His reentry into Lydia’s home, Bainbridge House, proved more than he could manage. Between the men lifting him onto the litter, carrying him back through the square and up the front steps, and depositing him on a sofa in the parlor, Christien faded in and out of consciousness. The final jolt onto the hard cushions proved more than his shoulder could bear, and the blackness took over until a man with a white mane of hair and a ruddy complexion leaned over him, poking and prodding him into enough pain to awaken him.
“Aye, ’tis the dislocation,” the man said in a thick Scottish burr. “My lady, leave the room. This is no sight for your gentle spirit.”
A snort that didn’t sound in the least ladylike came from Lydia. “I’m a widow, not a green girl, Dr. McPherson. I will stay.”
“Suit yourself. But don’t you be fainting away on me. I have na the time for two patients.” McPherson laid his hands on Christien’s shoulder and elbow as though the physician were the one with the gentle spirit. “This will take but a—”
He twisted up and back in one fluid motion. Torture surely felt better than the sensation that shot through Christien from shoulder to toes. Then the pain ebbed to settle into a deep throbbing.
“That will set things right if you do na move it.” McPherson stepped away from the sofa. “I’ll affix a sling, but this sofa will ne’er do. ’Tis na wide enough.”
“I have rooms on Upper Brook Street,” Christien offered. In comparison to how he’d been feeling before the doctor’s ministrations, Christien now thought perhaps he could rise and perform a credible minuet.
“Nay, too far. The jostling will dislocate it again. My Lady Gale?”
“A room is being prepared at this moment.” The cool response set Christien’s heart racing.
Entrée into Society indeed! If the Bainbridges allowed him to remain in their house even for a day while he convalesced, no one would shun him for fear of offending them.
Unless they put him in the servants’ quarters.
But of course they would not. The lady who would give a near stranger her last possession of value would never treat that man so shabbily, regardless of her suspicions against him.
“You are a true Christian, madame,” Christien murmured.
“More like the good Samaritan,” came the disgruntled tones of Mr. Barnaby. “It isn’t necessary to discommode yourself so, my lady. The house Frobisher and I have leased is only around the corner from the square. We’re happy to take—”
“Mr. Frobisher, Honore,” Lydia cried. “Where are they? It’s been an hour. They should have returned. And Whittaker and Cassandra. Oh my stars, I must go—” She wrenched open the door. “Lemster, send a groom for my horse. He’ll have to accompany me. We must . . .”
“Be a gentleman and offer to fetch the errant couples.” Christien spoke to Barnaby while Lydia continued to issue orders.
“I don’t wish to leave her with you here.” Barnaby, seated in a chair adjacent to the foot of the sofa on which Christien reclined, indeed appeared as though he held no intentions of leaving.
“But she can’t ride out. She’s distraught.”
“Aye,” the doctor agreed, “she’ll be upsetting her nag and I’ll have two patients to attend to. Now gang on with you, man.” McPherson pointed from Barnaby to the door.
Muttering beneath his breath, Barnaby rose as though he were a man twice his age with rheumatic joints, and stalked to the door. He rested his hand on Lydia’s shoulder in that too-familiar fashion that set Christien’s blood boiling, but whatever he said had her nodding her head and rescinding her orders to the butler. Barnaby raised Lydia’s hand to his lips, then disappeared out the front door.
Lydia wiped her hand on her dusty riding skirt, then issued different orders to the butler.
Christien grinned.
“I was going to be offering you a dose of laudanum,” McPherson murmured, “but I think you’re feeling little of the pain right now.”
“It’s much improved, monsieur.”
“Weel, just the same, I’ll leave a bottle and instructions with the lady. And now I’ll be wrapping that shoulder.”
The doctor closed the parlor door, removed Christien’s coat and shirt with the aid of a sharp knife, and wrapped his shoulder in lengths of white linen intended to keep the joint and arm immobile. As he finished, McPherson poked a bony finger at Christien’s other shoulder. “Have you been engaging in the duello, monsieur?”
