Odette Speex: Time Traitors Book 1

by Lively, Padgett

  After exchanging puzzled looks, she and Wu quickly followed. They were just in time to see the Marquis glance furtively around before disappearing into a hedgerow.

  “A hedgerow?” Odette interrupted.

  “Aye.” Fancy nodded. “It borders both sides of the brick wall at the end of the churchyard. It’s odd-like. But you wouldn’t much notice it otherwise.”

  The hedgerow was thick, but close inspection revealed a neatly, and almost imperceptibly, cut path between the prickly branches and the brick wall. It was only wide enough to pass single file.

  “Good Lord! You never followed him in there!” Odette gasped, being herself particularly adverse to tight spaces with limited escape routes. “What if he had turned around and come back out?”

  Fancy rolled her eyes in Wu’s direction.

  “The chances of his immediate return when he was obviously on his way to an appointed meeting were infinitesimal,” he stated calmly.

  Odette looked doubtful but only said, “And then…”

  Wu had led the way through the hedgerow and stopped just short of the opening on the other side of the wall. Fancy could see nothing but his broad back and waited impatiently for him to make a move.

  He leaned slightly backward, turned his head, and barely moving his lips whispered, “It’s a walled garden, no bigger than our sitting room. If we enter, we’ll be seen. We need to crawl under the hedgerow.”

  Fancy looked down to find the bottom of the hedge only a couple of feet above the ground. “You’re having me on,” she whispered back.

  “No. And we’d better do it quickly before whomever he’s meeting runs into us.”

  At this point in the story, Odette looked a Wu with real perturbation. He had the good grace to blush.

  “I assumed his confederate to be already there,” he explained. “A miscalculation on my part, I must admit.”

  “Yes, you must,” she replied tightly. “Go on.”

  Wiggling into a space that rabbits typically inhabit was not an easy task. But both of them were young and fortunately slim. Wu silently and effortlessly slithered his way to the outer edge of the hedgerow where he could see the Marquis’ elegantly shod feet not more than an arm’s length from where he lay.

  For Fancy it was harder going. She had to protect her barely healed wound by bending her arms and digging her elbows into the soft dirt while pushing herself forward with her toes. Doing this without disturbing the branches seemed to take forever, and her shoulder hurt. But eventually she lay next to Wu. The scene before her was limited to grass, the pedestal of a stone bench, and stockinged calves. She carefully turned over on her back and tilted her head just enough to discern the Marquis’ face through the leaves.

  All of this was accomplished in a matter of minutes and not a second too soon. Fancy heard the rustle of leaves as a man pushed his way through the hedgerow path and walked toward the bench where the Marquis stood.

  “Robert Stanton, Marquis of Ridgeleigh?” The voice was an imposing baritone and well-matched to a face as handsome as any Fancy had ever seen.

  The Marquis nodded. “I am. And you are Char—,” he began in the bored drawl young men of his class often affected.

  “Yes,” the man interrupted curtly. Any deference owed to the Marquis’ status was absent. “I’m told you can bring others to our cause.”

  “Indeed. Several of my friends are quite eager to join.” He tittered uneasily. “Knights of the Messianic Order—the name itself is an inducement.”

  Odette gasped and sat up straighter. Her sudden movement caused the candle flame to flicker and cast their shadows dancing across the bedroom walls. “There’s no doubt then! Odell spoke of the Order and the man you describe can be none other than Charles Drake.” The blood drained a little from her face making her pale against the darkened window. She drew in a shaky breath. “Did they reveal anything important?”

  “They spoke of attending the ball tonight and a future gathering but no details. Nothing of importance,” Wu replied.

  Wu and Fancy had watched as Drake gave the Marquis what looked to be a heavy signet ring and then departed. The young man waited a bare thirty seconds before following him. The two spies had then crawled out of their hiding place into the walled garden. So accustomed to the fading light they hardly noticed the evening was well advanced. A quick survey of the churchyard from the protection of the hedgerow revealed the two men nowhere in sight. They made sure not to be followed during their hasty retreat to Exeter Street.

