by Edith Layton
Francesca assured her that she wouldn’t, and listened to several more moments of praise of young Lord Waite, wondering all the while if the young man was the same crazed gamester Arden had dealt with. Even if he were, she knew better than to broach the matter to Cecily. If the question of the authorship of her love note had almost precipitated a crisis, she dreaded thinking about what such a claim would do. She’d ask Arden’s opinion, she’d decided, and forgot the matter, for she was growing very tired. After listening to some more glowing praise of Lord Waite, she bid Cecily good night and good-bye again before she left for her own bed, relieved beyond words that the Deemses had forgiven her, if not already forgotten her.
She might even get a blameless letter of reference from them, she’d thought as she sighed and laid her head upon her pillow. Then she almost sat bolt upright again at the wondering thought of what she was actually going to do once Arden got her back to England, but she was very weary and confused, and for once, remembering his assurances, she was willing to leave her fate in his large hands—at least, she remembered thinking on an enormous yawn, for this one night.
But now the night had passed, and as she’d passed her day preparing to leave, she was edgy and anxious and unsure again. Roxanne had stopped by for only a moment at midday to assure her laughingly that nothing would keep her from coming along to England with her. “I hired on with your papa,” Roxie had said with a grin, “and I’m staying on with his daughter, so it’s all in the family, after all. Oh, never fear, duckie, I’ll be a splendid chaperone”—she’d winked—“‘with me one eye on me own gent and t’other on me toes,’ as the saying goes.”
Before Francesca could assure her that there was no need, her intentions toward Arden or at least his toward her being quite otherwise, Roxie mentioned a dozen things she had to get together before she moved on, and laughing merrily, had left. But Francesca had everything in order, and so then had time and to spare to think and wonder and worry, and finally, in an effort to stop tormenting herself, an abundance of time to groom herself and dress for her last night at the hotel. So when Arden came around to her room at last to collect her for dinner, she was keyed-up and wary, uncomfortable and uneasy, suspicious and frightened, and absolutely lovely.
She’d put on and taken off the same gown three times. As she’d only the three new ones she deemed handsome enough to wear, and a great deal of time, that had made a total of nine trips to her glass to judge what she’d looked best in tonight. Arden’s arrival had interrupted her indecision, and it was the luck of the draw, a thing, she thought as she went to the door, that he surely would have appreciated had he known it, that she would go down to dinner in the gown she was wearing at that moment. Even if she’d had fourth thoughts on the matter of this particular one, it was too late to change again, and it was as well, for the look she surprised on his face when he saw her made it the right choice.
She wore the cloth-of-gold gown. It needed little other ornament because of its exuberant color and daring cut, which was as well, since she’d no ornament to match it, her cameo and her strand of amethyst being insignificant against its glowing golden sheen. She didn’t realize that her form itself was all the ornament it needed, for it clung to her every curve, and showed exactly how many there were, from the high tilt of her breasts to the softer subtle lines beneath them that dipped, like sighs, into the inverted stem of her waist, before flowing gently out to her rounded hips and then away in long supple folds, to the floor. She’d dressed her black hair high and smooth to lend the elegance that the gown demanded, and the only other thing she wore besides her slippers and undergarments was a wide tortoiseshell comb that held her heavy hair to its sleek obedience. That, and an air of uncertainty, for while she’d been flattered at Arden’s eyes widening, he said nothing for a moment more as he looked down at her.
But she was all golden, he thought, using every device for control that he knew to take his eyes from her, so that he could take the avidity from them before he looked at her again. Her skin wasn’t chastened by the high color of her gown, but rather blushed gold at how well it complimented her, and the color surprised echoes of golden sparks in her deep brown eyes. Even her scent tonight was cinnamon-tempered, the flowers in it spiced with Oriental attars and musks. For once, he regretted all his keen senses, for if he were to be this lady’s benign protector until he could deliver her to safety, he ought not to be able to sort her scent note by note, or see every nuance in her eyes and lips, or feel, he thought as he took her hand, exactly how smooth its skin was, as he wondered all the while what the texture and taste of the skin he saw at her neck were like.
So, wishing he were blind and without senses, he almost flinched when her husky voice reached his ears and he remembered its power over him. He wondered, standing mute and wretched in that moment, if he would have to bind his ears as well, like one of Ulysses’ sailors, so as not to hear her siren call. But he answered her as soon as he realized she was becoming as devastated by his unnatural silence as he was by her mere presence.
“I’m sorry, but you look so beautiful, you overset me, you know,” he said, too astounded to attempt to dredge up a lie when he realized that he could not immediately.
“I didn’t,” she said at once. “Know, that is. But I’m glad.” She smiled because she was, and took the arm he offered her.
“I don’t look anything like a companion or a chaperone now, do I?” she asked on a whisper as they went down the hallway.
