by Amy Lake
“Lizzie,” said Lord Winthrop then, and sat down next to her. He put a hand on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. But—”
What is it about the male of the species and apologies? thought Miss Asherwood. They seem incapable of managing even the simplest attempt. And yet, didn’t she owe Geoffrey an apology as well? Guilt once again made itself known, even if Elizabeth was not quite ready to admit what it was that she was feeling guilty about.
“Geoffrey,” she said finally, carefully, “we are not yet engaged.”
“Only because you do not wish it,” said Lord Winthrop.
Miss Asherwood could hear the bitterness in his voice. You’ve never offered for me, she could have said, but did not. Elizabeth knew he was correct. She did not wish it. Not yet.
* * *
Chapter 21
The Many-talented Miss Cavendish
Penelope arrived a half-hour after Geoffrey left, and before any French was discussed the two girls held a long post-mortem of Elizabeth’s argument with Lord Winthrop, with Bessie bringing more tea to the library to fuel the conversation.
“I think,” said Elizabeth, “that he’d been drinking.”
“Geoffrey!”
“He didn’t eat a single one of Cook’s scones. And I distinctly saw him wince, several times.”
Penny had little pity for Lord Winthrop’s suffering. “I used to play abominable tricks on Henry when he was in that condition,” she told Elizabeth. “He’d drag himself downstairs mid-afternoon, and I would pretend I’d seen a rat, and scream at the top of my lungs.”
“Good grief. It’s a wonder he still speaks to you.”
“I lend him money. But Geoffrey! I didn’t think he was the type.”
“He isn’t,” said Lizzie. “But I believe he went to Brooks’ last night, and you know the viscount—”
Penny did. Viscount Marbrey and the influence he had on his friends had been a topic of conversation more than once. “That man will be the death of them all.”
“At any rate, then he said that he forbade me to speak to Lord Blakeley again.”
Penelope burst out laughing. “Forbade! My dear Lord Winthrop!”
“You can laugh. But he was very upset.”
“I don’t doubt it.”
“What can I do?”
“To make Geoffrey feel better?” Penelope paused. “Well, you can agree to marry him.”
“Lud.”
Eventually, when there was nothing more to be said about Lord Winthrop, and since Miss Asherwood did not want to examine the idea of an engagement in any more detail, they turned their attention to Elizabeth’s letter.
“Cher monsieur,” said Penelope, reading the letter. She grinned at her friend. “’Tis an excellent beginning. We shall be done in no time.”
“I told you I was hopeless,” protested Lizzie. “And this dictionary is no help.”
“So tell me what you want to say—in English.”
Miss Asherwood took a deep breath and closed her eyes. “I would like to request your assistance,” she began, and then frowned. “Or should I explain who I am, first? But if he doesn’t know Marguerite—”
They went back and forth for several minutes until a basic plan was at hand, with Penny suggesting a few phrases in French, and Elizabeth wondering if they sounded quite correct.
“I think that ‘I would like’ is je voulle,” offered Miss Perrin.
“Are you sure?”
“Good heavens, no,” came a voice. “Miss Perrin, I must ask—where did you not learn French?”
Both girls turned to see Philippa Cavendish at the library door, dressed in an astonishing morning-gown of maroon batiste, the style as usual of several decades past, and her hair cascading in salt-and-pepper ringlets down her back.
“Aunt Philippa—”
“Where is the young man?” asked Miss Cavendish, peering around as if someone was hiding, perhaps behind the desk. Elizabeth realized that—of course—Bessie had gone to inform her aunt when Geoffrey had arrived. It seemed an age ago, now.
“Ah . . . Lord Winthrop stayed for only a short visit, aunt,” said Lizzie. “Miss Perrin and I were just writing a letter—” But then she stopped, not knowing how much more to explain.
“To France? Give me the thing,” said Aunt Philippa. She extended a wavering hand for the by now smudged and tattered sheet of vellum. “And let us see what we can do.”
