by Joan Smith
“He’s very handsome!” Lucy said. “Why did you jilt him, Miss Gower?”
“This matter is very upsetting to my niece,” the duchess said dampingly.
Lucy could see Miss Gower looked ready to burst into tears. Both Elvira and Lucy developed a strong interest in Miss Gower and looked forward to hearing her story when privacy could be arranged.
“Now, Mrs. Sutton, shall we send that note off to the hotel and be on our way?” the duchess asked in a rather imperious manner. She called for a waiter, demanded a pen and ink, and wrote the note herself.
As they returned to the hotel for their carriage, Belami was silent as an oyster, which was a vast relief to Pronto. He felt steeped to the gills in complicity, as though he had personally arranged that meeting. After a few blocks, however, he was curious to hear his friend’s views and said, “Bit of a shocker, eh? Charney and Deirdre in France.”
The very word “Charney” was like a whiplash to Belami. “What news did the old bint hear at Fernvale, I wonder? Who was writing off to her? She hasn’t a friend in the world. I’d stake my head she wrote to her relatives asking about me.”
“You’ve hit the hammer on the head there—er, nail. Relatives are always glad to rub salt in the wound—Deirdre’s wound, I mean.”
“If Deirdre was wearing any wounds, she hid them well.”
“She would. You went storming in like Attila the Hun.”
“You noticed Charney was quick to let me know their trip has nothing to do with me?”
“It’s true. We decided on the spur of the minute. Deirdre ain’t chasing you, if that’s what you’re afraid of.” Actually, Pronto feared “afraid” wasn’t quite the right word.
“Talk about salt in the wound!” Belami muttered.
“What we’ve got to do is find out where they’re heading, and go off in the other direction,” Pronto decided. “Like you said, the continent’s big enough for both of us. All of us. If we meet up again, I’ll ask Deirdre their destination, and we’ll know where not to go.”
“I don’t intend to change my plans one iota,” Belami announced. “Deirdre knows my itinerary. If she doesn’t want to see me, she’ll know where to stay away from.”
Pronto hobbled along, trying to keep pace with Dick’s long, angry strides on his own little stumps of legs. “If she stays away from Paris and Venice and Rome and all our itinerary, where the deuce can the poor girl go?”
“She can take a different route—go in a different order. She knows my plans. That’s all I have to say.”
“She won’t have one word to say about anything. Charney rules the roost. She’ll tag along wherever she’s led.”
“She’s good at that,” Dick growled. “If she were as biddable a wife as she is a niece, she’d be a pattern card for some man.”
“That’s right,” Pronto said. He found it expedient to agree when Dick was in this mood. “Charney says ‘Jump,’ and Deirdre says ‘Which way?’ Jumps like a rabbit. No backbone.”
Dick clenched his lips more tightly and increased the length of his stride. No backbone, but such a face! He was ambushed by a host of memories. As long as he didn’t see Deirdre in the flesh, he could go on being furious with her. One glimpse and he was undone by those stormy, speaking gray eyes that went right through his flesh and touched his heart. Such long lashes, fanning her cheeks. Such sweet lips, quivering in emotion. Her face reminded him of a porcelain statue, a clear, translucent white, tinged with pink on the cheeks.
A muscular spasm moved at the back of his jaw as he firmed his resistance. She knew exactly where he had planned to go—with her. It should be Deirdre beside him now, not that chattering idiot, Pronto. Damme if he didn’t feel a tear sting his eyes. He blinked it away and said in a rough voice, “It’s colder than Réal’s Canadian arctic here. I’ll be glad to get to Italy.” Of course it was the cold that made his eyes water.
“Cold?” Pronto complained. “The sweat’s pouring down my spine. Can’t you slow down to a gallop? I’m winded.”
Belami slowed down, but it didn’t stop the wind from stinging his eyes. It didn’t ease the angry hammering of his heart or dim the image of Deirdre Gower that was burned into his mind.
