A Necessary Deception (18 page)

From the way her tiny fists clenched, the flames had ignited.

“I think,” Christien said, “we should retire to a more private venue. We’re attracting attention, and my lady is not dressed for the street.”

Lydia caught her breath and stared down at the paint-smeared smock she wore over her oldest gown. Swaths of dark hair fell on either side of her face, one strand bearing a streak of periwinkle blue paint. Perhaps, if God really did pay attention to her, the paving stones would part and swallow her up into the tunnels and streams beneath London before anyone noticed who she was.

But God wasn’t paying attention to her that day any more than He did any other. The pavement remained firm. Traffic continued through the square, and sunlight burst through the clouds, depicting her flaws in even brighter light.

She started to cover her face with her hands.

“Have a care.” Christien grasped her wrists and held her hands away from her. Paint daubed her fingers too.

“Oh, my lady, I am so sorry.” The cook—Christien’s sister indeed?—grasped Lydia’s elbow. “We shall descend to my room and be private. You would like some tea? And
café au lait
for you, Christien?”

If they weren’t related, the cook was unforgivably familiar with a gentleman.

“Let us.” Still grasping Lydia’s wrist, Christien headed down the areaway steps.

She didn’t protest. Going to the cook’s room was preferable to standing on the pavement for the passing world to see her in her painting smock and tumbled hair she thought she’d pinned up that morning. Either all the pins had come out or she had removed them as she worked. She didn’t recall. If asked at that moment, she couldn’t tell anyone the day of the week.

She’d thought she was dreaming when she heard Christien’s voice below her window, especially paired with that of the cook. Surely he would have no reason to speak to one of her servants. Yet his voice drifted to her like a rising tide of caramel—smooth and rich. And her name drifted right along with it.

She needed to confront him, to learn his business with the cook, but for him to see her in such disarray pushed her life beyond the pale.

“I need a basin first,” she said. “Strong soap and lots of water.”

“We have that in the kitchen, but of course.” The cook ran ahead and began issuing orders for water, soap, towels.

Lydia glanced up at Christien. She fully intended to demand an explanation then and there.

“You’re not wearing your sling now,” she said.

“A good disguise not to wear it.” He touched his injured shoulder. “It pains me little most of the time. I can even drive with one hand.” One of his fingers caressed the inside of her wrist. “Your absence has been felt. Your maman is well now, I trust?”

“My mother has never been truly ill.” Lydia snapped her teeth together, but the damage was done. Sea-blue eyes, smooth, arching eyebrows, and that gentle hand on her arm compelled her to continue. “She’s so embarrassed about Cassandra calling off the wedding, then me taking a tumble at the ball—the best explanation I could give for my bruises—she can’t face the world. Father has convinced her she’s a failure as a wife and mother—but this is none of your concern.”

“Of course it is.” He removed his hand from her wrist and laid his palm against her cheek, turning her face fully toward his. “Everything about you concerns me,
ma chère
. It has since I met you in the prison, but especially since you gave me your bracelet.”

“That bracelet was always intended for you, was it not?”

“No.” His hand lay warm and gentle against her cheek, and she suddenly found breathing difficult. “The bracelet was intended for you. Charles was given it by a Spanish woman—ah, here is Lisette.”

But Lisette—presumably the cook’s Christian name—wasn’t there. Christien had changed his mind about telling her more about a Spanish woman who gave away expensive jewelry. Lydia’s brain teemed with the possibilities—an informant, a camp follower of the lower sort, one of the highborn sort, one Charles had rescued . . .

A reason why he had never even tried to come home.

“Who was this Spanish woman?” Lydia demanded.

Christien dropped his hand to hers, pressed her fingers, then gestured her forward without saying a word. The cook was coming now, beckoning them down to the back door and her rooms tucked behind the kitchen hearth—a sitting room and bedchamber not much larger than Lydia’s dressing room. But the kitchen fire lent the chambers warmth, and bright chintz cushions made the small sofa and chairs comfortable.

“First the washing.” Lisette led Lydia into her bedchamber, where she found warm water and soap so she could scrub paint off her hands.

“Why did you deceive us about who you are?” Lydia asked.

Lisette shrugged. “I wanted an adventure.” She had lost her French accent and spoke with tones as British as Lydia’s own. “My brother has spent ten years sneaking about the continent or pretending to be in the French Army, and I have been stranded in Shropshire with nothing to do but learn to cook because I am no good at sewing or reading.”

