The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(40)
The next one to waylay him was Nicolas—though waylay was a strong term. His brother was in the library when Julien went restlessly looking for a book to complete his pose of nonchalance. Charlotte was expected the next day, and once she descended with Andry and their girls, the chateau would be a noisier, busier place, easier for Julien to go unremarked.
Nicolas remarked him quick enough. “When you didn’t appear for breakfast, we thought maybe you’d been stricken with the same illness as Lucette.”
“Not at all. I merely stayed up late reading. I suppose it was the maid who reported?”
“Yes,” Nicolas said slowly. “She woke Father at first light—Lucette wouldn’t let her bother anyone else or any earlier. She’s sleeping now.”
“Best thing for her,” Julien replied. Why did he feel like his brother was searching him for signs of lying? Surely if he knew Julien had been up to something last night, he’d have tasked him with it straight off.
And for certain he could not suspect Lucette of having sneaked out. Nicolas might once have played fast and loose with many different women, but a woman like Lucette was different, and he would never suspect a lady like her of anything underhanded.
“Charlotte will be disappointed,” Nicolas observed. “To find her friend confined to her chamber with illness, locked away from both of us? How is she supposed to effect a match under those conditions?”
When Nicolas teased, there was always an underlying sting to it. “I imagine Charlotte will subsume her disappointment in caring for Lucette,” Julien said. “You know how our sister likes to mother everyone. A girl who cannot leave her bed is a perfect target.”
“True. But Charlotte needs her on her feet again as quick as possible. Her masked ball is just two weeks away.” Nicolas cast a look around the library, unchanged in their lifetime, solitary and proud. “I think Father’s already regretting giving permission, but you know how hard it is to say no to Charlotte.”
“I think she’s incapable of actually hearing that word.”
Locking his eyes on Julien, Nicolas said slowly, “All the more reason to act with care toward Lucette. Charlotte might read more into your behavior than you mean—and so might Lucette. You wouldn’t want to actually break her heart, would you?”
“I have no reason to suppose her heart is in any danger at all. Have you?”
Nicolas merely considered him, then picked up a sealed letter from the table. “This was left with one of the grooms this morning.”
Retreating as rapidly as possible, for more reasons than one, Julien didn’t open the slightly grimy letter until he was alone in the gardens. It was from Ribault’s emissary. You left in a hurry last night, it ran. Why was the English girl there? Were you followed? This raises concerns. Will stay in village until reassured.
Julien swore long and inventively. Why couldn’t he have a simple life, one that involved nothing more than fretting about Lucette’s illness and wishing that her heart was as much in danger from him as his was already lost to her?
Let the man rot at the Nightingale Inn. He had no intention of going there or even writing. He’d send straight to Ribault instead, with as careful a lie as he could construct.
—
Lucette felt desperately ill for two days. After a solid eighteen hours of vomiting and other stomach distress, she was so weak and dizzy that she was fairly certain she would never be able to leave her bed again, let alone go outside Blanclair’s walls or return to England. She had been remarkably healthy in her life, suffering only a handful of fevers in twenty-two years and the time she’d injured her ankle out hawking with her brothers. So when she woke late in the morning of the third day, Lucette was somewhat astonished at how clearheaded she felt, if rather limp.
Charlotte was there, regarding her with high good humour along with a touch of concern. “Trust a household of men to not even be able to keep you well! I should not have left you alone with them all so long.”
“Hello, Charlotte,” she said. “How was your journey?”
She pushed herself up, but Charlotte was having none of it. “You stay right where you are,” she commanded. “You may be looking better than when I got here yesterday, but you are still weak and I will not risk a relapse. Not with the bal masqué less than two weeks off.”
There was a thought—if she stayed ill, they would have to cancel Charlotte’s elaborately festive plans. But Lucette knew she wouldn’t do that to her friend.
“All you need is rest and soft foods,” Charlotte pronounced. “I’ll have you on your feet in no time. My girls very much want to meet you, and Felix has taken to hovering in the corridor outside your chamber like a frightened lover. If only he were ten years older, I wouldn’t have to try at all to get you matched to a LeClerc!”
“You shouldn’t be trying to match me with anyone, Charlotte,” Lucette retorted. “How can you possibly know what kind of wife I would make?”
“No one knows before you’re actually married what kind of partner one will make. We learn by doing, Lucette. What I do know is that I would very much like to make you my sister. I have no wish to leave the matter in my brothers’ hands, for who knows what sort of woman they might bring home?”
“They haven’t pressed the issue thus far.”