Chapter Three
Belami’s trip to Paris was a virtual dash. His proud “I won’t vary my itinerary one iota” was soon revised to “There’s no point dawdling in little villages.” He stopped at Amiens long enough to peep into the cathedral, but of the ramparts, the wall, and the five gates he had only a glimpse in passing. Pronto didn’t even get to see the head of Saint John the Baptist in the church, which he’d been looking forward to with keen interest.
The whole flat plane of northern France passed in a blur. Belami didn’t know what route Mrs. Sutton meant to take, but he knew she would stop at Paris. Belami’s groom, Pierre Réal, was in alt. Here he was in the home of his fathers, with a better grasp of the language than his master. He was not only permitted but actually urged to set a hot pace. To add to his joy, he was told to keep an eye peeled for Sutton’s carriage. He never did see it, but any time twelve miles an hour became too slow for him, he could whip up the team and let on he had.
They arrived at the city gates in the fading light of day, fatigued and bounced to a jelly from their mad dart. Belami directed the carriage to the Hotel d’Orleans in the Faubourg St. Germain. As he signed the register, he quickly ran an eye up the list of patrons. His quarry had not registered, but they would be spending some time in Paris, and the Orleans was a good central base from which to operate.
Belami continued to profess the greatest aversion to Miss Gower’s company, but Réal had soon weaseled his way into his master’s confidence. “You have the little job for me?” Réal asked archly. “Tomorrow morning you want I take a run around the hotels and see if la Mégère has arrived?”
“If they haven’t, you might just speak to the clerks and cross their palms with silver. Ask them to notify me here as soon as they check in. It will not be one of the finer hotels,” he added, with thorough British understatement.
Réal was a small, swarthy French-Canadian, sharp of eye, sharp of nose and tongue. “La Mégère, she don’t spend l’argent freely.” He nodded knowingly. “The shrew” was his endearing sobriquet for the duchess. “De fait, she won’t put up at an hotel at all, melor’. It will be furnished lodgings and a public dining room for that one. This will be a big job,” he pointed out. Though a demon for work—the bigger the job the better—Réal was never one to diminish the importance of his duties.
“Very true. It’ll be a small, cheap hostelry, but in a good neighborhood. You might send my valet off to loiter discreetly around Notre Dame and some of the major tourist spots. Have Nick follow them and see where they’re putting up.”
“It will be done.” Réal bowed.
“I wish you wouldn’t say that! You make me feel as though you’re praying to me.”
Réal was desperate when three days passed and still he had failed in his duty. He liked not only to perform to perfection, but to do it with an astonishing speed. After a little cudgeling of his brains, he decided that the reckless haste of their dash to Paris had left la Mégère a few days behind. Where she would first be seen was at the entry gate to Paris. The next morning he drove there and spent a tedious day watching carriages arrive.
At four o’clock, his hard little heart nearly burst for joy. From his post behind a tree, he saw the Suttons’ carriage bowl up and stop. He recognized la Mégère’s raucous voice from ten yards away.
When the formalities were through, he followed the coach. For a dreadful moment it seemed it was going to stop at the Hotel d’Orleans. How like fate to steal his glory. His fear ebbed when the carriage continued on past the hotel, around the corner. It pulled up in front of a small hotel called La Licorne, with a gilded unicorn on the hanging sign. His quarry descended and straggled in.
Réal darted back to the Orleans and sought out his master in his room. As Monsieur Pilgrim was n
ot present, he could speak quite frankly, but frankness was not his way. He liked to tease his master before giving glad tidings.
“For three days I have hounded every hotel lobby, every set of furnished rooms in Paris,” he began wearily. “I personally go to Notre Dame and all the points of interest on the Ile de la Cité. For the valet—he is a vaurien. We do not count on him. La Mégère’s, she was not in Paris.”
Belami listened impatiently. “Still no luck, eh? I wonder if they bypassed Paris entirely. I’m convinced if you didn’t find her, she ain’t here.” As he spoke, Belami idly flipped his lucky guinea, which was not proving so effective as a charm.
“I do not say I don’t find her,” Réal pointed out.
“Where is she?” Belami exclaimed.
