Page 50 of A Figure of Love

Serena didn’t care, as long as he kept well away from her. Not that he would. No, she was the goose who laid golden eggs, and he took them without remorse and without ceasing.

She heard his boots on the wood planking and blinked rapidly, until she could see his shadow flickering as he paced.

“You flatter yourself that I came here to see you. I’m on my way to Dover, where I have business.”

Serena knew what that meant: smuggling. Etienne Bardot was a criminal from a long line of criminals and she rued the day that misfortune had led him to her little corner of the world. A Parisian by birth, he’d run from the city after an unfortunate incident that left an influential member of the local government dead.

He’d joined the army and quickly found his level, assembling a group of like-minded criminals and deserting at the first opportunity. They’d gone from village to village, until they found one so ill-defended, so lacking in men—men who were either dead from the endless fighting or off preparing to become cannon fodder—they could set up a private fiefdom.

Her vision cleared enough to see he was not looking at her, but at the block of marble. He shook his head and gestured to it before turning to her. “Why do you do this? You could live off the duke; he would care for you and the boy.” He snorted, “Oliver is the only child of his dead, beloved son.”

Serena pushed back her hair, which had shaken loose at his manhandling. “What? And live with you always lurking about? Do you think these people are stupid just because they are wealthy? And now that the War is over, do you think you will not see people who will know who you really are? What you really are?”

He waved a hand, dismissing her worries. “People of that class rarely travel.”

“You did.”

He’d returned to his usual, unflappable mood and merely smiled at her rude baiting. “Yes, but I am the odd one. I am, eh, how do you say it? On my way up the social ranks?”

He was filth, and lower than pond scum, but he was smart enough to know that. Which made him even more dangerous.

“Well, I have just come to pay my respects. It is unfortunate I do not have time to stay—meet your employer, see the boy. But perhaps on the return journey?”

Serena hoped he was run over by a wagon or shot by his criminal conspirators, but his type was hard to kill.

He gave her a mocking bow, tipping his hat, and then left, his footsteps echoing in the empty building.

She collapsed back against the wall when she could no longer hear him, her entire body shaking, her teeth chattering. She wrapped her arms around her body and tightened them, hugging herself as she would Oliver if he woke from a nightmare.

Oliver. What if Bardot hadn’t really left, but had gone to find him?

She ran from the room before the thought was even fully formed, her mind like a crazed animal, trapped in a snare.

Oliver. Where was he?

Stop. Think.

She obeyed the voice that had guided her out of France and away from Bardot and dozens of others who would have killed her for what she’d carried with her.

Fishing. He’d come to her room this morning to tell her Nounou had agreed to let him fish, in reward for being so good during the days when he’d not been able to step foot outside.

She returned to her impromptu work room and took her cloak, hat, and satchel from the peg where she’d hung them. In addition to her ever-present sketchbook, the satchel contained all her money, a miniature painting of Oliver in a leather case—an item she’d traded a piece of sculpture for with another artist—her marriage lines, and Robert’s signet ring, gold and emerald with his initials graven in the stone.

Serena took the satchel with her everywhere—a lesson she’d learned to her detriment over a decade ago, when she’d been caught and forced to flee and leave behind the information that had led Etienne Bardot to her door.

Oliver favored a bend in the stream where the water collected in a deep pool. They’d walked there together and she’d promised to come and bathe with him when the weather was warmer. There was a particularly alluring rock that hung over the stream and she’d told him—under no circumstances, was he to dive or swim alone. He was a boy who honored his word, so she was not concerned.

She half-ran, half-walked the distance to the stream, her breath coming in sharp, ragged gasps—especially after she saw the impression of far larger boots beside Oliver’s familiar footprints.

Oh God, she begged, please let her be mistaken. Even Etienne would not do such a thing—he would then have to care for the boy and she knew he had no regard for anyone other than himself.

But then she recalled his threat of six months past, when she’d refused to pay him—chiefly because she’d had almost no money: “I’ll take him from you, Serena, and I wager you’ll find the money to get him back, won’t you?”

She crested the rise that overlooked the small river and skidded to a halt. Two figures were down below, and neither of them was Etienne Bardot.

Serena quickly moved into the shade of a nearby grove of Scots Pines.

Oliver was down below and laughing, his skinny little body clad only in wet drawers. He was on top of the big rock and Gareth Lockheart, hip-deep in the pool and bare-chested, was calling out something in an unmistakably taunting masculine tone.