A Necessary Deception

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  Oh, but she would.

  Head pounding from the noise and too much cheap perfume, Lydia didn’t hear Christien’s exclamation of triumph until he drew her on a trajectory through the milling, dancing pleasure seekers. Lydia stumbled after him, then paused, a sigh of relief catching in her throat.

  Lady Tarleton and Miss Tarleton sat with a handful of gentlemen Lydia didn’t know, but neither Honore nor Cassandra was with them.

  “Good evening, my lady, Miss Tarleton, messieurs.” Christien bowed. “We apologize for this intrusion. We were led to believe the Misses Bainbridge are with you.”

  The Tarleton ladies exchanged glances. The gentlemen pretended Christien hadn’t spoken other than nodding to him.

  “Cassandra said she was staying home,” Miss Tarleton said.

  “And Honore said she was attending a rout—or was it a soirée?—with Mr. Frobisher,” Lady Tarleton added.

  So Honore was with Frobisher at some unknown location. And where was Cassandra?

  22

  He would never catch a traitor if he spent his time racing about after Lydia’s recalcitrant sisters. For a moment, standing beside Lydia, Christien strained at the bit like an intractable horse. Nothing but good manners stopped him from leaving Lydia to head out on her own to seek her sisters, or to go home and leave them to their father. If Bainbridge wanted good matches for his ladies, he should keep a better eye on them than he did, pay more attention to his family than his seat in the House of Lords. Christien had more important matters to tend to.

  Matters in which Gerald Frobisher could be involved.

  Christien closed his eyes for a moment. His face felt flushed in the warm spring night. He wanted to—needed to—hang his head for his uncharitable thoughts. Had he truly been considering putting duty before Lydia? And he wanted her to love him?

  She should be on her own, all right, but not so he could be rid of her. More like so she could be rid of him. He needed to finish his mission before thinking about love and the future.

  He bade good evening to the Tarleton party and drew Lydia out of sight of their box.

  “How do we begin to find my sister?” she asked.

  “To where else did she have invitations?” Christien matched his tone to her coolness.

  “There was a rout, a soirée, and a play at Drury Lane. It could take us three hours to hunt for her in all those places.”

  “And you think she’s with Frobisher?”

  “I do, except that Cassandra went with her.”

  “One sister at a time.”

  If he could tuck them all up safely in their home, despite the father they didn’t want to face, he might be able to get down to his traitor-hunting.

  “We’ll start with learning Frobisher’s whereabouts.”

  “How?”

  “I know where he lives.”

  The boat ride back and carriage ride to the edges of Mayfair took nearly an hour. Frobisher’s establishment wasn’t fine, merely an adequate place to sleep. Leaving Lydia in the carriage, Christien rapped on the door. If Frobisher hired a valet or other form of manservant, getting information might be difficult. His own man proved loyal time and again. He had to be. Quite possibly the same with Frobisher’s. No amount of money bribed a good servant into revealing information.

  No private servant opened the door. Instead, a rotund female somewhere past middle age yanked open the portal and scowled up at Christien. “What do you be wantin’ this time of night?”

  “Mr. Gerald Frobisher.”

  “Ain’t here.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Mebbe.” The woman shrugged. The fat on her shoulder rippled beneath the thin wrap she wore over her nightclothes. “Depends on what a frog is wanting with him.”

  “It’s personal business.”

  Or possibly of national interest. For Honore’s sake, he hoped not.

  He slipped a shilling into the woman’s pocket. “We have a debt to settle.”

  “He can settle the debt he has with me first. Ain’t paid his rent in a fortnight, and I’m about to sell his fancy clothes, for all his pretty face pleases me.”

  Revulsion crept through Christien, but he maintained his smile. “How much does he owe you?”

  “You willing to pay?”

  “If it’s reasonable.”

  “Two guineas.”

  The sum was exorbitant and probably exaggerated. Nonetheless, Christien gave her half and held the other coin in his hand. “His whereabouts?”

