For a moment there was silence, then all of a sudden, a chair crashed to the floor as an elderly man sitting alone in the corner rose stiffly to his feet. ‘My Lord Marquis?’ he whispered, his voice wavering. ‘Lord Philippe, is that you?’
Tristan turned towards the bent figure, now peering at him through rheumy eyes as though he was some kind of apparition. After a second, he pulled off his gloves, smiled and inclined his head.
‘My name is Tristan,’ he clarified. ‘Philippe de Montclair was my father.’
Sixteen
January 16th1806
Looking over at her sleeping son, Catherine de Montclair stilled her rocking and closed the book she’d been reading aloud. With a tender smile, she climbed to her feet, and after laying the book on the small table next to the child’s bed, she bent down to place a soft kiss on his brow and tuck his blankets around him. The thick brocade curtains at the window and the fire leaping in the nursery grate ensured the room was warm and cosy, despite the recent snowfall. Such warmth wouldn’t last for long if the fire was allowed to go out completely.
‘I’m leaving now, Brigitte – please do not get up. Just remember to stoke up the fire and blow out the candles before you get into bed.’
The nursemaid looked up from her chair in front of the fireplace, where she was darning yet another pair of Tristan’s breeches. ‘Bien sûr, Madame la Marquise. I will turn in as soon as I have finished with this pair.’ She smiled and shook her head. ‘Truly, madame, I have no idea how he gets through so many pairs of breeches – he never even has the chance to grow out of them.’
Catherine chuckled as she made her way to the door. ‘His current obsession with pirates is not helping.’
‘At least he didn’t manage to skewer the footman bringing his dinner,’ Bridgitte commented with a grin.
Her mistress winced and sighed. ‘Fortunately, Maurice is used to Tris hiding behind the door, but to be on the safe side, I think we’ll need to ensure only wooden cutlery in the nursery. I’ll speak with Madame Durand. Bonne nuit, Brigitte.’
‘Bonne nuit, madame.’
As the Marquise made her way downstairs, she glanced outside. The snow was falling steadily, but for some reason the flakes were flickering with light. Frowning, she stepped closer to the window and looked out over the courtyard to the twisting road beyond. It took her eyes a few seconds to adjust, and initially she wasn’t entirely sure what she was seeing, but after another moment she recognised what the flickering lights actually were.
Torches – being carried by at least two dozen men. In their other hands, they held muskets.
Struggling to understand, Catherine stood rooted to the spot, until abruptly her paralysis was broken by a shout. ‘Ferme la porte– close the gate. We are under attack.’
With a low moan, Catherine picked up her skirts and hurried down the stairs, where she was met by her husband. ‘What’s happening, Philippe?’ she gasped, gripping his arms. ‘Who are those men?’
The Marquis shook his head. ‘I have no idea. We need to wait and see what they want.
‘If it were anything good, they wouldn’t be carrying arms,’ Catherine insisted. ‘Do you think Claude is with them?’
Philippe took her in his arms. ‘I cannot believe my brother would return bearing arms,’ he insisted.
Catherine pulled away, her frustration vying with desperation. ‘He wants what you have, Philippe. We both know that. And he hates that he can’t have it.’
‘Perhaps I can talk to him,’ Philippe declared, his voice agonised. ‘He might listen to me even now.
‘My love,listento yourself. You say what you want to believe. But in your heart, you know Claude will never be satisfied with your charity. He wants everything you have.Everything.
‘When you discovered his treachery, you knew in your heart he’d return. We both knew it.’ Her husband closed his eyes, despair washing over him, just as the pounding started on the gate.
Determinedly forcing her fear deep down inside, Catherine gave a small sob. ‘We cannot let him have Tristan,’ she whispered. ‘Whatever happens tonight, our son is Montclair’s future…’ She paused and dashed at her eyes as she heard the gates begin to splinter.
Resting his head against hers, Philippe de Montclair abandoned the pretence that his half-brother meant them no harm. No matter what he’d done, or how hard he’d tried, the Marquis had never been able change the one thing that had eaten away at Claude from the day he’d discovered the name of his real father.
Claude Fontaine was a bastard – and always would be. Nothing could change that. All the love in the world couldn’t change that.
Philippe had wanted to elevate him. To give him a formal place in his household. But it wasn’t enough. Claude didn’t want to be like Philippe. He wanted tobePhilippe.
The final straw had been Tristan’s birth. Something inside his half-brother had broken when he’d stared at the heir in his crib, and subconsciously, Philippe began to fear for his son’s life. Until one day his brother simply disappeared. Despite extensive searches, Claude had seemingly vanished into thin air, and with the Peninsular War raging in both France and Spain, Philippe was finally forced to stop looking.
But in his heart of hearts, the Marquis always suspected that he hadn’t seen the last of his brother and recent revelations had changed what had always been hope to fear. Catherine was right, the only person Claude cared about was himself.
Gripping his wife’s shoulders, he looked deeply into her tear-filled eyes. ‘You must take Tristan and leave now, ma chère. Go to the house in Pontorson and wait there until you hear from me.’
