Nick shook his head and sighed. “’Tis a wonder one of them did not kill the other.” The words were out of his mouth and Simone was chuckling before the implications of what he’d said struck Nick.
Was it possible that Armand du Roche had killed his wife? His own son? ’Twould explain Didier’s reluctance for Nick to consult the man about the accident—and perhaps also why Didier was never in the same room as his father—but why would any man want his only heir, one he claimed to adore and an innocent, bright boy at that, dead?
“Nick? What is it?”
He pulled himself from his wildly tumbling thoughts. There was no cause to alarm Simone needlessly when all Nick knew for certain was based on speculation. Indeed, if Simone’s father had a hand in his wife’s and son’s deaths, she may well be in danger, and the less she knew of Nick’s ripening theories, the better.
“’Tis naught,” he answered, forcing a relaxed smile to his lips. “Tell me about Marseilles.”
She smiled then, and a faraway look came into her eyes. “Mamancalled it the city of dreams,” she said. “We traveled there often when Papa was away on one of his adventures.”
“He did not accompany you on your trips?”
“Oh, nay. Never.” Simone shook her head. “Papa detested Marseilles.”
“Why?”
Simone lifted a shoulder and gave a crooked smile, as if to say, “Who can know?” “Perhaps ’twas becauseMamanwas so different there—carefree and merry. She had many, many friends, and the shops were divine.”
Nick’s mind worked methodically, seeking ways to wheedle tidbits of information from Simone that may lead to clues about her mother’s death. “Is that where you believe Portia spent the du Roche fortune?”
“I know it for certain.” Simone rose from the bed, clutching the precious pages, and crossed to the trunk. She dropped to her knees and, setting the stack aside, lifted the heavy lid. She continued to explain to Nick over her shoulder as she began tidying the rainbow of gowns within.
“When we traveled to Marseilles—she and I and Didier, and often Charles, would come as well—Mamanwould bring coffers filled with coin. Upon our return, we would have trunks of gowns and ceramics. Tapestries, carvings, furnishings, and often a new horse or two for Didier.” She paused, lifting a bright azure gown and admiring it for a moment. “But the coffers were always emptied.”
Nick nodded slowly. ’Twould seem that Portia du Roche had set out to deliberately destroy the family’s wealth, but certainly no amount of clothing or horseflesh should render a healthy estate penniless. “Who is Jehan?” he asked, recalling the name from the entry he’d read.
“Oncle Jehan,” Simone sighed, and Nick could hear the smile in her voice. She craned her neck to give him an impish smile. “Not my uncle, really. A commoner—a wealthy merchant in Marseilles and a great friend of my mother’s. We would stay at his château when we visited.”
The more Nick learned of Simone’s life in France, the more twisted and tangled the threads leading to Portia’s and Didier’s deaths became. Secret trips to Marseilles, a city Armand abhorred. Disappearing coin. A wealthy merchant. And Charles Beauville—where exactly did he fit in all of this? Nick decided to let the subject go for now. Once they were settled at Hartmoore, Nicholas would feel more comfortable about sorting out the clues in earnest. Simone was his responsibility now—a beautiful, sensual, nearly irresistible responsibility—and Nick was determined to protect her as best he could.
He stood from the bed and extended a hand to assist Simone from the floor. Once she was on her feet, Nick pulled her into his arms without thinking. He dropped his head and kissed her as he’d wanted to do since first seeing her sleep amongst the scattered sheets of her past. The fire that was always at a careful bank blazed out of control as he felt her lips answer his. This night had been a trial—the long journey from London, wrestling with Evelyn’s memory once again, Didier’s cryptic clues, Simone’s bittersweet discovery. Nick felt the eagerness in his loins, the impatient cry of his body to possess hers.
Then Simone pulled away from his mouth, prompting Nick to crush her close once more, “Nay,” on his lips. He needed her tonight. But she resisted yet again, a small mew issuing from her throat. “What is it?” he asked, and was almost shamed by the husky need in his throat.
Simone rolled her eyes and wiggled a finger over Nick’s shoulder. He turned his head and immediately saw the small white feather, leaving a ghostly, damp trail on the trunk lid, back and forth.
“We can see you, Didier.” Nick sighed and leaned his forehead against Simone’s. “’Twould seem it is time for us to retire.”
Simone sighed and gave Nick’s midsection a squeeze. “My thanks for listening to me this night, Nicholas.”
“You are most welcome.” He returned her embrace, his arms lingering about her for just a moment longer than was necessary.
In his mind’s eye, he could still see Didier’s feather, dripping and cold, feel the air shrinking from his lungs.
And he was infinitely glad that Armand du Roche was far, far away from his wife.
Chapter 11
Simone’s aching muscles felt each plodding step of the gray she rode on the second day of travel. She’d fallen asleep in the small hours of the morn, pressed close to Nicholas almost as soon as her head had touched the pillow and, by the sore state of her body, hadn’t moved until Nick woke her before dawn. It had taken until nearly midday before her eyelids ceased trying to close of their own accord.
They rode northwest into a brisk breeze, but the sun was bright, warming Simone’s cheeks and shoulders. Her spirits were also warmed as she glanced repeatedly at Nicholas, who was never far from her in the party. She felt as though she’d been given a second chance, by God, perhaps, on this journey to Hartmoore. At her side was a handsome, caring husband. Her mother’s journals—a written remembrance of Portia—lay tucked deep within the trunks that followed her. Armand was in faraway London, soon to return to France, leaving her in peace at last.
The only stain on Simone’s bright new tapestry of future was Didier’s restless wanderings. She saw him frequently, if only briefly, during the journey that day, and always at a safe distance from the caravan. She would have felt guilty at his solitude if not for the fact that he seemed to be enjoying himself quite thoroughly. Through patches of forest he would shimmy up tall trees to chase squirrels from branch to branch, and in open fields, the delicate butterflies were his constant companions, fluttering around and landing on him in such great numbers that even several of Nick’s men were moved to point out and admire the fantastic sight of so many of the beautiful creatures seemingly paused in mid-flight.
They’d spoken of it as a good omen, and Simone prayed they were correct. She was very much looking forward to speaking once more with Lady Haith. Perhaps then, too, Didier could find peace.
But what shall you do when he is gone?The dark whisper crept across her sunny thoughts unexpectedly, like a menacing cloud, and for a moment, Simone was chilled to the bone by its shadow.
