Chapter Five
Well, Longsword did not like this turn of events one wit, but a bargain once struck with the Goblin King is very hard to break. Thus he was compelled to work for the Goblin King, and that is a dirty job, indeed; I can tell you! He never saw the sun, he never heard laughter, and he never felt a cool breeze against his cheek, for the Goblin Kingdom, as you may have heard, is a horrible place. But the worst part for Longsword was the knowledge that the master he served and the things he did were an affront to God and Heaven itself.
Because of this, every year Longsword would go to his master, lower himself to one knee, and beg to be relieved of his horrible servitude.
And every year the Goblin King refused to let Longsword go….
—from Longsword
“Ridiculous that I can’t touch any of the Blanchard monies,” Reynaud growled a day later. He paced the little sitting room from fireplace to window, feeling like a wild wolf caged. “How am I to pay my lawyers without funds?”
“You can hardly blame Uncle Reggie for being reluctant to pay for his own ouster,” Miss Corning said. She sat serenely by the small fire, sipping some of her infernal tea.
“Ha! If he thinks that’ll stop me, he’ll be sorely disappointed,” Reynaud retorted. “I have a petition before parliament to form a special committee to look into my case.”
Miss Corning set her teacup down carefully. “Already? I had no idea.”
Reynaud snorted. “If it were tomorrow, it’d not be soon enough for me. Once I prove my identity, they cannot keep the title from me.”
Miss Corning frowned, fiddling with her teacup.
Reynaud’s brows snapped together. “You don’t believe me?”
“It’s just… What if . . .” She shook her head slowly.
“What if what?”
“What if he says that you are mad?” she asked all in a rush, and looked up at him.
Reynaud stared. Insanity was one of the few reasons a man might be passed over for a title. “Do you have information that he will?”
“It was just something he said in passing.” She ducked her head, hiding her gray eyes from him.
Reynaud scowled, wondering what her uncle had actually said. He felt cold sweat start at the small of his back. You’ll never be a proper Englishman again, the goblins in his mind chittered. You’ll never belong. Reynaud balled his hands, fighting the voices.
“Do you feel well?” Miss Corning asked.
“Fine,” Reynaud snapped. “I’m fine.”
Her gray eyes looked troubled. “Perhaps if I talk to Uncle Reggie, he’d be willing to lend you some of his money for new clothes and such.”
“My money,” Reynaud growled.
She was throwing him a bone, and they both knew it. Damn her uncle to hell. He parted the curtain to peer out. Three stories below, a carriage lurked in front of the town house. Probably one of St. Aubyn’s political allies come to call.
“Yes, well, your money or Uncle Reggie’s money, the fact remains that he is the one in control of it,” Miss Corning observed. “It wouldn’t hurt your case to be more civil to him, especially since you’re staying in his house.”
“My house. I have every right to live in my house, and I’ll be damned before I crawl to that man.” Reynaud let the curtain drop.
Miss Corning rolled her eyes. “I didn’t say crawl, I said be more—”
“Civil, I know.” He stalked toward her. She was looking remarkably pretty this morning in a green frock that offset the pale rose of her cheeks and made her eyes sparkle like diamonds. “The only one I’m interested in being ‘civil’ to is you.”
She paused, her tea dish halfway to her lips, and eyed him warily. Good. She took him far too much for granted as it was. They were in a room alone, for God’s sake, and he’d spent the last seven years in a society where the relations between a man and a woman were much more fundamental. In fact—
But his thoughts were interrupted by a footman appearing at the door. “You have a visitor, my lord.”
And the man stepped aside to reveal a vision. An elderly lady stood there, her back ramrod straight, her snowy white hair pulled into a severe knot at the crown of her head, her piercing blue eyes already narrowed in disapproval. Reynaud hadn’t seen her in seven years, and for a moment he feared he would lose his self-possession. He knew tears—awful unmanly tears—were near the surface.
Then she spoke. “Tiens! Such an ’orrible growth of ’air upon your face, nephew! I am quite repulsed. Is this, then, what gentlemen in the Colonies wear? I do not believe it; no, I do not!”
He went to her and took her hands, kissing her tenderly on the cheek despite her mutter of disgust. “I am glad to see you, Tante Cristelle.”
“Tcha! I do not think you can see at all with this ’air.” She reached a blue-veined hand to brush the hair falling into his face. Her touch, unlike her words, was gentle. Then her hand dropped. “And who is this child here? Have you lost so much of civilization that you closet yourself alone with a female in a respectable house?”
Reynaud turned, amused, to see that Miss Corning had jumped up from her chair and was eyeing Tante Cristelle warily. “This is a cousin of mine, Miss Beatrice Corning. Miss Corning, my aunt, Miss Cristelle Molyneux.”
Miss Corning curtsied as Tante Cristelle employed her looking glass and said, “I do not remember a cousin called Corning in my sister’s family.”
“I’m Lord Blanchard’s niece,” Miss Corning said.
Tante Cristelle’s eyes darkened. “C’est ridicule! My nephew doesn’t have a niece, only a nephew, and he not yet ten years of age.”
Reynaud cleared his throat, feeling like laughing for the first time since he’d set foot on English soil. “She means the present Earl of Blanchard, Tante.”
