Sherri Cobb South

by French Leave

  Bedchambers? Somehow Lady Helen had not thought of the assignation in such bald terms, A vaguely defined rendezvous in a velvet-curtained alcove was one thing; an emulation of the marital act with a man other than one’s husband was quite another. Still, the featured performer at the musicale was to be an Italian soprano of the type Sir Ethan particularly disliked. She need have no fear of his accompanying her, even if he had not already made plans to spend the evening in Green Street. “Supper,” indeed! She could hazard a guess at what had been on the menu!

  “I shall be there,” she said resolutely.

  Further discussion was rendered impossible as the three elder members of the party drew abreast of the three junior, who were peering into a cage containing, according to a small nameplate attached to the front of the cage, Procyon lotor, or common American raccoon. Heedless of the damage to her muslin walking dress, Lisette knelt beside the brothers Brundy, examining with great interest the funny, furry creature twitching its ringed tail as it stared back at her, its bright, inquisitive eyes framed by a band of black fur resembling a mask.

  “Oh!” cried Lisette, spying her lord’s approach. “This is what you say I look like? But this is not like me at all!”

  “On the contrary,” replied Lord Waverly. “The resemblance is even more marked than I imagined.”

  “Pas du tout! But I think you are teasing me, oui?”

  “What makes you think so?” asked Lord Waverly, extending a hand to raise his wife to her feet. Lisette reached up to take it, and Lady Helen, observing her laughing countenance and the smile lurking in Waverly’s eyes, was somewhat taken aback to find the earl and his young countess on such excellent terms. For the first time, it occurred to her that she and Lord Waverly were serving Lisette a very ill turn. On the other hand, she reflected, glancing at her oblivious husband, perhaps it was better for Lisette to discover the realities of a ton marriage early in her wedded life than to suffer a broken heart four years later.

  * * * *

  That afternoon, Lord Waverly received a visitor sent to him from the Employment Registry. This person, a middle-aged woman of stern visage (whose austere countenance, had the earl but known it, concealed a most tender heart), he bade be seated on a straight-backed and decidedly uncomfortable-looking chair.

  “And your name is—?”

  “Winters, my lord.”

  “Your previous employer?”

  “Lady Braxleigh.”

  “And the reason for your termination?”

  “Death, my lord.”

  Cold blue eyes regarded her from underneath drooping eyelids. “Your employer’s, or your own?”

  Winters, undeceived by the earl’s lazy mien, remained unfazed. “Lady Braxleigh’s, my lord. Had it been my own demise, I should, of course, have given two weeks’ notice.”

  Waverly gave a grunt, which Winters correctly interpreted as an expression of satisfaction. “I trust they told you at the Employment Registry why you were being sent.”

  “I was told you had need of a lady’s maid, my lord.”

  “That much is true, but it tells only part of the story. I require an abigail to serve a very young lady. Since attaining sufficient age to be presented to Society, she has been rather, er, cloistered, and thus has no idea how to go on. I will, of course, teach her as best I can, but she will require a woman who can guide her taste in matters of dress.”

  Winters inclined her head. “I see. Am I to understand this young lady is your daughter?”

  The frosty look leveled at her would have quelled a lesser female. “She is my wife.”

  “I beg your pardon, my lord.”

  “No need,” he said, waving away her apology. “An honest mistake, as it happens.”

  As if on cue, the door opened at that moment and Lisette entered the room in a swirl of primrose muslin.

  “Ah! Mille pardons, milord. I thought you were alone.”

  “Lisette, this is Winters. She is to serve as your dresser.”

  “My lady,” said that woman, bobbing a curtsy.

  “Bonjour,” Lisette responded, offering her hand. “I am pleased to—achoo!”

  “Bless you,” Waverly responded. “Perhaps you had best go to your room and fetch a shawl.”

  “But I have not at all the cold,” Lisette protested.

  “Nevertheless, we should not want you to take a chill after last night’s, er, sudden rainstorm.”

  “Très bien! I will go at once,” said Lisette, and tripped lightly from the room.

