Fairchild's Lady (Culper Ring Series) by Roseanna M. White Page A
Authors: Roseanna M. White
Ads: Link
her.
One
7 July 1789
R evolution . Oh, how Isaac Fairchild hated that word. He reigned in his mount and drew in a long breath, his gaze taking in the palace before him that he had hoped never to see again. Versailles stretched long and dazzling in the sunshine, its gardens as resplendent as ever, its edifices as grand.
Its grandiosity but an ill-fitting mask over a country on the brink of uprising. Because it was too stark a contrast to the peasants starving mere miles away.
Blood would be shed in France—soon, if that sizzle of warning through his veins were any indication. And for the life of him, he couldn’t remember why he’d agreed to put himself in its path. He’d had enough of revolution, enough of intrigue to last him a lifetime. He had been hard pressed to accept the task of gathering information for England three months ago. Why in the world had he volunteered to come back after making his escape?
A horse cantered up the road in his direction. Fully prepared to give way and paste the expected lack of emotion onto his face, he instead smiled when he recognized the haughty posture of the rider and the ridiculous plume on the hat. “Jean-Paul!”
His old friend grinned as he circled his horse around to face Versailles. “ Bonjour , monsieur. And how is our charming comte d’Ushant today?”
Fairchild’s smile went uneven. After knowing all his life he would never inherit his father’s earldom, being called by the French equivalent never ceased to feel strange. But Jean-Paul could hardly greet him by name, and the real comte d’Ushant was in no position to mind that Fairchild was borrowing his identity once more. “ Bon. Et vous? ”
Jean-Paul shrugged and flipped the feather back over his hat from where it had fluttered before his face. “I did not expect you back so soon, mon ami . When I received your message…”
“ Oui , I know. I did not expect it either, but this business is of a personal nature.” Unbidden, the face of the Earl of Poole flashed through Fairchild’s mind. Those sorrowful eyes, pleading with him to save his wife and daughter, so long lost to France. To bring them back to England before revolution swallowed them.
Fairchild had tried arguing that an absence of twenty-five years surely had deeper roots than he could hope to overcome in one short visit, but the earl had begged him, had called on Fairchild’s connections to his two sons—the elder, with whom he had attended school, and the younger, who had sent him here those months ago.
’Twas pity that had moved him, though, to try to find the missing Countess of Poole and Lady Julienne Gates. Pity for the father’s fathomless eyes.
“Personal, eh?” Jean-Paul smirked.
“Hmm.” Fairchild shifted in his saddle and tried to keep his mind from conjuring up another set of fathomless eyes. Tried but failed. Just as he had for the last three months. Every time he blinked, it seemed, he saw those ice-blue irises, so striking behind their mask that he had scarcely noticed anything else about the young woman at the masquerade. At first.
Then would come the memories of her smile. Her laugh. The dance they had shared, the stolen promenade through one of the gardens at Versailles. The uncounted hours they had spent talking in that night of moonlight that had since seemed removed from this reality, of a world unto itself.
He didn’t even know her name. He had asked, but she had laughed and declared the mystery to be the whole point of a masquerade.
His fingers contracted around the reins and then relaxed again at his command. He knew enough of the court of King Louis XVI to understand that more often than not, that “mystery” was to allow for infidelity and trysts. And more than once he had wondered if the young lady who filled his mind so fully was someone else’s wife.
Father above, please, let it not be so. And if it is, please remove her from my thoughts, from my heart .
He shook himself and focused on
One
7 July 1789
R evolution . Oh, how Isaac Fairchild hated that word. He reigned in his mount and drew in a long breath, his gaze taking in the palace before him that he had hoped never to see again. Versailles stretched long and dazzling in the sunshine, its gardens as resplendent as ever, its edifices as grand.
Its grandiosity but an ill-fitting mask over a country on the brink of uprising. Because it was too stark a contrast to the peasants starving mere miles away.
Blood would be shed in France—soon, if that sizzle of warning through his veins were any indication. And for the life of him, he couldn’t remember why he’d agreed to put himself in its path. He’d had enough of revolution, enough of intrigue to last him a lifetime. He had been hard pressed to accept the task of gathering information for England three months ago. Why in the world had he volunteered to come back after making his escape?
A horse cantered up the road in his direction. Fully prepared to give way and paste the expected lack of emotion onto his face, he instead smiled when he recognized the haughty posture of the rider and the ridiculous plume on the hat. “Jean-Paul!”
His old friend grinned as he circled his horse around to face Versailles. “ Bonjour , monsieur. And how is our charming comte d’Ushant today?”
Fairchild’s smile went uneven. After knowing all his life he would never inherit his father’s earldom, being called by the French equivalent never ceased to feel strange. But Jean-Paul could hardly greet him by name, and the real comte d’Ushant was in no position to mind that Fairchild was borrowing his identity once more. “ Bon. Et vous? ”
Jean-Paul shrugged and flipped the feather back over his hat from where it had fluttered before his face. “I did not expect you back so soon, mon ami . When I received your message…”
“ Oui , I know. I did not expect it either, but this business is of a personal nature.” Unbidden, the face of the Earl of Poole flashed through Fairchild’s mind. Those sorrowful eyes, pleading with him to save his wife and daughter, so long lost to France. To bring them back to England before revolution swallowed them.
Fairchild had tried arguing that an absence of twenty-five years surely had deeper roots than he could hope to overcome in one short visit, but the earl had begged him, had called on Fairchild’s connections to his two sons—the elder, with whom he had attended school, and the younger, who had sent him here those months ago.
’Twas pity that had moved him, though, to try to find the missing Countess of Poole and Lady Julienne Gates. Pity for the father’s fathomless eyes.
“Personal, eh?” Jean-Paul smirked.
“Hmm.” Fairchild shifted in his saddle and tried to keep his mind from conjuring up another set of fathomless eyes. Tried but failed. Just as he had for the last three months. Every time he blinked, it seemed, he saw those ice-blue irises, so striking behind their mask that he had scarcely noticed anything else about the young woman at the masquerade. At first.
Then would come the memories of her smile. Her laugh. The dance they had shared, the stolen promenade through one of the gardens at Versailles. The uncounted hours they had spent talking in that night of moonlight that had since seemed removed from this reality, of a world unto itself.
He didn’t even know her name. He had asked, but she had laughed and declared the mystery to be the whole point of a masquerade.
His fingers contracted around the reins and then relaxed again at his command. He knew enough of the court of King Louis XVI to understand that more often than not, that “mystery” was to allow for infidelity and trysts. And more than once he had wondered if the young lady who filled his mind so fully was someone else’s wife.
Father above, please, let it not be so. And if it is, please remove her from my thoughts, from my heart .
He shook himself and focused on
Similar Books
