Chapter 15
CHAPTER 15
“ C ongratulations!” called one of the wags as Jack made his way through the reading room of White’s. “Or should I say, commiserations! I hadn’t realized you were badly dipped in the pocket.”
Jack paused in mid-stride. “What makes you think that, Jenkins?”
“A plump dowry, ha, ha, ha.” The baronet chuckled at his own wit. “It’s said Miss Farnum is worth ten thousand a year.”
With whisper-soft steps over the Oriental carpet, Jack approached the leather armchair. “Are you implying that I asked for the lady’s hand merely for money?”
“Er, well, why else would a blade of your repute leave off cutting a swath through the boudoirs?”
“I am not at all interested in your speculations about my personal motives. What I do care about is that you keep a respectful tongue concerning my betrothed.” Jack reached down and grasped the baronet’s cravat, deliberately crushing the starched folds. “Else next time you shall find it yanked out and fed to the Tower ravens.”
“N-No offense intended, Leete. Just a friendly jest, is all.”
“Miss Farnum is not a jesting matter. Do I make myself clear?”
“Q-Quite.”
Heads ducked in a flurry of rustling newspapers as Jack released his hold and looked around with a scowl. Hearing no further comments, he continued on into one of the private meeting rooms and quickly poured himself a brandy.
“Are you considering a career on the stage?” asked James, as he entered the room a moment later. “That was quite a magnificent performance.”
“Stubble the sarcasm,” he snapped. “I’m in no mood for it.” He raised his glass, then set it aside untouched. “This betrothal business is harder work than I imagined.”
His cousin Hermione had insisted on hosting a fancy supper party in honor of the announcement, while his father and the Duke of Pierpont were conspiring to throw another gala ball, this one in London, to celebrate the impending nuptials. Even Harriet’s father, who was known for his stone-faced reserve, had allowed an expression of moderate pleasure on hearing the news. Jack couldn’t help feeling a stab of guilt on thinking how disappointed they all would be when it ended.
As for Harriet...
“At least you don’t have to go through the interminable rounds of morning calls that ladies must endure. Every matron in Mayfair is clamoring for a visit from Harriet,” said James as he walked to the window and looked down on St. James’s Street. “Theo tells me the two of them have drunk enough tea over the last few days to float the Channel Fleet.”
“Thank God for Theo’s staunch support,” replied Jack. “Harriet does not enjoy the rituals of the ton .” Another frisson of guilt stirred in the pit of his stomach. “She would be lost having to go through them on her own.”
“They are fast friends. And friends stand by each other.” James turned and perched a hip on the windowsill. “Which I suppose explains why I am here at this cursedly early hour with you, instead of sleeping comfortably in my bed.”
“My apologies if I dragged you from the arms of the luscious Lucinda.”
A clouded expression flitted over his friend’s face. “Actually we parted ways a fortnight ago. Quite amicably, I might add, a sentiment encouraged by a hideously expensive bauble from Rundell & Bridge.”
“Have you another ladybird in mind?” asked Jack.
“I thought I was summoned from my sleep to discuss your affairs, not mine.”
“You aren’t usually so irascible in the morning,” observed Jack, after deciding to quaff a swallow of his brandy after all.
“Pour me a glass. It’s bad luck to drink alone,” said James morosely. “And then kindly tell me why I am here.”
“I need to ask another favor concerning the French émigré community. But you’ll have to be very careful—there could be some danger involved.”
His friend’s expression perked up.
“I had better explain, though it goes without saying that it must remain confidential.” Though Jack summed up the conundrum as simply as he could, it took some minutes to explain the gist of it.
“A missing officer, a suspicious wife, who is somehow entangled in the warring faction of the French Royalists,” mused James. “I think, perhaps, I need a hearty breakfast in order to chew over all this.”
“You shall have it. But first, are you still friends with your old valet and his circle of friends?” James’s former servant had decided that arranging business dealings in the underworld was a more lucrative profession than serving as a gentleman’s gentleman.
“Yes, Rafferty has on occasion proved useful to know, so I maintain cordial relations with him. What is it you need?”
“I want him to find a Frenchman named Etienne Verdunne. My guess is the fellow is recently arrived in London,” answered Jack. “And to detain him for questioning. I shall, of course, make it worth his while.”
“I’ll arrange it,” assured James.
“Do so discreetly. Verdunne was involved in trying to put a period to my existence. As I said, I don’t want to draw you into danger.”
His friend let out a rude sound. “Danger may be just what I need to slay the blue devils that seem to have taken up residence in my head.” As he pushed away from the window, a new alertness seemed to have displaced his earlier lethargy. “I have a good idea of where to find Raff at this hour.”