  “That charming child is Lady Waverly?” exclaimed Winters, after the door had closed behind her. “She is enchanting! Men will fall at her feet.”

  “I had much rather they did not,” said the earl dampeningly.

  “Unless you would have me put a bag over her head, my lord,” rejoined Winters, “I should like to see you try and stop them.”

  * * * *

  Alas, Waverly’s expectations proved to be well founded. Lisette continued to sneeze throughout the day, and her nose acquired a distinctly ruddy hue. Late that night, she rose somewhat unsteadily from her bed and padded barefoot into Lord Waverly’s bedchamber.

  “I am sorry to wake you, milord,” she rasped, “but I fear I have after all la grippe.”

  Waverly awoke with a start, and rumbled for the flint and candle on his bedside table. Once lit, the feeble light revealed Lisette’s flushed cheeks and feverishly bright eyes.

  “My poor child!” exclaimed the earl. “You should be in bed.”

  He lingered only long enough to shrug on a frogged dressing gown before scooping up his countess (noting as he did so the unnatural warmth of her skin) and bearing her off to her bedchamber. After tucking her securely beneath the covers and stoking the fire smoldering in the grate, he rang for Winters and instructed her to procure a hot brick for her mistress’s bed, and to have the housekeeper prepare a saline draught. He then prevented her from carrying out either of these tasks by delivering a scathing condemnation of her neglect of her ladyship’s health, which he apparently expected her to have divined through some form of mental communication. To her credit, Winters neither denied his accusations nor turned in her notice. In fact, the sight of her employer tending to his young wife (“fussing over her like a hen with one chick,” she later confided to the housekeeper) planted a certain idea in her mind, one which raised the earl considerably in her estimation.

  At first light, Waverly sent for a physician, who examined Lisette and sentenced her to spend the day in bed with nothing to eat but a little weak broth and a vile-smelling potion in a dark brown bottle which, he assured her, would soon have her feeling very much more the thing. One sip of this concoction was enough to make Lisette wrinkle her nose in distaste but, just as the doctor predicted, by evening her fever was gone and she felt sufficiently recovered to be bored with her confinement. Lord Waverly, stopping to check in on her before departing for the Warrington musicale, was made privy to the information that he was a cruel beast to go sauntering forth for an evening of pleasure while she was locked in her room without so much as a book to bear her company.

  “Locked?” echoed Waverly in tones of shocked revulsion. “Surely not!”

  “Well, no,” Lisette was forced to admit. “But I might as well be, for whenever I get up, you or Winters bundle me back off to bed as if I were a child!”

  Lord Waverly, recalling the decidedly unchildlike contours of her feverish body in his arms, thought it wisest not to take the bait. “If you desire a book, I shall bring you one from the library. Tell me, do you like gothic novels?”

  “No,” Lisette said crossly. “That is to say, I like them very well, but I do not want a book.”

  “What do you want, then?”

  A spark of mischief lit her sunken eyes. “Your company?”

  Waverly glanced at the clock over the mantel. “I daresay I have time for a hand or two of piquet before I go.”

  While Lisette wriggled happily into a more upright position. Lord W
averly went in search of a pack of cards. Having run one to earth, he sat down on the edge of the bed, shuffled the cards and invited his wife to cut, then dealt two sets of twelve cards onto the counterpane.

  When Winters entered the room two hours later to check on her mistress, she was treated to the spectacle of Lord Waverly, in full evening dress, sitting Indian style on his wife’s bed, engaged with her in lively debate over the legality of her last play. At her entrance, the combatants ceased hostilities long enough to glance at the door and identify the intruder.

  “I beg your pardon, my lady, I thought you were alone,” said Winters. “I was under the impression that his lordship meant to go out this evening.”

  “Good God!” Waverly, suddenly aware of the lateness of the hour, leaped off the bed. “It is past eleven already!”

  “That is all right, Winters, it is time we were done,” Lisette assured her, then added with a smug smile, “Milord is angry with me because he is losing.”

