Praise for the novels of
CANDACE CAMP
“Camp has again produced a fast-paced plot brimming with lively conflict among family, lovers and enemies.”
—Publishers Weekly on A Dangerous Man
“Romance, humor, adventure, Incan treasure, dreams, murder, psychics—the latest addition to Camp’s Mad Moreland series has it all.”
—Booklist on An Unexpected Pleasure
“Entertaining, well-written Victorian romantic mystery.”
—The Best Reviews on An Unexpected Pleasure
“A smart, fun-filled romp.”
—Publishers Weekly on Impetuous
“Camp brings the dark Victorian world to life. Her strong characters and perfect pacing keep you turning the pages of this chilling mystery.”
—Romantic Times BOOKreviews on Winterset
“From its delicious beginning to its satisfying ending, [Mesmerized] offers a double helping of romance.”
—Booklist
A Stolen Heart
Candace Camp
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
EPILOGUE
PROLOGUE
Paris, 1789
LADY CHILTON PUSHED BACK THE draperies of her bedroom window and peered out into the night. In the distance she could see fire leaping up, and she shivered. It was the Mob. She was sure of it; she had heard their howls the day before, seen them pushing through the streets like some great amorphous beast, hungry for blood.
She stepped back from the window, her hands twining together nervously. Emerson was certain that the Mob would not turn on them. Her husband had that careless, casual confidence of the English that no harm would dare come to them. Simone was not so sure. She was, after all, French, and a member of that aristocracy whom the Mob was so eager to destroy. The fact that she was married to an Englishman might not be enough to save her if the Mob came here—indeed, she feared that her French identity might destroy her husband, as well.
And the children.
It was that thought that made her sick with fear. What would happen to her little ones if the sans-culottes came to their house?
She stood for a moment indecisively, a beautiful woman with liquid brown eyes and clouds of dark hair, dressed in the finest clothes that Paris had to offer, her neck circled with precious gems, yet paper-white with fear, her huge eyes haunted.
Finally, with a little sob, she went over to her dressing table and pulled out her jewelry case. Quickly she took out her jewelry, glittering gold studded with diamonds, rubies and emeralds, satiny pearls strung together or dangling from ear studs. Some were family heirlooms, others gifts from an adoring and wealthy husband. Simone was a woman who loved decoration, and her vivid dark coloring and white skin were perfect foils for the richly colored jewels.
She stuffed the pieces into a velvet bag, paying little attention to the sparkling gems. Last, she reached up and removed the emerald drops that hung from her ears, then the matching emerald pendant that had been a wedding present from Lord Chilton eight and a half years before. Her hand closed around it for a moment; it was still warm from the heat of her skin. Then, with a little sigh, she slipped it, too, into the bag.
Her friend could be trusted; after all, she was trusting her with her children, far more important than any jewelry. If she survived, she would be reunited with them all.
She opened the false bottom of the jewelry case and took out three small items. Though relatively inexpensive, they were the most precious, for they belonged to her children. There were two lockets that opened up to reveal miniature portraits of herself and Emerson. The Countess had given them to the girls last year at Christmas. The third object was a plain, bulky ring, far too large for her son’s finger. She strung it on a piece of string so that he could wear it around his neck. The ring was ordinary looking, flat-topped with an odd design. But it was hundreds of years old, the family ring of the Earls of Exmoor. Only heirs to the title were allowed to wear it. Emerson owned it now, though he did not wear it. One day it would be his son’s.
Simone went to her desk and took the quill from the inkwell and began to scratch out a note. She was never the best of letter writers, and this note was disjointed and almost illegible. But it would at least let the Earl and the Countess know what had happened. She stuffed it into the bag with the jewels.
Clutching the velvet bag and the three small pieces of jewelry, Simone left her bedroom and started up the stairs to the nursery. Downstairs, she could hear Emerson’s voice, growing impatient as he tried to explain to her parents why they had to leave Paris as soon as possible. Simone shook her head. Her parents were frozen by fear, so much in shock from the upheaval of their world that all they seemed capable of doing was staying still and saying no. Simone and Emerson could hardly leave them behind; it was why they had not left already. But she refused to let her children die because her parents were too stubborn or too silly to do what they ought to.
That was why she was sending the children away. She would entrust their lives to her dearest friend here, who was leaving for England and its safety tomorrow. She had not asked yet, but she was sure that her friend would do it. Childless herself, she had always doted on Simone’s children, especially the youngest. Simone would get them away to England, and the jewels would help pay their expenses, if necessary. Once they were safe, if Simone did not make it, they would be her last present to her children.
Simone reached up to dash the tears from her eyes. She could not let the children see her crying; that would frighten them even further. So she pasted a smile on her face before she opened the door to the nursery and went inside. The French nurse was already putting them to bed. Simone dismissed her, saying that she would tuck the children in herself.
Once the maid had left, she turned to the three children. For a long moment she let herself look at them, the lump in her throat swelling as she faced the thought that perhaps she would never see them again. There was John, with the thick, dark hair he had inherited from her and her own dark brown, almost black eyes. A sturdy boy of seven, he had his father’s long bones and mischievous smile, and Simone had not met a woman yet, of any age, who did not succumb to his charms. She bent to kiss his forehead, then moved on to kiss Marie Anne’s cheek. Marie Anne had her father’s eyes—deep blue, guileless orbs—and the bright red curls that had surprised them both, coming