by Jayne Davis
Concentrate!
He spread a street map out on the threadbare counterpane. The names were ones he had memorised a year ago. Even without the possible traitor, the troubles in Paris could well have rendered them useless, or even dangerous to contact. He would have to go very carefully indeed.
Should he have gone back to England with the rest of the party? It would have been far simpler, but finding Brevare’s family could help them identify the traitor. He rubbed his arm, where the almost-healed cut itched. It was a week since he’d seen Phoebe—it might be time to have the stitches removed.
Alex glanced doubtfully around the shabby hall as he waited for someone to answer his knock. There was no rubbish on the stairs, but they clearly hadn’t been swept for some time and his hand came away grubby when he touched the banister.
“Oui?”
The woman standing in the open doorway had a pinched appearance, but wore a clean apron and cap.
Alex removed his hat. “May I see the doctor?”
She inspected him from head to foot, then stood to one side to allow him to enter. The door opened into a tiny inner hallway, and the woman pointed to another door, gesturing him to go in.
The consulting room was more reassuring. It was furnished with a narrow bed, covered with a clean sheet, an upright wooden chair, and a desk with a leather-covered chair behind it. A locked glass-fronted cupboard on the wall held an array of instruments whose purpose Alex didn’t want to even guess.
A tall man entered, waving Alex to the wooden chair as he took his own seat behind the desk. He was old, with thinning grey hair and a lined face.
“What can I do for you, citoyen?”
Alex took off his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeve, showing the doctor the cut on his arm. “Is it time to take the stitches out?” he asked.
“You can pay?”
Feeling in the pocket of his coat, Alex took out some coins and deposited them on the desk.
The doctor grunted and beckoned him closer. Taking off his spectacles, he peered at the cut, touching it gently with a finger.
“It is looking healthy,” the doctor said. He unlocked the cupboard behind him, taking out a bowl, scissors, and a pair of tweezers. Moving his chair closer, he busied himself snipping and pulling, while Alex clenched his teeth against the sharp tug of the strands of silk moving through his healing flesh. He couldn’t help wishing it were Phoebe doing it.
“Spread some salve on it,” the doctor said, returning his instruments to the cupboard. “There’s an apothecary’s shop on the next street—ask there.”
Alex stood, and put his coat back on. The doctor escorted him to the door and closed it firmly behind him without a further word. Mildly amused, Alex shook his head—he had been told no names were required, and that the doctor was quick, but he hadn’t expected the description to be so accurate.
He soon found the apothecary’s shop, but hesitated before going in, his mind on Phoebe again. This time the memory was not of her smile or her hair, but of the way she’d washed her hands with brandy, and dipped the needle and thread in it.
The doctor had used instruments from his cupboard, and returned them without cleaning them. Admittedly, pulling stitches out wasn’t the same as putting them in—the doctor hadn’t poked needles through his flesh—but it made him wonder about the efficacy of whatever salve the apothecary might sell him.
Making up his mind, he walked on, looking for somewhere he could buy brandy and honey.
* * *
“It looks really nice, miss,” Ellie said, as the Carterton carriage picked its way through the busy streets. Phoebe’s hand rose involuntarily to pat her hair. She smiled, remembering her initial dismay as Hopkins snipped away, but Bella’s dresser knew what she was doing. Her hair still curled tightly, but was now tamed with a bandeau, and Ellie had been taught how to put it up into a chignon.
“Lovely, you’ll be, when your new gowns come.” Ellie clutched a box on her lap, containing pots of face powder and coloured paste. They had both been shown how to apply the cosmetics, too—only enough to make Phoebe’s skin subtly warmer, and her lips a little more red, all without the appearance of wearing any cosmetics at all.
Newly confident, Phoebe entered the house in Berkeley Square by the front door. The footman cleared his throat.
“Madame la comtesse asked to be informed when you arrived back, miss,” he said. “And said you were to go straight to her.”
Going to her aunt in her improved gown would cause a confrontation, she was sure. The comtesse would not be pleased that Phoebe had found her own mantua-maker.
“Thank you, Green. You may tell her I will come back down directly.”
Once in her room, Ellie helped her to change into one of her older gowns. She should keep the primrose one clean, she told herself, in case she needed to wear it before her new ones were ready.
She paused before entering the parlour, her muscles tense at the prospect of another argument. Straightening her back, she walked in. “You wanted to see me, madame?”
“Yes, I did,” her aunt said sharply, her lips pinched. Her gaze fixed on Phoebe’s hair, her expression souring even further. “I also instructed Cookson and Green to send you to me the moment you came in.”
“Green did pass on the message, madame, but it would not be polite to come to you in all the dust of the street. I only took five minutes to tidy myself.”
“Quite right, Phoebe,” said a voice behind them. Both women swung round to see the comte in the doorway. “I’ve asked for tea; I thought we might have it together,” he added.
Phoebe saw her aunt’s mouth open, then close again; she was clearly surprised at this unusual suggestion. It was only a momentary respite, however.
“Where have you been? You have been out all day, without asking my permission. Your reputation—”
“I had Ellie with me, madame,” Phoebe replied. “There was no impropriety.”
