“Why? The Duchess of Richmond doesn’t even know I’m alive, for pity’s sake.”
“Ah, but she knows Lucille. And, Fanny, where Lucille goes, you go. She’s been warned not to let you out of her sight.”
“That’s insulting,” Fanny told him. “If I give you my word that I won’t go…go chasing after Rian again, will I then be able to remain at your sister’s? I have no desire to spend an evening standing in a corner, watching people laugh and joke when the world could be turned upside down in an instant.”
He felt so damned old. “The world is always poised to go upside down in an instant, Fanny.”
She pulled her arm free, turned away from him. “Now you sound like my papa.”
Brede smiled at her turned back, fought down the urge to reach out, stroke her sun-bright hair and its poor, chopped ends. “That most assuredly wasn’t my intention. In any event, I’ll definitely be elsewhere until at least tomorrow evening, so you don’t have to fear me barging into my sister’s demanding to know your whereabouts.”
Fanny turned quickly, putting her hand on his arm, then just as quickly grabbing it back when she realized what she’d done. “You’re…Where are you going?”
“And that, my dear, is really none of your business, is it?”
“No, it’s not,” Fanny agreed, mentally kicking herself for worrying about this arrogant man. She had enough to worry her about Rian, who seemed to have much in common with the Duchess of Richmond and the others, as if Bonaparte marching toward them with unknown thousands of soldiers at his back was just too exciting, too titillatingly delicious for words, and they simply couldn’t miss out on the fun.
Fanny was very far from titillated. Because she’d been having dreams ever since Rian left Becket Hall. Terrible dreams. Dreams of the island on that last day. She’d been young, too young, to remember that day, and yet, in her dreams, she thought she could hear, as well as see it. Hear the screams of agony. See the white sand, the ghastly red blood soaking into it. Terror then, war coming at them now. Was there a connection? What could that connection be?
She could have gone to Odette, asked her why these dreams, these nightmares, were plaguing her. But then Odette would answer her, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to hear that answer.
To Fanny, Rian was the answer. Rian, who had always been her haven of safety. She’d needed to see him, yes. But she’d also fled to him…not that she’d say anything like that to him. He had enough to concern him, what with Bonaparte out there somewhere, planning his attack. But she was frightened about more than Bonaparte. So very frightened…
Brede tipped up her chin with his knuckle, smiling into her eyes. “Such a solemn little face, Fanny. Are you worried about me? How novel. Lucille cares about her quarterly allowance. Of course, Wiggins, bless him, actually seems to have a care or two for my welfare, although he might only worry he won’t again find such a congenial employer.”
“Yes,” Fanny said, banishing her thoughts and forcing some levity into her tone, “I can certainly see that. You are above all things mellow, my lord.”
The corners of Brede’s mouth twitched in amusement. He didn’t understand it. He was feeling younger by the minute, just looking at this girl, just talking to her, teasing with her…having her tease right back at him, just as if she couldn’t care a twig about who he was, about his consequence.
He had so damn much consequence; sometimes it hung around his neck like an anvil.
He really did need Bonaparte gone, and himself back in London, where he didn’t spend the majority of his time dressed in dirty clothes, with danger all around him and only Shadow for company. “As I was attempting to say before your rude interruption—it’s pleasant to believe you might have some small worry for my well-being. Was that what spurred you into asking where I might be going when I leave you?”
What did she feel? Did she feel anything? How could she know? And why would she, for pity’s sake? She’d barely met the man. She loved Rian—she’d always loved Rian, ever since she could remember being alive.
So why was she looking at this man, feeling suddenly hungry to memorize his every feature? Why was he looking at her in an unsettling mix of amusement and something she felt was far more dangerous?
Perhaps it was the danger itself that hurt her heart, perhaps it was the thought of Bonaparte marching toward them all, turning the world upside down? Everything—the flowers, the sun, Brede’s hazel eyes—seemed to be in such sharp relief. Intense. “It’s…That is, I…”
“Yes, of course,” he said, smiling in a way that made her itch to slap the smile from his face. “Exactly as I thought.” He offered her his arm once more, and he felt suddenly distant from her, even as he walked beside her….
CHAPTER EIGHT
“YOU’RE NOT AFRAID OF HIM?” Lady Whalley looked at Fanny in some shock, then gave a dismissive wave of her hand as she settled back onto the satin settee she’d earlier sworn had been fashioned by sadistic foreign devils intent on bruising her poor bottom with their outlandishly uncomfortable design. “Oh, you’re only saying that to build your own courage. Everyone is afraid of Valentine, most especially of his horrid tongue, always so cutting. And that’s just the way he likes it. What’s worse, Fanny, he absolutely revels in their fear. The great, unapproachable Brede. My stars, if I wasn’t his sister, I’d cut a wide path around him myself, I vow it.”
Fanny was barely listening to the woman. She’d taken Brede’s advice, for the most part, and had spent the past two days pleasantly smiling, and nodding, and allowing herself to be guided into gowns, slippers, pelisses, cloaks and several yards of satin ribbon she had no use for at all—although she felt fairly certain Lucie did, and delighted in the fact that all the bills would go to her brother.
Besides, Fanny didn’t want to hear about the Earl of Brede. She wanted to see him, demand that he take her to see Rian. Rian would have come to her if he could, so obviously he couldn’t, which meant she would go to him. Ladies were riding out to the various encampments every day in open carriages, picnic hampers tucked on the facing seat, parasols held high to keep off the warm June sun.
“Are you sure, Lucie,” she asked, turning away from the window overlooking the street, where she encamped herself as often as possible, “that you don’t wish to ride out to see the troops parade? I’m sure it would be great fun—and you could show off your new bonnet?”
Lucie had lifted her small feet up and onto the settee as she lay back against at least a half-dozen cushions commandeered from every corner of the rented house. “Well,” she said, dragging out the word, “I suppose we could. Except—no, Valentine forbade it. He left me very distinct written orders. You are to remain here until he returns. And it hasn’t been so long, only yesterday and today. Although I agree, an afternoon can seem a week long, when there’s no gaiety. Alas, this is a house of mourning, drat William.”
Fanny took up a seat at the very edge of a chair placed across a low table from the settee, her hands on her knees, about to demonstrate to Lucie the sort of logic that had the rest of the Beckets sighing over her with regularity. “He said I had to remain here. Ah, but where is here, Lucie? Here, as in this house? I don’t think so, because we did go out shopping all day yesterday, didn’t we? Or did he mean here, as in Brussels? Or even here, as in Belgium itself? There are so many definitions of here. He should have been more clear, don’t you think? It wouldn’t be your fault that he wasn’t more specific, now would it?”
Then Fanny arched her brows, watching the gears begin to turn in Lady Whalley’s pleasant but limited brain.
Lucie sat up, sliding her feet to the floor once more. “My stars, yes! He should have been more specific, shouldn’t he? That was very lax of him, wasn’t it? Exactly where is here?”
“I suppose he simply thinks you should moulder