Around them, birds had begun to twitter in the growing light. On the far side of the pasture, a fox trotted into the open, stopped and stared at them a moment, and then vanished into the hedgerow. Callie stood tiptoe on the fence, a little disheveled, her hair trailing loose and her collar turned up on one side.
The thought that he might have been in Shanghai at this moment, instead of where he was, brought such a fierce tenderness to Trev's chest that he blinked twice and then informed her brusquely that he would like a moment in private with her, as he had a mind to do some highly indecent things to her person. It was not precisely what he would have liked to say, but he had no words sufficient for that.
She turned with one of her sidelong, mischievous smiles and gave him her hand, hopping down from the fence and into his arms. Beyond that, it seemed, words were not presently required.
"It's a bull!" Callie informed the duchesse when she came down for breakfast.
"Voyons, did I not predict?" Madame said with satisfaction. She allowed Nurse to seat her at the table. "You owe me a guinea, Trevelyan, and do not wager against the brave Hubert again, if you are wise."
"Strip me of my fortune, will you?" Trev kissed his mother's hand and carried his newspaper back to the window. "Take care you don't become a hardened gambler on the strength of this success."
"But no, can I help myself to bring young men to ruin?" She lifted a hand as Callie moved toward the door. "Ma fille, pray allow Nurse to attend to Etienne and have a cup of tea with me to celebrate this great event. Then we will go and dote on him together, eh? He has not yet been sufficiently spoiled by his grand maman today."
Callie assented to this agreeable plan and sat down again. The duchesse had made a recovery that even the London physician called miraculous, though Callie privately thought it could be attributed largely to having her son back with no cloud over his situation. Trev claimed it was because he wouldn't allow any lancets for bleeding in the house. The duchesse had merely smiled at all their speculations and asked to hold Etienne very often.
"Good God," Trev exclaimed suddenly, rattling the newspaper. "Listen to this!" He folded the paper back. "'The marriage of John L. Sturgeon and Emma Fowler, née Braddock, took place in Florence, Italy, in a private ceremony.'" He laughed and shook his head. "I never thought I'd feel for Sturgeon, but Lord save the poor devil. I wonder how she managed that?"
"She's very taking," Callie said. This news, while surprising, somehow made her smile behind her teacup. "I think he likes that."
Trev made a sound of disgust. "Taking, indeed. She'll take his hide and tan it for a new pair of gloves."
"It pleases me to see that I have brought you up wisely, Trevelyan," the duchesse murmured. "I never believed that you would fall in love with such a one as that."
"Nary a chance," he said, smiling at Callie. "I was in a hopeless case long before I ever met the lovely Fowler."
Callie blushed and peeked at him over her cup. "I wonder what the magazines will make of this?"
"At least ten volumes, I'm sure. What I wonder, my love, is who blackmailed that unlucky devil out of marrying you? Not that I don't bless 'em every day, but I've turned over every angle I can conceive, and still I can't reckon who it would benefit—" He stopped abruptly. An arrested expression came over his face. He looked toward his mother.
"And now I go to puddle my grandson, I think," the duchesse said lightly, laying her napkin aside and rising from her chair. "Will you come with me, ma bonne fille, and leave this boring son to his newspaper?"
"'Cuddle,' ma'am," Callie said, suppressing a smile. "Of course I will come."
"A moment, Maman," Trev said sternly, standing up. "Geordie Hixson called on you, did you tell me once? When was that?"
"Ah!" She made a careless gesture. "I'm much too old to recall such a detail. But a charming young man. I was so sorry to learn that he had passed away. I liked him very much. We were great friends in one afternoon."
"I can imagine," Trev said dryly. "No doubt he told you many stories of the war."
"Several," she agreed. She lifted her thin brows. "I fear he didn't like his commanding officer and unbur dened himself to me on the topic."
"Did he!"
"Yes, and perhaps it was not well done of me, but when I mentioned to him that my young friend at the great house was engaged to marry this same officer, he was most dismayed."
Trev shook his head slowly. "No, it wasn't Geordie. Sturgeon said he was dead before he got the blackmail note."
"Of course it was not him!" she said, shocked. "He was far too honorable a young man to stoop to such a thing! In fact, it was upon a point of military honor that he took greatest exception to his officer's behavior, I believe."
Trev's mouth quirked. "I see. And how did you dispatch the other two, ma mère?"
Callie took a sharp breath. She looked back and forth between her husband and the duchesse. "Trev! You can't be accusing your mother of… of—"
"Of blackmailing them all into jilting you?" He grinned. "Indeed not. I'm not accusing her. I'm about to get down on my knees and express my burning gratitude to her."
"It was nothing, my son," she said demurely. "Mrs. Easley obliged me by cutting up the papers and pasting them and seeing the notes delivered."
"Ma'am!" Callie exclaimed.
"I hope you are not too angry with me, chérie. I know that it hurt you a little each time, and for that I am very, very sorry." She gave Callie a worried look. "You did not greatly wish to marry any of them, did you?"
"Well, no, I didn't, but—"
The duchesse lifted her chin. "None of those men could have loved you as you deserve," she declared, "or they would not have paid the slightest heed to a silly note."
Callie was much struck by this view of the matter. "I suppose you're right," she said wonderingly. "Though I never thought any of them loved me at all."
"Fools," the duchesse and her son said at one and the same time.
They sounded so much alike, the one word so full of haughty French disdain, that Callie laughed and put her hands over her mouth. She wrinkled her nose against the sting that came to her eyes. "Oh," she said, "I am so fortunate to have you both."
Trev took her chin between his fingers and bent to kiss her gently on the nose. "Not you. I'm the lucky one here, ma mie. You are my fortune."
The End
Author's Note
After I finished Shadowheart, long before it was on the shelves and there was any controversy among readers about it, I'd already decided that I wanted to do a much lighter book this time. So I've pulled a complete 180—if books have family ties, Lessons in French is a first cousin to Midsummer Moon and only a very, very distant relation of Shadowheart. I wanted to revisit some of the character styles that I've enjoyed in the past—what I think of as "hedgehog humor." I find writing "light" to be even more demanding than writing "dark," and so I owe a great deal to Charles Rutledge and Beth Kingston, my team in charge of Plot Twists and Witty Banter. They kept me laughing hysterically even while I was suffering through the usual trials and torments of finishing a manuscript. A deep curtsy and profuse thanks; I couldn't have done it without your help. This one stayed in the drawer awhile, and to be honest I forgot about it, but there comes a time for every story to see the light, and now is the time for this one. Thanks to Deb Werksman of Sourcebooks for reminding me!
About the Author
Laura Kinsale, a former geologist, is the New York Times bestselling author of Flowers from the Storm, The Prince of Midnight, and Seize the Fire. She and her husband divide their time between Santa Fe and Dallas.
Table of Contents
Cover
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Author's Note
About the Author
Laura Kinsale, Lessons in French
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