A Stolen Heart

Finally, with a little sob, she went over to her dressing table and pulled out her jewelry case. Quickly she took out her jewelry, glittering gold studded with diamonds, rubies and emeralds, satiny pearls strung together or dangling from ear studs. Some were family heirlooms, others gifts from an adoring and wealthy husband. Simone was a woman who loved decoration, and her vivid dark coloring and white skin were perfect foils for the richly colored jewels.

She stuffed the pieces into a velvet bag, paying little attention to the sparkling gems. Last, she reached up and removed the emerald drops that hung from her ears, then the matching emerald pendant that had been a wedding present from Lord Chilton eight and a half years before. Her hand closed around it for a moment; it was still warm from the heat of her skin. Then, with a little sigh, she slipped it, too, into the bag.

Her friend could be trusted; after all, she was trusting her with her children, far more important than any jewelry. If she survived, she would be reunited with them all.

She opened the false bottom of the jewelry case and took out three small items. Though relatively inexpensive, they were the most precious, for they belonged to her children. There were two lockets that opened up to reveal miniature portraits of herself and Emerson. The Countess had given them to the girls last year at Christmas. The third object was a plain, bulky ring, far too large for her son’s finger. She strung it on a piece of string so that he could wear it around his neck. The ring was ordinary looking, flat-topped with an odd design. But it was hundreds of years old, the family ring of the Earls of Exmoor. Only heirs to the title were allowed to wear it. Emerson owned it now, though he did not wear it. One day it would be his son’s.

Simone went to her desk and took the quill from the inkwell and began to scratch out a note. She was never the best of letter writers, and this note was disjointed and almost illegible. But it would at least let the Earl and the Countess know what had happened. She stuffed it into the bag with the jewels.

Clutching the velvet bag and the three small pieces of jewelry, Simone left her bedroom and started up the stairs to the nursery. Downstairs, she could hear Emerson’s voice, growing impatient as he tried to explain to her parents why they had to leave Paris as soon as possible. Simone shook her head. Her parents were frozen by fear, so much in shock from the upheaval of their world that all they seemed capable of doing was staying still and saying no. Simone and Emerson could hardly leave them behind; it was why they had not left already. But she refused to let her children die because her parents were too stubborn or too silly to do what they ought to.

That was why she was sending the children away. She would entrust their lives to her dearest friend here, who was leaving for England and its safety tomorrow. She had not asked yet, but she was sure that her friend would do it. Childless herself, she had always doted on Simone’s children, especially the youngest. Simone would get them away to England, and the jewels would help pay their expenses, if necessary. Once they were safe, if Simone did not make it, they would be her last present to her children.

Simone reached up to dash the tears from her eyes. She could not let the children see her crying; that would frighten them even further. So she pasted a smile on her face before she opened the door to the nursery and went inside. The French nurse was already putting them to bed. Simone dismissed her, saying that she would tuck the children in herself.

Once the maid had left, she turned to the three children. For a long moment she let herself look at them, the lump in her throat swelling as she faced the thought that perhaps she would never see them again. There was John, with the thick, dark hair he had inherited from her and her own dark brown, almost black eyes. A sturdy boy of seven, he had his father’s long bones and mischievous smile, and Simone had not met a woman yet, of any age, who did not succumb to his charms. She bent to kiss his forehead, then moved on to kiss Marie Anne’s cheek. Marie Anne had her father’s eyes—deep blue, guileless orbs—and the bright red curls that had surprised them both, coming as she did from his blondness and Simone’s black hair. But the Countess had nodded wisely and said that red hair cropped up periodically among the Montfords.

She had to swallow hard as she moved on to Alexandra, the baby. Only two, she was a delight; chubby and sunny of spirit, it seemed she was always laughing or babbling. She was, Simone’s mama said, the very image of Simone when she was a toddler, with black curls and merry dark brown eyes and a laugh that made everyone who heard it smile. Simone picked Alexandra up and hugged her, then sat on the floor with the children and put Alexandra in her lap.

