Twelve
Monique was certain that delving into the mystery that was Gregory Vyse was a mistake. He wiggled more under her skin with every view she got of his real life, the one he led beyond his ambition.
But she couldn’t stop prying. Perhaps it was the actress in her, wanting to figure out what made him behave as he did. All she knew was that he fascinated her, which men rarely did.
“I already told you what I want to know,” she said baldly. “Why do you spend all your time in London when you could be here?”
Muttering a curse, he headed down a graveled walk. She followed his aimless ambling.
After a while, he spoke. “Let’s just say that this place holds bad memories for me.”
“Of what?”
“Not what—who. My late father.” He remained silent a long time. “My parents didn’t exactly get along. My father was a mean drunk, and my mother generally got the brunt of his temper. So there were lots of arguments.”
“Oh.” She wanted to ask if those arguments had grown physical, but she’d said she wasn’t asking for secrets, and he might consider that one. Still, she would love to know. “How . . . er . . . bad were the arguments?”
“Bad.” His jaw seemed carved out of granite. “So bad that they used to wake my little brother, even though he slept in the nursery a floor away.”
That startled her. “You have a brother?”
He winced. Clearly, he hadn’t meant to reveal that. “Had a brother. He’s dead now. I learned of his passing the night I met you, after the play.”
She tensed. Curse him—he couldn’t even tell her one important thing about himself without trying to provoke her into revealing the truth about the masquerade.
Then she realized he hadn’t even registered what he’d said, because he went on without so much as looking at her. “He died doing something for me.” His voice turned bitter. “In the service of what you call ‘my ambition.’ ”
The pain in his words cut through her. She laid her hand on his arm as they walked. “I’m sure that’s not what you intended.”
Pulling free of her, he raked his fingers through his hair. “Of course not. Yet the result is the same—John is dead and it’s my fault.” He scanned the woods they were passing. “And every inch of this place is haunted by him. Him and my father. One good ghost, one bad ghost—though it hardly matters. They’re still ghosts.” His tone grew acid. “They rather spoil my enjoyment of all the ‘green.’ ”
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I did not mean to call forth your ghosts. And now that I see what a sacrifice you were making by offering your home to us and being forced to come here, I’m sorry for that, too.”
“Don’t be.” He dragged in a long breath, then faced her with a half smile. “Believe it or not, your being here makes it less . . . ghostly.” Before she could even take pleasure in that, his smile faded and he said in a hard voice, “And now it’s your turn to answer a question.”
Oh, Lord. Knowing what the question would be, she went on the defensive. “First, you promised me another knot garden. I have yet to see it.”
That smirk of his returned. He could tell she was stalling, but he merely swept his hand forward. “It’s right there.”
She gazed beyond him to a large clearing with an octagonal-shaped brick pavilion at the end. Walking past him, she surveyed the ground, then gaped at the design marked in powdered chalk. “And here I thought you were making it up just to get me alone.”
“Unlike a certain female I know, I don’t generally make up things when the truth will suffice.”
Ignoring the barb, she strode around the design, careful not to step on the chalk marks that not only laid out the pattern but described in words what plants went where. “Kudos to your mother. Does she intend to have a true knot garden with the effect of overlapping hedges to make the strands? I can’t tell from the design.” She stopped in the middle of an enigmatic circle. “Might she be planning a fountain here?”
“How the devil should I know?”
“Sacrebleu, you really do not spend much time at your estate, do you?” She eyed him askance.
“Not since my father died, no. And even when he was alive, I spent most of my time right there.” He gestured to the pavilion. “I used to sneak books up there from Father’s library and read the day away.” His voice hardened. “Or the night, if they were fighting.”
Her heart constricted at the thought of the lonely little boy reading to avoid the painful realities of his parents’ marriage. “Is that why your mother is putting the knot garden here? To coax you back home by improving your favorite spot?”
He snorted. “If it is, then it won’t work.”
“Don’t be too sure. Your mother’s work is amazing, and I daresay it will look spectacular from up in those windows. This is a very ambitious effort for a knot garden.”
“Where do you think I get my ambition from?” he quipped.
With a laugh, she shook her head. “Lady Fulkham is quite a force, isn’t she?”
