Chapter 16
CHAPTER 16
A kiss? Harriet pursed her lips as the carriage rolled along the cobbled street toward the dressmaker’s shop. She had lain awake half the night puzzling over the fleeting encounter. Had Jack really meant to kiss her? Or...
She couldn’t seem to think of an alternative. It had definitely felt like a kiss. A tremor had tingled through her as their lips touched, and she could have sworn that she had felt him react as well.
And he had called her mouse-brown hair glorious.
“Oooh, how exciting,” murmured her maid.
Harriet looked up, a guilty flush stealing to her cheeks. Were her schoolgirl reveries written that plainly on her face?
“A masquerade party, under the midnight stars,” went on Ellie, much to Harriet’s relief. “How romantic.”
“Not really,” she replied dryly. “There will be a crush of people crowding the gardens, and fireworks booming and sparking loud as cannonfire.”
“Yes, but darkness always adds a cloak of intrigue,” said Ellie with a soft sigh. “And you will be able to look at Lord Leete’s handsome face bathed in silvery moonlight.”
“It is a masquerade, remember? Lord Leete’s face will be completely covered,” pointed out Harriet.
Her maid looked a little crestfallen but quickly recovered. “Well, perhaps you will be surprised. I still say it could be wildly romantic.”
“Perhaps,” she allowed.
Ellie’s vivid imagination was soon satisfied as Mrs. McNulty and her assistants quickly got into the spirit of fashioning a striking costume for the duc’s party.
“I think we should choose a queen,” said the dressmaker after considering the rolls of sumptuous fabric stacked in the corner of the fitting room. “That way we get to work with all the glitter and pomp of royalty. The question is which one. I should not like to portray you as a widget or featherhead.”
“I suggest Queen Caroline of Ansbach, consort of George I,” offered Mrs. Currough, who had paused in the corridor to peek through the gap in the draperies. “She was known for her grace and intelligence, and assembled a fascinating court of thinkers and artists at Kensington Palace.”
“Excellent! Come, girls, let us get to work.” Mrs. McNulty clapped her hands together, then barked out a flurry of orders that sent her assistants scurrying for gold braid, silver thread and baskets of creamy lace and jeweltone fringing.
“What is the occasion?” asked Mrs. Currough.
“A masquerade party tomorrow in Vauxhall Gardens, given by the Duc de Broilly,” answered Harriet. “Lord Leete and I have been invited by Comte Amirault and Madame La Rochelle.”
A pensive frown passed over the Irish Beauty’s face. “Amirault and La Rochelle,” she repeated. “I have heard those two names spoken of recently.” After a long moment of thought, her shoulders lifted in a shrug. “But I can’t place where. It doesn’t matter, of course. It’s simply that I wouldn’t have expected you and Leete to be acquainted with the French community here in London.”
“Madame La Rochelle and Leete formed a friendship while he was a prisoner of the French army in the Peninsula.”
Mrs. Currough’s frown flickered back for an instant. “From what I hear, the French community is a hornet’s nest of warring factions and duplicitous intrigue. I am sure you and Leete need no counsel from me, however...”
She paused, fixing Harriet with a concerned look. “We women of the demimonde talk among ourselves. Men’s tongues tend to loosen after an evening of wine and pleasure, and so my friends are privy to many secrets. I would simply say that if I were you, I would be very careful about being drawn into their tangle of affairs.”
“Leete is of the same opinion,” answered Harriet carefully.
Mrs. Currough’s expression brightened. “Then let us speak of more pleasant things.” She moved to the bolts of rich fabrics. “I would recommend that lovely gold-threaded seafoam green brocade for the underdress of your costume gown. A layer of sarcenet...”
The next hour passed in a bustle of cutting and pinning, as patterns were made and trimmings were chosen.
“La, you will look even more regal than a queen when I am done,” said Mrs. McNulty as she brandished a sewing needle and a handful of glittering paste jewels.
“I am sure I won’t recognize myself tomorrow evening,” quipped Harriet.
“That, my dear, is the whole point of a masquerade.”
Climbing quickly up to the perch of his curricle, Jack turned the horses for the main road and urged them to as fast a pace as the gusting rain allowed. With the masquerade party looming in the evening, he was anxious to return to London as quickly as possible. Yesterday, fearing that his morning meeting might be lengthy, he had sent a message to Harriet, arranging to meet her at the main entrance to the Vauxhall Gardens rather than calling for her at her residence. But given what he had just discovered, he did not like the idea of leaving her alone amidst the crowd of revelers.
The scribbled notes tucked inside his oilskin cloak, made during the lengthy interviews with several military officers involved with overseeing French prisoners in England, had only increased his misgivings about Camille. He was sure she was lying about Pierre being missing, and yet he could come up with no reason for it.
Which in itself set off warning bells in his head. An unpredictable enemy was dangerous.
