by Amy Lake
Dewhurst consulted his notes. “An elderly cousin,” he said. “Female.”
“Her duenna, I suppose. What’s her name?”
“Philippa Cavendish. I don’t know much else. She doesn’t seem to go out in society, and the Aisling House servants are extraordinarily close-mouthed.”
Lord Blakeley nodded. “Odd that Miss Asherwood did not mention her.”
A woman who speaks perfect French, he was thinking. Or the girl does herself.
But even Peregrine could find very little else to suspect. The request within the letter—for assistance in locating her sister, mademoiselle Marguerite du Merveille, and assisting in her journey to England, if necessary—was just as Miss Asherwood had described.
“Evidently, the sister does exist,” said Dewhurst.
“So it seems.”
“Now we wait to see if she writes another letter, to someone else. Although, somehow I doubt she will.”
Lord Blakeley nodded. He was experiencing a curious combination of relief and disappointment. There was no mystery here, he thought. Anthony had men who were still watching Aisling House for other letters, to see if Rabaillat’s name was passed along to the French government. But it seemed unlikely. The girl has a half-sister in France, she was worried, and there was an end to it.
Miss Asherwood shows a great deal of concern for someone she’s never met, thought Peregrine. Seeking him out, transgressing societal canons to visit him in his own home. It spoke well of her, he decided.
“Perhaps we should take a look at Philippa Cavendish,” he said to Dewhurst. “Just to tie up that loose end.”
Anthony made a note. “Done. Now, what are you going to do about mademoiselle du Merveille?”
“Mmm?” Peregrine looked up. “About what?”
“The sister. Are we leaving her in France?”
“I don’t see why not.” Lord Blakeley hesitated. “The fifteen year-old daughter of a widowed comtesse? Strictly small fish. She should be perfectly safe in Picardy.”
“I agree. But won’t Miss Asherwood wonder why she never receives a reply from Monsieur Rabaillat? Or are we producing one?”
Perhaps Lord Blakeley was wool-gathering, to have forgotten this point. “Ah. Of course,” he said. “We will need to produce a letter.”
“Although when the girl arrives in England, I
suspect Rabaillat will be entirely forgotten.”
“True,” said Blakeley. “Still—” He was thinking about Elizabeth Asherwood’s eyes, the deep chestnut of her hair. He had wanted to run his hands through it, there on the settee, wondering if it could possibly be as soft as he remembered from their moments together under the arbor.
Dewhurst was looking at him curiously, eyebrows raised. Had he asked Peregrine a question?
“I’ll write the letter. Is there anything else?” said Lord Blakeley.
“We’ve a message from Francois that arrived while you were away. The situation regarding the margravine of Plessy requires our attention—”
Lord Blakeley shook his head. “Damn.”
“It can’t be avoided.”
“I know.”
Peregrine Blakeley was no fool. Some of the individuals for whom he had taken risks in the course of his employment were no doubt the worst kind of aristocrat, cruel and unfeeling and wholly deserving the loss of wealth and land. The margravine of Plessy was from all accounts exactly such an individual; a thoroughly unpleasant woman of some fifty years who had spent her life making everyone in her power miserable.
But the horror sweeping France was, from his own experience as well as the reports he read daily, no respecter of nuance. It was all too easy to become an informateur in that country, to denounce one’s neighbor as a royalist or indulgent for no reason other than spite. Blakeley and Dewhurst—and their confederates—had decided from the start that moral judgments were not theirs to make.
“The revolutionary government owes to the good citizen all the protection of the nation; it owes nothing to the Enemies of the People but death.” So said Robespierre, but who was a good citizen in a state gone mad? Noblemen, priests, even peasants accused of hoarding or rebellion, all were fodder for the guillotine.
There was such a thing as balance, thought Peregrine. A measured response to injustice, which was not served by blood-fever and this roiling tempest of fear. He had seen things in Paris that he would like to forget.