  “If I am angry with you, it is because you cheat,” retorted the earl, although the twinkle in his eyes robbed the words of their sting. “It is far too late to—that is, the Warrington’s musicale will be almost over by now, so if you would like to play another hand or two, we will.”

  “I think not,” objected Winters. “Her ladyship should be in bed.”

  “I am already in bed,” Lisette pointed out. “I have been in bed all day!”

  “Yes, and you are much improved as a result,” said the earl. “Winters is quite right. It is wicked of me to keep you up so late.”

  Smiling at Lisette’s huff of annoyance, Waverly plumped her pillows and drew the counterpane up to her chin. Then, obeying a sudden impulse, he bent and dropped a chaste kiss onto her forehead. As he bade her goodnight, he made the surprising discovery that, although the last two hours were by no means the wickedest he had ever spent in a lady’s bed, they nevertheless ranked among the most enjoyable.

  * * * *

  The next morning saw Lisette sufficiently recovered to receive callers, the most significant of whom was Étienne Villiers. This worthy arrived promptly at two o’clock with a posy of flowers with which he hoped, he said, to speed Lady Waverly’s return to good health. In point of fact, he had not known prior to arriving in Park Lane that she had been ill; nor, for that matter, had he known that she was Lady Waverly until his comrade, Raoul, had read the announcement in The Morning Post.

  “Imbécile!” had cried Raoul, never in the sunniest of temperaments before breakfast. “She is not his fille de joie at all! She is his wife!”

  Étienne clicked his tongue sympathetically. “Alors, it appears you will not have your forty thousand pounds after all.’’

  “Perhaps,” Raoul said thoughtfully, drumming his fingers on the table. “Or perhaps there is still a way.”

  Raoul had not seen fit to inform Étienne of his plans, but he had beseeched his henchman to try and remember if he had said anything to imply that Lisette had abandoned her convent for a sisterhood of quite another sort.

  “Mais non, of this I am certain,” Étienne stated emphatically. “It was not until I overheard her instructing the clerk to send the bill to Lord Waverly that I suspected that she was no longer a respectable female.”

  “And what, pray, would a respectable female have been doing jaunting about Amiens in breeches? But never mind that,” Raoul amended hastily, lest Étienne be distracted by trivialities. “We must make certain we—you, that is—have not offended her in any way.”

  Hence Étienne’s presence in Park Lane. It was at first his intention to call on the pretext of congratulating his countrywoman on her recent nuptials, but upon hearing the footman who admitted him inquire of the butler whether Lady Waverly’s fragile health would permit her to receive visitors, Étienne hastily revised his plans. He did not think Raoul would object.

  “I understand you have been ill,” said Etienne, offering his floral tribute. “Now I know why the sun, he refused to show his face yesterday.”

  Lisette did not for one moment take his extravagant compliments seriously, but she would have been less than female had she not enjoyed hearing them. “You are too kind, monsieur. But la grippe, she is my own stupid fault.”

  “Mais non! I will not believe it!”

  “Still, it is true. I dampened my skirts to make them hang just so, and took the chill. Alors, as milord says, I am well and truly punished.”

  “He must be a monster!” exclaimed Etienne, much shocked.

  Lisette’s cheeks flushed, but not with fever. “He is not a monster! You will not say such things of milord!”

  “Mille pardons! I meant no offense,” Étienne said hastily, eager to correct an obvious misstep. “I meant only that such a delicate flower as yourself should be cherished, not scolded.”

  Lisette could find no fault with this sentiment, and so Étienne soon coaxed his way back into her good graces. By the time Lord Waverly returned from his club some ten minutes later, they were apparently on excellent terms, as the earl noted to his dissatisfaction when he stopped by the morning room to assure himself that his wife had not taxed her recovery too far. He found her in blooming health, which pleased him, and in lively conversation with a young Frenchman, which did not. He knew his reaction to be unreasonable, and so forbore from making any of the rather biting observations that sprang to his mind. He had, after all, told Lisette that she might choose her friends to please herself; he had not, however, expected her to do so quite this promptly—at least not with friends of the masculine persuasion. And surely she could do better than this foppish puppy! Rather curtly declining an offer of tea, he took himself off to his library for a stiff brandy and a hand of that most inappropriately named of all card games, Patience.

