My Sweet Folly

by Laura Kinsale

  Folie felt excitement rise in her heart. She placed the ladder firmly against the wall, hiking her skirt to climb over, tossing her valise down into the churchyard. Before she jumped down, she pushed the ladder over into the ravaged primrose bed, silently promising a particular present to the gardener when she returned. She sprang down, landing and stumbling in the dewy grass.

  Folie wiped her wet gloves against her cloak, picked up her valise, and found her way out of the churchyard gate. She walked down the center of the village street and sat down on the windowsill of a greengrocer across the street from the Spread Eagle, which even at this hour had a lantern lit in the far back of the yard.

  She had left the house at a quarter to four, by the ring of the clock. And precisely on time, at half past the hour, the rumbling sound of horses and wheels became something more than her imagination. There was a quick warning blare from a coaching horn. The Royal Mail swept into town, drawing to a jingling halt outside the Spread Eagle Inn.

  Amid a bustle of hostlers, strangely silent in the night, Folie hurried up to the guard in his scarlet livery. He held up his lantern as she approached. “Can you take a passenger into London, sir? I must get there as soon as I can.”

  He looked a little surprised, but hardly astonished. “Aye, ma’am, there’s room up on the box, if you’ll ride outside.”

  “Yes, certainly.”

  “Settle with the coachman after you’re up, then,” he said, reaching for her valise. “Make haste, we’ll be off in three minutes.”

  By the dim light of the coach lamps, Folie saw that the new team was already halfway in harness. She climbed up onto the box, the coachman reaching down a hand to help her. With a handsome three-shilling tip, he seemed quite satisfied that she had unexpectedly joined his passenger list.

  A soft, expert cluck, a swish of the whip, and Folie grabbed the seat for balance as the team picked up their trot, rolling gentle thunder through the village. She could see nothing but the vague outline of the leaders, and the rumps of the gray wheelers lit by the lamps. The air passed swiftly against her cheeks. She took in a deep breath, feeling something near to happiness surge inside her as they gathered momentum, galloping through the night—carrying the mail, carrying the news—carrying her to Robert.

  He sat with Lander in the small breakfast room at the back of Cambourne House. Their caller, his neckcloth beautifully folded and impeccably white, his slender hand lifting a coffee cup with well-bred grace, would be more well-known on the inside of one of the prison hulks than the inside of any French palace, but Monsieur Belmaine had an undeniably blue-blooded air. Unless he happened to transform himself to a Scottish chemist, frowning until his eyebrows bristled as he discoursed in a fierce brogue upon the properties of base metals.

  Robert had no notion of what the man’s true name might be. But he had developed a profound respect for his chameleon tutor’s talents. When, after the morning lesson, Monsieur Belmaine transformed himself into Mr. McCann, his very cheeks seemed to grow rosy with northern winds, and it was hopeless to refer back to the French imposture—Mr. McCann would simply snort and fix Robert or Lander with an incredulous eye. “The French be damned to the De’il Himself!” he cried. “Say na’ more! M’bonny wife, ach!”

  “Your wife?” Lander inquired. Mr. McCann always spun an amusing yarn if he had a little encouragement.

  “T’were a French mahound, the bloody churl, wooed her yonder-away, so fair away!” he moaned.

  “She left you?” Lander asked, looking oddly distressed at this farrago.

  “Gone away. The world away,” Mr. McCann announced in a voice of doom. “Ye’ll not ken where to.”

  “Where?”

  “Japan.” Mr. McCann pulled out his handkerchief and blew his nose.

  “Japan!” Lander said, shocked. “Good God.”

  “It sounds an excellent place for a wife,” Robert commented. “Send ‘em all after her, that’s what I propose.”

  Mr. McCann chuckled. “There. ‘Tis a canny lad.”

  “Oh, come,” Lander said, with a little irritation. “A man must marry. They are not all so bad.”

  “Ah. The word of experience!” Robert said.

  “Well, I have not been married, of course,” Lander admitted.

