From the corner of her eye, she saw her maid speaking to two of the nannies. The footman joined some older youths in skipping stones across the water. Neither paid attention to her.
Or the owner of the long shadow that fell across her shoulder and onto the canvas.
She jumped and started to turn.
A hand pressed on her shoulder, gentle but warning. “Don’t move. I’m merely admiring your painting. Should I add it to my collection of Lady Gale pictures?” asked the man she now knew as Elias Lang.
16
The sling into which his valet tied Christien every morning, after a painful session dressing, gave him entrée into the drawing rooms of numerous ton matrons. A bachelor was always welcome to round out the numbers at dinner parties or small dancing parties. A bachelor with an arm wounded saving a lady from injury was pure gold.
“Even if he is French,” he overheard one dowager in a purple turban remark.
“Because he is French,” her interlocutor responded. She was a plump young wife with eyes like pansies. “I know we’re at war with them, but we’re not at war with the aristocracy. We’re trying to save the aristocracy and bring back their king, are we not?”
“Of course. Kings are the natural order of things.”
The young wife giggled. “Men who look and talk like he does are the natural order of other things.”
Christien, resting behind a potted palm tree, slipped away before his heated face set the dry fronds on fire.
He spent a great deal of time ducking behind draperies, doorways, and decorative vegetation in an effort to catch snippets of conversation, avoid other interludes of dialogue, or simply give his aching shoulder a rest. So far, he had accomplished nothing from the first reason. If an agent was working amidst the upper classes of London Society, Christien had no idea who it could be after two full weeks of attending every gathering to which he gained an invitation.
He didn’t even see George Barnaby. The man seemed to have vanished. Christien tried to find him, to confront him about the “accident” the day Lydia fell from her horse. None of the typical haunts for bachelors claimed he was in residence. None of his hosts or hostesses recalled who he was, with one or two exceptions, who said they hadn’t encountered him. Not even young Gerald Frobisher knew where his mentor had gotten himself to.
Christien found Frobisher riding in the park early one bright morning in mid-April. His companion wore a blue riding habit and a loo mask, but Christien thought he recognized the mare and the lady’s honey-blonde curls peeking out from beneath a perky hat. Surely Lydia didn’t know what her younger sister was doing any more than he had known what his younger sister was doing.
He pretended not to recognize Honore Bainbridge and addressed Frobisher. “I haven’t seen Barnaby in weeks. Has he taken himself off from London?”
“I have no idea.” Frobisher shrugged. “I am much too preoccupied with my entertainments to worry about what that stick has gotten himself up to.”
Honore giggled.
“I thought you were friends.” Christien turned so he didn’t accidentally glance at Honore, though he wanted to snatch her off her mare and carry her back to Cavendish Square for her father to deal with. Or Lydia.
But he tried not to think of Lydia these days.
“I wouldn’t call us friends,” Frobisher drawled. “We met at an inn on the Great North Road to London and merely traveled here together. Never saw him before. No need to see him since. He’s quite, quite dull.”
Unless he was an assassin.
Yet if he were, why had he simply vanished, leaving Christien wounded, but not particularly badly?
“Well, if you encounter him,” Christien said, “please tell him I wish to speak with him.”
“But of course.” Frobisher yawned, then turned his mount away from Christien’s curricle.
His companion followed, a small, erect figure on a stunning gray mare. A gray mare too recognizable.
The little fool. Why hadn’t Lisette told him about Honore still riding out unaccompanied by anyone but Frobisher? She was supposed to be watching out for the Bainbridge ladies, the only reason he allowed her to carry on with her masquerade. If she would simply provide him with information about the ladies’ whereabouts and activities and welfare, she could remain the cook until the end of the Season. Then she must go home and stay there until he and no one else found her a husband.
If he survived that long.
