Page 30 of The Count’s Charade

Henri waved her away. “I have had enough with the bed, enfin. Do not concern you, Grâce. It has been a little plan with Jemima. She has helped me to put on the waistcoat and my cravat, and has been with me as I come down the stairs. A surprise for you, ma chère.”

“It has certainly been that,” declared Grace, reluctantly shifting to the head of the table and taking her own seat. “Thank heaven Mr Wooferton took that horrid man away!”

“Peace! I am safe enough.”

Grace sank back, only now noticing that covers had been laid for two. She gazed at Henri as the flurry in her pulses died down. He looked indescribably handsome in the added light thrown into the room by the candelabrum Jemima had set upon the table. She rather thought his cheeks were not as lean, and was glad she had spared no expense towards regaining his health and strength. The green gaze came to rest on her own, the serious look back in his features.

“It is so important for you to read my papers?”

“If you were not so secretive, I would have no need.”

“But why do you have need?”

She rested her elbows on the table and leaned forward, sighing. “Mr Wooferton plans to take you away tomorrow. He would have done so today, but that I fought him. But if he gets a warrant from Sir James Levisham, I cannot stop him. And he will likely bring Doctor Ffrith to pronounce on your condition.”

Henri continued to look at her, unsmiling now. “Then he will take me, Grâce. I have told you before that I am ready.”

“But I am not!”

It was out before she could stop it. Instantly, she felt herself flushing and looked down at her hands, tightly folded before her. To her relief, Henri did not speak. She fought to control a ragged breath, and looked up, forcing calm into her voice.

“If I could be sure no harm would come to you — if I knew that all my efforts are not to go to waste … Henri, I cannot endure to know nothing, when there may be something I can do to save you.”

There was a moment of hesitation. Grace thought she could see uncertainty in him. Then he held out his hand. “Give me the papers.”

Grace let out a sigh of defeat. Shifting, she put one hand in her pocket and brought out the two papers, reluctantly handing them over. She watched Henri turn them over to examine the seals. Then he looked at her again and held up both papers.

“If it comes that you think I am in danger from your English authorities, open these. Then, you are to judge me, Grâce. If you desire it, show these to those you believe can help me. Take them again. Hide them in your place secret.”

Feeling both bemused and touched, Grace took them back. Without a word, she rose from the table and clunked her way across to the bureau. Casting a glance to the door to make sure Jemima was not about to enter, she once again slipped the catch and secreted the sealed letters in her cache along with the others, leaving them unpackaged this time. Her heart glowed, for Henri had given her his trust.

Only it was not enough. She longed to know more. As she made her way back to the table, Jemima came in, bearing a tray on which were several covered dishes. The maid was in fine fettle, delighted to have sprung her surprise. It evidently did not occur to her that for Grace to be dining tête-à-tête in this cosy way with the invalid was exactly calculated to set tongues wagging in the villages. Grace could only be thankful Mab’s spouse had providentially fallen victim to a slight indisposition, which had kept her old nurse tied to the Bear at East Hall these few days.

It was politic to wait until they were both served with a fricassee of chicken and some stewed cucumbers before embarking upon the subject uppermost in Grace’s mind. But Jemima did not withdraw until she had produced a bottle of wine that must have been languishing in the kitchens for some little time. It was pleasant enough to Grace’s palate, but she could not suppose it could satisfy that of a Frenchman. Henri pronounced it potable, however, and if his compliments were feigned, they satisfied the maid, who retired to the kitchen in a state of high glee.

Grace let several moments pass, watching how Henri managed one-handed, and ready to aid him at need. Seeing how he had mastered the technique, she applied herself to her own meal, and tried to hit upon a neutral topic of conversation. This proved difficult, if not impossible, when her whole attention centred upon the horrid thought this was likely to prove the last time she could enjoy Henri’s company.

Perhaps fortunately, he chose to speak first. Setting down his fork, he picked up his glass of wine and sipped it, looking interestedly about the parlour. “Here is your life, I think.”

It was an odd way of putting it, and Grace laughed. “You could say that. I spend more time in here than anywhere else.” She forked more of the fricassee into her mouth, and noticed Henri had turned in his chair to examine the open bureau.

“That is where you work?”

“It is convenient for my writing.”

Henri chewed in silence for a moment or two, his gaze roving the parlour. It came to rest again on Grace’s face. “How is it that you are here, Grâce?”

She shifted her shoulders. “I chose it. My brother is the pastor hereabouts. I might have lived with him in Rainham when our father died. We were used to be in Barking, where my father had his living.”

“He also was a man of God, your father?”

“He was indeed. I kept house for him after my mother died. But when he went too, I wished…”

She faded out, taking refuge in eating. In light of recent events, it was hard to recover the force of the ambition that had driven her to forge her own future. It seemed petty and peculiarly unfeminine, which had never troubled her before.

“You wished for what, Grâce?”

It came out too forcefully. “To make a life for myself. I had nothing else, no expectations. I thought it preferable to live alone than to become little less than a pensioner in my brother’s house.”