The Bride Behind the Curtain
Page 5
“Oh? And what catches that sharp eye of yours? Do enlighten me.”
Benedict did not answer, and Miss Sewell smiled. “Our trio who has just left. Do they not give either of you pause?”
James found he had no answer for that. Miss Sewell smiled and changed the subject, a little.
“Poor Lady Adele,” she sighed. “Her aunt will keep finding the absolute worst creations to make her wear.”
“Why does she do it?” he murmured.
“Well, her taste is for fashion, not actual beauty, but beyond that, my first guess would be fear.”
“Fear?” James felt his brows arch. “What could Mrs. Kearsely have to fear?”
“What do any of us have to fear? The loss of reputation, the loss of income and regard. Her nieces are in her charge and so become reflections of herself. Her nephew the duke could push her out at any time, and then what would she do? Society would drop her in an instant. She must be seen to be working for her nieces’ welfare with never-ending diligence, so that no one can possibly blame her when Lady Adele fails to catch a husband.”
“Thus does Lady Adele find herself a prisoner of her aunt’s poor taste.” James’s brow creased. “It is madness that a life should be made wretched by something so . . . trivial.”
“And yet all our lives turn on such trivialities,” murmured Miss Sewell. “A word, a glance, a meeting, a dress. Any of it can change a world.”
“Ridiculous,” snapped Benedict. “Harnessing human lives to folly. It’s no wonder . . .” He clamped his mouth shut. “You must excuse me,” he said. “I’m suddenly not in the mood for company.”
Without another word, he stalked off and disappeared out the ballroom door.
“You must excuse Benedict. It is the artistic temperament.” It wasn’t, and James knew it. It was old memories, of his wife and the life he had known before. But one did not speak of such things.
“A temperament with which I am quite familiar,” said Miss Sewell easily. “But now, I see Mrs. Beecham there, and I particularly wanted to talk to her this evening. I believe your friends are waiting for you by the card room, where life may also turn on trivial matters.”
James made his bow and let her glide away. She was right. Pursewell and Valmeyer were standing by the door to the card room, rather obviously looking in his direction. But there was Lady Patience, also with her back very obviously toward him.
Was it to be the lady or the cards? Such a trivial matter. A simple choice. The one so much more certain than the other. He had his duty; he had chosen his path and laid his ground. He knew who and what he was, and so did she. They would be most convenient for each other. He would have the income his family needed. She would have a husband who would cause an agreeable sensation among her friends, and afterward not interfere with her life in any way.
But during the dance with Lady Patience, James had been acutely aware of something else. Through each figure and turn and exchange, he’d known precisely where in the room Lady Adele stood. Now that she was gone, he suddenly found he didn’t want to be in the room anymore.
A look. A dance. A stolen moment in the dark. And everything changes. Or nothing does. Duty remains. Always and forever. And duty requires money.
James set his jaw, and he fixed his course for the card room.
V
“I’ve never shown these to anybody. You have to promise me you won’t laugh.”
The three girls stood in Adele’s bedchamber. She’d brought the key for her cabinet table out of the bottom of the jewel case on her dressing table.
“We promise,” Helene said, and Madelene nodded.
Adele glanced toward the room’s closed door, told herself she was being silly, and unlocked the marquetry table. Inside, the three shelves were filled with stacks of leather-bound scrapbooks. Adele reached into the middle of the stack, pulled one out, and opened it. The other girls pressed close to peer over her shoulders.
“These are marvelous!” cried Helene.
“They’re daydreams,” murmured Adele as she slowly turned over the leaves. Each page held a lovingly rendered and tinted sketch of a different gown.
“Where did you get them?” asked Madelene. “You must have spent hours on the copies.”
Adele’s cheeks were warming. Helene, of course, noticed. “She didn’t copy them, Madelene. These are original designs. All of them.” She gestured toward the three shelves inside the cabinet, and all the remaining books.
“It’s just something I’d do, especially when I first came out. I’d sit and dream about what it would be like when I was finally married—the parties I’d give, and the dresses I would have. I would plan it all out.” She touched the notes that surrounded the gown. “I wrote down names of warehouses and suppliers and modistes and . . . well, this is what I thought of when you asked what Madelene should wear.” She turned another page to show the drawing of a simple champagne-colored gown, its sleeves and hems trimmed in plain silk ribbons. “But maybe beading instead of the ribbons.” She considered. “Yes, clear beading, and a gold brooch at your waist and pale roses in your hair. You’d set off the entire room.”
Madelene colored and pressed her hand over her mouth, but at the same time she stared at the dress eagerly.
“Which of these dresses is yours?” asked Helene. “Yours especially, I mean.”
Slowly, Adele turned the pages to a gown of deep red and rich cream. “This one.” She ran her fingers down the page, but she wasn’t seeing the sketch. She wasn’t seeing anything. She was feeling James Beauclaire’s arms around her. She was imagining standing before him in this daring dress and seeing his gaze deepen. His eyes were such a bright blue, made all the sharper by his black hair and brows. He was startling. He was disconcerting. He was devastating.