“What about breakfast?”
“Lend me some blunt. I’ll take him to a tavern. He’s always much more agreeable when his breadbox is full.”
“As are you.” Jack gladly handed over a fistful of guineas. Now that his first mission was done, he was anxious to move on to Horse Guards, where his former military comrade had his offices. Closer study of Harriet’s list the previous evening had sparked an idea.
“Congratulations.”
Harriet looked up from her dish of strawberry ice cream. She and Theo had deemed themselves deserving of a treat after spending yet another day making tedious morning calls, and so they had stopped at Gunter’s Tea Shop on leaving Lady Merton’s Grosvenor Square townhouse.
“Allow me to offer my felicitations on the happy news,” continued Amirault, though his words were at odds with the accompanying smile. Like the stretch of perfect, pearly teeth it displayed, it had a certain hard-edged coldness.
“ Oui , you are a very lucky lady,” murmured Camille, who was accompanying him. “It is quite a coup, is it not, to have caught such a handsome, titled gentleman as Jack?”
Harriet’s dislike of the Frenchwoman ratcheted up another notch. It was, she knew, unfair, perhaps. English society also saw marriage as a merging of material assets. And yet, something about Camille’s slanted cat-like eyes and how they seemed always to be probing for a weakness put her back up.
“I was not fishing,” she said pointedly.
“La, forgive me. My English is so very clumsy at times. It leaves much to be desired.”
Harriet was quite sure that was a falsehood. Lies seemed to swath the Gallic beauty, fluttering around her like so many layers of gossamer silk.
“Lord Leete considers himself fortunate to have won Harriet’s hand,” piped up Theo in Harriet’s defense. “They have much in common and make a very well-matched pair.”
“Then they will no doubt have a very happy future together,” replied Camille smoothly.
“Might we join you and Lady Thalia?” asked Amirault, indicating the pair of empty chairs at their table.
“Her name is Theo ,” announced Harriet.
“We seem to be putting—how do you English say it—our toes in our mouth,” murmured Camille. “Perhaps we should move on before we give further offense.”
Taking the oblique hint, Amirault remained standing. “I hope we may make amends by inviting you and your fiancé to attend a special private party at Vauxhall Gardens on Thursday evening, given by the Duc de Broilly.” An infinitesimal pause. “And Lady Theo, too, of course. And we would, of course, be honored by your father’s presence as well.”
Quelling her irritation, Harriet responded with a polite nod. “Thank you. That sounds lovely. I am sure Jack will be delighted to be part of the gathering. Unfortunately, my father will not be available.” It was the truth, though she would have lied if necessary. “He is in Portsmouth for the week on government business.”
“What a pity.” Amirault gave a resigned sigh. “I have heard so many people sing his praises, it would have been an honor to meet him.”
“Perhaps some other time,” said Harriet coolly.
“I shall look forward to it. But in the meantime, we shall have the pleasure of welcoming you and Leete—and Lady Theo. It will be a memorable evening, as there are gala fireworks planned, designed by the famous Austrian pyrotechnics expert, Herr Steuer, in honor of Wellington’s latest successes in the Peninsula. And there will a number of interesting people in attendance, several of whom I am most anxious to have you meet.”
“Oh?” said Harriet, raising an inquiring brow.
Amirault, however, went on smoothly, “By the by, Broilly is asking that all the guests come masked and costumed as a great British historical figure of the past in order to add to the festivities.”
“I shall have trouble convincing Jack to don a powdered wig and silk stockings, but a simple domino may be possible. There is an old one belonging to my father in our attic that he can borrow.” She looked to Camille. “Have you chosen someone, Madame La Rochelle?”
“I am thinking of Boudicca, the mythical Warrior Queen,” replied Camille. “And you?”
“I must give it some thought.” Harriet was about to turn back to the Comte when she noticed the oval pendant pinned to the Frenchwoman’s bodice. Inside the gold filigree frame was a miniature portrait painted on ivory. “That is a lovely piece of art,” she remarked. “Might I have a closer look?”
Camille came around the table. “It is my husband,” she said softly.
“The detail is exquisite,” said Harriet after taking several long moments to examine the delicately wrought brushstrokes. Despite the small size, there was an undeniable magnetism to the fine-boned face. “He is a very handsome man.”
Or was, amended Harriet to herself as she watched intently for any flicker of reaction from the Frenchwoman.
“It is a very good likeness.” It might have been mere artifice that affected the tiny tremor in Camille’s voice, but for an instant, it sounded heartfelt.
