Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(116)

“If it will not make you uncomfortable for you to be seen . . .” Rand started to say, and then he paused in surprise. “Your terrace house, Madame Belleau? But are you not the governess of Baron Winthrop’s—?”

“No,” Amille said, slipping her hand through his arm and inclining her head toward a gilded carriage drawn by two chestnuts. She gave him a small smile, looking very French. “Not any longer,” she said. “My carriage is waiting. Why don’t you come with me, and I will have you brought back bere when we are done talking. I do not live far from here.” He nodded mutely, and when they were seated and safely enclosed in the vehicle, Amille continued. “Rosalie told you of the night we were separated. The opera fire—”

“Yes.”

“I assume you met her shortly after that. She did not tell me in the letter what happened after that, nor do I wish to know anything about it, but obviously some set of circumstances caused the two of you to go to France together.”

“Yes,” Rand said in a low voice, his lashes flickering down to conceal the expression in his eyes.

“After being unable to find her, I returned to Winthrop House, hoping that Rosalie had found her way back there on her own. She had not. Baroness Winthrop is not an understanding woman, nor a particularly kind one, and the next morning she discovered Rosalie’s absence. The baroness felt that if I had raised my daughter with what she called ‘moral leniency,’ then perhaps I had done similarly by Elaine Winthrop, her daughter. I was dismissed that morning.”

“I am sorry.”

“I am not,” Amille replied, suddenly smiling. “The dismissal brought about a long-awaited change in my life, one that has brought me much contentment. What the baroness did not know, and what Rosalie does not know, is that for years I have been the mistress of Baron Winthrop. We have had such an understanding for a long time, and for many years the baron has wanted to establish me in a residence of my own. I insisted on keeping our relationship secret, however, because I wanted a respectable childhood for Rosalie. The education, the horses, the rudiments of a fine upbringing, were all things I wanted her to have. I intended to allow my relationship with the baron a freer rein once Rosalie was married or old enough to understand—”

“She’ll understand.”

Amille smiled at him. “I know that now.” In unspoken agreement they avoided discussing the most urgent questions until they reached the privacy of Amille’s terrace house. It was a most luxuriously furnished residence, replete with tasteful silkwood furniture, rich carpeting and upholstering, beautiful embroideries, and delicate china. Amille handed her cape to a plump, cheerful-looking girl as they walked in.

“Martha, would you bring us some tea in half an hour,” she requested softly, and seated herself gracefully on a mint-green velvet sofa. The girl cast Rand an admiring glance before leaving. “A former employee of the Winthrops,” Amille commented, casting Rand a mischievous smile. The quality of her smile and not the actual shape of it reminded him of Rosalie, and he stared at her absorbedly. “I have lured many of the best ones, including the cook, to work for me . . . with promises of better salaries and kind treatment. Now,” Amille said companionably, “I will have more than enough time to tell you what you need to know, all before Martha returns with the tea.”

Rand nodded cautiously, sitting down in a nearby armchair.

“The story,” Amille mused, pursing her lips slightly, “need not be long or complex. I will tell you the facts, and I will elaborate on whatever points you wish to be made clearer. I was the governess to Lucy Doncaster. Although Rosalie favors her in appearance, she does not in temperament. Rosalie is far stronger, more intelligent, and more confident than Lucy could have ever imagined being. Lucy was a sweet girl, however, and I was fond of her. I still do not understand why she was able to attract men so strongly—perhaps it was her helplessness. The fact is that many men were completely obsessed with her . . . especially the Earl of Rotherham. He and she were promised to wed, and all might have ended well had it not been for the interference of a vain, handsome boy who took a fancy to Lucy.”

“Beau Brummell,” Rand said grimly.

“Yes. Lucy returned his feelings a hundredfold, for although Brummell was merely fond of her, Lucy loved him so deeply that she never recovered from it. Despite my best efforts to prevent them from seeing each other, Lucy conceived a child by him. It was at this time that Brummell, unaware of her . . . condition, lost the edge of his desire for Lucy and fell in love with another young woman. And after her another, and after that one yet another, each one used to add a layer to the shell of his ego. Lucy was consumed by heartsickness and depression, swearing that she did not want to live any longer. Her family was unaware that she was going to have a child. I persuaded them to let me accompany Lucy on a trip to France, telling them that she was suffering from a nervous condition and needed new scenery. My family in France is quite respectable, and the Doncasters were satisfied with our declared intention to stay with my relatives.”

“And did you in fact stay with them?”

“Yes, with my parents, who were sworn to secrecy about Lucy’s baby. They have since passed away with the secret still intact. I had planned to leave the child with them until we could find someone to adopt it.” “A tidy plan,” Rand said, casting an admiring glance at her.