Apparently he would. He felt as dull as Frobisher claimed Barnaby was. London was as calm as any metropolis of its size and dense population could be. Despite riots in the north over mechanization of weaving and spinning, the capital remained free of any rebellious activity. No one made an attempt on Christien’s life again, not even while he was vulnerable with his right arm still in a sling. Wars outside of England seemed to hold the gentlemen’s conversation—would Wellington make progress in Spain during the summer campaign? Would the Americans dare go to war with England? Which horse would win the races at Newmarket? And who would win the hand of the lovely Miss Honore Bainbridge?
War, social intrigue, and games of chance and other pursuits of pleasure occupied the gentlemen of the haut ton. Sedition seemed the furthest thought from anyone’s mind, and Christien began to think Lang, as representative from the Home Office, was mistaken in his information.
If only he could find the man and ask him. But Lang had proven as elusive as Lydia. Lang did not contact Christien as he claimed he would, and Lydia did not appear at any of the social gatherings he expected her to.
Neither did Cassandra, though word of her broken engagement traveled through the drawing rooms and assembly halls. Honore enjoyed as many entertainments as any one person could. Once or twice she arrived on the arm of Gerald Frobisher and always accompanied by friends and their mamas.
Finally, near the end of April, with his arm healed enough for Christien not to need the sling, Lisette sent word that all of the Bainbridge ladies would attend the Tarleton masquerade ball.
If she got through the Tarleton masquerade ball without a disaster, Lydia would consider herself blessed and sleep for a week. Even without Cassandra’s wedding to plan, she found her days maddeningly occupied from too soon after dawn to too close to dawn. Her paint box and sketches lay idle, but would not, must not for long. She had work to do.
But first the ball.
She balked at wearing a costume, but her sisters insisted. They, of course, wore costumes—Cassandra as Athena, the goddess of wisdom, and Honore as Daphne, the nymph that the myth said turned into a laurel bush.
“You shall go as Hera,” Cassandra told Lydia. “The mother goddess.”
“I’m not that old. Nor am I cow-eyed.” Lydia’s protest landed on deaf ears, and the girls dressed her in a flowing white robe with peacock feathers sewn around the hem. They tried to make her wear a mask of peacock feathers, but Lydia put her foot down about that and chose a plain white silk. They did make her a crown and a peacock feather fan, which she agreed to sport, and they pronounced her well enough.
“Keep a close eye on your sisters,” Father admonished her as they left the house. “You know what sort of trouble one can get into at a masquerade.”
“In truth, Father, I don’t know.” Lydia paused on the threshold. “You didn’t allow me to attend one.”
“Humph. Perhaps I shouldn’t—”
“Father,” Cassandra and Honore cried together.
“Just make sure your sister knows where you are at all times.” He vanished into the library.
“That will be difficult,” Honore pointed out as they climbed into the carriage. “I know they will have at least five hundred people there.”
“I’d like to say I trust you.” Lydia fixed Honore with a steely glare.
Honore tossed her head, sending her silk laurel leaves rustling.
“You know you can trust me,” Cassandra said. “I expect I’ll sneak into Lord Tarleton’s library. He has some original Greek text
s—”
“Cassandra,” Lydia and Honore protested together.
Cassandra pursed her lips. “I wouldn’t want to go to this ball otherwise.”
“You’re hopeless.” Honore shook her head.
“What’s hopeless is this crush.” Lydia glanced out the window at the line of vehicles disgorging passengers in front of the Tarleton townhouse in Grosvenor Square, and leaned back to rest for the long wait before their turn came.
“Do you plan to dance?” Honore asked.
“Me? No.” Lydia didn’t open her eyes. “I plan to slip about the sidelines with the matrons, chaperones, and young ladies without partners.”
“But you’re so pretty.” Honore sounded dismayed. “Someone will wish to dance with you.”
Christien’s face flashed before Lydia’s closed lids. She blinked it away. He couldn’t dance with his arm not quite healed. And she doubted he would be there.
But of course he would. What better opportunity to work on ferreting out a troublemaker than at a ball with all the guests masked until midnight? Could she—should she—help him?
