Judith Ivory (16 page)

“Oh fine. Now I am the villain for
making
your damned husband attack me.”

“My
former
husband. Whom I don’t give a damn about. Only I hate to see you be so highhanded—”

“Highhanded?” A light rain had begun to fall. He stopped and pulled her back under the overhang of the building. Their carriage stood waiting in the street.

“Yes, highhanded. You can be so unlikable—”

“You want Richard to like me?”

“No.
I
want to like you. And I don’t, when you treat people as if—as if they were beneath your contempt.”

“Richard
is
beneath my contempt. And
not
because of my social position. He’s an ass.”

“He felt your title—”

“Because of his own narrow, little mind.”

“You used it.”

Adrien turned her by the arm. “Christina, I am not a democrat. Not by birthright, credo, or temperament. And with people like Richard, one is either above them or below. It’s better he sees me as above, is a little afraid, don’t you think?”

“No. It’s better for you to not indulge in such games.”

He heaved an impatient breath. “Damn it, the game interests you as much as anyone. You like sleeping with an earl.”

This caught her short. Her tone softened. “I used to,” she admitted. “But recently, it’s begun to annoy more than anything else.” She looked at him, deadly earnest. “The man himself has turned out to be more interesting than any title. But he can hide behind his name, I’ve discovered. Draw himself up and wrap himself in it like a mantle. When he is the earl, that is when I can reach him least.”

Adrien didn’t like this. His face clouded. He stared at her, troubled—the look of someone who is mildly insulted but unwilling to pursue the offending subject.

“Come on,” he murmured. “I still have the house to see to. And the bloody minister at Whitehall.”

It was almost laughable: On cue—Adrien raised his head and looked at them—servants brought a small canopy. He and Christina, along with the mass of her great dress, were sheltered from the rain as they made their way out to the carriage. Adrien handed her in, then sat on the opposite side.

It was a very comfortable coach, a plush interior. Polished brass handles. Soft cushions. Leather curtains, lined in velvet on the inside where one could touch their lovely folds. And it was a very lonely coach. Christina
sat back. On her side. She felt, that afternoon, more a prisoner than a passenger in the elegant world provided by the earl.

The remaining errands belonged to Adrien. He was closing up his London house for the winter, making arrangements for his long absence. He had to see to a number of things there: Draining the upstairs and downstairs plumbing—his London home was one of the first to acquire this innovative feature, so that the pipes wouldn’t burst with the first freeze. Draping over the furniture. Then packing off the last of his London staff; they were being sent on to Cornwall.

There were papers to sign at his banker’s. Also an appointment, which he seemed to find particularly disagreeable in prospect, with a king’s minister at Whitehall. Growing more and more bleak, he went through with it all—throwing Christina sullen looks, hardly saying anything. Even the weather seemed to side with him. The sky grew darker and darker. The drizzle burst into a downpour.

Late in the afternoon, a last incident rounded out the already bad day—though it was less the incident than Adrien’s reaction to it that annoyed Christina. Adrien was in one of the offices at Whitehall, talking to his “damned minister.” The outer room where Christina had been deposited was dusty and poorly ventilated. She’d begun to feel a little nauseous. So she had gone outside. And there, on the open street, she was knocked down. A nimble, beggarly-looking fellow charged out of a carriage alley and grabbed for her pocket.

Adrien came out just in time. At the sight of him, the fellow ran off. “My goodness,” Christina said as Adrien helped her to her feet, “am I glad to see you! Did you save my pocket?”

Adrien didn’t return her grateful smile. “If he was after your damned pocket.”

“What else—?”

“Perhaps Richard didn’t feel like waiting till I was completely out of the way.”

“Oh, honestly, Adrien.” She brushed off her skirts. “You are being so silly about Richard. I was accosted by a smalltime ruffian after my purse, nothing more—”

Adrien had walked to the edge of the pavement and, with a kick, put the purse at her feet. “Not very effectual, was he?”

Christina picked up the bag. It was a soggy wreck. She held it out.

“He was out to do you harm,” Adrien asserted.

She made a face. “I doubt it.”

“I don’t. Richard is angry, and ruffians like that can be hired for a tuppence.”

The notion seemed so ridiculous. “This is really too much. In three years Richard never raised a finger—”

“But he thought nothing of sending others, lawyers, after you and after every cent you ever possessed.”