Strange how he had come to see her as an enemy. A few short weeks ago, he had fancied himself in thrall to her seductive beauty, her winsome charm. Or rather, he had been in thrall to the Camille he had fashioned from memory and longing. An imaginary ideal, no more real than a figure cut out of pasteboard.
Perhaps the image had crumbled because in contrast to the steady friendship and forthright honesty of Harriet, the Frenchwoman’s allure was no more substantial than dust.
Love was more than a flirtatious smile, a throaty laugh. He knew that now.
The wind tore at his cloak, the rain lashed his face, sending icy rivulets snaking down his spine. And yet Jack was aware of an elemental warmth centered in his core.
Harriet.
He loved Harriet. In that storm-dark moment, it hit him with all the force of a thunderclap. At heart, he had known it for ages. It had simply taken time for the realization to penetrate his thick skull.
A crack of his whip drew a little more speed from the horses. There was no cause for alarm, he assured himself. But his nerves were on edge, and some primitive protective instinct had kicked up to drum an urgent tattoo inside his head.
And he had learned long ago to trust his instincts.
Ellie did up the last fastening of the gown and stepped back with an admiring gasp. “Oooh, Miss Harriet, You look like a fairytale princess!” She picked up the paste-jeweled crown from the dressing table and held it up to the light. “What a pity you have to spoil the effect of all this lovely glitter with a black silk mask that hides half your face.”
“I think I have more than enough glitter,” said Harriet, doing a slow twirl in front of the cheval glass. The gold-threaded fabric sparked like live fire, setting off winks of light along the faux-emerald encrusted trimmings. Mrs. McNulty and her seamstresses had outdone themselves in creating a costume fit for a queen. It was all make-believe, of course, but at the moment she felt rather regal.
Would Jack notice how well the gown complemented her curves?
Chiding herself for such silly schoolgirl longings, Harriet fluffed up her skirts one last time and then turned away from her reflection. Romance had no place in her thoughts. This was purely business. They had a mystery to solve.
“I will wait until it’s time to leave before putting on the crown,” she told her maid. Meanwhile, there was a detailed map of Oxfordshire in her father’s study which she wanted to consult. An idea had popped into her head just now while she was dressing, and it wouldn’t take long to see if it was worth mentioning to Jack this evening. “I need to take a quick look at something in Father’s study.”
Ellie followed her down the corridor, clucking in disapproval. “But there’s repair work being done on the chimney. You might get soot on the hem of that gorgeous confection.”
“The garden grounds aren’t exactly pristine,” pointed out Harriet.
A sniff, followed by a sigh. “Yes, but we want Lord Leete to see you in all your glory,” said Ellie. “Is he coming dressed as a prince?”
Harriet chuckled as she reached for the door latch of the study. “No, he is going to wear Father’s old red and black domino. I had it delivered to his townhouse.”
Her maid made a horrified face. “But that will clash with your colors!”
“Alas, a prince was above my power of persuasion. It was all I could do to convince him to wear any costume at all.”
“That’s not very romantic,” said Ellie, repeating a sentiment she had been voicing before.
“I may have to curtail your reading of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. They seem to be giving you overdramatic ideas of romance,” replied Harriet dryly.
“But romance is all about drama,” objected Ellie. “And passion.”
Harriet raised her brows. “I won’t ask what you know about passion.”
That drew a flustered flush. “I had better go give the crown a last polishing and lay out the hairpins,” she said quickly and scuttled back toward Harriet’s rooms.
Repressing a smile, Harriet pushed open the study room. There was a lot of dust, she saw, and the workman had been a little sloppy in laying down a covering on the oaken floor. Skirting around a scattering of ashes, she headed for the massive pearwood desk set by the bank of windows, then slowed in consternation on seeing papers and documents strewn in a jumble atop the leather blotter. Her father was meticulous about keeping his work in order...
“Pray, what are you doing down there?” she demanded of the figure crouched between the desk and door leading out to the back terrace.
“Sweeping up, Miss,” came the raspy reply.
“You ought to start by the hearth,” she said sternly, “before the draft blows the dust over the books and papers.”
“Aye, miss.”
Harriet waited, intent on not letting the lazy knave shirk his duties.
He continued to shuffle around on his hands and knees.
Shifting slightly, she saw that one of the desk drawers was ajar. It wasn’t one that was normally kept locked. Still, the back of her neck began to prickle. She took a step closer and saw he had no hand broom.
“Just how are you sweeping? By conjuring the motes of dust into a bin across that room with the flick of a magic wand?”
“I was just fetching a tool that had fallen, Miss,” he whined, holding up a thin-bladed chisel. “I mean to start sweeping right away.”
“Get up,” she commanded.
He rose, head down, shoulders hunched, and started to sidle around to the hearth.
“Stay where you are, and tell me what you were doing down there.”