“Since she runs this place in my stead, she has to be.” He came over to stand beside her. “I’ve offered time and again to hire a manager, but she won’t hear of it. She likes to keep her hand in.”
Monique kept her gaze fixed on the design. “Apparently she’s not as bothered by ghosts as you.”
“No,” he said softly. “Though she ought to be.” Just as Monique was about to ask why, he added, “So how long ago did Prince Leopold offer for you?”
The abrupt change of subject caught her off guard. Especially since it wasn’t the question she’d expected. And she didn’t know how to answer.
She chose to be careful. “I’m not sure. I was only informed of it a few months ago. It might have been before that, however.”
“You’re lying,” he said bluntly. “I saw the surprise in your face when Lady Ursula suggested including him in this party. And when the count mentioned the offer of marriage, you were stunned. I’d already heard rumors of it, but apparently no one had informed you of the prince’s interest in Aurore until that very moment.”
“Gregory—” she began, turning away.
He stepped in front of her to clasp her shoulders. “I should warn you that even as we speak, one of my men is in Dieppe, trying to determine exactly what deal you made with the devil that led you here. Actually, you know my man, Lord Hartley. He was with me at the theater the night we saw your play. More recently, he witnessed your presentation in Parliament and agreed with me that you quite possibly are Monique Servais.”
The gloves had come off. He was clearly done waiting for her to confess.
Leaving those words to knock about in her brain and make her frantic, he released her before continuing. “So rest assured—your masquerade will be exposed eventually. I won’t stand by and let an impostor take the throne of Belgium. I was willing to let the idiotic scheme ride at the beginning, to give me time to figure out what was going on, but not after I heard about Prince Leopold’s designs on Princess Aurore. Surely you cannot think I would let you marry the man in her stead.”
“I have no intention of marrying the man!” she protested. “And he’s already been refused, so his designs don’t matter.”
“They matter far more than you think, you little fool. Don’t you see? A union between Prince Leopold and Princess Aurore would ensure that the two together are made rulers of Belgium. It would solve so many diplomatic issues that all sides would eagerly approve it.”
His expression grew fierce. “Your dear ‘uncle’ or manager or whatever you choose to call him would like that very much indeed. So you may find yourself pressured into such a marriage, especially if the princess is dead and Beaumonde hopes to put you in her place.”
“Dead!” Had he heard something the count wasn’t telling her? Had the princess not survived her cholera or poisoning or whatever it was? If Gregory had spies everywhere, as apparently he did—
She seized his coat lapels. “What have you heard? What has happened?”
He met her gaze coldly. “To whom?”
“Damn you! You will make me say it, won’t you?”
“I will. Or I will drag you in front of the count and make him say it, if I must.”
“No, you can’t, please. I’ll do anything . . . just don’t let him know you know the truth.”
“You didn’t tell him about our previous—”
“Certainly not. And you mustn’t, either.” She shifted away, frantic to think how to convince him. “Surely there’s a way we can . . . All I need is . . .”
An idea occurred to her, and she whirled on him. “You said you want me. Well, you can have me.” Though his expression grew stormy, she persisted. She’d been on the verge of having to take a protector in Dieppe—how was this any different?
Besides, she was attracted to Gregory, which was more than she could say for any of her admirers at home. “Just let the masquerade play out. I swear to you that there is nothing wicked about it. And if it turns out that it does involve marriage to Prince Leopold or anything like that, I will confess the truth myself, even if you and I have already—”
“Shared a bed?” he roared. “What kind of monster do you take me for? I would never accept such a bargain. You may not believe this, but I am a gentleman. Not to mention, I am perfectly capable of wooing a woman into my bed without forcing her there.” Eyes glittering like the hardest of diamonds, he stepped up close. “If ever I make love to you, it will be a mutual decision, not some form of blackmail.”
“It . . . it’s not blackmail. It’s quid pro quo.”
His harsh laugh cut through her. “What the devil do you know about ‘quid pro quo’? You’re an actress.”
She tipped up her chin. “One of my admirers is a lawyer.”
“One of your admirers at the theater,” he prodded.
