He smiled and pointed at another figure who appeared in each photo. “And who’s that?”
“Oh, that’s Walnut. He’s a whippet. It’s sort of a requirement—having a whippet at Langford Hall. They’re passed on from generation to generation. Like the Langford signet ring.” I stopped suddenly, remembering.
“A signet ring?” Drew prompted.
I nodded. “Yes, it was gold with two swans engraved on it. Sadly, Robin won’t get a chance to wear it. Kit came home from the war without it. He never mentioned it, so I assumed the Germans took it when he was interred in the prison camp.”
“That’s a shame.” Drew took a moment to examine the pictures. “They’re great kids. You must be very proud.”
I looked into his hazel eyes, and immediately wished that I hadn’t. This man was far more attractive than he should have been. And his words were sincere, which made him even more appealing. “Yes,” I said, “I am. They’re fantastic—all three of them.”
The world seemed to tip suddenly, ungraciously sliding me out of my chair. With wobbly limbs that refused to listen, I was unable to stop myself from falling and I was quite resigned to collapsing on the floor and perhaps sleeping there when two strong arms grasped me around my waist. “Why don’t I take you to your room, Babs? We can talk more tomorrow.”
I tried to tell him that I didn’t have anything more to say on the subject and there was no need to talk tomorrow. But mostly I wanted to let him know that I was quite all right and that I could find my own way to my room but by the time I’d figured out what I should say, I was pressed against his side and being led toward the lifts. And then Precious was there, stuffing the photographs and the folder into my bag and handing my room key to Drew. I tried to focus on her face long enough to thank her, but only succeeded in shutting my eyes completely. Drew managed to get us both inside the lift and before the doors closed I was quite sure I saw Precious wink.
Drew struggled a bit at the door to my room. He uttered a short oath under his breath before the door finally swung open. I found myself being lifted over his shoulder then carried across the room before being ungraciously dumped on top of my bed.
“Sorry, Babs. I guess I’m more used to footballs than women.”
I heard the sound of zippers and then felt my boots being tugged off my feet. As I stared up at the spinning ceiling medallion—had it been doing that before?—I had the fleeting thought that he might be planning to ravish me. The thought didn’t alarm me as much as it should have. Although he didn’t seem the ravishing type. A man like that usually didn’t have to.
“Babs, are you all right?”
He leaned over me and he looked so sweet and concerned that I had no choice but to reach up. I’d meant to just touch his cheek, but when my arms refused my instruction, I somehow managed to lace my fingers around his neck to keep them raised. “Are you going to ravish me?”
He looked startled. “Ravish?”
“You know—have your way with me?” I closed my eyes tightly, trying to remember what my brothers used to talk about when they didn’t know I was listening. My eyes flew open in triumph. “Do a little rumpy-pumpy?”
His face turned an interesting shade of red. Very delicately he pulled my fingers off his neck, holding my hands together in his large, warm ones. “It’s not that I don’t find you attractive, Babs—far from it. But you’re a bit drunk, and I’m not in the habit of taking advantage.”
He placed my hands against my sides, then pulled up the bedclothes, tucking them in gently around me. Then he pulled the phone on the side table closer to me, scribbled something on the Ritz notepad, and put a small rubbish can on the floor next to the bed. “Just in case,” he said. “Call me if you need anything. I wrote down my room number.”
I listened as his footsteps crossed the room to the door, pausing as he shut off the light. “Good night, Babs. See you tomorrow.”
I struggled to lift my head from the pillow. “Do you really find me attractive?”
But the door had already shut, the sound of his retreating footsteps my last conscious memory.
Chapter Eight
Aurélie
The Château de Courcelles
Picardy, France
September 1914
“You do remember, then,” said the German officer in front of Aurélie.
“Herr von Sternburg.” She had been half hoping he would deny it. That he would be an evil twin or a strangely similar cousin.
“Mademoiselle de Courcelles.” Herr von Sternburg started to hold out a hand to her, but at the expression on her face, he let it fall. “Those were happier times, I think.”
“I take it this isn’t a social call, then.” She was proud of how cool she sounded, cool beneath her rising anger, anger that this man, this man who had eaten her mother’s cakes, had pretended to be civilized, to be almost French, could be here now, in her home, in the uniform of the conqueror.
“No.”
“You know this man?” her father asked.
No, she wanted to say. This wasn’t the man she knew, the one she remembered, with the daisies in his buttonhole and a book in his hand. War had made a mockery of the man she remembered. The only thing unchanged was his nose, a very imperial eagle of a nose, the most assertive thing about him.
Stiffly, Aurélie said, “Father, may I present to you Herr von Sternburg. Late of Paris.”
“It’s Lieutenant von Sternburg now,” he said apologetically, as if his uniform didn’t say it loud enough, his uniform and the soldiers at his back, bumping and jostling one another as they ogled the keep and speculated on their prospects for plunder. “I beg pardon for the manner of our meeting, Monsieur le Comte. I have long desired to have the honor of your acquaintance—although I should have wished that it might occur under other circumstances than these.”
“These are circumstances of your making,” said Aurélie hotly. “If you don’t like them, change them. Take those soldiers back again and go infest someone else’s castle.”
He ducked his head. “Believe me when I say I wish I had that power. It is my regrettable duty to inform you . . . no, to request of you . . . that is, I have come on behalf of . . .”
“Lieutenant!”
Lieutenant von Sternburg froze to attention. The guards fell away as another man approached. He was no more than medium height, but he made up for it with the volume of his voice, the swagger of his step.
“Sir,” said Von Sternburg. All the light had gone from his eyes. He was like a statue, a very Prussian statue, all nose and chin.
The commanding officer’s eyes slid slyly over Aurélie and her father, taking in her father’s Scottish tweeds, her stained old dress and priceless pearl earrings. In clumsy but serviceable French, he demanded, “What are you doing standing here jabbering with an old man and a girl?” The word he used wasn’t quite girl. It was a term more familiar on the docks than in the drawing room. “I want my bags brought up to the largest room. If there is a presentable room in this ruin.”
“The wench,” said Aurélie’s father, his voice like a lash, “is the Demoiselle of Courcelles. And the old man is the owner of this ruin. Which has stood since the fourteenth century. Unconquered.”