“You are frightening me.”

“Good. Perhaps I can frighten a little sense into you. You are going to have to be very cautious while I am gone, Christina.”

She paused to consider this, then shook her head. “No, I lived in London a long time. It was an everyday pocket-thief. Richard would do me no physical harm.”

But Adrien’s expression insisted he would. “Fine.” He drew an exasperated breath. “But it is such a pretty neck. And, in four days, I won’t be here to protect it.”

The carriage bumped and joggled. That had been the primary sensation since sunset. Rolling, kidney-shaped movement. Christina looked forward to the moment when the motion would stop at the front door of the Kewischester house.

She rested her head back. Adrien’s shoulder was there. After stewing for the first several miles out of London, he had shifted, finally, over to where she sat. At present, his arm lay around her, loose, relaxed. She suspected he was asleep. Then, as the carriage turned and followed the road, moonlight came through a crack in the window curtain. A slice of light swept across his face. She saw him close his eyes in response.

“What time is it?” she asked.

She felt him turn toward her. “It will be at least an hour more. Why don’t you go back to sleep?”

“I wish we could stop. I wouldn’t mind a few moments alone with a chamber pot.”

“There’s an inn not too far away.” He paused. His voice was comforting. Low, smooth. Right by her ear. “In fact,” he continued, “I was thinking of asking if
you’d mind stopping. There’s a card game there tonight.”

“A card game?” She’d never met, she thought irritably, anyone with such a taste for social life. She shifted forward, away from him, to pull her wrap up around herself. “No, of course not, I don’t mind.”

He needed no further encouragement. He tapped sharply on the back of the carriage. The small window above slid open, and the face of John, the young footman, was lit by bouncing moonlight.

Adrien raised his voice slightly. “The Three Rose Inn.”

There was a quick acknowledgment, and the window closed.

Half an hour later, Adrien was handing her out of the velvet interior of his coach, then carrying her over the mud: It was not exactly the sort of place Christina had been expecting.

They had stopped at a large wood-framed structure, well off the beaten path. It was an inn, but it seemed a mystery how it survived as one—except that it catered, rather royally, to the Earl of Kewischester.

As they entered, a stocky woman came bustling in from a back room, wiping her hands on an apron tied around her ample waist. “Ai!” She gave Adrien a strong hug.
“Mais tu es en avance, mon cher.”
She called over her shoulder,
“André! André! Adrien est déjà là! Viens tout de suite!”

Adrien had set Christina down in a bright, warm-looking foyer. She gave him a suspicious look as he took her wrap. The woman had just told him he was early. She’d been expecting him.

A small, wiry-looking man came out to them from the same far doorway. He and Adrien exchanged greetings, slaps on the back. Adrien introduced him as the owner of the inn.

“Enchanté, mademoiselle.”
The little man took her hand
and kissed it. He, too, had on an apron, was covered in flour. Yet he held himself with great dignity.

“We’d have a late supper, if we could, André. In the room?”

The innkeeper smile.
“Bien sûr. Ce que tu voudras, mon ami. Ah, pardon, mademoiselle.”
He turned to Christina; he had apparently noticed her discomfort. With an accent so bad it could only be real, he asked, “You speak ze French, yes?”

She shook her head. “No, not well. And it’s
Madame.
“

“Ah la la.” He shot Adrien a look as he led the way upstairs. “I hope I see no
furieux
husband here tonight.”

“No, we left the furious husband back in London,” Adrien answered. “No one else is here yet?”

“
Non.
You are the first.”

The room into which they were shown was large and cheerful, furnished in roughhewn country furniture, with homemade curtains and bedcovers. It was friendly, welcoming. And, Christina noted, there was brandy—the Calvados Adrien preferred—by the bedstead.

The innkeeper left them. Christina took off her hat. “Do you come here often?” she asked Adrien.

“It’s one of the two or three places nearby that has good food, good liquor.” And good bedrooms, she thought. “And good tables,” he continued. “It draws a peaceable crowd capable of paying their card debts. And then, André and his wife are a nice sort.”

“They certainly seem to like you.”

“They like anyone with whom they can talk about France. The old days. He was once part of the king’s staff there. Before the new regime. And,” he added quietly, “I loaned him the money to buy this property. I think that has made me something of a hero in his eyes.”