“Just my job, miss.” He finally looked up and cast her a beseeching look through his gold-tipped lashes. “Please, I have a sick mother and grandmother to support. I cannot afford to lose this job.”
Harriet drew in a sharp inhale as their eyes met.
“Please,” he repeated, a hopeful smile curling on his well-shaped mouth. He was an extremely handsome man, so no doubt he was used to wheedling favors from females.
Moving back a step, she braced a hand on the bookshelf, considering the plea. “Look around you. Your work is unacceptable.”
His eyes lowered to the floor in contrition. “I promise I shall do better.”
As he spoke, Harriet calmly opened the lid of the rosewood box beneath her fingers and drew out her father’s pistol. “That won’t be necessary.”
Drawing a bead on his chest, she added, “ Alors , Colonel La Rochelle—your wife appears to be expending a great deal of time and tears trying to locate you. As is your old friend Jack. And yet, here you are, safe and sound, in my father’s townhouse. Would you care to explain that?”
La Rochelle opened his mouth to speak, then seemed to change his mind. Tugging his grimy jacket into place, he slowly straightened to his full height. “It would seem that prevarication is pointless. Tell me, how did you know it was me?”
“It is I who am asking the questions, sir. And I expect some answers.”
He lifted his shoulders in a graceful shrug.
“And so will Jack.” The Frenchman’s sang froid was making her blood boil. “What a miserable, cowardly act to try to murder a friend. You should be ashamed of yourself.”
“Jack is a soldier. He knows that in time of war, personal feelings cannot interfere with a mission.”
“What mission?” she demanded. “And why draw him in to whatever sordid plot you had planned.”
La Rochelle picked at a loose thread on his cuff. “It was an unfortunate accident that Camille encountered him outside the gaming hell. We thought perhaps he could be used to our advantage.” His smile turned half mocking. “But you know what a highly developed sense of honor he has. Not only did he refuse to introduce Camille to your father, but he undertook to find me, which was a great inconvenience.”
“An inconvenience which called for cold-blooded murder?”
The Frenchman’s expression remained neutral. “Verdunne exceeded his orders. He was only ordered to have his ruffians wound Jack, but he’s always never much liked Englishmen, especially now that your armies have our Emperor on the run.”
“So, you are loyal to Napoleon?”
Another shrug. “I am loyal to whatever side will hold power in France.”
Appalled, Harriet pressed for more information. “I don’t understand. Why are you here in England?”
“To make sure I make myself valuable to whichever Royalist faction will emerge as triumphant. The documents which your father possesses list the names of those men both here and in France who will be favored by the British government. That will prove invaluable to me and my associates.”
“You are working with Amirault?”
La Rochelle heaved a bored sigh. “Enough questions, mademoiselle. Are you going to shoot me?”
“I should, but I daresay Jack will have a good many more queries to make of you.” Harriet gestured with the pistol at the desk chair. “Sit.” Her eyes shifted for just an instant as she looked for the bell, in order to ring for the footmen to come truss up her prisoner.
A mistake. Seizing his chance, La Rochelle kicked the chair over, knocking her back against the bookshelves. With the same cat-like quickness, he spun around and slammed his shoulder against the terrace door, bursting the lock. A split second later he had disappeared into the shrubbery.
Cursing herself for a fool, Harriet replaced the pistol in the box. No sense in raising the alarm, she decided. Bailin and the footmen were no match for La Rochelle, even if they could catch up to him. There was also the chance that they would not allow her to go on to Vauxhall Gardens, and that might ruin whatever strategy Jack had planned for the evening.
She needed to leave soon, so as to be sure not to keep Jack waiting at the entrance… and after a moment of further reflection, it seemed doubtful La Rochelle would try to return anytime soon, so she simply closed up the back door, and straightened up her father’s desk before heading back to her room.
“Oh, Miss—you’ve gone and mussed up all the beautiful folds!” exclaimed Ellie.
“Never mind the folds,” said Harriet. She was about to wave off the crown as well, but then thought better of it. Jack might well want to mingle at the party as if nothing alarming had happened, and so she ought to be in full costume, including the black mask that was part of her headgear. Reluctantly taking a seat at her dressing table, she submitted to her maid’s ministrations.
But as the minutes seemed to pass slowly as hours, her patience began to fray. “Oh, do hurry with that dratted crown.
“Then stop squirming,” muttered Ellie. She thrust in the last few pins, then hastily gathered up their cloaks. “Now we are ready to be off.”
“What the devil...” Jack stared in consternation at the clothing strewn around his dressing room.
“I only discovered it just now, milord. None of the staff heard any sounds or saw any signs of an intruder,” said his valet apologetically. “I haven’t noted anything of value missing, but I shall, of course, make a thorough examination.”
Jack surveyed the mess. “That can wait. First of all, find that blasted domino and be quick about it.”