So the unpleasant margravine would be rescued, one more person to escape Robespierre’s tribunal. He and Dewhurst had worked out several plans for extracting such individuals, some of which Lord Blakeley had carried out himself. Carried out at great risk to his own life, with the assistance of trusted allies within France.
A screaming mob dragged two men through the street, and beat one of them to death nearly at Lord Blakeley’s feet. He had no idea of their supposed crimes, and—at that moment in disguise, on his way to bribe jailers of the Bastille for the freedom of an entire family—he possessed no way to intervene.
Blakeley’s eyes flashed at the memory. He detested that feeling of powerlessness over what be believed to be evil, hated that he could have done nothing but been killed himself. He had learned more of human nature in the past six months than he truly cared to know. He had learned to believe nothing that was told him and—apart from that handful of good friends—to trust no-one.
* * *
Chapter 24
An Unacceptable Situation
Afterwards, Miss Asherwood felt considerable chagrin that she had forgotten so easily about Marguerite. Or, not forgotten, really, as her sister was always at the back of her mind. But after the letter was sent to Monsieur Rabaillat, and after Lord Blakeley had assured her that the comtesse and her daughter were in no danger in Picardy, she had relaxed, told herself to be patient, and settled in to wait for a message from Dover.
Perhaps it was only as society had told her; that women were not to worry about problems and practicalities. Gentlemen had the answers and the control, and a woman’s job was to be a diversion, and to occupy herself with the lady-like talents of music, art and dance until a husband and children came along.
Or perhaps a simpler explanation sufficed. Miss Asherwood was perilously close to being in love, and as the object of her affections had taken the reins with regard to Marguerite, and had seemed confident that all was well, she was inclined to believe him absolutely.
There was something about Peregrine Blakeley that inspired that kind of faith.
* * * *
Under other circumstances, Lord Blakeley would have been entirely correct in his estimation of the threat to Marguerite du Merveille and her mother. Picardy was an oasis of relative calm that year, and would remain so throughout all the months of the Terror. The comtesse was very minor nobility indeed, and although she was more comfortably situated than many of her neighbors, she was neither rich enough nor powerful enough—a woman, with a daughter, alone!—to inspire jealousy. Although the estate was known for its vineyards and gardens, it was also known that the comtesse had often, during the years since the death of her husband, worked in the fields herself, side by side with common folk.
It keeps me busy, she said. And Marguerite was simply adored.
But what Peregrine did not know, unfortunately, was that the comtesse had inspired jealousy of a different and very particular sort. She had been courted for years by a man from one of the chateau’s neighboring villages, someone who in England would have been called a member of the squire class, albeit barely. Poorly educated and boorish, Pierre-Louis Lefèvre was known to everyone in that area as an admittedly handsome but ill-tempered brute.
He had known her since they were children and when the comtesse’s husband died, two decades ago, he believed his chance had come. Lefèvre had banked on his looks being enough; they were more than enough for most of the silly milkmaids of the area. But then Sir Terence arrived, and the woman Pierre-Louis already thought of as belonging to him was snatched from his grasp. Event
ually the English interloper had ceased his visits, dead it seemed, and Lefèvre—who like many bullies had patience and a long memory—was certain that Alice du Merveille would now be his.
And she had refused him.
Refused him politely at first, but Lefèvre was not a man to give up after one attempt, or five, and eventually Alice du Merveille was driven to snub him in public, in full hearing of her bastard daughter and several of the servants.
This was an unacceptable situation. Pierre-Louis, who boasted of several cousins living in Paris and who heard frequent reports of the goings-on in the Place de la Revolution, had begun to make plans.
* * *
Chapter 25
Some Pertinent Information from Miss Ware
Miss Asherwood was to attend a musicale at the home of Lord and Lady Spencer that evening. She was not fond of these entertainments, although she often accompanied Miss Perrin or even, on occasion, Lady Helen. Sitting for a few minutes as the daughter of the house played a short piece of Handel was fine; sitting for an hour as a wavering tenor or a screeching soprano went through their paces was misery. Elizabeth had a poor sense for music in general, a deficiency which may have been related to her poor ear for language. At any rate, even when Penny asked she occasionally cried off, but tonight she was going with great, albeit nervous, anticipation.