  “If you don’t need a successor—spare yourself,” Robert said pointedly.

  “Aye, take a bonny lass to keep yer bed warm,” Mr. McCann suggested, nodding. “But stay off the church porch!”

  Robert watched Lander’s reaction to this advice. The younger man smiled, but his face was a subtle study in disapproval. Robert had been practicing his lessons in observation and inference wherever he could. A man who could not take a joke about marriage was like enough to be a man deep in love.

  Robert had his opinions on who the fortunate lady might be, but he did not speak of it before Mr. McCann. The rogue might well have drawn his own conclusions in any case—there was not a thing that escaped his attention. Observation, intuition, self-control: Robert had been training in the realms of the human mind as intensely as in sleight of hand.

  If he thought he had made any progress, Mr. McCann set him back in that instant by putting his finger to his lips.

  “Careful, my lads—we’re like to offend the lady herself.”

  “The lady?” Lander asked curiously.

  But Robert had caught McCann’s faint sign toward the door. It stood closed, but Robert obeyed his teacher’s warning signal. He stood up, drawing the pistol underneath his coat, and opened the door swiftly.

  To his utter astonishment, Folie stood there, her hand poised over the knob. She stared wide-eyed down the barrel of his gun.

  NINETEEN

  “Folly!” Robert said blankly.

  She made a small curtsy. “I’m sorry,” she said, feeling suddenly and intensely stupid for coming. “I know I’m not expected.”

  In the face of his disbelief and the words she had just overheard, Folie rather wished that she might be transported to Japan with all the unwanted wives. She stood hesitantly in the doorway, hoping that at least Robert might lower the gun.

  “Mrs. Hamilton!” Lander stood up, the first to react sensibly. “Is something wrong? Why are you here?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “No—nothing is wrong, nothing at the village—at least—I came at once because—’’ She glanced at the stranger. “Robert,” she said helplessly, “may I speak to you privately?’’

  “Of course.” She watched him slide the pistol under his coat as naturally as if he were a thoroughgoing highwayman. “Come.”

  Folie stood back, then followed him to the stairs. She paused at the bottom, biting her lower lip. “Robert—I did not have a full fare for the cab from the Post Office,” she said. “Someone must pay him.”

  He stopped, one foot on the lowest stair. “My dear,” he said severely, “you should never have come here. I thought you understood that.”

  Her cheeks flamed with windburn and mortification. “I must tell you something,” she said. “Something that I remembered about Vauxhall.”

  His scowl relaxed a little. “I see. Go on up, then. I’ll have Lander see to it.”

  Folie mounted the stairs slowly, feeling rather like a chastised puppy. The big drawing room was dark, the curtains still drawn. Folie went about pulling them open, letting the bright sunshine of a spring morning through. From the dust motes that sparkled down the beams, she thought the drapes had not been drawn open for the entire two weeks she had been gone.

  “Don’t!” Robert’s abrupt command startled her. “Come away from the windows,” he said sharply. “Folie, for the love of God, have you no sense at all?”

  She scooted away from the tall panes. “Is someone watching?” she asked anxiously.

  “Come here.” He moved to a position near the white marble mantelpiece, pressing his back to the wall in an odd stance. As Folie came closer, he reached out, turned her about by the shoulders and held her back against his chest. “T
here,” he said. “Do you see him?”

  From the strange position, she could see an angle of the street that was not visible from most of the windows. “I see a...oh, come, surely you don’t mean that child bowling his hoop? That’s only Christopher. He lives across the street.”

  “No, the donkey with the cart beside him, of course!” Robert said, squeezing her shoulders. “My dear.” She could feel him shake his head.

  “But I see no one else.”

  “In the house on the corner. That left-hand window on the first floor.”

  Folie squinted. “I can’t—” But then, as she looked, she saw that something moved in the opening—she realized that she could see right through it to the window on the farther side of the house. The light silhouetted a shape in side whenever it moved. “Goodness. What excellent eyesight you must have.”

