But Genevieve did not respond, only brushed between the two couples, her fingers fluttering against bloodless lips. Nick turned and watched his mother stop and stare at the dusty cloud heralding Armand’s mounted entry into the bailey. The man in question spotted them and dismounted, tossing his reins to a nearby lad before limping stiffly toward them, his right arm drawn against his side.
Simone touched Nick’s arm, drawing his attention. He looked down at her worried face and shook his head in answer to the question in her eyes.
“’Tis not possible,” Genevieve whispered, her gaze pinned to the large man approaching.
Armand called out as he drew nearer. “Simone, would that you not abandon me to the company of such crude laborers in eagerness of your station,” he chastised, slapping billowing sheets of dust from his tunic. “I vow they would have kept me standing about like a common beg—” Armand halted in his stride and words simultaneously, not ten paces from where Nick and his family stood. His eyes first narrowed, then went wide.
“Genevieve,” he breathed.
Nick stepped forward and glared between his mother and Armand. “Do you mean to tell me that the pair of you are acquainted?”
Genevieve ignored her son and backed away, first just a step, then two more, her heels slipping and dragging in the fine silt. “It cannot be,” she whispered. Tears sprang into her eyes, unblinking, as she searched Armand’s face. Her next words were nearly inaudible through her constricted lips.
“You’re…you’re dead.”
Nick heard Simone’s gasp, and he quickly took hold of Genevieve’s arm once more, this time none too gently. “Mother, you are confused. ’Twas Simone’s mother who was killed in the accident—not her father.”
Armand shook himself from his own stupor and slowly walked toward Nick and Genevieve, a strange, half-smile on his twisted lips. “How fortunate our reunion is, Lady D’Argent. In truth, there has not passed a single day since last we spoke that I did not wonder at your whereabouts.”
Nick frowned. “She is now called Lady FitzTodd, du Roche. My mother is the dowager Baroness of Crane and commands your respect.”
But to Nick’s growing rage, Armand was oblivious to the reprimand. He now stood before Genevieve and pulled her hand to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers as he kissed her fingertips. “I cannot tell you how it gladdens me to see you once more.”
A strange gurgling was Genevieve’s only answer as she snatched her hand from Armand’s and wiped it against her skirts. “Non, non…” She backed up into Nick’s chest.
“Mother.” Nick grasped her shoulders and turned her, and the raw terror in her eyes shook him. “What on earth is it?”
Genevieve stuttered, a single tear sliding down her cheek. She glanced at Simone and then fell against Nicholas, unconscious.
Chapter 14
Simone waited in the lavish great hall for her husband’s return, her stomach in knots. Her first full day as Hartmoore’s mistress had been going quite well until the moment Armand had arrived.
How very typical.
She sat in an upholstered chair, her muscles turning to cold iron, and eyed her father as he moved about the cavernous room, inspecting the ornate tapestries and weapons displays decorating the walls. Her mind went to the journal entry she’d read this morning—what secret had her father discovered? Would he tell her if she asked? She chuckled to herself. Of course he would not. She felt the ultimate fool for hoping, even for an instant, that her father had come to Hartmoore to reconcile with her. His attitude toward Simone had not softened in the least.
So be it. But Hartmoore washerhome now, Nicholas her husband, Genevieveherfamily. Armand would not ruin it. He would not.
Drawing a deep, silent breath, Simone rose from the chair and crossed the hall to stand at her father’s side. Armand stood with his head tilted, admiring a mounted shield embossed with the FitzTodd crest, a jagged scratch now marring its surface, thanks to Didier.
“Papa,” she ventured, “Lady Genevieve seemed rather distraught at your arrival. How is it that you know her?”
Armand’s jaw muscles flinched under his sagging jowls, making him appear to tremble. “Ah, we met long ago. In Paris. I was quite enamored with her at one time.”
Now ’twas Simone who flinched. “DidMamanknow of her?”
“Non.Genevieve D’Argent had fled France before I met Portia.”
“You know that she fled France?” Simone asked, unable to keep the surprise from her voice.
“Of course—who did not know? The woman murdered a nobleman, on their wedding night, in fact.” His voice grew low, as if sifting the memories from a dense fog. “’Twas the scandal of the decade at court.”
Simone swallowed, gathering her courage into a meager pile. “Were you in love with her?”
Armand snorted. “You think too much on that fantastic emotion, Simone. Love is merely a meeting of lust and opportunity. It has no place in reality, for the more you seek it, the better it eludes you. Love…love is a myth. A fabled treasure.”
Simone shivered, gooseflesh washing over her like a blustery wind. “I don’t believe that,” she blurted.