“No, never.” Christien tensed, knowing exactly to what the physician referred. “I work for the Home Office.”
“Balderdash.” McPherson rolled his r to draw out the word. “Gentlemen working for the Home Office do na get themselves shot.”
“They do if they’re in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
And if they recruited a man from the War Department.
Christien shrugged one shoulder. “It happens, biensur.”
McPherson snorted. “Depends on where is the wrong place for a Frenchman. But I’ll be saying naught. If the lady chooses to trust you, ’tis no affair of mine.”
“She doesn’t,” Christien murmured to the physician’s retreating back.
She neither trusted him nor chose to have anything to do with him. She wouldn’t have chosen him to stay in her house. A lady like Lydia Gale, however, would never turn away an injured stranger or enemy.
His heart ached with longing to be other than what he was. Now the truth would serve nothing more than to drive a deeper wedge between them. He felt like a starving man sipping at drops of kindness for his nourishment.
Of course, simply because he resided in her house, her family’s house, until the doctor said he could be moved didn’t mean he would see the lady. She held a number of responsibilities, according to Christien’s source that had instructed him on the family. Miss Cassandra Bainbridge wanted to get married but cared nothing for the preparations, and Miss Honore should be married off as quickly as possible to rein in her high spirits. Lady Bainbridge was a near invalid and scarcely lifted a finger to assist with anything. The brother took his studies at university seriously and was scarcely around, and the father would never do anything to help England other than serve his role in the House of Lords, as he fiercely protected his family from outside influences—or tried to.
Which was one reason why Lydia had been chosen. The family might bear a minor title as far as the rank of titles went, but in an age of said title, it was one of the oldest in the realm. When Lord Bainbridge spoke in Parliament or at a dinner party, others listened. Many disagreed.
Christien needed to know who did what—amongst other duties that should have him dancing attendance on half the hostesses in London. He was, after all, that valued commodity—a single, eligible, and well-off male. Even if his title was French, it was a title.
Though he would have preferred to drop it. It led to suspicions such as those Lydia had expressed. But he’d been told to flaunt it. And who was he, a minor player in the drama that was this lengthy war, to argue with those who presumably knew better? He’d followed orders for ten years.
Those orders never before involved a lady with beautiful dark eyes and a giving heart.
So giving a heart she did not leave him to the care of servants alone. He’d barely been settled into a room by two burly footmen carrying him up two flights of steps when she and another lady, the one who had accompanied Lydia to the prison, entered with trays.
“I’ve brought you refreshment.” Her tone was brisk, her gaze cool. “It’s just toast and chocolate, but if you need laudanum, it won’t make you ill if you eat something.”
“Your kindness exceeds your beauty.” Christien smiled at her from his mound of pillows.
The companion sniffed, her nostril pinched as though he smelled as bad as he had in the prison. “Pretty words will get you nowhere, Mr. Meuse.”
“Barbara, be respectful,” Lydia chided her companion in a gentle voice. “He cannot change his birth any more than a cat can be a mouse.”
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“More like a rat.” Barbara thunked her tray onto the bedside table. “I’ll serve him.”
He wasn’t certain he wanted her to. She might be inclined to dose him with the sort of poison she might use to kill off a rat.
“Please do, Barbara.” Lydia took up a position at the foot of the bed so she looked Christien full in the face. “I have to believe, monsieur, that this was all an accident. Surely not even your kind could plan such a debacle just to—what?”
“What indeed, madame?” He held her gaze without flinching, despite the sparks flickering in their velvety depths. “I am not in the habit of placing myself into such ignominy for any reason; thus, my imagination does not stretch to the lengths of yours. Pray, tell me, what you are thinking I am guilty of?”
“My sister was alone with Frobisher—” Lydia’s eyes flicked to Barbara, who had poured his chocolate and now stood away from the bed but held her gaze on him, making no pretense of turning her attention anywhere else. Flexing her fingers around the rail at the foot of the bed, Lydia returned her concentration to his face. “The thought occurred to me that . . . Never you mind. If you can manage without further assistance, Barbara and I will leave you be.” Without further ado, she spun on her heel and swept from the room, her now bedraggled riding habit dragging behind her.