He’d take her hand, slowly, and he’d kiss her fingertips. He’d smile, and that smile would be just for her.
Abruptly, Adele slammed the book shut. “But as I said. It’s just daydreams.”
“Lovely daydreams, though,” murmured Madelene.
“Maybe they could be more,” Helene said.
Adele laughed bitterly. “Maybe I’ll be crowned Queen of England at Almack’s next Wednesday. No. I’m twenty-two, and my aunt won’t hear of my dressing myself. And even if one of you could find a modiste who’d actually make any of these, it wouldn’t change anything for you, either. I’d still be the dumpling, you’d be the bluestocking, and Madelene . . .”
“I’m the redheaded stepsister,” she muttered, and for the first time, Adele heard the touch of anger in the other girl’s words.
“And we’re all equally doomed.” Adele hugged her notebook to her chest.
“I don’t accept that,” Helene said.
“Then tell me, what can we do?”
“I don’t know.” Helene stared into the distance, her amber eyes shining with that hard light of intelligence particular to her. “I don’t know, yet. I have to think. Can we meet in the library tomorrow morning? It will have to be early, before anyone else is about.”
“Meet?” Adele said. “Why?”
“There you are!”
All three of them jumped, then turned. Adele thought she might die on the spot. Patience stood on the threshold, hands planted on her hips.
Adele shoved the notebook behind her back.
“What was that?” Patience demanded.
“I . . . It’s mine,” stammered Madelene, lifting the book out of Adele’s fingers, but keeping it behind her. “P-poetry.”
“From the Far East,” added Helene loftily. “A translation.”
“Oh lud,” muttered Patience. “All right, now that you’ve had your little look at whatever it is, you can go. I need to talk with my sister.”
This could not lead anywhere good, but Adele glanced at the others and nodded. They made their farewells and took the
ir leave, with Madelene still carrying the scrapbook. Patience barely spared a glance for them. Her glower was entirely for Adele.
“Well, I suppose you think you’ve accomplished something.”
“I . . . what?” Adele’s mind was so full of the other girls’ responses to her drawings, and Helene’s extraordinary idea of an early morning meeting, she couldn’t understand what Patience might be talking about.
“I . . . what?” sneered Patience. “You complete goose! Did you actually think you could steal James Beauclaire out from under my nose?”
“I don’t think I stole anyone. I didn’t even know you were interested in him,” Adele added, because confusion was a familiar refuge. Patience was always willing to believe she was thick as a plank.
Patience lifted her nose. “Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. He’s quite in fashion. I want to try him on for the fit.” Adele looked away, and Patience gave one hard laugh. “Oh, now it’s the righteous dumpling, so terribly, terribly shocked that her sister is a dreadful flirt.” She stalked forward and poked one hard finger against Adele’s shoulder. “Listen to me. You didn’t earn that dance with him. He’s only paying you any attention to get to me.”
“I don’t understand.” This time the confusion was genuine, as was the sick, sinking sensation in her heart.
“That’s because you don’t understand how anything works. I’m too popular. A man like James can’t approach me, hat in hand. He’s got to pique my interest, get closer gradually. If he’s making up to you, he has an excuse to be near me without looking like he’s just hanging about. Now do you understand?”
“I see.” She did. Maybe she always had, but here it was, laid out as clearly as one of her own sketches. Adele looked at her sister and tried to keep from shaking under the weight of sorrow and anger.
“I hope you do. Now, I’ve got to get to the dance, and you need to come along quietly. I told Aunt Kearsely I was coming to get you.”
Which left Adele with no choice but to follow, and swallow the tears that wanted to stream down her cheeks.
VI
James Beauclaire sat in the breakfast room and stared into his cup of coffee. He’d been doing this for a while now, so, for variety’s sake, he stared out the window at the falling snow.
The night had not been a good one. He’d sat down at cards with Valmeyer and Pursewell, but it had not been a satisfactory game. His concentration was off, the better part of it having stayed behind in the ballroom. Fortunately, given a choice between him and Valmeyer to fleece, Pursewell settled on Valmeyer as the easier mark. It made for a nauseating spectacle. Valmeyer was drunk, as usual, and, also as usual, he seemed to think his pride demanded he play for, and lose, large sums.
“Never mind, gentlemen, never mind,” he cried. “Plenty more where that came from.”
In your stepsister’s purse, thought James with distaste. The whole world knew Madelene Valmeyer’s mother had left her a fortune and Lewis was engaged in throwing it away as fast as he could borrow it.
Usually, James did not let such things bother him. What did it matter where the money came from, as long as it ended up in his pocket? Tonight, though, Beauclaire had played out his hand and left. But when he stepped out again into the ballroom, he saw Patience in one corner and Adele in the other. With the sisters in front of him and the sharps and the flats behind him, James’s guts had abruptly twisted with painful disgust—disgust over the ridiculous gathering and, more importantly, with himself. Like Benedict, James found himself no longer in the mood for any company.
