Chapter 6
CHAPTER 6
A frown formed between Jack’s brows as he ran his gaze over the supper room for the second time. Harriet had said she would be here, and unlike so many flighty females, she could always be counted on to do what she said she would.
So where the devil is she?
The notes of a country reel drifted out from the adjoining drawing room, giving some hint as to the answer. Circling around the refreshment tables, he was heading to the doorway when a stout matron, her billowing gown flapping like the topgallants of a ship of the line, sailed in to block his way.
“Lord Leete! How wonderful to see you! Why, the news of your return to England was nothing short of miraculous. I am in alt that you survived. Everyone in Town is.”
“Thank you, Lady Keating,” replied Jack, trying to edge sideways to slip around her considerable bulk.
She moved with surprising dexterity. “I believe you know my daughters.”
It was only now that he noticed she had two young ladies in tow.
“Arabella, Margaret, make your curtsies to the London’s most valiant hero,” commanded their mother before he could respond.
Gritting his teeth, Jack greeted the giggling pair.
“I vow, you are the talk of the ton , sir.” Lady Keating winked. “The words on everyone’s lips are handsome and heroic. Isn’t that true, girls?”
More likely, the words were rich, titled, and available. Over the past few months he had come to feel some sympathy for a fox being pursued by a pack of hounds. Mamas with unwed daughters were even more relentless when it came to running an eligible husband to ground.
More giggles sounded from the young ladies.
Hell’s teeth, how he hated the schoolgirl simperings of the misses on the Marriage Mart. After the searing intensity of wartime—the joys, the fears, the horrors—their conversation seemed so supremely silly. He knew it wasn’t their fault, and yet...
“La, you must promise to attend my ball next week!” went on Lady Keating. “I shall be sure to have the first waltz played in your honor.”
“How kind,” he responded, adding a few more polite platitudes while sliding toward the gap between two brocade armchairs. “And now, if you will excuse me...”
This time he managed to outmaneuver her and hurried on his way. Ignoring two other greetings, Jack ducked through the archway and paused in the recessed shadows to draw a steadying breath.
“Damnation,” he muttered, feeling a beading of sweat form under his starched evening shirt and trickle over the saber scar on his chest. Wise and worldly, Camille understood the vicissitudes of life. While here in England, most well-bred females were swathed in cotton wool and tucked away in a silk- covered pasteboxes. God forbid that any knock or jostle should mar their porcelain perfection.
Through the swirl of dancing couples, he spotted a flutter of mauve silk at the far end of the room, causing the pent-up air in his lungs to release in a sigh of relief.
And then there was Harriet. A unique force unto herself.
A moment later another figure came out of the same alcove where she had been, and after a glance around, sauntered off to one of the side salons.
Jack slipped out of his refuge and made his way around the perimeter of the room to the set of glass-paned doors leading out to the terrace. Harriet had found a nook between a pair decorative marble columns, and was leaning up against the smooth stone, a pensive look on her face.
“By Jove, I’ve been looking all over for you. What were you doing with Amirault?” he asked without preamble.
Lost in thought, Harriet must not have heard his approach, for she appeared startled by his words. Now that he was closer, he saw two hot spots of color darkening her cheekbones.
“Dancing,” she replied, fanning her flushed face. “And talking.”
“About what?”
“It’s warm in here. I think I need a breath of fresh air.”
Taking the hint, Jack offered his arm and led her out into the cool evening air. Torchieres were set along the stone balustrades, the curling flames undulating in time with the muffled music.
“Amirault is a pompous popinjay—” he began.
“Give me some credit, Jack. I do use my head for something other than a perch for my bonnet.”
“Then why?—”
“Because there were several things my father mentioned that I wished to verify for myself.”
Their steps had brought them to the corner farthest from the doorway. Jack turned to shield her from the breeze blowing in from the garden.
“And did you?”