“So you slipped off to London.” Lydia cocked her head to one side and tried not to smile. “And acquired a French accent, I see.”

“Well, yes.” Lisette giggled. “I was only three years old when we came to England. And with maman being American and my governesses being English, I learned to speak the language well, unlike that brother of mine. He will never be English, however much he serves the king.”

“That will do, Lisette,” Christien called from the sitting room.

“
Oui
, monsieur.
Tout de suite
, monsieur.” Lisette dropped a curtsy and scampered from the room.

“Minx.” His glance, his tone reflected affection. “Ah, but she has managed me since she was born.”

“Which is why you allowed her to stay here and didn’t inform us that our chef is an impostor?” Lydia stood in the bedchamber doorway, finding Christien too close at his window post.

“I allowed her to stay here,” he responded, “because I wanted to ensure nothing went wrong in your household that I did not know about. Though she has failed me.”

“Why would you do that?”

“You tell me you get pushed off a balcony after someone tried serving you spirits, and you ask me why I would do that?” He made no apparent attempt to mask his impatience.

Lydia bowed her head in acknowledgment. “I should have told you I’m all right. I’ve been so preoccupied with my painting, as I’ve found a shop that will sell small ones, and with Mama being in her state of illness and Cassandra moping about, not to mention Honore’s ball.”

“Regarding Miss Honore . . .” Christien said.

“What about Honore?” Lydia demanded. Her hands shook.

“I saw her riding in the park with Gerald Frobisher. She was wearing a mask, but—”

For the first time since Charles had returned to his regiment, Lydia burst into tears.

Christien took the only option he saw open to him—he closed the short distance between them and slipped his arm around her. “There, there,
ma chère
. You’re not alone. I’m here to help you. Ah,
mon pauvre, ma belle, mon amour
.” And so he crooned while Lydia turned her face into his shoulder, hiccuped and sobbed, wiped her eyes on a sodden handkerchief, and tried to speak.

Sometime after the first few minutes, Lisette stepped into the chamber, then out again, closing the door. It wasn’t the proper thing for her to do, but it was the right thing—leave Lydia to privately weep out everything that burdened her heart.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Those were the first coherent words Lydia spoke. She tried to pull away.

“No, don’t.” Christien stroked her loosened hair. “Let me be a friend to you, Lydia Gale, as I was to your husband.” He took a deep breath. “And more. So much more.”

“I can’t.” A shudder ran from her to him.

“You have to trust someone, Lydia.” He pressed his advantage. “It may as well be me, the man whose life you saved, the man you helped.”

“And I’ve had nothing but trouble since. That is—” She raised her head to show him eyes red-rimmed and awash in tears. “I’ve been hiding away because someone tried to kill me. Or at the least scare me badly. Why?”

“Because you have chosen to be friendly with me, I think.”

She nodded.

“So you hid from me too.”

“You spied on me.”

“Only my sister. I left her here to watch over you, even though I should have sent her packing home with a flea in her ear and a dragon to guard her.”

“And I’d have had more work and trouble trying to find another chef half as good.”

“That too.” He offered a smile. “We perhaps kept things as they are for that reason.”

“I think I’d just pack up and run back to Tavistock if she left. I’m trying to make everything perfect for my family, please Father, get the girls married or at least engaged, keep the household orderly and Mama free of worry, and it’s all gone wrong. It’s just like—” She jerked away from him. “When did you plan on telling me about Frobisher and Honore?”

“As soon as I found you.” He gazed at her, his chest aching. “I didn’t know if I should call on you, and you were nowhere around town.”

“Of course you should have called. I never said—” She gave him a wobbly smile. “I suppose I have given you the impression you aren’t welcome here. I’m sorry. I think I’ve been wrong. I know I’ve been wrong. I know I’ve needed to take a risk.” She rubbed her hands over her damp and blotchy cheeks. “Tell me about Frobisher, please.”

Christien rose and stood before her, his hands shoved into his pockets to stop himself from reaching for her again. “I’ve been searching for Mr. Barnaby. He seems to have vanished from London. I hadn’t seen Frobisher either but thought he might be riding in the park, so I went out there to find him.”

“Surely you aren’t riding with your arm not quite healed.” The concern on her face warmed his heart.