Her cousin was full of surprises, thought Elizabeth. Aunt Philippa’s command of the French language was so immediately obvious that neither girl thought to question her translation. They made a peculiar trio. Miss Asherwood read the proposed letter in English, Miss Cavendish dictated the corresponding French, and Penny—whose penmanship was better than Lizzie’s, and who could actually recognize and spell the words Aunt Philippa was saying—wrote. The whole took no more than a half hour, after which the old woman stood up and left, saying nothing until she reached the library door.
“There is no time like the present, Elizabeth,” said Aunt Philippa. “Send it off at once.”
Lizzy and Penelope looked at each other as the door swung closed.
“That was unexpected,” said Miss Perrin, finally.
“She’s a little . . . odd,” ventured Elizabeth.
“How did she know we were working on this letter?”
“I have no idea.” Miss Asherwood was thoughtful. “Perhaps she is better acquainted with some of the servants than I realize.”
“An informant!” Penny laughed.
“I cannot complain,” said Lizzie. “She never really interferes.”
“But that isn’t your real problem now, you know.”
“Hmm?” Miss Asherwood was carefully melting wax over the back of the envelope, and thinking about Aunt Philippa. First with Geoffrey, and now the letter to Monsieur Rabaillat. For someone who spent nearly the whole of the day within the confines of one room, her chaperone seemed to have an alarmingly good idea of what was happening in Elizabeth’s life. Did she know about Peregrine Blakeley?
“You have no direction for this letter other than Calais,” continued Penelope. “Where were you planning to send it?”
Elizabeth pressed her seal into the wax, and explained that Lord Blakeley had promised to take charge from this point. Penny frowned.
“A second visit to Saint Ann’s Lane?” she asked Lizzy. “You aren’t going yourself, surely. Why not send one of the footmen?”
This was a sensible, if depressing idea. But Elizabeth shook her head. “Lord Blakeley said that he would come for it here,” she told Penny, “later this week.”
“Why?” asked Miss Perrin, bluntly.
Miss Asherwood shrugged, and then blushed.
“Oh, Lizzie,” said Penelope, in sudden comprehension. “No.”
“I haven’t done anything!”
“Nor should you! Lizzie—he’s not our type.”
“Why not?”
“He won’t marry you, you know he won’t. He’ll . . . he’ll dally with you, and then leave you in disgrace—”
“I know.”
“—and it will be back to Yorkshire—”
“—with the mutton. Yes, I know.” Elizabeth drew a deep breath. “What is our type, anyway?” she added. “Safe, predictable and boring?”
“Exactly.” Penny laughed.
“Haven’t you ever wanted more than that?”
Her friend looked away for a long moment. Then she turned back to Elizabeth.
“Of course,” said Miss Perrin.
Penny left shortly afterwards, and Elizabeth began the long wait to ‘later this week.’ It’s no more or less than what you knew would happen, she told herself. Because Penelope was right; vague assurances and a hazy timetable were all any woman could expect from someone like Peregrine Blakeley.
* * *
Chapter 22
The Beginnings of a Story
A few days later, Elizabeth received word from Lord Blakeley that he would be in the vicinity of Upper Gr
osvenor Street that afternoon, and he would be most obliged if he might pay her a brief call.
If she was at home, of course. If not, perhaps some other time.
Good heavens, thought Lizzie. At home? Of course she was at home. She’d been at home every day that week, at the usual hour for visiting, her ears attuned to the slightest indication that someone was about to knock at her door.
Which people did, with infuriating regularity. Penelope and Lord Winthrop, twice. Lady Bessonby, soliciting funds for the Foundling Hospital, to which Miss Asherwood always contributed. Lady Helen Wexcomb and Susannah had also dropped by one day, on their way to several of the fashionable shops on Old Bond Street; Lady Helen was picking fabrics for her wedding gown, and was bubbling over with ideas of color and lace, interspersed with bouts of happy tears.
