Even if it meant ruthlessly burying needs that he had spent a lifetime learning to suppress.
CHAPTER 9
“For love is free; and will not be commanded.”
Sir Thomas Malory,Le Morte d’Arthur
Henri stirred from sleep as the church bells chimed the evening hour, their deep bronze tones drifting through her small window to pull her from the first restful slumber she had enjoyed since this ordeal began. Sunlight no longer filtered through the glass, replaced instead by the soft glow of lamplight from the street below, and the room was cooler than when she had gone to bed. She had slept through most of the day, and her body felt considerably restored from the trials of their Channel crossing.
A soft knock at the door announced someone’s return. The maid entered with her customary downcast eyes, carrying a pitcher of steaming water and fresh linens.
“Bonsoir, mademoiselle,” she murmured as she set about preparing the washstand. “Monsieur Grantham demande votre présence pour le dîner.”
Henri sat up slowly, her mind still foggy from sleep. “Monsieur Grantham? Dinner?” The name meant nothing to her, though the servant’s tone suggested this person held considerable authority in the household.
“Oui, mademoiselle. Il vous attend en bas.” After the maid informed her that the mysterious Grantham was waiting downstairs, she fell silent as she moved about the small room, laying out the washing things with practiced skill. Despite Henri’s attempts to engage her in conversation, the maid remained stubbornly uncommunicative, responding only with nods or brief phrases in French.
As the maid helped her wash and arranged her hair into a more presentable style, Henri’s mind raced with possibilities. This mysterious Monsieur Grantham might be the person in charge of her captivity, perhaps someone with the authority to arrange her return to England. Cooperation seemed the wisest course, though Henri remained uncertain what she would do if an opportunity for escape presented itself.
She possessed a small purse with enough funds for modest travel expenses, money she had brought for her intended day trip to Hertfordshire to visit Sir Alpheus. But certainly not enough to secure passage back to England, particularly if she found herself stranded in a foreign port without assistance.
If this truly was Calais, as she suspected from her view of the harbor, there would be a British consulate somewhere in the city. Perhaps she could make her way there and throw herself upon the mercy of His Majesty’s representatives. The thought provided some small comfort as the maid finished her ministrations and departed, once again turning the key in the lock.
Henri had barely settled herself back into the single chair when footsteps sounded on the stairs outside. The key turned, and she heard a soft knock before the door unlatched and opened to reveal Lord Trenwith himself.
Her breath caught in her throat. Gone was the rumpled gentleman who had carried her aboard the ship in his rough coachman’s attire. Instead, he stood before her dressed in understated evening wear, a simple dark coat and plain waistcoat that suggested a man of modest means rather than a peer of the realm. The transformation was so complete that had she encountered him on the street, she might have taken him for a minor merchant or perhaps a clerk in some respectable firm.
“Miss Bigsby,” he said quietly, offering a small bow. “I trust you are feeling better after your rest.”
“Lord Trenwith.” Henri rose from her chair, studying his altered appearance with curious eyes. “Though I suspect I should be addressing you as Monsieur Grantham?”
Something flickered across his features, surprise perhaps, or approval at her quick deduction. “You are quite observant. Yes, while we are in France, that name serves my purposes better.”
“And what purposes might those be?” Henri asked, but the viscount merely gestured toward the door.
“Perhaps we might continue this conversation over dinner? I believe you will find the fare more substantial than what you were served earlier.”
Henri had little choice but to follow him from the room and down the narrow stairs.
The dining room proved to be a small but comfortable chamber on the ground floor, furnished with a simple table and chairs that matched the house’s deliberately unremarkable character. Candles provided cheering light, and the aroma of well-prepared food made Henri’s mouth water with renewed hunger.
The meal that followed was indeed substantial—hearty French fare that included a rich soup, roasted chicken with herbs, fresh bread, and a selection of local cheeses. Henri found herself eating with more enthusiasm than she had felt in days, the simple pleasure of good food helping to restore both her strength and her spirits.
The viscount proved to be an attentive host, ensuring her wine glass remained filled and inquiring politely about her comfort. Yet beneath his courteous manner, Henri sensed the same controlled tension she had observed during their carriage journey. He was watching her carefully, as if gauging her reactions.
They spoke of inconsequential matters at first. The weather, the quality of the food, the general bustle of port cities. But as the meal progressed and Henri’s patience wore thin, she finally set down her fork and fixed him with a direct stare.
“What is this all about?” she demanded, her shoulders squaring with renewed determination. “I have been patient, Lord Trenwith, but I require answers. What are we doing in France? Why have you brought me here against my will? And who, precisely, is Monsieur Grantham?”
He was quiet for a long moment, his hazel eyes studying her face as if memorizing every detail. When he finally spoke, his words carried a weariness that aged him beyond his years.
“I am engaged in a sensitive negotiation,” he said slowly, each word chosen with obvious care but more communicative than he had been in the past three days. Clearly, he was more relaxed now that they had reached their destination. “My presence in England had to remain absolutely secret. Any knowledge of my departure from France could have catastrophic consequences.”
Henri leaned forward, sensing that she was finally approaching the truth behind her kidnapping. “What sort of negotiation? With whom?”
“I cannot reveal those details,” he replied, and Henri saw genuine regret in his expression. “It is a matter of life and death, Miss Bigsby. More than that, I am not permitted to say.”
“Life and death,” Henri repeated, her mind racing through the implications. “Whose life? Whose death?”
