Yet in compliance, hadn’t she harmed her family? She’d introduced Gerald Frobisher to her sister. She’d been so intent upon Mr. Barnaby at the theater that she hadn’t paid attention to the tension growing between Cassandra and Whittaker that led to their fight and the breaking of the engagement. And she’d been paying attention to Christien while Cassandra and Whittaker had been left alone in the library.
Halfway down the back stairs, Lydia paused and leaned against the wall, her eyes closed, her breath catching in her throat.
Perhaps she did need a keeper. Or at least an adviser, a wise counselor. Her own decisions in life, the choices she’d made, led to little success. On the contrary, they led to near disaster, from her marriage to confronting her father about meeting with Frobisher.
To running away from God?
You’ve never helped me, Lord. You let me go my own way and make mistakes, and I’ll just fix them myself too.
Decision made, she continued to the servants’ hall, where she found one footman to bring the rest of the trunks out of the box room, another one to order up the traveling coach, and a maid to assist in the packing. Lydia hurried back up to her sisters’ bedchamber and woke them.
“We’re leaving,” she announced.
“Why?” Honore sounded like a petulant child as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. “I’m as much of a success as any lady can be without a betrothal. Even my ball was a success despite the assassination and everyone mourning.”
“The Whigs weren’t mourning.” Yawning, Cassandra slipped out of bed. “But I can’t leave today. I have books to return to Hookham’s and an order to collect—”
“A footman can return the books and the order can be posted.”
“But I’ll never catch a husband if we leave London now.” Honore remained in bed.
“From what I’ve seen of London gentlemen,” Lydia said, “you will do better elsewhere.”
“What? Some manure-caked farmer like a man Father wants for me?” Honore’s face twisted with disgust. “You think I’ll find someone civilized in Devonshire?”
“It’s far more civilized than a London gaming hell.” Lydia went to the door. “You have half an hour to get dressed before I have the servants bring in the trunks for packing.”
“I won’t go.” Honore gripped her bedclothes as though they would hold her in town.
Lydia sighed. “You will if you don’t want Father’s wrath as I received it this morning.” She touched the cheek he had intended to slap, and tears welled in her eyes. “Please, I want to be away from here this morning.”
“Lydia, what happened?” Honore and Cassandra stared at her.
She shook her head. “Nothing. We had a row. It’s always the same. He wants us wed and off his hands.”
Because unmarried daughters embarrassed him, or because wed, he needn’t worry about them if something happened to him?
The former, of course. Nothing would happen to her father. He wasn’t any more guilty of treason than Mama was.
Mama was still sleeping, and Barbara refused to wake her. “She isn’t well enough to travel today. You’ll have to wait.”
“Father says we cannot. Mama will have to follow later.”
“Disgraceful, running away like this, like you’ve something to hide.” Barbara sniffed.
Lydia wished she didn’t agree.
“We’ll be gone before noon.”
They were, in fact, gone before eleven o’clock. Despite being dismissed from the dining room, Lemster must have listened at the keyhole and overheard Lydia’s conversation with her father, for he sent up every footman and maid to assist in the removal. If Cassandra and Honore hadn’t hastened to dress, they might have found themselves bustled out the door in their night rails. They did hurry, however, and once Lydia and Cassandra managed to coax Hodge and Noirette out from under the bed, with the assistance of two footmen moving the heavy piece of furniture to make the refuge less appealing, the three Bainbridge sisters and two cats crowded into the traveling coach and headed south, another carriage following behind with their luggage.
“Why,” Honore asked for perhaps the hundredth time, “do we have to go?”
“Because Father told us to,” Lydia responded for as many times.
“But why?” Honore persisted. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”
But perhaps Father had.
The idea of that set Lydia’s stomach to roiling. Perhaps Mama knew, and that was why she kept to her bed or sitting room when she should have been chaperoning Honore.
