who oversaw the Montayne family estates in France, had proven to be reliable and knowledgeable. His son, Pierre, had even more expertise. By the time Garrett came home, he could list all the fine intricacies of a Cabernet Sauvignon and a Merlot.
Unfortunately, he had turned to his cups lately, drinking more heavily when the headaches came upon him, as much to numb the throbbing in his head as to ease the pain in his heart.
Now, some strange woman had come about and intrigued him with her beauty and her spinning of yarns, and suddenly he felt alive again, wondering what new story she’d invent once they reached London and she didn’t know where the Montayne family home lay.
And then she’d cheated him by vanishing without a trace. Garrett suspected the smith’s wife had known more than she’d let on, but short of beating the woman into a confession, he’d been helpless. Despite his reputation, he had never struck a woman, and so he and Ashby had pressed on to London without their female companion.
Garrett arrived at Lord Fenton’s, the gentleman who’d introduced him to Henri de Picassaret. He dismounted and handed Ebony’s reins to a young lad, who gazed at the steed with admiration.
Garrett ran his fingers through his damp hair and hurried up to the shelter of Fenton’s home. A pretty blond maid answered his knock and led him down a long corridor. Normally, Garrett would enjoy the sway of her hips, but she wasn’t the blond female who weighed on his mind. He was glad he’d left Ashby behind in his shipping offices, for this comely wench would have distracted his friend from the business at hand.
The servant showed him to a cozy room, complete with lit fire. He slipped his cloak off and tossed it aside, taking a seat near the fireplace. He stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. The heat quickly warmed him, slowly moving from his booted feet up his chilled limbs.
A servant entered and Garrett recognized him from his previous dealings with de Picassaret, although he couldn’t recall the retainer’s name.
In stilted English, the stout man said, “Monsieur de Picassaret has been detained, my lord. He will arrive shortly. May I get anything for you?”
Garrett shook his head. “No, thank you.”
The man nodded and left, leaving the door ajar. Garrett heard him pause in the hallway and begin speaking rapidly in French.
Garrett could not follow the entire conversation. The words came quickly, spoken more as the French did in the north. Still, he was able to ascertain that Henri was terribly angry. Something about plans being ruined and responsibility being questioned.
Frustrated at his lack of understanding, Garrett closed his eyes and imagined himself back in Bordeaux, the lazy sunshine of the south permeating his being. Speech there was more melodic and not nearly as rapid. Garrett had picked up much of the language while there. Unfortunately, he had rare opportunities to use it since he despised any time spent at court, so he’d lost his command of it since returning home to England.
Eventually, he heard sharp steps approaching and he sat up quickly. Henri de Picassaret strode in. Garrett was shocked by his appearance.
The man had aged half a score since they’d met the previous year in France. Henri’s skin was even paler than before, and deep wrinkles now lined his face. His ice blue eyes were bloodshot, as though he hadn’t slept for several nights. His iron gray hair had a dull cast to it. Always lean despite his extended belly, he now seemed gaunt. As usual, his thin mouth was set in a tight line.
Garrett rose and offered his hand. Henri shook it perfunctorily. Both men took seats across from one another.
Henri spoke first. “I hear that your wife ran off, Montayne.” His eyes flicked rapidly over Garrett, who sat stunned by the Frenchman’s opening remark.
Garrett stood abruptly, his fists clenched. He fought to keep his anger from erupting at the older
Unfortunately, he had turned to his cups lately, drinking more heavily when the headaches came upon him, as much to numb the throbbing in his head as to ease the pain in his heart.
Now, some strange woman had come about and intrigued him with her beauty and her spinning of yarns, and suddenly he felt alive again, wondering what new story she’d invent once they reached London and she didn’t know where the Montayne family home lay.
And then she’d cheated him by vanishing without a trace. Garrett suspected the smith’s wife had known more than she’d let on, but short of beating the woman into a confession, he’d been helpless. Despite his reputation, he had never struck a woman, and so he and Ashby had pressed on to London without their female companion.
Garrett arrived at Lord Fenton’s, the gentleman who’d introduced him to Henri de Picassaret. He dismounted and handed Ebony’s reins to a young lad, who gazed at the steed with admiration.
Garrett ran his fingers through his damp hair and hurried up to the shelter of Fenton’s home. A pretty blond maid answered his knock and led him down a long corridor. Normally, Garrett would enjoy the sway of her hips, but she wasn’t the blond female who weighed on his mind. He was glad he’d left Ashby behind in his shipping offices, for this comely wench would have distracted his friend from the business at hand.
The servant showed him to a cozy room, complete with lit fire. He slipped his cloak off and tossed it aside, taking a seat near the fireplace. He stretched his legs out in front of him, crossing them at the ankles. The heat quickly warmed him, slowly moving from his booted feet up his chilled limbs.
A servant entered and Garrett recognized him from his previous dealings with de Picassaret, although he couldn’t recall the retainer’s name.
In stilted English, the stout man said, “Monsieur de Picassaret has been detained, my lord. He will arrive shortly. May I get anything for you?”
Garrett shook his head. “No, thank you.”
The man nodded and left, leaving the door ajar. Garrett heard him pause in the hallway and begin speaking rapidly in French.
Garrett could not follow the entire conversation. The words came quickly, spoken more as the French did in the north. Still, he was able to ascertain that Henri was terribly angry. Something about plans being ruined and responsibility being questioned.
Frustrated at his lack of understanding, Garrett closed his eyes and imagined himself back in Bordeaux, the lazy sunshine of the south permeating his being. Speech there was more melodic and not nearly as rapid. Garrett had picked up much of the language while there. Unfortunately, he had rare opportunities to use it since he despised any time spent at court, so he’d lost his command of it since returning home to England.
Eventually, he heard sharp steps approaching and he sat up quickly. Henri de Picassaret strode in. Garrett was shocked by his appearance.
The man had aged half a score since they’d met the previous year in France. Henri’s skin was even paler than before, and deep wrinkles now lined his face. His ice blue eyes were bloodshot, as though he hadn’t slept for several nights. His iron gray hair had a dull cast to it. Always lean despite his extended belly, he now seemed gaunt. As usual, his thin mouth was set in a tight line.
Garrett rose and offered his hand. Henri shook it perfunctorily. Both men took seats across from one another.
Henri spoke first. “I hear that your wife ran off, Montayne.” His eyes flicked rapidly over Garrett, who sat stunned by the Frenchman’s opening remark.
Garrett stood abruptly, his fists clenched. He fought to keep his anger from erupting at the older
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