Chapter 2
CHAPTER 2
“ Y ou came.”
“Did you doubt that I would?” Jack slid into the empty seat at the tiny table tucked in the shadows of the coffeehouse.
Camille looked down into her cup. “I—I don’t know what to think these days,” she said in a low voice. “Or feel.”
“Then let me help you sort things out.” He leaned forward, quelling the desire to reach out and place a reassuring hand on her cheek. The murky light couldn’t hide the familiar shape of her face or the fine-boned features that made her so achingly lovely.
Swallowing hard, he forced his eyes away from the curve of her jaw. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
“I—I hardly know where to start.”
His lips quirked upward for an instant. “In my experience, it’s always best to start at the beginning.”
“Ah, oui . The beginning.” She tucked a curl of her honey-colored hair behind her ear. “ Mon Dieu , that seems like a century ago.”
Though a whirl of questions was spinning inside his head, he remained silent, giving her a chance to compose her thoughts.
“And yet, it was only shortly after you left us that disaster struck. Our regiment was retreating with Soult’s forces, and Pierre was ordered to hold off the British advance guard while the rest of the army crossed through a treacherous mountain pass.” She lifted her coffee cup to her lips but put it down without tasting a drop. “Your troops outnumbered us and forced us to fall back. In the confusion, Pierre was captured.”
“Was he injured?” Jack was ashamed of himself for feeling a stirring of hope somewhere deep within the most primitive part of his being.
Camille shook her head. “ Non. At least that is what we were told. Word came from Soult’s staff that he was being taken to England with the other prisoners of rank.”
“That is good news,” he replied. It was now clear as to why she was in England. “Captured officers give their parole and are allowed to live very comfortably in their assigned town—as long as they keep their word and don’t try to escape. It’s all very civilized.”
“Yes, so I have been told,” she murmured.
“As for arranging his release, it shouldn’t be difficult to negotiate an exchange of prisoners?—”
“But that is the trouble,” interrupted Camille. “You see, Pierre seems to have vanished. No one in authority seems to know anything about his whereabouts!”
“Vanished?” Jack frowned. “That’s impossible. There are reams of official paperwork kept?—”
“ Poof! ” Camille fluttered her graceful hands, her rings setting off a momentary explosion of emerald light against the rough-plastered wall. “The clerks at Horse Guards insist there is no record of his existence.”
That made no sense. Unless, of course, her husband had perished during the sea voyage and the report from the Navy had not yet reached the right desk in the warren of government offices...
Again, Jack quelled the ugly little longing stirred by the thought. Pierre had been a friend.
“Alas, cheri , the truth is, things have become terribly tangled. You see, it turns out Pierre has influential enemies within the Royalist exiles here in England. They think that he has betrayed his heritage for siding with the Revolution.”
“Pierre is an aristocrat?” Jack hadn’t been aware of that.
“A minor cadet branch—but yes, he comes from a very old and respected family of the ancient regime.” Camille placed her palms on the table and leaned in close—close enough that he could see the tears pearled on her golden lashes. “I’m afraid for him, Jack. And I don’t know whom to trust. The diplomats of my own government have warned me to have no contact with the Royalists. Yet I’ve received a message that the only hope I have of seeing Pierre alive is to negotiate with them.”
“So that was who you were meeting with last night.”
She nodded.
“What do they want?” asked Jack. “Money? If so, you need not worry. I am a very wealthy man.”
“You are too kind, cheri . But no, it’s not money. Since you ask for the truth...” Her lips quivered. “They know of our connection to you.” A pause while she took a deep breath to still the trembling.
“Go on,” he urged, when it seemed she might not continue.
“You must understand, I... I never meant to contact you.”
“Damnation, Camille.” He touched her hand, just for an instant. “We are friends. You must tell me everything.”
She hesitated, then expelled a sigh. “They seem to think you might, on account of your connections in the war ministry, know certain information that you would be willing to share with me.”
A single teardrop fell as she blinked, and he watched it slowly meander down the soft curve of her cheek before asking, “What sort of information?”
“Nothing really secret. Just a general sense of what the feeling is between England and her allies—who wields the real power, who is bickering with whom, that sort of thing. The Royalists are anxious to play a role in Continental politics if Napoleon should fall, but to do so they need to know... on which side their bread is buttered.”
