The grin of malicious enjoyment spread across the captain's face as he fingered the hilt of his sword. "But there is more. Citizen. You are also accused of the murder of Madame Lisette Durham."
Unable to move, Suzanne watched in frozen silence. She expected the comte to refute the accusation, but, oddly, he didn't appear to be surprised by the charge of murder. He only stared coldly at the captain. Just as Suzanne was about to take a step closer, however, the comte spoke again, asking who had accused him. Suzanne clearly heard the captain's reply.
"Why none other than the late woman's daughter," the man taunted. "Mademoiselle Suzanne has denounced you as a murderer and a traitor."
It was a moment before Suzanne understood the implication of what he had said. Then she gasped, realizing what her father had done. Sir Charles had used her name because she had tried to defend the comte!
"No," she cried, "it isn't true!" Outraged, she sprang forward, pushing her way through the crowd and startling the soldiers with her sudden appearance. The sneering grin on the captain's face vanished as she thrust herself in front of him. "You cannot arrest Monsieur le Comte," she insisted. "He has done nothing."
The captain glared at her as if he would have liked to make her disappear. "You should not have come, mademoiselle. We already have your signature on the arrest warrant."
"But it is a forgery! I signed no warrant—"
The captain cut her off, not giving her a chance to explain the part her father had played. "It is obvious that you are disturbed, mademoiselle. When you come to your senses, I am sure you will remember making the charges. Corporal, escort this man to his horse."
"No!" she said desperately. "I won't let you take him!" She threw herself at the captain, clinging to his arms while his soldiers looked on in astonishment.
The captain fell back several steps, swearing. When at last he gathered his scattered wits, he seized Suzanne by the arms and flung her to the ground.
She lay there a moment, sobbing, then raised a tear-streaked face to the comte. "I had nothing to do with it," she whispered hoarsely. "Please, you must believe me."
Philippe Serrault only stared down at her, his dark eyes void of expression. "It is of little consequence now, mademoiselle," he said tonelessly. Then his gaze swung to the captain. "Shall we go, monsieur?"
Suzanne wanted to beg, to plead, but she realized her entreaties would be useless. She watched helplessly as the comte was escorted to a waiting horse.
He went without protest. When he was mounted, however ,a child's anguished cry made the comte glance over his shoulder. At the top of the steps, a very young boy was struggling wildly in the arms of a servant.
"Dominic," the comte murmured, giving a last, lingering look at his son. But he spared not a glance for the young woman who lay huddled and grieving on the ground as he was borne away by the soldiers.
Chapter One
England, 1818
Brie Carringdon clenched her teeth as she struggled with the stopper to the medicine bottle. When it wouldn't budge, she pushed a russet curl back from her forehead in exasperation. How, when she was capable of running the finest training stable in the country, had she managed to get herself in such a situation? It was nearly midnight, she was stranded three miles from home at a gentleman's hunting box, a snowstorm was raging outside, and the two elderly patients she had volunteered to care for were being more provoking than even invalids had a right to be.
Brie tackled the bottle again, trying to see the humor in her situation. She most definitely did not belong in a sickroom. She had neither the necessary patience nor the skill. But she would not be defeated by a medicine bottle!
Wrapping a fold of her brown kerseymere gown around the stopper for leverage, Brie tugged and twisted and at last succeeded. When the bottle was open, she wrinkled her nose at the unpleasant fumes. The medicine could have been poison for all she knew, but it had been prescribed by the doctor with orders to be administered regularly.
Carefully, Brie measured out a spoonful of the foul-smelling potion, then sat beside the plump, gray-haired woman on the bed. "Please, Mattie," she urged, managing somehow to keep frustration out of her tone. "You must swallow a little of this."
Mattie Dawson coughed fitfully as she huddled beneath a mound of blankets. "My chest hurts," she complained in a rasping voice.
"I know, my dear, but this medicine is supposed to make you better."
"''Twill kill her, like as not," Mattie's husband muttered as he watched. Brie had arranged a cot for Homer beside the bed so that Mattie could rest more comfortably. He was lying on the cot with the covers pulled up to his chin, grumbling as he had been all evening. "Blamed doctors don't know anything. All charlatans, every last one of 'em."
Brie's blue-green eyes narrowed as she glanced down at Homer. He was the very opposite of his wife—tall, gaunt, and as cantankerous as a rusty hinge. He had always treated Brie with far more familiarity than was proper for a servant toward the daughter of a baronet, but since he had known her for the entire twenty-three years of her life, she was inclined to make allowances, especially now when he was suffering from such a severe head cold.
He looked a little absurd at the moment, Brie thought, with his grizzled hair sticking out from beneath his nightcap and his nose red and swollen. Realizing how miserable he must feel, though, she felt a twinge of sympathy. She herself was rarely ill. And in spite of her current annoyance, Brie was extremely fond of both Homer and Mattie. The couple had been in her parents' service, then hers, for more than twenty years before becoming caretakers at the Lodge. Brie had in fact been the one to recommend them for the prestigious position, and even though they no longer worked at Greenwood, she still felt responsible for their welfare. They were getting on in years and were more frail than either of them would admit.
Wishing she could do more to ease their misery, Brie sighed. Why had she ever agreed to stay with the Dawsons when she knew so little about nursing? Her forte was training thoroughbreds for the hunting field, not soothing fretful patients. If Mattie and Homer had been suffering from colic, she would have known precisely what to do.
The irascible Homer seemed to think she didn't belong there either. "You needn't have come, Miss Brie," he said, sniffling.
"And who would have seen that you stayed in bed?" she asked, biting back a sharper retort as she held the spoon to Mattie's lips. "You wouldn't even have let the doctor in the house, had I not been here. At least Patrick had the sense to realize that and to come to get me."
Homer buried his red nose in a handkerchief and snorted. "Young scamp! Ought to take a rod to him to teach him proper respect for his elders."