“Not in the least,” he assured her, “nothing like,” and as she gave him a smug smile and then held her head higher and marched down the stairs like a grand duchess, he felt a little relief. This gloating over her transformation was very human and a bit conceited, and as he’d been looking desperately for any small flaw in her, he seized on it. But as he found even that endearing, it wouldn’t do. Nothing would, he understood as he took her in to dinner, and as he knew he couldn’t have her, and should not, at least not if he’d any of that debatable quality—honor—left in him, for the first time in his difficult life he found himself truly frightened, and not at all sure of how to cope with it.
Julian rose when he saw them coming to the table, and for a moment wasn’t sure who the beauty Arden bore in was. So his smile widened, as did his eyes, and his face grew intent and he seemed somehow to flow into himself until he, all in his proper black-and-white evening clothes, appeared to glow as golden in his masculine beauty as she did in her loveliness, at least enough so as to make Roxanne hold her breath. It pleased Francesca enormously that he didn’t seem to know her, and she smiled so widely that even before she neared him he realized his error, and left off his hunter’s poise and gave her a grin of friendship with no trace of seduction in it as he bowed over her hand.
But as he did, Julian thought again how unfair it was that Arden had the knack not only of seeing under the surface of the human mind but also of judging physical beauty even if it were layered in ugliness. The man, Julian sighed to himself, had the soul of an artist as well as the luck of the devil. What was it Arden had joked to him once? “If I’d your face, my lordly friend, I could be king…of the world.” And so he could, Julian thought as he sat again and felt Roxie’s hand on his thigh.
She had worn a gown crimson as a pirate’s sash, wearing so many trinkets with it that she might have carried a green parrot on her shoulder as well and completed the effect. But although she’d imagined it daring and delightful when she’d dressed, she felt tricked out like a show pony when she saw Francesca, but was honest enough and clever enough to say that straight out. So they all of them had great fun helping her to divest herself of various bits of her finery as dinner was served. She found herself the center of attraction, for all of Francesca’s beauty, by helping Julian to her earrings during soup, handing Arden a bracelet with the butter, and slowly stripping off the rest of her jewelry as the night wore on, making them all laugh and conjecture about what she’d do once the jewels were gone, laughing even more at tha
t thought, all the while she was the centerpiece of the meal, all exactly as she’d planned.
Arden, for all he laughed, wasn’t having a delightful time. For all his wit tonight, in that central core of himself he was deeply troubled. Francesca Devlin…Francesca Carlisle, he corrected himself, was everything he wanted and nothing he could or should have. And while he was never so foolish as to torment himself by serving her up on a dish to another man, he was very shortly going to set her on the road to that end. And all for that word the love of her youth had scoffed at, that word that his favorite, Master Shakespeare, had mocking Falstaff call “air” for all he’d named it “everything” for Harry Devlin—honor. But it was, he decided on a sigh, forgetting his jovial pose for a second, very like he’d said, after all. If it were not for that word, he doubted any man would remain in any battle. And he, after all, had only to battle his oldest opponent—himself, this time.
Francesca, too, sometimes found herself laughing, just as Cecily had so often done, solely as reaction to everyone else’s jollity. For now and again amidst all the raillery she realized how enormously her life had changed and was changing. Because, she thought with panic at those moments: to be abandoned by your father and declared for by a gentleman you would gladly have, only to have him deny you because you’d lied about your virtue and had been more virtuous than he’d believed, and then offer you only his help—and that by taking you away with him and his friend and his friend’s lover—was not the most entirely comfortable thing in the world. She dimly understood that things had happened too quickly for her to be as frightened as perhaps she ought to be. Then too, she thought, breathing easier, Arden would be with her. But, she realized with distress, she’d no cause to trust Arden so implicitly, except that she couldn’t help doing so. And that was no comfort either.
Roxanne laughed and teased and jested continuously, keeping the table in an uproar, and all so that Julian wouldn’t take his eyes from her again. He was so handsome tonight, she knew every other female in the hotel envied her. So her every effort was for him, and the only pleasure she found in it was in success, and although the strain of it made her amazingly merry, it couldn’t be said to be amusing, it was such hard work.
Julian had nothing to keep him from good humor. He’d a considerable fortune well in hand, a pretty little ladybird to ease his idle hours, a good friend at his side, and a damsel in distress for them to aid and comfort. He really hadn’t looked for more in all these past two years. But now he was going home again, and perhaps that was why it all suddenly wasn’t enough. When he wasn’t laughing, he was wondering why this should be so, and why he found himself as restless and unsatisfied now again as he’d been when he’d left to seek his fortune originally. And increasingly he wondered this even as he was laughing.
The table with the four handsome, well-dressed persons, all enjoying themselves so much, was the envy of every other patron in the hotel, of course.
