A Necessary Deception

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  Feet dragging, she climbed the steps to her bedchamber. Before she shifted Hodge so she could open the door, the latch clicked and Barbara stood between jamb and panels.

  “Where have you been?” her companion demanded.

  “Hodge’s leash broke.” With the help of a knife. “I had to find him.”

  “And now your cloak is all muddy. You should have left him behind with that Frenchman.”

  “Hodge and I haven’t been separated since Charles gave him to me as a betrothal gift. He would have been distressed.”

  “Captain Gale couldn’t be distressed,” Barbara pointed out. “He’s dead, God rest his soul.”

  “If God has it,” Lydia muttered.

  “Lydia.” Barbara’s eyes widened with shock.

  “Forgive me. I’m fatigued beyond reason. I can’t be accountable for what I say.” But of course she could. She was accountable for her words and her actions. “Where’s—ah.” She set Hodge in his box.

  He sniffed at the now-empty bowl, flashed her an indignant glance from clear, green eyes, and snuggled into a nest of blanket strips.

  His life wasn’t topsy-turvy. He could sleep with a clear conscience.

  Although she knew her conscience was clear as far as the stranger’s accusations were concerned, Lydia couldn’t sleep. She dared not toss and turn for fear of waking Barbara, who enjoyed the sleep of the innocent—or was that naive?—so she lay awake with her eyes open. That way she managed to focus on the occasional display of lights tossed across the ceiling by a passerby with a lantern. She strained to hear snatches of conversation in the street or corridor. She recited every poem she knew by heart, anything to keep herself from thinking of the accusations, the evidence—false as it was—a pair of deep blue eyes, and a melodious voice.

  Lord, I only wanted to do something right on my own.

  If it only affected her, she wouldn’t care. She would retire to her little cottage on the edge of Dartmoor and keep drawing her sketches and painting her pictures, selling enough to keep the wolves from the door, since her husband had left her with an income of less than a hundred pounds a year. She had failed to produce the heir that would have had the Gale lands and income going to his branch of the family instead of to a distant relation.

  But if she went along with the man’s request, succumbed to the blackmail, let yet one more man control the order of her days, she would likely be stepping into a den of traitors. With the country at war with France and experiencing unfriendly relations with America, any number of personages wanted to bring harm to England. And not all of them surfaced from outside the realm. Unrest murmured through the cities and countryside. Parliament enacted laws many opposed, and mill owners installed power looms. And no one liked the way the Navy pressed men into service against their will.

  She could never find the source of the blackmailer, how he’d gathered so much information so quickly, how he’d known to use her, how he would follow through. But surely the Home Secretary or someone in the War Department would keep her information secret if she turned herself in. They would want to do so in order to hunt down the real traitors.

  If they didn’t arrest her on the spot.

  By the time a rooster crowed the dawn, before the light penetrated Lydia’s chamber, she knew she must go to the authorities and take the risk. She could not compound her error in judgment about Christophe Arnaud by giving in to further treacherous actions.

  Decision made, she rose and prepared for the next leg of the journey. Her family met her in the private parlor, where fresh rolls and coffee steamed on the table.

  “You look awful,” Honore announced upon Lydia’s entrance.

  “That’s unkind,” Mama scolded. She tilted her head to one side and nodded. “But you do. What’s wrong? Are you ill?”

  “You can’t be.” Honore leaped from the table. “If you’re ill, we can’t go to London, and Cassandra’s wedding will be a disaster.”

  “Did someone want me?” Cassandra glanced up from the book beside her plate.

  “No, dear.” Mama patted Cassandra’s hand, where it held her pages down. “Go back to Mr. Homer.”

  “Boring old Greeks.” Honore curled her pretty upper lip. “I want to find all the Minerva Press novels I can in London. That’s as much Greek as I want.” She giggled. “Minerva? Greeks? You know, it’s a fine joke.”

  “Minerva was the Roman goddess, not the Greek one,” Cassandra said in repressive accents.

