The French Count's Pregnant Bride. Catherine Spencer
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was the least she could do, if she was to live with herself, and heaven knew, she could afford it. Within reason, she could afford just about anything money could buy. In his eagerness to be rid of her and married to his mistress before the birth of their child, Harvey had been generous. Added to what she’d inherited from her parents, it added up to a very tidy sum. But would it be enough?
Probably not, she thought. When all was said and done, money never could buy the things that really mattered.
The car wheezed around another bend in the road. In the distance, she saw tidy rows of grapevines climbing a steep hillside. In the valley below, a subdued purple touched the earth. Lavender fields just bursting into bloom.
Another sign post, painted blue with white lettering. Bellevue-sur-Lac 11 kms.
Hand suddenly clammy with sweat, Diana eased the car over to the side of the road and rolled down the window. Wild-flowers grew in the ditch, filling the air with their scent.
“Let me come with you,” Carol had begged. “At least you’ll have me in your corner if things don’t go well.”
Why hadn’t she taken her up on the offer?
Because this was something she had to do by herself, that’s why.
Reaching into her travel bag, she pulled out the single sheet of stationery she’d hoarded for so long. Spreading it over her lap, she smoothed out the creases, searching as she had so often in the past for any clues she might have missed that would help her now. The ink was faded, the script elegant and distinctly European.
Aix-en-Provence
December 10
Dear Professor Christie,
I write to inform you that Mlle. Molyneux has returned to her native village of Bellevue-sur-Lac. From all accounts, she appears to have put behind her the unhappy events of this past year, the nature of which she has kept a closely guarded secret from all who know her. I hope this will ease any concern you have that she might change her mind about placing her baby with you and your wife, or in any other way jeopardize the adoption.
I trust you are well settled in your home in the United States again. Once more, I thank you for the contributions you made to our university program during your exchange year with us.
With very best wishes to you, your wife and your new daughter for a most happy Christmas,
Alexandre Castongués, Dean
Faculty of Law
University Aix-Marseille
Did Mlle. Molyneux ever regret giving up her baby? Wonder if her little girl was happy, healthy? Or was she so relieved to be rid of her that she never wanted to be reminded of her, ever again?
There was only one way to find out.
Refolding the letter and stuffing it back in the side pocket of her travel bag, Diana coaxed the car to sputtering life again, shifted into gear and resumed her journey. Seven minutes later, the silhouette of a château perched on a cliff loomed dark against the evening sky. Immediately ahead, clustered along the shores of a long, narrow lake, buildings emerged from the dusk of early evening, their reflected pinpricks of light glowing yellow in the calm surface of the water.
Passing under an ancient stone arch, she drove into the center of the little village.
Bellevue-sur-Lac, the end of her journey.
Or, if she was lucky, perhaps just the beginning?
CHAPTER TWO
CROSSING the square en route to his car, which he’d left in the inn’s rear courtyard as usual when he’d spent the day with the supervisor of his lavender operation, Anton noticed the woman immediately. Strangers who lingered in Bellevue-sur-Lac after sunset were a rarity, even during the summer months when travelers flocked to Provence. Usually they came for the day only, arriving early by the busload to tour the château, winery, lavender distillery and olive mills.
By now—it was almost half-past five o’clock—they were gone, not only because accommodation in the village was limited to what L’Auberge d’Olivier had to offer, but because they preferred the livelier nightlife in Nice or Marseille or Monaco.
This woman, though, sat at a table under the shade of the plane trees, sipping a glass of wine, and what captured his attention was not so much her delicate features and exquisite clothing, but her watchfulness. Her gaze scanned the passing scene repeatedly, taking note of every person who crossed her line of vision. At this moment, it was focused on him.
“Who’s the visitor, Henri?” he asked, leaning casually against the outdoor bar where the innkeeper was busy polishing glasses in preparation for the locals, who’d gather later to drink cassis and play dominoes.
Henri paused in his task long enough to shoot an appreciative glance her way. “An American. She arrived last night.”
“She’d reserved a room here?”
“No, she just showed up unannounced and asked if I could accommodate her. She’s lucky the man you were expecting canceled at the last minute, or I’d have had to turn her away. Too bad he broke his leg, eh?”
“For him, and me both. I’m going to have to find someone to replace him pretty quickly.” Again, Anton looked at the woman, observing her from the corner of his eye. Not just watchful, he decided, but nervous, too. Drumming her fingers lightly on the tabletop as if she were playing the piano. Keeping time by tapping her foot on the dusty paving stones. “What do you know about her, Henri?”
The innkeeper shrugged. “Not much. She speaks very good French, the high society kind. And she’s in no hurry to leave here. She’s taken the room for a month.”
“A month?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Did she happen to mention why?”
“She did not.”
When Marie-Louise died, reporters had descended on the area within hours, posing as innocent tourists to disguise the fact they were sniffing out scandal, real or imagined, with which to titillate their readers. In less than a week, Anton had been front-page news throughout France and most of Europe. COMTE’S WIFE’S MYSTERIOUS DEATH, the tabloid headlines screamed. MURDER OR SUICIDE? POLICE QUESTION HUSBAND.
Although public appetite for sensationalism eventually found other victims on which to feed, having his private life exposed to malicious speculation had been a nightmare while it lasted, not just for him and his immediate family, but for everyone in Bellevue-sur-Lac. Since then, he’d been mistrustful of strangers who chose to linger in such a backwater village, content to live in a small inn where they’d be sharing a common bathroom with other guests. And with the third anniversary of his wife’s death coming up, he was especially wary. Like those which had gone before, it promised a burst of renewed interest in the whole tragic mess.
“One has to wonder how she plans to occupy her time,” he remarked.
“Perhaps she’s an artist.”
She, and a hundred thousand others—would-be Cézannes, Van Goghs, Picassos, sure if they breathed the golden light of Provence, genius would ooze from their pores. They came looking suitably tormented by their muse, right down to their disheveled appearance and the paint under their fingernails.
Not this woman, though. She wouldn’t allow a speck of dust to settle on her shoe.
Anton did not, as a rule, patronize the inn. Tonight, though, he was inclined to make an exception. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what it was, but something about the woman—the set of her slender shoulders, perhaps, or the tilt of her head—seemed vaguely familiar. That alone was enough to increase his suspicions. Had he seen her before? Was she one of the rabid reporters, come back for another helping of empty speculation?
“Pour two glasses of whatever the lady is drinking, Henri,”