She tossed the most recent page aside, turning to stare out the deep windows toward Hartmoore’s main gates. Simone could see no sign of Didier, but she knew he still kept his worrisome vigil.
Simone stretched her aching back with a groan and wondered for the hundredth time what Nick’s return would yield. She was certain he’d intended for Simone to never see Evelyn’s letters—Nicholas himself had no idea the woman regretted refusing his proposal. Perhaps he would return from Obny without mention of Lord Handaar or his daughter, and they could continue as before.
But could Simone keep the festering knowledge of a woman before her, a woman Nicholas loved and had voluntarily offered to take as his wife, to herself for all eternity? It felt dishonest somehow, but she could not tell her husband of the letter’s contents—’twould be far too humiliating for Simone and would possibly cause kind Sir Randall hardship.
Simone groaned and rubbed her eyes again. Her mother’s journals were not helping Simone’s rocky emotional state. The dates of the entries had become more staggered, often leaving months between writings, as the content became more cryptic and confusing.
She picked up the most recently discarded sheaf and scanned it once more.
He left this morning and would not tell me to where he journeys. He must think me without brains that I do not guess his intentions. Let him seek as he would, though. He will never find it.
What does he plan? How much does he know? If I can survive these last few weeks, all will be well. Our fortune secure, our daughter married, our son nearby at his foster and safe. Armand needs remember that he too has his own dangerous secrets. He will not win. I swear it by all that is holy. On my very life, do I vow.
Simone shivered at the eerie words, wondering if her mother had had any idea when she’d penned them that her life would soon end. She set the page in the stack she’d finished reading and looked to the last bundle. It was tied with a thin cord—no ribbon for this lot. She picked it up and tugged at the twine, surprised at the packet’s unusual thickness when only three folded pages were secured within.
The first two entries revealed nothing new. The first:I will try to get away to Marseilles before Simone and Charles are wed to make my final plans. Armand is growing agitated. He knows he is running out of time.
And the next:He stopped me from leaving. Now all I can do is wait. And pray. We are so close.
Simone looked at the last square for a very long time without touching it. It would be the last entry Portia had written before her death. Reading it would either reveal to Simone the secrets her parents were hiding or torment her for eternity with a myriad of unanswered questions. She picked up the folded page, pulled the edges apart.
The parchment was blank. But tucked into its fold was an additional sheaf, creamier than the pages that comprised the journals, thick and waxy smooth and obviously of greater age. Simone opened the letter, her heart pounding. Her eyes widened.
Decree of Marriage
’Tis witnessed on this third day of January, in the year of our Lord, 1058, that Portia Bouvier of Saint du Lac, ward of the Crown, has given oath of marriage to Lord Armand du Roche, an invalid.
Simone frowned. Why would her mother be named Lady of Saint du Lac before her marriage, and a ward of the crown? And why had her father been labeled an invalid? Armand had incurred his injuries before Simone was born, that same year, in battle for the French king.
She read on.
Upon this holy union, Armand du Roche accepts the charge of the town and lands of Saint du Lac and shall hold its possession and that of any heirs until the time of their majority, in lien of a debt owed to the crown of 10,000 gold coin.
In return of this covenant, Portia Bouvier vows to protect from harm the demesne of Saint du Lac in her husband’s stead, until such time that he is returned to health or until the time of his death, when the debt owed by Armand du Roche will be extracted from the funds of Saint du Lac and the manor handed to his widow.
The bottom of the document was scrawled over with signatures, Portia’s own a graceful swirl compared to the ragged X of Armand’s, as well as royal and holy seals.
Simone stared at the decree, her mouth slack. Far from solving the riddle of her parents’ marriage, the discovery of the contract had raised a score more questions. The wording was certainly odd—what of this debt owed to the crown? When Simone and her father had fled France, she’d been told that Armand was unable to pay the king’s taxes because of Portia’s loose purse strings.
But 10,000 gold coins was a fortune by any standard. ’Twas the French king’s own missive that had garnered Simone and her father entrance to King William’s birthday celebration. Now that Simone had married and gained Armand his bride price, ’twould be an easy matter for her father to stay on in England, build a new life, and forget the debt owed to the French crown.
Her mind picked at another disturbing revelation: Armand had been an invalid when he’d married Portia. Simone pressed her fingertips to her brows. She felt certain that bit of information was important to the riddle of her parents’ marriage, but she did not know how to find out more. Certainly, Armand would not be amenable to answering such a personal inquiry and, in fact, would question where Simone had learned the facts of his and Portia’s marriage contract.
Simone’s head was spinning, tangled in the sticky web of her parent’s half-truths and outright lies. She wished above all else that Nicholas would return so that she could seek his council. But Nick had yet to return from Obny. And Simone could not fathom his feelings toward her when he did.
So there was no one for her to turn to. Certainly no one who had known her father before—
Lady Genevieve!
Simone scrambled from the bed, leaving the pages of the journal scattered and fluttering to the floor.
Simone lost some of her bravado standing before Nick’s mother’s chamber door. What if the lady wasn’t within?
What if she was?
Simone raised her hand, hesitated, then knocked.
“A moment, I pray,” the dowager baroness called from beyond the thick door, and Simone took a deep breath.
