Chapter 18
Eighteen
Elizabeth left the bedchamber, explaining that she wanted to enjoy the contents of her letter in private. Alix waited until the door clicked shut behind her sister-in-law before turning expectant eyes upon her husband. “Well,” she asked, “what did he want?”
“No ‘my darling husband, how I’ve missed you since we parted this morning’?” he teased her. “No ‘the hours seemed like years’?”
“Did he come for Elizabeth’s hand?”
“But a few months married, and already the light of romance has vanished from your eyes.” Rafe heaved a mock sigh.
“You shall see the light of murder in them, if you do not tell me everything that went on in your study this very moment.”
His eyebrows rose. “And some people say the French are a bloodthirsty race.”
She scowled at him.
“Very well.” Rafe dropped into a chair by the bed. “He didn’t come for my sister. James Dinsmore wishes my assistance in traveling through France.”
“Cease teasing me,” she said impatiently. “What did he really want from you?”
“I am quite serious.” The tone of his voice made it clear that he was. “Dinsmore intends to go to France.”
“Has he lost his mind?”
“He seemed quite sane.”
Alix, who had been standing, slipped into a chair next to Rafe. “Why on earth would a sane man go to France now? Some misplaced sense of adventure?” She frowned. “Or perhaps he is driven by a death wish?”
“I cannot tell you his purpose.” Rafe’s fingers drummed on the arm of the chair.
Alix’s frown deepened. “When I agreed to marry you, you swore not to keep any secrets from me.”
“This is different…it’s not my secret. It has to do with politics. Lives are at stake.”
“And to whom do you believe I might pass this sensitive information? The downstairs maid, the gardener’s assistant?” She paused, searching for an even more incredible candidate. “Anne Dinsmore?”
“Indeed, I know how well you can keep secrets, my love.” He sighed. “I will tell you everything. It is a fool’s errand, an attempt to smuggle out of France a man of great importance to the British government, Amaury de Joley.”
“Comte Verignac?” Her expression was incredulous.
He nodded. “Do you know him?”
“I know of him. Who in France does not? I have never met him, though I believe Madeleine has…” Her voice trailed off, then took another path. “But I do not understand. How does James Dinsmore come to be involved in such a plot?”
“Connections. Connections to certain people in Whitehall, whose knowledge of our connections in France brings him round again to us. It appears, try as we might, we cannot be shed of the Dinsmores.”
“You do not think James would tell his sister about your connections in France?”
Rafe shook his head. “However tempting it might be to expose our involvement in trade, such gossip would put his own life at risk.”
Alix reached out her hand, touching his. He looked down at it and then at her, and for a long moment her gray eyes searched the depths of his hazel ones. “Would you…” She paused, searching for the appropriate verb. “Would you be disturbed if he should die in France?”
“If you had asked me that question before this afternoon, I would have said my only regret upon hearing of James Dinsmore’s death would be that it had not been at my hand.
But now, after speaking with him, hearing what he plans and why, I find myself feeling he might not be totally devoid of honor… ”
“Elizabeth would be glad to hear you say so,” she said, adding softly. “Thank heavens she does not know that he was here.”
“But she does. They met this morning by the bridge.”
“But how do you know? I have been with her for over an hour. She said nothing to me.”
“Apparently, my love, you are not the only woman in this house who knows how to keep secrets.” Rafe grimaced. “I set Jervis to follow her. He didn’t have a chance to tell me until after James had left that he’d seen them together.”
“Was it arranged, do you think?”
“I asked Jervis that same question. He said from what he observed, they both seemed surprised…and that their parting looked rather final.”
“A small favor.”
“A very small one,” he said dryly.
Alix’s hand, still resting on Rafe’s, caressed his reassuringly. “With so sensitive a purpose, James could never have revealed to her the reason for his visit.”
“No,” Rafe agreed. “He would not.”
“So, Elizabeth cannot possibly know.” Alix smiled encouragingly. “And that, you must admit, is a considerably larger one.”
Sitting at her dressing table, Elizabeth stared at the familiar handwriting of Arabella Norcroft, the letters of each word neatly formed, all except for the last, which finished with an odd curl or dash, as if her mind had become impatient with the slow pace of her hand.