  “Bravely done!” Odette smiled at them. “But I wish the risk were less. If you had been discovered…”

  “Just a couple of local lads looking for a hide-away.” Fancy’s cheeky grin almost convinced Odette she could have pulled it off.

  “Something is not right,” Wu pronounced with a significant look at Odette.

  “There’s a lot not right,” she countered.

  “You know what I mean,” he said pointedly.

  Odette sighed and dropped her gaze. “How is it that the Marquis would defer to someone like Drake? In this time he’s a nobody.” She turned to stare blindly out the window. “Yes, I’ve thought of that. How did he gain such access to the ton?”

  “There is someone else.” It was a statement of fact.

  She bent over to pick up the candle from the floor and stood. “Yes,” she agreed. “There is definitely someone else.”

  Chapter 22

  Cara was surprised at the overt romance of the setting. The balcony overlooked a quiet street bordering the piazza. The wrought iron railing was overrun with a profusion of roses—pink, white, and red. They intertwined and spilled over the balcony. Their perfume drifted gently over the solitary, intimate table. A warm, gentle breeze brought with it sounds of the orchestra warming-up for the evening’s festivities.

  Ethan had arrived at their lodgings in a modest yet well-sprung carriage. She emerged from her boudoir to his obvious admiration in a starling gold leaf imprinted gown. She had dug up the lovely silk material from the bottom of a stack of bolts in the warehouse of the well-known “importer” Clarence Fowler. It was generally recognized that Mister Fowler received his goods from unorthodox sources, but such was his credit among the ton no one investigated too closely. Realizing the color could suit very few women, Clarence had let it go at an extremely reasonable price.

  “You’re a right knowing one, Miss Cara,” he scolded with feigned displeasure. “I’d be a pauper if I let all my wares go so cheap.”

  She had taken the material and designed a dress much like one she had seen in a portrait of Madam Pompadour. The neckline was low, showing an expanse of white skin and breast pushed up from the snuggly laced corset. The petticoat had flounces ringing the hemline and was tied with several bows across the bodice. The open robe covered all but the very front of the petticoat and cinched securely at the waist. The sleeves were tight to the elbow and then flared out in quantities of delicate lace. She had chosen a narrow hoop for the skirt prompting complaints from Odette.

  “I have to drag these ridiculous skirts around and you get to trot off like that,” she grumbled gesturing toward the golden confection.

  “Haven’t you learned anything from me in all these years?” Cara reprimanded. “One should always dress with a purpose. My purpose is to charm one man and gain his trust. An impossible task if he can’t even get close to me. Your purpose, on the other hand, is to create a stir. To be seen and talked about.”

  Cara smiled now at the man sitting opposite her. She knew he was trying to rattle her. The establishment in which they dined was discreet and exclusive. They could easily have eaten at one of the open-air pavilions dotting the piazza. Any of which would have been a more appropriate backdrop for their new acquaintance.

  Instead she had been ushered into an elegant mansion. On the way to their table, they passed other dining couples cleverly obscured by potted plants and painted screens. This was clearly a place that facilitated the romantic assignations of marri
ed couples, only not to each other. Perhaps a mistress or two was thrown into the mix, but Cara was willing to bet her wardrobe that most of the people here moved very much within the same elite circle.

  She had almost laughed aloud. It was hard to imagine he could be so clumsy. Really, she had thought better of him. Was she to be insulted? Confused? Frightened? Did he think so little of her to believe her this easily overset?

  But how could he have known the years of subterfuge and masquerade that had been her life? The twisted path she had trod since leaving Ireland. Much less the more than two hundred years of history and experience he lacked. Decades that had allowed the unspoken to be revealed and tolerated. Years also in the world of ballet that had shaped her being and informed her conscience. How could he know she was uniquely equipped to see beyond his self-contained exterior?

  Their dinner conversation had been light and flirtatious. Once or twice Cara caught a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, acknowledgement that her behavior was not what he had expected.