“Thank you, for allowing me a closer look,” she said, feeling it would be churlish to keep staring, even though there was a mysterious power to the blue eyes that held her gaze.
“Come, Camille, we must be on our way,” said Amirault, moving to her side and offering his arm. “Please excuse us, ladies. We are engaged to meet Lady Hillhouse for a pianoforte recital at the St. Alban’s Musical Society.”
“Yes, we must,” said Camille in a small, sad voice, and let herself be led off without a further word.
“Fireworks give me a beastly headache,” said Theo, once the front door had fallen shut. “I think I shall cry off.”
“A trip to Vauxhall Gardens is always a raucous occasion, what with the noisy crowds, the free-flowing arrack punch, the dark pathways, and the whiff of forbidden pleasures hanging heavy as the scent of gunpowder in the night air,” replied Harriet.
“It’s not the sort of evening you enjoy either,” commented Theo. “Why not demur as well?”
“I think Jack will want to attend,” she answered evasively, unable to explain the real reason for her interest in Amirault and Camille.
“It is good of him to feel such loyalty to Madame La Rochelle,” murmured her friend. She pushed aside her unfinished ice cream. “Though I am not sure she deserves it.”
“Nor am I,” confided Harriet. “However, unlike you, I do enjoy the booms and the brilliant explosions of sparks against the black velvet sky. So in spite of the company, it won’t be an entirely unpleasant experience for me.” She began rummaging in her reticule for her purse. “Sorry, but I had better return home. I’ve promised Jack that I shall drive out in the park with him this afternoon, and that entails yet another of Madame Deauville’s stylish ensembles.” A wry grimace. “I think I preferred being a drab country weed.”
“No, no, we agreed it was time for the Wallflowers to turn over a new leaf!” Theo flashed a warm smile. “After a day of chattering tabbies, a breath of fresh air with Jack will be a lovely respite. The two of you have such a comfortable camaraderie. It bodes very well for a happy marriage. I am so very pleased for you. I... I think it is rare to find such a perfect match.”
“Thank you.” Harriet felt a guilty flush creep to her cheeks, wondering how in the name of Hades she was going to explain things when the sham engagement came to an end. But she forced herself to thrust aside such worries, deciding there were enough challenges to cope with at the present moment.
“It does seem to me,” she went on softly, “that friendship must be at the heart of any meaningful relationship.”
Their eyes met and Theo reached over to give her hand a small squeeze. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Jack handed Harriet up to the seat of his high-perch curricle. “Thank you for agreeing to drive out in the park at the fashionable hour. I know you dislike all these silly social rituals, but people expect it of a newly engaged couple, so we had best play along.” He climbed up beside her and took hold of the reins. “And besides, I have some interesting information to pass on to you.”
“As do I,” she replied. “But let us hear your news first. I can see by your expression that you think it important.”
“I do.” A flick of his whip started the matched pair of bays trotting toward Rotten Row. “I got to thinking about all your research and cross-checking of documents, which ended up indicating Camille’s husband was likely interred somewhere in Oxfordshire.” Up ahead, a lumbering dray filled with hogsheads of ale suddenly swerved, forcing a quick maneuver to avoid careening into an oncoming barouche.
“So I visited my friend who is handling military intelligence at Horse Guards, and though it took some wheedling, I’ve managed to learn in exactly which towns prisoners of war are billeted.”
“Bravo,” she said. “Both for your cleverness, and for avoiding disaster back there. Thank Heaven you are a very skilled driver.”
He grinned. “A compliment? I would swoon, but that would undo all my efforts to impress you.”
“So,” she mused, ignoring his quip, “we should be getting close to solving that part of the mystery.”
“Yes. I’ve dispatched a Bow Street Runner to investigate. I’m told he’s very good at what he does. If Pierre La Rochelle is there, we shall find him.” Jack gave a sidelong glance, expecting another smile. Instead, he saw a pensive frown pinch at her profile.
“How will he recognize La Rochelle?” asked Harriet.
“You are developing a devious mind,” he murmured. “Actually, I did think of that. Given the swirl of suspicions around all this, I gave the Runner a detailed physical description of Pierre.”
Her face relaxed somewhat. “Excellent.”
“We should hear within a matter of days. Assuming he’s located, I shall journey there and have a long talk with my old friend.”
“Before you inform Camille?”
Jack had asked himself the same question and wasn’t sure of the answer. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “I shall make that decision when the time comes.”
Harriet caught a lock of hair that the breeze had pulled free of her bonnet and tucked it behind her ear with an impatient little tug that drew an inward smile. Her subtle mannerisms—a look, a gesture, a tilt of her head—had become intimately familiar over the last few months. He was beginning to sense her moods before she spoke a word.
