Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
“ J ack.”
He jerked his head up at the sound of Camille’s soft whisper, relief warring with a burble of pent-up ire. He had left the ball early to arrive at the appointed rendezvous time and had been waiting for nearly an hour. “You’re late—damnably late.”
“I’m sorry, cheri .” Camille took a seat and angled it deeper into the gloom of the tavern’s ill-lit taproom. “But my time is not always my own.”
Jack watched the nervous play of her slender fingers against the tabletop and then felt like a brute when his gaze caught the dark hollows below her eyes.
“Forgive me. I was on edge,” he rasped. “Hell’s teeth, I worry about you, alone and trying to deal with all this in enemy territory.”
She looked away quickly, her hair falling to hide her face as she smoothed at a fold of her cloak.
He was a good enough soldier to recognize an evasive maneuver when he saw one.
“I am not alone, Jack. I’ve found an ally who has promised me that he has the influence to help me.”
“Who?” he demanded softly, hoping his voice didn’t betray his disappointment.
“I can’t tell you that right now.” A ragged exhale. “It is even more complicated than I first told you. There are factions within the Royalists.”
“I am aware of that,” he interrupted.
Camille twisted a lock of her hair around her finger, her eyes refusing to meet his. The fidgets made the silence between them even more strained.
Finally, she looked up. “Do you know a Miss Harriet Farnum?” she asked abruptly.
“What in the devil’s name...” He paused, bewildered. “Yes, in fact I do, but why?—”
“It’s just that my friend had an idea,” she answered quickly.
Friend? This ally was all of a sudden a friend? Jack felt something in his gut tighten. Not quite trusting his voice, he nodded for her to go on.
“He said that the two of you have a connection from childhood and that her father is a diplomat working on sorting out what will happen to France if Napoleon is defeated. So he thought if I could meet him, and perhaps have a chance to explain my plight...”
“I thought you were adamant about not involving the British government.”
“This would be personal, not official.” A faint flush came to her cheeks. “I understand he is a widower...”
Jack fisted his hand but held himself back from banging it on the table. “Ye God,” he muttered. “What would Pierre say to such madness?”
Camille lowered her lashes. “It is wartime, Jack. You know better than I that one must be pragmatic.” Shadows flitted beneath the fringe of gold. “Sometimes principles must be sacrificed.”
“But not honor,” he shot back. “Never honor.”
Her breath drew into her lungs with an audible rush. And then burst out as a ragged sob. “Now it is my turn to beg forgiveness.” She pressed her palms to her eyes. “Of course you are right. I—I am not thinking straight.” Her voice wavered. “I am so confused.”
His insides unknotted. “Understandably so.” Reaching out, he uncurled one of her hands and twined his fingers with hers. They were cold as ice.
“All the more reason to trust me to help,” he said.
Camille shook her head in mute refusal.
Jack blew out a huff of frustration. “At least think it over, before doing anything rash,” he asked. “You’ve stepped into a nest of vipers. Beware of their fangs.”
She tried to rise, but he kept hold of her. “Just remember, snakes have very primitive brains. I’ve never known one to have any concept of friendship or loyalty.”
“I must go, Jack.”
This time, he released his grip. “When can we meet again?”
“I—I don’t know.” Camille drew the hood of her cloak up over her hair. “I’ll send word to your townhouse.”
Jack suspected it was a lie, but he was suddenly too tired to argue. “I am here whenever you need me.”
A gust rattled the nearby window. As she melted into the darkness, he felt its chill seep through the glass and wrap around him.
Harriet was still uncertain as to whether she should have invited Theo to accompany her to Lady Catherine’s weekly meeting. But on seeing her friend’s excitement reflected back in the carriage windowpanes, she quickly swallowed any thought of expressing her reservations.
Patronizing apologies would be unwelcome. That had been made abundantly clear at Gunter’s Tea Shop.
“I have been thinking about one of the essays I read.” Theo turned away from the glass and for the next little while, as the carriage clattered eastward, proceeded to offer her impressions. “Will the group think me buffle-headed or na?ve if I voice such things?” she asked hesitantly when she was done.
