Mama made so few requests that Lydia complied. Finding eligible and unattached gentlemen was no difficulty. Making certain they were worthy of the exclusive dinner, and therefore being first arrivals at the ball without having to wait in long lines before enjoying the entertainment, proved more of a challenge. Lydia had managed, though, and rather looked forward to the event. And afterward, Christien would be at the ball . . .
At five o’clock, all of them went to their rooms to rest for a while before they began to dress. Lydia lay down for five minutes, found the cats deciding to use her for a battleground for territory, and rose again to begin brushing out her hair before pinning it up again. A hundred strokes with the boar’s bristle brush would make it gleam like black satin. She’d never cared much about her looks before, but now—
The pounding on the front door of the townhouse reverberated loud enough to reach her third-floor room. She sprang to her feet, brush in one hand, other hand clutching her dressing gown to her neck, and raced from her room.
“What is it?” Honore burst from her chamber, Cassandra on her heels. “Why the racket?”
The three of them leaned over the railing, peering down the stairwell thirty feet to the entryway. Lemster unlatched the door. Before he turned the handle, the portal flew open and a young man without a hat and with his cravat askew tumbled into the hall.
“Where’s Lord Bainbridge?” he shouted.
“Young man,” Lemster began, “that is no way—”
“Out of my way, man. I need his lordship.” Announcement made, he charged down the corridor, calling to Father.
Lydia gripped the balustrade, expecting her face had gone as white as her sisters’. “Something terrible has happened,” she whispered.
Below, the young man pounded on the library door. “Lord Bainbridge, come quick. Perceval is dead.”
“Perceval?” The corridor and steps began to spin around Lydia. “The prime minister is dead?”
The young man’s voice rang out like a funeral bell. “Assassinated.”
24
So they had failed.
Christien’s hands fell from the ends of the cravat he was tying, and he stared at his valet in the mirror. “Who shot him?”
“Too many rumors to be certain right now,” the man said. “I just heard it in the street and came up straightaway.”
“Of course you did. Thank you.” With hands that shook a bit, Christien finished the intricate knot of the cravat. “I’ll learn more while I’m out.”
A Frenchman risking his life to cause havoc in Britain? An American wanting the same? An Englishman treacherous to his country? Any were disastrous to Christien’s mission. It meant failure, possibly worse trouble to come.
And Lydia, with her belief she proved unsuccessful in too many things in her life, would take the news like a blow.
He wanted to be with her. Given his way, he would rush straight over to Bainbridge House and reassure her that she had been as much help as anyone. More so than he had been. He was trained to ferret out assassins, not let them get away with their deeds.
And the prime minister. Who’d have thought even a traitor or agent of the French would be so bold? Fomenting discord amongst the common people was one thing—not that difficult in the depressed economy and lengthening war that wasn’t going so well for England, and with a prince regent who cared more about his pleasure than his kingdom. But the most important man in the country, the man running the country . . .
If only Christien had been in town that week, he might have prevented the disaster. But Lang had sent him on what turned out to be a wild goose chase. All the way to Portsmouth to see if anyone could identify the man in the garden.
Of course no one had. Lydia herself had said it was so dark she saw nothing. In a busy and centrally located city like Portsmouth, too many persons came and went without notice. Christien and Lang and Lydia remained stranded, suspecting it had been Barnaby.
If only Christien believed Barnaby was more than another pawn in the game governments made of war, he would have peace of mind about Lydia’s safety. He would believe her blackmail threat had died with the gentleman. But a tension in Christien’s gut told him otherwise. He’d survived in his occupation as long as he had because of those internal premonitions.
“I must go to Bainbridge House,” he announced.
“But you weren’t invited to their dinner.” His English valet frowned in disapproval.
“Everything is going to be chaos with this news. I wouldn’t be surprised if dinners and balls are canceled.”