The Deemses saw them immediately upon entering the room, which saved them the trouble of looking for them. For then they acted in concert. The Deemses, Mr. and Mrs, who could be judged as one in all things except for his problems with costiveness and hers with bunions, took great pains to let Arden Lyons know how unaffected they were at his departure. They wished him well so often, and with so many secretive smiles, Mr. Deems going so far as to actually show his teeth in one of his smiles, that they were entirely sure he knew how well shut they were of him. For then they pushed young Lord Waite forward and he did the pretty with Cecily better than they could have coached him to do. He watched Cee-cee’s every utterance leave her lips as though she could lisp his death sentence there, and sighed over her grace as she curtsied to them in farewell, and held her little white hand as tenderly as if it were a separate wounded thing he carried back to their table. And all, he thought triumphantly as he did so, to show Arden Lyons he’d landed on his feet after all, and didn’t need his help now that he’d a rich cit in tow.
And Cecily, of all of them, was entirely happy.
“I wonder,” Francesca said as Arden walked her to her room at last, after she’d made her good nights to Julian and Roxanne before they’d left the salon, so that she’d not have to pretend she didn’t know they weren’t going to separate bedrooms, “if it was right not to tell the Deemses about Lord Waite.”
“Oh, old Deems knows,” Arden said as he paused with her at her door. “There’s no shrewder gent in France today now that they chased Boney away. He knows the boy’s debts to the last shilling, he even asked me if young Waite ‘was into me for summat’ when we met up in the gentlemen’s convenience tonight. Yes,” he said, smiling down at her, “you ladies aren’t the only ones to settle the state of the world and find out all the gossip under the guise of going to refresh yourselves, you know. And he don’t care, because he thinks he can ‘straighten the lad out.’ Doubtless”—Arden smiled widely now, his teeth white in the dim light—“he will. Poor boy. Although Deems will get a run for his money, for a gamester’s like a drinking man, and there’s always a neat wager to be found, or a lottery ticket to be bought, just as there’s always a chance for a drop of the grape, except in heaven…where I understand it’s not neccesary…though I’ll likely never know. So all’s well that ends well, just as the master said.”
“Is it?” Francesca asked softly, her head to one side in thought, looking so pensive he almost turned away from her to keep from turning to her. “I don’t know. What of Cecily?”
“Ah, well, Cee-cee,” he said with great heartiness to distract himself from her nearness and the spiced floral scent of her. “She’s least to be pitied, for she thinks she’s in love.”
“Is she not to be pitied then?” Francesca said. “I wonder.” Then, sad for a number of inchoate reasons, she shook her head and took his hand, and sighing, went into the room to prepare for bed.
Arden stood at her door and used all his self-control to keep from following her.
It was as well that he did, for in a second her door opened again. She stood there flushed and trembling. He took a step to her without thinking, and was glad that he’d been so many steps away when he noticed the note she thrust out to him between them.
“It’s from Harry,” she said on a long, shaking sigh, and then he knew why she’d looked up so often at dinner, and had gone so reluctantly to bed, even though he’d told her of their early start in the morning. She’d known of his visit with Harry, if not precisely all of it, and though worry for Harry was gone, she’d obviously been waiting for the end to the matter, a finalization as sure as the closing of the grave she’d been denied seeing, by Devlin’s living, last year.
He scanned the note rapidly. It said all the conventional things, with nothing out of place, except for a renewed wish that she try to understand, and an address, from which, he vowed, word would always be able to reach him should she need him, should she want him. He looked up from the note to find her reading it again at his side, her dark head just beneath his shoulder. He pretended he’d not done with it then, and would have remained so, reading and rereading the note and not even caring if she’d wonder if his lips were tiring with the effort, whatever she’d think of his intellect, just so he could stand so, close to her, if she hadn’t turned to him and asked softly, in her broken little voice, if she might have the letter back, to keep, please, her breath warm, her scent against his lips.
“It’s done,” she said wonderingly then as he stepped back so that she might have her letter and her safety.
“Over and done, don’t worry any longer,” he agreed, and gave her good night again.
Once left alone, he shook his head in wonder at himself. For it wasn’t desire or temptation to pleasure he fought, nor was it any physical need. It was, rather, an old enemy and ally: fear. And, he thought, backing from her door, just as he’d told that poor devil Devlin, the only way to deal with it was to swallow it whole, and live with it.
Because he, who’d faced every danger in his life with as
much stoicism as he’d faced every moment of it, was amazed to discover himself living in fear now. He knew full well what the right thing, the best thing, and the damned honorable thing to do was, and feared not being able to do it. But, he told himself bracingly, if that craven Devlin had summoned enough courage to deal with her, then so could he. He would see her settled, he would let her be. And it wouldn’t be for much longer, after all.
There’d be, he reckoned as he went downstairs again, only tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, after all. One more night at another inn in France, and then a day for the cruise to England and a little sleep, and then a day for the coach ride to his friend Warwick’s home. Failing to find her a refuge there, it was only a day or two more to his sister’s. Only three to five more interminable days and dangerous nights and then he’d be free of her. Although, he understood as he went in search of something to drink that would speed the morning to him faster, of course, he’d never really be free of her, not really, ever again.
13
“You were made for the sea,” Francesca laughed, holding the rail tightly and trying to steady herself and to repair the damage the whipping wind was doing to her hair all at the same time. “Look at you,” she cried, “walking the deck as if it were a meadow, as though you were born to the sea.”