Page 4 of An Affair at Stonecliffe

“I should have guessed he’d do something like that. He was bloody impulsive, still young and easily seduced. If I’d gone to Oxford and seen her, I’d have realized how dangerous she was. As soon as she opened the door in Paris, I understood why Adam had been ensnared by her. He loved beauty above all else. The lad didn’t have a chance.” Carlisle sighed. “I should have gone with him to talk to the earl again. I could have made Adam agree to wait a reasonable period, and that woman would have been off after some more lucrative prey. But I had things to do in the city, and I was...well, I was tired of having to intervene, I suppose.”

“As well you should have been. It was wrong for you to always be placed in that position.”

Carlisle gave a dismissive half shrug. “I was the one who put myself there. But I couldn’t have chosen a worse time to decide to let the earl and Adam manage it on their own.” He looked down for a moment, adjusting his cuffs. “And then...to have finally persuaded the earl to mend things between them, only to have Adam die before I could even write him.” Carlisle shook his head. “I wasn’t thinking straight after that. And when I saw her standing there with not a trace of mourning, all bedecked in her jewels—she’d been gloating over them; I could see them spread out on the bed—I was blind with fury.”

“Of course you were.”

“All I could think of was getting Adam’s baby away from her and back to the countess. But I was stupid to toss down that coin purse. It was a foolish, dramatic gesture. I didn’t realize she was clever. I thought she would jump at the chance to have the money and be free of the impediment of a child so she could pursue a new victim. But she obviously knew she would have an easier and more luxurious life at Stonecliffe, as the mother of the future earl.”

“Seems extraordinary behavior to me. Why didn’t she simply turn down your offer? Bargain for a healthy allowance to bring up the child—what is his name again?”

“Gilbert, according to the birth records. She called him Gil—sounds like a stable lad.”

“Gilbert, then—if she wanted to keep Gilbert, why not ask for money for his benefit? Or return to Stonecliffe to live with him?”

“I don’t know.” Carlisle sighed. “I’ve wondered about it thousands of times. I assumed at first it was a ploy to get more money from me. I thought I would receive a letter from her suggesting different terms. When she didn’t write, I decided she hoped to go to court and persuade it to establish her as the boy’s guardian instead of the earl. I could have told her that was ludicrous, but she probably knows nothing of the law. When Drewsbury died, I thought she’d come sweeping in then, swanning about as the mother of the new earl, and take up residence at the London house.”

“Perhaps she didn’t know he’d died,” Nathan offered. “Maybe she found out, and that’s why she came back to London.”

“I suppose. She’s certainly avoided England before. But then why hasn’t she come to me and announced herself?”

“I think we can safely assume that the woman wants to avoid you.”

Carlisle let out a little grunt, half humor, half frustration. “I’d say so, since she’s given me the slip four times now. But why not go to the countess? No one could be kinder than Lady Drewsbury. Or the earl’s man of business? His attorney?”

“I’ve no idea. Maybe she doesn’t like the look of the man.” Nathan shrugged.

“That’s a ridiculous reason not to talk to a solicitor.” Carlisle snorted. “No one in their right mind would do such a thing.”

“Hah! I can’t stand to see my attorney—he looks more suited to be an undertaker than a man of business. Ghastly pale and all skin and bones.” Nathan gave a theatrical shudder. “Besides, you have said many times that this woman obviously isn’t in her right mind.”

“That’s true.” Carlisle allowed. “She has done absolutely nothing sensible—just continued to run like a thief all over Europe, adopting disguises. Perhaps she’s mad. Or maybe she does it to make me suffer. God knows, she has succeeded.” He jumped up and began to pace. “When I think of Adam’s son being brought up this way, dragged about all over, and God knows what she’s been doing to support them—bloody hell.” Carlisle broke off and swung around to face Nathan, his face set and gray eyes hard as stone. “But all that’s done now. I’ve got her—and this time, by God, that woman will not get away from me.”

NOELLE HELD GIL’S hand as they walked along the street. It was a misty morning, the air damp and cool upon her cheeks, but at least it was not foggy as it had been the last few days. She disliked the fog that crept and concealed, closing around her like spiderwebs. It was a fanciful comparison, and Noelle was rarely fanciful anymore, but it was a very real and practical problem: the fog made it difficult to see and it muffled sounds. Anyone could be following her. Someone might be lurking unseen in a doorway.

