by Kate Moore
As long as she kept the little book secure, and as long as no one else discovered the map, her actions would not endanger her father. As soon as the thought occurred, she broke away, her breath warm and ragged, her body vibrating with sensation. “Thank you for the lesson. It was most instructive. I will know how to avoid being alone with any government protocol officer trying to persuade me to steal a painting from one of his majesty’s subjects.”
Their carriage halted. They had reached the hotel. She scrambled back on to the seat, rearranging her disordered skirts. It was time to break free of the hold he had on her, to remember that she had only one purpose in London, and it was not to find a husband but a father.
* * * *
An hour after the last guests had left, Clive found his mother at her dressing table as her maid undid her coiffure. At forty-six, Phoebe Walhouse had no reliance on dyes. What silver had invaded her gold curls was disguised in the intricate arrangements her expert dresser created.
Clive seated himself and waited for a flushed Allegra to finish recounting the attentions she had received from eligible admirers. As impatient as he was to keep his evening appointment with Pamela, he felt the fresh recital of Allegra’s triumphs would dispose his mother to favor his request.
When Phoebe dismissed her maid and Allegra yawned, he brought the matter up. “Mother, don’t you think we should invite Jane Fawkener to make her home with us this Season?”
“Her home?” Allegra squeaked. “Mother, you wouldn’t. It’s my season.”
Clive countered, “So it is, dear sister, but you wouldn’t want anything said against you when your cousin is received elsewhere and people wonder why we haven’t taken her in.”
Allegra opened her mouth, but Phoebe silenced her with a look. “Really, Clive, Jane Fawkener is no concern of yours. If your father is not troubled about the girl, you need not be either.”
“Mother, what could be the harm in having Jane with us for a few weeks? The Season proper hasn’t even begun yet, and there’s no danger of Jane poaching any of Allegra’s beaux.”
“She kept Eversley to herself all night,” Allegra protested.
Clive shrugged. “You don’t want Eversley.”
“That’s not the point. He’s my beau not hers.”
“Children, this squabble is absurd.” Phoebe waved her maid away. “The girl is plain enough. She makes a good foil for Allegra’s brilliance. I distrust her eyes though. I think she has an unbecoming habit of judging for herself.”
Clive thought about it. “She’s merely ignorant and cautious.”
Phoebe took a jar of cream in her hands and removed the lid. “Perhaps. I’m sure her father never taught her anything useful. And he certainly never taught her to regard family as she ought. You can’t expect the Walhouses to do a great deal for her, Clive. After all, it is Allegra’s season to shine.”
“We could put her up in the spare room next to Annabel’s for the Season? She’d be in nobody’s way there. Her father did ask.”
“You saw that letter, did you? I’m sure Fawkener never expected us to take her in. He never did the least thing for your father when he had difficulties.”
“I thought they went to Eton together.”
Phoebe gave him a condescending look. “Really, that old school ties thing is passé.”
A rustling from under the bed made Allegra jump. Clive turned to see the bed skirts sticking out.
Allegra held her wrapper tight about her. “Mother, what is it?”
“It’s me.” Annabel wriggled out from under the bed in her night rail with a blue counterpane wrapped around her shoulders. “Couldn’t we have Jane? I like her.”
“Annabel,” their mother said. “How long have you been under that bed?”
Annabel stuck out her chin. “I wanted to hear about Allegra’s party.”
“You were spying,” Allegra said.
“Just listening, not spying. Spying is when—”
“Annabel.” Their mother frowned. “Hiding is a very bad habit. I must never hear of you hiding again.”
Annabel hung her head. “Yes, Mama.”
“To bed with you.” Phoebe pointed toward the door, and Annabel trudged toward it, dragging the blue counterpane.
When the door closed, Phoebe turned back to her two eldest children. “Allegra, don’t be a goose about Jane Fawkener. Clive, take the girls shopping tomorrow. Make sure Jane Fawkener won’t embarrass the family. Goodnight.” Phoebe’s expression ended the interview. She dipped two fingers into her cosmetic pot and drew forth a dollop of aromatic cream.
