When I'm with You (Because You Are Mine 2)

“Moroccan. Moroccan and French. Fusion,” she muttered, her mind whirling. He’d been thinking of his ethnic heritage when he’d named his restaurant and designated the type of food to be served.

His hard mouth softened a fraction. “Yes. A moment of fancy on my part.”

“What else did you find out about her?”

“Bloody little,” he replied bitterly. “Herr Schroeder was unable to procure any helpful documents. We only found out what we know because of his careful, painstaking investigative work and interviews of people in Cabourg who worked in the hospital where my mother gave birth, in the adoption agency . . . and around the vicinity. The name she gave them at the hospital was an alias. My mother’s Moroccan accent was still very strong, leading the people who remembered her to believe she hadn’t been in France all that long. She spoke Arabic and English, but apparently very minimal French. She made an impression on many of the people she encountered, though. Apparently, she was very beautiful.”

“Of course she was. Look at you,” Elise said with a tremulous smile.

“Two of the nurses formed attachments to her. They remembered how frightened she was. How alone. She was very young.”

“How terrible for her. She must have been so afraid, with her homeland and family so far away. Do you . . .” Elise hesitated, studying every nuance of his face. “Do you have any indication she’s still alive?”

“The chances are, she is. She was likely in her late teens when she had me. She’d still be in her forties . . . fifty at the oldest.”

“Lucien, I can’t believe you’ve been going through all this.” She set down her snifter and stood, going to him. She sat on the edge of his chair and hugged him. He returned her embrace, tightening his hold until she slid into his lap. Her cheek pressed against his chest. He kissed the top of her head and stroked her upper arm.

“Is Herr Schroeder still trying to locate her?” Elise asked after a moment, not lifting her head from his chest.

“His investigation is ongoing,” she heard him say, his deep voice reverberating from his chest into her cheek. She sat up slightly when he brushed his fingertips beneath her chin and applied a slight pressure. She met his stare, sensing he was about to tell her something important.

“We do have one lead. A crucial one.”

“What?”

“One of Herr Schroeder’s most important witnesses told him that there is a single individual who could likely give me the true name and background of my mother. That person is Helen Noble, Ian Noble’s mother.”

Elise’s mouth fell open. “But . . . wasn’t Ian’s mother the daughter of the Earl of Stratham? I met the earl and countess once at a charity function in London. I thought I’d heard that their only child had died, and that Ian’s grandmother and grandfather raised Ian.”

Lucien nodded. “That is what Ian tells people. Helen Noble is still alive, though. I first suspected it from some cryptic comments Ian made after we became friends in Paris. I sensed his sadness when he spoke of his mother, his bitterness . . . his grief, as if his feelings for her and what had happened to her were fresh emotions, not the far-distant memories of a ten-year-old boy. Between Herr Schroeder and myself, we discovered that she is, indeed, alive. I came to Chicago to see if I could uncover anything else about Helen and her fate. We’ve located her whereabouts in London.”

“But . . . why would Helen Noble know about your biological mother?” Elise asked.

“She worked for Helen. She was her maid. Apparently she only left her service when she discovered she was pregnant with me.”

“Have you spoken with Helen then?” Elise asked, thoughts racing through her head. “And why would Ian and his grandparents say that Helen was dead?”

“She’s very ill,” Lucien said quietly. “Very fragile. The hospital where Ian has her being cared for is private, with very high security. In fact, Ian owns the facility. It’s impossible to get inside unless you’re staff, family, or an invited guest. As for why Ian says his mother is dead, I don’t believe it was he who first fabricated that story. He was only ten years old when he went to live with his grandparents. His grandparents must have told him his mother was dead to save him the anguish of seeing her so unwell. I don’t know when Ian found out the truth about her.”

“So Ian doesn’t realize that you know all this?”

“No,” Lucien said, briefly closing his eyes.

“Can’t you just explain the circumstances? Ask him if you can speak to Helen Noble?”

“At one time, I considered it. But it’s . . . a very complicated situation, Elise,” he said, looking away.

“In what way? Lucien?” she asked when he remained turned in profile to her. He met her stare.

“I believe that Helen Noble’s health has taken a downturn. Ian seems worried lately, and I’ve overheard a few conversations. If his mother is so fragile, he won’t want me there asking her questions about her past.”

Elise frowned. “That’s understandable, but surely it wouldn’t be too taxing on Helen to have you ask her a few questions about a woman she knew thirty-odd years ago.”

“No,” Lucien said with finality.

“But finding your mother means so much to you,” she said in a pressured fashion. “You’ve altered your entire life in order to find her. You can’t give up now.”

A shadow of frustration crossed his features. “I’m not giving up. Far from it. But other people’s lives are complicated and difficult, too. I can’t force or trick Ian into acting in compliance with my wishes. I don’t want to. He’s a friend. He has his own concerns. He has a family that he worries about as well.”