Light and dark played hide and seek between their bodies. The slope of his shoulders threw her half in shadow. Her eyes were hidden—only a silvery spangle of moonlight glimmered along the curl of her lashes.
For a long moment there was only the faint hiss and crackle of the burning lamp oil. She shifted, and the red-gold fire caught the contours of her profile. It took him several heartbeats before he realized she had started to speak.
“Yes. To begin with, Amirault is not merely a pompous popinjay, he’s a pompous ass. But perhaps a dangerous ass if one happens to care about the future of France.”
Jack tensed. “What do you mean?”
In answer, papers crackled as she reached into her reticule and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “I’ve written down all the information here, along with some facts on the other two men you mentioned. My father was in a chatty mood, and the émigré factions have been making delicate negotiations with the heir to the French throne even more difficult with all their squabbling.”
Jack carefully tucked the notes into his pocket.
“It seems Amirault’s name has been linked with the death of a rival leader, who supposedly was slain during a scuffle with footpads in Green Park. The authorities can’t prove foul play, but let’s just say the circumstances were suspicious.” She went on to give a more detailed report of the information.
“That is exceedingly helpful,” he murmured when she finished. Lapsing into thought about what he had just heard, he took her by the arm and began to pace along the length of the railing.
It took several turns to rouse him from his brooding. “You’re a real brick, Harry.”
“Ah.” Jack felt her muscles stiffen. “Mud mixed with water and baked to a dull red finish. How edifying to hear that’s the image I bring to mind.”
He stared at her, nonplussed. “What’s wrong with a brick? It’s solid, steadfast, reliable.”
She held his gaze for a heartbeat, and then in a very un-Harriet way, she dropped her eyes. “Hardly the qualities that inspire odes of undying passion.”
“Confound it, Harry, you don’t like that gushingly silly sort of poetry.”
A strange flicker seemed to stir beneath her downcast lashes.
“ Do you?”
Her silence made him feel even more flustered. “Hell’s bells, I meant it as a compliment.”
At that, she looked up with a wry smile. “I know better than to expect compliments from you, Jack.”
“Have you imbibed too much champagne?”
“Do I sound intoxicated?”
“No,” he admitted. “Just... deucedly odd.”
“Mayhap it’s something in the night breeze and quicksilver moonlight,” responded Harriet. “We should go back inside.”
He held his ground. Something seemed different about her, but like the flitting shapes and shadows moving in the mist-shrouded gardens, it remained too elusive to define.
“You’re angry.”
Harriet lifted her chin a notch. “Not at all. Though perhaps a little nettled that you won’t tell me what this is about. If I knew, I could be of more help.”
Try to explain about Camille and why he felt compelled to come to her aid? Impossible, as his own feelings were too tangled for him to make any sense of them. Instead, he merely gave a gruff laugh. “I don’t need your help. And besides, as you said yourself, these fellows are likely smarmy scoundrels. I don’t want you involved with them.”
“Because it might be dangerous?”
He recognized the ominous undertone in her voice but hoped to defuse it by pretending he didn’t notice. “Precisely. You’ve given me all I need to know from your sources. Rest assured there’s nothing more for you to do.”
“So, I should just go back to my embroidery.”
Jack had sinking suspicion that whatever he said, her needle would lance through his tongue. Deciding silence was the best strategy, he turned for the doors.
They walked on for a few steps, and then he suddenly came to an abrupt halt.
“I have it,” he muttered.
Her brows arched up in question.
“What’s different about you,” Jack explained. “I couldn’t put a finger on it earlier, but now...” He regarded her quizzically. “You’ve been gliding like a swan over these stones. And I could swear you’ve grown an inch or two.” His mouth thinned in consternation. “How is that possible?”
“You must be imagining it,” replied Harriet softly.
Quite likely. His mind seemed to be whirling in strange circles of late.
As they passed through the portal, Jack hesitated. “You are sure you’re not cross as crabs with me? I... I don’t like the idea of us being at odds with each other.”