From the look of the streets, however, London was going on about its business. He saw a few more groups of men than usual clustered at street corners, talking. Voices remained subdued, as though fearing being overheard. Carriages trundled past at no great haste to be home or anywhere else. Open vehicles showed beautifully dressed ladies and gentlemen talking, even laughing. Perhaps they didn’t know. Perhaps they didn’t care. Perhaps the opposing party, the Whigs, would even celebrate this evening.
Celebrate over the death of a man who had served his country long and well.
Christien sighed to relieve the tension in his middle as the carriage drew up in front of Bainbridge House. No other carriages crowded the street, and he realized the time was too early for their dinner party to have begun. He would interrupt their preparations.
He got out of the carriage and trudged up the steps to the front door.
“Monsieur de Meuse.” The butler looked confused upon opening the door to Christien’s knock. “You weren’t—I didn’t realize—”
“No, I was not invited to the dinner, Lemster; however, I wish to see Lady Gale.”
Wanted to. Needed to, ached to.
Lemster wrung his gloved hands. “I—I don’t know if she’s available. The family is quite overwrought with the news.”
“Of course they are. But will you please ask her if she’ll see me?” Christien glanced to his right. “I will wait in the drawing room.”
Not waiting to be shown to the chamber, he strode across the entryway and opened the pocket door to a chamber readied for guests. Fresh candles stood in their sconces, awaiting a taper to light them. Fresh roses perfumed the air with a warm scent. Every bit of brass, wood, or glass shone with a recent cleaning.
Christien strode to the window and drew back the edge of the blue velvet drapery. The square remained subdued by way of traffic and pedestrians, save for a handful of boys playing with a ball in the grassy center circle. In the distance, a seller of news sheets cried the news of the shooting in Parliament itself.
A prime minister dead in front of dozens of others—members of Parliament, guards, British subjects.
The house lay in unusual stillness for a residence with six family members present and three times as many servants. Everyone subdued, contemplating, waiting for news. He should send a message to Lisette. She should be gone. If this had been a French plot, none of them, émigrés or not, would be safe. He should have sent Lisette packing the instant he knew of her game.
Games. Everyone played them, from him with his double agent work, to Lisette playing informant, to Frobisher and his gambling. Lang played chess master, moving his retinue of agents around like pawns.
Christien wanted out of the game so he could clear his conscience and live his life for Christ. What that entailed besides being involved with his land and family, he didn’t yet know.
He glanced down at his hands. Encased in gray kid gloves, they bore fewer signs of labor than they had a few weeks ago, turning the smooth whiteness required of a gentleman. To Christien, they felt sticky with blood. Like Lady Macbeth, he couldn’t scrub them clean. But he tried. He removed the gloves, shoved them into his coat pockets, and rubbed his left hand over the back of his right.
“Are you all right, mon ami?” Lydia asked from close behind him.
He spun, nearly drew her to him. “Cherie. I didn’t hear you approach.”
No wonder she slipped up
on him. In silvery gauze embellished with pale pink ribbon rosettes, she resembled a drift of smoke or mist off the sea.
“The door was open and you seemed engaged.” Her glance dropped to his hands. “Did you injure yourself?”
“No, I simply feel—” He looked to the still-open door and lowered his voice. “Unclean sometimes. The things my work has called upon me to execute.” He shuddered. “A poor choice of words. Forgive me.”
“I think there’s no need to forgive.” She didn’t quite meet his eyes. “You, of course, didn’t commit this heinous crime against Perceval.”
“I?” Christien jerked back a step. “That would be acting against . . . England. I have never—” He felt ill. He yanked his gloves from his pockets. “It was a mistake for me to come, if you think for a moment I knew of this assassination. I’d have stopped it if I had.”
“But you weren’t even in London.”
“I had business.” He turned toward the door, caught the rustle of fabric, the whisper of leather soles on wood flooring.
Servants moving away from their eavesdropping position.
“If you still don’t trust me to be on the same side as you, I have nothing more to say.” The ache in his chest would prevent speech in another half a minute. “I have failed England,” he added, his voice thick and dry.
“We have failed England.” Lydia’s hand was on his shoulder, the other one on his face, turning him toward her to read the pain in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I—” She ran her tongue along her lower lip.