Because tonight’s soprano was Claire Glastonbury, née Dewhurst. And the former Claire Dewhurst was the sister of one Anthony Dewhurst, who was in turn a close friend of Lord Peregrine Blakeley. Miss Asherwood had obtained all of this information only the afternoon before, when she and Penelope happened upon Susannah Ware in Hyde Park.
It had been an unusually fine summer day, with no hint of rain. They came upon Miss Ware as she was comfortably seated in a high-perch phaeton, the carriage being the property of Lord Jeremy Hertford, he of the skin-tight breeches. Susannah was sitting very close to Jeremy, with one small hand tucked cozily under his arm, and Lord Hertford—thought Lizzie—looked like he had just swallowed the canary.
“Penny! Elizabeth!”
Susannah smiled brilliantly at them, and then at her companion—”You don’t mind, do you, Jeremy dear, we’ll just talk a minute, I promise.”—and launched into her recent discovery, which she related in a stage whisper. Lord Hertford affected to be occupied by his team.
“You’ll never guess what I’ve just learned from Sybil Vimes! She’s the niece of Lord Pomfret, you know, and Lord Pomfret has been following Maria Nighthall around like a love-sick puppy, and Maria says—”
Eventually, Susannah came to end of her list, and to the names of Claire Glastonbury, Anthony Dewhurst, and Lord Peregrine Blakeley.
“So I thought—oh, Lizzie has such a tendre for the man, she must find out this instant! And I should have sent round a note, but I thought—you know—perhaps I would see you today. And here you are!”
“Goodness,” said Elizabeth, caught off guard. “How interesting.”
“I know!” Miss Ware, never one to catch subtleties, was pleased with herself.
Penny, Elizabeth was thinking. Miss Perrin was aware that Miss Asherwood’s thoughts were straying in the direction of Lord Blakeley. Penny must have told Susannah.
She would have a few things to say to her friend when they were alone.
The three women chatted for a few more minutes, and then Susannah put her hand once more on Lord Hertford’s arm. As soon as the phaeton was out of earshot, Elizabeth turned to Penelope with accusing eyes.
“You told her,” she said.
Miss Perrin, Lizzie knew, had little patience with coy females.
“She asked if you were interested in anyone.” Penny shrugged, then grinned. “I may have said a few words.”
“I thought we’d agreed that Lord Blakeley is a thoroughly unsuitable gentleman!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” said Penny, airily. “Besides, aren’t you glad you found out about the musicale?”
She was. Miss Asherwood had no guarantee that Lord Blakeley would be at that entertainment, of course, but once the idea of attending started to grow, she found that she could not uproot it.
He might not be present. But he might. And she would see him again.
* * * *
Lord Blakeley, for his part, was usually no more excited than Elizabeth about a musicale, which he found almost always tedious and occasionally painful. But Dewhurst’s sister was to sing this evening, and he made a point of attending at least two or three of her performances each year. Anthony adored his sister, and would have been hurt if Peregrine had avoided them altogether, but in Clairy’s case it was no sacrifice. Her voice was lovely, and she performed with intelligence and passion.
It did occur to him that he might see Miss Asherwood at the home of Lord and Lady Spencer. But a musicale was a much smaller affair than a ball. He might not.
* * *
Chapter 26
The Musicale
The musicale was held in the lovely home of Lord and Lady Spencer, a large residence—even by the standards of the ton—on St. James Place, overlooking the Queen’s Walk and Green Park. It had been constructed only some forty years ago, and was furnished and decorated in the finest modern styles, which sought their inspiration from classical Greece. Many of London’s elite families had chosen to stuff their homes with every evidence of money that the rooms could hold; not so the Spencers. It was calming to walk into the music room and see a piano, a harp and a selection of comfortable chairs, with nary a gilded chandelier in sight.