Clive bowed. He’d won enough of a victory to enjoy Pamela’s company.
In the course of a long Season, the Husband Hunter will inevitably hear remarks from married ladies about the nature of conjugal intimacy. On hearing such remarks, she may doubt that she can judge a man’s character from his public manner at a ball or in the park. Her natural curiosity about the more private side of a man’s nature may tempt her into situations of the utmost peril to her honor and her reputation. Every man in London knows his way to a balcony, an obscure anteroom, or a palm-secluded corner of a conservatory in which he may offer to satisfy the Husband Hunter’s curiosity in these matters. The Husband Hunter will do well to avoid such locales and to remember that, until she is betrothed, the two intimacies by which she may signal her favor are the pressure of her hand and the warmth of her gaze.
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
Chapter Fifteen
A message brought Clive and Allegra to Jane’s door early. Allegra proposed a shopping expedition starting with Botibol’s, the plumassier on Oxford Street, where a lady could purchase ostrich plumes and flowers to adorn her hat. Jane readily agreed. It was just the escape from Hazelwood that she needed. The cold, clear light of day forced her to admit to herself that she had been too much affected by his kiss.
From the moment she entered her cousins’ carriage, Jane understood that her unspoken rivalry with Allegra had heated up in spite of the bitter weather. Jane offered no competition in the most visible hat category, for Jane’s close-fitting blue velvet cap came in a distant runner up to Allegra’s fur-lined rose silk bonnet with striking green ribbons. Nor could she challenge Allegra’s personal attractions. Allegra’s golden hair gleamed in large curls, and her blue eyes stood out vividly above her rosy cheeks.
Clive attended the ladies as far as a shop on Old Bond Street, where, Allegra said, they would find “indispensable” ribbons. At the prospect of ribbon shopping, Clive bowed and took his leave. A footman was engaged to carry their purchases, and Clive promised to meet them with the barouche at the foot of the street.
In his absence, Allegra linked arms with Jane. It felt awkward but daring to walk abreast in the street without her veils. At least Allegra’s hat drew most of the stares from passersby.
“We are your family and must take an interest in you,” Allegra said. “Clive wants you to come live with us, you know.”
“Does he?” Jane concealed a smile at Allegra’s way of making family into a millstone.
Allegra nodded. “So after last night, I feel I must advise you how to get on in London society.”
“And what do you advise?” She wondered if her cousin had read the Husband Hunter’s guide.
Allegra gave a great sigh. “First, you must take great care not to engage the attention of a man who is already the property of another woman.”
“You mean a betrothed man, of course.”
“Never!” Allegra nodded emphatically, her plumes bobbing. “But really the rule goes further. You must not admit attentions from any man with even a slight inclination in another lady’s favor until she dismisses him. It’s not done.”
“Thank you for putting me on my guard.”
“It’s no trouble. As a cousin, I feel I must help you understand Londo
n ways. Your position in society is so precarious.”
“Precarious?”
“In your situation,” Allegra looked very grave, “you must forget you had a father. Oh, I know that sounds heartless, but what did he ever do for you but leave you penniless and wholly dependent on us?” Allegra gave Jane’s arm a slight squeeze.
Jane could neither nod nor speak. Her certainty of her father’s being alive somewhere was momentarily rocked by Allegra’s blithe acceptance of his death. She concentrated on not betraying her feelings. Allegra intended no cruelty.
“I’m glad we understand each other. Now let me tell you about this part of London.”
Allegra explained how most of the Old Bond Street shops catered strictly to gentlemen. When Jane asked why they looked at shops they would not enter, Allegra assured her that it was perfectly respectable to walk the street in the morning as long as they did not return the glances of impertinent gentlemen. Jane smiled to herself at the Allegra logic of inviting glances one did not mean to return, but she enjoyed the freedom of sending her own glance everywhere.
