Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(90)

“How are you going to take me back to the château like this?”

He grinned down at her as he stroked her hair away from her face. “Very stealthily, love.”

Twelve

All my past life is mine no more;

The flying hours are gone,

Like transitory dreams given o’er Whose images are kept in store

By memory alone.

—John Wilmont, Earl of Rochester

True to his word, Rand did manage to take Rosalie back to her room unseen, giving her one last, long kiss before leaving. Wondering if evidence of what had transpired was as transparent to others as she feared it must be, Rosalie was very quiet during dinner. She lifted her eyes from her plate only a few times, not daring to meet Rand’s wry gaze for fear that she would spill something or choke on her food.

Exasperating man! He did not come to her bed that night. Rosalie spent two long hours glaring at the untouched door as she debated whether or not to go to his room. Finally caution won out and she reluctantly blew out the candle before falling asleep. In the morning she found a pale yellow rose near her pillow, all of its thorns removed. Holding the delicate blossom to her face, she breathed in its scent and was transported for a moment back to the garden, where the scent of roses had floated in the air as he had pressed her into the soft grass and made her his once more. In a somewhat dreamy state of mind, Rosalie spent the first part of the day with Mireille, whose company was anything but dull.

“It’s right here,” Mireille whispered, glancing furtively up and down the hallway.

Rosalie tried the gold dolphin-shaped door handle herself, finding that it wouldn’t budge. “You’re right,” she said with gathering disappointment. “It’s locked. But why would a portrait gallery be closed up?”

“You think it is a gallery?”

“It must be. The rooms on either side of it are filled with paintings and busts of d’Angoux ancestors.” Rosalie eyed the door speculatively, nearly eaten up with curiosity. It was the only room in the entire château that she and Mireille had not explored. Meeting Mireille’s eyes, she saw that the girl’s rampant imagination was busy with possible explanations for why the door was locked.

“Perhaps someone was murdered in there,” the small maid whispered, and Rosalie laughed softly. “Probably it bas been locked accidentally.” “Do you think we should ask Madame Alvin for the key?”

Rosalie shook her head slowly. “If it is locked on purpose she’ll find some way to refuse us. And then if we were caught looking inside it, we couldn’t plead ignorance.”

They looked at each other and grinned, sharing the same enjoyment of a potential adventure.

“Mademoiselle, do you have—?”

“A hairpin? Could you do something with the lock if—?”

“Qui . . . but tell me if someone is coming.” Nimbly Mireille worked at the lock with a slender pin, reminding Rosalie of a squirrel foraging for nuts.

“You certainly have a variety of talents, Mira,” she said, and the girl snickered.

“Living with Guillaume, one learns many things to survive, mademoiselle. He showed me how to do this.”

It was the first time she had made any reference to her past. Rosalie tilted her head and watched her companion interestedly, her face soft with compassion. She did not know what kinds of experiences Mireille had lived through, but surely having moved from place to place would have made most people rather bard. How had the girl managed to stay so sweet and untarnished by others? It revealed an extraordinarily strong will, or perhaps Guillaume was responsible for preserving Mireille’s innocence. The lock clicked quietly, and Mireille handed her back the pin with a triumphant smile. They slipped into the room like two wraiths, closing the door inaudibly.

It was indeed a portrait gallery, dark paintings covering the walls like windows filled with quaintly clothed strangers. However, one portrait was separate from the rest. It was placed between two framed mirrors. As Rosalie looked at it, she doubted that it had been necessary to direct attention to the painting in such a manner, for it would have stood out in any type of arrangement. Slowly she went to the curtains and pulled them open to let more light into the room.

“Helene Marguerite d’Angoux,” Mireille read the engraved plate on the frame, creeping closer to examine the portrait. Rosalie remained in the back of the room, her eyes round and inexplicably misty. She knew without question that this portrait was the reason why the room was locked, yet it was not clear why Rand would not simply take it down. What private memories were locked in this room with the image of this woman?

“She is beautiful,” Mireille said. “Who—?” “His mother,” Rosalie replied. “Not so very beautiful, Mira.” Perhaps it was her feelings for Rand that colored her impressions of the portrait. In some ways, Mireille was right: Helene d’Angoux was physically attractive. Her face was perfectly proportioned, her lips delicate and precisely curved in a way that reminded Rosalie of Rand. That faintly mocking expression around the eyes was also something familiar to her. The eyes were not quite the same, but close. Helene’s were perfectly green, whereas Rand’s were indeterminately hazel—sometimes green, sometimes golden. They were shaped similarly, slightly narrowed at the inner corners. It was almost eerie to see the elements of Rand in the face of this woman. But there was much of her classical beauty that he had not inherited, possessing instead the strong, stubborn features that Rosalie accurately accredited to the Berkeley side of the family.