Page 1 of A Christmas Love Redeemed

Chapter One

Fabien Brassard, the Comte de Mont Clair, paused at the head of the graceful stairs leading down into the ballroom of his sister’s fashionable Mayfair residence.

Delicate lace fans waved in sudden agitation as if a draught of tropical air had descended on the room.

Aware that his entrance had created something of a stir, Fabien touched the diamond cravat pin at his throat and surveyed the crowded room.

‘You’re late, Fabien,’ his sister remarked as he stooped to kiss her proffered cheek. ‘I thought your manners were better than that?’

‘I was unavoidably detained,’ the Comte murmured.

‘Who was she?’ his sister enquired in a tone that indicated she did not expect an answer, but had resigned herself to her brother’s frequent, unavoidable detentions.

Fabien did not reply, merely gave Marie the benefit of his most charming smile and offered her his arm. She guided him towards her husband, skilfully traversing the sea of suitable young women, who simpered in his general direction, fans fluttering like a rabble of butterflies.

As they approached, one of the men gave a snort and said, ‘Who’s that Frenchy with your wife, begod? One minute we’re fighting the damn scoundrels and next they’re taking over our ballrooms and seducing our women.’

Marie’s fingers dug into Fabien’s arm, warning him, reminding him that this was London and he was a Frenchman on English soil.

His sister had married the Earl of Lydbury during the time of peace between the two countries, before Napoleon had taken it upon himself to return to France the previous year.

‘That Frenchy is my brother-in-law,’ Lydbury said, his stiff tone revealing his thoughts on his friend’s outburst. He turned to greet Fabien with an outstretched hand. ‘Mont Clair, old chap!’

‘What brings you to London, Mont Clair?’ one of Lydbury’s companions enquired.

Lydbury answered for him. ‘He’s here at the behest of the French Ambassador. Some trade negotiations or another.’

‘Do you speak English?’ the first man, who had been so insulting, enquired.

Fabien was tempted, for a moment, to pretend he didn’t. Instead, he smiled at the man.

‘I speak it fluently, sir.’

‘Mont Clair was a prisoner of war here for a few years,’ Lydbury said.

‘Oh, so you fought for the bastard Napoleon?’

‘I served in the navy of France,’ Fabien replied. ‘My loyalty is always to my country first.’

The man snorted, and his eyes narrowed. ‘I lost my boy at Copenhagen.’

Fabien inclined his head. ‘I am sorry for your loss, sir. There were too many deaths.’

‘I think,’ Marie said, ‘that this is not an occasion for discussing such things, gentlemen. There are so many beautiful young women and, messieurs, your own good wives, to divert you from any dark thoughts.’

‘Marie, my dear, you’re right as always.’ Lydbury indicated a group of young ladies who were watching the group from over the top of their fans. ‘There’s some fine lookin’ fillies with an eye for you, Mont Clair.’

‘I’m not here to entertain fatuous young girls,’ Fabien hissed in his sister’s ear as she turned him to face the room again.

Marie’s smile did not slip as she murmured, ‘No, indeed, married women are far more your style, are they not, brother?’

Fabien glowered at her, but undeterred, she steered him towards another clutch of debutantes hovering near one of the elegant pillars with their chaperones.

‘Mes cheres,’ Marie beamed, ‘allow me to present my brother, the Comte de Mont Clair.’

She reeled off the young ladies’ names, and Fabien bowed low as the girls curtseyed in a sigh of silk and satin dresses.

As he raised his head, he allowed his gaze to stray with more interest over the formidable mamas and chaperones standing in a group behind the girls.

Marie was correct, a neglected, attractive married woman made a much more interesting target than these fluttering ninnies.

One woman stood apart from the others, almost lost in the shadow of the balcony, but he felt her gaze on his face, searing to his soul.

Her dreary gown set her apart as the chaperone of one of the young women, and he glimpsed apprehension in her stiff shoulders.

Apprehension and yet something familiar.

It couldn’t be…? Surely not? Not after all these years?

‘Fabien?’ Marie’s voice jolted him back to the present.

‘My apologies. Mademoiselle.’ He offered his arm to the nearest girl. ‘May I have the pleasure?’

His partner giggled, and he winced inwardly, ignoring the surreptitious victory glances she cast towards her friends as he led her on to the dance floor.

He made polite conversation, but he kept glancing back at the mysterious woman in the grey gown.

She seemed to have completely retreated into the shadows of the balcony.

‘You are here with friends, mademoiselle?’ he asked.

‘Oh yes,’ the girl, whose name he could not recall, responded.

‘And who is the lady in the grey gown, who hides in the shadows?’

‘Oh, her!’ the girl remarked with a dismissive sniff.

‘That’s Lady Maxwell. She’s Sophie Westhall’s chaperone, at least Sophie’s grandfather pays her to act as chaperone.

Mama says that she is a person of no consequence.

’ She waved at a plain, rather dumpy girl with buck teeth, dancing nearby. ‘That’s Sophie.’

But Fabien had no interest in Sophie Westhall.

Maxwell.

The girl had called the chaperone Lady Maxwell.

