The Bride Behind the Curtain

by Darcie Wilde

  James felt the poison in Patience’s sparkling gaze all the way down the hall.

  ***

  There was indeed a series of letters waiting on the writing desk in James’s room. They were not, however, about business. James lit the candles with a spill from the fireplace and picked up one he had opened.

  My Dear Brother James, he read, yet again. The letter was in French, and the familiar syllables flowed pleasantly through his mind, even though their meaning did not.

  I will spare you the preliminaries. I am in good health, and I must assume you are the same, this despite the fact you are locked up in one of these freezing country houses where everyone must court cold and the chilblains and other such unpleasantness.

  What I need to know is, when are you coming home? Mother is doing as well as may be expected, but when she is in one of her attacks, she loses her English, and the nurses cannot be made to understand what she needs. I will need you to return here soon and take charge so that I can do my work. The bill collectors are becoming most insistent, and their letters begin to speak of the courts. The little season will begin before too many more weeks, and that is my busiest time. While our creditors will be glad of that, it means I cannot be much at home. “Madame Flaubert” will not permit me to leave once the serious orders begin, the termagant. How I long for the day when I may open my own establishment! The monstrosities she makes these poor girls wear! And all the while insisting it is the latest thing from Paris! Paris should sue her for slander.

  Ah! But I am selfish and trivial and you need not regard such vapors.

  I have letters for you from Papa that I will forward on . . .

  In fact, that packet waited on the desk. To his shame, it was still unopened.

  . . . Be assured, my dear brother, we are all managing perfectly. The new nurse is very good and seems to understand Mama’s needs. She even has some small French. I hope we can keep her on, but that also requires money.

  Mama says to wrap up warm against this cruel English winter and to write soon.

  I must fly.

  Your loving,

  Marie

  ***

  James stared out the window at the silver drifts that buried Windford’s broad gardens. And there it was. All his family’s needs laid neatly before him. Mother’s palsy had reached such a state that she required nurses, night and day. The bills needed to be kept up to date. Marie needed the means to free herself from the modiste who used her talents but paid her next to nothing. He was quite sure the letters from his father would contain requests for yet more money for the lawyers.

  When Napoleon fell and Papa left for Paris, he’d been confident he would be gone for a short time. His old friends would surely remember him, and so recovering the family’s property and position would be the work of a few months at most.

  But then came the steady stream of bad news. The old friends who did remember Papa remembered him as a friend of Talleyrand, and a Republican. The fact that the family had been forced to flee for speaking out against Robespierre’s Terror counted for nothing. The whole world clambered around the new king, so Republicans and their sentiments were everywhere out of favor. No one was willing to admit to being a close enough friend to help Papa recover the money or the land that had been stolen during the Revolution, at least not without being well-paid for the work.

  James did what he could, but the means available to him for bringing in money were limited. James’s parents had kept him within the colony of expatriate Parisians rather than giving him the education of an English gentleman. Since they fully intended to return to France, it made sense that their only son should be trained and made ready for that day. But as their repatriation was continually delayed, it became clear James must make his own way in England, and help his family make theirs. He had a gentleman’s bearing and manner, but because he had not been to school, he lacked the mystical connections required to move freely among the English aristocracy. He showed no aptitude for either the law or the military, even supposing the son of a French family could gain a good commission. He found work translating government documents from time to time and had even helped certain gentlemen draft some highly confidential letters, but his background and religion kept him out of the civil service.

  He was, however, a gamester, and a good one. He won frequently and enjoyed winning, but as a way to support dependents, gambling was not safe, and it was certainly not steady.

  That left a rich marriage.

  James’s fists tightened. He thought of himself as a man of the world. He’d been proud of the calluses on his heart. He was certain he could and he would do anything required to provide for his family. He was proud of that, too, although he took care to conceal his real motives from society. The English fashionables hated someone who was too devoted as much as they hated someone who was too poor. If they knew his life was a facade to help those he loved, they would laugh at him and pity him. That would never do. So, he concealed any difficulties behind the mask of fatigue and mischief. By so doing, he had become the darling of the ton’s ladies, as well as the bon ami of its gamblers and wastrels.