Other people doubtless did not think of it that way, but they hadn’t lived the last five years looking over their shoulders. She tightened her grip on Gil’s hand. He responded, “Ow! Maman!”

“Désolé,” Noelle responded, loosening her grip. She continued to speak French with her son, as well as with Madame Bissonet, even though both of them also spoke English. With customers or shop people, she used English, though she gave a soft French accent to her words. Their clientele seemed to feel there was a certain cachet in buying a hat from a Frenchwoman, and it suited Noelle to add another layer to her disguise.

Like the mousy brown wig over her own short blond curls. Or the drab dress in a rust-brown shade that complemented neither her skin nor her figure. Once she had adopted a limp and a cane, but that had been only for a journey; it was all too likely she would forget to limp, or use the wrong leg, if she had to keep it up for an extended period of time. She was considering, however, wearing spectacles, as she had once before. Her eyes were the most difficult feature to hide.

Noelle hadn’t wanted to return to England. It had been over a year since the last time Carlisle Thorne’s hired men had tried to kidnap Gil, enough to make her hope he might have given up. But she couldn’t allow herself to trust that feeling. The man was a bulldog of an adversary—relentless, determined. Wherever she went, whatever name or disguise she adopted, he found her. Eight times she had had to abandon their life and run again.

He found her first only a few months after she fled Paris. He hired a detective who had doggedly made his way through the artistic community there, paying for the names and location of every friend she and Adam had. It didn’t take him long to reach Yvette and Henri, though fortunately word had made its way through the ranks of artists as soon as he started searching in Florence, and Noelle had escaped in time.

She realized then that she must never again go to someone she knew. She couldn’t go to her father, knowing that he would be the most likely person for Carlisle to suspect of sheltering her, and after fleeing Florence, she had faced the fact that she would probably never be able to see him again. She never even wrote to her father unless she was on the verge of leaving a town, afraid Carlisle might discover where her letter had come from. Her father had been dead a year before Noelle had by chance discovered it.

Thorne found her again a year after she fled Florence, and that time she escaped only because a neighbor told her that a strange man had knocked at Noelle’s door and when the neighbor popped her head out suspiciously to ask what he wanted, he hadn’t answered, just hurried away. It had been enough to make Noelle pack her clothes, grab Gil, and run.

There had been other times and other places. In Brussels, Noelle had spotted a distinctly brutish man loitering around the house where she worked; in Rome, she had realized she was being followed. Another man approached her on a street in Madrid, saying her name and reaching inside his jacket. She’d flung the basket of vegetables she’d been carrying into his face and ran.

There were other, more terrifying incidents. In Barcelona, a man came up beside them and grabbed Noelle by the arm, spinning her around and flinging her to the ground. Gil, bless him, only three years old, had screamed like a banshee and attacked the man, hitting him about the knees with his wooden toy. Their attacker picked up the wildly struggling boy, but Noelle, still on the ground, managed to wrap her arms around the man’s legs and hold on frantically while Gil struggled and screamed. They delayed the attacker long enough for the butcher next door to come running to their aid, cleaver in hand, at which point the kidnapper dropped Gil and took to his heels.

In Bern, there had been an attack in a park where Noelle was sitting on a bench, knitting, while Gil played. She’d jumped up and shoved her knitting needles into the man’s side as he picked up Gil, and they managed to escape again. That was a year and a half ago. Since then they had been safe, but Noelle was too wise to trust in that. She must keep up the careful habits she had acquired over the years.

She never stayed in one place long. She changed the color of her hair many times. At first, she dyed it black, but after that she cut her own hair short and wore wigs of varying colors, often covering her head with a cap. She kept her wardrobe small—easy enough, considering the state of her finances—so that she could pack and flee at a moment’s notice.

Staying unnoticed was her primary goal, so she wore dresses of drab colors that did not suit her. In public, she kept her face sober and unsmiling, leaching the vivacity from her looks, and she spoke quietly and only as much as was necessary. She lowered her gaze and sought the shadows. Only with Gil and an occasional friend was she herself.