Chapter Twenty-Five
London
After a promised ice at Gunther’s and a drive through the park with Rufus that was shorter than Clem had come to expect, Rufus sat back and opened his pocket watch.
He tapped the head of his ebony cane with a single finger and snapped the watch shut, sliding it back into his fob pocket.
“I regret I cannot spend more time with you, but I shall have to take you home now. I have a meeting to attend at Whitehall.”
Disappointed by the brevity of their outing, Clem smiled still, acknowledging her pleasure in his company. “Oh, then it was kind of you to make time to entertain me. You don’t have to, you know.”
“It’s no hardship spending time with you, Clem. Besides, Society expects a doting and keen fiancé to spend time with the woman he intends to marry.”
“No real fiancé could do better than you have, Rufus. You are the best of friends.”
An odd expression passed through Rufus’s eyes before his gaze slid away.
Perhaps it was the heat of the day throwing her off, but not once during the afternoon had she managed to elicit any news from Rufus. Something was off in his demeanor, and his reluctance to answer her questions had become tiresome.
Time was passing, days sliding quickly towards the ball.
The notice of their engagement had already been published.
In the eyes of society, their relationship was binding.
And Lavinia’s fundraiser, with its public presentation of them as a couple, was little more than a week away and still Rufus had not offered a solution to their situation. He was behaving—
Secretively, almost as though he was reluctant to act. The possibility of such an event was alarming.
Is it possible he does not wish to end our engagement?
Rufus had once told her he was not in love with her, she reminded herself, but what other reason could he have for his strange behavior?
Surely she was wrong. She had to be wrong, but for now, she needed to be alone to think.
As the carriage pulled away from Gunther’s, Clem requested, “Please drop me off near the Emporium. I wish to visit the Floris Perfumery.”
“Certainly, my dear.”
He had called her “my dear” often, and she’d heard it as though from a fond uncle, but now she wondered if it carried a different weight, the words also those of a lover.
When she’d asked Rufus outright if he loved her in the More Chapel, he’d told her no, not in the way she meant.
But what if the act of asking the question had put the idea in his head?
Was it possible her enquiry had brought about the fact?
Especially when it had been presented during a moment of emotional vulnerability, such as Rufus had been experiencing in the chapel.
She opened her mouth to ask, then clamped it shut. Asking Rufus a second time if he had developed feelings for her seemed arrogant, and asking him if her theory had substance felt inappropriate when what she would in fact be asking was if he, too, had a weakness like the Biblical Samson.
The carriage drew up in front of Ackermann’s Emporium, one of the only places a young, unmarried woman could go unescorted and unaccompanied by a maid or servant. Clem let her gaze skim Rufus’s before she turned to the door, eager to leave his company and to think.
“Since you’ve another appointment,” and have been as forthcoming as a clam, “I might as well fill the rest of my afternoon with shopping.”
“I’m sorry, Clem, but it’s important. I’ll send my carriage back to wait for you in front of Ackermann’s store.” He inclined his head as she climbed down, and the door closed behind her.
But ribbons and furbelows failed to ease her frustration or keep her attention, although she consoled herself with the purchase of a pretty lace parasol.
Leaving the Emporium, she wandered for a while, luxuriating in her rebellion against societal norms and the freedom of being alone.
Glancing down a street she had not traversed, she wondered what shops would be found there.
Other well-dressed women were strolling there, and so she reasoned it would be safe to do so as well.
As she strolled, her new parasol shading her from both sun and casual view, a familiar carriage pulled up halfway along the street in front of what appeared to be a club. As she drew closer, the door opened and out stepped Rufus.
Clem stopped suddenly in the middle of the footpath and then edged close to the anonymity of a shopfront, peeking out between soft points of lace edging her parasol.
What was Rufus doing here? How had he had time to reach Whitehall and return to this place, let alone attend a meeting? Had he—lied?
The thought shocked her, but then, to her surprise, Will climbed out, followed by a gentleman she did not know. The three men entered the club, and Clem was left feeling more perplexed than ever.
If Will was in Rufus’s company, perhaps his meeting was to do with breaking their engagement. Clem believed in his honesty and in the kindness he had shown her for so long. Perhaps he was simply keeping his plans secret until everything was sorted out.