The little companion scurried in Lydia’s wake. Christien lay alone, hurting, but not enough to need the laudanum or to reason or speculate over what Lydia had decided not to tell him.
She’d told him enough for him to make some guesses. Her sister had been alone with the young man, the friend of Barnaby, because of the accident. No one had caused Lydia to fall from her horse. The rest, however, could appear contrived to a lady with reason to be suspicious.
She suspected he and Barnaby had cooked up the idea of him planning a delay so that the young couple would be alone. He would nip that notion in the bud as soon as he found the opportunity.
Which came far sooner than he thought. Within the hour, Lydia reappeared in his chamber, a book tucked under her arm. “I thought perhaps you could do some beneficial reading while you’re stranded here.” She set a Bible on the table beside him. “It’s the smallest one I could find so you can hold it with one hand. If you cannot manage, I’ll send Barbara in to read to you. She has a lovely reading manner.”
“Thank you, I’ll manage.” He smiled at Lydia, trying to convey some of his feelings for her in his look. “Your thoughtfulness knows no bounds.”
“I . . . well . . .” She glanced past him to the window, her face the same becoming pink as the rosebuds on the gown she’d changed into. “It’s the least I can do, and you did claim to be a Christian.”
“Oui, through my American maman.” His heart ached with longing for his family, for his soft-spoken mother. “Mon père was with Lafayette fighting in the American war for independence and met her.”
“Lafayette?” Her gaze snapped to his. “And the French revolutionaries wanted to kill him, all of you, anyway?”
He flinched, realizing his error, realizing how his family history enforced her suspicions. “Not everyone in the mob understood that nobility did not mean that we wanted France to remain as it was.”
“And perhaps now you think England should change?” Her tone held as much curiosity as accusation.
“England is not France. We are all much better off here.”
He didn’t add that some things needed to change. She would brand him a revolutionary for certain if he mentioned one word of the machines putting men out of work—whole families out of work—or laws that kept food prices so high the poor went hungry.
“Not everyone thinks so.” She backed toward the door. “I mustn’t stay. Even as a widow, I must mind my reputation.”
“But of course.” He held up his hand. “But one matter very small . . .”
She paused, her hand on the door handle of the portal she hadn’t quite closed, her eyebrows raised.
“I did not plot to have myself injured,” he said, “in order to allow Monsieur Frobisher to press his attentions on your sister. Trust me in this, madame. I would have been more creative.”
Her face remained expressionless for a moment, then she smiled. “I do believe you would, which is why I said nothing earlier. Still . . . it’s all odd. Mr. Barnaby appeared to be a far better horseman than his loss of control demonstrated.”
“Biensur. An excellent horseman is Mr. Barnaby, one who can make his horse do whatever he likes.”
“I don’t know about that. I didn’t see him ride long enough—” She gasped. Her face paled. “Monsieur, are you implying—no.”
“We can hope not.” Christien bowed his head. “But the notion came to me that his horse was nowhere near where you fell. We were a dozen feet behind. But suddenly it reared up so much it kicked me? If I had not turned to take the fall instead of you, that hoof would have struck my head.”
“And now you’re all but accusing Mr. Barnaby of trying to kill you.”
8
Loyal to the English Crown, or French revolutionary?
Meeting and holding Christien’s gaze from across the bedchamber, Lydia no longer believed she knew the answer with the certainty she’d felt since he sauntered into her mother’s drawing room. Or perhaps earlier. More likely since the man in the garden informed her that the man from the prison had departed from England. She’d been ready then to send him to the Tower as a spy. Now . . .
“But Mr. Lang sent you both to me,” she mused aloud.
“Did he?” Christien shifted on his pillows, a grimace twisting his features. “Had you seen his handwriting, madame?”