“I’ve come to tell you that you are going on a trip,” she said lightly, hoping that her voice displayed none of her anxiety. “You’re going home to England to see your grandmama and grandpapa.”

She told them about her friend, whom they knew and liked, and how they must go with her by themselves, but that Mama and Papa would be joining them later. Though she usually spoke French with her children, who were as fluent in it as in English, she used English with them now.

“You must only speak English,” she cautioned them. “Not French, because you are going to pretend to be her children, not mine. Won’t that be a fun game?”

John regarded her solemnly. “It’s because of the Mob, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Simone admitted. “That is why I am sending you this way. It will be less danger to you. So watch out for the girls, John, and make sure that they don’t get into trouble. Don’t let them speak French, even when you are alone. Can I rely on you?”

He nodded. “I’ll take care of them.”

“Good. That’s my little man. Now, here are some things you must wear. Don’t take them off—even Alexandra. John, you make sure of it.”

She hung the ring on its rough string around his neck and tucked it under his shirt so it did not show. She did the same with each of the girls, stuffing the lockets down the necks of their dresses.

The children were dressed fairly plainly, in the clothes they wore to play in. That was the best that she could do, Simone thought, to hide their aristocratic backgrounds. Quickly she placed a few more changes of play clothes, nothing with lace or velvet, in their little cloaks and tied them up into bundles.

“Now we must go very quietly down the stairs,” she told them.

“Can’t we say goodbye to Papa?” Marie Anne asked, bewildered and looking about ready to cry.

“No, he is talking to Grandmère and Grandpère. We must not disturb them.”

She knew that Emerson would be furious with her for sneaking the children away without telling him. But she could not risk letting them say goodbye to him. His confidence in his indestructibility was too great. She was afraid he would forbid her to send them away, sure that they would be safest with him.

Simone gave them all a shaky smile and stood, picking up Alexandra to hold her in one arm and carrying Alexandra’s little bundle in the other. “Now, children, pick up your bundles of clothes. Stay close. Hold on to my skirts and don’t let go, no matter what happens. And be very quiet—like little mice.”

John and Marie Anne nodded, though she could see the uncertainty in their faces. They walked quietly out of the room and tiptoed down the stairs. Simone did not go out the tall front door, but led them to the side door. She paused, her hand on the knob, taking a deep breath. John and Marie Anne clutched her skirt.

Simone opened the door, and they scurried into the night.

CHAPTER ONE

London, 1811

ALEXANDRA WARD GLANCED AT HER companion in the carriage. He looked as if he were about to fall into a swoon. His face was a pasty white, and sweat dotted his upper lip. Alexandra suppressed a sigh. Englishmen, she was discovering, seemed to be a curiously poor-spirited lot, always gaping and staring and sputtering about how something could not be done. It was a wonder that the country had ever achieved its place in the world, either politically or financially.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Jones,” she said in a pleasant tone, trying to ease the man’s fears. “I am sure that your employer will be quite amenable to seeing us.”

Lyman Jones closed his eyes as he let out a small moan. “You don’t know Lord Thorpe. He is a…a very private sort of man.”

“So are many men, but that doesn’t make them poor businessmen. I cannot imagine why a man would not be interested in meeting someone who had just signed a quite lucrative contract to ship his company’s tea to America.” Frankly, Alexandra had been amazed that Thorpe had not been at the office to meet her and sign the contract this morning. He had not even attended any of her meetings with his agent, Lyman Jones. It seemed foolish in the extreme to turn over so much of one’s business to another without supervising him. She herself had many employees on whom she depended, but she would never think of not joining them in an important meeting with a client. However, she refrained from pointing this fact out to Mr. Jones, who seemed too upset as it was.

“I—I don’t know how it is in America, Miss Ward,” Mr. Jones said carefully, “but here, well, gentlemen don’t generally engage actively in business affairs.”

“How do they get any business done, then?” Alexandra asked in amazement. “Someone must be engaging in business affairs. How else can England be so prosperous?”

“Well, of course, men engage in business affairs. It is gentlemen, men like Lord Thorpe, that I’m talking about.”

