Page 33 of A Duke to Restore her Memory

“Delphine, dearest, they are coming.” Benedict Loxley’s voice cut through the darkness of their chateau bedchamber. “We must leave. Now.”

Delphine de Beaumont Loxley clutched their infant daughter close to her breast, her heart thundering against her ribs like a revolutionary’s drum. “Benedict… the letters—”

“Are destroyed.” He pressed a swift kiss to her temple, his familiar scent of sandalwood and ink washing over her. “Everything that could identify our… arrangements… is gone.”

Outside, the February wind howled through the Loire Valley like a banshee’s wail, rattling the windowpanes of Chateau de Beaumont. The ancestral home of Delphine’s family had stood for three centuries, but tonight, it would witness its last de Beaumont departure.

“Madame,” Agathe, the nursemaid, appeared in the doorway, her face pale as fresh linen in the candlelight. “The trap is ready, and Pierre has the carriage waiting at the crossroads with the… special cargo.”

Benedict helped Delphine to her feet, his diplomatic composure cracking only when baby Angélique whimpered in her mother’s arms. “Hush, ma petite,” Delphine whispered, adjusting the infant’s wool blanket against the bitter cold.

The chateau’s familiar corridors felt alien in the darkness, as their footsteps echoed off the very same stone walls that had witnessed generations of French aristocratic splendor, now reduced to shadows and whispers in the dead of night.

Portraits of Delphine’s ancestors seemed to watch their descent with painted eyes that held centuries of judgement.

“Your father would be proud,” Benedict murmured, helping her navigate the servant’s stairs. “You are showing the same courage he did when he helped the British during the Seven Years’ War.”

Delphine’s throat tightened. “Papa believed in loyalty above all else. Even to former enemies.”

“As do I,” Benedict replied, his English accent contrasting with his wife’s French accent, even more so under the stress of their situation. “And my loyalty is to you, and our little Angélique now.”

They emerged into the kitchen, where Margot, Delphine’s lady’s maid since childhood, waited with a bundle of provisions. The faithful servant’s eyes were red-brimmed but determined. “The back path is clear, Madame. I have checked twice.”

“Margot,” Delphine reached for her maid’s hand. “The trunks—”

“Are safely with Pierre in the carriage, Madame. All has been done exactly as Monsieur specified.”

“God speed,” Benedict whispered as he flicked the reins. As they pulled away from the only home she had ever known, Delphine caught a final glimpse of Margot’s silhouette in the stable yard.

The maid crossed herself, a gesture Delphine had not seen her make since they were girls sneaking treats from the kitchen.

The trap’s wheels crunched over frozen gravel, each rotation carrying them further from danger—or closer to it. Delphine cradled Angélique, breathing in her sweet, milky scent.

Her daughter would grow up English, safe from the madness consuming France. The thought should have brought comfort, but instead, it felt more like one more piece of herself being stripped away.

“The carriage is a half-hour ahead,” Benedict murmured, his eyes scanning the darkness. “Once we catch up, we will transfer to it and make haste for the coast. By this time tomorrow, we shall be in England.”

Delphine nodded, not trusting her own voice. In her arms, Angélique slept peacefully, unaware that her world was changing forever. The infant’s features, so like her own, held traces of both France and England—a bridge between two warring nations, just as Benedict and she had once hoped to be.

The trap rattled onward through the night, carrying its precious cargo toward an uncertain future. Behind them, the Loire Valley slept under a blanket of stars, while ahead, the road stretched dark and empty—or so they prayed.

The trap jolted over a rut in the road, and Angélique stirred with a tiny mewl of protest. Delphine hummed softly, a lullaby her own mother had sung to her in happier times. The melody drifted away on the wind—lost forever to the rhythm of hoofbeats and creaking wheels.

“There is someone behind us,” Agathe whispered suddenly, her grip tightening on Delphine’s arm.

Benedict’s shoulders tensed as he urged the horse faster. “How many?”

Agathe’s breath hitched. Her fingers dug into Delphine’s arm as she turned sharply. “At least three riders, my lord. They are moving fast!”

The night air grew thick with tension, broken only by the increasing tempo of their horse’s hooves. Delphine’s heart seemed to beat in time with each stride that struck against the frozen earth underneath them.

“They are gaining,” Benedict’s voice was as taught as a bowstring. “Delphine, listen carefully, should anything happen—”

“Non!” she cut him off. “We stay together.”

“Dearest—”

“We stay together,” she repeated firmly, though her arms trembled around Angélique.

The riders were close enough now that Delphine could hear their horses’ labored breathing. A shot cracked through the night like breaking ice, and their horse reared in panic.

“Get down!” Benedict shouted, fighting for control of the reins.

