Chapter 10
CHAPTER 10
“ O oooh, Miss Harriet, I vow, you look more beautiful than those fancy ladies in Ackermann’s fashion plates.”
“Do I?” Forcing her gaze back to the cheval glass, Harriet blinked several times to clear her focus. Her thoughts had been wrapped up in brooding over Jack and his fleeting kiss—if a kiss it had been. She still wasn’t sure what to call it.
“La, just look at the way those lovely ringlets frame your face!” exclaimed Ellie, after twitching a ribbon into place and stepping back to and admire the effect. “Monsieur Etienne is a true artist with his scissors.”
Earlier in the day, Mrs. Currough had sent over one of her haute monde friends to fashion a new hairstyle for both her and Theo. Now, as Harriet contemplated her reflection, she found herself admitting the effect wasn’t half-bad. The fellow had made a show of studying their faces and had been quite restrained with his snipping.
She turned her head one way and then the other. It was quite striking how just a subtle change could make her look so different. The shape of her cheeks, the line of her jaw, the width of her mouth—her face appeared transformed.
“I feel more elegant,” she murmured. “Which is of course absurd. I’m still the same old Harriet.”
“Ha!” Ellie carefully fluffed out the gossamer-light overskirt of her ball gown and let out a dreamy sigh. “You’re like a cygnet in one of those fairie stories you read to me—you know, who magically turns into a beautiful swan.”
“Magic, indeed.” Harriet smoothed her hands over her hips, sure that no mere mortal could spin silk so soft and fine. “Let us hope that at midnight I don’t find myself transformed into a turnip.”
“You and Lady Theo are going to be the belles of the ball,” assured her maid.
A glance at the mantel clock showed that she had best be on her way. She had promised to have her carriage stop for Theo and her mother, so that they could arrive together.
It was, as Jack had often told her, important to have moral support when charging into battle. Camaraderie might not stop bullets, but it helped to calm jumpy nerves.
Already her heart was ricocheting off her ribcage. And the thought of Jack made the hammering even more pronounced.
What if he thinks me foolish?
“Then he can go to the devil,” she murmured, trying to buck up her courage.
“What was that?” Ellie turned from taking a Kashmir shawl from the armoire.
“Nothing,” answered Harriet as she took up the notes from her desk and stuffed them into the matching jade green reticule.
Her maid made a pained face. “You ought to take the smaller one.” She had fallen in love with a delicate shell-shaped creation that hung from the wrist by a silver cord.
“Fashion must give way to practicality.”
“That’s not very romantic,” muttered Ellie under her breath.
“Which suits me just fine.” After slanting one last glance at the looking glass, Harriet headed for the stairs, reminding herself to glide, not stomp.
The carriage ride was a short one, and before she had quite prepared herself for swanning through the glare of glittering torchlight, it was time to descend and join the crowd of ladies in jewel-spangled gowns and gentlemen in dark evening dress making their way up the circular staircase.
Theo’s mother had stopped in the cavernous entrance hall to gossip with several of her cronies, leaving the two young ladies to head on to the ballroom on their own.
“People are staring at us,” whispered Theo, after casting a furtive look around.
Harriet made a wry face. “They are probably trying to figure out who we are.”
Sure enough, Lady Jerrett, one of the highest sticklers of society despite her penchant for wearing purple turbans festooned with peacock plumes, swiveled her ample bulk and raised a gold lorgnette to her narrowed eyes. The scrutiny lasted several long moments before her brows winged up in surprise.
“Miss Farnum.” A pause. “You are looking... well.” The lenses shifted to Theo and Lady Jerrett’s expression became even more perplexed. “I daresay I almost didn’t recognize you, Lady Theo.” Another owlish squint. “Er, are those gowns by Madame Deauville?”
Several of the other ladies nearby stopped chatting and waited expectantly.
“Yes,” replied Harriet, arching a cool smile. “They are.”