And he kissed her there in her father’s drawing room. With the door wide open to any passersby, he bent his head and drank in the sweetness of her mouth. For a full minute, he forgot about assassinations and intrigue, traitors and spies, in the taste of an herbal tisane, her sweet and aromatic scent, the smoothness of her face beneath his caressing fingers.
“Cherie,” he breathed against her mouth. “Mon coeur, ma vie, je t’aime.”
There, he’d said it, called her his dear, his heart, his life, and admitted his love. For a heartbeat he dared not breathe. He didn’t feel her warm breath against his lips, as though she too suspended taking in life’s oxygen. Even the rustling and sliding feet in the corridor ceased.
Then the door knocker sounded. Lydia gasped, flung herself away from him, and raced to the drawing room door like the silver lining of a cloud. She stopped in the opening, her hand to her mouth, either rubbing memory of his closeness away from her or holding it near.
Christien joined her in time to see Lemster admit a youth in sweat-stained livery.
“He’s from Parliament,” Lydia whispered.
Christien followed her into the corridor.
“Lord Bainbridge?” the messenger asked.
“Here.” His lordship appeared on the steps, attired in black evening dress. “News?”
“Yes. Yes.” The youth took a few quick breaths. “The assassin is a man named John Bellingham.” He began to recite as though he had said the same thing many times. “He has a grievance against the government, but we have no reason to believe he is anything but a private subject who perpetrated this crime out of personal anger, not for the sake of any foreign power or attempt to foment revolution in this kingdom.” Speech delivered, he slumped against the front door.
Lydia swayed back against Christien. He wrapped one arm around her waist, feeling his own tension escape like acrid smoke from burning refuse.
“Thank you for this news.” Above them on the steps, Lord Bainbridge tossed the messenger a coin. Silver glinted in the dim light of the entryway and disappeared in the boy’s hand. “It’s not welcome. We’d rather Perceval be alive, but we’re relieved it’s not part of a greater plot by our enemies.”
“Indeed.” Lydia sighed. “I owe you an apology, Christien. I never should have thought even for a moment that you—I wasn’t thinking.”
“None of us is.” He released her before someone noticed them and moved away a foot, no more. “But I am thinking now, and we—I need to work harder on finding our traitor. I wouldn’t be surprised if this John Bellingham was encouraged to his action by someone wanting to create chaos in the government.”
“Christien.” Lydia faced him, but heavy footfalls on the steps sounded, and her face grew still and cold. “Thank you for coming, monsieur. We are all well here. I will see you at the ball?”
“Indeed.” Christien managed not to flinch. He saw her father rounding the staircase and understood her sudden coolness. “I won’t disrupt your dinner.”
“You may as well stay.” Lord Bainbridge loomed in the doorway. “I’m going out, Lydia, and that will disrupt your numbers. I expect a number of others will be gone too.”
“But, Father, you must at least come to Honore’s ball. You should lead her in the first dance.”
“The affairs of this country are far more important than a silly dance.” Bainbridge turned away.
“But what about you wanting Honore to find a husband immediately?” Lydia asked.
Bainbridge paused a moment, then shrugged. “Right now, I want you girls out of London. It’s safer with the way—” Without finishing his sentence, he strode away, snatched his cloak and hat from a footman, and vanished out the front door on the heels of the Parliamentary messenger.
And someone else, a glimpse of a passerby caught like a will-o-the-wisp—eavesdropping or following?
Lydia raised her hands to her face. They shook. “No matter what I do, he disapproves.”
“He is right, peut-être.” Christien did not—could not—move. He continued to stare at the blank panel of the front door as though he could bore a hole through it and pursue Bainbridge through the square. His mind spun like a child’s hoop trundling downhill.
He was mad. Never should he think what he was thinking. He had no evidence other than that glimpse and a father wanting to look out for his daughters.
Except . . .
“I shall return,” Christien told Lydia and slipped out the door before she could ask him questions.
