Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(40)

“I’ll fetch it, Mr. Brummell.”

“If it’s too much trouble . . .” Rosalie began. “No, no, not at all, m’dear. It is a very special album, with unique verses that only my favored guests are invited to regard.”

“We’re very flattered,” Rosalie said.

As she and Brummell smiled at each other with the same degree of beguiling charm, Rand suddenly froze, the idle tapping of his fingers on a hard thigh stilling. He looked at the pair of them and leaned forward, his eyes flickering from one to the other and then widening in astonishment. Nothing in the world could have induced him to say a blessed word in that moment, for his mind was spinning with suspicion, wonder, curiosity, disbelief.

Brummell must have regarded himself in the mirror often enough to recognize the vague echo of his own expression, for his smile dimmed in puzzlement as he walked toward Rosalie. The album was forgotten. Then he turned pale and his gaze focused on her throat. Uneasily Rosalie remained where she was sitting.

“Mr. Brummell?” she said hesitantly, and he appeared overcome.

“Where . . . did you get . . . that pin?” he finally was able to stammer.

Her fingers flew protectively to the small gold ornament that was attached to the ribbon fastened around her neck.

“It was my father’s stock pin. He died when I was young. My mother gave it to me so that I would have something of his.”

“May I see it?” The words were taut, brittle, almost breaking in the complete silence.

Confused, Rosalie untied the ribbon and handed it to him, the tiny gold cirlet dangling from it like a teardrop. She was amazed to see that his hand was shaking. Darting a glance at Rand, she saw that his gaze was focused completely on Brummell. After she had relinquished the stock pin, the men seemed to have forgotten her very existence.

“What is the matter?” she asked. No answer was immediately forthcoming. Brummell walked over to the window and held the pin up in the sunlight to examine it closely.

“Selegue!” he shouted strainedly, and the wiry little valet came running back into the room.

“Here is the . . .” Selegue began, stopping as he saw the oddly stooped posture twisting Brummell’s normally upright frame. “What happened?” he asked, and Brummell handed him the pin wordlessly. A minute of silence ensued as the valet scrutinized the object with care.

“Tell them,” the Beau muttered, as if the effort of speaking were too great to allow more than those two words.

“It is the stock pin your father, William, had commissioned for your sixteenth birthday,” Selegue said matter-of-factly. “The same pin that you gave to Lucy Doncaster before you were parted from her. The B stands for Brummell, the leaves patterned after those that adorn the walls of your family estate, the Grove—” “The B stands for Belleau!” Rosalie interrupted, smiling although her voice was slightly shrill. “I told you, this is my father’s pin . . . Georges Belleau.”

“Georges Belleau,” Rand repeated softly. “George Brummell. A strange coincidence that the initials are the same.”

“Stop it!” Rosalie snapped, her chest rising and falling rapidly.

“Please, Miss Belleau,” Brummell said, making an effort at calmness. “I am sorry to distress you. Let us clear this matter immediately.”

“At once,” she agreed sharply.

“Then would you relate to us the circumstances of your birth?”

“Certainly. I was born in 1796—”

“The year I was eighteen,” Brummell interjected. “—in France. My mother and father moved to London soon afterward. According to Maman, my father was a confectioner. He was killed by a stagecoach as he crossed the street from his store.”

“You have been brought up solely by your mother?” “Yes. I have lived with her all of my life until . . . until I made the acquaintance of Lord Berkeley.”

“Your mother’s occupation?” the Beau pressed. “She is governess to a respectable—” “Her name. Her name.”

Rosalie stared at him, transfixed by the urgency in his face. Unreasonably frightened, she stood up from the chair and backed away a step. She could hardly speak. “Amille Belleau,” she said, her throat dry.

“Before she was married.”

Silently Rosalie shook her head. She had the premo nition that he already knew the answer. Somehow she forced out the name. “Amille Courtois.”

A deathlike pall fell over the room, for so long that Rosalie thought she would cry out from the tension. Then Selegue broke the stillness.

“That was the name of Lucy Doncaster’s governess.” “What are you saying?” Rosalie demanded unstead ily.

“She must have . . . Lucy Doncaster might have born you in Europe after she fled England,” the valet replied gently. “It is quite likely that you are a product of the relationship of George Brummell and Lucy Doncaster. There is not only the pin to consider, but also the amazing likeness between you and her.”

Brummell clutched the pin in his fist, bending over and pressing it to his chest.

“No!” Rosalie felt indignant tears well up in her eyes. “My mother is Amille Courtois Belleau. My father was Georges Belleau. You’re mistaken, you’re terribly wrong!” She stumbled backward, everything in the room looming toward her at odd angles. “Give me my pin,” she sobbed, and as she turned blindly she felt hard arms close securely around her. “Rand,” she wept, pressing her face into his shoulder. “Rand, tell them . . .” “This cannot be possible,” Brummell rasped, hiding his face. “I cannot think, I cannot . . . For God’s sake, let me alone to think!”