“I wasn’t aware that you were clients. She has a very small list.” After making a few mental calculations, Lady Jerrett gave a tiny nod. “I am having a small soiree next week. I shall send around an invitation to you gels.” To her companion, she added, “The bucks of the ton are more apt to show up if they hear there will be a bevy of beauties in attendance.”
Theo looked a little stunned as the matron moved up the stairs. “W-we are beauties?”
Harriet didn’t know how to answer. She, too, was unused to garnering a second glance from society’s arbiters of style. Squaring her shoulders, she straightened her spine and lifted her chin. “Let us not forget our lessons,” she counseled in a low murmur. “Just follow my lead. Beautiful or not in the flesh, we can at least appear regal and graceful.”
His evening shoes beating an impatient tattoo on the cobbles, Jack crossed the street and hurried through the elegant colonnaded portal. A mood of merriment was already echoing off the marble walls of the hall, the overloud voices punctuated by trilling laughter and the soft fizz of champagne.
He skirted around the milling couples and took the stairs two at a time. Harriet, he knew, would not be lingering downstairs in the crush of guests. His mouth quirked, thinking of her standing in her usual quiet spot in the shadows, observing the festivities. Given her razor-sharp eye—and razor sharp sense of the absurd—it was no wonder she was such a keen judge of character.
Taking a glass of champagne from the servant stationed on the landing, Jack was just about to pass through the ballroom’s arched entryway when he spotted James standing in the foyer of the card room.
“What are you doing skulking in the shadows?” he asked.
“Thinking.” James quaffed a long swallow of his wine.
“Ye Gods, that explains the blue-deviled phiz,” quipped Jack. “You’re a frivolous fribble. You never think.”
“I am now.”
He signaled to a passing waiter to refill his friend’s glass. “Have you seen Harry? She and Lady Theo were planning on arriving together.”
James’s face went through a series of odd little contortions. “Yes.”
“And?” he pressed.
“You’ll see,” was the only response.
“Are you perchance foxed?”
“No.” His friend drained his drink. “But I plan to be rather quickly.”
“What the devil is wrong?” he demanded. “You’re making even less sense than usual.”
“You’ll see,” repeated James darkly, casting a jerky glance at the ballroom.
Deciding it was futile trying to pry out any further information, given his friend’s current unfathomable mood, Jack cocked a mock salute and stalked off.
“Arse,” he muttered under his breath. But try as he might, he couldn’t quite quell the frisson of unease stirred by the encounter.
The dancing had begun, setting the room ablaze with swirls of richly-colored silks and the diamond-bright flashes of fire from the overhead chandeliers. Craning his neck, Jack made a sweeping search of the side alcoves, only to see naught but the swaying, dark-fingered fronds of the potted palms.
Damnation, where was she? He turned abruptly to check the far end of the room—and froze in mid-step as his gaze fell on a laughing lady spinning by in the arms of a well-known Corinthian.
Theo? He blinked, wondering whether the dipping, darting light was playing tricks with his eyes. But no, the couple circled around again, and this time there was no mistaking his friend. Their eyes locked for an instant, and she flashed a wry smile before being swallowed in the whirling dervish blur of couples.
Now thoroughly off-balance, Jack retreated to a recessed alcove in the colonnade. Brows drawing together, he sipped pensively at his champagne. His expectations for the evening seemed to be unraveling in a hurry...
Another flutter of silk stirred in the shadows nearby and suddenly the effervescence of the wine felt like dagger points dancing over his tongue.
Her upswept hair threaded in luminous pearls, her voluptuous body swathed in a pale sky-blue hue that matched her eyes, Camille was a vision of ethereal loveliness. For an instant, he couldn’t breathe, but the spell gave way to an urgent question.
What was she doing here ?
Setting aside his glass, he moved around quietly to approach her from an oblique angle. As he came closer, he saw she was engaged in earnest conversation with another fashionable lady, whose dark hair and emerald green gown were a striking counterpoint to Camille’s pastel beauty.
