The Songbird's Seduction (27 page)

He
saw her.

Even if he didn’t want to see her. Nothing good could come of his seeing her.

She smiled at him, a little shy, immensely gratified. “You’re a nice man, Archie.”

No one had ever called him a nice man. Sometimes Lionel cautioned him that he became too emotionally attached to the subjects he was studying, but he called it “unprofessional,” not “nice.” His pulse quickened and a mad sort of apprehension seized him.

No. No, no, no.

He hopped off the back of the wagon.

“What are you doing?” she called back, startled.

“God only knows.”

“You’ve already been far too kind to us,” Lavinia said, determined to resist Marjorie’s all-too-tempting offer. She perched on the end of the settee in her friend’s hotel room as Marjorie carefully packed her extravagant costumes between scented sheets of tissue paper.

She wished she could have seen Marjorie’s performance at the theatre last night—the manager at the hotel had kissed his fingertips in tribute to their new friend this morning when they’d come down for breakfast—but there had been no last-minute seats available.

“Kindness, piffle,” Marjorie said, waving the air as though to clear it of something distasteful. “I am being utterly selfish, my dear.”

“Yes. Just as selfishness prompted you to lend me your beautiful dress after seeing how clumsily I stained my own in Saint-Malo.”

“First of all, the stain was not your fault and second of all, it is not a loan. It is a gift.” She looked a little taken aback as she spoke, as though she hadn’t intended to say any such thing.

Still, Lavinia flushed. “I could not accept such generosity.”

“Once again, you mistake me for a far better . . . person than
I am. The dress suits you more than it ever did me. How could I wear it again, knowing it looks better on another woman? My vanity would not stand for it.”

Lavinia suspected Marjorie was only attempting to persuade her, but secretly, she agreed. The little threads of shimmering graphite shooting through the soft orchid-colored material kept it from being too
jeune fille
. Instead, the color made her gray hair look silvery and lent her skin a radiant glow. The easy drape of the material concealed the less salubrious effects of time on her figure yet accentuated the posture her parents had so rigorously imposed on their daughters.

And the hat—oh! that ridiculous, extravagant, silly hat, with the shadow of its wide brim softening the lines time had etched in her face, and the crowning heap of ribbon, net, and feathers that lent her height! While she knew that words like “pretty” or “beautiful” would never truly apply to her looks, in Mrs. Martin’s clothing she thought she might be called handsome.

And she liked it.

She liked it very much.

She was not so humble that she hadn’t noticed the covert expressions of admiration on some men’s faces when she walked by, or the glint of critical appreciation in the eye of certain well-disposed madames . . . She gave up all thoughts of returning the gown or hat.

“I can’t think what to say other than thank you.”

Marjorie smiled happily. “You’re welcome. Now all we need is for you to agree to come to Bergerac for me to be happy. Don’t you want to see the town that gave its name to one of theatre’s most memorable lovers?”

“Cyrano?”

“The very same.”

“You must know how much we would like to, but I don’t see how we can. We have to wait here for Lucy.”

“I understand, my dear. But the fact is, we don’t know where Lucy is.” She sank down next to Lavinia and secured her hands in her large, gloved ones. “The telegrams I have received in reference to my inquiries have been very confusing. We only know that she disembarked from the ferry at Saint-Malo. After that . . .” She shook her head.

“But she checked into the hotel.”

“
Someone
checked into the hotel. It is all most suspicious. However, I strongly suspect that that miserable little innkeeper Navarre is attempting to hold us up for someone else’s unpaid bill.”

Lavinia started in shock.

Marjorie nodded grimly. “From what I can piece together from Navarre’s histrionic telegrams, a girl he mistook for Lucy Eastlake came in accompanied by a man. The pair of them proceeded to tally up a sizeable bill, not only at the hotel’s restaurant but elsewhere, then decamped in the middle of the night.”

“How awful!”

Marjorie blew out a long, low sigh. Whether she was sighing over Mr. Navarre’s gullibility or the iniquitousness of the young woman posing as Lucy, was impossible to say.

“But why should this girl pretend to be Lucy? And how would she know to pretend in the first place?” Lavinia asked.

“I have it all worked out,” Marjorie said going from aggrieved to chipper in the blink of an eye. “
I
think this girl was an English adventuress. Who knows what duplicitous scheme she originally intended. But when she walked into the hotel Mr. Navarre, recognizing her nationality, jumped to his own conclusion. Very likely, he asked her if she was ‘Miss Eastlake’ for whom he was holding a room.”

Lavinia’s eyes grew round.

“The adventuress, seeing an opportunity to dine well at someone else’s expense, went along with his assumption.” Marjorie’s eyes narrowed knowingly. “As did her male companion. Whoever
he
was. Which is another reason I do not think this young woman could possibly be Lucy. Can you imagine Lucy being squired about France by some strange man?”

“Good heavens, no!” breathed Lavinia, shocked to her core. “But I can scarce believe an Englishwoman could act so wickedly.”

“It’s sad but true,” Marjorie said, discreetly adjusting the fit of her bodice, “Girls are simply not what they used to be.”

“But if what you surmise is true,
where is Lucy?
”

“It’s hard to say, but I could well imagine Lucy coming into the hotel at some later point and making inquiries of some person other than Mr. Navarre. Perhaps a night clerk. Upon discovering we were gone and there being no rooms available, she went elsewhere. We simply don’t know.”

“But then we should go back to Saint-Malo and find her!”

