Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(115)

“As you wish.” Rand continued down the stairs and headed toward the front door. Colin followed with alacrity.

“But . . . what are you going to do about Mountford?” “Cross him off the list,” Rand replied shortly, his emotionless tone inspiring no little awe in his younger brother as they left the Mountford estate.

With each minute that ticked by, Rand felt that his chances of finding Rosalie decreased. He knew that he would spend the rest of his life searching for her if necessary, but it was important now that he move quickly, think well, find the right answers . . . now, while the iron was hot and the coals were glowing. It was only on the point of exhaustion that he returned to the Berkeley mansion, sprawling on his bed in a state that more resembled unconsciousness than slumber. The next afternoon Rand went to White’s, no longer finding it the place of ease and comfort that he once had. He had erased the most obvious signs of strain about his countenance with a shave, a good scrubbing, and several cups of coffee. Immaculately dressed in a bittersweet-chocolate-colored coat, a cream vest, tan trousers, and shining Hessian boots, Rand walked through the club witb an effective imitation of goodnatured ease. He greeted old friends and struck up conversations with two newly accepted members of White’s. When ribbed about the rumors concerning his involvement with Brummell’s daughter, Rand chose to smile mysteriously while inwardly despising those who dared mention her name. Foremost in his mind was the first list Brummell and Selegue had given him, the list of those who had visited Brummell in Calais and learned of Rosalie’s existence. Some of the men on that list were present at this moment, and he made it a point to talk to each one of them, asking subtly leading questions and gauging their reactions. In the midst of a deceptively lazy conversation, a bewigged waiter came up to him with a simple message.

“Beggin’ pardon, sir . . . but there’s a lady at the door wantin’ to see you.”

“A young lady?” Rand questioned, his eyes narrowing.

“I don’t think so, sir.”

“Then I have no interest in her,” Rand replied, the unchivalrous remark causing a huge roar of laughter from his companions.

George Selwyn clapped him on the back in hearty affection. “By God, you’ll never change, Berkeley!”

Rand smiled slightly, and then he glanced down at the uncertain waiter, who voiced a timid question. “Sir?”

“Hang it,” Rand said, sighing and raising his eyes heavenward. “I’ll go see her for a minute.”

“Oh, to be so put upon . . .” George murmured, grinning as Rand left the jovial group.

Rand’s smile disappeared as soon as he left them, for he was annoyed at the unknown woman’s interruption. It was probably Clara Ellesmere playing at some silly game, or perhaps one of her cronies who had accepted some sort of dare. Yet some quiet impulse prompted him to investigate the little mystery, and he gave the waiter a generous tip after following him to the front door of White’s. A small woman stood just outside, her face concealed by the hood of her gray cape. One long curl of dark, hair strayed from the hood, and at the sight of it Rand’s heart started hammering madly as he stepped outside with her. The door of White’s closed, the noise, light, and laughter fading abruptly as he faced her.

“Who . . . ?” he began with a curiously airless whisper, and the hood fell away as she turned to him and lifted her face to look at him. An ache of disappointment seared through Rand as he saw that the woman was a stranger. She was probably in her middle forties, her skin almost unlined and her eyes dark and kind. She was too warm, too inviting to be a member of the aristocracy, for there was no touch of pride or haughtiness in her face. She was, however, a woman of some circumstance, because her elaborately arranged hair and her well-cut clothes betrayed large expenditures of money.

“I am so sorry to have disturbed you. You are Lord Randall Berkeley?” she asked. Her voice was compassionate and almost motherly, and it had a curious effect on Rand. He had never been so drawn to a stranger, not since he had first set eyes on Rosalie. Illogical thoughts seized hold of his mind: he felt that she knew him, that somehow she understood him.

“Yes,” he answered inaudibly, and his head moved in a slight nod.

“I went to visit you . . . your brother said that you would be here. I have heard of the rumor that Rosalie is missing. I believe I can help you find her.”

Rand stared at her as if hypnotized. “Who are you?” he asked hoarsely.

“Lord Berkeley . . . I am Amille Courtois Belleau.” “She . . . she talked about you to me very often,” he managed to say, his eyes fastened onto her as if he were afraid that she would dissolve into the air. Just the fact that Amille was standing there before him, that she was real, made Rand feel that he had come closer to finding Rosalie.

“She wrote a letter to me from France, asking about her parents,” Amille replied, taking a step closer to him as if sensing his fear that she would slip away. Her gaze locked steadily with his, searching and sympathetic. “She wrote about you and how things were between you, and that is why I took the liberty of—” “I am glad you did,” Rand interrupted. “I must talk with you right away. Would you care to return to my—?”

“I think,” Amille said slowly, “that perhaps we should go to my terrace house. If our conversation is to be useful, Lord Berkeley, it must be conducted in a frank manner, and there I will be assured of no prying eyes or ears.”