Fedbusk yawned loudly and hunched down on his chair as if contemplating a nap. Grey gave him a menacing look but said to Speed, "Perhaps you can give me these details later and proceed to the actual information you received regarding my wife."
"Yes, sir. Once I felt certain that Mr. Stringfellow could be trusted, I mentioned that you were looking for an Englishwoman whom you believed to be in Philadelphia. I then received his promise not to speak of this matter to anyone else and proceeded to describe Lady Altburne. He said that he did indeed know such a woman, though by a different name. She has a small, elegant house nearby on Pine Street, is active in society, and portrays herself as a widow. Mr. Stringfellow said that this woman calls herself Frances Wellbeloved."
Grey, who had been listening intently, now gave a shout of laughter. "Does she indeed? Highly amusing. Now then, Fedbusk, it's your turn."
The crusty seaman jerked his head up as if regaining consciousness. "Eh? Oh, yes. Not much to tell, except that I was sitting in the dining room, resting my achin' feet, when I saw an open carriage pass. 'Twas my lady, sir, clear as day, and more beautiful than ever, which doubtless means that she's more evil as well. I knew what she was the first time I clapped eyes on her before your wedding, but you'd have none of my advice—"
"For God's sake, Fedbusk, get on with it!"
"Nothing else to say, is there? She's here, in Philadelphia, and now you have to decide what you're goin' to do about it!"
* * *
Caro knocked softly on the dressing room door that connected with Natalya's bedchamber. "Darling? I just wanted to say good night."
"Come in, Maman."
She entered to find her daughter clad in a loose muslin nightgown and sitting in the middle of the field bed, its curved canopy arching toward the shadowed ceiling. Sheets of paper covered with writing were scattered before her across the bed. Oil lamps, lit on each bedside table, afforded the only light.
"It's very late, Talya," Caro exclaimed, crossing the room. "What are you doing?"
"It's part of the manuscript for my new book, Maman. I must begin writing again tomorrow, and I'm trying to return inside the heart and soul of my story." She smiled at her mother, then looked back at the paper in her hand. "But first I must close a door on my own life if I am to do my best writing, and that's rather difficult."
"I should think so—you just arrived home." Caro's tone was slightly injured. "Do you mean to isolate yourself?"
"That would be ideal," Natalya admitted. "It was lovely of you and Papa to offer me Great-Grandmere's cottage, and I can scarcely wait until morning to explore it."
Caro perched on the edge of the bed and reached out to stroke Natalya's brow and the shining curls that cascaded around her shoulders. "My darling, you look like a little girl. It's difficult for me to realize that you are a grown woman of twenty-six who is perfectly capable of ordering her own life. If I am unable to resist giving you advice, you must scold me."
"And then you would stop?" Natalya looked up, eyes twinkling.
"Probably not," Caro admitted, laughing.
"Do you know, I said nearly the same thing to Krissie this morning, so I understand your feelings. It's very hard for me to think of her as a grown woman."
"Well, I'm not entirely certain that she is one yet, but that's another subject." They were silent for a few moments, then Caro said, "Your outing in the city must have done you good, or else it put you off such excursions. This morning you were far too preoccupied to think of Grandmere's cottage or your books."
"I confess I am still preoccupied," Natalya said, with a bittersweet smile, "but sometimes I welcome the escape writing affords. It takes me out of myself."
"I had rather hoped that you would postpone writing for a while and simply enjoy your homecoming. It's spring, and there are so many old friends who will be eager to see you and doubtless give parties to celebrate your accomplishments. Philadelphia may boast many authors, but precious few of them are women."
"Maman, I recognize that gleam in your eye! Your thoughts have been running to a match for me, haven't they."
Caro laughed at her daughter's teasing, yet a disquieting feeling persisted within her. "I simply want you to enjoy yourself, darling Talya. I want you to be happy."
