Armand dabbed at his eyes with his sleeve, still chuckling spasmodically. He flicked a hand toward the chest. “Read them.”
“Nay.” She dropped the pages she held onto the bed with the others. After dragging the leather box from beneath the pile, she began stacking the notes inside, careful not to let her eyes linger on the writings upon them.
“They may change your opinion of the honorable Baron of Crane and his journey this day.”
“Nay.”
She heard Armand rise and turned to face him as he neared.
“You may feel differently about staying on at Hartmoore,” he advised, his face serious now, although traces of his smirk still lingered. “Mayhap you would even desire to return to France.”
Simone frowned. Her father was speaking in ridiculous riddles—he knew full well that naught could entice her to return to the people who had shunned her after Didier’s death. She had a chance for true happiness at Hartmoore.
But a splinter of doubt pricked her curiosity. Didier had said that Nick would not return on the morrow as promised, and now even Armand had given mention to the journey. ’Twas as if something were about under Simone’s very nose and she was the only one unaware of it. Her eyes flicked unwillingly to the trunk.
Armand stepped nearer, as if sensing her weakness, his voice low, persuasive. “Do you not wonder what secrets they must hold for the lord to command you to destroy them?”
Simone wavered for a moment, not bothering to disclose that it had not been Nicholas who’d given her the trunk. Her husband’s face flashed in her mind’s eye. How disappointed would he be if he knew that Simone had pried into a matter where he had not invited her?
A man must have council with his own thoughts. I will not bare my soul to you—it belongs only to me.
The pages were likely nothing more than an old accounting ledger. Of course Armand would be enthralled with them, greedy as he was.
“Nay,” she said, pleased with the finality in her voice. She closed the lid with a snap and seized it from the bed. Turning away from her father, she headed toward the still-bright coals in the hearth.
With a growl, Armand was upon her, jerking Simone by her arm and causing her to lose her grip on the trunk. It fell to the floor and popped open, spraying the pages across the rug.
She struggled against her father’s grip. “Release me, Papa! I will not dishonor Nicholas by spying on him—that is your manner, not mine.”
Armand’s slap effectively silenced her and set a loud buzzing in her ears. She blinked, trying to focus her eyes, and felt the telltale numbness in her lips.
“You simpleton,” Armand grunted, bending to the floor while still holding her captive. He rifled crudely through the pages with his twisted hand. “You stand and spout righteous drivel of dishonoring your beloved when your very presence here hinges on what is in this chest—items the baron wished destroyed.”
He selected a page from the floor, shook it open, and scanned it silently for a moment.
Simone gingerly touched her throbbing lip and winced. “Papa, do not. I beg you.”
“Ah,oui,” he said, almost to himself. He cleared his throat. “Eighteen April. My dearest Nicholas—”
“Nay!” Simone jerked away.
“—I fear that I have made a most dreadful mistake in refusing your offer of marriage. Papa—”
Simone covered her ears with her hands and turned to walk to the chamber door. But Armand followed, still reading aloud, his deep voice easily penetrating her weak barriers.
“—Papa writes that you no longer visit Obny and I know that I am to blame. How I must have hurt you—”
Simone jerked the door open, only to have Armand slam it closed once more with his palm and then lean his weight against it, preventing her escape from the damning words.
“How I must have hurt you in my choice of the convent. But, Nicholas, I do confess, I am most miserable in my decision and regret it with each beat of my heart.”
Simone finally gave up the struggle to flee and instead let herself slide down the length of the door until she rested on her bottom. Armand followed her descent, crouching down on his heels, reciting each syllable clearly. The words sank into Simone’s brain like rusty spikes, nailing themselves into her memory.
“How I miss our long rides and conversations, you can never imagine. Please, Nicholas, if you still care for me at all, send word to Papa. I will be at Hartmoore in a thrice and we will be married as you wished. Handaar but waits for your word as baron to release me.
“Yours with much affection, Evelyn.”
The silence filling the chamber after Armand finished the letter bore down on Simone with suffocating weight.