  A dish of delicate French pastries arrived signaling that their meal was nearing an end. He reached over and clasped her hand. His manner was one of muted passion. He was just beginning to see how far he could push her. To see what information she might spill in her haste and discomfort. Leaning toward her, he said in a husky whisper, “You’ve told me very little of yourself.”

  This close Cara could see clearly the falseness of his bland appearance. It was as if a mask had dropped from his face exposing the beauty of his exotic features. Pity stirred in her breast at the pretense he must have summoned to reveal this to her.

  “What more do you need to know than this,” she replied, slipping a hand firmly behind his head and pressing her lips hard against his.

  He reacted explosively. Pushing away from her, he stood. He backed over the chair and knocked it noisily to the ground. His hands were balled into fists and he spat, “What manner of woman are you! Not even a common whore would be so forward!”

  Cara sat back and looked at him levelly. This was the dangerous part. She knew what Odette and Wu believed. But Cara had known many men like Ethan—men who reacted to her beauty without being sexually attracted to her. It was more of an aesthetic attraction, an acknowledgement of the feminine that intrigued them. Ethan no more desired her than he did the chair he had just overset. His desires were of an entirely different nature.

  “I believe, Mister Graham, the question is, what manner of man are you?”

  The astonishment in his eyes was quickly replaced with fury. “How dare you!” he growled through gritted teeth.

  Cara quaked inside, but maintained a calm exterior. She fortified herself by slipping a hand into the concealed pocket of her skirt to feel the sharp steel of their best kitchen knife. She stood.

  “Mister Graham… Ethan… I want neither to insult you nor do you harm.”

  “What do you want?” he replied tightly.

  Ashamed as she was of the methods she had stooped to use, she thrilled at her victory over Wu. “Answers, Ethan. I want answers.”

  *

  Astonished whispers followed Odette as she wove her way through the throng of people on the piazza. Light from the colored lanterns cast a glow over the festive crowd and added a dash of mystery to Odette’s scandalous appearance.

  “But you have to go!” Fancy had insisted as they stood alone in Odette’s darkened bedroom. “That fellow Drake will be there!”

  Odette had stripped off the corset and was beginning to wiggle out of the soft chemise. “Fancy, I’ve destroyed the only outfit that had any chance of attracting attention in the crush of people sure to be at the ball. Anyway…” She sighed with relief. “…I don’t think I could have stood another minute, much less hours, in that get-up.”

  Odette had thought momentarily of donning a less impressive gown and going just to dance with Gabriel, but dismissed the idea. She knew that anything less than magnificence would be frowned upon by David Garrick. Ever the savvy businessman, David was using this opportunity to showcase his new ballet. The entire company would be there dancing and mingling with the crowd. He would be disappointed she wasn’t there, but she still had a good excuse in Fancy.

  The girl had waved a dismissive hand at the ruined gown. “Plenty of women will be wearing something like that.” She put her hands on her hips. “You are Odette Swanpoole! Ballerina extraordinaire!” She drew out the last word, mimicking the exaggerated tones of the quality and giggled. “You aren’t just anybody,” she continued more seriously. “If you want to be noticed and sought after, you have to give them what they want.”

  Odette smiled wryly thinking back on the conversation and tried to feign disinterest in the reaction her appearance was generating. Wu, who accompanied her, was part of the spectacle in an elaborate Chinese robe he had retrieved from his former lodgings.

  “They don’t look for respectability from you,” Fancy had assured her when Odette looked in the mirror and voiced her doubts about ever again being allowed across the threshold of a respectable house. “And I guarantee you they don’t want it. You’re an artist. They expect you to be different-like and cause scandals.”

  Odette stopped next to the orchestra and surveyed the dancers. She leaned close and whispered in Wu’s ear, “I can’t believe I took the advice of a fifteen year old girl.”

  He, too, watched the dancers, but a sad smile touched his lips. “She is wise beyond her years,” he murmured in answer.

  “Wise or not, I certainly don’t lack for attention.” She frowned. “I’m not sure your presence here is wise either. And… in that.” She cut her eyes to his robe. “Whoever has taken your master could very well be here too.”

