Page 31 of The Count’s Charade

Henri nodded as he reached out for the bottle and helped himself to more wine. “It is understandable that.” His sudden grin appeared. “And you, ma chère, a woman of much — how do you say? — independent.”

“Independence,” corrected Grace automatically. She was obliged to smile. “True enough. I had to fight for it, mind. Constant — my brother, that is — was greatly opposed. As he would be to your presence here.”

“Assuredly.” Henri set down his glass and took up his fork again. “If it was for my sister to live like this, I also would oppose.”

Grace’s pulse did a little skip. “Have you a sister?”

His face shut. “I have no one.”

A tattoo rose in her chest. Dared she ask more? Had he lost relatives to the revolution? That would make him an émigré — and innocent. Her hand jerked, and the contents of her fork fell back on to the plate. Henri glanced across at her, and she quickly looked down, gathering the food up again and shoving it quickly into her mouth.

What had possessed her mind to throw that out? She had not far to seek for the answer. By Henri’s own admission, those dreadful men had been his friends. Which raised so many questions. She had hidden them from herself, pretending to other reasons for wishing to look at his papers. Was it her own suspicion causing the deep-seated dread that lay like lead in her stomach?

“What is in your mind, Grâce?”

Dear Lord, she was giving herself away! Pushing away her plate, she looked up, forcing a smile. She sought at random for an answer. And hit upon the miracle of the speed of his recovery. Once seated at the table, he had showed no further weakness.

“I am astonished you are able to sit there like that. Barely a week ago you were at death’s door.”

“Life has taught me that I must be strong.”

“How?”

Henri heard the tension in her tone. It was not what she had been thinking, he was certain. Was she again wondering about the papers? If she only knew how he yearned to speak freely. Should he burden her with any detail of his past life, he could inadvertently let out what it might endanger her to know. Especially now Jean-Marc had word of his having been here. If he had learned to endure sights calculated to send a sane man screaming mad, his erstwhile friend had apparently become inured. More, he had acquired the inhuman attitude that enabled a man to blind himself to anything which impeded his personal gain. There was no saying where he would stop.

Henri diverted the question. “How is it you are strong, Grâce? For that you have suffered. It is to suffer, or to see suffering, that makes one change. One may become fearful and weak. Another may become strong, enfin.”

Her gaze raked him, and he heard reproach in her voice. “You have learned to be adept at evasion, I see.”

A laugh escaped him. “It is true. It is of all things what one needs in my country in these times.”

Again she eyed him. A calculating look? “Your identity paper describes you as an aide. With such friends as those I met today, I must suppose you to have been aiding someone in the government.”

She was acute, he had to give her that. He could neither confirm nor deny it, aware Grace would likely take his silence for assent. Her eyes narrowed a little, and he waited, with a faint feeling of apprehension, for what she might next say.

“That you have been pursued to England presupposes a change — either of your employers in the government, or of your own loyalties. These men, who are no longer your friends, must be part of that change. You are government business, a fugitive, so they said. Yet it appears they are bent upon destroying you, not returning you, in the cause of justice, to France.”

Her tone was flat and unemotional, but Henri was not deceived. Her eyes signalled her distress. The temptation to unburden himself was strong. She had picked up the very anomalies he was assured must plague the authorities. Readily could he answer them, but there was a price to pay when he did. One did not lead life on a knife edge without shouldering consequences almost unendurable. How far these might be taken as the ravages of war was a matter for each man and his own conscience. Except that when it came to authorities, the recoil became unpredictable.

As if she read his thought, Grace spoke again. “Have you thought what you will say, when Wooferton or Sir James is asking you these questions?”

Henri laughed out. “Ma chère, I have thought of little else since I found it was my destiny to live.”

“Then tell me,” Grace pleaded, a catch in her voice. “Don’t you see it is worse for me not to know, when a little knowledge may be enough to give me hope? You will go from here, and I will be left with conjecture and surmise, and a hideous tangle of confusion. If you are shot as a spy, Henri, I will have saved you for nothing!”

She could not prevent the uneven rise and fall at her breast, and there was no pushing back the moistures gathering upon her lower lids and tippling on to her cheeks. Grace raised her hands to dash them away, hiccupping on the choking sobs threatening in her throat.

Dimly she heard Henri’s voice. “Ah, no, chèrie!”

There was the scrape of a chair, and in a moment Grace was pulled up by one strong hand and gathered into a warm embrace. Forgetting his injury, she sank against Henri’s sound shoulder, desperately swallowing her tears. Tender words were murmured close to her ear.

“Grâce, ma petite, you must not weep for me. I am not worth…”

His lean cheek was pressed against hers, and the warmth of his half-embrace was inexpressibly comforting. Still the tears came. He shifted, and she felt his breath across her cheek, urgency in his tone.

“Peace! Tais-toi! Doucement, doucement…”

Before Grace knew what was happening, her mouth was covered by Henri’s, as if by this means he might enforce her silence. The urge to weep gave way to an exquisite sensation, as of liquid heat spreading through her veins.