A Necessary Deception

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  “What about Honore?” Lydia demanded. Her hands shook.

  “I saw her riding in the park with Gerald Frobisher. She was wearing a mask, but—”

  For the first time since Charles had returned to his regiment, Lydia burst into tears.

  18

  Christien took the only option he saw open to him—he closed the short distance between them and slipped his arm around her. “There, there, ma chère. You’re not alone. I’m here to help you. Ah, mon pauvre, ma belle, mon amour.” And so he crooned while Lydia turned her face into his shoulder, hiccuped and sobbed, wiped her eyes on a sodden handkerchief, and tried to speak.

  Sometime after the first few minutes, Lisette stepped into the chamber, then out again, closing the door. It wasn’t the proper thing for her to do, but it was the right thing—leave Lydia to privately weep out everything that burdened her heart.

  “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Those were the first coherent words Lydia spoke. She tried to pull away.

  “No, don’t.” Christien stroked her loosened hair. “Let me be a friend to you, Lydia Gale, as I was to your husband.” He took a deep breath. “And more. So much more.”

  “I can’t.” A shudder ran from her to him.

  “You have to trust someone, Lydia.” He pressed his advantage. “It may as well be me, the man whose life you saved, the man you helped.”

  “And I’ve had nothing but trouble since. That is—” She raised her head to show him eyes red-rimmed and awash in tears. “I’ve been hiding away because someone tried to kill me. Or at the least scare me badly. Why?”

  “Because you have chosen to be friendly with me, I think.”

  She nodded.

  “So you hid from me too.”

  “You spied on me.”

  “Only my sister. I left her here to watch over you, even though I should have sent her packing home with a flea in her ear and a dragon to guard her.”

  “And I’d have had more work and trouble trying to find another chef half as good.”

  “That too.” He offered a smile. “We perhaps kept things as they are for that reason.”

  “I think I’d just pack up and run back to Tavistock if she left. I’m trying to make everything perfect for my family, please Father, get the girls married or at least engaged, keep the household orderly and Mama free of worry, and it’s all gone wrong. It’s just like—” She jerked away from him. “When did you plan on telling me about Frobisher and Honore?”

  “As soon as I found you.” He gazed at her, his chest aching. “I didn’t know if I should call on you, and you were nowhere around town.”

  “Of course you should have called. I never said—” She gave him a wobbly smile. “I suppose I have given you the impression you aren’t welcome here. I’m sorry. I think I’ve been wrong. I know I’ve been wrong. I know I’ve needed to take a risk.” She rubbed her hands over her damp and blotchy cheeks. “Tell me about Frobisher, please.”

  Christien rose and stood before her, his hands shoved into his pockets to stop himself from reaching for her again. “I’ve been searching for Mr. Barnaby. He seems to have vanished from London. I hadn’t seen Frobisher either but thought he might be riding in the park, so I went out there to find him.”

  “Surely you aren’t riding with your arm not quite healed.” The concern on her face warmed his heart.

  “No, driving.” He moved his hands to clasp them behind his back. “And I found him riding with a young woman in a mask. I recognized the mare.”

  “What is she thinking? What are the Tarletons thinking?” Lydia speared her fingers into her hair, and the mass of it tumbled around her shoulders. She gasped and let out a little moan. “What will go wrong next? No, no, don’t say it.” She held up her hand. “I can drive straight over to the Tarletons’ and confront her.”

  “Or you could drive out with me tomorrow morning and catch her in the act.”

  She compressed her lips, and the corners of her eyes pinched. Then she nodded and her face relaxed. “Thank you. I don’t know why you’d do this for me, but I’m grateful.”

  “I want to be your friend, my lady.” He let himself touch her then, rest his palm against her cheek. “I’ll say this until you believe me. I want to help you get through this time, as you helped me. I want—”

  More than he would tell her then.

  “I will call on you at seven o’clock,” he concluded.

  “That early? The wretched little hoyden. Why does she want to ruin herself?”