“No, driving.” He moved his hands to clasp them behind his back. “And I found him riding with a young woman in a mask. I recognized the mare.”

“What is she thinking? What are the Tarletons thinking?” Lydia speared her fingers into her hair, and the mass of it tumbled around her shoulders. She gasped and let out a little moan. “What will go wrong next? No, no, don’t say it.” She held up her hand. “I can drive straight over to the Tarletons’ and confront her.”

“Or you could drive out with me tomorrow morning and catch her in the act.”

She compressed her lips, and the corners of her eyes pinched. Then she nodded and her face relaxed. “Thank you. I don’t know why you’d do this for me, but I’m grateful.”

“I want to be your friend, my lady.” He let himself touch her then, rest his palm against her cheek. “I’ll say this until you believe me. I want to help you get through this time, as you helped me. I want—”

More than he would tell her then.

“I will call on you at seven o’clock,” he concluded.

“That early? The wretched little hoyden. Why does she want to ruin herself?”

“I think little sisters are—in French we have the expression
infant terrible
.”

Lydia laughed. It sounded hoarse, a bit like a rusty hinge. Nonetheless it was an unmistakable chuckle. Her whole face, tearstained and puffy around the eyes as it was, lit up for a moment. The entire subterranean room grew brighter. “So they are.” She sobered. “What respectable man would encourage a young lady to ride out with him that early and unchaperoned?”

“That answer,
ma chère
, is simple—he wouldn’t. Considering he arrived with Mr. Barnaby, I can only suspect he is up to no good where Honore is concerned.”

Lydia caught her breath. “Of course. More blackmail against the family.”

Because she could manage it without looking in the mirror, Lydia braided her hair and pinned the plait in a swirl atop her head. Rather than awaken Barbara to help her and be asked questions, she waylaid one of the chambermaids to button up the back of her deep rose carriage dress. Then, half boots in hand, she slipped down the steps.

And came face-to-face with Father.

“Where are you sneaking off to?” he demanded.

“Not sneaking off, sir, just ensuring I don’t awaken Mama.”

“Which doesn’t answer my question.”

“No, sir.” Lydia dropped onto the next-to-last step and pulled on the ankle-high boots. “I’m taking an early drive with Monsieur de Meuse.”

“Indeed. I thought you frightened him off like you do all men.”

“Like I what?” Lydia shot to her feet, one booted, the other stockinged. She glared down at her father, half a head shorter than she from her elevated position. “What are you saying?”

“Seven years ago, you had a husband who stayed home for a week before leaving forever. When I arrived this Season, you had two suitors, now you have none. I expect no man wants to be around a female who smells like turpentine.”

“And no woman wants to be around a man who—you know I’m painting?”

“Of course I do. I expect you think you’ll support Cassandra and yourself with it.” He curled his upper lip.

“I’d like to try.”

“You have other things that need doing, like getting yourselves married off.”

Only if she could find men who weren’t like him.

But he cared about them. She must remember that. He wanted them married for their own security and comfort, their standing in Society, and, as he thought, their fulfillment as females.

“Will you approve of us if we wed, sir?” she asked in a small voice.

“What a ridiculous question. Approval has nothing to do with it.” Turning his back on her, he snatched his hat from a stone-faced footman and marched to the door.

Another footman opened the portal, and he headed out to his waiting carriage. As he pulled away, an open vehicle drew up at the foot of the front steps. With a shriek of horror that she still held one boot in her hand, Lydia dropped onto the steps and began to buckle the footgear. Straps flew out of her fingers. A buckle slipped out of her hand and bounced to the entryway floor.

Christien entered the house in time to retrieve the silver clasp. “May I?”

Not waiting for permission, he knelt before her and slipped the straps through the rings of the buckle and pulled. He bent over his work, his hair falling across his brow in a blue-black wave, his fingers deft and swift and too close to her ankle.

“It’s not proper,” she whispered.

“Of course it is.” He smiled up at her. “Do not the gentlemen help you on and off with your patens in the winter?”

“Yes, but—”

None of the handful of those gentlemen, who had assisted her in removing the shoes with their iron rings on the bottom from over her delicate slippers, left her feeling light-headed. She couldn’t remember her husband performing such a duty and having any kind of effect on her because, by winter, he had no longer been around.

“It is but a moment,” Christien assured her. He slipped the second buckle onto the straps, tightened it. “
Voilà
. Are you ready for our drive?”

