Helena had no objections to a wedding, so long as the right man stood by her side. She fiercely wished that either the duke would return by the date of the ball, or a dangerous stanger would make his attentions known to her.
Either would be more interesting than the incessant talk of gardens.
West of Paris, the Duke of Haynesdale was driven down a rutted lane in his rented coach. He felt as if he was at war again, confronted by obstacles and half-truths at every turn. The sole detail of promise that he possessed was this address. He had failed to confront Jacques Desjardins, though he had come close enough to see that man’s back as he fled into the darkened streets of Paris. If nothing else, he had frightened the man.
It was little consolation when he wanted so much more.
This foray into the countryside was the last clue he held in the mystery of Desjardins’ hold over Miss Ballantyne.
A convent seemed a most unlikely destination in this matter. An almost-forgotten one, hidden in the forests of Brittany and far from any thoroughfare or town, seemed even less likely. The dialect in these parts was so thick as to be another language altogether and he did not relish the inevitable interview with the Mother Superior. He had written in advance but had no notion whether his missive would have arrived before himself.
The mail in France could stand improvement, to be sure.
At least Eliza was happily wed and he had been able to contribute to her future with Nicholas. He had no doubt they would be happy but wanted them to be comfortable as well.
Sometimes, it was not all bad to be duke, though he did miss his older brothers.
The wind had been relentless, the last town far behind them and the warming brick at his feet cold by the time the coach slowed. The sky was dark and he could see clouds rolling above the treetops, a winter sky if ever he had seen one. Doubtless there would be a storm soon. He would be obliged to drive on after his visit, despite the hour and the weather. Damien was chilled to the bone but would be more than glad of the opportunity to walk. His leg ached with a vengeance and he leaned heavily upon his cane as he approached the entrance.
The building was ancient, covered with vines, so much moss on the stones that it might have been part of the forest itself. It looked to be built around a cloister, like a medieval abbey, and the church tower rose high at the right. Clearly, the foundation was of some age and he marveled that it had not been damaged in the unrest of forty years before.
Perhaps in this corner of France, the tumult had been less.
There was a welcome light at the portal and a stout porter who clearly anticipated his arrival, though Damien did not know why. He had not written to advise of his visit, preferring an element of surprise. He was ushered into a room of welcome warmth, where a small fire burned on the hearth and a lantern cast a welcome glow. The windows were small and the furnishings spare, leaving no doubt that people came to this place for simplicity and reflection.
“Good afternoon, sir,” a woman said softly in Parisian French.
Damien was startled that he was no longer alone and spun to look. A slender older woman had entered the room silently from behind him, and he realized there was another door to the room. She was dressed simply, in a dark dress of severe lines that fell to the floor, her hair and neck hidden beneath a wimple that spread over her shoulders. Her face was devoid of paint, her expression stern but serene, her eyes a deep brown. She stood utterly still and might have been a statue, save that she blinked on occasion.
Again, he had the sense that he had journeyed back in time to this place, or perhaps that time had no place in this part of the forest. He bowed deeply to her as he greeted her.
“Good afternoon. I have come...” he began, but she lifted one pale hand for silence.
“We do not utter names here, sir. Indeed, we speak as little as can be contrived.” She reached out, indicating his signet ring with one slender finger, then his cane. “I believe you are from England.”
Damien inclined his head in agreement.
“Is she well?”
He hesitated, uncertain of his reply.
“A mutual acquaintance wrote to me recently,” the woman said, her gaze locked upon his. He sensed that she would recognize a lie before he even uttered it aloud, if he had been inclined to deceive her. “She advised me that you could be trusted.”
Doris? Miss Ballantyne? He could not be certain.
“Is our friend well?”
He could only guess that she meant Miss Esmeralda Ballantyne.
“She is well, but I wish her circumstance was better.”
The woman was unsurprised. She nodded, as if a decision had been made, though Damien expected it had been made long before. “That can be the only reason for your presence,” she said, then turned, raising a hand in invitation. A young girl entered the room from that same shadowed doorway, her head bowed, and the older woman touched her shoulder gently. “Be brave, petite,” she said quietly when the girl’s steps faltered. “All will be well.”
The girl stepped forward and lifted her chin, her eyes such a clear hue of green that Damien caught his breath in recognition. Even in such youth, she was a beauty, a younger version of Miss Ballantyne, her hair as black and her skin as fair. There was an innocence in her gaze instead of Miss Ballantyne’s knowing glint. He immediately felt an emphatic need to defend her at any price.
“Your sister summons you, just as always she vowed she would,” the nun advised. “Remember all we have taught you, and think kindly of us.”
This was the mysterious Sylvie, who Miss Ballantyne defended from Jacques Desjardins.