Another shot rang through the night. Agathe let out a strangled cry, her body jerking as she instinctively curled inward to shield Angélique with her arms. Her weight pressed against Delphine in a desperate attempt to protect them both.

“Your papers!” a rough voice demanded from the darkness. “Present your papers!”

Benedict’s response was lost in the thunder of hooves as more riders emerged from the shadows. The trap swerved sharply, and Delphine caught a glimpse of dark figures in revolutionary cockades.

“These are the ones,” another voice called. “The English spy and his French whore!”

“Non!” Delphine clutched Angélique closer. “We are loyal citizens. Please!”

The trap’s wheel caught on something—a rock, a root, she would never know—and the world suddenly tilted sideways. She felt Benedict’s arms around her, trying to shield her and the baby as they were thrown clear. The impact drove the breath from her lungs.

Through a haze of pain, Delphine heard boots crunching on the frozen ground. A lantern swung into view, its light harsh and accusing.

“Search them,” someone ordered. “Find it.”

“There is nothing here,” came the frustrated reply after several minutes. “Just some clothes and papers.”

“Impossible! The information said—”

“Keep looking!”

Delphine tried to focus on the voices, to understand what they wanted, but darkness was creeping in at the edges of her vision. Beside her, Benedict lay very still, in a puddle of something dark that glistened in the faint lantern light.

“My… my baby,” she whispered. But Angélique was gone, and Agathe with her. Had they fallen? Had they been thrown clear? Delphine could not remember. And now, the cold was seeping into her bones, accompanied by a strange sense of peace.

“Benedict?” She reached for her husband’s hand, finding it already growing cold.

“Je t’aime,” he whispered, his final words carrying the accent of her homeland rather than his own.

The lantern light receded, taking with it the sound of cursing and the shuffle of searching feet. Delphine closed her eyes, tears freezing on her cheeks as she joined her husband in the endless night.

***

A mile ahead, Pierre brought the carriage to a halt at the sound of distant gunfire. Margot, crouched in the well-sprung interior, pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.

“We must go back,” she whispered.

“No.” Pierre’s voice was firm. “Monsieur’s orders were clear. If anything happened, we are to protect the child and the cargo.”

As if on cue, Angélique stirred in Agathe’s trembling arms. The nursemaid had thrown herself from the trap at Benedict’s signal, rolling into a ditch.

She had managed to secure the baby firmly in her arms and fled the scene just moments before their enemies arrived. They had run through the darkness until Pierre’s lantern guided them to the carriage.

“The trunks,” Margot suddenly straightened. “Monsieur said they were more important than his own life. We must reach the coast before dawn.”

Pierre nodded grimly and snapped the reins. The carriage lurched forward, its precious cargo secured beneath false panels and hidden compartments. Whatever secret Benedict Loxley had died protecting, was not their responsibility.

The coastal road stretched endlessly before them, each turn bringing them closer to salvation. When they finally reached the hidden cove, the eastern sky was beginning to pale.

“Hurry!” a gruff voice called from the shadows. “The tide will not wait.”

Margot recognized the English accent of their contact, and two sailors emerged from behind wind-twisted trees, moving quickly to help them down from the carriage.

“The trunks,” Margot insisted, even as the men tried to hurry them toward the waiting rowboat. “They must come with us.”

“No room,” one sailor argued. “The boat is for passengers only.”

Margot drew herself up to her full height, channeling every ounce of her mistress’s aristocratic bearing. “These trunks contain the last possessions of an English diplomat and his wife, who died tonight ensuring their delivery. You will make room.”

The sailors exchanged glances, then began unloading the trunks. As they worked, Margot caught movement near the tree line—shadows that might either have been branches in the wind, or something more sinister.

“Quickly now!” she urged, taking Angélique from Agathe’s exhausted arms.

The baby’s eyes opened, revealing irises as blue as her mother’s. For a moment, Delphine’s face swam before Margot’s vision, and she had to blink to fight back tears.

“Your parents died protecting you, petit ange,” she whispered. “And whatever secret they have hidden in these trunks, I swear it will be yours when the time is right.”

As the rowboat pushed off from the shore, a figure stepped out of the shadows, watching their departure.

In the growing light, Margot glimpsed the glint of spectacles and the cut of an expensive coat. The man raised his hand in what might have either been a farewell, or perhaps a promise.

It might have been far more sinister, but all that mattered was the swoosh of the oars, the weight of the baby in her arms, and the mysterious trunks that had cost the lives of two people.

An English ship waited on the horizon like a promise of safety, while behind them, France receded into memory and shadow. Whatever Benedict Loxley had hidden from his pursuers remained secure—but for how long?