The Virgin's Daughter (Tudor Legacy #1)(57)

FOURTEEN




In the days running up to Charlotte’s bal masqué, Lucette divided her time between dressmaking sessions with Charlotte, being entertained by Felix and his two little cousins, and avoiding Julien. When she realized the last, she argued to herself that it was because she needed distance to consider what she’d learned thus far, and time to properly place the puzzle of the murdered man on Blanclair’s grounds.

She had written to Dr. Dee, describing the man and his death and his appearance at the Nightingale Inn, in a painstakingly ciphered letter. She had not revealed that it was Julien he’d been meeting. That could wait until Dr. Dee himself arrived at Blanclair. As for herself, she found it difficult to imagine why Julien would have killed the man. More than that, why had Julien turned English spy in the first place? All for the pretty face of one Huguenot girl? Although she wanted to believe him (more than she found comfortable), she maintained a healthy skepticism.

At least, she remained skeptical whenever she was away from him. Near him, even with half a dozen others present for meals, say, Lucette found herself dwelling far too deeply on how he’d kissed her. Admittedly, she did not have a wide range of experience, but there had been a handful of others besides Brandon Dudley, though none else had gone so far. Was her response to Julien simply because he was very, very skilled? Which he must be if the Paris reports passed through Walsingham and Dr. Dee and the Blanclair household were true. Was it that he was dangerous? She knew herself well enough to recognize that she might like the element of uncertainty in both his character and in predicting his behavior. She spent so much of her life surrounded by the predictable.

But he wasn’t the only unpredictability at Blanclair. Nicolas had become incredibly attentive since her illness, and part of escaping Julien meant turning to the older brother. Nicolas appeared perfectly willing to spend hours with her, riding or walking or simply allowing her to read in his study while he worked on account books. She’d caught him staring at her in contemplation, as though she were a thorny puzzle of logic he was trying to put right, and it made her uneasy. Renaud seemed uneasy about his elder son’s interest as well, which Lucette found puzzling. Did he not think her good enough for Nicolas? What if I said you ended with a French husband after all? Pippa had been teasing. Hadn’t she?

Felix, at least, glowed with pleasure whenever he saw his father and Lucette together, and Charlotte radiated approval. One evening before bed, she sailed into Lucette’s chamber ostensibly to discuss the progress of her feather gown for the masquerade, but mostly to launch prying questions that were parried only with difficulty.

Charlotte was determined to be smug. “I thought this was how it would be. Nicolas has been so determinedly solitary for so long that when he asked me about you at Christmas, I knew he must be serious.”

“Nicolas asked about me?” Surely not because of his fond memories of a clingy ten-year-old, she thought. Why, then? The puzzle pieces in her head began to vibrate.

“Asked about your letters, and your studies, and if you ever wrote about any man in particular. He didn’t exactly order me to invite you to France, but he hinted rather strongly.”

Lucette smiled instinctively. “I’m flattered.”

But it wasn’t flattery that sent her mind spinning, but possibilities. It sharpened her observations, and made her wary of his attentions.

She could not deny that there was something restful about Nicolas. He was not challenging, like Julien, she didn’t have to think quickly or guard herself from unwariness. Perhaps restful was not to be underestimated in this world.

But it was not of calm, restful Nicolas she dreamed at night.

The day before the first of Charlotte’s guests arrived, Felix finally begged his way into arranging a training bout between his father and uncle. It had been Julien who spent time with his nephew these last weeks in the practice yard, supervising the child’s training in blades. Cannons might be the backbone of today’s warfare, but there was still a need for men skilled in individual combat.

There was an unusual three-way tension at lunch that day, lines of deepest burgundy running between Renaud and both his sons. Even Charlotte seemed to feel it, for her usual chatter was conducted at a slightly lower level of brightness than normal. Felix, however, could hardly contain himself in his seat. His tutor spoke to him once or twice rather sharply, but Felix could apologize so winningly he managed to make even Laurent sniff and smile.

Julien did not even look at Lucette once, and she was cross to feel guilty. Someone who spent so much time in Paris climbing in and out of women’s beds had no business sulking because she hadn’t followed up their kiss with more liberties. So why, then, did she feel responsible for hurting his feelings?

Julien did, however, address her as they left the table to reconvene at the practice yard. “Do you think my brother and I shall put on as good a show today as we used to do at Wynfield Mote?”

“I think you are both less likely to show off in quite the same way,” she replied. “At least I hope so, or what is the point of getting older?”

“But showing off is an end in itself, is it not? And not confined to men.”

“Just don’t let showing off get in the way of your fight. I would imagine distraction is a problem when fighting.”

He looked at her with eyes that made her feel liquid and wonder why she had taken such care to stay away from him. “Unfortunately, we cannot always choose our distractions. And if I’m tempted to show off today, you have only yourself to blame.” His smile was one she had never seen from him before—an almost heartbreaking mix of wistfulness and hope.