She looked into the stream of people coming their way, all strangers, and tried to determine the quirks that made them English. Allegra seemed to know instinctively which side of the pavement belonged to them and which they must yield to persons coming their way. Just when Jane thought she had it figured out, a man came toward them slipping swiftly through the languid strolling crowd.
His broad shoulders and massive head of shaggy russet hair rose above the crowd so that Jane could see his face clearly. It was a face she recognized instantly, and it stopped her in the middle of the pavement. She did not know the man’s name, but she remembered clearly the parting handshake he had given her father on a street near the docks of Koron. The next day her father had left for his last journey.
The big man bounded up the steps of a small shop with two tall bow windows and passed inside before Jane could blink.
“Jane, what is it?” Allegra tugged on her arm. “You’re standing like a gawk.”
“I’d like to visit that shop.” She read the sign, “Kirby & Sons.”
Allegra gave the shop a doubtful glance. “It’s a chemist’s shop. For gentlemen. I’ve never heard of it. What could you possibly want there?”
“Soap.” It was the first thing that came into her head. “I’ll not be two minutes. Wait for me.” She disengaged her arm from Allegra’s, hurried up the steps, and opened the door. A bell jingled and a remarkably pretty girl in blue looked up from behind the counter. The door closed on Allegra’s protest that she would not be left on the street and she would not wait.
Inside the little shop there was no sign of the big man and nowhere he could be concealed unless he lay on the floor at the girl’s feet. It was as if he had vanished. Jane had assumed that he entered the shop to make a purchase.
“May I help you, Miss?” the girl asked. Her manner was frosty, but her voice was young and common. She gave no sign of having seen a large man enter her premises. Then Jane saw the red velvet curtains behind the counter sway as if disturbed by someone’s passing.
“Soap,” Jane said. She weighed the wisdom of dashing past the girl through the curtains.
“For a gentleman?” the girl asked.
“For a lady. Do you have any?”
“We do.” The girl put aside her stitching and came from behind the counter.
Jane looked around as if the shop itself could explain the mystery. It was quite ordinary and not so packed with items for sale as the stalls of the soap dealers in the souk. Neat rows of bottles and jars lined dark wood shelves, arranged by use. Jane could see men’s tooth powders and boar’s bristle brushes, like the ones her father had given up years ago for fear of giving himself away as an infidel in the East.
The girl turned a key and pulled open a drawer under a counter that ran along one side of the shop. Jane glanced briefly at the curtain and tried to contain her impatience. Nothing would be gained by rushing into the situation without knowing more. She fixed her mind on the key point—a man present on her father’s last day in Koron was here in London a year later, a man who might know something about her father’s plans, a man who might be a friend or a foe. Until she determined which, she should proceed with caution.
She hardly saw the rows of round soaps wrapped in pale tinted papers that filled the open drawer. The girl placed a pink-wrapped soap in Jane’s palm. “Smell. This one is rose-scented. Triple-milled, French.”
Jane inhaled the delicate flowery aroma, like perfume.
“We have soaps in almond, lavender, and verbena as well,” the girl said.
“Do you have an olive oil soap?” Jane asked.
“Olive oil?” The girl shook her head, took the soap from Jane’s hand, and replaced it with another. “Try this one.”
Jane obliged her. The lemony smell was lovely, but it was not the soap of home, not the brown-rimmed bars with the deep green centers of the richest soaps, aged the longest, for which the merchants charged the most. The soap in her palm was pale green like a three-month soap, the kind a woman of Halab would use only for washing her hands. Still Jane would buy it. Allegra must not suspect her of any other reason for entering the shop.
“Thank you,” she told the girl. “I’ll take this one.” The shop name and number on the paper would help her find the place again.
“That will be twelve and six.” The girl took the bar from Jane and stepped back behind her counter.