“You were supposed to come to Mademoiselle Laurent’s with me to order your gowns.”
“I didn’t know you were expecting me to accompany you.” Phoebe injected a hint of surprise into her voice.
“How else are you to be ready for the musicale in two days’ time?”
“Oh, I can wear one of the gowns I have,” Phoebe asserted, her imp of mischief taking over. “After all, until a couple of days ago you thought they would be sufficient for my season.”
Phoebe wondered if she would have dared to taunt the comtesse if her uncle had not been present—although she’d said nothing but the truth. A quick glance at the comte showed a slight curve to his lips that could be amusement.
“I’m sure people will realise I am only Hélène’s cousin—”
“If you are going to musicales and balls you must be dressed properly—it will reflect badly on all of us if you are not.” The comtesse’s voice sharpened. “You must come to Mademoiselle Laurent first thing tomorrow—I may be able to persuade her to make up something in time for the musicale.”
“I will not be ordering any gowns from Mademoiselle Laurent.” Phoebe said.
The comte coughed. “I’m sure we can get something ready in time,” he said. “But I think it would be best if—”
He broke off at a tap on the door, followed by a maid entering with a tray of tea. The conversation stopped while Phoebe poured the tea and handed around the cups.
“It will be best if there is a plan for each week,” the comte resumed when the servants had left. “Phoebe, you will need to know which engagements your aunt has accepted so that you are prepared. However, you do not need to be with Hélène’s or your aunt at all times, as long as you are accompanied by your maid. If you have engagements of your own, you will inform your aunt of them, as a matter of courtesy.”
That sounded sensible. Phoebe nodded agreement as the comte looked at her.
“Lavinia?”
The comtesse’s brows lowered and her mouth pursed. “Oh, very well,” she said at last. “P
hoebe, I will expect you to come with me to Mademoiselle Laurent in the morning, and we will be making social calls in the afternoon.”
“Mademoiselle Laurent does not produce gowns that suit me, madame, and overcharges.” Waiting for an argument, Phoebe smiled inwardly as her aunt wisely did not answer. “And I am already engaged tomorrow afternoon, so I cannot accompany you.”
“Engaged? How can you have an engagement—?”
“I am accompanying Miss Bryant and Georges on an educational visit,” Phoebe said.
“Nonsense! Miss Bryant is quite capable of looking after Georges herself. Else why do we pay her?”
“I think Georges enjoys Phoebe’s company, my dear,” the comte injected.
“He’s only a child; he will do perfectly well with Miss Bryant.”
“Have you agreed to accompany Georges?” the comte asked Phoebe.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, one should not break promises unless there is a good reason,” the comte said. He waited, but it became clear the comtesse was not going to argue this point.
He turned back to Phoebe. “Where are you going?”
“We will be studying natural history, sir,” said Phoebe, doubting that her aunt would approve of the planned visit.
“Very well,” the comte said. “Now, I think I would like to attend this musicale with you all later this week. I’m sure, my dear, you can get the invitation extended to me?”
The comtesse gazed at him.
“Lavinia?”
“You…? Well, yes, I suppose—”
“That’s settled, then.” He put down his cup and plate and stood up. Phoebe rose as well.
“May I go, madame?” she asked. The comtesse waved a hand and Phoebe followed the comte out into the hall.
“Phoebe.” The comte halted before his study door and she turned back to him.
“Where are you going tomorrow afternoon?” He looked her in the eye. “The truth, if you please.”
“There is a performance at Astley’s Amphitheatre, sir. My maid, Ellie, also wishes to see it.”
“Natural history?”
“Yes,” Phoebe nodded. “Horses, and the varied nature of the human condition.”
The comte smiled. “Most educational! But take Green with you as well. I should imagine the company can sometimes be rather rough.”
“Thank you, sir,” Phoebe said.
“Your hair… it suits you well.” He smiled. “You have obtained some gowns?”
“I will not disgrace you, sir,” she promised.
Back in her room, Phoebe sat at her dressing table, admiring her new haircut in the mirror—her previous barely controlled mass of curls was now a proper style, framing her face. Her new gowns would give her more confidence when accompanying her aunt. What a difference a few days made.
The most important change, though, was that she now had allies here in London. A feeling of lightness spread through her as she recalled how Bella had willingly given up her time to help, and how her uncle had over-ruled his wife. She hadn’t expected that much support from him.
Another thought crept in. Alex knew Bella well enough to be on first-name terms. She felt ashamed of her earlier suspicions that there might be more than friendship between them—Bella was not that kind of person, nor did she believe it of Alex. And perhaps Bella’s friendship would make it more likely that she’d see Alex when he got back to England.
There was a knock on the door, and Ellie entered, holding a sealed note. “This was left in the kitchen, miss. No-one seen who left it.”
Phoebe took the note, her mood sobering. It looked like Brevare’s scrawl.
“Thank you, Ellie. I won’t need you again until this evening.”
When Ellie had gone, she broke the seal, letting out a breath of relief as she read it.
The thief was caught and the note has been safely delivered to the Earl of Marstone.
If she hadn’t already known the thief was working for Brevare, she might have wondered how he knew the note had been stolen. He wasn’t a very good spy, as she and Alex had agreed.