The letter to Monsieur Rabaillat sat on the mantel of the breakfast room fireplace, where it was the first thing she saw every morning when she came downstairs.
“I’m doing my best,” she told it, under her breath. “But he has not come.”
But now, apparently, he would. Elizabeth changed her gown thrice, eventually settling on a simple muslin in a light shade of moss green that she thought went particularly well with her hair. She wandered down to the kitchen and back several times. She was in the still room, helping Cook with a new batch of lavender water, when Pivens found her—finally!—announcing that “a Lord Blakeley is here to see you, miss” in what Lizzie referred to, privately, as his ‘high butler’ voice.
Elizabeth could tell from the butler’s tone that he was not pleased, and that he had a number of questions about his lordship, questions which he would never address directly to her, but which would be answered in the end, via one or another member of the household.
She could only hope that the answers he got would be satisfactory, else Lord Blakeley might discover it exceedingly difficult to find Miss Asherwood receiving visitors on a second occasion, whether she wished to or not.
A second occasion.
Lizzie sighed. “Thank you, Pivens,” she said, and removed her apron. Her heart beating hard and fast, she went upstairs to the library.
“Miss Asherwood.”
Lord Blakeley crossed the floor of the library in a few long strides, and kissed her hand.
She curtseyed. “Lord Blakeley.”
They stood for a moment in awkward silence, and the Lizzie remembered that this was her dream, this was the only chance she would get, and she said, “I’ll ring for some tea.”
Lizzie was too nervous to be entirely at her ease, but years in society had not been wasted on either of them, and they chatted pleasantly for a few minutes about the weather and the abysmal condition of the London streets. By the time Bessie arrived with tea—but no scones, Elizabeth noted, with amusement—Pivens was not pleased at all—she and Lord Blakeley were side-by-side on the settee, as she had hoped.
Lizzie gave him the envelope.
“I will see that the letter is sent immediately to Monsieur Rabaillat,” said Lord Blakeley. “And then we will know what to do about your sister.”
“I am hoping she is on her way already.”
“Of course.”
Mr. Peppers had entered the library, tail twitching. He jumped onto his lordship’s lap and settled into a loud purr. Blakeley petted him absentmindedly.
“I believe you said that Monsieur . . . that this individual lives in Calais?” said Lizzy. She was surprised at Mr. Peppers, who disliked company as a rule.
“Yes. He is a long-time friend.”
“You must be very familiar with the area.”
“With the northern provinces in general. My mother has numerous relations in Normandy. Near the town of Dieppe. I spent summers there as a child.”
She gave a small sigh. “How lovely.” Like many English who had never travelled, Elizabeth’s idea of the European continent involved warmth and sun.
She saw a shadow cross his face, a moment’s change in expression. “You would think so, wouldn’t you?”
“Oh, dear. It wasn’t idyllic, then?”
“It was . . . ” He hesitated. “We spent our days on the beach, of course.”
“You have siblings?”
“Yes, three younger sisters—and there were always cousins, as well.”
Miss Asherwood poured more tea, and waited. There was something more to the story, she realized.
“My mother and her sister were very close. The family owns a large estate and during the summer—” He broke off, and his lips quirked in a half-smile. “We ran wild, I suppose. As a pack.”
“As children should do.” Elizabeth smiled as well. “I never had that opportunity.”
“You grew up without the company of brothers or sisters?” Blakeley was surprised.
“’Twas just me and my parents. And the household—until my mother died. And then my father, of course.”
He looked at her, his expression warm and grave. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”
Elizabeth was a little surprised in her turn, and discomfited. He didn’t know she was alone? He’d asked no-one about her? Miss Asherwood made no claim to being an important person in London society, but she had many friends and acquaintances, and if Lord Blakeley had taken any interest at all—
You knew he didn’t, she reminded herself. He is only here for the letter. And a cup of tea.
“So—you have cousins as well as sisters?” she asked, returning to the subject of Lord Blakeley’s childhood, hoping to draw out him out. “Are they older?”