The old lady sniffed. “The pretender to the title. I see.”
Miss Corning looked cautious. “Um… perhaps I can bring up some tea?”
Reynaud would’ve preferred coffee or brandy, but since Miss Corning seemed to be fixated on tea, he merely nodded. She glided from the room, and he watched her go.
“That one is very pretty,” Tante Cristelle observed. “Not beautiful, but she ’as an air of grace about her.”
“Indeed.” Reynaud looked at his aunt. “You mentioned my sister. Is she well?”
“You don’t know?” Her brows snapped together in disapproval. “Did you not ask?”
“I have asked,” Reynaud replied as he ushered her to a chair. “But no one knows her as well as you do, Tante.”
“Humph,” said Tante Cristelle as she primly lowered herself to a chair. “Then I will tell you. You know your sister was widowed shortly after your… disappearance.”
Reynaud nodded. “So Miss Corning has told me.” He’d gone to look out the window again. London hadn’t changed much since his absence, but everything else had.
Everything.
“Bon,” Tante Cristelle said. “Then last year she married a rustic, a man from the Colony of New England. His name is Samuel Hartley.”
“That I’d heard as well,” he replied.
Strange to think that Emeline was now married to a man Reynaud had known in the army—a Colonial. Once again he felt that nauseating sense that his world was in motion, past and present conflicting, warring for his soul.
Tante Cristelle continued. “She ’as taken herself to live with her husband far, far overseas in the city of Boston. I do not know if such an action was wise on her part, but you know your sister. She can be quite the stubborn mule when she wishes.”
“And my nephew, Daniel?”
“Petite Daniel is fine and strong. Naturally his mother took him to live with her in America.”
Reynaud contemplated that. Ironic that he was now farther from his sister than he’d been before he’d sailed for England. Would he have delayed his return had he known she was in New England? He wasn’t sure. The need to regain his former life—his lands and title—had driven him for seven long years. Had in fact kept him alive and sane during the endless days and nights of his captivity. Nothing, not even the love for a sister, could keep him from his goal.
“Where have you been, Reynaud?” Tante Cristelle asked softly.
He shook his head, closing his eyes. How could he tell her, this gently bred aristocrat, what had been done to him?
After a moment he heard her sigh. “Bien. There is no need to speak of it if you do not wish.”
At that, he turned around. Tante Cristelle was watching him patiently. She was the elder sister of his late mother. Both women had grown up in Paris and had immigrated to England on his mother’s marriage. Tante Cristelle was in her seventh decade, but her snapping blue eyes were sharp, her mind one of the clearest he’d ever known.
“I intend to get my title back, Tante,” he said.
She nodded once. “Naturalement.”
“I have petitioned parliament to form a special committee to hear my case. When it is convened, I will have to appear before the committee in Westminster and plead my case. The current earl will present his side at the same time.”
Tante sniffed. “This usurper will not let go of his stolen title so easily, eh?”
“No,” Reynaud said grimly. “He’ll hold it for as long as he can, I’m sure. And he may ask to retain the title on the grounds that I’m mad.”
“Mad?” The old lady’s thin eyebrows rose.
Reynaud looked away. “I was delirious with fever when I arrived. I’m afraid there was a roomful of people to witness me raving like a lunatic.”
“And is that all?”
Reynaud grimaced uncomfortably. “There was an… incident yesterday. I was shot at—”
“Mon dieu!”
He waved away her concern. “It was nothing terrible. But I forgot myself somehow. I thought I was on the battlefield again.”
Silence.
Then Tante Cristelle drew breath. “Ah. Unfortunate. We will need good solicitors and men of business to combat the usurper.”
Reynaud looked up, hope making him feel suddenly weak. “Then you’ll help me.”
“Mais oui.” Tante Cristelle scowled. “And did you think otherwise?”
Reynaud helped her stand, feeling the fragile bones of her arm beneath his hand. “No, but it has been a very long time since I’ve had an ally.”
She shook her skirts into order. “We must plan a campaign, I think. I shall seek out these men of law, for I have maintained the estate of le petite Daniel whilst he sojourned in the Colonies and thus have many contacts. And you, you shall shave.”
“Shave?” Reynaud’s eyebrows shot up in amusement.
Tante Cristelle nodded sharply. “But of course, shave, and also you will need the new clothing, the proper wig, and the elegant shoes. For you must regain the aspect of the so-boring English milord, must you not? Thusly we shall confound our enemies with your very placidity.”
Reynaud clenched his jaw. He hated to ask, but he forced himself to. “I have no monies, Tante.”
She nodded, unsurprised. “I will lend you what you need, and when you become the earl again, you shall pay me back, yes?”
“Yes. Of course.” Reynaud bowed over her hand. “I cannot tell you, Tante, how relieved I am that you are on my side.”
“Tcha!” The old woman made a dismissive sound. “You have not lost your charm, I see, underneath that forest upon your face. But mark you this, nephew: a shave and a haircut are only part of what you’ll need to transform yourself into the respectable English gentleman.”
Reynaud frowned. “What else do you think I need? Name it and I’ll buy it.”
