A Code of Love (The Code Breakers 1) (4 page)

Amelia said, “Madame De Puis, please introduce us to your client, since we haven’t had the pleasure.”

“I’m Isabelle de Villier and the pleasure is all mine.” The woman’s deep-throated laugh vibrated down into her bared chest, causing the pale skin and abundant décolletage to tremble. Her practiced laugh drew their eyes to her chest. “Neither of you requires the services of Madame de Puis. Your charms will attract men young and old. Men are always drawn to virtue and the pursuit of despoiling it.”

There was a gasp from the voluble modiste. “Mademoiselle de Villier, please. Your dress will be delivered this afternoon.”

“You’ll make the changes, as we discussed.” The voluptuous woman sent one last penetrating stare toward Henrietta and then departed.

Henrietta looked at Amelia and burst out laughing. “Why do I feel as if I were a mouse, just mauled by a vicious cat?”

“You were Hen. I got the feeling she knew of you,” Amelia said.

“It did seem that she knew the Harcourt name.”

“She probably knows Michael.” The playfulness went out of Amelia’s voice.

Amelia feigned indifference to Michael’s rakish activities, hoping that he would notice that she was no longer the childhood playmate of his sister. So far her attempts had failed.

“Why would she feel the need for such spite?” Henrietta asked.

A young woman swept into the shop. “Ladies, Madame de Puis, good morning.” Beneath a simple bonnet, the woman’s face was flushed.

“Lady Beaumont. You’re early for your appointment.” The modiste’s French accent got heavier with the strain of another early arrival.

Amelia raised her eyebrows toward Henrietta. “Lady Beaumont, are you related to Lord Rathbourne?”

“Yes, I’m his younger sister, Gwyneth.” Her face warmed, as did her voice, with the mention of her brother.

Amelia moved closer to the vibrant woman. “I’m Miss Amelia Bonnington. This is my dear friend, Lady Henrietta Harcourt.”

All three curtsied. Lord Rathbourne and his sister shared the same raven black hair and high angular cheekbones, but their eyes were distinct. Lady Gwyneth’s eyes were shaped like almonds and the color of warm chocolate, while his were cobalt blue, like a frosty winter sky.

“I don’t believe we’ve had the privilege of seeing you in society?” Amelia inquired innocently.

“My aunt and I just arrived in London. We’ve come a day earlier than planned.” Lady Gwyneth beamed at the modiste. “Madame de Puis was kind enough to see me today for a fitting.” The young woman’s speech was as unaffected as her manner.

Madame de Puis curtsied to her prestigious customer. “It’s an honor to serve you, mademoiselle. Does your aunt join you?”

“My aunt had a prior engagement, but she should’ve arrived by now.” A notch formed between the eyebrows of the expressive woman’s face. “I’m not sure what has delayed Aunt Euphemia.”

Madame de Puis said, “Don’t worry, mademoiselle, your aunt will arrive. May I serve you tea?”

“No thank you, madame. I shall wait for my aunt.”

Like a good terrier, Amelia stayed on the scent of Lord Rathbourne. “Your brother must be thrilled that you’ve come to London.”

Lady Gwyneth’s eyes rounded in excitement. “You know my brother?”

“No, I’ve not had that pleasure.” Amelia’s eyes brightened with mischief. “Henrietta knows your brother.”

“I’ve a slight acquaintance with him.” Henrietta could feel the heat moving to her face when she remembered the feel of his muscular arms holding her tightly against his chest, the intimacy of his hands on her back. His captivating touch was branded into her brain. “Just a mild acquaintance.”

Amelia responded with an unladylike snort.

“It is fabulous to meet friends of my brother on my first outing in London. He isn’t expecting us until tomorrow. We’d hoped to surprise him, but his work keeps him away from the house,” Lady Gwyneth said.

“I’m sure he’ll be pleased to have you join him. Will the rest of your family come as well?” Henrietta asked.

“I’ve only my brother and Aunt Euphemia. My parents are deceased.”

Amelia patted the young woman on the arm. “How wonderful to have your brother to escort you for the season’s activities.”

“He’s going to be bored, attending all the balls and soirees, but he has promised to attend any affair I choose. He’s the best brother.”