“No.”
For a moment she thought he would not continue. Then— “Michel was closest to my age—he was a year or so younger, and probably the only one of us who could be described as reserved.” A small, crooked smile. “Or well-behaved. Gillet and Herve were twins, and holy terrors. What one of them didn’t think of doing, the other one usually would. And a girl. Fanchone . . . ”
“What a beautiful name.” These very personal reminiscences were unexpected, and not at all the done thing for a first social call. Elizabeth wouldn’t have interrupted him for the world.
“She was the youngest of the group. And so small. My sisters adored her—she was like a doll to them, I think. They played dress-up by the hours . . . ”
Something in his tone warned Elizabeth. Something about the girl, Fanchone.
“She . . . died. While she was still a child.”
“Oh. I’m terribly sorry.”
A long pause. They both took a sip of tea.
Lord Blakeley stood up. “As I said, I will see that Monsieur Rabaillat receives your letter as quickly as possible. I am sure he will have something to suggest.”
It was over. “Of course.” She offered him her hand.
“And Miss Asherwood, do not be too concerned about your sister. Picardy is a peaceful area these days. The inhabitants are proud and independent, and they’ve never been much interested in Paris fashions. The comtesse is one of their own.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Asherwood.
“I’m confident that she is in no danger from them, and even less so her daughter. I’ve no doubt you will see her soon.”
And he was gone.
* * *
Chapter 23
The Letter Is Opened
Lord Blakeley took his gloves off with quick, angry movements and flung them onto the study desk. Anthony looked up in surprise.
“What’s wrong?” asked Dewhurst.
“Nothing,” said Peregrine curtly.
“Ah.” His friend nodded. “Excellent.”
Gods. He couldn’t even fool himself anymore. He was attracted to the girl. He was attracted to Miss Elizabeth Asherwood, the delightful and enticing young lady that he’d just spent an hour sitting next to on a chintz-covered settee, wishing every second that he could take her in his arms. Dammit all to hell.
“Nice day for a drive,” commented Dewhurst, blandly.
The man bloody well knew that Lord Blakeley had not b
een on any drive.
And he had lied to her. Oh, he’d tried to avoid it. But the feigned surprise when she spoke of being an only child, the questions he’d asked when he knew all the answers already— that was lying, pure and simple. He’d investigated her. She was under investigation.
And then, to make matters worse, he’d begun to tell her about Fanchone. A story only Anthony knew, of all his friends. Although even Anthony didn’t know the whole of it.
Dewhurst stood up. Ignoring Lord Blakeley’s pique, he held out his hand. “Well, shall we take a look at the letter?”
Blakeley sighed. “Yes. Of course.”
If Miss Asherwood’s letter was actually going to be sent, reading her note to ‘Monsieur Rabaillat’ might have posed a problem. Sealing wax could be removed without evidence of tampering—sometimes. Usually it made an unholy mess and necessitated a diversion, such as the unfortunate occasion when Peregrine had been obliged to carefully place the envelope under the hoof of his horse, to explain the cracked and destroyed seal.
But as Monsieur Jacques Rabaillat did not exist, such care was unnecessary. Lord Blakeley slit open the letter and spread the vellum for both his and Dewhurst’s perusal.
Mon cher monsieur—
The beginning was unremarkable, but as they read Elizabeth’s missive, both men began to frown.
“’Tis elegantly written,” Anthony said, finally, with a note of question in his voice. His French was at the same level as Lord Blakeley’s, to whit, fluent and learned. “She shows an excellent command of the français classique.”
“Hmm,” said Lord Blakeley.
“I’d say her turn of phrase is quite formal for a young London miss.”
“Indeed.”
What was this? wondered Peregrine. He’d heard Miss Asherwood speak a few words in French, and would have bet money that her command of the language was no more, at best, than that of the average schoolgirl.
Had she been trying to fool him? Or, a better question—
“Is there someone else living in the house?” he wondered out loud, “There must be.”