Free So in Love by Karen Ranney Page A

son was none of his concern. Nor should he have resented the child for her casual affection toward him.
    Had he lost his mind? Evidently so.
    One way she hadn’t changed—she was still one of those women who effortlessly attracts attention. Something about her, her stance, her poise, the look in her eyes, some indefinable essence of Jeanne made him want to study her. Her clothing wasn’t outlandish; her behavior wasn’t overt or brazen. If anything, she looked as if she had tried to minimize herself in her sober green dress and modest touches of lace. The bun at the nape of her neck was a hairstyle an older matron might wear.
    Yet she still had an odd effect on him, something he would have to guard against.
    Why, however, had he offered her a position caring for the very child she’d abandoned? Had he lost all sense he possessed? He didn’t want her in his home. He didn’t want her in his life at all.
    Why, then, this insidious curiosity? Why did he want to know what had happened to her in the ten years since they’d parted?
    Halting in the middle of the road, he stared down at his feet, not seeing the cobbles but instead Jeanne du Marchand as she’d appeared only a few moments ago. She was only a pale shadow of the girl she’d been. He didn’t see the wagon barreling down on him until the driver shouted, and only then moved swiftly to the other side of the street.
    He made his way to his carriage, suspecting that the enigma of Jeanne du Marchand wasn’t going to be an easy puzzle to solve. He’d thought himself done with the past. But at the sight of her he was the boy he’d been, innocent, hopeful, viewing the world in a way he never had since.
    There was nothing about that time he’d resurrect. The innocence and the hope had been transformed to a disillusionment so deep that it had colored the rest of his life. He should forget she was in Edinburgh, forget he’d ever seenher, forget about ten years ago, and expunge all those memories he evidently still carried with him.
    Entering his carriage almost angrily, he tapped on the roof so loud that there was no doubt of his mood.
    “To Leith,” he told Stephens, determined to purge Jeanne du Marchand from his mind.
     
    The air smelled of soot, nothing like the air of Paris, or the sweet perfume of the Loire valley. Nicholas, Comte du Marchand, scowled at a man who smiled at him and nodded to a woman who decorously turned her head. There were so few individuals with manners left in the world.
    Edinburgh did not impress him much. The greatest cities were those in France and the greatest city of all, of course, was Paris.
    Since the rabble had overtaken the city, it had lost its magical charm. But he had hopes that there would come a time when reason would return once more to France, and with it the aristocracy.
    Hereditary titles had been abolished and the fools in the government had actually declared war on the Austrian portion of the Holy Roman Empire. In addition, they’d arrested the King and his family last year, a hint of the increased radicalism of the government.
    The journey to Edinburgh had taken him nearly a month. Nicholas found himself annoyed by the discomforts, and more determined than ever to find his daughter and recoup a small portion of his wealth. He’d learned from Justine that Jeanne was determined to leave France. From the trail he followed, it was evident that she had, indeed, done so. Survival was a du Marchand trait, it seemed.
    Once in Edinburgh, however, his quest grew more difficult. Jeanne wasn’t with her aunt. Evidently, his sister-in-law had died a year earlier, leaving him the further irritating task of having to search for Jeanne. A modiste, a fellow émigré, had told him that Jeanne had gotten employment. Another person shared the information that he’d given Jeanne a brush that had belonged to his dead wife. Still another told him that she’d given Jeanne a selection of her dresses in payment for caring for her sick