No, not even her father would she believe of committing treason. Even if he found liking his daughters difficult, he wouldn’t harm his family, see them disgraced and dishonored, shunned from Society, perhaps forced penniless into exile. As his title and estates were attainder by the Crown, he would be declared to have a corruption of the blood, and all his family, his heirs included, would be made a pariah in England.
So why, Lydia asked herself, feeling like Honore, did he want them gone from town so suddenly, when getting them husbands had been his reason for allowing them all to go to London in the first place?
No answers came from her own head, from her sisters, from the city or farms or daunting edifice of Butser Hill, with its peak ominously titled the Devil’s Cleft. None of them wishing for the steep descent to the downs of Hampshire inside the coach, they chose to stretch their legs and walk along the chalky outcroppings. Rolling hills dotted with sheep and copses of trees spread out below, all the way to the sparkling expanse of the English Channel.
Once again inside the trundling vehicle, they dozed. Cassandra even read or stared out the window. Only ten hours to Portsmouth from London with fine teams along the posting road. They reached the coastal city by dusk, dusty, quiet, too weary to eat.
“I have to walk the cats,” Lydia said once they were settled into a room at the George. Neither sister offered to accompany her.
She clipped leashes onto the collars of each feline and carried them downstairs. At the door, she hesitated, remembering the last time she’d walked cats in that garden. One cat in the rain after dark. But Barnaby was dead. She need not fear anyone pouncing on her.
Shivering despite the mild night, she slipped out the side door of the inn and hesitated beneath the lantern hung over the entrance. Its yellow glow created a pool of light that reached the head of the path, an illusion of warmth. Lydia waited there, inhaling the aroma of lilacs and thyme, rosemary and recently mown grass. She listened to the whisper of the breeze passing through the shrubbery, the singing of passing sailors—
And the crunch of gravel just beyond the pool of lantern flame.
“Good evening, Lady Gale. I see we meet again.”
26
“No post today?” Christien glanced at his valet’s empty hands and away before the man read his expression.
“No, monsieur. I’m sorry.” The man wasn’t fooled, not when Christien sent him to the receiving office daily. “Perhaps tomorrow.”
“Perhaps.”
Christien left his rooms for a long walk through Green Park. He could be attending half a dozen entertainments, even that late in the Season, but the pain of hearing nothing from Lydia ran too deeply for him to share it with anyone. Lydia’s silence spoke volumes. She wanted nothing to do with a man who would be so attached to the work he had taken to gain revenge on France that he would accuse her own father of treason. He should have known better than to say anything. He and Lydia thought, after all, that Gerald Frobisher was nothing more than a gamester. He did frequent the worst of the gaming establishments. But three times now, Christien saw Frobisher rendezvousing with Bainbridge, a man everyone knew never picked up a die or a playing card. Something odd was afoot there.
So Christien concentrated his efforts on keeping a record of both gentlemen’s movements. Unfortunately, after the third time he saw Bainbridge and Frobisher together, the time that prompted him to say something to Lydia—the action that drove her away—both men ignored o
ne another, even when they came face-to-face at a soirée Christien attended. Bainbridge left town the next day.
Christien longed to follow him. If Lydia wouldn’t write, he would go to her. But Lang said no.
“Your work is here, mon ami. I cannot spare you.”
“We’ve made no progress,” Christien objected. “I’m wondering if we’ve been mistaken about someone attempting to provoke trouble, even revolt. My first suspect turns up dead, and the second one spends his time playing cards.”
“And what is discussed over a game and a glass, eh?” Lang gave Christien a half smile, a knowing smile. “Have you tried?”
“I don’t gamble.”
Lang laughed, a low, throaty chuckle. “Of course you do. You’ve been gambling for ten years. What is worse? Your life or a game of chance?”
Christien wished Lang weren’t correct. “I’ll give it some thought.”
He thought about it while having his valet teach him how to play whist. In the meantime, London simmered in the rising heat of summer, like a steam engine getting ready to blow off the top of its stack. During his long walks through Green Park or Hyde Park, Christien caught the huddled groups of people on street corners, murmuring about the mismanagement of the war, the laziness of the prince regent, the Luddites creating havoc in the north.