But neither could he find any rest in his room, because of the letters that waited on his desk. He’d roamed the darkened halls for a while and after that installed himself in an unused room where he alternated between pacing and staring out at the snow that fell fresh and thick across the already deep drifts. Midnight came and went, to the distant sound of clocks chiming and people cheering, and his discontent remained. He’d finally returned to his own chamber in the small hours. He’d lit the candles and decided since he was already awake and brooding, he might as well have something definite to brood over. He broke the seal on his father’s letters.
The good news was that Father’s strength and health seemed to be holding. In the last packet, he’d spoken of a passing cold. The bad news . . . well, there was page after page of that.
. . . I have visited with M. Saint-Croix, and although he was anxious to help, there are further fees for the papers that must be made . . .
. . . I have spoken again with M. Mathis, and he feels another search in the Monteville archives would yield the correct deed. The cost, however . . .
. . . in arrears to my landlord . . .
. . . owing to the clerks . . .
. . . I am sorry, James. It is shameful that a father should have to ask so much from his son, and yet I must ask . . .
James laid the letters down. He pulled out his purse with the notes and coins he’d won during his brief stay at the tables. He counted them up and added the sum he currently had in the bank back in London. The total was barely enough to cover what Papa needed. But there’d be nothing left to give Marie for the housekeeping and Mama’s nursing.
He could have gone back down to the card room to see if there were any additional lambs left to fleece, but he hadn’t. He’d climbed into the cold bed and waited for morning.
Now he sat in the breakfast room with a cup of admittedly very good coffee and hoped some new way out of his troubles would occur to him. That way proved infuriatingly reluctant to reveal itself. Instead, the doors opened, and Lady Adele slipped through. She saw him there, and she froze.
“Lady Adele! Forgive me!” Caught off guard, James struggled to his feet to make his bow. “I did not think anyone else would be up so early.”
“I . . . well . . . usually I have breakfast alone.”
“Should I go?” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, James cursed the fact that he’d only had time for the one cup of coffee and roll. His wits were still disordered from his sleepless night. He should not have offered; he should have just drunk his coffee and gone. Now, she had to be polite.
“Oh no! That is, I would not wish to interrupt your breakfast.”
James bowed his thanks. He also noticed there were rings under Lady Adele’s deep eyes. She had not slept well, either. What kept her awake? Was it by any chance the memory of their few moments together? Heaven knew, those memories had occupied enough of his own thoughts. He’d imagined what he would do when next they met and dismissed those same imaginings a hundred times over. Lady Adele was not the one for him, and he most decidedly was not the one for her. She was not prepared for a gambler with family entanglements. The world he’d created for himself out of painful necessity would overwhelm this young woman. The reputation of her house would be in shambles in no time, and it would be his fault. He would be worse than Pursewell cleaning out Valmeyer at the tables, because Valmeyer at least ought to know better. Unlike Patience, who could deftly manipulate society in all its complexities, Lady Adele had no experience, no ambition. She had only herself.
And how can you be so sure? His thoughts taunted him. One encounter, one dance, and you believe you know all about her. Is this that famous love at first sight? How convenient it should be with one who is so rich, and so alone.
Adele smiled, clearly uncertain what manners these circumstances demanded, and moved to the sideboard. In customary manner of the English country house breakfast, an array of covered dishes, both silver and china, had been set out so that the guests might help themselves whenever they arrived. There was a country ham, as well as coddled eggs and rashers of bacon, smoked kippers, baskets of fresh rolls, a great wheel of sharp cheese, and at least a dozen other such dainties to recoup the strength of those who’d spent the night dancing. Those ladies and gentlemen who could not manage so much activity before noon would be prepared trays.
He knew what the problem was. Again, his jaw tightened. He also stepped over to her side.
“Lady Adele, you must allow me, as your chevalier and servant, to help you to your breakfast.” He made another bow. “How can I serve you best, m’lady?”
She rewarded his pretty little speech with an equally pretty blush. “Oh, I’ll just have a roll, thank you.”
“As m’lady wishes.” James set one warm roll on a plate and added a dollop of raspberry jam from the crock. He then prepared an identical plate for himself. These he set down on opposite sides of the long table, before he pulled out Adele’s chair for her.
But she made no move to sit. “Aren’t you hungry, Monsieur Beauclaire?”
“Starved, actually,” he admitted.
“Then you must help yourself. I’m your hostess this morning, after all,” she added. “I can’t allow a guest to go hungry.”
“But it would be rude of me to feast when you are clearly fasting.” He waved toward her lonely roll.
“Oh no, no. I’m simply not hungry.”
“But your eyes betray you, Lady Adele.” He let himself smile, slowly. His fingers itched to touch her chin, to lift her reluctant gaze to his. But even were that much permitted, he knew he would not stop with so simple a touch. “Your eyes stray toward the cake and the coddled eggs. You are enticed. Possibly even entranced.”
“They do not. And I am not.”
“Lady Adele,” he said sternly. “Do you perhaps take me for one of those monsters who prefers to see a girl patiently starve rather than have her enjoy herself in my company?”
“You make breakfast sound like a dalliance.”
“Do I? How shocking of me. But the facts remain.” He folded his arms. “Either we will feast together, or we fast together. Which is it to be?”