“I am. And if I find—” She glanced at the footmen and clamped her mouth shut. If the servants learned what Honore was doing, she might as well announce it in the
Times
.

Christien held out his hands. “Let us go then.”

She placed her hands in his and allowed him to lift her from the steps, then lead her out to his open carriage. A youth held the horses’ heads. Once Lydia settled on the seat and Christien sat beside her, the reins in his uninjured hand, the young man let the horses go. Christien tossed him a sixpence. The lad bit it, then grinned and ran off across the square.

Lydia pulled on a loo mask and tucked her feet under the seat. Her heels connected with a wicker basket. She jerked them forward again. “Do you always carry provisions with you, monsieur?”

“It’s waiting to be filled with provisions, my lady. Did you rest well?”

“Surprisingly, yes. And you?”

“Not long enough. I’m afraid my work leads me into some places and situations that require late nights and too much smoke.”

“And you’ve gotten nowhere?”

“Other than your man at the masquerade, no. I can’t find Barnaby anywhere.”

“I’m supposed to help him. Apparently his entrée into Society hasn’t been as grand as yours.”

“But you’ve done nothing?”

“I can’t perform a task without the man.”

“But you told the man at the ball you wouldn’t help.”

“Foolishly, yes.” Lydia shuddered. “And next thing I knew, I was tumbling into the shrubbery. What were you doing in the library?”

“Asking Miss Bainbridge where I might find you.”

“Oh. I thought perhaps you were seeking information.”

Christien sighed loudly enough to be heard over the rumble of the drays that trundled into London in the early morning to deliver goods to the markets and shops. “Yes, being a spy often leads one into suspecting everyone and sneaking about to investigate their personal domains. I think it is not
comme il faut
.”

“Not the right thing, no, but does the end justify the means?”

“I never considered that until I saw you get hauled into this and in danger.” He half turned toward her. “Will you leave London?”

“I cannot. Father wants us all married off, and finding husbands in Devonshire is not that easy.”

“Alas.” He slowed for the entrance to the park. “I saw Miss Honore here on Rotten Row.”

That early in the morning, only a handful of serious riders populated the road, along with grooms exercising horses little used in town. A scan of the crowd in front of them showed no female in or out of a mask. The absence didn’t ease Lydia’s mind. If she didn’t find Honore today, she would have to bring her home and watch over her.

Lydia tensed. She gripped the edge of the seat for fear she would simply rise off the cushion like one of Cassandra’s hot air balloons if one more difficulty plowed into her life.

“There they are.” Christien spoke softly.

Lydia jumped. “Where?”

“A hundred yards ahead, coming toward us.”

Lydia squinted into the misty morning light. Yes, she saw them now, the mare, the blue habit, the mask. “I’m going to lock her to her bedpost,” she ground between her teeth.

“She can join my sister.” Though his mouth was grim, his eyes twinkled.

Some of the tension drained from Lydia. She faced a problem in Honore, but not alone for once.

The pair drew near, moving slowly. They leaned toward one another, talking, laughing, hands touching across the space between their mounts. Others glanced at them with indulgent smiles or disapproving frowns. No one appeared to recognize Honore. As the couple on horseback and the couple in the curricle came within a dozen feet, the former glanced up. Their mouths opened, then, as one, they kicked their horses, spun, and galloped in the direction from which they’d come.

“After them!” Lydia cried.

Unnecessarily. Christien had already snapped the reins over the backs of his team, sending them thundering after the fleeing pair.

Lydia gripped the seat. “What purpose does she think she’ll serve in running?”

Around them, other riders darted out of the way or joined the chase, their laughter floating back to the open carriage. The lane turned. The curricle tilted onto its right wheel. Lydia’s shoulder bumped against Christien’s, then pressed against it. She ducked her head. If someone recognized her, they would guess at Honore’s identity.

Honore and Frobisher gained ground, getting too near the park gate and streets, where horsemen could weave in and out of traffic, but where a carriage, however light, could not.

A sob rose in her throat. “It’s futile.”

“We’ll catch them at the house where she’s staying,” Christien said.

“As long as they go there.”

He glanced at her. “Why would you think they wouldn’t? Where else would they go?”

“Nowhere. That is—” Lydia shivered. “I think I should pray.”

“Good, if God listens to you.”

“I’m not sure He does these days.”

Or any of the past seven years’ worth of days.