Elizabeth Boyle (50 page)

For once Webb was willing to agree with Lily. He had no doubts she’d be the worst type of hazard in the field.

Untrained, undisciplined, unwilling to take orders, and worst of all, unpredictable.

If she knew his thoughts, she gave no indication in her pasted smile. “Lord Dryden has been telling me of your mistakes, Webb. So much to learn and so many dangers.” She shuddered delicately. “I don’t see how I will be of any assistance to you with so little time to prepare.”

Before the conversation could continue, Mrs. Saint-Jean and Adam arrived. The large lady seemed genuinely perturbed that the morning repast had already commenced. She passed by the long low table against the wall where the breakfast dishes were laid out, inspecting each one before taking the well-cushioned seat next to Lily.

Adam followed her, dressed in a resplendent jacket and buff breeches more suitable for Bond Street than an early country breakfast. He grinned rakishly at Lily before taking the seat beside Webb.

Mrs. Saint-Jean let out a great wheezy sigh. “Oh, I see I have taken already to your leisurely hours. I thought for sure I would be the first up and dressed. We Saint-Jeans pride ourselves as early risers.”

No one seemed to know how to reply to this, and the lady appeared well pleased to have stopped the general conversation.

“Did you sleep well, ma’am?” Sophia inquired politely.

“
Harrumph
, I would say not! That room you placed me in is terribly drafty. But I suppose they don’t think about a body’s general comfort when they build these stone monstrosities. Well if one’s going to flaunt their wealth, they ought to make sure the practicalities are taken care of first, I do say. At Waterton, we boast five chimneys. And none of them smoke or lead to drafts, mind you.”

After a few moments of silence, Mrs. Saint-Jean spoke again. “Now I know you are plump in the pockets,” she said, with a wave of her toast in Giles’s general direction. “And with your fancy title, you must be as well,” she added, with a second imperial wave toward Webb’s father. “But you,” she said, waggling the butter knife in her other hand at Webb, “what do you do to keep out of mischief? I hear you young bucks do nothing but cause trouble wherever you go.”

Webb wasn’t too sure how to answer such a rude question. No one had ever come straight out and asked him what it was he did with himself.

As he struggled to find the most innocuous explanation possible, Lily blithely did it for him.

“Didn’t I tell you, Mrs. Saint-Jean?” she said, passing the silver butter dish to the lady. “Mr. Dryden is a spy.”

A
fter breakfast, like a prisoner to the gallows, Lily had been led into the study by Lord Dryden, Webb, Sophia, and Giles. That is, after Sophia had bundled Adam and his mother off on a day-long shopping trip to nearby Bath.

Adam had gone only too willingly when Giles offered his prize stallion as his mount. And Mrs. Saint-Jean had found herself happily ensconced in the Trahern’s gilded barouche.

“I’ve said it once, Father, and I will say it again, she is a liability.” Webb turned an accusing glare on Lily before he turned back to his father. “There are thousands of
émigré
s in London and at least a hundred girls who could play your heiress. You can’t tell me that scouring St. George’s Fields or the tenements in and around St. Pancras wouldn’t yield a better Adelaide than …”

Again his scathing wrath turned in Lily’s direction.

She had the good sense to bow her head and try not to smile.

Lily remained stoically perched on the couch, listening not only to Webb voicing his disapproval of continuing the mission with her, but also to Giles and Sophia adding their own, albeit measured, words of caution. It wasn’t easy listening to oneself being described as incompetent, but Lily knew it was her best chance at being removed from the task ahead.

She’d explained her plan to Celeste the night before: if she showed herself to be a complete bufflehead at the spy business, Webb would insist to his father that she be removed. Though she hadn’t expected him to start arguing for her dismissal after just one incident.

And while she was sick of this bombazine mourning and had been since a week after Thomas’s death, it veiled her from closer scrutiny. As long as she appeared the perfect dowd, the better her plan would work.

The de Chevenoy heiress expected in Paris would have to be a lithesome, pretty creature, and Lily was going to do her damndest to make sure no one would ever think to describe her with any of those qualities.

Peeking out from beneath her downcast lashes, she studied Webb. He sat straight in his chair, his stony mien revealing nothing.