Dark and Light.
Jack paused to watch them, wondering why he hadn’t ever noticed the fox-like glitter of Camille’s eyes. Vixen-bright, they seemed to be ever alert, as if constantly on the hunt for some vulnerable prey. He quickly shook off the ungracious thought, reminding himself that this was the woman who had drawn him back from the brink of hell. He was still unsettled by the recent attack. Harriet had planted some unwelcome suggestions, and try as he might, he couldn’t dismiss them out of hand.
Harriet. As a flicker of light penetrated the gloom and lit the coppery highlights in the dark-haired lady’s tresses, the penny finally dropped.
Swallowing his shock, Jack forced himself forward.
On hearing his steps, the two ladies turned as one.
“Ah, there you are, sir.”
Yes, the voice was definitely that of Harriet. As for the rest of her...
“I was just informing your friend that you were expected to put in an appearance,” finished Harriet, flashing him a peculiar look. He didn’t have time to decipher its meaning because at the same time, Camille saw him, and gave a theatrical little sway as she placed a hand on her breast.
“Jac-ques!” she exclaimed, drawing out the two French-sounding syllables like a length of warm toffee. “I did not expect to see you here.”
And why is that? he wondered.
“But your amie, Mademoiselle Farnum, was just telling me that since your return to England, you have grown very fond of the glitter and gaiety of the social whirl.”
“I was saying no such thing,” corrected Harriet. “I simply mentioned that you occasionally attend parties.”
“When he lay wounded in our house, Jack confided in me that he didn’t like the superficial trappings of society,” said Camille. Turning to him, she smiled. “ N’est pas , Jack?”
Harriet was watching the other woman intently. Jack thought he detected a tiny twitch of ironic humor tug at the corners of her mouth and felt himself flush, though he wasn’t quite sure why.
“I think you may rest assured that his sentiments haven’t changed, Madame La Rochelle,” said Harriet softly.
“Oh?” Camille shot her a probing look. “It sounds as if the two of you know each other well.”
“Well enough,” replied Harriet, giving nothing away.
Jack dragged his eyes away from her. A myriad of questions were spinning inside his head, but he shoved them aside until later. At the moment he was determined to concentrate on Camille.
Was it simply his imagination, or was there some new sly and guarded nuance shading the Frenchwoman’s face? Harriet, he had noted, was getting better at masking her feelings—a fact he wasn’t sure he liked—but whatever her expression, there was no hint of guile.
“Then we have something in common, Mademoiselle Farnum,” said Camille, drawing him back from his momentary brooding. “For I daresay Jack and I know each other well enough, too.” The curl of her lashes hid all but a few hide-and-seek shimmers of blue. “Our time together may have been short, but the shared dangers in wartime tend to strengthen the bond of friendship in ways that may be difficult for others to comprehend.”
A half step angled her body closer to his—a small but intimate move that seemed to distance the two of them from Harriet.
“All of Jack’s friends here in England are very grateful to you and your husband for bringing him back from the dead.”
“And you, Miss Farnum?” asked Camille with a light laugh. “Could it be that you have a special tendre for him?”
“One tends to have trouble feeling a tendre for the imp of Satan who put a great ugly toad in her sewing basket when she was twelve,” murmured Harriet in reply.
“It was a frog,” murmured Jack. “Perhaps if you had kissed it, the slippery little devil would have turned into a prince.”
“My lips were too busy cursing you from here to Hades,” she shot back.
He repressed a grin. “Your knowledge of invectives would put a stevedore to blush.”
“I have never claimed to be a proper lady.”
Camille was following the exchanges with great interest. “ Non ? I thought all young English misses are taught to be paragons of propriety.” A flick of her finger brushed an errant curl from her cheek. “While we French seem to have a penchant for rebelling against the rules.”
“An interesting observation,” said Harriet. “Though I’ve always felt it’s unwise to make such generalizations.”