At the moment, there was an aura of anticipation thrumming from her body. She had something to tell him—something she felt was significant.
Her next words corroborated his guess.
“Perhaps you will have a better idea on what to do after Thursday evening,”
Jack waited for her to go on.
Harriet waited until the curricle had passed through the park gates and turned down one of the side carriageways before explaining, “Theo and I encountered Amirault and Camille at Gunter’s. They invited us to a private party that’s being given by the Duc de Broilly at Vauxhall Gardens in honor of Wellington’s recent successes. There will be special fireworks, and we are asked to come in masquerade, as notable figures from British history.”
“No velvet doublets or silk hose,” he growled.
“I said as much. You can wear a simple domino. Remember the scarlet and black one you borrowed from Father when you and Wills attended the dowager Duchess of Sachem’s Venetian breakfast? It is still in the attic here in London.”
“If I must,” he muttered. “But yes, it’s an excellent opportunity for us to mingle with the French Royalists.”
“Amirault mentioned that he has several people he wishes to introduce to us. Perhaps it was my imagination, but he had that sort of cat-in-the-cream pot look that bodes no good. I wonder what sort of surprise he has planned.”
“Whatever it is, I will be ready for him,” vowed Jack.
His hands tightened on the reins, mirroring the clench of his insides as he realized how very determined he was to shield Harriet from any threat. Their engagement might be a sham, but his feelings for her were very real. She had come to be very dear to him... no, that wasn’t precisely right. She had been nestled somewhere in his heart for quite some time, a small flicker of warmth that had recently kindled to a bright flame.
No harm would be planned for them in the midst of a fancy party, he reminded himself. If danger was lurking elsewhere, he would have to be vigilant in keeping it well away from her.
The horses snorted and tossed their heads, pulling him back from such brooding thoughts.
Harriet shot him a quizzical look as the curricle lurched over the graveled pathway.
“Sorry,” he said. “I was thinking about the Bow Street Runner. Perhaps, until this matter is resolved, I should hire one of his comrades to shadow your movements. Just as a precaution?—”
“Absolutely not,” she shot back. “It is entirely unnecessary.”
Jack did not wish to alarm her by bringing up any reminder of the knife attack. And now that the first rush of worry had subsided, he agreed that he was overreacting. “Very well. But promise me you will not go out unaccompanied.”
She hesitated, then gave a curt nod. “Fair enough.”
Happy to have settled things so easily, he quickly returned to the topic of the masquerade party before she could change her mind.
“And what costume will you wear?”
“I have no idea.” Harriet pursed her lips. “I am scheduled for another visit to Madame Deauville’s shop on the morrow, in order to choose fabric for several more walking gowns. I shall ask her help in creating something suitably impressive.”
“No doubt it will be. She is considered by all of London to be a magician with needle and thread.”
The curricle slowed as they turned into Rotten Row, its wide expanse clogged with carriages. Stylish ladies and gentlemen strolled along the grassy verge, adding to the festive air of the haute monde parade. Jack drove for some moments in silence, very much aware of all the eyes turning on them.
Harriet shifted on the seat.
“It will all soon subside,” he murmured. “Some new story or scandal will make them forget about us.”
She sighed. “Yes, but it will likely be us who provide that new scandal.”
Seeing her expression, he wondered if he had made a mistake in cajoling her into accepting his suggestion. At the time, it had seemed a reasonable one. But now, he was having misgivings.
But not, he admitted, because of the ton and its penchant for cruel gossip. The fact was, he enjoyed having Harriet as a constant company.
“Tell me something,” she said abruptly. “Has Madame Deauville’s swirls of silk and satin magically transformed me ?”
Jack considered the question warily. There did not seem to be any good answer. He was damned if he said yes, and damned if he said no.
So what about simply saying the truth?
“Harry, you look absolutely splendid in all your new finery. The styles, the colors—and all the other little flourishes that a fellow can’t put a name to—are magnificent. And you added some other indefinable element.” He made a face. “Don’t ask me what. I’m not a poet, so I can’t begin to describe it.”
A ripple stirred in the depth of her gaze.
“But dash it all, you’ve always appeared wonderful in my eyes. The furbelows and frills are all very well, however, for me, your essence is unchanged.”
She blinked. Several times.
“So I’m the wrong person to ask,” he muttered.
Harriet’s expression went through a series of odd little contortions. But her only response was a single syllable.
“Oh.”
Thankfully, a hail from a nearby carriage provided a welcome escape from the uncomfortable conversation. Jack turned and tipped his hat to the dowager Countess of Branford, an old school friend of his late grandmother.