With a measure of pique, she wondered if Webb had ever felt anything for her other than contempt. Or if he’d even thought about the kiss they’d shared last night. Not that she cared what he thought of her, she told herself.

The problem was, she did. Once again she found herself feeling fifteen and caught in this hopeless one-sided love affair.

Closing her eyes, she shook off her wayward thoughts.

“A spy! She told that fishwife I was a spy!” Webb complained.

At this, Lily bit her lips to keep from smiling. It had been rather amusing to watch Mrs. Saint-Jean’s reaction to her startling announcement at the breakfast table.

Lily had done an excellent job of timing her statement, just when the lady had taken a rather large mouthful of herring. If it hadn’t been for Giles’s hasty assistance, pounding the choking lady on her back, Lily might have done Adam a real service and made him an orphan.

As for the rest of the breakfast party, they had stared at her as if she’d lost her head somewhere between her pillows and forgotten to put it on in the morning. Lord Dryden, Sophia, and Giles recovered their composure quickly, masking their shock behind strained expressions, while Webb’s anger and outrage had been as clear as the sunlight streaming through the long windows.

Of course, between Sophia’s smooth manners and Lord Dryden’s quick thinking, they were able to convince the indignant lady that Lily was something of a family card and her outspoken declaration was her way of being humorous.

Eventually even Mrs. Saint-Jean had laughed, although after lecturing Lily about the abhorrent sin of lying.

And Lily had played along, convincing her future “mother-in-law” that she really hadn’t meant a word of it.

“I won’t be held accountable for her safety if she blurts out whatever happens to be on her mind at any given moment.” Webb paced in front of Giles’s desk before depositing his agitated form into the wingback chair, his arms crossed over his chest and his legs stuck out like two exclamation points.

Smoothing her skirt, Lily tried her best to appear confused by all the fuss and rumpus around her.

“I have to agree with Webb, my lord,” Sophia added. “Lily is my sister, after all, and I would hate for anything to happen to her.”

Lily wondered how much truth there was in that. If anything, from Sophia’s sharply drawn eyebrows and tight smile, her elder sister was most likely mortified at her earlier performance, especially one displayed in front of near strangers.

“Well, I have to say, I was surprised myself at your imprudence, Lily,” Lord Dryden said to her. “This puts a different light on my confidence in you for this mission. I had thought you would be more like …”

He didn’t finish his sentence, but Lily knew what he wanted to say.

More like your sister.

Sophia. The always brilliant, the exceptionally daring and mostly perfect Sophia.

All she’d heard since she was old enough to toddle about was, “Why can’t you be more like Sophia?” Even when her sister had brought disgrace to the family, she had still been revered for her charm and manners.

Gads, how Lily hated always living in her sister’s overwhelming shadow.

Well, she wouldn’t be stuck in that unfavorable light much longer.

“I didn’t think it would be a problem, my lord,” Lily told him serenely. “Mrs. Saint-Jean is practically family. I truly find her the model of discretion.”

“Discretion?” Webb bounded up from the wingback chair. “The fact that this girl believes that long-winded harridan is anything close to discreet should be evidence enough that your plan won’t work. Taking Lily to Paris is like signing my death warrant. She’ll kill us both within a week, if we live that long.” He let out a loud, frustrated sigh before settling back down in the chair. He frowned at her, his hand absently rubbing his injured shoulder.

Lily had the good sense to look downcast, while at the same time holding her tongue against the biting desire to tell Webb Dryden a thing or two about discretion.

Lord Dryden leaned back in Giles’s chair, having once again commandeered the best seat in the room. He shook his head. “I don’t see what else we can do.”

Lily held her breath, for she hadn’t thought it would be this easy to convince everyone that she was utterly incompetent to be a spy. But her momentary thrill of success faded, as the very astute Lord Dryden continued.

“The reports I received early this morning are not good. The situation on the Continent grows more dire each day. This will mean doubling up her training and putting in extra time.” He paused for a moment and smiled at her. “You made a small mistake, but if you listen to Webb and your sister, you should come through this without any more of these mishaps.”

As all eyes turned on her with skeptical regard, Lily had the distinctly embarrassed feeling of being a new puppy who’d left an accident in the front hall.