  She told him. Christien groaned silently at the idea that Honore could be with him there. Most young ladies would demand to be taken home. Honore, however, sought adventure and excitement and probably would encourage her inclusion in such an excursion.

  Christien thanked the woman, gave her the other guinea, and returned to the carriage.

  “What did you learn?” Lydia demanded the instant he opened the door.

  “Frobisher’s favorite place is what is commonly known as a gaming hell.”

  Lydia grimaced. “Such a vulgar term. It makes me cringe when I hear it.”

  “Oui, but it aptly describes the condition into which it leads too many men, and women too—outcast and completely despairing.” Christien dropped onto the seat beside her and knocked on the roof to signal for the coachman to get moving. “They’re nearly the worst of the dens of iniquity in this town.”

  “What could be worse than a place called a—a hell?” Lydia choked on the word.

  Christien touched her arm. “I don’t know if he’d take Miss Honore there.”

  “She’d go.”

  “I’m afraid I agree.”

  Lydia covered her face with her hands. “Where did I go wrong? I’ve tried to tell her how to go on here in town, and she seems determined to ruin herself. And after Cassandra . . . I just want to get their futures safely established so I can go home and forget.”

  Forget what? Him?

  He tamped down the selfish pain. “Lydia, you’re not responsible for their futures. Their futures are in God’s hands and the hands of God’s caretakers on earth—your parents.”

  “Who have designated them to me this Season. Mama is too frail to manage, and Father—” She flung up her head. “I don’t know why Father expects me to manage. He never thinks I do anything right. All my life he’s criticized whatever I do. If I was obedient, I didn’t succeed in what I did do. My painting, my marriage, my—” She paused. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t tell you all of this.”

  “But you should.” He took her hand in his and laced their fingers together as best as one could wearing gloves. “Tell me more. What did he do when he was displeased? Did he . . . beat you as children?”

  “Sometimes I wish he had. That pain would have been easier than the coldness, the constant criticism, the reminders of our failures.” She turned her face away from him, though the carriage lay in darkness. “I wish he weren’t right about my failure to succeed at even the most basic of womanly duties.”

  “Oh, Lydia.” Christien’s throat closed. He swallowed and held himself rigid to stop himself from drawing her to him. She needed more than the physical comfort he could offer. “I want to tell you that God loves you whether or not you are what others think is a good wife or daughter or sister, but it’s difficult for me to believe for myself.”

  “Was your father autocratic too?”

  “No, my father was the kindest of parents. He disciplined us when we needed it and loved us the whole time.” Warmth and the familiar ache of loss expanded in Christien’s heart. “He brought us up to love God and be obedient to Him, but when Papa died at the hands of the French, I abandoned his teachings and set out on my current course. I don’t think God approves, and until I’ve stopped my attempt to cripple Napoleon, I don’t think God will have a great deal to do with me.”

  “But if He’s all-loving, wouldn’t He, regardless of what we do?”

  “He loves us, but we do have to repent, and I can’t do that yet.
”

  “And I don’t know how a loving God could give me the father I have and tell me to honor him.”

  “The father you have has made you strong and courageous and determined not to give up.” Christien drew her hand to his cheek. “Your letters to your husband spoke of your ability to face adversity with a cheerfulness that helped me keep going when I sometimes wanted to let a French firing squad end my pain.”

  “Christien.” She started to turn toward him.

  The carriage stopped, and the coachman opened the hatch. “We’re here, monsieur.”

  “Tres bien.” Christien released Lydia’s hand. “You wait here.”

  “I’m coming in.”

  “Do you have a mask? You can’t be seen here.”

  “I’ll use my shawl like a veil. The lace is fine enough.” She proceeded to drape the gauzy wrap over her hair and face like a Spanish mantilla gone awry.