  “Lander has a bit more resource than ordinary eyesight,” he said. His hands still rested on her shoulders. “But yes, we are watched.”

  She could feel the pistol under his coat. “Who is it?”

  “Only a succession of petty rogues so far, unfortunately—some known to Bow Street and some not. One of the higher class—’’ He dropped his hands from her shoulders, clearing his throat. “I beg your pardon, a lady of light virtue—holds the lease. Lander is having her patronage investigated.”

  “Oh,” Folie said. She moved away from him immediately, so that he should not suppose that she liked his hands upon her shoulders. “What jolly diversions you have been having here!”

  “You said that you had recalled something?”

  “Yes!” Folie turned to him. “Robert—I remembered about that note. I did write it to Sir Howard!”

  Instead of the incredulity she had expected, he watched her without expression, as if he were still waiting for her to tell him what she had discovered.

  “Robert, he must have arranged to have it delivered to you! Don’t you suppose? How else could it have gone from Limmer’s Hotel to wherever you were? I don’t even know where you were.”

  “Yes. I’ve assumed that must be the case. Did you remember any more?”

  “Well—” Folie was feeling rather flattened. “Perhaps this means nothing. But just after we arrived in London, Lady Dingley and I were returning from some calls, or shopping, I don’t remember clearly, but I believe that from the carriage, I saw Sir Howard standing on a street corner!”

  “Yes?” Robert did not seem overawed by this information.

  “But he should not have been here. In London! He had returned to Dingley Hall directly, you see! Or at least, that was what we all understood. And there he was in Bond Street, standing on the corner with a girl. I saw him. And he saw me, though I said nothing of it to Lady Dingley, of course.”

  Robert gave her a narrow glance. “A girl? Do you mean a streetwalker?’’

  “No, no—” Folie looked back at him, shocked. “I’m sure he would do nothing of that sort!”

  His mouth curved mockingly. “Perhaps not.”

  “She was dressed like a maid from the country. Her eyes were red, as if she had been weeping. I think...I believe I saw her once at Solinger, though I did not realize it at the time.”

  “Good God—you just remembered this?” He took a step toward her. “At Solinger? In the house? Are you certain?”

  She wet her lips. That stunning moment of recollection in the night, staring into her mirror, seemed distant now. “I—believe it was the same girl. I think she was a maid.”

  “You’re not sure.”

  “I am—certain. Almost certain.”

  “Did Melinda see her?’’

  “Well, I did not ask Melinda. I suppose—I should have. But she was asleep, and I wanted to warn you, in case you should be in danger.”

  He gazed at her. “Folly—you came on the morning mail? When did you leave the house?’’

  “At half past three,” she said, lowering her face.

  “Melinda was asleep?’’ He seemed to home to her guilt instantly.

  “Well—I did not wish to wake her. I left a note.”

  His dark lashes widened. “Damn you, Folly! Damn you, do you tell me you left there without telling anyone?” He locked his arm behind his back and took a pace. “Of course you did! You would not have arrived here alone in a cab, if anyone with a grain of sense could have prevented you!”

  She sank into a chair. “I’m sorry. It came upon me so suddenly—I was worried for your safety—I did not think.”

  “You had better begin to think.” He stood still, facing away from her. She could see his fist working. “You might have sent a message, or waited for Lander—instead you put yourself in the most flagrant, unprotected situation, riding here on the bloody Royal Mail, marching up the front steps where anyone might see you! And what the devil are we to do with you now? You can’t go back.”

  She lifted her head. “I can’t go back?”

  “Certainly not! How am I to smuggle you out of here with any assurance that you won’t be followed? Lander and I are dogged wherever we go. And you cannot remain here, with no companion, in the same house with me.”

  “No. No, of course not.” With a faint horror, Folie saw instantly that he was right. She could not remain in Cambourne House unaccompanied—without Melinda or Lady Dingley, not while Robert was here. It would be impossibly unseemly.