Fabien’s breath stopped as the tug of the past pulled him back to the memory of the slight girl struggling in the arms of Sir Simon Maxwell, her chestnut curls in disorder as she pleaded for Fabien’s life.

It was true, the story her mother had told him in her letter… Hannah Linton had become Lady Maxwell.

At the conclusion of the dance, Fabien bowed to his partner and let her return to her mama. He scanned the crowd trying to make out Lady Maxwell among the gathering, but he could see neither her nor her charge.

* * *

‘But, Lady Maxwell,’ Sophie wailed, ‘Lord Easterbrook had asked me for the supper dance.’

‘I have a headache,’ Hannah snapped. ‘I could not have borne another moment in that room.’

‘Your headache is not my concern. You are paid to see that I am properly chaperoned. It was humiliating having to leave before supper.’

‘And if I had thrown up, would that not have caused you more embarrassment?’

Hannah leaned back against the coach seat and closed her eyes. She had not lied. The throbbing in her head felt like the pounding of a blacksmith’s hammer.

Sophie snivelled. Hannah opened one eye and regarded her charge with irritation.

As unprepossessing as the Honourable Sophie might appear, she would have no difficulty snaring a husband.

A comfortable twenty thousand pounds a year would ensure her future with Lord Easterbrook—or someone like him. It didn’t really matter.

Sophie had never known poverty, had never had her home taken from her.

Nor would circumstances ever force the Honourable Sophie into a marriage that would be so hateful that she would spend every day in contemplation of taking her life.

But then it was doubtful that Sophie would ever know what it was to be truly in love. Maybe that was for the best.

Hannah allowed herself a bitter smile. The memory of that love, fleeting and intense as it had been, had both sustained and tormented her for the five long years of her marriage to Sir Simon Maxwell. Every day had been a torment until the happy day he broke his neck in a hunting accident.

He had left her as penniless as she had been on the day he married her. She had been forced to sell what assets he had not mortgaged and once again found herself in the invidious position of facing a life of genteel poverty.

It left her with little choice but to take on the role of chaperone to girls such as Sophie Westhall, who lacked a female relative to see to their first season.

If she failed to see her charge married or at least betrothed by the end of the season, it would be unlikely that any more commissions of this nature would come her way.

Sophie flounced up the stairs to her bedchamber and flung herself full length on her bed. ‘When I marry Lord Easterbrook,’ she announced, ‘I will hold balls every night.’

Hannah, engaged in removing her gloves, looked down at her charge. ‘I think any man you marry had better have deep pockets,’ she remarked.

‘Oh, I've plenty of money,’ Sophie said, ‘and I will marry a rich husband and have diamonds and pearls. Not like you!’ The girl sat up and seized Hannah’s right hand. ‘How pitiful that the only jewellery you wear is that pathetic little ring. Is that the best Sir Simon could afford?’

Hannah snatched her hand away, the threat of tears stinging her eyes. Not trusting herself to speak, she turned and left the room, closing the door behind her.

In her bedchamber, she sat down at the dressing table and stared sightlessly at her reflection in the mirror, while she turned the little ring on her finger, half daring to hope, half hoping she might be wrong.

The door latch clicked, but she didn’t turn her head as her maid, Bet, said, ‘I didn’t expect you back so early?’

‘I have a headache and it was so unbearably hot in that ballroom.’

‘I suppose her nibs wasn’t too pleased to be dragged away. I heard her screaming at poor Ellis.’

‘No, she wasn’t.’

Bet unpinned Hannah’s hair. The relief from the dragging weight of her hair and the sharp pins helped to clear her head.

In a small, tight voice, she uttered the words she had been holding to her heart.

‘I saw him tonight, Bet. He was at the ball.’

‘Who?’ Bet enquired, her voice muffled by a mouthful hairpins.

‘Fabien.’

Hairpins fell to the floor with a succession of soft pings, and Bet laid her hand on her mistress’s shoulder.

‘No, m’lady, you must’ve been mistook!’

‘No mistake, Bet. Older, of course, but still Fabien.’ Hannah shook her head. ‘He didn’t even recognise me.’

She heard the hurt and bitterness in her voice, remembering that awful moment when Fabien Brassard had entered the ballroom. Despite the immaculate and expensive clothes, he had still been recognisable as the half-drowned sailor she had rescued so many years ago—a lifetime ago.

He had stood on the steps, his gaze sweeping the room, passing by her with no recognition in the depths of his green eyes. Green like the sea he had come from.

Hannah straightened her shoulders and picked up her hair brush, attacking her hair with a ferocity born of her pent-up emotion.

‘There is no reason why he would recognise me after all these years and after all he is a Count and I’m …’

Bet wrested the brush from her hand.

‘You’re still the same person you was nine years ago, Miss Hannah.’

Hannah lowered her head, her hair falling like a curtain around her face. ‘No, I’m not, Bet.’

Sir Simon Maxwell had beaten that person out of her a long time ago.

She lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, her fingers twisting the little garnet ring she wore on her right hand. Was it possible that a shred of the old Hannah Linton still remained? Would the grand Comte de Mont Clair still recognise the girl who nearly gave her life to save him?

Pointless to dream… to hope.

She was Lady Hannah Maxwell, and she knew what they called her in whispered conversations… a person of no consequence.