“It’s about time you settled down, you rapscallion,” she said, reaching out to whack her cane against the curricle’s painted wheel. “From what I have heard, the gel has enough sense—and enough starch—to keep you in line.”
“Allow me to introduce, Miss Farnum,” he said dryly.
The dowager raised her quizzing glass and regarded Harriet intently. “Aye, you’ll do,” she announced after a long moment. Jack thought he detected a flash behind the oversized glass lens. “Anyone who doesn’t flinch from my scrutiny has some bottom.” Another whack. “Come visit me, Miss Farnum and we’ll have a talk about this knave.”
“She likes playing the dragon,” murmured Jack as the barouche moved on. “But her fire is quite harmless.”
“Outspoken, opinionated ladies don’t frighten me in the least,” replied Harriet with a hint of humor. “I think I shall enjoy paying a call on her.”
With that, their conversation moved on to the various social obligations that loomed in the coming week. The momentary awkwardness had passed, but as Jack looped down a quieter carriageway for the return trip to her townhouse, he couldn’t help but note that though her tone was light, her mood seemed subdued.
Had he offended her? A lady liked to hear compliments, but somehow when he tried to hand them to Harriet, he turned into a clutch-fisted cawker.
They traded a few more casual comments concerning the people they had just seen, then lapsed into silence as the horses headed down half Moon Street.
Drawing to a halt, Jack jumped down from his perch and came around to assist her.
“Here, lad, “ he tossed a coin to the young street-sweeper on the corner. “Come hold my team while I escort the lady inside.”
It took several knocks to summon the butler to open the door.
“Your pardon, miss, but the footmen are moving some furniture away from the hearth in your father’s study, as the chimney suddenly started smoking, and appears to require some repairs,” explained Bailin in a harried voice. “I had better hurry back to make sure they don’t make a hash of it.”
“Of course,” agreed Harriet. “We need not stand on ceremony with Lord Leete.”
As Bailin rushed away, she undid her bonnet and set it on the sidetable.
Jack took a step closer, watching the tendrils of finespun hair at the nape of her neck begin to dance in a draft of air.
When she turned around, she seemed surprised to see him standing there. “Really, sir, you ought not to let your cattle take a chill.”
Her pert mouth was somehow mere inches from his. Jack could see the enticing fullness of her lower lip, a soft, sweetly-shaped curve that sent a jolt of heat spiraling through his very bones.
He tried to reply, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. He couldn’t speak.
He couldn’t think. Which explained why, as the air squeezed from his lungs, he lowered his head...
How long the kiss—if kiss it was—went on was impossible to gauge. Minutes? Hours? All Jack knew was that Harriet looked as dazed as he felt when at last their lips feathered apart.
“Sorry,” he rasped. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Y-You are overset by all this. I-I have heard that the specter of a legshackle can do that to a gentleman,” she stammered.
Jack let out a wry chuckle. “If anyone should be overset, it is you, Harry.” He kept his hands resting on her shoulders, simply because it felt good to do so. She didn’t try to pull away.
“Ah, but you know me. Steady as a brick.”
A very unbrick-like warmth radiated up through the layers of fabric to caress his palms. “Shall you never let me live down that remark?”
A smile curled at the corners of her mouth, and it was all he could do to keep from kissing her again. “I haven’t decided.”
“Wretch,” he replied, returning the smile. It was only with great reluctance that he shuffled his feet and let his hands fall away. “I’ve arranged to meet Jamie at White’s, so I had better take my leave. We’re going on to rendezvous with a friend of his who is working on finding Verdunne.”
“Be careful,” said Harriet, an unreadable flicker clouding her gaze for a moment.
“I will,” promised Jack. “My friend at Horse Guards has also arranged a meeting with some of my old military comrades in Kent who are involved in overseeing the handling of French prisoners on parole here in England. So I will be leaving at first light tomorrow and will likely not return until just before the party at Vauxhall Gardens.”
He couldn’t keep from reaching out and brushing a curl from her cheek. “So you must vow to be careful as well.”
“I told you, I will not go out alone, if that makes you feel better.”
“It does,” he replied.
“My only engagement is a trip to Madame Deauville’s shop. And the only threat there is to Father’s purse.” She gave a rueful grimace. “Her creations are hideously expensive.”
“But worth every farthing,” murmured Jack. “However, if she decides to dress you as Queen Elizabeth, please promise me you won’t dye your glorious hair red.”
“No red,” agreed Harriet.
“Excellent.” Jack backed toward the door. “Until Thursday, then.”
“Yes, until Thursday.”