consideration.
“If I were to say that was
the case, which I am not , but just suppose, what do you think could be
done?”
Blackwell answered after a
long pause. “Much depends upon the legal relationship between Meraux and the
children. If he has adopted Miss Durant, it is unlikely that she can be removed
from his care.” He let out a short huff of exasperation. Truth was, without
knowing the actual situation, he had no idea what could be done. “Miss
McKenzie, I mean the girl no harm. This is a complicated affair, and I am not
free to disclose the entire story, but she has friends in England, powerful
friends, whose only desire is to see that she is well and happy.” He leaned
forward; his face set in what felt a hard, stern expression. “I do not believe
she is either of these things.”
She blinked several times
and drew back a little, seeming startled at his intensity and was silent for so
long he began to think he had frightened her speechless. Not smart,
Westcott. You need her on your side. Why he felt it of importance, he
couldn’t say . He shifted in his chair to widen the space between them
and was pleased to see her somewhat suspicious expression change to a look of
consideration, as if she found him an exotic puzzle beyond her understanding.
She leaned her head to one
side, and with a slight frown, countered smoothly. “In other words, you have no
solution.”
“No.” Blackwell allowed the
stark reply to hang almost visibly in the quiet room. He was aware of the faint
sound of someone moving around outside the open door—Mrs. Fenton, he supposed,
guarding her chick—and the click-clack and rumble of a passing carriage, but
every sense was fixed on this slip of a woman.
Her smile was slow and sweet
and he felt a knot he hadn’t been aware of, loosen in his chest.
“You are honest, I must say.
To your credit, of course.” Amusement lit her eyes, and a corner of her mouth
slanted up. “Suppose we agree to an exchange of information. I will tell you
what I know of the children and you will tell me who you are and something of
your background and involvement with Danielle.”
As if anticipating his
refusal, she held up her hand, palm out. “You will have to trust me.”
Blackwell swallowed his
protest. He preferred to remain as anonymous as possible, but her point was
valid. Trust was needed on both sides. “Well enough.” Half expecting her to
comment on his curt agreement and irritated by the guilty feeling it engendered,
he rose. “If we could continue this conversation outside? I find it rather
close in here.”
Miss McKenzie studied him
for a moment, and not seeming to be put off by his frown, stood and led the way
outside, with no more than a light, “There may be a breeze.”
Mild as it was, her
inflection made it sound as if she was highly doubtful and he bit back a smile.
The lady had an appealing way about her.
The rain had stopped.
Blackwell walked toward the rustic wood chairs standing beneath a tree and
touched one of the seats. It felt reasonably dry, but he looked a question at
his hostess. His buckskins would take no harm, but she may not want to dampen
her skirts.
“If I allowed the wet to
affect me, my life here would be rather limited.” She sat, looked past him to smile
at Mrs. Fenton, who had settled on the bench outside the door, and sighed. “I
am to start, I suppose. Do you know anything about these children, Mr.
Blackwell?” she asked with some asperity.
“Very little,” he allowed.
Too restless to sit, he leaned his hands against the back of the vacant chair.
“Miss Durant is thirteen years old. She has lost her parents, and she is
French.”
A moment to absorb this and
a shake of her head before she answered. “They are remarkably reserved, but
what I have gleaned is that Meraux is no real relation to them at all. Their
father died several years ago and their mother remarried within a year, thus
putting Meraux into the role of stepfather. Then the
“If I were to say that was
the case, which I am not , but just suppose, what do you think could be
done?”
Blackwell answered after a
long pause. “Much depends upon the legal relationship between Meraux and the
children. If he has adopted Miss Durant, it is unlikely that she can be removed
from his care.” He let out a short huff of exasperation. Truth was, without
knowing the actual situation, he had no idea what could be done. “Miss
McKenzie, I mean the girl no harm. This is a complicated affair, and I am not
free to disclose the entire story, but she has friends in England, powerful
friends, whose only desire is to see that she is well and happy.” He leaned
forward; his face set in what felt a hard, stern expression. “I do not believe
she is either of these things.”
She blinked several times
and drew back a little, seeming startled at his intensity and was silent for so
long he began to think he had frightened her speechless. Not smart,
Westcott. You need her on your side. Why he felt it of importance, he
couldn’t say . He shifted in his chair to widen the space between them
and was pleased to see her somewhat suspicious expression change to a look of
consideration, as if she found him an exotic puzzle beyond her understanding.
She leaned her head to one
side, and with a slight frown, countered smoothly. “In other words, you have no
solution.”
“No.” Blackwell allowed the
stark reply to hang almost visibly in the quiet room. He was aware of the faint
sound of someone moving around outside the open door—Mrs. Fenton, he supposed,
guarding her chick—and the click-clack and rumble of a passing carriage, but
every sense was fixed on this slip of a woman.
Her smile was slow and sweet
and he felt a knot he hadn’t been aware of, loosen in his chest.
“You are honest, I must say.
To your credit, of course.” Amusement lit her eyes, and a corner of her mouth
slanted up. “Suppose we agree to an exchange of information. I will tell you
what I know of the children and you will tell me who you are and something of
your background and involvement with Danielle.”
As if anticipating his
refusal, she held up her hand, palm out. “You will have to trust me.”
Blackwell swallowed his
protest. He preferred to remain as anonymous as possible, but her point was
valid. Trust was needed on both sides. “Well enough.” Half expecting her to
comment on his curt agreement and irritated by the guilty feeling it engendered,
he rose. “If we could continue this conversation outside? I find it rather
close in here.”
Miss McKenzie studied him
for a moment, and not seeming to be put off by his frown, stood and led the way
outside, with no more than a light, “There may be a breeze.”
Mild as it was, her
inflection made it sound as if she was highly doubtful and he bit back a smile.
The lady had an appealing way about her.
The rain had stopped.
Blackwell walked toward the rustic wood chairs standing beneath a tree and
touched one of the seats. It felt reasonably dry, but he looked a question at
his hostess. His buckskins would take no harm, but she may not want to dampen
her skirts.
“If I allowed the wet to
affect me, my life here would be rather limited.” She sat, looked past him to smile
at Mrs. Fenton, who had settled on the bench outside the door, and sighed. “I
am to start, I suppose. Do you know anything about these children, Mr.
Blackwell?” she asked with some asperity.
“Very little,” he allowed.
Too restless to sit, he leaned his hands against the back of the vacant chair.
“Miss Durant is thirteen years old. She has lost her parents, and she is
French.”
A moment to absorb this and
a shake of her head before she answered. “They are remarkably reserved, but
what I have gleaned is that Meraux is no real relation to them at all. Their
father died several years ago and their mother remarried within a year, thus
putting Meraux into the role of stepfather. Then the
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