Nor a Lord Blakeley, unfortunately. Elizabeth had insisted that Miss Perrin accompany her, and as they entered the room Penny’s job was to look for him.
“Don’t be obvious!” hissed Miss Asherwood, between her teeth. She smiled and nodded at Lady Glastonbury—the elder—and Lady Jersey.
“Good grief, stop worrying,” said Penelope. “This is not my first musicale.”
So Elizabeth continued smiling and nodding as Penny scanned the room. But there was no evidence of his lordship, and as the pianist strode toward the fine Erard piano, a half-hour later, Penny and Elizabeth sat down, the latter with considerable disappointment.
And now she was obliged to sit through the entire programme. At least Penny will enjoy it, thought Lizzie.
Penny did. Mrs. Glastonbury was an excellent mezzo-soprano, and Elizabeth might have found her selection of Purcell’s work from Dido and Aeneas agreeable as well, had she been in the mind to enjoy anything.
His best friend’s sister! He should be here, thought Miss Asherwood.
Then— What am I doing? I should be planning for my engagement to Lord Winthrop, not swanning after a man who can never be mine.
Geoffrey had called upon Miss Asherwood twice that week, and she had driven out with him on one of those occasions. Although Lord Winthrop was as polite and attentive as before, Lizzie knew him well enough to sense the underlying frustration and annoyance. Geoffrey was nearing the end of his patience, and the engagement would have to be soon.
For all that she thought of herself as strong and independent—and her living circumstances did afford certain freedoms not available to other young ladies of the ton—the thought of losing her not-quite-fiancé filled Elizabeth with dread.
He would know, thought Lizzie. He would know that Lord Winthrop rejected me, no matter how well they tried to spread talk of a mutual agreement. Would Lord Blakeley be amused? Or worse, feel sorry for her?
His pity was intolerable. Miss Asherwood’s mind was suddenly filled with bleak images of herself as a spinster, spending childless days alone at Aisling House, while Lady Helen, and Susannah, and Penny were married off one by one.
I would be the aunt, she thought. The perennial aunt.
I would need to move to Yorkshire after all. And eat mutton.
Perhaps Penny will visit me.
So be it, thought Miss Asherwood. ’Tis time.
“I’ve decided,” she whispered to Penelope. “I’m going to tell Geoffrey that we
can be engaged.”
“Excellent,” said Miss Perrin, her gaze never wavering from the soprano. “Do you want to tell Lord Blakeley the happy news? Because he came in a few minutes ago and is standing over there by the harp.”
During the interval Miss Perrin and Miss Asherwood joined a small crowd of people gathered around the sideboard for food and drink. Elizabeth was in such a state of panic that her ears were buzzing and she felt she would be unable to walk ten feet without a stumble. She was holding tightly to Penelope’s arm.
“Ouch,” said Penny. “Your fingernails are digging in.”
“Where is he?” whispered Lizzie.
“Take a breath. I’m going to have bruises.”
“Where is he?”
“He’s talking to Mrs. Glastonbury and some gentleman over by the canapés.”
“Is he looking this way?”
“Lud, no, he’s talking to them. Lizzie, for heaven’s sake, have a glass of punch.”
Miss Asherwood did not, as a rule, drink spirits. She decided that this evening would be an exception.
After a few swallows she began to feel better.
“I’m sorry,” she told Penelope. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”
“You’re becoming engaged,” said Penny, drily. “It’s an exciting time in a young woman’s life.”
By the time her cup was finished, Miss Asherwood had regained her composure, or at least so she thought.
“He’s coming toward us,” said Penelope. “No! Don’t look, he’s behind you.”
Elizabeth’s heart began a rapid tattoo against her chest.
“Miss Perrin,” came a strong, masculine voice. “Miss Asherwood. How delightful to see you. Are you enjoying the performance?”
Lizzie’s ears were still buzzing. Penelope, thank heavens, took the lead for the first moments, and she and Lord Blakeley engaged in a short commentary on the Erard piano.
“They are the very devil to keep in tune, as I understand,” said Lord Blakeley.