Refuge for Masterminds

by Kathleen Baldwin

  As soon as the partridge course is served, Lieutenant jabber-mouth Baker occupies himself gobbling down his bird. Lord Harston leans in and speaks quietly. “I am glad we have this opportunity to speak.”

  I’m not. “You are?”

  “I wish to discuss our arrangement.”

  The peas and fish soup begin to spin in my stomach. “You do?”

  Just when I fear the fish will leap back up my throat, a happy thought occurs. Maybe he wants out of the arrangement because of my brothers’ appalling behavior at the theater the other night. I would, if I were him. Anyone would. But if he does want out, wouldn’t I be obliged to pay back the money my parents owed him?

  I cover my mouth and earnestly whisper, “I don’t have the money to pay you back. I may never have the money to pay you back.”

  He looks positively mystified. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”

  “I assume you don’t want me for a wife. Can’t blame you for that, but—”

  He draws back as if he’s affronted. “No, that’s not it.”

  Oh horse feathers.

  “I would never go back on my word. A gentleman cannot. It simply isn’t done. I merely want you to know why the arrangement was made in the first place.”

  Because my parents owed you wheelbarrows full of cash. “I know why.”

  “Do you?” He stares at his curried partridge. “Your parents came to me with that harebrained scheme to contract you for marriage in exchange for their IOUs. I knew if I didn’t agree to it, they’d find someone who would. I decided to meet you before determining whether I should leave you to your fate or not. Thing is, I expected you’d be as foolhardy as they were. In that case, my conscience would be clear. I’d let them move on to the highest bidder. A silly-minded girl would do just as well with a rummy old goat as long as he had bags of money. Trouble was, I met you.”

  I remember that night well.

  He cuts apart the partridge and doesn’t take a bite. “You were not what I expected. You were fine and good and I couldn’t bear the thought of … well, you know.” He finally takes a bite.

  “Oh.” I’m astonished. All these years I’d thought the worst of him. When in truth, he’d agreed to the whole arrangement to spare me a worse fate. I set my fork down having suddenly lost my appetite. “But all that money—”

  “IOUs. Not money.” He shrugs. “I wasn’t out anything except my time.”

  Accounting sheets stack up in my mind’s eye. “And now I suppose my idiot brothers have ticked up additional debts to you.”

  He nods, and my insides still. Every pulse feels intentional. Every breath a labor. I owe this man too much to default on my contract with him.

  “I’ll let them out of it, if that’s what you would like.”

  “No. You mustn’t. I want them to learn to be responsible and make better decisions. If you forgive their debt, they’ll only run up more. Besides, why should you let them out of it on my account?”

  “It doesn’t seem right to make my brothers-in-law pay. Since we’re to marry, that is.”

  The minute he mentions our marriage, I can’t help it, my gaze snaps to Alexander.

  To golden hair and irresistible lips, lips which are not smiling. To hazel eyes, which normally flash with mischief, but tonight stare at me with fire.

  Is he angry? Or worried? His beautiful jaw buckles and unbuckles, and even though the giggling debutante on his right tugs on his arm, he remains fixed on me. He only pauses now and then to glare daggers at Lord Harston.

  “Oohh. I see.” Lord Harston sets his wineglass down with a plunk. I’m still watching Alexander, but I hear a smile in Harston’s voice when he says, “You’re in love with the American inventor.”

  “No.” My attention whips back to him. “No, that isn’t true.”

  “Lady Jane, I’m not blind.”

  “I’m not. I can’t be.” The words ring false even to my own ears.

  “Lie to me, my lady. But don’t lie to yourself.” He lifts his glass again in a mock toast.

  Love is an overbearing word. I can’t bring myself to think it. “I pride myself on being practical, Lord Harston. I never lie to myself.”

  Pride. My pride keeps getting in the way of the truth.

  I pick up my knife and fork and saw violently on my partridge. Poor thing. I stop and shake my head, humbled by this entire conversation. “But, I find I am mistaken from time to time. Oh, fiddlesticks! The truth is, I don’t know. I suppose you might be right. I might be foolish enough to be smitten with him.” I turn back to the inventor in question. He is brushing the debutante’s fingers off his arm and scowling at Lord Harston and me. “Not that it matters whether I am or not. Nothing can come of it. I’m promised to you, and he plans to return to America as soon as possible.”