She loved Arabella’s letters, always filled with descriptions that revealed the quick wit carefully hidden beneath the sober exterior her mother forced her to assume.
Arabella’s correspondence was her only link to the outside world.
And yet, as she turned the letter over, breaking the wax seal, she couldn’t shake her disappointment that the letter hadn’t been from James.
Mother insists we must leave London for Hartsdale by the end of the week—I’m certain by the time you receive this letter, dear Elizabeth, we shall already be there.
My sister, Annabella, is expecting her first child any day now, and Mother is convinced it will be a boy.
Nothing must suit her, but that the family should be gathered round Annabella’s bed, as if prepared to welcome the arrival of a long-awaited prince.
As for the season, Mother says it shall make no difference if I should miss a few parties since, as she is increasingly fond of pointing out, despite her best efforts I have failed to attract the attentions of a suitable gentleman.
I might have, I suppose, had I met one. What about My Beloved, Mr. Thomas Stirling, you are no doubt wondering, the dashing gentleman with whom I was so desperate to dance at the Dinsmores’ ball?
Alas, upon further acquaintance, Mr. Stirling and his handsome face turned out to be nothing more than a charming cover for a book filled with empty pages.
When I think of the fuss I made over him to you, my cheeks flush crimson with embarrassment.
When next I cast my eyes upon a man, I vow I shall read well beyond both cover and title.
Elizabeth smiled at her friend’s turn of phrase, her smile broadening as she continued to read:
How I wish I could see you, dearest Elizabeth. I must confess that London and the season are not half so entertaining without you. Hartsdale is so near to Moreham Hall—I believe no more than three days’ ride, even in the worst of weathers. I have asked my mother if you might visit with us.
Her heart leapt. She finished the page and turned it over.
Her heart sank. Arabella’s mother had stated such a visit would be not merely out of the question, but beyond speculation, in view of Elizabeth’s scandalous cavorting with that disreputable libertine, James Dinsmore.
She had attempted to reason with her most unreasonable parent whose mind is surely cast more solidly than the iron of any cannon on His Majesty’s ships!
But her mother stood firm, her position appallingly old-fashioned even as we stand, less than a decade shy of a new century!
The last page contained a single paragraph, repeating Arabella’s assurances that the scandal meant nothing to her, less than the feathers on Lady Ellsworth’s turban!
She missed Elizabeth, she wrote: Even a day apart from your dear companionship seems much too long.
And she concluded, I pray, dearest Elizabeth, that I shall soon see you again.
Elizabeth swept the pages from her desk in a sudden rush of anger.
She’d made a mistake. Even worse—she’d been caught.
She understood that she’d been wrong, was ready to repent, to beg society’s forgiveness, but society had no interest. She couldn’t turn the clock back to the night of the Dinsmores’ ball.
All she could do was wait. Wait until society decided to forgive or forget—which might take until she was in her dotage.
She must hang her head in shame and do nothing, nothing, while James Dinsmore could do anything he damn well pleased.
She was ruined, but he was simply notorious—a label, she had no doubt, that only made him seem more dashing.
She leaned down to pick up the scattered pages of the letter, determined to rip them to shreds.
She tore one into satisfying bits. She reached for another.
Then she stopped, staring at the two pages lying nearest her skirts.
Hartsdale is so near to Moreham Hall—I believe no more than three days’ ride, even in the worst of weathers.
I have asked my mother if you might visit with us.
She reread the brief lines on the other page: Even a day apart from your dear companionship seems much too long. I pray, dearest Elizabeth, that I shall soon see you again. With the hateful page that separated them gone, these lines now read like an invitation… Her anger flared anew.
It was appallingly, unrelentingly unfair.
James Dinsmore could move on with his life.
He could go to France and she couldn’t even go to Hartsdale!
She picked up the papers and set them side by side on her dressing table.
She wished she’d heard his answer to Rafe’s question.
She couldn’t imagine that he’d answered he wished for death.
Why involve her brother, and spy networks, and fugitives in France?
Why not just put a pistol to his head, fall on his sword, or leap from a bridge?