Surrender. Brenda Joyce
But she would not go to France alone. She hoped to go there with Jack Greystone, and he was certainly capable of achieving anything he set his mind to.
His image assailed her again, as he stood at his ship’s helm, the wind buffeting his shirt against his body, his hair streaming in it, as his cutter raced the wind.
Aimee stared solemnly at her. “I want Papa to be happy now.”
Evelyn quickly hugged her. Aimee had seen how bitter and dark her father had become over the past few years. Children could not be fooled. She had sensed his anguish, his pain and his anger. “Your papa is certainly at peace now, Aimee, because he is in heaven with angels,” she said softly. Aimee nodded solemnly. “Can he see us, Mama? From heaven?”
“I think he can.” She smiled. “And that is how he will always watch over us. Now, can you leave me while I get dressed? And then we can take le petit déjeuner together.”
And as Aimee nodded, smiling, Evelyn watched her leave the room. The moment her daughter was gone, she let Jack Greystone fill her thoughts. Her chest seemed to tighten again. And she most certainly knew why—but she hadn’t expected to have such a silly reaction to the mere idea of him, not after all of these years.
Carefully, she sorted through her memories.
Henri had slept through most of the Channel crossing, and Bette had read to Aimee until the sea had lulled her back to sleep. Evelyn had stood by the porthole, watching the sunrise as it turned the sea pink and gold, marveling at the experience of crossing the Channel on a swift sloop with black sails. But she had been impatient. She hadn’t wanted to remain in his cabin—while he was on deck.
And as soon as Aimee was asleep, with the sun barely in the sky, she had gone up on deck.
The sight of Jack Greystone standing at the helm of his ship was one she would never forget. She had watched him for a moment, noting his wide stance, his strong powerful build, as he braced against the wind. His hair had come loose, and it was whipped by the wind. Then he had turned and seen her.
Evelyn remembered his gaze being searing, even across the distance of the deck. However, she was probably imagining that. He had seemed to accept her presence, turning back to face the prow, and she had stood by the cabin, watching him command the vessel for a long time.
Eventually he had left the helm, crossing the deck to her. “There’s a ship on the horizon. We’re only an hour from Dover—you should go below.”
She had trembled, their gazes locked. “Are we being pursued?”
“I don’t know yet, and if we are, there is no way they can catch us before we reach land. However, we could encounter other vessels, this close to Britain. Go below, Lady LeClerc.”
It wasn’t a question. Silently, she had retreated to his cabin.
And there had been no chance to thank him when they had reached their berth, just south of London. Two of his sailors, in striped boatnecked tunics and scarves about their heads, had escorted her and her family to land in a small rowboat. Somehow he had arranged a wagon for them, in which they had been transported to the city. As they got into the vehicle, she had seen him in the distance, astride a black horse, watching them. She had wanted to thank him and she had wanted to wave; she hadn’t done either.
As she got dressed now, choosing her dove-gray satin, she was reflective. He had haunted her for several days, and perhaps even several weeks. She had even written him a letter, thanking him for his help. But she hadn’t known where to send it, and in the end, she had tucked it away.
She was older and wiser now. He had rescued her, her husband and her daughter, and she had been somewhat smitten with him—not because he was undeniably attractive, but out of gratitude. Although she had paid him for his services—even if it was less than he had initially asked for—she owed him for the lives of her and her family. That cast him as a hero.
Trembling, she fastened the clasp of her pearl necklace, regarding herself in the mirror, surprised that she did not look half as haggard as she had yesterday. Her eyes held a new light, one that was almost a sparkle, and her cheeks were flushed.
Well, she certainly had her work cut out for her. She had no idea how to locate Jack Greystone, but now that she had thought about it, she was resolved. She trusted him with her life and she even trusted him, perhaps foolishly, with Henri’s gold. He was the man for the task at hand.
Before there had been fear and panic. Now, there was hope.
* * *
EVERYONE KNEW THAT the road between Bodmin and London was heavily used by smugglers to transport their cargoes north to the towns just outside of the city, where the black market thrived. Having been raised at Faraday Hall, just outside of Fowey, Evelyn certainly knew it, too. Smuggling was a way of life in Cornwall. Her uncle had been “investing” in local smuggling ventures ever since she could recall. As a child, she had thrilled when the call went out that the smugglers were about to drop anchor, often in the cove just below the house. As long as the revenue men were not nearby, the smugglers would boldly berth in plain sight and in broad daylight, and everyone from the parish would turn out to help them unload their valuable cargo.
Farmers would loan their horses and donkeys to help move the goods inland; young tubsmen would pack ankers from the beach to the waiting wagons, huffing and puffing with their load; batsmen would be spread about, bats held high, just in case the preventive men appeared....
Children would cling to their mother’s skirts. Casks of beer would be opened. There would be music, dancing, drinking and a great celebration, for the free trade was profitable for everyone.
Now, in hindsight, Evelyn knew what had brought Henri to Cornwall and her uncle’s home in the first place. He had been investing in the free trade, as well, as so many merchants and noblemen were wont to do. It wasn’t always easy making a profit, but when profits were made, they were vast.
She suddenly recalled standing with Henri in his wine cellars, in their château in Nantes, perhaps a year after giving birth to Aimee. He had insisted she come down to the cellar with him. His mood had been jovial, she now recalled, and she had been in that first flush of motherhood.
“Do you see this, my darling?” Still dashing and handsome, exquisitely dressed in a satin coat and breeches with white stockings, he had swept his hand across the rows of barrels lining his cellar. “You are looking at a fortune, my dear.”
She had been puzzled, but pleased to find him in such good spirits. “What is in the barrels? They look like the barrels the smugglers in Fowey used.”
He had laughed. “How clever you are!” Henri had explained that they were the very same kinds of casks used by smugglers everywhere, and that they were filled with liquid gold. He had untapped a barrel and poured clear liquid into the glass he held. She now knew that the liquid was unfiltered, undiluted, one-hundred-proof alcohol, which in no way resembled the brandy he drank every night, and had been drinking a moment ago.
“You can’t drink it this way,” he had explained. “It will truly kill you.”
She hadn’t understood. He had explained that after it arrived at its final destination in England, it would be colored with caramel and diluted.
And he had hugged her. “I intend to keep you in your silks, satins and diamonds, always,” he had said. “You will never lack for anything, my dear.”
Like her uncle, and a great many of her neighbors, Henri had financed and invested in various smugglers, both before and after their marriage. She knew he had stopped those investments when they had left France. There hadn’t been enough in their coffers for him to finance those ventures anymore; he had become averse to taking risks.
He had intended to make certain that she had the resources with which to raise her daughter in luxury, but he had failed. Instead, she was the one fighting for enough funds to raise Aimee. She was the one seated in a carriage now, about to enter the kind of establishment no lady should ever enter alone, because she