  The only problem was, looking out through that mask was becoming just a little bit more difficult each day.

  James stared out across the undisturbed landscape of white and silver and let himself savor the memory of his . . . encounter with Lady Adele. His thoughts lingered on her eyes; those rich, innocent, shocked eyes that had been so heightened by the enchanted light reflecting from the snow. He felt her lips, full and sensuous, moving against his skin.

  And that body. She’d trembled just a little as he wrapped his arms around her, with trepidation at first, but then with warmth. She’d smelled of jasmine, and when she’d melted against him she’d been absolutely luscious. She’d kept her head, too, which was . . . surprising. She’d not fled, or fainted, or flirted. She displayed wit, and self-possession in uncomfortable circumstances. Not that he cared to think that being in his arms, and on his lap, might be truly uncomfortable, but he could readily see how a girl unused to the attentions of men might find it awkward.

  She’d been crying when she hurried into the library. He’d heard her struggling to control her sobs. Who had hurt her? Benedict had said she’d been wounded. What might a man—what might James Beauclaire—do to heal such a wound?

  James paused. James considered.

  What if . . . What if he shifted his attentions? In the harsh light through which a man such as himself was forced to regard relationships, such a change might even be seen as prudent. La plus belle Lady Patience had a world of suitors, even though the increase in her dower was not yet a gazetted fact. The intriguing Lady Adele—who would be at least as well dowered as her younger sister—was still very much overlooked.

  Non.

  Circumstances might have forced him to become a fortune hunter, but he was not a cad, or a fool. Windford was so far oblivious, but James’s attentions to Patience had already been marked by the other guests, not to mention her sharp-eyed guardian aunt. If those attentions shifted, there would be talk, and embarrassment. Despite this bout of reluctance that had come over him, despite the attraction that filled him, it was entirely too late to choose the other sister.

  Wasn’t it?

  III

  James Beauclaire! I was with James Beauclaire!

  Adele’s heart thumped hard against her ribs as she left Helene at the foot of the stairs so she could hurry up to her rooms. She counseled herself to forget the whole thing, to give over her excitement. She reminded herself that the whole incident was entirely indecent and scandalous.

  But herself would not believe it. Herself only thought how delicious it was.

  Of course, he hadn’t known it was her when he held her for so long. Her skin still tingled with the memory of his strong arms around her and his solid chest against her back, and his thighs . . . his thighs underneath
hers. His eyes had been bright with the silver reflection of winter snow as they looked at her and laughed. The purr of his voice in her ear lit a fire inside like nothing she’d ever felt.

  Of course, he’d see her in her dress at the ball, and then there’d be another memory. This one would be much colder, much sadder. Adele bit her lip and glanced along the empty corridor. Maybe, just maybe, if she hurried, she could get to her room before she was spotted. There was still a chance she’d be able to convince Bridget that . . .

  “Adele! Merciful Heavens, where have you been?”

  Adele’s aunt, the widowed and perpetually harassed-looking Mary Kearsely, burst from her apartments, her long-suffering maid trailing behind her with a gold ribbon in her hands. Adele opened her mouth to reply, but Aunt Kearsely had already waved her words away. “Oh, never mind, never mind. Bridget! Here is Lady Adele at last. Get her ready. The gown is all laid out,” Mrs. Kearsely said. “You’ll be wearing the yellow.”

  Adele’s heart plummeted. “But Aunt, I thought I might perhaps wear the green. It’s only . . .”

  “The green is entirely out of date, and you’ve already been seen in it. The yellow is the first stare of fashion. Madame Flaubert made it to my precise specifications. You know we have to cover . . . well, your flaws.”

  You mean my hips. And my waist. And my bosom.