“They’ve sent in soldiers to kill good Englishmen,” more than one man protested. “Killed us like dogs for fearin’ for our jobs ’cause of them power looms. We’re goin’ t’ have ourselves a civil war if this continues.”
Which was exactly what Christien did not want to hear. Added to concern over soldiers going up to the northern counties to fight the men breaking up looms came talk of Wellington doing badly in Spain, increasing the threat of France and starting rumors of invasion once again. As though that weren’t enough to bring the country to its knees, more rumors of Americans declaring war began to circulate around the middle of June. Official word hadn’t reached town yet, but people had heard that the American president, Mr. Madison, had requested their government—Congress, they called it—to make the declaration.
Three wars and a staggering economy left the nation ripe for an explosion. All some Englishmen needed was another man like the one in the north calling himself Captain Ludd to send Londoners racing for the palace to seize the king or storming the walls of Parliament.
But that man couldn’t be Lord Bainbridge. He had departed for his estate, along with his wife. If Frobisher was the guilty party, he was trying to accomplish his task over a stack of playing cards.
And why not? Christien watched the young man dealing and betting, along with three other men scarcely out of university, and felt a tugging in his gut at their grim faces. If they enjoyed play, their frowns and hooded eyes spoke otherwise. They could be playing too deeply and have concerns only for their ability to meet their debts, but Frobisher was worth watching. Christien couldn’t forget that the young man had come to town with Barnaby, who’d held what had to be forged letters of introduction from Elias Lang. And Barnaby was now dead.
But two months of following Frobisher had gotten Christien nothing but Lydia’s contempt for accusing her father of involvement in treasonous activities, and the knowledge that Miss Honore was easily led astray by a handsome face and charming manners. And Frobisher supported himself with a shocking number of wins at deep play.
Wondering if tonight would find him good enough to deal himself into a game, Christien returned to the parlor, where a young lady with protruding front teeth and mousy hair played the pianoforte with the skill and heart of a true virtuoso. He slipped to the back of the room and leaned against the wall to absorb the liquid notes flying, floating, or thundering from the instrument.
He’d chosen his position badly. Several young ladies with bobbing curls and waving fans wagged their tongues on both ends. He started to move away from the hissing whispers, then caught what they were saying.
“Now we know why her sister whisked her out of town so fast.” The speaker shook her head. A black curl bobbed against her cheek so much like Lydia’s that Christien’s heart twisted like hemp on a rope walk.
“She might be the prettiest girl who came out this Season,” another dark-haired beauty declared, “but she was no better than she should be with her wild ways. Imagine going to a gaming . . . you know what they call those places.”
Christien stood motionless. Could they possibly be discussing—?
“Honore Bainbridge seemed so sweet and kind.” A third young lady, with just enough freckles to lend her face charm, stuck her tip-tilted nose in the air. “But we now know she was consorting with those kind of females.”
“Perhaps that’s why Lord Whittaker wouldn’t marry Cassandra Bainbridge. I heard she was at a coffeehouse late at night with two men, of all things.”
“And Lady Gale spent all her time with a Frenchman.”
The girls squealed as though they’d just spoken the name of the evil one aloud.
Christien slipped away amidst a storm of applause for the talented musician. He scarcely heard the praise heaped upon the young lady. The other females’ gossip rang in his ears—talk against the Bainbridge ladies. He knew of only one person outside of his coachman and the Bainbridge family who knew Honore had been to the gaming hell, and that same person, along with Cassandra’s ballooning friends, was aware she had gone to the coffeehouse that same night.
Gerald Frobisher.
Across the corridor, that young man still played whist with his friends. Christien glided up behind one of the friends. “I’d like to take the next hand with Frobisher alone.”
The men stared.
“I’ve never seen you play,” Frobisher said. “Heinous, iniquitous, I believe you called that place you found me.”