  “It is time to push back,” he replied firmly. “We need to make the one who is moving the pieces in this game reveal himself.”

  “Thus speaks another of my teenage advisers.” She shrugged and gazed back over the dance floor. “Let’s hope we’re ready for him.”

  “We are ready.” He nodded confidently.

  Odette sighed and wondered whether she had ever been that sure of herself.

  “Good Lord, Odette!” The emphatic exclamation lost nothing in intensity by the fact that it was whispered. “What do you think you are doing?”

  She turned to find Cara at her elbow. An unfurled fan revealed only her flashing green eyes. Ethan stood just behind her looking very amused.

  She replied smugly, “I’m creating a stir.”

  Cara ran her eyes over Odette. Using a hairpiece, Fancy had arranged a classic ballerina bun. It was heavily powdered and sprinkled with jeweled pins. Except for some slight reddening of the lips, Odette wore no makeup. Her slim form was encased in delicate muslin gathered just below the breast. The cap sleeves rested barely off her shoulders and the neckline dipped daringly low across her breasts. A gauze petticoat beneath the skirt added width and lifted the hem enough to reveal a shocking expanse of ankle. Cara recognized the garment, with only slight modification, as a costume she was designing for the wood nymph scene of the Theatre Royal’s next ballet.

  “That,” Cara explained, indicating the outfit, “is a costume. It is meant for the stage. People will think you mad exposing yourself like this at a public ball.”

  “As opposed to hundreds of strangers in a theater?” Odette countered tartly.

  “Now is not the time to rail at the hypocrisy of—”

  “No,” Odette interrupted, “now is not the time.” She moved Cara a little away from Ethan and whispered urgently, “Drake is here.”

  Cara turned suddenly pale and clutched at Odette’s arm. “I know.”

  “How…,” Odette began.

  Cara nodded over Odette’s shoulder. “He is approaching on the arm of Lord Winter.”

  Odette’s head spun around and she felt the skin prickle down her spine. She caught her breath with the sudden fear that Odell was wrong.

  Drake will recognize me! My hair! The powder was a mistake! With light hair, I look
more like Odell. He will…

  “Miss Swanpoole,” Lord Winter’s bored drawl broke into her frenzied thoughts. She plastered on the requisite society smile. Her fear drew her inward. She was oddly aware of her blinking eyes and beating heart. Odette was sure she looked idiotic, her gestures stilted and robotic. Panic gripped her throat.

  “Lord Winter. An unexpected delight. We so rarely see you out these days.”

  “Ah, Graham. I didn’t see you there.”

  Ethan had stepped up next to Odette effectively blocking Drake’s line of sight. “I’ve had the pleasure of dining with Miss Mills and have just asked Miss Swanpoole for this dance.” He smiled blandly at the two men. “You’ll understand if I don’t wish to squander this singular opportunity with introductions. I’ll bring her back once the dance has ended.” With that he pulled Odette out amongst the dancers and into a group now forming a square.

  She looked at him astonished.

  “Endeavor to collect yourself,” he whispered as the steps of the dance brought them close. “I must assume from your reaction that the man with Lord Winter is the one who has imprisoned your brother.”

  Odette barely had time to cast Cara a reproachful glance before the dance brought them close again. “Yes. He is,” she replied succinctly.

  “How is it he does not know you?”

  That simple question steadied her resolve. If Ethan’s sharp eyes saw no recognition, then there was none. “I have never met him. I know of him through my brother’s description and, of course, his name.”

  “He did not give his name.”

  Curse his bloody quick brain! She thought uncharitably, but merely looked at him innocently and said, “His description then.”

  Ethan’s lips twitched, but he let it drop. They glided through the intricate dance moving toward each other and then away. The steps acted as a balm on Odette’s tattered composure. She was grateful for Ethan’s timely intervention. She wasn’t sure what it meant. He clearly knew their story or, at least, the same one they had told the Wrights. Odette only hoped Cara had gotten more than just his gallantry in return.