“Judging by the number of guests, that
was
a rather heroic gesture. It doesn’t seem like a very good investment.”

Adrien threw a mischievous look as he poured some Calvados. “I have made other loans, it seems to me, without very good collateral. Would you like some brandy?”

She had always refused the brandy on previous occasions, but she nodded,
yes,
this time. It was an act of rebellion; a bid to be less predictable. She was feeling just a little taken for granted. He hadn’t stopped here for her. He had stopped for a bloody card game. And he had planned it.

He registered no surprise, but poured her a small glass of the liquor. Christina took it. She sat and cupped the brandy glass in her palms, staring into it. The fumes burned her eyes, but it did smell nice. It smelled like apples. She took a sip. Then opened her eyes wide and tried to clear her throat. This developed into a sputter and cough as the fumes were carried into her lungs.

“My God,” she rasped, “I thought it would be sweet.”

“No. It’s quite like cognac.” Adrien thumped her back, smiling, puzzled. “What’s gotten into you?” he asked. “You don’t seem the least bit pleased we’ve stopped.”

“You stopped to play cards.” She threw him an accusing look as she got up. She went behind the screen to find the chamber pot. And hide.

Her eyes watered. Her pride stung. It was foolish for her to be upset. She knew it. But he had been gloomy company in London. He had hardly spoken two words in the dismal ride out of the city. And now he took it for granted that she would stay in this room with him. So much for granted that he intended to have dinner, then play cards until God knew when, leaving her up here alone.

“I stopped because you asked it,” he called to her over the privacy screen.

She wouldn’t answer.

Supper came. The wine, the strange concoctions and confections from the kitchen which she knew to be delicacies of French cuisine. Yet, she couldn’t eat. Adrien, on the other hand, ate well. He poured out the last of the wine, filling both their glasses, then leaned back as he pushed aside his clean plate.

“So what is it, Christina?” he asked. “Are you getting your menses? What? Or is it that you don’t like my going down to the card game?”

“We’re not married. You can do as you like.”

“Oof—” He rolled his eyes and made a mock grimace, as if he’d received a blow. “Always very bad when the lady mentions you’re not married.” He reached for her hand.

She withdrew it.

“Actually,” he said, “I could probably limit my interest downstairs to an hour or two. It’s more business than pleasure. Christina,” he spoke in a sincere tone, “they are expecting me. I was going to take you home, then come back. But it just seemed so much nicer to have you with me. It means”—he ran his finger along her arm—“I can make love to you now, take care of what I need to downstairs, then come back and sleep with you all night. It means I don’t have to be away from you so much.”

He pushed the small dinner table from between them and drew her—with some opposition—onto his lap. “Shall I,” he whispered, “get you ready for bed? Tuck you in?” His hand had already begun with the tiny buttons down the front of her dress.

“Damn it, Adrien. Oh—” He leaned his face, his mouth against her bare bosom. “I wish I could be more sure of how you felt.” She stopped him by taking his face into her hands, making him look at her. “You know you never give me more than bits and pieces of yourself. And you leave me alone a great deal of the time. For
card games. For God knows what else. Why do you never tell me you love me?”

She felt his spine straighten. As if he might dump her on the ground in his haste to get up. But he restrained himself. Instead, he tried to kiss her mouth. She pulled back—it was so obvious what he was doing. She laughed.

Then he did push her off, gently. He stood. “Thank you very much.”

“You were trying to divert the conversation.”

“I was trying to kiss you.” He looked around, his hand feeling the front of his vest, looking for something.

“They’re in your coat.”

He gave her a look; mild alarm. As if she had read his mind, trespassed. Then he picked up his coat and found his packet of cigars. “I hear people downstairs,” he said. “Perhaps I should go down.”

“All right.”

She was going to let him off without a fuss. For now. But when he came back up, there would be no excuses. No reprieve. This very nice room—not quite so much his territory as everywhere else she had spent the night with him—was the place where she would make her stand. If he was going to leave in four days—if she was going to wait for him—she was going to hear the word “love” from his lips. She was either going to be the avowed special woman in his life, or a woman at the beginning of a new life she would create on her own. She would not be left to watch and worry and wonder….

