Henrietta picked up her skirts and ran down the path. By the time she reached the front of the cottage, the occupants had alighted. She stood, out of breath, as the two men removed the trunk, one stood on the back of the cart, the other on the ground. The tall, dark-haired man jumped down and turned toward her, and her mouth fell open.
She gasped. “Mr. Hartley!”
“Lady Henrietta.” He bent to help carry the trunk inside.
“You’ve met I see.” Verity came to kiss her cheek. She looked different—sad and resigned, but less fraught somehow.
With difficulty, Henrietta drew her gaze away from Christian. “Hello, Monsieur Balzac. It was good of you to bring them.”
“My pleasure, mademoiselle.” The big man shooed Christian away and shouldered the trunk. “Where do I put this? I must return to my work.”
As Verity led him up the path, Henrietta stood looking at Christian. He was dressed like a Frenchman. A poor one, his clothes threadbare. He removed his hat and was unpinning the cockade. He tucked it into his pocket. She met his gaze. “Why are you dressed like that? How did you find me?”
“One question at a time, Lady Henrietta.” He kissed her hand. For a moment they might be at a ball in London with him asking her to dance. “After you passed me on a London street in a carriage dressed in your page costume, I learned you were on your way to France. Then I spied you again, here in Paris. I went around the theatres and was fortunate to run into Mademoiselle Garnier.” He smiled as they walked up the path together. “I am dressed this way so as not to attract attention. One does not wish to come under scrutiny in France right now.”
She looked down at her grubby gown, brushed her skirts and put a hand up to her untidy hair. She lowered her arm as her heart leaped. He had tried to find her! She intended to learn more. There were gaps in his story. He spoke as if they’d been on a jaunt to Richmond for a picnic. An incredulous laugh bubbled up. “But why did you come here?”
He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and drew her along the path to where her father stood waiting. “We can discuss it later.” His smile was irresistible. “I shall demand to be told your story first.”
“I doubt I’ll let you get away with that, Mr. Hartley,” Henrietta said. How wonderful it was to see him.
“How extraordinary! It’s Mr. Hartley.” Her father shook his hand.
“Christian, please, my lord.”
“Yes indeed,” her father said with a wry grimace. “Anthony. Formality hardly seems important at this point, does it?”
He turned to address Verity. “What about your father, did you learn anything?”
Verity shook her head. “He died in the massacre at the prison.”
“Sweetheart!” Henrietta’s father held out his arms and Verity walked into them. She rested her head against his chest. “I am so very sorry, Verity.”
Henrietta saw he was not surprised. He had been expecting this. She gasped at the horror of it. Losing one’s father was too terrible to contemplate. How despairing she would be if she lost him. “I’m so sorry, Verity.”
“Thank you, Henrietta.” Verity drew away. “I must go and inform my uncle.”
She walked away her head bowed.
“Come and meet Philippe, Baron St André,” her father said. “My brother-in-law will welcome company. He has been wounded but is much improved.”
Henrietta was alone when Verity emerged from her uncle’s library. “Was he dreadfully upset?”
Verity shrugged. “The news didn’t surprise him.”
“He may not like to upset you.”
“No. Uncle François is not one to show his feelings.”
“How did you and Mr. Hartley meet?” Henrietta asked. “Tell me everything. I can’t take it all in.”
Verity gave a weak smile and patted her cheek. “I will, but have patience, Henrietta.”
Henrietta grinned. “You know I have little.”
“Oui, I am aware of that. We have the trunk! Come and find something to wear.”
Henrietta followed her up the stairs. Her hair needed a wash. But how she looked didn’t seem to matter nearly as much as it had in London. Nothing could crush her joy at seeing Christian. She wanted to pinch herself to make sure he was real.