  “I suppose none of that occurred to you in this mad rush to save my life from Dingley,” he said sarcastically.

  “I had intended that I would go back on tonight’s mail,” she offered, to prove that she had at least planned that far ahead.

  “A happy notion.” His lip curled derisively. “Doubtless we could expect to find you deported to Tasmania this time!”

  “I apologize if I did not act in an ideal manner.” She gave a stiff shrug, goaded. “But why worry? Marry me for the sake of propriety, and then banish me to Japan!”

  “You may believe me, it’s just this sort of half-witted female behavior that makes Japan sound an excellent notion!”

  “Oh, the farther the better!” she retorted. “Why not the Arctic? Or the moon? We wives are perfectly at home with cold indifference.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her. “Jest about it if you will,” he said with a sneer. “I’m not sure that I have much choice in the matter now, damn it.”

  “I beg your pardon.” She leapt to her feet. “Pray do not feel obligated to offer yourself merely on this account, Mr. Cambourne!”

  A belated look of consternation crossed his face, as if he had just heard his own words. He lifted his hand to arrest her progress toward the door. Folie knew before he spoke precisely what he was going to say.

  “And pray do not declare that you did not intend that as it sounded!” she exclaimed, rounding on him. “I am well aware that you do not wish for a wife. Nor do I care for a husband, certainly not one forced to make his offer over a stupid idea of decorum. I am far too old to care for that! I had supposed that we were fast friends—that was why I came here so precipitously. It was a great misjudgment, clearly. But I am sure that the situation may be retrieved in some manner which will not inconvenience you quite so far as saddling us with one another for life.”

  She turned her back on him—remembering just at the last moment, as she went out the door, to shut it as softly as possible so as to maintain her full dignity. Then she mounted the stairs to her bedchamber, closed that door very gently too, sat down on the bed, and stared at the drawn curtains.

  She did not cry. She stared harder and harder at the pink velvet. Her whole body trembled.

  But she did not cry. Her lip curled downward with disdain. She spread her fingers over the coverlet and crushed it into her fists. Still she did not cry. She was finished forever with weeping over Robert Cambourne.

  Robert glared at the back of the closed door, and then turned away. He braced his arms against the mantel and pressed as if he could shove it over.

  Why the devil had Folly come? How did she do thi
s to him, touch that fuse so easily? It was half-fear that had made him speak to her that way, like a badly frightened parent abusing a child for its carelessness, driven by a crystalline vision of how exposed she had allowed herself to be—half-fear and half-something else.

  It was as if Phillippa still possessed him, he thought wildly. He looked up and stared at himself in the mirror over the mantel. His eyes were dark, clear gray; focused— there was no madness in them. And yet it was if she were here inside his brain, in command of his throat, spurring him on to say the sort of acid things that had burned through every hope of love, or respect, or even truce between them.

  In truth, the very idea that Folly had put herself in danger—that she had even thought of bestirring herself at all— because she was worried for him—because they were fast friends—Robert swallowed hard against a block of something in his throat. He snarled at himself in the mirror like a silent tiger. Stupid little ninny, she was. Maddening little half-wit. How was it possible to love her with every fiber of his body and soul and want to tear her to shreds for overhearing a senseless joke never meant for her ears?

  Well, he had sunk himself, now. He had begun to entertain some hope that she might trust him again after the prison hulk—in fact, he had to stop himself frequently from beginning so many musings with, “After this business is finished...” But it all remained in fleeting fantasy—moments before he fell asleep, thoughts that passed as he ate or dressed. By main force, he had prevented himself from thinking about her further, focusing his mind completely upon the precarious task at hand—another reason he could wish she had not flung herself back into his consciousness with such exuberance. The last thing he needed was a mortally offended female—and one that he adored at that—to complicate his life at just this moment.

  He shoved himself away from the fireplace and left the room. Just as he reached the top of the stairs, one of Lander’s “footmen” opened the door. Robert heard a child’s voice.