“I don’t say I do find her too either,” he added mischievously. He tapped his temple. “I think—we drive very fast to Paris. La Mégère’s, she don’t like the so fast driving.”
“That’s true.”
“Very much true. I drive to the city gate. I see the dusty carriage lumber on the road—all filled with ladies’ heads.”
“Where are they?” Belami demanded again.
“This five minutes just past, they enter to La Licorne, a small hotel around the corner from here,” he announced, and waited for congratulations.
Belami bounced to his feet and grabbed Réal’s shoulders with his two hands. “Réal—you’re a pearl beyond price. Choose your own reward.”
This was life and breath for Réal. Astonishment, praise, appreciation of his unique perfection. He smiled. “I have no need for la douceur,” he said modestly, but his hand slid out and palmed the gold coin that was placed in it.
Réal was delighted with himself, but his insatiable craving for praise demanded more. As soon as he left the room, he darted back to La Licorne. A few ingratiating words with the clerk elicited the information that the ladies had taken rooms for a week. He also learned that Miss Sutton had been interested to learn there was a dancing party in the ballroom that same night. The young ladies, the clerk said, had sent gowns down to be pressed.
With a smile as wide as his face. Réal pranced back to Belami’s room. His master had been joined by Pilgrim, so that some evasion was necessary. “I thought you might like to know there is to be the small dancing party ce soir at La Licorne,” he said, but his flashing black eyes said a deal more. “Some English tourists will be attending, I hear.”
“Thank you, Réal. Perhaps we’ll drop around. What do you say, Pronto?” Belami asked.
“I wouldn’t mind hearing some English faces,” Pronto agreed. “The people here all sound like fishwives—wretched twangy voices.” Réal pokered up, and Pronto rushed on to assuage him. “Not like your nice soft Canadian French.”
“My people, they come from Bretagne,” Réal said. “The Parisians, they speak very bad French.”
“You ought to hear their English,” Pronto informed him.
Réal left, and Pronto went to his room to change for dinner. It was a good sign that Dick wanted to meet some girls. Dick was in high spirits all through dinner. He waxed quite eloquent on the advantages of foreign travel. He spoke of staying another week in Paris, then moving on to Italy. “Shall we stop at Torino, Pronto, or skip right along to Milan?”
“Thought we was going to Turin first,” Pronto reminded him.
“Torino is Turin—it’s the Italian name for it.”
“I see it’s going to be as bad as France; everybody calling things by the wrong names. I’m all for getting as far south as we can. Paris is colder than London.”
“I think you might be right,” Belami said. “We’ll continue down to Naples.” A lady come to ease her lungs would certainly head south.
“But stopping at Venice. I want to see the water roads—the canals. Didn’t get to see the head of John the Baptist.” An accusing glare accompanied this.
They chatted about their trip till dinner was finished. Pronto leaned back and suggested a glass of brandy to top off, but Dick was strangely eager to get along to the little ball, so they left. When they had entered La Licorne, Pronto looked around in disgust. “What kind of a den is this? You’ve been led astray, Dick. Let’s shab off somewhere else.”
“They’re beginning a quadrille. If we hurry, we might get partners and have one dance before we leave.” Belami hastened his steps toward the doorway, Pronto following reluctantly.
At the Licorne, the duchess had never been in better curl, and it was all due to dear Mrs. Sutton, now called Meggie. The woman was a godsend. She had no more skill for accounting than a sparrow. One had only to remind her there were three in the Sutton party versus two in her own and Meggie would snap up the bill quick as winking. The delightful words, “Let me get this one,” came to her lips as readily as a smile.
Meggie also showed a fine discernment in accommodations. She spurned the more expensive spots, but had a genius for discovering cheap places in the right neighborhood. Her hand was as quick to draw forth the necessary pourboires as the duchess’s was slow.
Nor was this largesse the sum of Meggie’s virtues. She was a stern moralist. Her husband having been a clergyman in Cornwall would account for her keeping her gels on a tight rein, though truth to tell they were not at all prone to flirtations. They were good modest girls, even in their dress. No scintillating conversation or high degree of learning was required from such obliging traveling companions as this.