“Not at all,” assured Harriet. “They will welcome your thoughts. The whole point of the discussion is to freely offer ideas. We all encourage each other to say what we feel without fear of criticism.”
“How refreshing,” mused Theo. “That is the exact opposite of the conversations that take place within the ton .”
“So it is.” The wheels slowed to a halt. “We’re here.”
After taking leave of her maid with the usual instructions, she led her friend across the square, quelling the lingering questions about her own judgment by reminding herself that in the past, Jack had taken delight in saying she was too practical and pragmatic to ever take any risks.
Ha! This was hardly the safe path to take, she thought as she guided Theo around a pile of pungent horse droppings.
Let us hope it doesn’t lead to perdition.
Lady Catherine’s warm welcome chased some of her worries away. The rest of the group greeted Theo with equal enthusiasm, and her friend’s usual shyness with strangers couldn’t help but give way to tentative smiles as she was drawn into the friendly bantering that always preceded the serious talk. The discussion, a continuation of what subjects girls ought to learn in school, proved quite lively, and Theo’s comments sparked a number of interesting exchanges. By the time the sessions ended and tea was served, her friend’s cheeks were pink with pleasure from all the compliments she had received.
“It is always a pleasure to meet a fellow female who knows how to use her brain for more than a perch for her bonnet, Lady Theo,” murmured Miss Breville, the scholarly spinster. “I hope you will consider attending our meetings on a regular basis.”
“Assuming our radical Bluestocking ideas haven’t frightened you off,” added Miss Ashmun with a grin.
“N-not at all,” exclaimed Theo. “That is, I didn’t mean?—”
Mrs. Currough kindly cut off her stammering. “We know what you meant.”
Theo shot her a grateful look. “I would very much like to come again, if you all don’t mind.”
The soft clinking of porcelain and silver punctuated pithy comments on the latest on-dits in the newspaper as they all enjoyed their refreshments. Then, when the platters of pastries had finished making their rounds, Miss Ashmun dusted her fingertips and leaned forward in her chair.
“I do hope you will consent to give us all another lesson in the art of beauty, Mrs. Currough.”
The request was quickly seconded by the others.
“And I do hope Miss Farnam will be kind enough to serve as the, er...”
“Fool?” suggested Harriet.
Laughter greeted the quip.
“It does make some sense,” observed the Irish Beauty. “Having someone serve as a model helps everyone to visualize what I am saying.”
Harriet let out a sigh. “Very well.” She paused, thinking of her friend’s self-deprecating comments on her appearance. “But Lady Theo was extremely interested when I explained some of your advice, and if I am to make a cake of myself, I could use some moral support.”
“Oh, no. I couldn’t—” protested Theo.
“It’s an excellent suggestion!” agreed Mrs. McNulty, signaling Theo to rise. “It’s good to have a variety of shapes and sizes to show what we mean.”
“I doubt that even the great artistry of Madame Deauville can work any miracles on me,” said Theo as she reluctantly stood up beside Harriet.
“Oh, you would be surprised at what a few bits of colored cloth can do, dearie.” The renowned dressmaker slowly circled the two young ladies. “Hmmm.”
Harriet gave an inward wince as the other woman tapped thoughtfully at her chin.
“Hmmm.”
Theo’s eyes widened as her walking gown was tugged and twitched.
“Stand up straighter, and pull your breadbox in and up,” counseled Mrs. McNulty as she set her hand on her own midriff and exhaled. “Like so.”
“Why, that’s remarkable,” murmured Miss Ashmun. “It makes a noticeable difference.”
“As we said last week, the art of beauty is all about creating illusion,” said Mrs. Currough. She, too, circled Harriet and Theo, stopping to make a few adjustments in the angle of a chin or a shoulder. “But aside from using physical sleights of hand, you must also use your mind to your advantage.”
Theo made a wry face. “No matter how hard I think, it’s not as if I am going to transform myself into a Diamond of the First Water.”
“On the contrary,” said the Irish beauty. “That is exactly what you can do.”
