Chapter 12
CHAPTER 12
“ W ell, well, if it isn’t Lothario,” quipped Sir Lucas Whalley, who was seated by the fireplace of the reading room at White’s.
Jack shot the fellow a quelling look as he paused in the doorway and handed his coat to one of the club’s hall porters.
“I thought you claimed to have no interest in innocents, as you’re adamant about not sticking your paw in the parson’s mousetrap,” chimed in a ginger-whiskered baron whom Jack recognized from their Oxford days.
Lord Addison lowered his newspaper and peered down his aristocratic nose. “And yet you sent me away with a flea in my ear when I tried to dance with the lovely Miss Farnum. That’s not playing fair, Leete. Just because you have no romantic designs on the season’s most eligible young ladies, doesn’t mean you should prevent the rest of us from striking up a flirtation.”
“Harriet doesn’t like to flirt,” growled Jack, in no mood for needling. He had come to his club to meet James and have a hearty breakfast, not trade barbs with his fellow members on an empty stomach.
“If your scowl is anywhere near as black as it is now,” retorted Addison, “It’s no wonder.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” chortled the others.
“But then,” added Addison with a sly grin. “Perhaps a French saber isn’t the only thing that has pierced your hide. Perhaps Cupid’s arrow has found its mark. A good many guests noticed how you appeared glued to Miss Farnum’s skirts.”
“And very lovely skirts they were,” noted Whalley.
“Put a cork in it,” snapped Jack. “Unless you want to be digging your front teeth out of your gullet.”
“Oooh, a bit touchy, are we?” teased Ginger-Whiskers. “I think you may be right, Addy. The arrow may have struck his heart.” He clasped a hand to his chest and gave an exaggerated grimace. “Leete may be in love.”
“Quite impossible,” responded Jack. “I told the surgeons to leave out my heart when they stitched me back up.”
More laughter, along with another few ribald comments.
Spotting James sitting in a shadowed corner, he ignored the chortles and gave an impatient wave. “Come, let us leave these bacon-brained fribbles to their witticisms and go have a bite of beefsteak. I’m famished, and I have a busy day ahead of me.”
“Squiring Miss Farnum around Town?” inquired Whalley. “I say, do introduce me to her friend—Lady Theo or Thalia, or whatever her name is. I always thought of her as plump and unremarkable in looks, but recently she seems to have undergone a transformation.”
“Speaking of plump, I hear her father is about to become very plump in the pocket,” said Ginger-Whiskers. “Word is, he’s invested in a company that owns the largest silver mine in the New World and will soon be rolling in money.”
He cleared his throat. “Might as well introduce me to the gel as well. For that sort of blunt, I’d be willing to bed an antidote, but as Whalley says, she’s not half bad to look at, and—Arrgh!”
A sputtering gasp cut off his words as half a bottle of brandy spilled into his lap.
“So sorry.” James shrugged and stared at the man’s sodden trousers with a faint smirk. “How terribly clumsy of me. Must have tripped on the carpet.”
Repressing a snort, Jack followed his friend into the corridor. “Well aimed,” he murmured.
“Never did like Graves. Too puffed up with a sense of his own importance.” He walked on several steps. “Lady Theo wouldn’t like him either.”
“I daresay both Lady Theo and Harriet are too clever and smart for most of the men who belong to White’s. Including us.”
“We’re not scheming to win their regard because of family influence or money,” said James morosely.
“True,” mused Jack as he chose a quiet table by the window and ordered breakfast and a pot of coffee. “Though there have been moments when I wondered?—”
“No,” intoned his friend, silencing the speculation with a decided shake of his head. “Absolutely not.”
They slid into their seats, and after a moment it was James who broke the silence by venturing an oblique question. “There was a small bit of gossip in the newspaper this morning, referring to your obvious attention to a certain lady?—”
“Purely business,” assured Jack. “Nothing more.”
“Well then, it seems we’re both safe from a legshackle.”
“Quite safe.”
Silver clinked and napkins rustled as they prepared for the arrival of their food. “Speaking of business, Jamie, I was wondering whether you might consent to do me a small favor.”
“Are you paying for the beefsteak?”
“I’ll gladly pay for a half dozen beefsteaks.”
“Excellent. I’ve run through my quarterly allowance, and Pater is being a nipcheese about advancing any further funds.”
Eyeing the deep shadows under James’s eyes and how his skin was drawn tight over his cheekbones, Jack asked, “Do you wish to talk about why?”
“Not particularly,” muttered his friend. Waving to a waiter, he ordered a flagon of ale to go along with the coffee.
Jack had heard rumors that his friend had been spending more and more time at the gaming hells around Town. But whatever devils were plaguing James, he did not feel it was wise to press him.
“So, what is this small favor?”