Jane faced the curtain. Was the big man Kirby, the proprietor of the shop? It made no sense that a London shopkeeper would travel to Koron to meet with her father. She was turning questions over in her mind as she reached for her bag when footsteps from the other side of the curtain made the girl turn eagerly. Jane held her breath and tried to calm herself. The big man would not recognize her. He had never seen her out of her veils. When he spoke with the shopgirl, Jane might learn his identity.
But the big man did not appear. Instead Hazelwood stepped through the curtain in white shirtsleeves and gray trousers, with a dark blue silk waistcoat in his hand. “Miranda,” he said, “a button’s come loose. Could you—”
He broke off as his gaze collided with Jane’s. “You.”
Jane nodded. Her throat had gone very dry. “Hazelwood.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
Jane could feel Miranda’s curious, alert scrutiny directed her way. It was not friendly.
“Buying soap.” She had never seen Hazelwood at a loss.
He shifted his position to block Jane’s view of the curtains, and she felt herself stiffen. She did not ask him what he was doing there. His obvious familiarity with the place and the girl spoke for themselves.
Hazelwood turned to the girl. “Miss Kirby, forgive me. I didn’t realize you had a customer.”
“It’s no trouble, Lord Hazelwood. Leave the waistcoat with me. You’ll have it as soon as I attend to the lady.”
Jane gritted her teeth. She did not miss Miranda Kirby’s signal. The girl was letting Jane know that Hazelwood belonged to her. It occurred to Jane that he might live there, above the shop, or in some apartment in the rear of the building. He might live where the big man from Koron had disappeared. He must know the man in any case. It could not be otherwise. Her mind shut down as a howling darkness descended like a sudden sandstorm.
She fumbled the unfamiliar English coins out of her bag. They spilled onto the counter, and Miranda picked out those she wanted, giving Jane a pitying look. Hazelwood did not move from his stand in front of the curtains. Their gazes met again. He had command of himself now. His eyes revealed nothing. He put the blue waistcoat on the counter.
Jane’s face felt flushed. He had toyed with her in the coach the night before, rendered her witless with a kiss that meant nothing. She had to press her lips closed to keep from speaking. You kissed me.
“My cousins called for me.”
He glanced from her to the watching girl. “Miss Fawkener, Miss Kirby,” he said. “Miss Kirby’s father is an excellent tailor, perhaps not as well-known as Poole or Weston but certainly as good. He has his fitting room here in the back of the shop. Miranda helps him with some of the fine work.”
Jane absorbed the lies. She had seen her father lie smoothly and convincingly to bandits and greedy officials of every sort. The trick was to start with a grain of truth. So there was some truth in Hazelwood’s words, the kind of truth that concealed the bigger lies, including the lies of omission. He was not telling her about the big man.
“Do you have a maid or footman with you?” he asked, as if he’d forgotten she was with her cousins.
“We do. We’re meeting Clive at the foot of the street.”
“Let’s get you back to the hotel then.”
She wanted to protest that she was free to go where she pleased, but her throat was tight and words did not come. She nodded.
“Your soap, Miss,” Miranda said.
Jane did not know how she got out of the shop. Allegra and her footman were not waiting for her, so she stood on the steps looking blindly down the street for the barouche. Then she saw it coming her way with her cousins, apparently engaged in heated discussion.
She stepped forward, and the shop door opened behind her. Before she could turn, someone grabbed her by the shoulders, spinning her around. She looked up into Hazelwood’s face, close to hers at it had been the night before when she’d trusted him and thought him open and kind and funny and a bit in love as she had been.
He had thrown on a greatcoat over his shirtsleeves, and the shoulder capes fell over her arms, enveloping her in the heavy garment. She tried to pull back from his hold when a blur of movement caught her eye and something struck one of the panes in the bow window beside them with a heavy thunk. Hazelwood pressed her face against his chest as the window exploded in shards of splintering glass.