She put the note on the fire. Brevare must have written to discourage her from making further efforts to contact Lord Marstone.
That was over then. Her part in it, at least, not Alex’s. Her brow creased as she considered the implications of whatever false information the earl had written. Brevare, or whoever was controlling him, thought the stolen message had come from Alex. But Alex would be able to repeat any information he had gathered when he returned. Would they try to… to kill Alex to stop him seeing Marstone?
Alex wouldn’t know about the earl’s deception; he thought the message she would be passing on was undecipherable.
Could he be warned? Would Lord Marstone think to do so?
Chapter 27
Two mornings later, Phoebe looked up from her buttered eggs as Alice Bryant followed Georges into the dining room.
The comte put down his newspaper. “Good morning Georges, Miss Bryant.”
“Good morning, sir,” Georges said. Phoebe suppressed a smile at his unusually serious tone. “Thank you for allowing me to have breakfast with you.”
He took a seat at the table. Alice brought him a glass of milk and a plate of toast, then dipped a curtsey and turned towards the door.
“Do join us, Miss Bryant,” the comte said.
“Thank you, monsieur, but I have already eaten.”
“Some coffee, then?”
Phoebe caught the eye of the footman waiting by the sideboard. Green brought over a cup and poured coffee as Alice took a place at the table next to Phoebe.
“I thought I would hear about your… ah… natural history expedition yesterday,” the comte added.
“Monsieur knows where we went,” Phoebe said quietly, seeing a flush rise on Alice’s cheeks.
“Well, Georges, did you enjoy it?”
Phoebe lifted her cup to hide her smile as Georges’ face lit up, and he hurriedly swallowed his mouthful of toast. The comte had been out of the house yesterday when they returned, so had missed his normal afternoon visit to his son in the nursery.
She let the descriptions of the horses and their tricks wash over her—she’d been present herself, and Georges had talked about it all the way back in the carriage. Instead, she watched her uncle’s face as he listened to his son. Until recently, the comte had spent most of his time at home ensconced in his study, leaving the management of the household to his wife. Her aunt’s lies about the happenings in France seemed to have made him pay more attention to his family—including her, for which she was very grateful.
“And how did you enjoy it, Phoebe?” her uncle asked, when Georges had finally wound down.
“Very much, sir. I am glad you suggested taking Green; some of the company was a little rough.”
Alice told Georges to eat his breakfast, and he obediently took another bite of toast.
“Have you other excursions planned?” the comte asked. Georges finished his mouthful, but Alice reminded him not to interrupt when other people were holding a conversation.
“There is the menagerie at the Tower, sir,” Phoebe said.
“More nature studies.” The comte’s mouth turned up at one end. “Have you been to the British Museum?”
“Several times, sir. I enjoy sketching some of the exhibits.” Phoebe glanced sideways; Georges’ eyes were switching from her to his father as they talked, a piece of toast unheeded in one hand. “Georges enjoys looking at old weapons.”
The comte’s eyebrows rose, and Phoebe thought she detected a twitch of his lips. “I wonder what music we will be forced… we will hear tonight,” he said, keeping his gaze on her. “Let us hope there are not too many sopranos. They screech rather than sing in far too many cases. What is your opinion, Phoebe?”
“Sir, I think Georges will burst!”
“Eh? Oh, did you have something else to say, Georges?” the comte asked. “It was good of you not to interrupt us.”
&nb
sp; Phoebe turned away to hide her amusement, and got up to help herself to more breakfast. Her uncle continued to surprise her—she hadn’t thought him the type to tease his son like that.
“Sir, when can I have some riding lessons? I haven’t been riding since we left my pony behind at Calvac. Please, sir.”
“Riding only, Georges, not tricks!”
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well, I will arrange it. Now finish your breakfast.” The comte turned to Phoebe. “Do you wish to ride, too, Phoebe?” he asked. “I assume Hélène does not?”
“I don’t think she likes it, sir. I used to enjoy riding around the estate at Calvac.” She hesitated, not wanting to sound ungrateful for the offer. “I understand it is fashionable to be seen driving or riding in the park, but I admit to not seeing the attraction in such a limited space. I do thank you for the offer, though.”
To her relief, her uncle smiled. “If you are sure?”
“I think I will have enough of riding by listening to Georges’ accounts of his lessons.”
“Indeed.” His glance at his son held affection as well as amusement, and Phoebe marvelled again at how her dismal expectations for the season were turning out to be wrong.
Some of Phoebe’s new dresses were delivered that afternoon. She spent a happy hour trying them on, discussing with Ellie which ribbons, gloves, and shoes should be paired with each. Between them, they chose Phoebe’s outfit for the musicale: a moss-green gown with simple gold trim, to be worn with a gold ribbon threaded through her hair.
As she regarded herself in the mirror, Phoebe felt as if she were standing taller, and she was actually looking forward to meeting people now she was confident in her appearance.
Would Alex like it?
She turned from the mirror abruptly, picking up her cloak and draping it around her shoulders. She should not assume he’d want to see her again when he returned from France. For now, she should concentrate on making new acquaintances at the musicale.