Jack drummed his fingers on the tabletop, suddenly recalling Harriet’s earlier angry observation. Damned if I do, damned if I don’t. For a moment he was disappointed that Camille would suggest such a thing, even obliquely. But then, he reminded himself that he had insisted.
And she was desperate.
“I’m not sure you understand the intricacies of international diplomacy,” he replied. “To pass on any sort of information I hear from a well-placed friend, especially to a foreign group, would be a betrayal of confidence at the very least, and perhaps worse.”
Her eyes widened at the word ‘betrayal’. “Oh, you cannot think I meant to ask you...”
“No,” he said gently. “Of course not. But now you understand why, even for you and Pierre, it’s not something I could ever contemplate.” He shifted in his seat, trying to discern what emotions were rippling in the depths of her hazel eyes. “What I can do is make inquiries with the senior officials at Horse Guards regarding Pierre. I will find him?—”
“No. I dare not,” she whispered.
“I will be discreet.”
“No.” The word had an edge of panic to it. “Promise me you won’t go to the British authorities.”
He drew a measured breath. “Very well. If that is what you wish.”
“It is.” She looked away. “Indeed, I-I think it best that you simply forget all about meeting me.”
“I can’t do that,” said Jack flatly. “You dragged me back from the dead—you both did. Both my conscience and my sense of honor demand that I not turn my back and walk away.”
Camille touched a fleeting caress to the back of his hand, then drew back. “But I am giving you no choice.”
There is always an infinite range of choices in life, he thought. The world was rarely painted in stark hues of black and white.
“Where are you staying?” he asked after another few moments of awkward silence.
“I can’t tell you that.” She expelled a ragged sigh. “The situation is far more complicated than you know, Jack.”
He had no illusions about how deeply the tangled web of intrigue was woven into every crack and crevasse of London. Every foreign power had agents spinning plots, and no matter his own feelings on the matter, here on English soil, she would be seen as the enemy.
“At least agree to another meeting with me,” he demanded. “You may change your mind about what I have offered.” Perhaps it was cruel, but he pressed on. “Or have things changed for you.”
Camille paled.
“Tomorrow,” he pressed.
“No, the day after,” came her reply. “In the evening, rather than the bright light of day.” She glanced around nervously before drawing the appointed hour on the table with her finger rather than saying it aloud.
“I’ll be here,” said Jack. As she rose to take her leave, he added, “And if you’re not, I’ll assume some misfortune has befallen you and will turn the city inside out to find you.”
“I’ll be here,” she echoed.
Before he could say more, Camille had melted away into the shadows, leaving naught but a faint trace of her perfume.
The discussion on educational reforms was utterly fascinating, and yet Harriet was having a devil of a time trying to keep her mind from wandering.
“...and that is the list of subjects I would demand that girls be taught,” finished her hostess. “Have you any to add, Miss Farnam?”
“Hmm?” She snapped to attention at the sound of her name. “Er, what was that?”
“Lady Catherine asked if you would like to sail to the moon in a spun sugar gondola,” answered Miss Breville, a scholarly Bluestocking. Her long, serious face betrayed the hint of a rare smile.
“Pulled by a matched pair of gold and purple unicorns,” added Mrs. Griffin. For a minister’s wife, she possessed a very whimsical sense of humor as well as strong organizational skills.
“Your thoughts appear to have traveled far past the moon and all the way to Uranus,” quipped Lady Catherine. “Might I ask just what has you so preoccupied?”
“Men,” admitted Harriett with a huff of disgust.
Mrs. Currough, the notorious Irish Beauty—and London’s leading courtesan—gave a knowing nod. “They are, to be sure, difficult creatures, Miss Farnum. You see, dogs and horses may be trained to obey simple commands.” She gave a playful wink. “Men are not nearly so clever.”
A titter of laughter ran through the room.
“The key is not to fall in love with them.”
“I’ve no intention of falling in love,” she assured the Irish Beauty. “Besides, I’m not the sort who would ever inspire a sonnet. I’m outspoken and I’m... unattractive.”
“Hmmm.” Mrs. Currough tapped at her chin and subjected Harriet to a lengthy scrutiny. “Actually, you’re quite wrong. With a different hairstyle, and a gown designed to flaunt your physical assets rather than hiding them under a proverbial bush, you would have men swooning at your feet.”