  Honore giggled again. “Will you take me to the lending library, Lydia?”

  “Yes, of course.” If she wasn’t in Newgate. Or would it be the Tower of London for a traitor? “Or Barbara can, if I’m occupied.”

  Occupied going to the authorities, the Admiralty there in Portsmouth, and beg for their mercy, their assistance. If the man from the garden who had called himself Mr. Lang was a faithful subject, someone in the government would provide her with better proof, assure her she was working for the right side.

  If he was on the wrong side, her life and her family’s lives could crumble to bits.

  “I’m afraid we cannot leave as early as we planned.” Lydia poured coffee for herself and Barbara, whom she heard running down the steps. “I have an errand I have to take care of first.”

  “But we’ll be forever,” Honore protested.

  “Can’t it wait, my dear?” Mama asked. “I was hoping we could reach London today.”

  “No, I’m sorry, it cannot.” Lydia grasped the door handle. “I’ll send word if I’ll be more than an hour.”

  “But where are you going?” Barbara asked. “You can’t go tramping about Portsmouth without an escort.”

  “Yes, I can. I’m no green girl. I’m a widow.” Lydia opened the door.

  “And pretty enough to make a sailor forget himself.” Barbara slid off her chair. “I’ll come with you.”

  Lydia held out a hand. “Please. It’s business having to do with . . . with . . . my husband’s military service.”

  That would do. It was close enough to the truth she didn’t feel she’d lied to her companion or family.

  “I’ll be back before you finish breakfast.”

  Hopeful words.

  Cold before she exited the warmth of the inn, Lydia strode forth into the damp morning. A brisk wind off the sea brought the odors of fish along with even less pleasant smells from the naval vessels bobbing at anchor. Her nose wrinkled. Her stomach rebelled. She shoved her hands more deeply into her fur-trimmed muff and headed for the Admiralty. The walk took her long enough to compose her speech. She hoped it didn’t sound like an excuse of the guilty.

  But when she reached the premises primarily occupied by the Admiralty, every word slipped from her mind. Faced with a sea of blue naval uniforms and red-coated marines carrying swords and muskets, and all of the men staring at her—a woman striding alone to the door—she faltered and bent her head as though she would find her scattered thoughts lying about the pavement.

  “Don’t do it, my lady.”

  Lydia started at the now-familiar voice murmuring behind her.

  A hand pressed against the small of her back. “Don’t turn around. You don’t want to be able to recognize my face.”

  “I know your voice.”

  “Do you.” He chuckled.

  No, she didn’t. Muffled, it could have been any man.

  “You’ll learn to know that what I say is truth,” he continued, “even if you know not the voice. Believe me, my lady, you will cause more trouble for everyone—to yourself, to your family, to England—if you walk through those doors. If you try to go to the government again, you will be stopped and your family ruined. Is that clear?”

  It was clear. The choice had been taken from her. She must play his game, appear to cooperate.

  And try to ferret out who the true traitor was in their midst.

  3

  The first of the three Bainbridge carriages slowed, turned, stopped. A glance out of the window and Honore’s squeals to
ld Lydia they had arrived at Bainbridge House in Cavendish Square. The Season had begun. Her role as government agent had begun.

  She wished the carriage would continue around the circle of fenced-in grass in the center of the houses and depart from London to unknown places.

  The carriage didn’t budge. Honore grasped the door handle.

  “Wait until a footman—”

  Lydia’s admonition fell on deaf ears. Honore leaped from the carriage before a servant lowered the steps. One of the two men sent out to assist with the vehicles stopped and stared at the golden-haired girl racing toward the house.

  “She’ll have to lose those hoydenish ways if she doesn’t want to ruin her chances for vouchers to Almack’s,” Barbara said with a sniff.

  “She’ll settle after she’s been here a bit.” Lydia rubbed her naked wrist. “We’ll wear her down with shopping. Every day . . .”