“I know you are fast friends with Robert Hockett, who works in the Home Office, so I was hoping you might consent to make some inquiries for me.” Jack proceeded to list several questions. “Needless to say, it all needs to be done very discreetly.”
James had slowly straightened from his slouch as he listened. “Interesting. You think there is something havey-cavey going on within the French émigré community?”
“Yes, but at the moment, I’d rather not go into details.”
“Fair enough. Consider it done.” James drank deeply of his ale. “But discretion will cost you several suppers in addition to breakfast.”
The rest of the meal passed in casual talk of the upcoming horse races at Newmarket and the latest model dueling pistols displayed in Joseph Manton’s shop. However, Jack began to fidget when his friend ordered a helping of eggs and gammon after polishing off his plate of beefsteak.
“Have you a rendezvous?” asked James around a mouthful of sultana muffin.
“Yes, in fact, I do.” He punctuated the point by consulting his pocket watch. “I’m already late. So if you don’t mind, I’ll leave you to devour the rest of your breakfast... or is it now luncheon?”
“Ha, ha, ha. Shall I see you here for supper? Or shall we meet at The Devil’s Pitchfork tavern?”
“You’re spending enough time in the hells as it is.” Jack shoved back his chair and rose. “I suggest you go home and get some sleep.”
As he walked away, a low laugh sounded from the table. “No rest for the wicked.”
Harriet and her maid circled around through the columned archway and took another turn down the long gallery.
“People are staring,” whispered Ellie approvingly. “I told you that particular walking dress is mayhap the prettiest of the lot. The burnt-gold hue suits your coloring to perfection. And that mutton-sleeved spencer is magnificent. The nipped waist and frogging make you look oh-so elegant.”
“I hate to disappoint you, but I doubt they are studying my clothing,” replied Harriet. Theo had sent round a note earlier in the day, warning about the bit of tittle-tattle in the morning newspaper. “More likely they are trying to gather together the threads of gossip that have recently been making the rounds.” She sighed. “And stitch them into a scandal.”
Her maid’s eyes widened slightly. “Oh, never say you’ve been spotted around Red Lion Square.”
“No, it has to do with last night, at Lord and Lady Henning’s ball.”
“Did something scandalous happen?” asked Ellie, sounding
miffed that she hadn’t been informed.
She bit her lip. “No, no. It’s just that Jack—that is, Lord Leete—insisted on discussing something with me, and we lingered together long enough for the tabbies to notice.”
“He is very handsome,” murmured her maid. “And very amusing.”
“He is also very annoying.” She glanced at the ornate clock set over the main gallery. “And very late.”
They completed yet another circuit, her impatience echoed in the tap-tap of her heels against the polished marble tiles.
“A lady usually only has that certain ruffled air about her when a gentleman is keeping her waiting.” Angling out from the ornate Corinthian columns framing the Academy’s entrance, Beaumont fell in step beside her. “Might I offer my company until the offending party arrives?”
Harriet decided there was no harm in engaging in a mild flirtation. Like most endeavors, it required practice to attain a modicum of skill. “You sound as if you speak from experience.”
Beaumont’s smile, she noted, had a vaguely feline quality to it. Perhaps because of his almond-shaped topaz eyes and fine-boned face, which tapered to a pointed chin. “It is permissible to be fashionably late,” he answered.
“And pray tell, just how do you define fashionable?”
“Ah. An interesting question.” He slowly stroked his chin.
Harriet wondered whether he had developed the habit to show off his beautifully manicured hands. His fingers were graceful, yet saved from being too feminine by a lean strength and hint of calluses around the tips. He was no pampered fop, despite the well-tended nails.
“Really, sir, don’t tell me you haven’t given it considerable thought. After all, you French have refined the concept of fashionable to a fine art.”
He laughed softly. “You are interesting, Miss Farnum.”
“You sound as if that surprises you,” challenged Harriet.
“No, it intrigues me.” Beaumont offered his arm. “Come walk with me. Whoever your friend is, he has now passed from being fashionably late to being unfashionably rude.”
She accepted the offer, deciding it was too good an opportunity to learn more about the French émigré community in London. It did not seem Beaumont was on the best of terms with Amirault, and perhaps that could be turned to her advantage.
“Do you enjoy art, Monsieur?” she asked as they strolled into one of the exhibition rooms, Ellie trailing a few steps behind them.
“Yes, but not as much as other things.”
Harriet made a point of taking her time to study a landscape painting by Constable before replying. “How provocative.” Leaning closer to the canvas, she noted the subtle shading of color and texture of the brush strokes. A good reminder of how things could appear very different, depending on the point of view. “I assume you want me to ask what things, so I shall oblige you.”
“I find human nature more compelling than painted scenes of storm-dark skies and distant hills, such as the one you are admiring,” he answered.