“How?” blurted out Theo.
“It’s really quite simple. By believing you are the most beautiful, desirable woman in the world.”
Everyone in the room regarded Mrs. Currough with open-mouthed surprise.
“Aye, it’s true,” confirmed Mrs. McNulty. “With a little help from the likes of me, of course.”
“I can’t,” whispered Theo. “It’s... absurd.”
“I have to agree,” said Harriet. By any stretch of the imagination, bricks were neither beautiful nor desirable. “I know you said beauty comes from within, and it did seem last week that an air of self-confidence did add a certain spring to my step. But a Diamond of the First Water?” She shook her head. “Surely that’s impossible.”
Mrs. Currough didn’t answer right away. Turning her back to the room, she moved closer to the window and appeared to be studying some distant point across the square.
Harriet and Theo exchanged guilty looks. Someone coughed.
The small sound seemed to rouse the Irish beauty. She spun around and as the sunlight fell on her face, a collective gasp rose from the group.
As if by magic, she appeared utterly transformed.
Harriet stared in wonder. It was impossible to describe the change in words. Her eyes, her smile, her body looked the same—and yet completely altered.
“How did you do that?” she demanded. “Some black magic potion in the tea?”
“Nothing nearly so dramatic,” answered Mrs. Currough. “When I see myself as an Incomparable, so do you.”
“It can’t be as easy as that,” protested Theo.
“There are details that can be added to heighten the aura of allure, like silks, and scents. But the essence comes from within.”
Harriet thought back on the earlier lesson. “It’s one thing to act like a princess. I admit, those subtle little changes in posture and movement made a difference.” Why, even Jack had noticed. “However, it’s quite beyond the realm of possibility to believe I am a princess.”
An enigmatic smile played on the Irish beauty’s lips. “Why?”
“Because it is not true,” she answered.
“Ah, truth.” A sparkle of mischief seemed to light in the other woman’s eyes. “In my experience, that is no easy thing to define.” A saucy wink. “Indeed, I think it far more elusive than the morals of a mistress.”
Titters of nervous laughter floated through the room.
“Truth,” continued Mrs. Currough, “is far from absolute. Like so many things in life, it depends on your perspective and preconceptions.”
Having witnessed the workings of the diplomatic world from childhood on, Harriet conceded the elemental wisdom of the observation.
“So what you are saying,” ventured Theo, “is we should create our own definitions of beauty and allure.”
“Precisely,” replied Mrs. Currough.
Theo gave a wry grimace. “I’ll likely appear a complete nodcock, but I’ll try.” Squeezing her eyes shut, she drew in several deep breaths, then let her lids flutter open and smiled.
Good Heavens. Harriet blinked. Perhaps the power of self-persuasion was more potent than she had imagined.
“Excellent,” murmured Mrs. McNulty. “Now take a turn around the tea table, imagining that some special alchemy in the chandelier is pulling the crown of your head up to the ceiling.”
“Very interesting.” Miss Breville jotted down a few lines in her notebook.
Mrs. Currough fixed Harriet with an inquiring look, and beneath the glint of humor it held a spark of challenge.
Casting off her misgivings, she decided it was only fair that she try to match Theo’s efforts.
For the next quarter hour, she and her friend did their best to put Mrs. Currough’s advice into practice, and though hoots of laughter rose on occasion, the session ended with a round of spontaneous applause from the rest of the group.
“That was most enlightening,” said Miss Ashmun with a dreamy sigh. She, too, had been taking notes.
Their two instructors made one last circle around them before retreating to a spot by the bow-front window. The discussion, pitched too low for anyone else to overhear, went on for an alarmingly long time.
“I fear I may be too great a test of their skills,” whispered Theo.
“Nonsense,” replied Harriet stoutly. “You already appear transformed.”
“I—I do?” She craned her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of her reflection in the glass windowpanes.
“Stop fidgeting,” ordered Harriet. “Remember what they told us—a beauty never betrays a soupcon of doubt.”
“Right, right.”
