. “How do you know?” she demanded of him. “Have you tried?”
“The bottom is uneven, mademoiselle. It would be a pity for such a fine animal as the one you ride to break his leg and have to be destroyed,” the gentleman said.
“But I am curious as to what lies beyond this brook,” Autumn said, wondering who the man was. Probably a poacher who didn’t want her to know what he was up to, and so was attempting to scare her off.
“The water is the dividing line between the lands belonging to the chateau of Belle Fleurs and the lands belonging to the Marquis de Auriville,” the man said. “You would be trespassing, mademoiselle, should you cross over,” he told her.
“Who are you?” Autumn said boldly.
“Who are you?” he rejoined.
“I am Lady Autumn Rose Leslie. My mama owns Belle Fleurs, and we have come to live here, for England is not a happy place now.”
“Neither is France, mademoiselle. You have merely exchanged one civil war for another, I fear,” he said as he arose from his place and stretched lazily. He was a very handsome man with a long face.
“Are you a poacher?” she asked him, not doubting for a moment that he would lie if he were.
“No, mademoiselle, I am not a poacher,” he said with an amused laugh. How ingenuous Lady Autumn Rose Leslie was, he thought.
“Then who are you?” she again asked him, thinking that he really was very tall. Every bit as tall as her brother Patrick.
“I am a thief, mademoiselle,” he replied.
Not in the least nonplussed, she countered, “What do you steal, monsieur?” He was obviously mocking her. He didn’t look like a bandit at all.
“Hearts, cherie,” came the startling reply, and then the man turned, caught his mount and, vaulting into his saddle, blew her a kiss as he rode off.
Astounded, Autumn watched as the man and his horse disappeared into the trees on the other side of the stream. She suddenly realized that not only was her heart racing, but her cheeks felt hot. It was all very confusing. Taking his advice, Autumn turned Noir back toward the chateau. If the lands on the other side of the brook did belong to someone else, then she really did not have the right to ride there unless she gained the owner’s permission first.
When she returned to her home she sought out Guillaume and asked him, “To whom do the lands beyond the brook belong?”
“Why, to the Marquis de Auriville, my lady,” he answered. “Why do you ask?”
“I was curious,” Autumn said with a little shrug. “I considered crossing the stream this afternoon but then worried I might be trespassing.”
“It is a good thing you did not attempt it, my lady,” Guillaume said. “The streambed is very rocky and uneven. Noir could have been injured. I am glad you are so careful with him. He is a fine mount.”
The very next day the Comte de Cher’s two widowed sisters, Madame de Belfort and Madame St. Omer, arrived at Belle Fleurs shortly after nine o’clock in the morning. With small shrieks of glee they rushed into the Great Hall, chattering nonstop.
“Jasmine! Mon Dieu, cousine, you have not changed at all! You have the figure of a young girl, despite all those children you produced for your husbands! And your hair! It is still dark but for those two little silver chevrons on either side of your head!” Gabrielle de Belfort kissed her cousin on both cheeks and plunked her plump figure down by the fire, gratefully accepting a goblet of wine from Adali. “Adali, you are an old man. How could this have happened?” She smiled at him.
“Time, madame, I fear, has finally caught up with me,” he said, returning her smile. “You, however, remain summer-fair.”
“Very late summer,” Antoinette St. Omer said dryly. “Bonjour, Jasmine. You must cease wearing black as soon as possible. Your skin is too sallow for it. Jemmie, I’m certain, would agree with me. Where is your daughter? We have come to inspect her so we may plan how to help you marry her off. Philippe says she is lovely.”
“Adali, go and fetch Autumn. Tell her her tantes have arrived.” Jasmine turned to her two cousins. “I have told her she is to call you both tante, as she has begun to call your brother oncle. We are seeking a husband, but first I think Autumn could use a bit of society, for she had none in the wilds of Scotland. By the time she was old enough for it, England was embroiled in civil war.”
“There will be plenty of festivities at Archambault shortly, and Philippe loves to entertain despite his widowed state. It was really he who planned all the parties, even when Marie Louise was alive. She was best at running the house and giving him his sons,” Antoinette said. While her sister was plump and short of stature, she was tall and spare, with her father’s dark brown eyes, and iron gray hair that was fixed in the latest style of short curls.
“Oh, yes,” Gaby interjected. “Philippe gives marvelous parties! Everyone in the entire area, and even beyond it, wants to come. Fortunately none of the vineyards is owned by any of the grand nobles, so we have escaped the war, and our young men have remained at home.” She shivered delicately. “War is such a nasty and dirty business. I do not know why men want to play at it. I truly don’t!”
“Power does not appeal to my sister,” Madame St. Omer said with a wink at Jasmine. “Ahh, here is the child. Come forward, girl, and let me see you. I am your Tante Antoinette St. Omer, and this is your Tante Gabrielle de Belfort.”
Autumn hurried into the Great Hall to join the three women. She curtsied prettily, saying as she did so, “Bonjour, tantes. I am happy to meet you.”
Madame St. Omer, who had not sat down since she entered the hall, took Autumn’s chin between her thumb and forefinger, turning her head first this way and then that. “The skin is good, in fact excellent,” she pronounced. Reaching around, she drew the thick braid into her hand and fingered its ends. “The hair is a good color and soft, yet not fine.” Releasing the plait, she stared critically at Autumn’s face. “The bones are good, the forehead high, the nose straight, the chin in proportion, the lips perhaps a trifle wide.” Then she gasped. “Mon Dieu, child! Your eyes are different colors! One is the marvelous turquoise of your mama’s, but the other is as green as a summer leaf. Where on earth did you ever get eyes like that?” Obviously overcome, she sat down, finally accepting the wine the footman had been waiting to give her and swallowing down a long draught of it.
“I owe my green eye to my paternal grandmother, Lady Hepburn,” Autumn said with a chuckle. “I have always thought that my features, being so unique, would fascinate the gentlemen, tante. Do you know, or have you ever known a girl with such a feature as my eyes?”
“I have not!” Madame St. Omer answered, “but you may very well be right, ma petite. What others might see as a defect may very well prove bewitching to a suitor. You are shrewd, Autumn Leslie, and that is the French in you!” She turned to her sister. “Is she not lovely, Gaby? We shall have such fun planning her wardrobe. . . .” She stopped, turning back to Autumn. “You have jewelry, ma petite?”
“I have jewelry,” Jasmine spoke up before her daughter might, and her two cousins nodded.
“Oh,