  Every day they would be out at the shops, buying fabrics, choosing patterns, enduring fittings, purchasing shoes and fans and hats to match. Lydia needed another bracelet so her bare wrist would stop irritating her. She needed painting supplies if she wanted to get work done before Father arrived with his disapproval of her art. Cassandra would want to haunt the bookshops and libraries and would insist on visiting the museums. Honore would want to see what was left of the menagerie at the Tower.

  Lydia had a list of printers and newspapers to call upon with her portfolio. She hoped to interest a printer in her work to make more income. The endless activities preceding the Season just might prove to be her savior.

  If she wasn’t home, she couldn’t receive callers. If she didn’t receive callers, she couldn’t introduce anyone into Society. If she introduced no one into Society, she couldn’t comply with the blackmailer’s wishes.

  Which might turn out to be dangerous.

  “I can’t do this.” She clutched at her suddenly throbbing head.

  Barbara patted her hand. “We’ll have you into bed with a hot brick and tonic in a moment. All will look so much better with a good night’s sleep and no travel in the morning.”

  Lydia squeezed out a smile. “I’m sure you’re right.”

  If only Barbara were right. But too much time passed before Lydia could find out if Barbara’s idea worked. First Lydia needed to oversee the unloading of the third carriage with its mounds of luggage and ensure each person’s belongings reached the correct room. Those rooms needed an inspection to make certain sheets had been properly aired, grates swept, and chimneys cleaned before fires could be allowed to burn. Everyone wanted hot tea and a hasty meal.

  Fires blazed in a trice, but hot tea and even the coldest of collations remained absent. Lydia promised to find out the reason after she sought out extra blankets for Mama’s room, which seemed oddly absent of warm coverlets.

  Lemster, the longtime butler, found her on her knees in the linen room, praying for a few moments of peace more than seeking blankets. She jumped at his cough behind her and glanced up. “I thought we kept blankets on the bottom shelf.”

  “We have a special box of cedar on the top shelf, Miss—er, my lady.” Lemster’s gaze flashed upward. “I’ll lift them down for you. They might be too high for you.”

  “Of course.”

  Lydia stood three inches taller than the butler, but he’d known her since she was born and likely still thought of her as a little girl to whom he’d smuggled sweets from her parents’ parties. She didn’t mind the assistance in the least. A headache pounded behind her eyes.

  “About tea?” she asked with a hint of desperation in her tone.

  “Ah, yes, that’s why I came to find you.” Lemster sighed. “Cook is having histrionics because you all are here and she’s not prepared.”

  “No, I’m sure she isn’t prepared. She didn’t know when we would arrive. Did you or Mrs. Pollock assure her a cold collation is acceptable?”

  “It’s no use. She has her pride, and sliced ham offends her sensibilities.”

  “I’ll go down.” Lydia closed her eyes. Lights flashed, and she snapped them open again. “Who is the cook these days? I believe Monsieur St. Jacques retired?”

  “Ha, that’s what he claimed, the lying—” Lemster closed his lips.

  Lydia raised her eyebrows and waited for the enlightenment she knew was coming.

  “He took the pension from Lord Bainbridge and went off to the country seat of some French family.”

  “In France?”

  “No, my lady, émigrés who’ve settled in Shropshire.” He spoke the last word with a curl of his upper lip.

  “Now, Lemster, French émigrés are not the enemy.”

  Unlike French prisoners.

  A shudder ran through Lydia. “So who is the current cook?”

  “His daughter.” Lemster looked like she’d served him nothing but lemon tarts minus the sugar.

  A corner of Lydia’s mouth twitched. “I’ll go talk to her.”

  She left the blanket distribution to the butler and descended the back steps to the kitchen. She pushed through the green baize door to the aromas of cloves and garlic, onions and baking ham, the smells so strong she had to brace her hand against the door frame while she fought off a wave of dizziness. Suddenly, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten more than a mouthful. Probably the day she left for London.

  The day she waylaid her journey at Dartmoor Prison.

  She jerked her thoughts away from that Frenchman and focused on the French lady. In the center of the room, a petite female in a snowy apron and cap presided over surely every other servant in the house, including Mrs. Pollock, the housekeeper.