No, absolutely not. She was out of it. She’d done her duty by her country, however her country had compelled her to help.
The carriage rolled forward, stopped. A footman opened the door and let down the steps. Lydia followed her sisters inside the house and up the steps to greet the host and hostess dressed like King William III and Queen Mary II, an apt choice since Lord Tarleton stood shorter than his wife. More queens, kings, Roman emperors, and characters out of mythology surrounded them, with a few shepherds and goose girls scattered amongst them. One gentleman lurking near the ballroom door wore the sober garb of a solicitor, which made Honore exclaim in disgust and Lydia laugh. Then she realized Cassandra had already vanished, and sobered.
“She was serious about the library,” she whispered to Honore.
Honore nodded. “She—ah, my first beau of the evening.”
A tall, slender gentleman, wearing the powdered wig and satin breeches of half a century earlier, bowed before Honore. “May I have this dance, fair lady?” He led her into the ballroom ablaze with chandeliers, noisy with the small orchestra and loud voices, and redolent of perfume, pomade, and a few bodies that could have stood a wash.
“Madame, you are without escort?” A hand touched her arm, bare from her costume.
Lydia jumped and turned to find the solicitor beside her, his features indistinct behind his black silk mask, but his voice oddly familiar.
“I am the escort, sir.” She smiled beneath her mask. “For my family.”
“Ah, but that is no fun for you. Would you enjoy a dance?”
Lydia glanced at the crowded ballroom and shook her head. “I would enjoy a glass of lemonade and a chair.”
“I think you are too young for that, but I can oblige. Wait here.” He vanished into the throng.
Lydia stared after him. Was the man an apparition? One moment he’d been at her side, too close, and the next she couldn’t find him amongst the other guests. He’d simply melted into the crowd—
Like a certain man had melted into the blackness of a Portsmouth garden.
The ballroom turned cold. At the same time, she couldn’t catch her breath. The solicitor who could vanish amongst people as easily as he had vanished amongst the shrubbery of a Portsmouth garden, who had disappeared without showing his face after admiring her paintings, was the man who had called himself Mr. Lang.
Instinct told her to leave, to gather her sisters and disappear from the ball. A few calming breaths later steadied her into thinking better of running, though running was easier. Always easier. She could talk to him, quiz him, try to learn why he resorted to blackmail when Christien thought she would have been willing to help voluntarily.
She gripped her hands together, wishing her costume allowed for gloves to hide her sweating palms. Perhaps he wouldn’t return.
He returned bearing two glasses of pale yellow liquid. A footman followed, carrying a gilded chair.
“Sit, Madame Hera,” he commanded.
Lydia sat, a relief to her wobbly knees.
He handed her one of the glasses. “This will refresh you.”
She thanked him and sipped. The lemonade tasted bitter, as though the Tarleton kitchen had skimped on sugar. But it was cold.
“You are enjoying the Season, madame?” the man asked.
“As much as a country woman can. I miss fresh air.” Lydia held the glass to her lips without drinking. “Like gardens.”
Not so much as a ripple in his drink gave away whether or not she had startled him. He merely nodded. “Perhaps you may return to the country soon. Or does business keep you in town?”
“Sisters to find husbands.”
“And nothing else?”
“Nothing.”
Nothing that should give her cause to see Christien’s face again.
She sipped more of the lemonade. “And you, sir?”
“I am in the country as little as possible.”
“You move from city to city, perhaps?” She sipped to wet her dry lips. “Like London to Portsmouth?”
“Indeed.” He pressed his hand on her shoulder. “You understand me well.”
“I’ve done what you asked.” She started to rise.
His hand on her shoulder held her in place. Without creating a scene in the boisterous crowd, she couldn’t break away.
“Not quite yet, madame.” The pressure of his hand increased just a little. “You have neglected Mr. Barnaby.”
“I haven’t seen him about.”