  A dozen arguments on his tongue as to why she should remain in the coach, Christien climbed down and assisted Lydia to the pavement. In front of them a lantern displayed a plain white door. No brass plate beside the portal or swinging sign above gave an indication as to the nature of the establishment. Nor did its neighbors help. They lay in darkness despite the rules about burning a light outside at night. The stench of refuse strong enough to taste told its own tale of a less than savory neighborhood. Christien half expected to hear a scream.

  Instead, he heard a meow.

  A cat, half the size of Hodge and as black as Lydia’s cat was white, slipped from the shadows and began to wind itself around her ankles.

  “It’s so thin.” Lydia stooped to pet it.

  “Don’t. It probably has fleas.”

  “But it’s so dear.”

  Indeed, the creature had begun to purr.

  “Perhaps they have more than drink inside and we can bring something out to it.” Christien raised his hand to knock.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Inside. Honore. I feel like I should pray she isn’t there, but I don’t want to be disappointed with God if she is.”

  Before Christien could respond—if he had a response—the door opened. A man taller than and as wide as the opening stood before them. “What do you want? This is a private house.”

  “I don’t know the password, and I don’t want to cause trouble. I’m merely looking for a young lady.”

  “This ain’t that kind of establishment.”

  “No, not for that.” Christien’s ears burned. “She may be gaming and doesn’t have the money to do so. I’d like to take her home to her family.”

  “Willing to pay her debts first?” the behemoth asked.

  Lydia gasped. “Debts? She’s gaming?”

  “Well?” The doorman pressed.

  “Yes,” Christien said.

  “But—”

  He raised a palm to stop Lydia’s protest. “But not her companion’s debts,” Christien added.

  “That one.” The guard spat a hairbreadth from Christien’s left shoe. “He can go hang for all I care.” He stepped back. “Come in, but if you cause trouble for this house, I’ll personally see you’re sorry.”

  “We won’t.”

  A moment later, Christien wished he hadn’t made such a promise. They descended a stairway darker and tighter than the servants’ stairs at a townhouse, pushed through an ironbound door, and entered a room so full of smoke and the stench of perspiration and cheap perfume he could scarcely breathe. Candlelight blazed with a lurid glow through the smoke, and faces appeared as mere blurs.

  “No wonder they call it a hell.” Lydia stood as close to him as she could, her arm locked up with his. “How will we find her?”

  “Especially since all the females are wearing loo masks.” Christien began to walk, seeking honey-blonde hair for Honore or guinea gold for Frobisher. Surely they would stand out.

  They did. At the back of the room, past tables of faro and piquet, dicing and roulette, they found a table with three gentlemen and one female in card play, and several onlookers.

  “Only one thing left to give up, sweeting,” one of the latter shouted. “Your virtue.”

  Lydia gasped and gripped his arm harder, if possible. Christien clenched his fists. Planting the man a facer would do no good for anyone and would likely cause trouble.

  “How much does she owe?” he asked.

  All eyes turned toward him. Honore’s hands flew to her mouth, and she sprang to her feet fast enough to knock her chair into the man behind her, the one who had suggested she offer up her virtue for debt payment. The heavy back struck him in the middle and he reeled into the man beside him. The two of them staggered in a weird dance and careened into a third observer, and the group went down like ninepins, taking a tray of glasses with them. The pungent odor of brandy added its stink to the room. People shouted, cursed, began to fight.

  Christien scooped Honore into his arms, flung her over his shoulder, and headed for the exit at a trot, Lydia still clinging to his side. Hands flung out to grab them.

  The guard from the door stepped into their path. “Payment,” he shouted.

  Christien veered to the side, knocked a table over between his group and the guard, and kept going.

  He set Honore down at the steps. “Go.” He gave her a nudge in the center of her back.

  “But my reticule—”

  “Go,” Christien and Lydia commanded together.

  The door behind them opened on billows of smoke and the roar of the tumult inside.