  “He’s going to leave? Are you certain? He doesn’t look like a man who would easily surrender you to the competition.”

  “I’m sure of it. He’ll return to his home in America. Why wouldn’t he? It’s where he belongs. It’s the safest place for him.” I stare at my plate and stab a piece of carrot and a parsnip.

  “I can think of a very good reason why he might stay.” Lord Harston sits back swirling his goblet of wine. “I know you don’t like to gamble, Lady Jane. But I’m willing to bet that young man will be staying in England.” He lifts his cup to me. “Care to lay odds?”

  “I told you before—”

  “Yes, I know. You don’t gamble. Tell you what, my lady, I’ll make it easy for you, a one-sided wager. If he stays here in Britain, you don’t have to marry me. If he goes, I’ll hold you to our original bargain.”

  “But he is going. I’ll lose.”

  Lord Harston shakes his head, laughing, and stabs a forkful of partridge and parsnips. “Haven’t you noticed by now, my lady? I’m not in the habit of losing. Especially to anyone in your family.”

  He has a point there.

  Lord Harston washes down his bite with another generous gulp of wine. “I should have mentioned I never place a bet unless I’m certain of winning.” He taps his finger on the table between us. “You can tell what cards are in someone’s hand by reading your opponent’s face, my lady. The answers are right there if you know how to read them.”

  He takes another drink and raises his glass in a mock toast to Mr. Sinclair. “My dear Lady Jane, I haven’t felt this happy since the day I signed that confounded agreement. I’m free. Do you know what that means? You ought to—it means you’re free, too.”

  I frown at him. “I’m delighted you’re so pleased to be rid of me. But you haven’t won your bet yet, my lord.”

  To which he laughs out loud, exceptionally loud.

  Rude as horse snot.

  “Shouldn’t you be sitting next to the Prince,” I ask. “Tasting his food in case it’s been poisoned, or something?”

  The wretch laughs again. “A Trojan, Lady Jane. You’re a regular Trojan.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  He picks up his fork and cheerfully surveys his food. “A beautiful amazing woman with the backbone of a warrior.”

  “I suppose that’s all right then.”

  “I’m so happy I could kiss you.” He loads his fork with a gingered parsnip and a bite of meat.

  “Yes, I can tell. You’re elated because you think you’re finally free of me. I’m flattered.”

  “I would do it, too, if I didn’t think Sinclair over there would jump across the table and beat me senseless.”

  I glance across at my intrepid inventor and see he is indeed beginning to seethe. I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Mr. Sinclair’s nostrils flare before.

  “Nonsense!” I say, even though Lord Harston spoke the truth. “My lord, I believe you’ve had too much wine.” I lift my shoulder, as if I’m annoyed with him, and turn to Lieutenant Baker, having neglected him long enough.

  Lieutenant Baker drones on and on about how thrilled he is to have been invited to assist Admir
al Gambier at the unveiling Saturday of Mr. Sinclair’s steamship. I point out we are fortunate to have the steamship engineer himself seated across from us. Lieutenant Baker squints hard at Mr. Sinclair. “That’s him? Odd-looking fellow.”

  “I don’t think he’s odd at all. Quite handsome, in fact.” I have no more use for the pompous lieutenant.

  Maya sits across the table and several seats down. The young man next to her speaks to her with great animation. He makes her laugh, which is no small feat. I instantly like him for putting her at ease. Something about him looks very familiar. I study him while taking a bite of a stuffed pastry. It dawns on me he looks so much like Lord Harston they must be brothers.

  “I didn’t realize you had a younger brother.”

  “I don’t.” Lord Harston sets down his knife and fork. “Oh, you mean Ben.” He smiles in Maya’s direction. “Lord Kinsworth. He’s my nephew.” Pain briefly crumples his features, but he quickly recovers. “And my ward as well. Last year my sister passed. He’s a good lad. Lady Jersey is a gem to seat him next to that particular young lady. He’s fascinated with India. Wants to sign on to the East India Company as soon as he’s of age, but I have other plans for him.”