  * * * *

  Alas, Lord Waverly’s trials were only beginning. He discovered this fact three days later, when he and Lisette were promised to attend a ball at the imposing residence of Lord Langerfield. As this edifice was some few miles removed from Town and possessed the luxury of a small garden in the rear adorned with a Grecian temple, it made an ideal location for intrigues of an amorous nature. It was, therefore, not unnatural that Lord Waverly paced the hall like a caged animal, impatient for his wife to complete her toilette so that they might be on their way.

  When at last a slight sound drew his gaze upward, however, all thoughts of Lady Helen Brundy flew from his mind. Descending the staircase was a vision in palest blue, a color Waverly had previously thought flattering only to the angelically fair. He now revised his opinion. Lisette, though clearly no angel, was far more alluring than any heavenly being. A pale blue ribbon had been woven through her cropped curls, banishing forever the image of “Cousin Luc.” The hem of her gown was fashionably short, revealing not only her small feet encased in blue kid dancing slippers, but also a pair of neat ankles in white silk stockings. Her corsage was more daring than any she had previously worn, exposing the swell of her small, high bosom. Lord Waverly’s mouth went dry.

  “Milord?” said Lisette, rendered uncomfortable by his close scrutiny and long silence.

  When the earl spoke, however, it was not to his wife, but to her dresser, following at a discreet distance with Lisette’s velvet cloak.

  “What—” Hearing his voice come out as little more than a squeak, Waverly cleared his throat and tried again. “What have you done to her?”

  “I trust I have done what I was hired to do, my lord,” Winters said placidly. “Turn her out in a manner befitting her station.”

  Waverly waved a vague hand in the general vicinity of Lisette’s white bosom. “This is hardly suitable for a schoolroom miss!”

  “Very true, your lordship, but if you will forgive me for pointing out the obvious, my lady is not a schoolroom miss. She is a countess.” Seeing that her employer could not dispute this home truth, she continued. “My lady should, of course, wear jewels, but she has none. Unless, perhaps, there are family pieces kept elsewhere?”

  Waverl
y thought of a particularly fine set of sapphires which had been sold to keep his creditors at bay, and felt a momentary pang of regret for the licentious living which had robbed him of the opportunity to clasp them around Lisette’s slender throat.

  “No, no family pieces,” he said brusquely. “If you’re ready, Lisette, we’ll be on our way.”

  Chapter 9

  O! beware, my lord, of jealousy.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, Othello

  Upon reaching the Langerfield residence, Lord Waverly lingered at his wife’s side just long enough to see her provided with a glass of champagne, a plate of lobster patties, and a coterie of young people for companionship before taking himself off in the direction of the card room. To be sure, Waverly reflected, most of these young people appeared to be young men cut from the same cloth as that damned intrusive Frog, but what would you? He had told Lisette she might choose her friends to please herself, and if she took pleasure in the company of a collection of mewlings still wet behind the ears, he would not be the one to say her nay. At any rate, the time still lacked half an hour before he was to meet Lady Helen in the Grecian temple, and he would be damned before he spent it listening to some overdressed coxcomb composing odes to Lisette’s eyelashes.

  Once inside the card room, he strolled nonchalantly between the tables, dropping a word of greeting here, pausing to watch a player take a particularly neat trick there. At length he allowed himself to be persuaded to join in a game of whist, and when at last the long-case clock chimed the half-hour, he mentally tallied his winnings and found himself several hundred guineas richer. He thought again of the Waverly sapphires, and resolved to make inquiries of his solicitor as to who had purchased them, and whether they might consider selling. Then he tossed in his cards, rose from the table, and sallied forth into the garden in search of Lady Helen.

  The Grecian folly, located in the center of the garden, appeared as a pale ghost in the moonlight, its domed roof supported by marble columns. As Lord Waverly drew nearer, one of these detached itself from its fellows and moved forward, eventually resolving itself into the tall slender figure of Lady Helen Brundy.