Christien shrugged. “That was for the benefit of the ladies. Can’t have them thinking I can play, n’est-ce pas?”
And lose another piece of his soul.
He dropped onto the chair one of the friends vacated. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”
“Guineas.” Frobisher’s upper lip curled. “I only play for guineas.”
Christien stared at the cards and the gold coins glittering against the green baize of the tabletop, and a prayer formed in his head. He shoved it away. He couldn’t pray to win a game like this.
But he did win. Every card he chose, every bit of pasteboard he slapped down proved correct. He took hand after hand until Frobisher turned pale and thin-lipped, until the clock struck midnight, until Christien wanted to throw the gold coins worth a pound plus a shilling into Frobisher’s face and run out of London, to Lydia, if she would have him. Home if she would not.
He’d never run away from anything in his life, so he stayed until Frobisher called for pen, paper, and ink and wrote out a vowel for money he couldn’t afford to pay and Christien didn’t need.
Lord, I don’t want to keep winning. He did pray.
And he won again.
Frobisher’s friends drifted away. The music ceased across the corridor. The card room emptied.
Christien finally folded his cards and lay them on the table. “Enough. You’ve lost enough.”
“Just give me one more chance to win.” Frobisher’s eyes pleaded.
“I will, but not now. Not here.” Christien rose, collected his winnings and the slips of paper with the simple vowels IOU and Frobisher’s signature, and led the way out of the house.
Frobisher followed, pleading like a puppy begging for a denied meal. Christien felt like he’d kicked the puppy as well as starved it.
“Join me in my carriage,” he told the younger man. “I’ll take you home.”
“No, I need to recover my losses.” Frobisher hung on the carriage door. “There’s a place—”
“Get in.” Christien gave him a gentle shove.
Frobisher climbed in. Christien followed. A footman slammed the door behind them, and the carriage trundled off across the cobbles.
Christien took the
bag of coins and slips of paper from his pockets and held them out to Frobisher. “You may have these back if you give me information.”
“I haven’t any information to give.” He was sulky again.
“Why did you start rumors about Miss Honore Bainbridge?”
“You’ll tear up my vowels for that?” Frobisher laughed. “You’re a fool, Frog. It’s simple. Her father wouldn’t pay for my silence.”
“You’re telling me that you tried to blackmail Lord Bainbridge in exchange for keeping your mouth shut about Miss Honore?” Christien felt as though someone had slammed him between the shoulder blades with a sledgehammer. “That’s why you met with him?”
“Would I need another reason? If I couldn’t get money by marrying her, then I tried to get it another way. Now she’s ruined and will be pleased to marry me.”
His valet would think him mad, but Christien would want a bath when he reached home after spending so much time with this man.
“Now may I have my money back?” Frobisher held out his hands.
“I’m not certain I believe you.”
“You’ve got to.” Panic tinged Frobisher’s voice now. “I was counting on my wins tonight to—”
“To what?” Christien let the coins chink together.
Frobisher made a grab for them. “Please. I’m ruined if I don’t pay.”
“Ruined by whom?” Christien tucked the bag behind him.
Surely more lay in this than simple blackmail for an advantageous marriage.
“It doesn’t matter to you. Just me. My life. Please.” Frobisher breathed hard through his nose, sniffed. “Please. I’ll tell you anything necessary if you just give me my money back.”
“Who killed Barnaby?” Christien demanded.
“Barnaby? How should I know?” A note of hysteria entered the younger man’s tone. “Not me. He was an acquaintance, nothing more. I swear it. I beg of you.”
And he did beg. He slipped to his knees on the floor of the carriage and raised beseeching hands.
Christien felt sick. He didn’t like Gerald Frobisher, thought him despicable for his gaming and the way he’d led Honore into imprudent behavior. But to see any man humbled like this—on his knees in a cramped well of space, raising his hands in supplication as though Christien were some sort of deity—released a veil, a black curtain from inside his head, and shone light as bright as day upon himself, his actions, his behavior.
A Necessary Deception Page 26