Today's Reading

"Do not fret, my lord," said a voice unfamiliar to her. "I swear—"

"Do not fret!" Lord Heathbrook cried. "Evan, Kit, and Zachary are still wards of my mother's damn cousin. How can I 'not fret'?"

At the sound of the word damn,— the butler colored, then hastily ushered them into a drawing room and closed the door. "If you will be seated, ladies, I will make sure his lordship knows you are here. But I don't know if he will be free. At present, he and his attorney are involved in a ... er ... discussion."

"In France, we call that an argument," Maman muttered, thankfully low enough that Renham couldn't hear.

"We understand," Giselle told the butler, forcing a smile, though she disliked men with hot tempers. Her stepfather had tried to bully both her and her mother from the time Giselle was small. Mother had put up with it, although she had complained a great deal out of his hearing. But past the age of twelve, Giselle had not tolerated her stepfather's temper, and she certainly would not tolerate it from an Englishman.

Unfortunately, she still needed a favor from this particular Englishman. "If the earl cannot see us now, Mr. Renham, please ask him when he can. We would very much like to chat with him."

"Of course, mademoiselle." Mr. Renham hurried to the door and paused, as if listening for more shouting before he opened it. But Lord Heathbrook had apparently regained control over his temper, for the only thing they could hear was the murmur of voices. Thank heaven.

Mr. Renham flashed her a relieved smile. "I shall see that tea is brought."

As soon as he had left, her mother used her cane to lower herself onto a settee of red toile de Jouy. Someone in the household must once have had a fondness for French dècor, because in addition to the classically French toile, the other pieces of furniture were of ornately carved and heavily gilded mahogany and rosewood. The Parisian style made Giselle homesick.

Not that she wasn't glad she had come to England. Getting to know her British half sister, who had completely embraced her despite her illegitimacy, had been lovely, but sometimes she desperately missed the quality of light in Paris, the lazy drift of the Seine, the taste of French coffee and baguettes. She missed having a garden. Their London lodgings had none.

"Why was the earl shouting?" her mother asked in French.

Surprisingly, Giselle knew the answer. "From what Jon has told me, Lord Heathbrook has been fighting for guardianship of his young brothers ever since he returned home in April."

Her mother gave an exasperated shake of her head. "You should not call the duke 'Jon.' You should call him by his proper title."

As usual, Giselle bristled at her mother's admonitions. "I refuse to call my brother-in-law 'Your Grace.' I knew him as Lord Jonathan in France because that is what Monsieur Morris called him, but apparently I can't call him that now that he is duke." She drew herself up proudly. "Besides, he bade me call him 'Jon,' so that is what I do."

She and Maman had this battle often. Giselle had grown up during the Revolution and thus possessed the lack of reverence for—or fear of—nobility that most of her French peers did. Her mother, however, despite marrying a member of the bourgeoisie, was the daughter of a count, though few knew it. Maman had never banished the images of the guillotine from her mind. She was still terrified of being sent back to France, which was why she placated the English whenever possible.

And pushed Giselle to save them both from such a fate.

"Why does Lord Heathbrook not have guardianship already?" her mother asked.

"I have no idea." She waved her hand dismissively. "It has something to do with English law. I do not understand what. Does it matter?"

"I suppose not. But if this man has such a temper ..."

The fierce set to her mother's chin made Giselle force softness into her voice. "It will be fine, Maman. He is not generally that sort of fellow." But just to be sure, she went to the door and cracked it open to see if she could hear anything.

Lord Heathbrook now stood in the foyer with his back to her, speaking in low tones with a gangly fellow. That man wore the white powdered wig of an English barrister and a simple suit of black wool with a white shirt and a black stock about his neck.

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