Jack noted the quicksilver ripple of annoyance that flitted across Camille’s features. “You are right, of course. I am not always wise.” Her eyes found his. “Like many who possess the Gallic temperament, I am too often ruled by my passions.”
Swirling beneath the shimmering blue was an elemental appeal, all the more intimate for being unspoken. It seemed to wrap around his consciousness, a tantalizingly soft and alluring reminder that life and death had irrevocably entwined them.
The sound of approaching steps broke the connection before he had to respond.
“Ah, here you are, Madame La Rochelle. I feared you might be feeling overwhelmed by the crush of strangers, but it seems you have found company.”
“Jac—that is, Lord Leete—and I are old friends.”
“Indeed?” Amirault gave no acknowledgment of Harriet’s presence. “I wasn’t aware that the two of you were acquainted.”
Jack sensed it was a bald-faced lie but schooled his expression to a bland smile. “I met Madame and her husband while I was a prisoner of war.”
“Ah, how ironic. For now, it seems the situation is reversed.”
“Monsieur le Comte has kindly offered to see if he might discover some news of Pierre,” explained Camille in a tight whisper.
“I thought you did not wish to make official inquiries,” said Jack.
“My inquiries will not be made through any of your tedious government departments,” replied Amirault. “I have my own network for seeking the information that Madame La Rochelle desires.”
“Let us hope they can be trusted to be discreet,” said Harriet. “Madame was telling me earlier that she is concerned that there are some unknown forces who may wish her husband harm.”
Amirault turned. “Miss Farnum.” His voice held a note of surprise. “Forgive me, I did not recognize you standing there in the shadows.” His gaze slowly moved from her face to the creamy expanse of flesh exposed by her fashionably-cut bodice—and lingered there long enough that Jack itched to plant him a facer.
“I applaud your sense of style,” he said. “Madame Deauville is a gifted modiste. You are fortunate to be among the select few she consents to dress.”
“So I am told,” replied Harriet.
“Might I inquire how you came to be in her good graces?” he asked.
“Oh, come, a lady likes to have her little secrets.”
Recalling her recent comments about wishing to be mysterious, Jack had to concede that Harriet was doing a good job of it. Too good, in fact. He was wondering much the same thing. It was one thing to purchase a shawl at Madame Deauville’s shop, but quite another to have the famous modiste consent to fashion a ballgown.
But before he could ponder the question any further, Camille slipped a hand around his arm and drew him aside.
“Please don’t be angry with me, cheri ,” she whispered. “There are things that I can’t explain right now, save to say that we French sometimes use different methods than you English for achieving our goals.”
“But at what cost, Camille?” he responded.
She looked away. “I don’t expect you to understand. But I hope with all my heart that it won’t affect our friendship.”
Friendship, he wanted to point out, was built on honesty and trust. And yet he held his tongue, waiting to see what else she might say.
“Alors, I can sense you are truly upset.”
Jack wasn’t precisely sure how to describe his emotions. But at that instant, he was aware of a fundamental shift happening somewhere deep inside him.
“You must, of course, do what you think is best for you and Pierre,” he answered politely.
“Thank you for that, cheri .” She smiled, but her gaze grew opaque, shutting him out. Or perhaps it had never been quite so open as he had imagined.
The silence was kept from growing too awkward by Amirault, who chose that moment to finish his tête-á-tête with Harriet. “Loathe though I am to break up this congenial group, there are several people I wish for Madame La Rochelle to meet.” He extended his hand to Camille. “So if you would kindly excuse us.”
Jack was not unhappy to see him go, especially as the Comte paused for a last glance at Harriet. “I look forward to conversing again soon, Miss Farnum. It seems we share a number of interests.”
He waited, holding his temper in check, until the couple had moved out of earshot. “Don’t trust that bloody hypocrite,” he growled through clenched teeth. “I hope you are smart enough to see he merely wants to use you for his own ends.” His brows pinched together as he added, “Whatever they may be.”