“Ha!” muttered Harriet. “There is an old adage that says one can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”
“You might be surprised,” countered Mrs. Currough with an enigmatic smile.
Betty McNulty, who in her persona as the flamboyant Madame Deauville ran one of London’s most exclusive dressmaker’s shops, nodded in agreement. “Colors, textures, what to drape and what to bare—beauty is often a well-crafted illusion.”
Harriet frowned. “But?—”
“She’s right,” agreed Lady Catherine. “There are, of course, a few ladies—a very few—who are blessed from birth with the looks of a Greek Goddess. But for the rest of us, an artful hand and eye must help augment our natural gifts, such as they are.”
“Very true.” Mrs. Currough set aside her cup of tea. After cocking her head at several different angles, she said, “Stand up and slowly turn around, Miss Farnum.”
“Absolutely not!”
“Oh, go ahead, Harriet,” urged Miss Ashmun.
“We are here to discuss serious subjects,” she protested. “Not indulge in frivolous fripperies.”
“Men and women, and what draws them together, is a very serious subject,” asserted Mrs. Currough.
Harriet was rarely at a loss for words, but she could think of no rejoinder.
“Come, don’t be shy. This will be very educational for all of us,” murmured Lady Catherine.
“Very well. I feel like the veriest of fools, but am willing to provide an interlude of amusement for everyone.” Shaking out her skirts, she rose from the sofa and self-consciously stepped to the center of the drawing room.
“Head up, shoulders back, spine straight as steel,” murmured Mrs. Currough. “No matter how vulnerable you feel, you must always enter a room like you own it.”
Harriet gingerly raised her chin.
“Higher,” commanded Mrs. Currough. “You may not have been born a princess, but you can act like one.”
One of the other ladies present turned to a fresh page in her notebook and surreptitiously jotted down a few lines.
Strangely enough, Harriet did feel slightly regal as she drew herself up to her full height.
“There, you see how the ribcage is elongated, and the bosom presses outward,” explained Mrs. Currough. “Every woman looks more elegant, more refined when she isn’t afraid to stand tall.” She rose and made several slight adjustments to Harriet’s posture. “And with the shoulders set back, instead of hunched forward, the arch of the neck is accentuated.”
A murmur of assent sounded, followed by more whispers of pencils scribbling on paper.
“Now kindly take a few steps, Miss Farnum.”
Harriet did as she was asked.
Mrs. McNulty winced. “You are not carrying coals from Newcastle, dearie. Be a little lighter on your feet. Try to glide, not stomp.”
For the next quarter hour, Harriet was poked, prodded and paraded around the room as, much to the edification of the rest of the group, Mrs. Currough shared her expertise on how to appear alluring to men.
“Oh, this has been very enlightening,” remarked Miss Ashmun. “Er, might we have another session on this topic at the end of next week’s meeting?”
The suggestion was greeted with great enthusiasm from the other group members.
“Perhaps Mrs. Currough should think of writing a book on the social graces—The Courtesan’s Guide to Capturing a Gentleman’s Eye,” suggested Lady Catherine with a smile.
“I am happy to reveal my secrets to my friends, but as for a wider audience...” The Irish Beauty let out a low-throated chuckle. “There should remain an air of mystery to what makes a lady alluring, don’t you think?”
Be mysterious. Harriet added that nugget of wisdom to the others she had committed to memory. Loath as she was to admit it, the lesson had been very interesting. She had always equated the notion of ‘charm’ with silly, simpering flirtation, but apparently, it was far more nuanced than that.
As for the physical aspects...
She smoothed at her gown, suddenly aware of the frills and flounces that did little to complement her figure. Perhaps—just perhaps—she would take up Mrs. McNulty’s generous offer and pay a visit to Madame Deauville’s establishment.
In the meantime, she could practice the advice to “glide, not stomp” later that evening. She had promised her close friend, Lady Theodora Bingham, to accompany her to Lord and Lady Sage’s ball. And while neither of them would have any invitations to dance, sharing her new knowledge in the shadowed corner of the room where the informal League of Wallflowers gathered would provide a perfect way to while away the boring hours.