  Honore went, running headlong up the steps. Christien and Lydia followed, the latter ahead. They burst into the night, the air sweet compared to the Hades belowground.

  Door open, the carriage waited. Christien lifted Honore and then Lydia inside and leaped in after them. “Go!” he shouted to the coachman and slammed the door.

  A fist pounded on the carriage. Shouts and the rumble of wheels rang out behind them.

  “Me-ow,” said a fourth passenger inside.

  23

  Lydia grabbed for the kitten. It shot through her reaching hands and landed on Christien, scrambled up the front of his shirt, and perched on his shoulder, swaying with the jostling of the carriage.

  “A female, certainly.” Lydia’s lips twitched.

  “An infant terrible.” Christien grasped the feline around the middle. “Off.”

  It began to purr and rub its head against his chin.

  “Hodge liked you too.” Lydia stroked the kitten. “She’s soft, but she looks like she has a wound.”

  “She’s probably full of fleas.” Christien’s hand joined Lydia’s on the cat’s back.

  The feline purred louder.

  “A few drops of pennyroyal will take care of that.” Lydia drew her hand free. “I can take her home to Hodge. He might stop attacking my hairpins if he has a companion.”

  “Miss Barbara will not be pleased. I don’t think she—”

  “Will you two stop talking about that stooopid cat?” Honore’s voice rose like a portentous wind from the opposite corner of the coach. “It doesn’t matter when my life is ruined.”

  Suppressing a sigh, Lydia turned to her sister. “Why would you think your life is ruined? Were you more than gaming in that place?”

  “No, but—”

  “Did you ever take off your mask?”

  “No, but—”

  “Do you plan on repeating your actions of tonight?”

  “Certainly not. I hate-ed it.” A sob hitched her voice.

  Lydia ground her teeth. “Then your life isn’t ruined, thanks to our intervention and Monsieur de Meuse’s quick wits in getting us out of there, not to mention his ability to find you in the first place. But if I ever see you with Gerald Frobisher again, I will tell Father, and then your life most definitely will be ruined.”

  “But I love Gerry,” Honore wailed.

  “Me-ow,” the cat protested.

  Christien muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “My sentiments precisely, Noirette.”<
br />
  Little black one.

  Lydia’s heart squeezed with a sentiment she wasn’t certain she wanted.

  “You’re too young to know what love is,” Lydia snapped.

  “But I’m expected to marry? That makes no sense to my mind.” Honore sounded like nothing so much as a sulky child.

  Too young indeed. She’d been the one Father had adored, lavished attention and approval upon, protected from his criticism until recently. Apparently, the sheltering had kept her younger than her years.

  “No one should expect you to wed until you’re ready.” Lydia softened her tone and reached across the carriage to touch Honore’s hand. “And that includes you continuing to see Frobisher. Believe me, out of sight, out of mind.”

  “Was that how it was with your husband?” Honore demanded with a hint of belligerence. “Did you stop loving him just because he was on the continent?”

  “After marriage is different. There are things . . . We’ll discuss that later.” Lydia felt too warm in her lace shawl and silk gown. “If you want to stay in London long enough for your ball next week, you will watch your p’s and q’s, and that includes sneaking around to see Gerald Frobisher.”

  “If I may say here,” Christien inserted, “the man appears to be nothing more than a common gamester.”

  “A good one.” Pride rang in Honore’s voice, much to Lydia’s horror. “He always wins.”

  “A regular Captain Sharp,” Christien continued. “Dishonorable, but nothing more.”

  Lydia understood the message—Frobisher was the wrong sort of companion for Honore, certainly not husband material, but from all appearances he was neither a murderer nor a traitor. Appearances could be deceiving, but she suspected Christien could judge what was right. He had ten years’ experience ferreting out spies, traitors, and others who would harm England. He was not infallible, yet Lydia’s own instincts inclined her to agree with him.

  Now to convince, bribe, or bully Honore into dropping the man before she caused real trouble for herself.