  “They seem to be enjoying each other’s company.”

  “Yes, I will step in later and put an end to it. I saw the young lady with Miss Stranje. Which means she’s one of those girls.”

  “Those girls?” I ask, ready to stab him with my fork.

  “I’ve heard Miss Stranje runs a school. Not just any finishing school, one for troublemakers.” He fills his mouth with apple and pork pastry.

  “Yes, I’m well aware of her school. I’m one of her students. And Miss Barrington is one of my dearest friends.”

  Lord Harston’s eyes open wide and his lips part until he remembers to continue chewing. I smile pleasantly and turn away.

  The dessert course arrives, and we eat in relative silence. At the end of apples and cheese, Egyptian dates and nuts, custards, creams, tarts, and an endless array of sweet delicacies, the Prince Regent rises at the head of the table. He lifts his cup to us and we all raise ours. A shout goes up. “Long live the Prince Regent! Long live the Prince. Huzzah!”

  After several more huzzahs and a hearty round of applause, the Prince announces that we shall retire to the Grand Blue Salon for an evening of music, after which there shall be dancing in the ballroom. Another cheer echoes round the dining chamber.

  My stomach begins to quiver with excitement and nerves. The ostrich feathers are making me itch where the picks stick out and rub against my scalp.

  I bob a farewell curtsy to Lieutenant Baker. “I shall look for you at the steamship demonstration.”

  Lord Harston offers me his arm to promenade to the salon where Maya and a number of others are to sing. As we pass out of the dining room, Alexander brushes against us and turns as if surprised to have collided with someone he knows. “There you are, Lady Jane. I see you enjoyed dinner.” He bows his head with only scant civility to Lord Harston.

  Lord Harston answers him. “We had a splendid time. Didn’t we, my lady? An illuminating conversation. I wonder, Mr. Sinclair, if I might impose upon you to escort Lady Jane to the music. I’m afraid my duties to the Prince require me to be elsewhere this evening.”

  Alexander looks from Lord Harston to me, suspicion tightening his features. He holds out his arm. “It would be my pleasure.”

  Alexander guides us toward the middle row of chairs. Lady Daneska is sitting toward the front, not far from the Prince Regent. She glances over her shoulder at us, and for one fleeting second I feel her cold-blooded hatred. Like lightning, her expression shifts, and she smiles as if she is pleased to see me. Lady Castlereagh brushes past me, and furtively reminds me, “Fifteen minutes. No more.” She and Lord Castlereagh take seats toward the front.

  I glance around the room, worried Ghost might be here among the crowd, disguised. Watching all of us. Except, all I see are the faces of the Prince’s guests, the beau monde, the beautiful people.

  I tug softly on Alexander’s arm and whisper, “I need to sit toward the back of the room, near the side door.” The door I plan to slip through later.

  He frowns. “You’re up to something?”

  “A small task I must attend to for Miss Stranje.” I edge him backward to the seat I need to occupy. “Might we sit here?”

  He allows me to take the chair of my choice and grumbles as he sits down. “You’re not planning to sneak out and meet him are you?”

  “Him? You mean Lord Harston? Heavens no! What do you take me for?”

  “A complicated woman.” He crosses his arms.

  Lord and Lady Dunbar sit down next to us, which puts an end to the vehement whispering going on between us. I cross my arms and sit back frowning, exactly as he’s doing. Darned ostrich feathers are itching my head again. Alexander brooding beside me doesn’t make my task tonight any easier.

  I go over the plan in my head, as I’ve done a hundred times this evening. I remain in my seat throughout the first singer’s performance, waiting until Maya has the audience properly transfixed before slipping out to go to Daneska’s rooms.

  The first performer is Miss Dorothea Twilling, a broad-chested young lady with a head full of bright blond curls, and a prominent nose that certainly allows for a great deal of resonance. The young lady chooses a song which repeatedly hits high C and displays her tonsils at their warbling best. Suffice it to say, Miss Twilling could shatter crystal at forty paces. I fear for the chandeliers.

  The minute she begins singing I comprehend Lady Jersey’s ingenious plan. This high-pitched soprano will sound like a shrieking barn owl when compared to Maya. At last, Miss Twilling’s operatic showpiece comes to an extraordinarily loud conclusion.