It always worried Adrien when she became quiet and agreeable. It inevitably meant trouble was brewing beneath the pretty exterior of Christina Pinn.

She was, he lamented as he came down the stairs,
such a miserably independent creature. In a way, he supposed, he counted on this. There would be no depression, no tantrum upstairs because he left. Just as she accepted his more lengthy and distant departures. She was a resourceful woman, capable of amusing herself. But, on the other hand, this independence could be a nuisance. He never knew exactly what she was thinking, exactly what to expect. Except that he could expect her ideas to be her own, not easily subject to his own views or wishes. Damn the woman, anyway.

Adrien was cursing her as he opened the door to the inn’s back room. The familiar atmosphere greeted him. Smoky, warm—a generous fire crackled in the huge stone fireplace. His presence was noted; the jovial talk of the room quieted to a more serious tenor.

André. Thomas. Charles. He spotted Samuel Rolfeman among the other half dozen. Adrien grimaced. Damn her, he thought; damn Christina to hell and back. Why did she have to be in this particular mood tonight? When he knew already there was a rather difficult idea he wanted to sell her before the night was out? He wanted to leave Sam behind, to act as her bodyguard. He didn’t expect her to love the notion. She would view it as an unnecessary encumbrance. But he wanted to talk protection, practical matters. And she wanted to talk love. He made a sour face.

“What’s wrong with you?” Thomas moved a dish, already half-full of ashes, to the corner of the table by an empty chair. “I understand you brought Christina. Do you think that’s wise?”

“It’s fine. She’s upstairs. She’ll go to sleep.”

“Couldn’t be away from her for one night?”

“There’s only four nights left.”

Thomas made a grim tilt of his head. “Ah, love.”

“Or lust.” Adrien looked Thomas directly in the face. “She appeals to me in bed like no woman has in a long time.” He smiled. “Her body is heaven, Thomas.”

Thomas dropped his eyes.

It was, Adrien knew, a distinctly unkind thing to say to his friend.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that Thomas did not like Adrien’s sleeping with Christina Pinn. He wouldn’t admit it. In fact, he even spoke up for it when Adrien was criticized by the others: Better the woman they’d chased down in the woods had a lover among them—a stake in their secrecy and survival—than she retained her former hostility. Yet, on another level, Adrien knew Thomas did not like his fooling with Christina.

Yet, fool with her, he would. Adrien thought it best that Thomas understand this.

Adrien smiled as he reached into his inside vest pocket. “She’s not suffering, you know, Thomas. She’s exactly where she wants to be.”

“Yes.” Thomas remained glum.

Adrien dropped a folded sheet of paper on the table and sat down. He addressed the others as they gathered around. “The new man, Cabrel, got this for us. I think it’s good, but of course someone has to go in and check it first.” He unfolded the paper. It was a detailed map of an underground network of passages in the abbey at Limoigne.

There were no cards that night. Only a group of very intent players.

Adrien, with these men, was planning yet another rescue, of aristos being held in detention at Limoigne. In every respect, he knew he shouldn’t have been doing so. This month, the French had doubled the amount offered for information leading to his capture. Claybourne, the English Minister of Foreign Affairs, still didn’t know that Adrien was at the heart of the “unofficial English embarrassment over the French prison raids.” Claybourne continued to send Adrien out chasing after his own shadow. But the voices, the plaintive
cries for help from the relatives and friends of those incarcerated were increasing. Adrien found it difficult to turn his back on them. He already knew a dozen old friends or acquaintances in France, as well as a score of his grandfather’s peers, who had made the trip from a prison to the guillotine. Adrien intended to keep his grandfather’s name off that list by putting it on another: He wanted his grandfather to be among those brought from France this next trip. Adrien wanted Edward Claybourne’s grip on him—via the threat against his grandfather’s life—rendered useless, cut at the nerve.

Philippe de La Fontaine, Adrien’s grandfather, believed he lived freely in Paris. He went about his business, bought his groceries, wrote his slightly dotty letters that somehow made it across the channel, complained of his failing memory, his health, his neglectful grandson. He harmed no one. And saw no reason why anyone should harm him. Adrien had tried to explain—without making the old gentleman too much a party to Adrien’s own proscribed activities—that he was very much at risk under the present regime in France. The elderly aristocrat belonged in England where a title—Adrien’s in this instance—would protect rather than threaten.