Lord Dryden folded his hands on top of the desk. “The dressmaker arrives tomorrow. Sophia, I want you to choose her clothes,” the intractable Lord Dryden instructed. “Webb, you worked with de Chevenoy the closest and know his households and staff best. Work with Lily so she can walk through that house as if she’d grown up there. Then move on to the current situation in France.” He turned to Lily. “You attended a convent school, didn’t you?”

Lily shook her head. “I was enrolled to start at the one Sophia attended near Paris, but then …” She faltered, for she never really like discussing what had happened in her childhood, a childhood cut short by the Terror and relived more often than she cared to admit in the nightmares that plagued her sleep.

“Yes, well, of course, that was rather inconvenient,” he muttered. “We’ll only have to reconstruct the particulars of the classes at
Les Dames du Providence
where Adelaide would have spent her years.” He pulled a sheet of paper from the leather packet on the desk. “Yes, I have the curriculum here. You’ll need to be able to show competency in dancing, embroidery, and conversation.” He paused for a moment on the last one, frowning at the document in front of him. “Yes, we’ll definitely work on the conversation part. How is your dancing?”

“I’m not a very good dancer,” she admitted quite honestly, hopeful at last to have found something that would leave Lord Dryden no choice but to replace her.

“Dancing,” Lord Dryden informed her, “is all the rage in Paris. This just won’t do.” He glanced over his papers, until he found a rather tattered one. “Yes, here it is. It seems the celebrated master of the St. Pierre Theater, Monsieur Francois, spent much of the Revolution teaching at
Les Dames du Providence
, therefore it will be expected that Adelaide excel at this entertainment.” He sighed. “You’ll just have to learn.”

Now back in his usual position of delegating and ordering, Lord Dryden seemed perfectly at ease with the entire situation. “Giles, I have a number of dispatches that must be in London immediately; and we need to fetch someone from town who will be of great assistance to us. Order your fastest carriage sent around. We have only a fortnight to get this mission prepared. But I have every confidence each of you will put forth your best effort.”

Looking around the room from one glum face to another, Lily knew Lord Dryden was the only person in the study who held that optimistic conviction.

“No! No!
No
!” The last word came out with a painful cry of anguish. Monsieur Beauvoir, London’s finest dancing master, pounded his heavy cane down on the ballroom floor a fourth time.
The
dancing master to ladies of quality, the pinched face little man regarded his students as being only the luckiest disciples on the face of the earth to receive the blessed gift of his tutelage. “No, Mrs. Copeland, that is not where your feet should be. Don’t you remember? I explained this yesterday and—”

—and the day before that, and the day before that
, Lily mimicked silently, as the poor, beleaguered Frenchman turned his protests heavenward, lamenting his wretched fate in his native tongue.

Dancing master, bah! Torture master, Lily thought grimly, flexing her tired and battered toes encased once again in her despised dancing slippers.

“Now watch your
chère tante et moi
,” he instructed, holding out his hand to her aunt, Lady Larkhall, and signaling with a brief nod of his head to his ever-silent wife, stationed at the pianoforte, to begin to play.

Because of Sophia’s advanced pregnancy, Lady Larkhall had been mustered to come over to Byrnewood from her adjoining estate to act as the master’s partner. A more graceful and lovely dancer the halls of Byrnewood hadn’t seen for some time.

Meanwhile, Mme. Beauvoir’s fingers flew over the keys, the music issuing forth from the delicate pianoforte with military precision.

Now, as M. Beauvoir bowed to Lady Larkhall and then swept her into his arms, Lily could only marvel as the pair floated across the room, each step and movement perfect in both grace and harmony.

Every day since M. Beauvoir’s arrival, Lily had spent her mornings in the ballroom undergoing his exacting tutelage. A series of unfortunate partners had been drafted to aid in her lessons, including Giles, Lord Dryden, and eventually even several footmen, for each day her previous partner and his predecessors seemed to disappear as the clock neared the fateful hour.

This morning, when M. Beauvoir announced lessons were to begin, there had been a dearth of able male bodies in Byrnewood—the entire house seemed empty, every man and boy having scattered to the four corners of the vast estate to escape the painful possibility awaiting them in the ballroom.