“Prince Gabriel’s cousin turned up at my front door claiming that, in the absence of the long-lost Gabriel,hehad inherited the title, and thathewas the new Prince d’Orleans. As such, he was now in possession of the d’Orleans coffers and d’Orleans property—and also he intended to take possession ofme.”
“Possession of you?”
“Yes. To take as his wife. Because of my long-standing betrothal to the missing prince. This imposter prince and I are to be united instead of the actual prince and I. Regardless of the transfer of the title. Or how I feel about the matter, which is horrified.” She took a deep breath.
Gabriel stared down. Extreme shock felt like a blow to the head. Tiny lights flickered at the edge of his vision. He swayed on his feet. He hadn’t drawn breath since she’d said the wordfiancé.
“Shall I carry on?” she prompted.
He blinked at her.
“I’ll take your undivided attention to meanyes.” A smile. “So now this imposter prince is endeavoring to... to... collect.Me.And assume possession of my family’s estate, which is an old manor house and lands called Winscombe. My father is very ill and we’ve fallen on lean times. Still, there is the house and acreage and sheep. I am the least of what he wants, honestly, but also the means by which he acquires the lot.”
She sighed and continued. “As I said, it’s a tragic tale with which I wouldn’t ordinarily burden a stranger. But you did ask. And I’m rather desperate to find any trace of theactualPrince Gabriel d’Orleans. So...”
“What do you expect Prince Gabriel to do?” His voice was a rasp.
“Well, I expected him to show himself. To reveal to this imposter that he is, in fact,not dead. There canbe onlyonePrince d’Orleans, after all. Surely. Even in France.”
“Which cousin is claiming to be the new Prince d’Orleans?”
“What?” Her features twisted in confusion. “Do you mean what is the imposter’s name?”
Gabriel waited, his heart a hot ember in his throat.
“He’s called Maurice Emile... Something-or-other.” Her expression went sour. “And he’s frightening. Truly. I wouldn’t have left Guernsey, sailed to the mainland, and plunged into a dark wood, searching for an exiled prince, if the alternative was nottruly frightening.”
Gabriel took two steps backward.Maurice.Snide and petty and selfish Maurice; disagreeable, even when they were boys.
“But how did you know to come here?” he demanded, trying to keep his voice calm. “To Savernake Forest? How did you find”—he paused—“your way?”
“I’ve a letter,” she said, and she began searching her skirts, digging deep into a pocket and coming up with a small leather satchel. She flopped it open and plucked out a piece of parchment, folded again and again.
“Remember I said Prince Gabriel and I used to correspond? My only clue was the last letter he wrote to me.” She unfolded the parchment, careful to protect the limp paper in the rising wind. “His letters before the Revolution discussed his life in the Parisian palace with his family. He spoke of the French Court, his lessons—typical ten-year-old things. And then the people of France revolted and the letters stopped. Until this one.”
Gabriel stared at the pale letter in her hand. The parchment was tattered, its age obvious even in the dark.
It washisletter.
She heldhis letter, written more than a decade ago. It had been the desperate effort of a terrified, lonely, uncertain boy, far from home. His childish attempt to behave with honor to the very end; to set things to rights.
Gabriel was gripped by an old heartbreak, stomach-churning and fearful. He took a step back. He scrubbed a hand over his face, trying to wipe away all the things he saw in memory and the vision of the woman standing two feet away. He contemplated turning on his heel and leaving her. He could dive into the forest, the only respite he’d known for years.
“ ‘Furthermore it would be imprudent to reveal my exact location,’” she was reciting, reading from his letter, “‘but I will say that I’m in the county of Wiltshire in the south of England, in an ancient forest called Savernake.’”
She lowered the parchment. “That is what he wrote to me in...” she referenced the letter again “...1799. So... close to twelve years ago? His last letter, as I’ve said. But it’s the only clue I have. I used it to map out my search for him. As impossible as it may seem.”
Gabriel was about to tell her that itdidseem impossible; that she was asking the wrong man; that he didn’t understand any of it. The words were on the tip of his tongue. He need only articulate the lie.
She cocked her head and studied him. “But you claim that I’ve come all this way for a dead man?”
He blinked down at her, grateful for a question hecould answer with ayesor ano. It was easier to lie in fewer words. And yet, he couldn’t speak. He was too busy swatting memories. Faces, smells, snatches of conversation—letters, swarming him like insects. How long had it been since he’d thought of the girl she’d been or the woman she might become? How long since he’d thought of herletters? Images and emotions flew at him from every direction. Hewasthe prince, of course. Hehadbeen affianced as a child. Hehadwritten her, foolish boy that he’d been. Hedidhave a terrible cousin called Maurice.
He was just about to agree with her—to tell her,Yes, for God’s sake, the prince is dead—when lightning popped, and thunder cracked, and the sky opened up. The forest was doused with sheets of cold rain. She made a squeaking noise and quickly folded the letter into the leather pouch. She ducked her head and fumbled with the hood of her cloak.
All at once, Gabriel remembered the spooked stallion he’d tied to the tree.
“Zeus,” he hissed, looking around, judging how fast he could get to the animal.