  When she takes her curtsy, I wonder if some of the clapping is to thank her for relinquishing the floor. Lady Jersey continues to applaud Miss Twilling as she rises to introduce Miss Barrington.

  Maya glides out and stands before us with her head down, half-hidden by a veil draped elegantly across her thick black hair. As she slowly lifts her head and faces the audience, I see several heads tilt quizzically. “Who is this?” they say behind their hands.

  Maya’s dress is a brilliant combination of the French Empire style, except one shoulder is draped with a long flowing length of saffron silk that matches her veil. It is embroidered along the edge in a pattern harkening back to her homeland. Perfect. The gown itself bespeaks her origins and yet conveys her nobility in both lands.

  Maya lifts her flute. She plays a short, melodic piece that leads us on a merry dance. It fills the air with joyous passages that reminds us of Bach, and yet she blends in stanzas that make us think of the exotic spices of India.

  How clever of Lady Jersey to have included a curried partridge in her supper. When Maya stops playing, it takes a moment or two before her listeners are able to abandon the dream she has led us on. Maya lowers her flute and moves hesitantly beside the piano where she sits down in a chair on the raised platform. She lifts a small flat harp into her lap, plucks the strings, and begins to sing. Her voice is so low and round and rich, that I hear gasps. She is a singing a ballad we all know, and yet it has never sounded like this. She falters at the sound of their gasps.

  I cannot leave yet. What if Maya cannot distract them. I wish there was a way to spare her their indignities. I mouth the lyrics. If I had a pleasant voice, I would rise and sing it with her. She regains a little of her confidence, not as strong and sure as when she started, but nevertheless it is sweet and beguiling.

  Despite the allure, some callous listeners lean toward each other and whisper behind their hands. Critical louts. How can they dare whisper, when every note she utters is exquisite. I am on the point of abandoning my task for the evening by standing up to sing with her, when I see him, walking up from the back of the room, Lord Harston’s nephew. As Maya breaks into the chorus, he joins in, his rich baritone blends magically with her contralto
. When her notes rise, his follow, like a musical chase. Their voices waltz through the air around us.

  Whispers from the audience change into gasps of awe. This is a feast for the ears. Their voices twirl around one another, melding at the exact right moments, until they both lift in a glorious crescendo as the song ends. The room falls deathly silent for a split second, and then erupts in joyous clapping, and cries of “more, more.”

  I’ve stayed far too long. Time for me to go.

  I slip out of the side door and sneak down the staircase to Lady Daneska’s rooms. From the grand staircase, I hear them start another song together. No one will be leaving that room anytime soon, not even Lady Daneska.

  I scurry down to the section of the palace where Lady Daneska’s apartments are. The light here is dim, but I pull out Lady Jersey’s sketch, and count seven doors and test the handle on the eighth. It opens, but I find the inner chamber locked. Listening for the sound of servant’s footsteps and hearing none, I pull out my lock picks.

  I need only scoot them halfway out of the feathers in order to use them. I squat down to the lock checking for traps she might have left. A ribbon or a thread left to warn her if the room has been breached.

  “Ah.” There it is, a short scarlet thread draped over the catch. Easy enough to replace on my way out. I drape it over the handle and set to work on the lock. I love picking locks. It feels as if I possess a magic key to unlocking anyone’s secrets. I push the spring aside with one pick, and use the other to turn the latch. Voilà! The lock clicks and the door opens.

  I smile, shove the picks back to their hiding places, and stick the feathers in my hair. “That’s done,” I whisper. In the distance, I still hear the faint strains of music. In my head, I count each remaining second. Each and every pesky tick. Twelve minutes left. Now, to find where Lady Daneska hides her important papers. I close the door and light a small oil lamp.

  Daneska’s room is a disorderly mess. She must’ve dismissed the housemaids. Of course, she would. She knows how traitorous servants can be. The chaotic clutter of bandboxes and clothing strewn everywhere may also be part of her evil genius. It certainly makes it difficult for me to locate pertinent papers. In search of something that explains what she and Ghost are planning, I head straight for the wardrobe.