  Adele felt her chin tremble, but Aunt Kearsely wasn’t even looking at her anymore. “Ah! Now here’s your sister. At least one of you is punctual!”

  Patience might be two years younger than Adele, but she was also three inches taller and fashionably slender. Which was to her advantage, because it meant she could make even the shell pink ball gown she’d ordered look lovely. The color was fine, but the skirt was a full bell of silk made stiff by no fewer than three rows of blue beaded lace. The same lace overwhelmed a swooping neckline that might otherwise have been daring. As it was, the cut only emphasized by Patience’s swanlike neck adorned with a chain of pearls with a blue topaz set neatly in the middle. More blue beading at her sleeves and hem drew attention to her white wrists and the tiniest hint of well-turned ankles encased in gold stockings with sapphire flocking.

  “So beautiful,” murmured Aunt Kearsely, touching the corner of her eye. “The image of my poor, dear sister.”

  “Well, Adele, what do you think?” Patience snapped open her fan of dyed lace and turned about. “Will I do?”

  Only if you remake that entire dress. But no one would notice, because this was Patience, and she was popular and beautiful, so whatever she wore would be considered beautiful as well. “Of course you’ll do, Patience,” answered Adele through clenched teeth. “You always do anything you want.”

  Her sister frowned, trying to work out if she’d just been insulted. Aunt Kearsely heaved an enormous and despairing sigh.

  “Oh, go get dressed, silly girl. And no more arguments. I’m already exhausted.”

  Left with no choice, Adele walked into her rooms, trying not to feel like she was heading to the guillotine. The dress was indeed laid out on her lace-covered bed, and it was indeed the first stare of fashion. It was also buttercup yellow, with five tiers of white rosettes around its hem, a broad white sash that tied in an enormous bow in the back, a ruffled, translucent white capelet to drape over her shoulders and décolletage in a manner that was supposed to be both modest and daring. It might even have worked, if it hadn’t been for the lace ruff that would fasten right up under her chin.

  This is was what James Beauclaire, who’d held her in his arms and laughed with her in the darkness, would see when he walked into the ballroom. Of course the rest of the world would see it, too, and then . . . and then . . .

  “I am sorry, m’lady,” murmured Bridget.

  “It’s not your fault.” It had been made clear that if Bridget valued her place, she would not ignore Mrs. Kearsely in the matter of her niece’s clothing. Adele’s aunt was relentlessly determined to uphold the Windfords as leaders in every aspect of society, whether in fashion or lavish entertainments. It is what my poor, dear sister would have wanted, she said frequently, speaking of Adele’s mother. Along with, I’m doing this all for you and your sister, Adele, so that you will have the best possible futures.

  No matter how Adele begged, she’d never once been able to shift her aunt’s opinions. She might have attempted open defiance, but Aunt Kearsely controlled the housekeeping money. Marcus gave their aunt an allowance and left it to her to dispense appropriate sums to Adele and Patience. Which meant that while Adele had pin money, she did not have enough to purchase her own gowns.

  “We’d best get you ready,” said Bridget softly. “I’ve brought up some rolls and cheese, in case you’re hungry.”

  “Thank you, Bridget. I am rather.”

  So, Adele ate the soft rolls spread with farmhouse cheese and let the salty, comforting morsels distract her as Bridget bustled about, settling her chemise into place, lacing the bright yellow gown, tying the enormous white sash, hooking the stiff ruff closed around her neck. Then of course there was the coup de grâce. As per her aunt’s careful instructions, Bridget piled Adele’s blond hair high on her head in a fashionable mass of tiny ringlets.

  Adele looked in the mirror at the plump, sad, pale girl with the mountain of honey gold curls on her head and the ridiculous ruffles of starched lace pressed up tight against her chin.

  Say adieu to Beauclaire, Adele instructed that girl softly. You shall not meet again.

  IV

  “Sacré merde! What have they done to her?”

