watching their carriage disappear from view as it turned the bend, knowing she would not see Alysse until the engagement party.
She had an urge to walk the grounds of Breatoney, for the air was sweet and the breeze that lifted her hair held the promise of warm days to come. Paris in April is so lovely, she thought, her eyes scanning the landscape and gentle slopes where the brown covering was lightly dotted with green. She would surely miss Paris in April, and a soft tugging at her heart reminded her that next year she would not be here. She absently kicked a pebble with the toe of her satin slipper, watching it hit the wide trunk of an elm. Leaning against the tree, she thought how kind France had been to her. Her father and Alan were right, France had turned the wild hoyden into a sophisticated, elegant woman, if what the tabloids wrote were true! She felt no different really; she still loved to ride astride in breeches, racing the wind, still held the opinion the ton was a group of hypocritical fools, and wanted nothing more than to exist undisturbed in a married state with Alan. She rested her head against the tree, closing her eyes, imagining for the" hundredth time her homecoming. England! Ah, that was where her soul lay, in the meadows of wildflowers, the wooded slopes and hamlets that dotted the countryside, the sound of the pounding surf breaking against the jagged rocks of the bluff. Yes, her soul ran free there. And her heart, left in England and with Alan.
A soft smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she envisioned a scene she often conjured up when she lay in bed before sleep overcame her. They would be on the bluff, the surf roaring in their ears. Alan with arms outstretched welcoming her. They would kiss and break and he would whisper, "I love you. Will you marry me?"
She opened her eyes, watching the puffy white clouds sweep across the blue sky. Raising her foot, bracing it against the tree, she wondered if Alan would still be waiting for her as he had promised so long ago at the brook. She shook the thought from her head, speaking out loud. "Of course, you silly goose, he as much said so."
The appearance of Marie calling out to her stopped her thoughts.
"Demoiselle, Monsieur Devereau is calling."
Pushing off the tree, Tiffany called out, "Oui, Marie, I am coming."
Smedly Doonesbury, a frail, bespectacled man, braced his hands against the sides of the lurching coach as it rumbled posthaste toward its destination. His briefcase slipped to the carriage floor, spilling its contents about. Smedly silently cursed his employers, his assignment, and the client. When the coach righted itself, he cautiously removed one hand at a time, gaining his balance and proceeded to pick up the scattered papers.
The firm Teaksbury and Jacoby had contacted his employer requesting an investigation. His superiors impressed upon him the need for secrecy. To make matters worse, his assignment had had to be completed in four days and given to their client, Mr. Barencourte.
Being fastidious, Smedly had compiled a thorough report on the subject he'd been assigned to investigate, but he had been unable to review the volumes of information pertaining to the client. What he learned was enough. Clinton Claremont Barencourte was a rogue, a rake, a member of an elite group of men who did pretty much what they wanted with no repercussions from the powerful ton. Mr. Barencourte was a successful, powerful, ruthless businessman whose ventures varied from shipping to own-ing the most powerful banks in England and the Continent.
Smedly gazed out the carriage window, noting it had turned down a tree lined drive whose branches met, forming a canopy over the drive. Yes, he thought, Mr. Barencourte, at thirty-two, was almost as powerful as the prince regent. His personal life was filled with speculation. Rumors of his affaires de coeur flourished. It was common knowledge he enjoyed the pleasure and company of beautiful women. His hunting
She had an urge to walk the grounds of Breatoney, for the air was sweet and the breeze that lifted her hair held the promise of warm days to come. Paris in April is so lovely, she thought, her eyes scanning the landscape and gentle slopes where the brown covering was lightly dotted with green. She would surely miss Paris in April, and a soft tugging at her heart reminded her that next year she would not be here. She absently kicked a pebble with the toe of her satin slipper, watching it hit the wide trunk of an elm. Leaning against the tree, she thought how kind France had been to her. Her father and Alan were right, France had turned the wild hoyden into a sophisticated, elegant woman, if what the tabloids wrote were true! She felt no different really; she still loved to ride astride in breeches, racing the wind, still held the opinion the ton was a group of hypocritical fools, and wanted nothing more than to exist undisturbed in a married state with Alan. She rested her head against the tree, closing her eyes, imagining for the" hundredth time her homecoming. England! Ah, that was where her soul lay, in the meadows of wildflowers, the wooded slopes and hamlets that dotted the countryside, the sound of the pounding surf breaking against the jagged rocks of the bluff. Yes, her soul ran free there. And her heart, left in England and with Alan.
A soft smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she envisioned a scene she often conjured up when she lay in bed before sleep overcame her. They would be on the bluff, the surf roaring in their ears. Alan with arms outstretched welcoming her. They would kiss and break and he would whisper, "I love you. Will you marry me?"
She opened her eyes, watching the puffy white clouds sweep across the blue sky. Raising her foot, bracing it against the tree, she wondered if Alan would still be waiting for her as he had promised so long ago at the brook. She shook the thought from her head, speaking out loud. "Of course, you silly goose, he as much said so."
The appearance of Marie calling out to her stopped her thoughts.
"Demoiselle, Monsieur Devereau is calling."
Pushing off the tree, Tiffany called out, "Oui, Marie, I am coming."
Smedly Doonesbury, a frail, bespectacled man, braced his hands against the sides of the lurching coach as it rumbled posthaste toward its destination. His briefcase slipped to the carriage floor, spilling its contents about. Smedly silently cursed his employers, his assignment, and the client. When the coach righted itself, he cautiously removed one hand at a time, gaining his balance and proceeded to pick up the scattered papers.
The firm Teaksbury and Jacoby had contacted his employer requesting an investigation. His superiors impressed upon him the need for secrecy. To make matters worse, his assignment had had to be completed in four days and given to their client, Mr. Barencourte.
Being fastidious, Smedly had compiled a thorough report on the subject he'd been assigned to investigate, but he had been unable to review the volumes of information pertaining to the client. What he learned was enough. Clinton Claremont Barencourte was a rogue, a rake, a member of an elite group of men who did pretty much what they wanted with no repercussions from the powerful ton. Mr. Barencourte was a successful, powerful, ruthless businessman whose ventures varied from shipping to own-ing the most powerful banks in England and the Continent.
Smedly gazed out the carriage window, noting it had turned down a tree lined drive whose branches met, forming a canopy over the drive. Yes, he thought, Mr. Barencourte, at thirty-two, was almost as powerful as the prince regent. His personal life was filled with speculation. Rumors of his affaires de coeur flourished. It was common knowledge he enjoyed the pleasure and company of beautiful women. His hunting
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