  “Sliced ham, I am told to serve them. Me, who makes a finer pastry than even my father, expected to serve sliced ham.” The accent was slight, the volume great, and the face as delicate as perhaps one of her self-acclaimed pastries. “If they had but sent a rider ahead, one little boy on a horse, I could have had the meal divine ready.”

  “Or wasted it if we were delayed.” Lydia broke into the recital.

  The cook fell silent. The servants spun on their heels and bowed or curtsied, except for Mrs. Pollock. She wrung her hands, and it looked like tears would begin to leak from her faded blue eyes, as they did the cook’s big brown ones.

  “Miss Bain—I mean, m’lady, we didn’t know you were here,” Mrs. Pollock all but whimpered.

  With her lined face, silver hair, and stooped shoulders, the housekeeper should probably be the next servant to retire with a pension. Shadows deepened the set of her eyes, and a tremor showed in her hands.

  Lydia felt like crying herself. She’d known the housekeeper all her life.

  “Mr. Lemster sent me down.” Lydia blinked. “You have all prepared for us as well as can be expected, and I want to assure all of you, especially you, Mademoiselle St. Jacques, that we will delight in your fine pastries at another time. For now we simply wish for . . . whatever is available.”

  Her bed and a hot brick and Hodge. Perhaps a cup of tea and some toast.

  “Ah, madame.” The tiny cook rushed forward, parting the crowd of maids and footmen like a cutter parting a wave. “You are unwell. Do sit yourself down and I shall make you the remedy. It’s the head, no? The megrims?”

  “No. I mean, yes.” Lydia found herself nudged into a chair.

  A clap of hands small enough to belong to a child sent servants scurrying for this ingredient and that. A ham appeared on the table with a footman slicing it as thin as foolscap. Two maids crouched at the fire, slices of bread on toasting forks. For Madame. The chef busied herself pulling a pinch of spices from one box and a scoop of herbs from another. She poured boiling water into a pot and assembled it with a cup on a tray, which she presented to Lydia like an offering.

  “This will make you well,” Mademoiselle St. Jacques announced.

  Lydia sniffed the steam billowing from the spout of the silver teapot. She caught a whiff of mint, chamomile, cinnamon, and . . . “Lavender?”

  “Oui. C’e
st tres bien. I will pour. Unless you do not wish to partake in the kitchen?”

  Lydia smiled. If only the woman knew how she’d prepared most of her own meals and eaten at the kitchen since her marriage. She would probably be scandalized.

  “I’d rather not move,” Lydia admitted.

  “Bon.” The cook poured the fragrant brew into a cup. “Drink, then eat the toast and go to your bed.”

  Lydia took a tentative sip of the tisane. Her nostrils flared at the sharpness of the aroma. Something inside her head expanded like a sail filling with hot air, and she took a full mouthful. “It’s delicious.”

  Beaming, the cook darted to the hearth to gather up slices of toast and add them to Lydia’s tray. “Eat and drink. All is well when one has food. Tomorrow I will create the meal most special, and you must enjoy it.”

  Lydia suppressed the urge to say, “Yes, ma’am.” Instead she said, “Where are you from, mademoiselle?”

  “I am from Shropshire now, a loyal subject of poor King George.” The French woman’s mutinous expression dared Lydia to ask her further questions of her origins, then softened. “I’ve been here for twenty years, but always mon papa said to speak the French, that the English nobility prefer the French.”

  “Odd, isn’t it, when we are at war with the French? For myself, I prefer English.”

  She doubted she would speak another word of French in her life after her last conversation in that language.

  “I will endeavor to speak the English, madame.” The cook went back to work on a kettle suspended over the fire, and Lydia added nibbles of toast to her swallows of tea. By the time she finished the first cup, her headache had eased and her stomach no longer rebelled. She managed to rise and direct a footman to take the tray of food to the back parlor, where her mother and sisters and Barbara awaited, and headed for her bedroom.