Will had said that was his way, but the not knowing gnawed at Clem. She had been patient and trusting, but the afternoon’s odd twist was the last straw. This situation affected her as well as Will and Rufus, so why was Will privy to Rufus’s plans while she was kept in the dark?
Feeling quite out of charity with her menfolk, she returned to await Rufus’s carriage in front of Ackermann’s Emporium.
When it arrived mere minutes after her, she directed the coach driver to Merry’s address.
While her friend was in mourning, Clem trusted she would not be busy with visitors, and they could have a nice, long chat about men and their annoying, secretive ways.
As Will climbed out of the carriage, he scanned the street and the people without conscious thought.
Caution was ingrained in him, but he was glad he had trained himself to show no reaction when he spotted the woman lurking beneath a lace parasol.
How and why Clem was here on the same street at the same time as Will, he had no idea, but he pretended not to notice her.
He said nothing to Rufus either and followed his friend into the club, St. Giles hard on his heels.
When they were ensconced in a quiet corner of the main room, a servant set a decanter of brandy and three glasses on the round table between Rufus and Will.
St. Giles sat with his back to the room, and Will noted a certain tension in the man.
He shifted in his seat until he was at right angles to the room.
Will recognized the urge to have a clear view and an exit point, and realized both he and Rufus had taken the corner seats against the two walls.
He glanced at Rufus, raising an eyebrow.
Rufus replied, his voice low even though no other patrons were seated close enough to overhear them. “You are correct in your assumption. Laurent’s cover story offers another connection into the French community in London. Some may be more open to testing the waters with a fellow Frenchman.”
Laurent leaned across, offering his hand to Will. “In truth, I am Laurent St. Giles, at your service, Monsieur Ravenshoe. Rufus has told me a little of Le Corbeau, who operated so successfully in France. A clever choice of name.”
Will inclined his head. “Does your family actually own a maple plantation in Canada?”
“We have, in fact, bought more land to expand our operation there. The original property is now three times the size it was before the Revolution. My father, le comte de Lorraine, still oversees it, but he grows older. It was by chance I connected with Rufus while seeking to develop a market here in London.”
“So you have not known each other very long?”
“Longer than when we met again in London.” Sharp eyes assessed Will.
Keeping his counsel, Will sat back and sipped the brandy Rufus handed to him. Of course, his friend would never have shared Will’s work in France with a stranger, but as he watched, he was certain he’d seen the Frenchman’s face before.
Something about his eyes, Will decided. His own narrowed.
“Where did your connection begin?”
Rufus chuckled and gestured with his glass toward St. Giles. “He’s on to you.” He grinned and turned to Will. “Do you want to guess?”
Scouring through the little he had so far observed and heard of St. Giles offered anomalies, but Rufus would have investigated the man’s background thoroughly before sharing Will’s wartime action with him.
They knew each other from an earlier time.
Perhaps from when Rufus had been undercover in France?
So was St. Giles a part of his French network?
The answer hit Will with the memory of his first contact in the tavern in Calais. “You are related to the Mother Superior and her brother.”
“I told you he was good, mon ami.”
St. Giles set down his glass and slowly clapped three times. “Bien s?r. They are my first cousins.”
Will frowned. “Where did the son of a comte learn to fight like a brawler?”
St. Giles’s shrug was distinctly French, elegant and at odds with his performance in the boxing ring.
“In our business, one must be a chameleon. I would not have been able to learn anything from my fellow citoyens if I had not appeared to be one of them. You were Guillaume de Corbeau; I was Le Faucheur, The Reaper. I won almost all my bouts.”
“Who defeated you?”
“Only two men; the first was a bruiser, twice my size and a foot taller. It was almost a fair fight. The second was you. You would have had me if Rufus had not stepped in when he did.” St. Giles rubbed his jaw and grinned wryly at Will.
Rufus said, “It was not to deprive Will of his win, but our discussion would have been delayed if you’d knocked Laurent out. Now, gentlemen, to business. We must begin planning our strategy within the rarified air of London society.”
“About that.” Will decided the time to ask was now. “Hiding things from Clem is difficult enough now. Once we are married—”
Rufus nodded. “Keeping secrets from her sharp eyes and intelligent mind will be nigh on impossible, I agree. But for now, I would prefer to keep her in the dark about your next posting, just until the wedding.”