  James had been so occupied with his letters and his thoughts, not to mention his conscience, he had made himself late to the dance. A good valet would have reminded him of the passing time, but James had recently dismissed his manservant to save on expenses. As a result, he had missed the moment when the doors were thrown open and Benedict’s mural, along with all of Mrs. Kearsely’s other lavish decorations, were revealed to the gathering’s delight and applause. When he did arrive, James slipped past the receiving line as quickly as courtesy allowed to seek out Benedict, intending to apologize for missing his friend’s triumphal moment.

  But then, James had seen Lady Adele step furtively out from behind one of the room’s polished oak pillars, clearly scanning the crowd for someone in particular, and his jaw had all but dropped.

  Benedict followed James’s gaze and shook his head. “She’s done it to herself, unfortunately.”

  “I won’t believe it,” James snapped, which caused his friend to lift one skeptical brow.

  “Why not?”

  “You call yourself an artist! Look at her face! She’s about to die of shame.”

  “I noticed,” acknowledged Benedict. “I’m only surprised that you did as well.”

  James found he did not like Benedict’s tone, but movement in Lady Adele’s direction kept him from answering directly.

  “Merde!”

  Without bothering to take any leave of Benedict, James dove headfirst into the glittering crowd.

  The music had ended, and the Delacourte sisters—Georgiana and Violette, escorted by Lewis Valmeyer and Octavius Pursewell—were strolling off the dance floor. James craned his neck, looking for the duke, who ought to be on hand to protect his sister. Windford, however, was nowhere to be seen, and all four of Patience’s creatures had set a direct course for Lady Adele, grinning like hungry cats.

  “Where did you get that gown, Adele?” inquired Violette Delacourte with a smile widely considered dazzling. “Is it another of your own design? It’s quite amazing.”

  “I am particularly struck by the ruff.” Georgiana tweaked a fold of starched linen. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Have you, Mister Valmeyer?”

  Valmeyer raised his quizzing glass. “I can truthfully say I have not. But then, Lady Adele has always been such an original.”

  When James reached them, the
girls and Pursewell were agreeing to this, their voices dripping with cold honey. Others nearby had begun to stare, and to laugh. He expected to find Adele to be tearful, or angry, but what he saw was worse. She just looked numb.

  But when their eyes met, her face flushed a brilliant scarlet, and her full mouth opened in a soft, “Oh.”

  “And the sash . . .” Miss Georgiana began, but she saw the change in Adele’s expression and turned. “Why, Monsieur Beauclaire! How very good it is to see you again.”

  “Thought you’d already be in the card room, Beauclaire,” said Pursewell. “The dance floor is not your normal hunting ground.”

  “Perhaps he’s come to come to admire Lady Adele’s gown as well?” suggested Valmeyer.

  James drew the expected languid, sophisticated expression across his features and made his bows. “Miss Georgiana, Miss Violette, good evening. Pursewell. Valmeyer. If I am to be completely honest, mes amis, I am here to apologize.” He locked his gaze with Adele’s, and he smiled, bashfully. “Lady Adele, I offer you my most abject apology. This is our dance, and I am offensively late to come to you. Do say you will forgive your clumsy chevalier and grant me the very great favor of your company for this waltz.” He bowed and held out his arm.

  For a moment, Adele stared like she thought he might sprout wings, or perhaps it was his horns she thought he’d show. Whichever it was, she mastered her shock with admirable speed and instead fluttered her lace fan.

  “Since you ask so nicely, Monsieur Beauclaire, I will forgive you,” she said. “But only because this is my favorite waltz. Georgiana. Violette. Mister Valmeyer, Mister Pursewell. You will excuse us?”

  James grinned at her nerve and led her, ruff and all, right to the middle of the dance floor. Their eyes met again as he raised his arms to form the proper frame. He let her place her hands on his shoulder and arm, and laid his against her lovely round shoulder and into the small of her back. He caught the swell of the music, and with a nod, he moved them into the dance.