In a disbelieving voice he gasped, “Charles?”
“In the flesh,” was the cheerful reply. “Sorry not to give you more warning.” As Lewis wavered and seemed likely to fall, Charles stepped forward quickly and grabbed the older man’s arm. “Lewis, are you all right? I would have sent a message from London, but it seemed quicker to come myself.”
Lewis put a faltering hand out. If this was a ghost, it was a remarkably solid one. He looked into the unforgettable gray eyes that now showed affection and concern. With a spontaneous motion foreign to his reserved nature, he put his arm around his nephew in a gesture more eloquent than words.
Some time passed before Lewis had regained enough self-possession to speak. Releasing his nephew, he rang the bell for a servant and sat down in one of the wing chairs. “It’s been two years, Charles. We all thought you dead. In the name of heaven, where have you been?”
His voice was strained, and he examined the younger man closely. Charles looked as if considerably more than two years had passed. A livid scar on his temple curved up into his hair, and he was thinner than before, with a wolflike toughness that was new. Gone was the light-hearted young mischief-maker. His nephew now looked equal to anything.
The footman Lewis had rung for entered quickly, as if he had been waiting outside the door. “Yes, my lord? Shall I remove this . . .personfor you?”
While Charles laughed, Lewis said coldly, “You are speaking of Charles Radleigh, the master of the house. The seventh Earl of Radcliffe has returned.” As the footman gawped, Lewis glanced at his nephew and asked, “I assume you would like something to eat, Charles?”
“Perceptive as always. I think I’ll help myself to some brandy while we wait. Would you care for some? You look like you could use it.” Without waiting for a reply, Charles poured brandy into two goblets and handed one to his uncle before sitting in the opposite chair.
The footman beat a horrified retreat. This would set the cat among the pigeons downstairs, and no mistake! As for himself, he thought glumly, he might be in need of a new position.
Charles stretched, crossing his long legs with an air of contentment. “Lord, it’s good to be home! If I never see cabbage soup again, it will be too soon.”
Lewis warmed the glass between his hands and stared at his nephew, still disbelieving in his existence. “What happened? The French announced they had killed you, that you were a British spy. They even sent back your watch and identification papers, along with an empty wallet.”
Charles took a sip of the brandy and started to explain. “My sister will have told you about the attack as we were attempting to escape?”
At Lewis’s nod, he said, “My mother and her servants, Anne and Jean-Claude Bohnet, were attacked by bandits. Mme. Bohnet was wounded in the shoulder and screamed. Having more hair than wit, I went charging to the rescue and took a bullet along the side of my head.”
He fingered the scar on his temple thoughtfully. “A little more to the right and you would still be the earl. Do you mind, Lewis? Losing all this?” He watched his uncle keenly as he waved one hand at the richness around them.
The older man shook his head and said with wry self-knowledge, “You should know better than that. You’re a public man, like your father. I’m not. I never wanted all this. Power isn’t good for me. I find myself tempted to abuse it.” Lewis sipped his brandy before adding softly, “You must know I’d give the whole of Radcliffe and half of England as well to have you here alive.”
As if embarrassed by his show of feeling, he went on impatiently, “Will you tell me what happened without any more roundaboutation?”
“It’s simple enough. One of the bandits robbed my bleeding and apparently dead body, taking my watch and all my identification. In the midst of that looting, a platoon of French Guards came on the scene. They were after the bandits, and quite a battle ensued. I don’t remember any of this, of course.” He sipped his brandy, then went on. “Jean-Claude and I were taken captive, while Mother managed to get herself and the wounded Anne Bohnet away.”
Lewis slid forward in his chair, his voice blisteringly intense. “Do you mean that Marie-Claire is alive too?”
Charles was surprised by the vehemence. “Why, yes, we all are, except for some of the bandits, including the one that robbed me. When the Guards killed him, they assumed he was the Earl of Radcliffe and announced to the world that they had bagged another filthy British spy. Rather droll, actually.”
They were interrupted by the arrival of the food, brought by the butler himself, a family retainer who had watched Charles grow up. Some time was lost in emotional greetings and brief explanations, and Charles was unable to resume his tale until the butler left. He first made himself a substantial sandwich, biting down with unabashed pleasure. “I’ve always said that the ham from the home farm was the best anywhere.”
Seeing that his uncle was uninterested in culinary asides, he swallowed his mouthful and continued, “To return to the story, Jean-Claude told the Guards that we were good French citizens, cruelly beset by bandits. Being a suspicious lot, the Guards threw us into the local prison. I was out of my head for quite some time. Really rather remarkable that I didn’t die in that filthy hole. Credit for my survival goes to Jean Claude. Luckily since everyone around me spoke French, I did too, and it never occurred to anyone that I was a vile Englishman. One of the advantages of being bilingual.”
Charles stopped for another few mouthfuls of sandwich and a draft of the ale that had been delivered. “The next part of my story is rather boring. While we were not thought to be British spies, it was assumed that we must be guilty ofsomething, and they decided to hold on to us until they figured out what.
“Meanwhile, my mother had escaped with Anne, and they went to ground with some Norman peasants whom she’d known for years. Mother got in touch with the royalist network and started working with them. Not that she is royalist herself, but she rather liked smuggling people out of the country.” He grinned. “An amazing woman, my mother.”
“I have never doubted it,” Lewis said tensely. “And then?”
“She had no idea what had happened to the rest of the party, that Christa had escaped, and that Jean Claude and I were in prison. It took months to find us, and even longer to arrange an escape.” He added with studied casualness, “If she had left it another two days, they would have guillotined me for nameless crimes against the revolution.”
Lewis repressed a shudder at the thought; the guillotine had been invented as a quick, humane method of execution, but the idea of a loved one being beheaded was beyond horrible.
“The escape from prison was last summer. However, there was some work that needed to be done, and Mother and I did not feel free to return until now. The Bohnets stayed in France and are working with the royalists. A brave pair.”
He swallowed the last of his sandwich and said, “We reached Dover yesterday, then posted up to London. Mother had written to you two years ago, and I sent a message myself shortly after last summer’s escape, but from the uproar when we arrived at Radcliffe House, the messages went astray. My mother was tired, so I left her in London and rode up here because I was anxious to see you and my sister. Speaking of whom, where is Christa? Staying with friends? I assume that you would have called her down otherwise.”
Lewis flinched. In the excitement of Charles’s return from the dead, he had almost forgotten the problem that had gnawed at his vitals for nearly a year. He took a deep breath, then plunged in. “She’s not here. I don’t know where she is.”
“What?” Charles’s brows drew together alarmingly.