The modiste directed Amelia to a changing room. “Miss Amelia, please, we must get to your final fitting if I’m to finish your gown for tonight’s ball.”

“Is there a ball tonight, Lady Henrietta?” Lady Gwyneth asked.

“Tonight is the Wentworth Ball.”

Henrietta and Lady Gwyneth proceeded to sit on tiny gilded chairs, padded with fluffy down pillows.

“You must see Amelia’s dress. She designed it herself. She has a wonderful sense for the dramatic,” Henrietta said.

“I wish I were going to the ball tonight.” With a heavy sigh, the young woman sat back against the tiny chair.

Henrietta smiled, remembering her own excitement for her first ball. “Your first ball. How very thrilling, Lady Gwyneth.”

The young woman’s face spread in a wide grin. “Please, you must call me Gwyneth.” Her eyes, after closer inspection, were more the color of ginger snaps than chocolate, Henrietta decided.

“And I’m Henrietta.”

“Tell me about when you met my brother. Was it before his travels to the Continent?”

“I met your brother in my first season. I believe we might have shared a dance.” His sister would be ignorant of his wild reputation.

“You met him during his wild oats days—which is how my aunt refers to those years. Neither my aunt nor Cord will give me any details. Please tell me what was he like? Dashing?”

Gwyneth was as animated and volatile as Edward, rushing into feelings and conversations without any sense of propriety. Lord Rathbourne would be appalled if he heard his sister’s comments.

Amelia stepped out of the changing room, wrapped in a diaphanous slip of a dress. The gossamer creation of violet silk tissue was draped across one of her shoulders. The cool purple fabric shot with silver enhanced Amelia’s red hair and pale white skin. Fitted at the bust line, the dress floated to the floor in a heap of luxurious color, like the fields of lavender in Provence.

“Do you like it?” Amelia turned full circle, allowing her skirts to billow around her ankles.

“You’re stunning. You’ve outdone yourself.” Henrietta jumped up from her chair to hug her friend. “I’m jealous of all your talent.”

“Your talent serves a greater purpose.” Amelia’s voice warmed to their familiar dispute.

“Your talent graces the world with beauty,” Henrietta replied.

“Now you’ve stirred my interests. I see Amelia’s talents, but what are yours, Henrietta?” Gwyneth asked.

“Henrietta tries to keep it a secret, but she is devoted to linguistics. The entire Harcourt family is gifted, but she outshines them all,” Amelia said.

“Gwyneth isn’t interested in my talents. Amelia, turn around again. The fabric seems to have been made by fairies.”

Gwyneth stood and walked around Amelia. “The dress is wonderful and you look magnificent.” She whispered, “I should have you design my ball gowns but I don’t think Aunt Euphemia would allow it.”

All three chuckled, aware that demure and white was de rigueur for a debutante.

Madame De Puis pulled Amelia aside to discuss minor alterations to the gown.

Henrietta and Gwyneth sat back down. “Do you know what your family has planned for your first appearance in society?”

“Besides my introduction to the men of the ton?” Gwyneth’s perfect porcelain skin flushed with pink when she spoke of meeting men. She was going to have quite an effect on the gentlemen.

“Not yet. My aunt and I’ll need to discuss my brother’s schedule with him. He’s very busy with his work. Of course, I must have fittings and get my wardrobe ready.” She breathed another heavy sigh.

“Next week, Lady Chadwick is holding a soiree in support of the French émigrés, a few ladies who are concerned about the living conditions of the émigrés. A debutante is allowed to attend soirees before her presentation.”

“Henrietta, are you starting on one of your causes?” Although in the changing room, Amelia heard the conversation and spoke through the gauzy curtain. “Which is it? Ancient Egypt, French émigrés? Beware, Gwyneth, next she’ll have you attending a dreadful talk on Greek civilization or…”

“I’d love to attend a soiree, and I’m sure both my aunt and Cord are sympathetic to the plight of the émigrés. Cord works tirelessly for many causes. My aunt and I worry he works too hard,” Gwyneth said.