“My darling, once she realized you were gone, she would have no reason to stay. She would assume that you had gone on to Saint-Girons and be traveling there to meet you, which is just what I suggest we do.”

“
We?
” Lavinia asked, hardly daring to believe her ears.

“Yes. As soon as I have completed my little performance in Bergerac.”

“Oh, Marjorie!” Lavinia squeezed the broad hand covering hers, touched by this show of kindness.

“If you say I am too kind once more I shall be forced to propose myself for sainthood, which will interfere greatly with my career, sainthood and the stage being mutually exclusive. And
you
shall be responsible for having disappointed the vast unwashed rural population of France. Not to mention Paris.”

Lavinia smiled at her nonsense. “Dear Marjorie, we couldn’t impose.”

“Why not?” At the sound of Bernice’s voice, the two ladies looked around to find Bernice standing in the doorway adjoining
their two suites. At night Marjorie had courteously kept it closed tight so that when she returned from her performance at the theatre she hadn’t disturbed them.

“Where have you been?” Lavinia asked.

Bernice beamed happily. “I was touring the ruins of a thirteenth century abbey just outside of town. Fascinating stuff. Then I popped in to the cathedral. Papist, I know, but still . . . The choir was singing compline. It was transcendent!”

Somewhere in the last few days, Bernice had emerged as an inveterate sightseer, always ferreting out some obscure museum or local attraction or other, rambling about here and there, returning tired but invigorated by her solitary explorations. Lavinia had never suspected her sister’s interest in travel. As far as she could remember, Bernice had never once suggested she wanted to step foot out of their little town, let alone England.

Now, stomping the leaves from her feet, she peered around brightly from beneath the unexpectedly jaunty little red toque perched atop her head and said, “I don’t see what good staying here will do us, Lavinia. Marjorie is undoubtedly correct in assuming Lucy will be heading for Saint-Girons. So that is where we must go.”

“You’re both probably right.”

“In which case, I suppose we had best take Lucy’s things with us once more.”

Lavinia nodded. “I don’t see there’s any choice.”

“I’ll tell you what,” Marjorie said. “Though I am sure everything is fine—Lucy is one of the most resourceful young ladies of my acquaintance—just in case she does find her way to Châtellerault, we shall leave a letter for her here at the hotel.”

Lavinia blew out a soft sigh of relief, satisfied. Marjorie was right; Lucy was an exceptionally capable young woman.

“Good,” said Bernice. “The only question now is whether to accept Marjorie’s generous offer to accompany us. While of course
we would delight in her company, we mustn’t be selfish and interfere with her scheduled performances.”

“Of course not!” Lavinia exclaimed, turning to Marjorie. “We would never allow you to disappoint your public for our sake.”

“Never!” Bernice added.

“My dears,” Marjorie said, smiling munificently. “If I may? After tomorrow I
have
no performances until next week. You are to meet in Saint-Girons on Monday, which leaves plenty of time for me to travel from there to Toulouse where I am next scheduled to appear.

“And really, I am being utterly sincere when I say I would be delighted to go with you. The thespian in me is enthralled!” She surged to her feet. “It’s a story tailor-made for the stage, darlings! A valiant and doomed boy hero arrives with a saddlebag full of mysterious rubies—”

“It was only a pouch, not a saddlebag.”

Marjorie’s mouth puckered with disappointment but then she rallied. “Pouch, you say? All right.” She clasped one hand to her bosom, lifting her other arm as though sighting along it and peering dreamily into the past. “He arrives with a pouch of mysterious rubies which he then cavalierly leaves behind with the entrenched and desperate survivors of a siege.

“Thus ensues the tale of a fifty-year-old pact, ill-starred lovers”—at this Bernice shot a startled glace at Lavinia, who pinked up—Marjorie was such a sympathetic listener—“their unexpected and dramatic rescue, and the would-be lovers’ final parting. Then, years later, the unexpected bequest from the Englishman to the valiant lady he once obviously admired. Monday will provide the final act.” She sighed rapturously before her gaze snapped to Lavinia and Bernice. “Please. You really
must
allow me to come with you!”

“This is, how they say, the end of the line,” Luca told Lucy flatly while around them the rest of the caravan watched with oblique interest. “Even though you have not paid me a
sou
, out of the generosity of my heart I have fed you lunch, I have driven you and your whatever he is—clearly not your lover, a lover would not walk five miles when he could be with you—all the way to Lamergeaux. Again, out of the generosity of my heart and with no hope of recompense. Why? Because I am a French gentleman.” He turned to his troupe, inviting their appreciation.

“You’re Romani.”

Luca did not deny it. Instead, his chin notched even higher. “Ah. But
French
Romani. You cannot say you were ill-served at my hands.” He stared at her.

“No. I could not and would not.”

“Good, then we are finished.”

She glanced over her shoulder, hoping to spy Archie. Revelers and merrymakers, peddlers, food vendors, and entertainers crowded
the little market town’s central square, all come to partake of the annual harvest festival. Archie was nowhere to be seen.

She’d spotted him earlier when they’d first stopped but since then he’d disappeared. She didn’t worry that he’d abandoned her; his having sprouted wings and flown away was more likely. He simply wasn’t the sort of man who could leave a woman stranded on her own, no matter how much he might want to.

Something painful twisted in the vicinity of her heart. She might well deserve it if he did. She blew out a quick, steadying breath. No use crying over spilt milk. What was done, was done.