“Oh, come. We are always at odds with each other, Jack. That’s the reason you seek out my company.”
“It’s not the only reason,” he protested, though if she challenged him to explain it, he would have a deucedly hard time finding the words.
She flashed an enigmatic smile but said nothing in reply. Slipping her gloved hand free from the crook of his arm, she edged away to make a prolonged survey of the drawing room. “I had better go find Theo. She tends to be overcome by shyness in such a crush as this, and I fear she may be cowering in some shadowed corner by herself.”
With that, she glided off.
Like a swan , thought Jack. Most definitely a swan .
Harriet kept the corners of her mouth curled up until she was sure the crowd had closed around her, a shield of silks and starched linen as carefully arranged as her own features. He mustn’t ever guess how much his casual comment had hurt. Would that her flesh was as hard and unfeeling as brick. Impervious to the pain of knowing that to him she was akin to an old pair of riding boots or a well-worn waistcoat—something so familiar and comfortable that he didn’t really notice it was there.
Oh, but she noticed him . Every chiseled nuance of his face, every subtle contour of his muscled shoulders. The way the light danced through his dark hair, the way the scent of his shaving soap melded with the earthy masculine essence of his skin.
Fool. Harriet closed her eyes for an instant, determined to hold back the tears welling up from within. She prided herself on possessing a modicum of intelligence. And allowing a tendre for a handsome, devil-may-care rogue to take hold of her heart would make her the greatest idiot in all of Britain.
She turned blindly into one of the side salons, and on spotting an unlit alcove, she quickly cloaked herself with its sheltering shadows. The darkness felt blessedly cool against her burning cheeks.
Another reminder of the folly of playing with fire.
Willing her heart to steady its erratic galloping, Harriet slowly regained a measure of control over her rebellious body. Reason must rule . It was imperative to assess the situation with her usual clear-headed clarity.
She took a moment to mentally review what she knew. After thinking more about the note she had found under Jack’s chair, she had come to the conclusion that there were three stark facts to face—He must be in love with a lady named Camille... she was in some sort of trouble that had to do with the three names of the French émigré leaders here in London... Jack was searching for a way to help her.
Harriet was pragmatic enough to know she couldn’t compete romantically with a sultry siren—Camille, being French, would naturally be beautiful and seductive. But as a salve to her wounded pride, she could at least prove to Jack that he was wrong to assume he didn’t need her help. If she could find some important clue that would help solve his mystery, she might win his respect, if not his heart.
A small consolation, perhaps, but she liked the challenge of solving complicated conundrums, and it was far better than brooding like a lovesick mooncalf.
“Oh, here you are.” Theo joined her in the shadows. “I was worried...” Her friend paused. “Good heavens, is something wrong?”
“I’m just fatigued,” lied Harriet. “I’m not sure which was more exhausting—dodging Amirault’s clumsy feet or enduring his ham-handed attempts to ingratiate himself with me because of my father’s position in the government.”
Theo clucked in sympathy. “I’m sorry you were forced to endure his company for so long. Did you see that Jack arrived not long ago? Perhaps a dance with him would help chase away your scowl. His company always seems to entertain you.” An impish grin tugged at her lips. “The rest of us certainly enjoy your verbal duels.”
Harriet chose to ignore the question. “I hope it wasn’t too onerous for you to spend time with Beaumont.”
“He was quite polite,” replied Theo. “His compliments were typically Gallic—all outrageous flummeries and the like. But what lady doesn’t like hearing such things, even if they aren’t true.”
What lady, indeed ? thought Harriet. Careful to keep the note of wistfulness out of her voice, she responded, “A little flattery is always a balm for the spirits. Just as long as one doesn’t take it to heart.”
Theo let out a low laugh. “Oh, there is no chance of that. Like you, I am utterly pragmatic when it comes to romance. I’m not the sort of female men fall in love with. So I would never be so foolish as to dream of girlish dreams that can never be.”