“Er, that is the one item that seems to be gone, sir.”
He spun around. “ Gone ?”
“Yes, milord. Though why a thief would take it is beyond me.”
There could only be one explanation. Harriet had somehow put herself in danger.
Uttering a curse, Jack rushed to his sitting room and retrieved a small pocket pistol from his desk drawer. “Summon my carriage,” he ordered as he shoved the weapon into his pocket. His curricle team was too winded to continue on to Vauxhall Gardens. “NOW!”
As his valet pelted off, he threw off his oilskin cloak and grabbed up a dark overcoat. The clouds had scudded off during his journey from Kent, leaving a clear sky. A good night for fireworks . Though he feared that the real bang and spark would be playing out on the grounds of the gardens.
His chest clenched. Harriet was alone and unprotected?—
“Why is your household racing around like bats flying out of hell?” asked James as he entered the room.
“Because there is a devil on the loose.” Jack grabbed his friend’s arm. “Is your carriage right outside?”
“Yes—”
“Then let us fly. I’ll explain on the way.”
“Ellie, listen carefully. Instead of coming with me, I want you to return home immediately and have Bailin and the footmen guard the house against any intruders,” said Harriet as their coachman drew the horses to a halt near the entrance to the Grand Walk. “I will explain later, but for now, just do as I say.”
“But, Miss Harriet! You can’t be left on your own here, with all the tussle and bustle of unsavory strangers,” protested her maid. “It’s too dangerous.”
Squaring her mask with an impatient tug, Harriet glanced out the carriage window and saw the familiar red and black glimmer of her father’s old domino through the smoky haze of the torchlight.
“Look, Lord Leete is already waiting for me,” she pointed out, feeling a rush of relief that he was there. “With only a short stretch to cross, I’m not going to come to any grief.”
“Very well, then,” said Ellie, after reassuring herself that Jack was indeed standing in the recess of the archway. She unlatched the door, allowing Harriet to descend to the graveled walkway.
A gust ruffled her skirts, drawing a number of raucous catcalls. Hunching her shoulders, she tried to hurry her steps, but all around her, the masked revelers were pushing and jostling, their overloud voices already slurred by spirits. She craned her neck, trying to see Jack through the swaying headcoverings and bobbing plumes. But he seemed to have been swallowed up in the crowd.
Quelling a flutter of nerves, Harriet made herself keep moving. He had to be just ahead.
Her heavy skirts tangled around her legs and her heeled shoes were slipping and sliding awkwardly over the sharp stones. She tried to angle across to the perimeter of the path, but a sudden shove from behind sent her stumbling.
A black-gloved hand caught hold of her arm, keeping her upright.
Twisting around, she was about to cry out when she saw it was the red and black domino looming close to her face.
“Jack!” she exclaimed. “Thank God.”
He gestured her to silence with a quick touch of his finger to her lips. The crush of the crowd carried them through the entrance. His stride lengthened and Harriet found herself struggling to keep pace. The noise, the revelers, the wildly flickering lanterns all added to her sense of confusion. Her breathing was coming in ragged gasps and all at once she was feeling a little dizzy and disoriented.
“Please, we need to find a quiet spot to stop and talk for a moment,” she said with low urgency. “I have much to tell you.”
His only reaction was to move even faster. Somewhere close by, a loud boom rent the air. One of the attractions at the end of the Great Walk was a mock sea battle, and it seemed that the cannons had begun to fire.
Though her head was reeling, Harriet was familiar enough with the layout of the gardens to know that the battle was at the opposite end of the Gardens from where the duc’s private party was being held.
“Jack!” She dug in her heels. The crowds had thinned somewhat and there seemed no reason they couldn’t slow down and talk.
At last, he responded. But not as Harriet expected. Pulling her close, he bent low, as if to murmur in her ear. It was then that she felt the prick of cold steel touch against her neck.
“Come along quietly, mademoiselle.” Though low and muffled, the voice was unmistakably that of La Rochelle. “Or I’ll be forced to ensure your silence.”
There were people all around, and the light from the lanterns cast a bright illumination over the walkway. “You wouldn’t dare,” said Harriet, trying to sound braver than she felt.
“You think anyone will notice me carrying a drunken woman into the bushes?” he shot back. “You are na?ve, mademoiselle. Now come along. I won’t ask again.”
Boom! Boom! Boom! The cannons were firing more rapidly, much to the glee of the spectators, who were watching great puffs of smoke float up above the trees.
Harriet realized he was right. Struggling would be foolish. Until she knew what was going on, it was best to do as she was told.
She let her muscles go limp.
“A wise decision.” Keeping his arm wrapped tightly around her waist, La Rochelle once again quickened his steps. They passed a small pavilion, its pale marble columns painted in silvery moonlight, then he suddenly turned down one of the infamous Dark Walks, unlit footpaths which were known for attracting only people who were up to no good.