Page 41 of The Secret Daughter
He knew she had secrets, that one or two things in her tale didn’t add up, but everyone had secrets. He did himself, but he’d been about to lay himself open to her, tell her everything, even to make her an offer he’d never in his life offered to any woman.
What a fool!
She’d accused him of cheating, of swindling the “poor ignorant peasants”—and he’d actually felt a twinge of guilt—but she was the one who’d turned out to be the cheat, the damned little thief!
He searched the wagon, but nothing else was missing. She hadn’t even left him a note! She probably couldn’t even write. But she could deceive and betray—almost as well as she could paint, he thought savagely.
She’d certainly made a fool of him. She’d probably planned this all along.
He thought of her face after he’d explained the true source of the paintings, the way she’d climbed into the wagon as if deep in shock. Hah! What an actress she was.
He stepped woodenly down from the wagon, baffled, betrayed and furious. But not heartbroken, he told himself. No, certainly not that. She was a deceitful baggage! He’d made a lucky escape—yes, that was it, he was relieved.
Heartbroken? How ridiculous.
Hamish appeared in his usual wraithlike manner, bounded across the clearing and leaned heavily against Reynard’s thigh.
Reynard crouched down to pat him. “She’s gone, did you know?” The dog gazed at him with a mournful expression, then licked his chin.
“Thank you. Yes, I shaved. Not much point, though. It was going to be an occasion.” He huffed a dry, humorless laugh. “I suppose it was an occasion after all, just not the sort I’d planned on.” The dog sighed.
Reynard stood. “Come on, she can’t have gone far. Let’s go after her.”
When had she left? Before dawn? Probably. No doubt itwas when he’d finally gone to sleep after tossing and turning most of the night.
He hurried into the village, the dog trotting at his heels, but there was no sign of her.
The innkeeper’s wife was sweeping the cobbles outside the inn. “Looking for your cousin?” she said. “She’s long gone, monsieur. She left with the miller’s son. I saw them leaving just after dawn.”
“The miller’s son?” He’d never heard a thing about this miller’s son. Who was he and how did Vita know him?
“Yes, he was giving her a lift to Nantes. You have no need to worry, monsieur; he’s a simple lad, but good and reliable. She wanted to catch thediligence. It passes through the town every Thursday around noon.”
So that was it. He’d never catch her. Even if he hired a horse and rodeventre à terreafter her, she’d be almost in Nantes by now, and it was maybe a half hour before noon. She was gone.
Even if he went to Paris to look for her, how would he find her? A maidservant in Paris? Needle in a haystack.
Besides, he had commitments here, paintings to paint and exchange. He didn’t need to waste time wondering about the light-fingered baggage who’d made a fool of him.
She’d gone to Paris. Did she know anyone there, or was her so-called ignorance of Paris another lie? He hoped for her sake she did have somewhere safe to go.
Not that he was worried about her. Not at all.
It was just that the city was a dangerous place for a beautiful young woman. Any young woman. Even a scheming, untrustworthy baggage.
“There you are!” Lucy, Lady Thornton, pulled Zoë into a relieved, slightly tearful embrace. “We were getting so worried about you. Gerald was about to drive down to Château Treffier in search of you.”
Zoë pulled back and stared at Lucy. “But didn’t Marie tell you—”
Lucy snorted. “Marie is a good girl, and a terrible liar. She told us the story you told her to tell us, and gave us your letter, but I could see at once that you were off on one of your starts!”
Zoë tried not to smile. “One of my starts?”
“Oh, don’t give me that butter-wouldn’t-melt look,” Lucy said severely, and hugged her again. “I know you. And if you were so desperate to visit your mother’s birthplace, why on earth didn’t you tell us? Gerald would have taken you there.”
“I did ask you.”
“No, you mentioned itonce.”