  “I think little sisters are—in French we have the expression infant terrible.”

  Lydia laughed. It sounded hoarse, a bit like a rusty hinge. Nonetheless it was an unmistakable chuckle. Her whole face, tearstained and puffy around the eyes as it was, lit up for a moment. The entire subterranean room grew brighter. “So they are.” She sobered. “What respectable man would encourage a young lady to ride out with him that early and unchaperoned?”

  “That answer, ma chère, is simple—he wouldn’t. Considering he arrived with Mr. Barnaby, I can only suspect he is up to no good where Honore is concerned.”

  Lydia caught her breath. “Of course. More blackmail against the family.”

  Because she could manage it without looking in the mirror, Lydia braided her hair and pinned the plait in a swirl atop her head. Rather than awaken Barbara to help her and be asked questions, she waylaid one of the chambermaids to button up the back of her deep rose carriage dress. Then, half boots in hand, she slipped down the steps.

  And came face-to-face with Father.

  “Where are you sneaking off to?” he demanded.

  “Not sneaking off, sir, just ensuring I don’t awaken Mama.”

  “Which doesn’t answer my question.”

  “No, sir.” Lydia dropped onto the next-to-last step and pulled on the ankle-high boots. “I’m taking an early drive with Monsieur de Meuse.”

  “Indeed. I thought you frightened him off like you do all men.”

  “Like I what?” Lydia shot to her feet, one booted, the other stockinged. She glared down at her father, half a head shorter than she from her elevated position. “What are you saying?”

  “Seven years ago, you had a husband who stayed home for a week before leaving forever. When I arrived this Season, you had two suitors, now you have none. I expect no man wants to be around a female who smells like turpentine.”

  “And no woman wants to be around a man who—you know I’m painting?”

  “Of course I do. I expect you think you’ll support Cassandra and yourself with it.” He curled his upper lip.

  “I’d like to try.”

  “You have other things that need doing, like getting yourselves married off.”

  Only if she could find men who weren’t like him.

  But he cared about them. She must remember that. He wanted them married for their own security and comfort, their standing in Society, and, as he thought, their fulfillment as females.

  “Will you approve of us if we wed, sir?” she asked in a small voice.

  “What a ridiculous question. Approval has nothing to do with it.” Turning his back on her, he snatched his hat from a stone-faced footman and marched to the door.

  Another footman opened the portal, and he headed out to his waiting carriage. As he pulled away, an open vehicle drew up at the foot of the front steps. With a shriek of horror that she still held one boot in her hand, Lydia dropped onto the steps and began to buckle the footgear. Straps flew out of her fingers. A buckle slipped out of her hand and bounced to the entryway floor.

  Christien entered the house in time to retrieve the silver clasp. “May I?”

  Not waiting for permission, he knelt before her and slipped the straps through the rings of the buckle and pulled. He bent over his work, his hair falling across his brow in a blue-black wave, his fingers deft and swift and too close to her ankle.

  “It’s not proper,” she whispered.

  “Of course it is.” He smiled up at her.
“Do not the gentlemen help you on and off with your patens in the winter?”

  “Yes, but—”

  None of the handful of those gentlemen, who had assisted her in removing the shoes with their iron rings on the bottom from over her delicate slippers, left her feeling light-headed. She couldn’t remember her husband performing such a duty and having any kind of effect on her because, by winter, he had no longer been around.

  “It is but a moment,” Christien assured her. He slipped the second buckle onto the straps, tightened it. “Voilà. Are you ready for our drive?”

  “I am. And if I find—” She glanced at the footmen and clamped her mouth shut. If the servants learned what Honore was doing, she might as well announce it in the Times.

  Christien held out his hands. “Let us go then.”

  She placed her hands in his and allowed him to lift her from the steps, then lead her out to his open carriage. A youth held the horses’ heads. Once Lydia settled on the seat and Christien sat beside her, the reins in his uninjured hand, the young man let the horses go. Christien tossed him a sixpence. The lad bit it, then grinned and ran off across the square.

