Page 97 of The Dueling Duchess

Despite what he claimed—that she was what he wanted—Cecile knew he would never settle in to working in a circus for the rest of his life. Something, or likely someone, would come along who would be suitable for a man of his background and status.

The one thing she knew for certain about aristocratic men was that they were forgiven any folly if they were handsome and charming. Guy’s stint at the Fayre would be a story he could tell at ton gatherings for years to come.

That same generous attitude was not extended to the women of his class. Or the women of any other class, for that matter.

Cecile eyed his patient, handsome face, and her impulse to protect herself at all costs wavered.

He would never use her past against her, so what would it hurt to share a bit of her life with him? She’d already told him who she really was—something she’d never told anyone else—and he’d kept the story to himself.

Cecile nodded. “Ask your question.”

“I want to know about your journey to Britain.”

“It’s not very exciting.”

“I’d still like to hear it if it is not painful to talk about?”

Cecile considered his question and realized her heart no longer hurt when she thought about that horrid night.

“It is no longer painful.” She inhaled deeply, exhaled, and began.

“It was storming the night we left—badly—and we shouldn’t have sailed, but my father was afraid to linger in France. You see, he’d spent most of his money to visit his patron in prison. By the time we stepped onto that boat, we had only coins left to us. His plan was to go to my cousin in England and work for him.”

“So he was acquainted with your cousin?”

“They had never met, but they’d exchanged letters for years. The Blanchard family had made guns for a long time, but they were never of the caliber”—she laughed—“pardon the bad pun, of those the Blanchets made. From time to time my father helped them, as had my grandfather, by sending them some of the improvements in his designs.”

They walked in silence for a moment, the past and that night gradually coming back to her.

“My father was not well. I think he contracted something when we went to La Force to visit his former patron, who was dying.” She glanced at Guy and saw he was looking at her, his brow furrowed with concern. “He was very ill before we left France, and he actually died on the boat journey to England.”

“Good Lord,” he murmured. “Didn’t you say that you were only fourteen?”

“Yes.”

“Did you have anyone else with you?”

“No, it was just the two of us.”

“You must have been terrified.”

She gave a humorless laugh. “There should be a new word for what I felt. I spoke almost no English, and I discovered right before the boat capsized in the middle of the Channel—in a violent storm—that my father had died while sitting right beside me. When the boat went over, I managed to cling to it, holding on for hours. As for the two men who’d been rowing, one moment they were there, the next they were gone. I don’t know if they survived or if—”

Cecile shivered as she recalled those long, freezing, terrifying hours in the darkness.

Guy stared at her in horror. “My God, Cecile.”

“When I washed up the next day, there were a great many people on the shore. It seemed another ship—a real ship—had broken apart during the storm. It was an English vessel, so those helping the survivors assumed I was another passenger and gave me shelter and food while I recovered. My father had always insisted I learn a little English, so I could understand just enough that I knew I needed to pretend I was mute rather than attempt to speak.” She gave him a wry smile. “It was not a good time to be a French émigré as they were flooding England’s shores.”

The guilty look on his face told her he knew what she meant. So many French people had come to England in so short a time that the populace—from poor to wealthy—had viewed them as a nuisance, at best, and a dangerous menace at worst.

It was interesting how emotional the story was making her, she thought, rapidly blinking her eyes to clear her vision.

It occurred to her that she’d never told it to anyone in its entirety. Curtis and his wife hadn’t wanted to know the details; they’d wanted her to become as English as possible, as fast as possible, and had pretended her past didn’t exist.

Marianne had asked her, but Cecile had put her off with a few vague details, not wanting her best friend to know what a pitiful creature she had once been.

Was it significant that yet again it was Guy in whom she confided?