The three young ladies also found much to like in each other. Deirdre favored the elder daughter, Elvira. It was not so much similarity as the attraction of opposites. Elvira was what Belami would call fast. She had a sharp tongue and a knowing eye. Lucy was more demure and somewhat given to sulking. It was Elvira who learned of the assembly that evening. The duchess cast no rub in their way when she learned Meggie was willing to act as chaperone for all the girls.
“Excellent.” She nodded. “I shall have an early night. Try not to waken me when you come in, Deirdre.” This request was unnecessary. How could you awaken a lady who had dosed herself liberally with laudanum, as the duchess usually did?
At eight-thirty the duchess brought out a marble-covered gothic novel to read while the ladies descended to the small ballroom under the aegis of Mrs. Sutton. The assembly was hardly designed to strike joy into the heart of anyone but a provincial. Deirdre saw at a glance that there wasn’t a modish jacket in the room.
The three hedgebirds the master of ceremonies brought forth for introduction were indeed far from handsome, but at least they were English, which was a relief. The three friends all joined the same set and stood waiting for a fourth to complete it. The music began, and still they lacked a fourth. Glancing around the room, they saw a number of young ladies scanning the walls for partners, of which there were none.
“Oh, here are some men just arriving!” Elvira exclaimed. “The master of ceremonies is introducing them—there, the tall one is going to join our set.”
Deirdre glanced across the room and saw the unmistakable form of Belami quickly advancing, with a Miss Wiggams on his arm. She froze to the spot and clutched Elvira’s fingers.
“It’s Belami!” she whispered. What was he doing in this out-of-the-way spot? Had he been looking for her? There wasn’t a trace of conciliation on his hard face. He didn’t look in her direction once, which was pretty good evidence he had seen her.
“We’ll all cut him,” Elvira said.
“That would be too farouche!” Deirdre replied. Really Elvira sometimes went too far for comfort.
The master of ceremonies made brief introductions; Belami nodded curtly to everyone and from that point on, it seemed as though cutting would not be necessary. His lavish attentions to Miss Wiggams showed he had no interest in reestablishing any rapport with Deirdre. The steps of the quadrille proceeded in nearly total silence, save for the scraping of the fiddles. During le pantalon the variations in the dance might be held to account for the lack of talk. Every area performed the steps di
fferently, and attention was necessary to arrive in the right spot at the right moment. By the time the dance had proceeded to l’été, however, the strain of silence was beginning to tell.
When Deirdre joined hands briefly with Belami during la poule, she met his eyes and said, “Are you just arrived in Paris, Belami?”
“No, we’ve been here a few days.”
“We just got here this afternoon.”
“You’re wasting no time in finding entertainment, I see.”
They parted, and Deirdre considered this exchange. If he had been here for a few days, he might be leaving soon.
When they met during la trenise, she had her question ready. “Are you staying in Paris long?” she asked, careful to keep any enthusiasm from her voice.
“We’re traveling ad lib. Do you remain long?”
“A week, I believe.”
“Then on to Italy?” he asked nonchalantly.
“Yes.”
They parted. The last chance for conversation was the finale, and that would be a regular mêlée of chatter. Deirdre’s only consolation was that Dick had asked her destination. Italy, however, was a vast area. She must mention Venice. That was Meg Sutton’s destination, and her aunt had taken such a liking to Meg that she planned to hasten along there as well.
She was on tenterhooks till the finale arrived. Dick caught her eye and edged closer. “Where do you plan to stop in Italy?” he asked.
A light of gratitude beamed in her eyes and a small smile lifted her lips. “We are going directly to Venice,” she said.
“Ah, Venice!”
“Will you be stopping there?”
“Pronto has expressed an interest in falling into the Grand Canal.”
Miss Wiggams put her dainty fingers on Belami’s arm and he led her back to her chaperone. The other young ladies returned to Mrs. Sutton.
“They have arranged things badly here for the chaperones,” the dame complained. “No cards, no introductions. I’m glad I brought my newspaper or I’d be bored to flinders. Well, how was the dance, ladies?”