“Art has layers of emotion that are nuanced and complex,” pointed out Harriet.
“ Oui , but they are never quite so viscerally alive in pigment and linseed oil as they are in flesh and blood, are they?”
“I’m not sure I entirely agree with you, sir.”
Beaumont regarded her thoughtfully. “That is one of the beauties of art—it stirs so many personal reactions.” He led her into one of the side salons. “If we are to admire art, I prefer portraits to outdoor scenes. It fascinates me to try to guess what the subjects are really thinking.”
Harriet was careful to keep her expression neutral. Clearly he was trying to get under her skin with his sly probing, but for what reason? “The trouble is,” she responded, “you see them through the artist’s eyes, so you can’t really count on getting a true picture.”
“Truth.” Beaumont flicked a mote of dust from his lapel. “You must be an extraordinary judge of character to think you may discern the truth about people simply by looking at their faces.”
Her gaze remained locked on the Duchess of Devonshire’s finely-wrought curls and impossibly rakish hat, as depicted by Gainsborough.
“Lovely, isn’t she?” he commented, following her glance. “But as you pointed out, who would have guessed the duchess was a wild, reckless gambler by looking at that innocent expression.”
“The hat gives her away,” said Harriet without thinking. “It’s outrageously daring. And the eyes. There’s nothing innocent about her eyes.”
He stepped forward and somehow his shoulder was now touching hers. The heat of him seemed to spear through the layers of wool and silk, sending a tiny frisson of awareness down her arm.
Beaumont must have felt her reaction for she saw his profile shift ever so slightly as the line of his mouth curled upward. The cat-clever gleam in his eye became more pronounced, sparking to a hue of sunburnt gold that matched the highlights of the duchess’s tumbled tresses.
“I think that you are right. Those little things do give her away.” His gaze now angled to her own features, its scrutiny moving over her skin like a physical caress.
Harriet repressed a shiver.
“I sense that very little escapes you, Miss Farnum. I shall have to be careful to keep my guard up.”
“Have you something to hide?” she countered.
“Of course. Don’t we all?”
Harriet moved on to the next painting.
“You are very good at it, you know.” Some secret amusement shaded his voice. “But not quite good enough.”
Her shoes scuffing on the smooth marble, she halted in confusion.
“Your expression,” he said in a low voice. A step, swift and silent as a stalking panther, had brought him close enough that his breath stirred the tiny hairs on the back of her neck. “You hide your thoughts well, a skill I daresay you learned from being a diplomat’s daughter. However, as you so sagely pointed out, the eyes can often betray us.”
Unable to muster a clever retort, Harriet held her tongue. Uncertain of what she had given away, she turned back to the gilt-framed canvases on the wall. “So what dark longings do you see in this young man’s eyes.” She indicated a portrait of Gainsborough’s nephew. “There’s an obvious arrogance, but beneath that I see trepidation. What do you think he’s afraid of?”
Beaumont refused to be diverted. “Take, for example, last night,” he went on, as if he hadn’t heard her. “Your tone is often tart with Lord Leete, and yet your gaze says that you care for him more than most people would guess.”
“Of course I care for him,” replied Harriet calmly, though she was furiously wracking her brain, trying to recall having seen the Frenchman anywhere in the ballroom. But all she saw were spinning shadows and hazed faces. Her attention had all been on Jack. “Leete is a good friend of my older brother. We have known each other for years.”
Beaumont’s voice dropped a notch. “Then I would guess you do not wish to see him come to grief. He’s suffered enough from French steel, eh?”
A chill gripped her, as if a blade of ice had skated down her spine.
“W-What do you mean?” she asked, hoping the tremor was too slight to resonate in her throat.
As he shifted his weight, a curl came to the corners of his mouth, and in that slight gesture she knew he was not fooled in the least. He knew he had frightened her.
“Only that questions tend to upset a certain group of my countrymen residing here in England.”
“Including you?”
In answer, he gave a Gallic shrug. “You may wish to pass on the information to His Lordship.”
“What information?” The Frenchman wasn’t the only man who could move on cat’s paws when he so chose.
Jack’s stealthy approach startled Harriet, but Beaumont appeared unperturbed. “That you are unconscionably late, Monsieur. A gentleman ought never keep a lady waiting.” Relinquishing his spot beside her with a courtly bow, he backed off. “Keep a close eye on the faces around you, Miss Farnum,” he added in a low whisper, just loud enough for her to hear, “And be watchful.”
With that, he bowed again and strolled through the archway of the adjoining salon.
“What was that all about?” demanded Jack.
Frowning, Harriet watched the flutter of his coat tails disappear behind the fluted columns framing the opening, uncomfortably aware that whatever game had just been played, she had been beaten badly.
“I wish I knew.”