It was Mrs. McNulty who broke off the talk to approach them. “The two of you have an appointment at Madame Deauville’s shop tomorrow afternoon at precisely 3.”
“We’ve an appointment?” repeated Theo faintly. “W-With you, the most exclusive modiste in all of London?”
“Yes. And please do not be late. I’ve a very crowded schedule for the next few weeks, given Lady Henning’s upcoming gala ball.”
“I fear such a meeting may be casting pearls before swine,” murmured Harriet. “I have no idea how to choose styles, colors, fabrics or trimmings.”
“Which is why you will leave all of that to us,” said Mrs. Currough, moving with an impossibly elegant swish-swish of her silken skirts.
“But—”
The Irish beauty raised a slender finger, and Harriet fell silent. “Your skills at arguing need no polishing, Miss Farnum. But in this matter you must trust us.”
“Implicitly,” added Mrs. McNulty, her gaze turning a bit steely. “Without so much as a peep of protest.”
Harriet hesitated. Ceding control of such an intimately personal matter was not an easy matter. But after casting a downward glance at the profusion of lilac ribbons her maid had decided to add to her bodice, she gave a grim nod.
Growling an inpatient oath, Jack rapped the big brass knocker again. Maps, regimental lists, area commandants —he had a sheaf of documents stuffed in his pocket. The information passed over by his friend at Horse Guards was proving devilishly hard to sort out on his own, but it had suddenly occurred to him who had just the organizational skills to lend a hand.
“Milord?” A tall, reedy butler opened the door and peered down his long nose.
“Halloo, Bailin. Please send word up to Harry that I need to speak with her.”
“If you will follow me to the West Parlor, sir, I shall inquire as to whether Miss Farnum is at home.”
“Oh, come, let us not stand on ceremony. I saw John Coachman in the mews and he told me she returned a half hour ago.”
Bailin gave a long-suffering sniff. “I see I shall have to have a word with him about gossiping about the family.”
“Don’t fly up in the boughs. I’m almost family.” He grinned. “Tell her to hurry—oh, and have Cook send out a platter of her famous gingersnaps.”
The butler inclined a formal bow, but not before Jack caught a twitch of his thin-set lips.
“What has you in such pucker?” demanded Harriet a few minutes later as she hurried into the parlor. “Bailin seemed to think you have something important on your mind.” She glanced at the platter of pastries. “Or were you simply starving for sweets?”
Jack finished the last bite of his biscuit. “I miss Cook’s confections.”
“Your cousin makes wonderful chocolate creations,” she pointed out. “Surely he left your father’s cook some of the recipes.”
“Yes, but Rafe’s recipes are inspired by love.” He exaggerated a grimace. “So they are not quite to my taste.”
Harriet laughed, but an odd undertone seemed to roughen the sound. “Nor mine.” She took a seat on the sofa. “But I imagine you haven’t come here to discuss culinary matters.”
“Correct.” He slouched down beside her and drew the low tea table closer. Their knees touched as he shifted position. She flinched, as if some frisson of fire had scorched through her skirts. Strangely enough, he had felt it, too. The tension coiled inside him must be setting off unexpected sparks.
“Sorry,” he muttered, shifting again to pull the papers from his pockets. His long legs suddenly felt awkward and impossible to arrange. Setting the documents on the table, he took a moment to smooth out the folds. “I thought you might enjoy helping me piece together a puzzle.”
“A puzzle,” she repeated. “Why would you think that?”
Jack cleared his throat. “Well, er...” Because you are clever, smart and imaginative. “Because you always ran circles around me and William when it came to figuring out how patterns fit together.”
When she didn’t reply with her usual barbed humor, he went on, “Dash it all, Harry, are you still brooding over the brick comment?”
That roused her from silence. “Of course I’m not brooding over bricks. As you pointed out, I’m far too solid and sensible for that.”
Damnation. This new prickliness was a puzzle even more diabolically difficult to sort out than the documents.
“Forgive my feeble brain for failing to comprehend the problem,” he said slowly. “But I have always been under the impression that you liked being thought of as solid and sensible. What has changed?”