  Lydia pulled on a loo mask and tucked her feet under the seat. Her heels connected with a wicker basket. She jerked them forward again. “Do you always carry provisions with you, monsieur?”

  “It’s waiting to be filled with provisions, my lady. Did you rest well?”

  “Surprisingly, yes. And you?”

  “Not long enough. I’m afraid my work leads me into some places and situations that require late nights and too much smoke.”

  “And you’ve gotten nowhere?”

  “Other than your man at the masquerade, no. I can’t find Barnaby anywhere.”

  “I’m supposed to help him. Apparently his entrée into Society hasn’t been as grand as yours.”

  “But you’ve done nothing?”

  “I can’t perform a task without the man.”

  “But you told the man at the ball you wouldn’t help.”

  “Foolishly, yes.” Lydia shuddered. “And next thing I knew, I was tumbling into the shrubbery. What were you doing in the library?”

  “Asking Miss Bainbridge where I might find you.”

  “Oh. I thought perhaps you were seeking information.”

  Christien sighed loudly enough to be heard over the rumble of the drays that trundled into London in the early morning to deliver goods to the markets and shops. “Yes, being a spy often leads one into suspecting everyone and sneaking about to investigate their personal domains. I think it is not comme il faut.”

  “Not the right thing, no, but does the end justify the means?”

  “I never considered that until I saw you get hauled into this and in danger.” He half turned toward her. “Will you leave London?”

  “I cannot. Father wants us all married off, and finding husbands in Devonshire is not that easy.”

  “Alas.” He slowed for the entrance to the park. “I saw Miss Honore here on Rotten Row.”

  That early in the morning, only a handful of serious riders populated the road, along with grooms exercising horses little used in town. A scan of the crowd in front of them showed no female in or out of a mask. The absence didn’t ease Lydia’s mind. If she didn’t find Honore today, she would have to bring her home and watch over her.

  Lydia tensed. She gripped the edge of the seat for fear she would simply rise off the cushion like one of Cassandra’s hot air balloons if one more difficulty plowed into her life.

  “There they are.” Christien spoke softly.

  Lydia jumped. “Where?”

  “A hundred yards ahead, coming toward us.”

  Lydia squinted into the misty morning light. Yes, she saw them now, the mare, the blue habit, the mask. “I’m going to lock her to her bedpost,” she ground between her teeth.

  “She can join my sister.” Though his mouth was grim, his eyes twinkled.

  Some of the tension drained from Lydia. She faced a problem in Honore, but not alone for once.

  The pair drew near, moving slowly. They leaned toward one another, talking, laughing, hands touching across the space between their mounts. Others glanced at them with indulgent smiles or disapproving frowns. No one appeared to recognize Honore. As the couple on horseback and the couple in the curricle came within a dozen feet, the former glanced up. Their mouths opened, then, as one, they kicked their horses, spun, and galloped in the direction from which they’d come.

  “After them!” Lydia cried.

  Unnecessarily. Christien had already snapped the reins over the backs of his team, sending them thundering after the fleeing pair.

  Lydia gripped the seat. “What purpose does she think she’ll serve in running?”

  Around them, other riders darted out of the way or joined the chase, their laughter floating back to the open carriage. The lane turned. The curricle tilted onto its right wheel. Lydia’s shoulder bumped against Christien’s, then pressed against it. She ducked her head. If someone recognized her, they would guess at Honore’s identity.

  Honore and Frobisher gained ground, getting too near the park gate and streets, where horsemen could weave in and out of traffic, but where a carriage, however light, could not.

  A sob rose in her throat. “It’s futile.”

  “We’ll catch them at the house where she’s staying,” Christien said.

  “As long as they go there.”

  He glanced at her. “Why would you think they wouldn’t? Where else would they go?”

  “Nowhere. That is—” Lydia shivered. “I think I should pray.”

  “Good, if God listens to you.”