“Oh. You’re talking about the nobility?” She appeared to consider the idea.

“Yes.” Mr. Jones looked relieved. He had had a rather difficult time talking to Miss Ward through the negotiations. It had seemed most bizarre to even be discussing business dealings with a woman, much less bargaining with one—especially one who looked like Alexandra Ward. Lyman Jones would never have imagined a woman running a business, as Miss Ward seemed to, so he would have been hard put to say exactly what he thought such a woman would look like. But he knew that she would not have been a tall, statuesque woman with a cloud of thick black hair. Nor would she have had Alexandra’s strawberries-and-cream complexion and large, expressive brown eyes, eyes so dark that they were almost black.

But then, Alexandra Ward was unlike any other woman Lyman Jones had ever met. Perhaps it came from her being American; he wasn’t sure. But she spoke in a blunt, decisive manner and left no room for disagreement, sweeping everyone before her in a way that was almost impossible to resist. After a session with her, he usually found himself exhausted and unsure exactly how he had been talked into something. He was feeling that way now. He wondered sinkingly if Lord Thorpe would end his employment for this.

“I am afraid I’m not used to such distinctions,” Alexandra admitted. “In the United States, a gentleman is determined more on the basis of his actions, I believe, than on his birth.” She paused, then asked curiously, “This Thorpe is a feckless sort? I suppose he must have inherited his wealth. Still, one wonders how he has managed to hang on to it.”

“Oh, no, miss,” Jones protested hastily. “I didn’t mean that. It’s not that his lordship doesn’t know or care about the business. He does. What I meant was that a gentleman wouldn’t be, well, seen in the day-to-day running of it.”

“I see. It is a matter of appearance, then.” Alexandra thought that Thorpe sounded more and more foolish.

“I suppose.” Jones frowned. He didn’t like the way that sounded. “I mean, well, it just isn’t done.” He hastened to add, “Lord Thorpe is an excellent businessman. He made most of his money himself, actually, in India.”

“Ah.” Alexandra’s dark eyes sparkled with interest, all thoughts about Lord Thorpe’s business acumen fleeing. “That is precisely why I am so eager to meet the man. His collection of Indian treasures is well-known, and I am rather a devotee of the subject myself. I have even corresponded with Mr. Thorpe, I mean, Lord Thorpe, on the subject.”

Alexandra thought it prudent not to mention that she had asked Lord Thorpe about seeing his collection when she was in England this year and had been turned down flat. That was, actually, why she had settled on the Burchings Tea Company with which to negotiate a contract. The company had an excellent reputation, of course; Alexandra would never have made a bad business decision just to satisfy a personal whim. However, the fact that the Burchings Tea Company was owned by the same Lord Thorpe whose collection she so wished to see was a very pleasant bonus. She had been sure that she would meet the man—who, she presumed from the tone of his letter, was a crotchety old fellow—during her business dealings with his company.

“I understand that his collection is quite impressive,” Mr. Jones replied. “I, of course, have never seen it.”

“Never? None of it?” Alexandra looked at him in surprise.

Jones gazed at her with a slightly puzzled expression. “No. I mean, I have, of course, sometimes brought something to his lordship at his home, and I have seen some objects in his foyer, but generally, Lord Thorpe comes to the office to discuss his business.”

It seemed odd to Alexandra, whose family had always held open house every year at Christmas for their employees, that one’s highest-ranking employee would not have spent time inside one’s house. She felt a close, almost familial bond with many of her employees. Indeed, some of them were related to her. But, she supposed, it was simply another example of how the British—or perhaps it was just the nobility—were different.

The carriage pulled up in front of an impressive white stone edifice and stopped. Lyman Jones looked out the window and said in a stifled voice, “We’re here.”

He turned to Alexandra with an almost pleading look on his face. “Are you sure you wish to do this, Miss Ward? Lord Thorpe is—he’s a bit of a recluse. He truly does not appreciate visitors. I—it’s quite likely that he will refuse even to see us.”