“That’s the difficulty. I insist he be invited into your circle of friends.” Something shimmered at the corner of her vision. She turned her head in time to see him slipping her bracelet into his pocket.
The message was clear—and more. This man was not Christien’s Mr. Lang, who had never had the bracelet, and George Barnaby was not on the side of England. In no way would the Home Office blackmail her into helping, then renew the threat when their man failed to get the proper entrée into Society. She should have known that from the beginning, followed her instinct to trust Christien without question.
She shook the man’s hand off her shoulder and rose. She stood half a head taller than he and stepped close to him to emphasize that fact. “Why does England need to blackmail its subjects into helping with the war, sirrah?”
“Would you have helped otherwise?” He maintained his cool, indifferent tone.
“Yes.” The word spoken with more certainty than she felt, she spun on her heel and rushed away from him so fast she bumped her glass against a pillar. Its sticky contents splashed over her hand and over the silk flowers wound around the post to make it look like a trellis of roses. As soon as she found a place, she set the glass down and wiped her hand on a serviette, then fled the ballroom.
A mistake. She never should have run. She should have gone along with his intimidation, let him think she would do what she must. Through running off, she’d given herself away. A mistake.
Running was always a mistake. It was the only recourse for eluding the coil into which she’d gotten herself. But she wasn’t prepared to engage in espionage, not even as an auxiliary to the real participants.
Stomach knotted, head spinning, she searched for and located a door leading to a miniscule balcony. Cool night air washed over her, clearing her head, calming her pulse. Below, the Tarletons’ garden smelled of lilacs—sweet, pure, the promise of spring, a harbinger of summer beyond. She leaned on the balustrade to take in the sweet, spicy aroma—
And someone grabbed her legs, began to lift.
She shrieked. Her fingers scrabbled at the stone railing. No handhold. No way to stop. Her scream blended with the tumult inside the ballroom. She tried to kick. Strength poured from her assailant’s hands into her ankles, lifting up and up until she flipped over the balustrade and tumbled toward the garden below.
17
The scream brought Christien running from lib
rary to garden. A blur of white shot past him from the overhanging balcony. He lunged to grab it, caught only white silk. The grate of tearing fabric ripped the night, then the crunch of breaking limbs and thud of something striking the earth.
Not something—someone.
He rushed outside, dropped to his knees beside the crushed lilac bushes, and reached for the wearer of the white silk costume. He touched an arm, silky black hair, a mask torn half off. “Madame, vous tges—” He took a deep breath of the air smelling of crushed flowers and grass and a honey-citrus scent. “Lydia—I mean, Lady Gale?”
No answer. Wrong woman? Others could wear that unusual fragrance. Or—
He ran his fingers along a smooth neck, found a pulse, breathed a sigh of relief. It beat strongly under the skin, fast and a little erratically, but a true sign of life. But she could suffer from many injuries after a fall like that—broken limbs, ribs tearing into vital organs, a crushed skull.
His own heart pounding out of his chest, he began to run his hands along her arms, up to her shoulders, into her mass of dark hair in search of breaks, blood, lumps. He must fetch a physician to examine the rest. He didn’t want to leave her. A shout would bring someone from the library. Cassandra must still be in there, hiding behind the curtains with a thick Greek text.
“I’m going to call for help.” Slowly, he began to remove his hands from her hair.
“No.” Little more than a whisper, the touch a mere brush of fingers on his sleeve. “All . . . right.”
“You need a physician.”
“No. Please.” Her grip grew stronger. “Winded.”
“Something could be broken.”
“Only the bush.” A sound like a breathless laugh escaped her lips.
“Vraiment, madame?”
“Vraiment, monsieur.” She raised her hand to his cheek, her touch light and cool, burning him like flame. “Please, help me up.”
“Of course, if you’re certain.” He slipped one arm behind her shoulders. Still cradling her head in his other hand, he eased her to a sitting position. “Shall I find your sisters?”
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