"Pah," she said. "I'm sure you've known a great many women 'very well.' But do you love this Frances woman?"
The heat in the room ratcheted up a notch, or maybe his own boiling point had risen.
"It has been made clear to me I should consider leaving the bachelor life if I'm to be considered serious enough for further promotion within the Admiralty."
Honore cocked her head and gave him an odd look. "Who told you such nonsense?"
"Admiral Longthorpe."
"Have you told him who you plan to marry?"
"Not yet, Mother."
"I'm sure you will not listen, but I'm going to tell you something whether you want to hear me or not." Honore leaned forward and placed her palms on the top of her silk-clad knees. "Your father and I married for love. And he was an Englishman, born and bred. He was not ashamed of his French wife. Marriage to a proper English widow will not secure your position in theton. Security is an illusion. You are who you are, Arnaud."
Before he could protest, she rose and paced to the dainty table she used for correspondence. Honore pressed a hidden lever, and a tiny drawer popped open. She pulled an old miniature from the hiding place and handed it to him.
Arnaud placed the hand-painted ivory oval in his palm and stared down at a likeness of himself.
When he gave her a questioning look, she said, "You are the very image of my father, Jean Blanchard. He was a smuggler and blackguard before he met your grandmother. The power of love changed him. He became a force for good on our island and the patriarch of our family business. All because he loved my mother. If you do not choose a wife because you love her, how will you ever know what love might have made of you?"
The question hung heavy in the air between them, like a fishing skein bulging with eels. Her passionate speech left him angry, but without an argument against the accusation.
Honore's youngest son had long been an enigma. She'd known from the time he was a boy he resented his French ancestry. He had been teased and bullied during his years at the school his father had attended before him, and his career in the Royal Navy had been a tenacious, bloody climb.
He'd volunteered for the African Squadron, a dangerous, treacherous assignment, because he'd seen the small contingent as an opportunity to prove himself away from the regular ships within the Royal Navy. And he had, earning commendations for bravery as well as gaining wealth through slaver ships taken as prizes.
But now, marrying for convenience was the final blow. She had to make him see sense.
"If you met with someone at the Admiralty this afternoon, why has it taken you so long to arrive here?" she asked, and sat back down in the chair opposite her son, smoothing her silk skirts.
His ruddy face darkened. "There is a tale I have to tell about the delay. I had to intervene to thwart a kidnapping."
Honore leaned forward, concern on her face. "Was anyone hurt? Were you hurt?"
"No, no. Nothing like that. It was a near thing, though. Two bullies were trying to drag a young woman into their carriage. Cullen and I ended their dark plans.
"Who is she? Do I know her parents?" Honore asked.
Arnaud ignored her probing. "I followed her carriage to a house on St. James Square, but did not go inside.”
Honore tapped her lips with a finger. “The Dowager Marchioness, Lady Jane Howick, has a granddaughter who stays with her. Good lord, did someone make an attempt on her life?"
"No," Arnaud said. "Lady Howick’s granddaughter introduced her as Miss Brancelli. She was dressed quite simply. I believe she might be a companion. I'm worried about her. She seemed to be confused after we rescued her." Arnaud gave his mother one of the smiles he'd used in his adolescence to charm her to his side.
"Could you?" he asked. "Would you?"
His mother gave him the stern look she’d used to let him know she was on to him. "Of course, Arnaud. I'll call on the marchioness tomorrow."
He gave a gusty sigh and slumped back onto the chintz. "And you'll let me know how she's fared since the attack?" He steepled his hands in front of him and affected a bored look.
"I don't suppose you know this young woman's name," his mother said.
"Sophie," he said, and then caught himself. “I mean Miss Brancelli.”
"Sophie?" she echoed. "Perhaps you should reconsider this abrupt proposal tonight."
Arnaud didn’t like the direction of his mother’s innuendoes. “Maman, I merely wish for you to enquire after the young woman's health. Nothing more."