He could never answer her, tell her what he was thinking or doing. He was chasing the wild goose, nothing more.
But he followed Lord Bainbridge anyway.
Lydia thought packing and heading for the country immediately sounded like a wonderful idea. It was one of the few times she agreed with her father. But she still expected many guests to attend dinner and must make arrangements to reorganize the table in the event that several—those who were members of Parliament in either the House of Commons or the House of Lords—decided not to come. Some ladies wouldn’t come either. They, like her own mama, would be so distraught by the news of the prime minister’s assassination that they would be prostrate upon their beds and not wish to remain in the street.
She didn’t want to be in the street even to travel to Almack’s Assembly Rooms for Honore’s ball, fearing riots as she did. But surely matters would settle as news spread of the assassin being nothing more than a man with a disturbed mind who had committed the crime. People would wish to gather, to talk about where they were when they heard the news, how they felt about it.
Lydia still felt sick. She’d made herself dress and bullied the girls into dressing. She still needed to persuade Mama that she must attend Honore’s ball. Tomorrow they could leave for the country. Lydia was of no use there in town. She couldn’t hunt a traitor. That lay in Christien’s hands.
And Christien had sped out of the house as though a man announcing himself as disloyal to the crown had walked past the window. He’d said he would return. She mustn’t fret if he didn’t. England mattered more than a party, indeed.
Yet Father had been so determined they all marry this Season. Why the sudden change in plans or opinion?
Stomach roiling, head spinning, Lydia climbed the steps to Mama’s bedchamber. She didn’t knock. Mama had told her to go away the past two times she’d done that. Lydia simply turned the handle and entered the chamber.
Mama reclined on a chaise longue. Bar
bara hovered on a stool beside her, waving a fan in one hand and smelling salts in the other. The stench of ammonia permeated the chamber.
“Open the windows.” Lydia trotted across the Wilton carpet to do so for herself. Though smelling of coal smoke and a faint whiff of horses from the stables in the mews, the breeze sweeping into the chamber surpassed the vinaigrette for freshness.
“Night air.” Mama pressed a hand to her brow. “I simply cannot breathe night air.”
“You should have a care for your mother’s health, Lydia,” Barbara scolded.
“I do.” Lydia set her hands on her hips. “But I care for Cassandra and Honore more right now. Mama, this is your youngest daughter. She deserves to have you at her side on this important night. You can drift away after the guests have arrived, but right now you need to be with your daughters.”
“I cannot.” Mama moved her hand to her chest. “My heart.”
Lydia softened her tone. “We all suffered a shock tonight. But it was nothing more than a madman with a private vengeance to settle.” She hoped. “Honore cannot have her coming-out ball with neither parent present.” Lydia spoke with determination and a hint of anger. “What gentleman will wish to court her if he thinks neither of her parents cares enough to be at her side on this important night? Do you wish her to marry? Or would you prefer she join me in Tavistock?”
“Heaven forfend.” Mama struggled to sit up.
Barbara glared. “She wouldn’t.”
“Rather than live with an autocratic father and a mother who apparently doesn’t care with whom she sneaks out of the house, yes, she would, I think.” Not waiting to observe the response for that, Lydia spun on the heel of her silver slipper and stalked from the room.
She hesitated in the corridor, waiting for guilt to slam into her. It didn’t. Instead, a sense of peace washed over her, as though at last she’d done something right.
Yet was it? She’d been raised to honor her mother and father. Wasn’t speaking her mind like that dishonoring them? If she wasn’t to completely fail as a Christian woman, shouldn’t she apologize, beg forgiveness of them, let them have their way in all things? She’d been told that all her life and transferred that belief to her role with a husband. Obedience without question. So she’d let him go without a fight and harbored the bitterness against him for seven years to the extent that marriage seemed like the cruelest state for a woman. Speaking her mind to her mother hadn’t been disobedience. Mama hadn’t told her to do something she hadn’t. Nor had she dishonored her. She’d honored her in knowing the importance of her presence with her daughter.
A Necessary Deception Page 24