“No, but it proves nothing.”
Except that she was not particularly bright when it came to intrigue. Then again, she didn’t want to be involved with intrigues.
“It disproves nothing either.” He shrugged, paled, and closed his eyes. “Neither does it demonstrate any ill will Monsieur Barnaby may hold toward me. Please forgive me for any distress I may have caused you. I believe I will rest now.”
“Yes, do so, and take some laudanum. You look in pain.”
Indeed, beads of perspiration dotted his high, smooth brow. With an effort, she resisted the urge to cross the room and wipe a damp cloth across his forehead and face, to pour out the drops of medicine herself and ensure he swallowed all of it, to sit beside him and read until he slept, as she would for the children she’d never had.
Her head ached with the possibilities, the suspicions, the agony of knowing too much and too little at the same time. Leaving this man to take the medication for pain and sleep would do her good too.
“I’ll bring you more books later,” she offered. “Any sort you prefer?”
“Anything but a Richardson novel.”
Laughing at the notion of the Frenchman reading Samuel Richardson’s treacle-like tomes of Pamela or Clarissa, Lydia slipped from the room and closed the door all the way. She needed to find Honore and ring a peal over her head about riding off alone with Mr. Frobisher. She needed to find Cassandra and give her a dressing down about not being ready on time. After that, she would collect her paint box and pencils and Barbara, take advantage of the chilly but bright day to sit in the grassy circle at the center of Cavendish Square, and create the first picture she thought might gain her some attention with a printer.
She must work out who was the true Mr. Lang, find some key—
Of course!
She spun on her heel and darted up the flight of steps to her bedchamber. In her desk she would find the two letters from Mr. Lang. Though she had crumpled them, the handwriting should be clear and distinguishable. If they were two different men, even slight variations in the letter formations would give the game away.
She opened her bedchamber door. Hodge greeted her with a flash of green eyes before he pounced on a curl of paper and sent it flying across the room with the bat of one fluffy paw. Smiling at his antics, Lydia paused to watch. With a crow of triumph, he pounce
d on the twist of vellum as though it were a fleeing mouse and proceeded to worry it between his claws.
“Silly creature.” Lydia stooped to rub him between his pointy ears.
He spun and wrapped himself around her ankle. His purr rose like carriage wheels rumbling over cobbles.
“Are you lonely, my pet?” Lydia scooped him into her arms.
He butted his head against her chin, as though saying, “Yes, I’m all alone here.”
“Do you like Frenchmen? You are French, after all.”
“Me-ow?”
“Yes, I think I’ll introduce the two of you. You can charm his secrets from him.”
And speaking of secrets . . .
She set Hodge on the floor and picked up the curl of paper to toss for him. It nestled in her hand, unfurled enough for her to see writing slashing across the surface. Only a few letters, a partial word. No, part of a name—de Meu.
Sending the scrap sailing across the room like a misshapen sparrow, she leaped in the opposite direction and yanked open her desk drawer, where she kept her correspondences.
Where she had kept her correspondences.
The drawer wasn’t empty. Indeed, it appeared fuller than it had when she’d slipped both Mr. Lang’s letters of introduction there the day before to receive invitations to parties, and a letter from her mother-in-law pregnant with the same old refrain—she never came home.
As if the manor in the Yorkshire West Riding had ever been home. But now the letter from Charles’s mother and the invitations—once gilded and leafed, embossed and engraved—lay in shreds. Sunlight caught a flash of gold here, of silver there. A word or number or curlicue design peeked out amidst the jumble of foolscap and vellum. Discovering which scraps belonged to Mr. Lang’s letters of introduction, making comparison of handwriting between the two missives, was now impossible. Not a slip of paper large enough to use as a fire spill remained.
Someone had destroyed them all. The intruder hadn’t just destroyed them, he had destroyed them in such an obvious way she couldn’t doubt it was deliberate. She could never think she had simply misplaced the letters.
A Necessary Deception Page 8