  “I’m not sure He does these days.”

  Or any of the past seven years’ worth of days.

  Don’t let him leave, she’d prayed.

  And Charles had gone, not just for a time, but forever, with the harsh word of her last letter in his head.

  She mustn’t fail Honore.

  At that moment, she thought she might be able to outrun the horses. Energy coursed through her, and her body strained forward, shouting, urging, not laughing like most everyone else.

  Beside her, Christien sat with his mouth grim and his hand tight on the reins. He guided the flying team around a gaggle of staring grooms leading children’s ponies, slowing him down. But ahead, grooms on fine, swift horses sped after the racing pair, flanked them, pulled ahead.

  Lydia sat straighter, staring. “They’ve got them.”

  “By the grace of God they do.” Christien’s hold on the reins relaxed. The horses slowed so that they drove up to the surrounded pair with dignity.

  “Stay up here so no one recognizes you. The mask doesn’t seem to do that well.” Christien leaped to the ground.

  An urchin sprang from the very ground, or so it seemed, and grasped the reins.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Honore cried.

  “Fermez la bouche.” Christien directed Honore to keep her mouth shut. “She may listen to you, but I won’t, you French spy,” Frobisher shouted.

  The laughter of moments earlier died. Silence reigned. Several pairs of eyes landed on Christien.

  “It’s true,” Honore said. “I heard him talking to someone at a ball last week. They want to add England to Napoleon’s empire by—”

  “Quiet.” Lydia employed the rough, deep tone she’d employed when Honore was a child who would never cease her chatter, regardless of the consequences to others.

  At that moment, the harm pointed toward Christien. The faces, whether belonging to young Corinthian athletes of the haut ton or to grooms, registered hostility. A wave of muttering began.

  Lydia glanced from man to man, to Frobisher’s grinning countenance. A chill raced through her. If she spoke further, she would give herself away. Father’s fury would know no bounds if he learned of this escapade. And he would learn of it.

  But Christien had saved her on more than one occasion, and if he was an honest man . . .


  She looked at his still and calm face and knew he was honest. Every word he’d told her was true.

  Heart racing, she leaped from the carriage and slipped her arm through his.

  19

  Honore stared at her sister. “You’re taking the part of a Frenchman?”

  “I am.” Lydia set her face. “If you get into the carriage, I won’t tell Father of this little escapade.”

  “And I’ll tell him you took the part of a Frenchman over good Englishmen.” Honore tossed her head.

  “Go ahead. Those good Englishmen were ready to assault a good man.” Lydia gave Honore a gentle push forward. “Now go. Father will likely send you back to Devonshire and find you a husband if he hears of your behavior.”

  Boot heels dragging through the gravel, Honore headed for the curricle.

  Lydia followed, grinding her teeth, while the other riders called out suggestions on what to do with the recalcitrant chit, then disbanded.

  The curricle wasn’t made for three people but boasted a seat in back for a groom. Lydia hauled herself into this ignominious perch and grasped Honore’s shoulder as though expecting her to vanish off the moving vehicle.

  “Take us home, monsieur, please,” Lydia said.

  “I want to go back to the Tarletons’.” Honore pouted now. “There’s an excursion to Vauxhall tonight. You won’t take me. You despise fireworks.”

  “I’ll take you.” Lydia glanced at the Frenchman. “Merci bien. You’ve been more than kind.”

  “I think it is quite the opposite.” The smile he bestowed on Lydia sent butterflies fluttering in her middle. “You stood beside me against those Englishmen.”

  “He didn’t need protecting.” Honore’s lower lip protruded in a childish sulk. “That sort of thing only happens in France.”

  “It’s happening in the north right now.” Lydia didn’t hide the bite from her words. The curricle jostled over a broken cobblestone in the Mayfair street, and she grabbed for a better hold. “And what he means is that, because of your little excursion with Mr. Frobisher and protests against Monsieur de Meuse, those men were ready to do him bodily harm at best, possibly hang him at worst.”