A frustrated breath rushed out of her. “Yes, yes! Of course I am Monique Servais.” She swallowed. “Though I can’t believe you recognized me after three years, despite all the makeup and clothes and wig—”
“Sorry, my sweet,” he said. “You could cover yourself in mud, and I would still recognize you.”
The heat flaring in his gaze gave her hope. “Then why won’t you just—”
“I told you.” He lifted a hand to brush something from her cheek, and only then did she realize she was crying. His voice roughened. “I don’t believe in hurting women. Forcing you to my bed would be tantamount to rape, and thus vastly unsatisfying for both of us, trust me.”
Rape. The hard word jangled in her ears. “Not if I chose to be there.”
“An act done in desperation is not a choice. And while I might back you into a corner to get the truth out of you, when it comes to warming my bed, I only want what’s freely given.”
He trailed his hand down her cheek, gathering tears as he went. “So you have only one recourse. Tell me the truth. Tell me why this is so important that you would offer your body to secure it. Then perhaps together we can figure out a solution that won’t require scandalizing the world and ruining your future.”
The slender offer of other alternatives, coupled with the kindness in his words, so took her by surprise that her defenses crumbled. She caught his hand and turned it to kiss the palm. Then, as she wondered where to begin, she pulled away to go roam the path laid out by his mother’s chalked design.
“Does it have anything to do with your grandmother?” he asked.
That startled her. “How did you—”
“I overheard you speaking of her three years ago. And then just now, you were talking about—”
“Yes,” she said bitterly. “Apparently, I am not quite as good an actress as I thought I was.”
“You’re magnificent,” he said fiercely, surprising her yet again.
“Even though I’m a comic actress?” she retorted.
He looked chagrined. “I should not have said what I did that night. To be honest, I was perturbed to find myself so attracted to a provincial French actress.” He ventured a smile. “Especially one who had managed to impress me with her talent, yet professed herself annoyed at the prospect of meeting me. But trust me, I knew from the moment I saw you on the stage that you were extraordinary.”
She snorted. “If I were so extraordinary, I would have been better in my role as Princess Aurore, and you wouldn’t have guessed my identity the first time you saw me.”
“It wasn’t a lack of acting ability that handicapped you, my sweet. Because you were not actually on the stage. I suspect that when you’re being yourself you’re probably honest. And lying about oneself is vastly different from playing a role in the theater.”
Therein lay the rub, to paraphrase Shakespeare. On the stage, she was aware that everyone knew she was playing a role. She had permission, as it were, to lie egregiously. To inhabit the character, to be wholly someone else.
But in life . . .
She didn’t particularly like lying about being a princess to people who didn’t realize they were watching a play.
“Your grandmother,” he prodded. “She’s the reason you’re doing this. Why, exactly?”
Monique sighed. He was not going to let this go. “My grandmother is . . . ill. She’s not in her right mind anymore, hasn’t been for some time. Because of our connection to the Chanay royal family—”
“Wait,” he interrupted, “you truly have a connection to them?”
“Yes.” She flashed him a sheepish smile. “As it happens, I’m Princess Aurore’s cousin.”
He gaped at her. “Really?”
She took a perverse pleasure in shocking him. “I’m her second cousin.”
“That’s why you resemble her. You’re related!”
She smiled faintly. “In truth, we look astonishingly alike. Probably because my grandmother is one of her great-aunts.”
“So how did you end up in—”
“Dieppe? Grand-maman fell in love with an actor in her youth. As the youngest of four children, she thought she ought to be able to marry whom she wanted. Her family disagreed. So she married him in secret.” Anger crept into her voice. “And for her misbehavior, the royal family cast her out. She and Grandpapa joined his troupe and traveled the Continent, as did my mother before—” No, she would not tell him that embarrassing detail. “Anyway, we became a family of actors, which we’ve been all these years.”
Gregory cast her an incredulous look. “So the count really is your great-uncle.”
“Yes. He was married to one of Grand-maman’s sisters. That’s why he chose me. He promised that if I pretended to be Princess Aurore until she gained the throne of Belgium, he’d make sure that Grand-maman spent her final days in the home of her youth. Chanay. The place she loves and misses. The place she was banished from when she married Grandpapa.”
“Good God.”
And for once, she quite agreed.