This didn’t sound like the man Henrietta knew. Gwyneth leaned forward speaking in a hushed voice. “My aunt and I’ve come to town to find a wife for Cord. Of course, he doesn’t know. He believes he’s going to find a husband for me. My aunt and I both agree that I’m too young to settle down. I’m here for experience.”

Henrietta bit the sides of her cheeks, trying hard not to laugh. Amelia chortled behind the curtain. The experience Gwyneth spoke of was meeting respectable gentlemen and exchanging innocent kisses.

Gwyneth’s face had gone from pink to a bright red. “I don’t mean that kind of experience.”

“We didn’t mean to embarrass you. When you get to know Amelia and me better, you’ll learn that we love to tease,” Henrietta said.

Amelia hastily arrived from the changing area, adjusting her pelisse. “Do you have a specific lady in mind for your brother?”

Henrietta hoped Gwyneth didn’t see Amelia’s raised eyebrows.

“No, we’ve just come to town.” Gwyneth paused, turning toward Henrietta. “But I’m sure it won’t be difficult to find a pleasing lady.”

Madame de Puis returned to the sitting area. “Lady Beaumont, shall we wait for your aunt before beginning your fitting?”

“We can begin. I’m not sure what is delaying my aunt.” Gwyneth stood. “It has been a delight to meet both of you. I’ll plan to bring my brother and aunt to Lady Chadwick’s soiree.”

Gwyneth curtsied as did Henrietta and Amelia. The young woman walked toward the change room then turned and winked at Amelia. Henrietta didn’t miss the conspiratorial sign.

Chapter Four

On the short walk back to Kendal House, Henrietta considered what retributions she was going to exact on her brother for Isabelle Villiers’ spite.

Issabelle Villier—
a stage name for sure. The woman had been offensive when she discovered Henrietta’s name was Harcourt. She was likely another of Michael’s McGregors.
Why would Michael be attracted to a woman of that stamp? Henrietta considered Isabelle’s generous chest and snorted aloud as only a lady could.

The moment Henrietta climbed the steps, the front door of Kendal House swung open and Mrs. Brompton bounded out, tendrils of gray hair hanging out of her tight chignon. “I’m glad you’re home. Lord Charles…” The housekeeper sobbed, unable to continue.

Henrietta had never seen Mrs. Brompton this distraught. Her heart hammered against her chest, racing in spurts. “Is he ill?”

“I’ve lost him. He’s nowhere to be found. It was such a fine morning that I served his tea in the garden. And now…” The woman gave another wrenching sob.

Henrietta took Mrs. Brompton’s arm. “Let’s go inside.”

“I left him for no more than a few minutes. He was sitting in the sunshine, reading out of one of his big books. I got distracted by Mary asking about the fireplaces, and when I went back to check on him, he was gone.” The housekeeper’s voice boomed in the marble entrance.

“Have you searched the entire house? You’ve checked the library, his room?”

“We’ve looked throughout the house and the garden. You know how distracted he can get when he has a code on his mind.” As Mrs. Brompton became more desperate, each word became louder. By the end, the housekeeper was nearly shouting.

“We’ll find him, Bromie. He can’t have gone far.” Wishing she could believe her own reassurances, Henrietta put her hand on her chest, trying to alleviate the crushing sensation of panic.

“Brompton and Thomas are searching the streets. I’ve sent Mr. Marlow to the park,” Mrs. Brompton said.

Henrietta quelled the urge to run through the house.

“I was waiting for you before I sent Polly to ask the neighbors. I didn’t know if you would want them informed.” The implications of alerting their neighbors to her uncle’s mental condition were left unspoken.

“Polly is capable. Instruct her not to give any unnecessary details. Its teatime and Uncle Charles loses his sense of time when discussing history or linguistics,” Henrietta said.

“I just don’t know where he would go. All he thinks about is his books,” Mrs. Brompton said.

Henrietta couldn’t believe that Uncle Charles might be lost. He got confused, but he always knew Kendal House and all its inhabitants.

“I believe I know where Uncle Charles might have ventured,” Henrietta said.

“You know where he went?”

“I’m hoping he went to his book lovers’ club, The Set of Odd Volumes. It used to be one of his favorite haunts.”