“Nothing,” snapped Harriet. She plucked at a loose thread on her bodice, then smoothed at the rumpled folds of her skirts.
The ripple of color suddenly distracted him from the subject at hand. That particular shade of russet, he observed, did nothing to compliment the glorious copper highlights in her chestnut hair.
“If I am so solid and sensible, why is it you’ve shoved me aside from whatever mystery it is you are investigating?” she asked abruptly.
“I told you,” Jack muttered. “I don’t want to take any chances of you getting hurt.”
“First of all, the Royalists may fight among themselves, but I highly doubt they would dare resort to violence against any members of the ton ,” replied Harriet. “Secondly, I am sensible enough to be able to take care of myself. And thirdly, if there truly is danger, then you ought to have someone watching your back.”
“There is a great difference between being sensible and being experienced,” he countered. “I’m a soldier. I’m trained to deal with danger.”
Harriet stared pointedly at his chest. It felt as if her steely gaze were cutting through the layers of fabric and knifing across his scarred flesh. “No amount of training or experience can parry those moments of chance or fate that happen in the heat of battle. You know that better than anyone.”
Most of his acquaintances he could deflect with either humor or cynicism. Not Harriet. Damn her for being the one person brutally honest enough and unflinching enough to make him face his own vulnerabilities.
The papers crackled as his hand swept over the dog-eared corners and pushed them back into a pile. “Never mind. I will find someone else to help.” Jack drew in a ragged breath, surprised at how disappointed he felt at the idea. “Someone who won’t natter at me.”
She seized his wrist, her curling fingers soft and warm where they slipped from his starched cuff to touch his skin. “I never natter. I may rail or harangue, but not natter.”
Against his will, he found himself smiling. “You forgot badger.”
“I left it out on purpose. Badgers aren’t terribly attractive creatures. It’s bad enough being a brick.”
A hint of laughter rippled through the depths of her sea-dark eyes, and all at once its current seemed to hold his gaze in thrall. How was it that he had never noticed the infinite range of blues swirling beneath her lashes—azure, cerulean and subtle shades that defied a name.
He meant to pull away, but somehow not a muscle twitched.
It was Harriet who hitched back and let her hand fall away. “So, we have a puzzle. Three Royalists under suspicion, a mystery you won’t explain to me, and these...” She pointed to the papers. “Which contain Heaven knows what.” Her lips pursed. “If you expect me to see any patterns, you are giving me precious little to go on.”
“Actually, it’s only the papers that hold the puzzle. There’s something hidden within the interminable list of dates, transfers, military units and the like.”
“What?” she asked.
“A missing soldier.”
“Can you be more specific?”
Jack flicked a few crumbs from his sleeve. “A French officer. His friends have been told he’s being held somewhere in England on parole. But so far, they have uncovered no record of his existence. I hope the answer lies in these military records. It will be tedious work, cross-checking references and transfer orders, looking at the maps which record the different parole areas, and that sort of thing. I haven’t the eye or the patience to make sense of it.”
“I see,” murmured Harriet, as she began flipping through the pages.
“There is more,” he said after a moment. She had very lovely hands, graceful and capable, as opposed to the flighty movements of so many other young ladies of the ton .
“I expected as much.” Harriet looked up. “It will take some time to organize it all. How soon can you get the other material to me?”
“Within the hour.”
“I am assuming you would like to learn your missing officer’s whereabouts as soon as possible.”
He nodded.
“I have a previous engagement for tomorrow—and I cannot alter it. But I’ll try to have it by the day after,”
“Harry, you are?—”
“Don’t you dare say it,” she murmured.
“You are,” he continued, “an Incomparable—a singular lady of unique talents.”
A quicksilver spasm of emotion passed over her features, too fleeting to discern. Shock, no doubt, at hearing him capable of composing gentlemanly words.
He grinned. “You see, I can manage a proper compliment if I try very hard.”
“Don’t exhaust yourself,” replied Harriet dryly. And yet a peculiar sort of light lingered in her gaze. “Clearly you have far more serious matters weighing on your mind.”