"Then you must let me write, Maman. Right now it's what I need most." A strange, confusing wave of emotion swept over her, and tears pricked her eyes. It wouldn't do for her mother to see and wonder, so Natalya looked back down at her papers. The words written there were a blur.
"I will leave you, then, if you promise to go to sleep soon. You need your rest."
"Yes, Maman," she replied, with an obedient smile, and leaned forward to hug her mother. "I love you. Kiss Papa for me."
"I'll be happy to." Caro held her close. "I love you, too, darling, and I am so happy that you have returned to us."
* * *
"I keep telling myself that Talya is twenty-six and does not need a mother to watch over her, but there is something in her eyes that arouses all my maternal instincts." Caro lay back against her pillows, watching Alec shed his robe and climb naked into bed beside her. "Do you think that I am being foolish?"
"Of course not, cherie." He turned toward her and rose on an elbow to gaze down at her beloved and beautiful face. How many nights had they lain together thus, discussing the events of their lives in the quiet of nighttime, holding and caressing each other, whether it led to lovemaking or not? It was Alec's favorite hour of the day; the renewal of intimacy between them. "I admit that I have concerns of my own regarding Natalya, but I fear that there is little we can do and say beyond reminding each other that she is fully an adult and must be allowed to live her own life as she sees fit."
Caro groaned and ran her hand over the familiar terrain of his chest, lingering unconsciously over the places she knew were most sensitive. "She seems so subdued, and says she wants to shut herself up in Grandmere's cottage and return to writing."
"I know. She told me during the drive home tonight." Alec's own fingers found their way to Caro. He stroked her throat and neck, then gently massaged away the worry lines on her face. "You know, Talya was very preoccupied most of the way from Philadelphia. When I mentioned it, offhandedly, she laughed and said that she was thinking about the new gowns she'd ordered." Alec snorted softy in half-amused disbelief. "Does she take me for a stranger? Then, almost immediately, she began talking about her writing, and there was such relief in her voice, as if she'd forgotten that escape could be so simple."
"You always were a master in the art of deduction," Caro murmured, closing her eyes and savoring his touch.
"Not always; I think I learned it as a means of survival after I became a husband and a father. People rarely say what they really mean, and sometimes they don't know themselves. I love you and our children too much to listen to you only with my ears."
"Perhaps you learned about that from me, love."
"And what did your instincts tell you when you visited our daughter just now? Did she actually say anything meaningful, about Grey St. James, perhaps?"
"Perish the thought. His name was never mentioned." Caro felt Alec recline against the pillows and snuggled into the crook of his shoulder, where he held her close. "You know, I've been thinking about something you said earlier. Didn't you tell me that Talya and Grey were upstairs when you arrived, looking for a book she'd loaned him, and that she remained there for quite a while after he joined you—until her search was successful?"
"That's right," he said drowsily, leaning over with his free hand to put out the light. "She said it was a favorite book, Rene, and she'd been quite lost without it."
"But, Alec," Caro persisted, looking up to search his face in the shadows, "she had no book when you two came home. She must have left it behind... and hasn't said a word about her error. Don't you find that odd in light of earlier events?"
"Yes, but we can worry and deduce all night long and it won't change a damned thing." Alec turned on his sid
e and enfolded his wife in his arms, kissing the nape of her neck. "Go to sleep, cherie. Talya's not a child. Hard as it is, you'll have to accept that...."
* * *
When at last her eyes began to sting with fatigue, Natalya blew out the lamps and crawled under the covers. Certain that sleep was moments away, she surrendered, lying back against the snowy pillows and carefully arranging her blankets.
She closed her eyes, then opened them. Moonlight streamed into her room through parted draperies, illuminating the neat stack of papers she had placed on a chair. She turned away toward the wall, but when her face pressed close to the mane of loose hair fanned across her pillow, she caught a faint whiff of Grey in her own silky curls. Her heart quickened and tightened, and tears rose in her throat.
Why am I feeling this way? she cried inwardly. It was nothing, nothing but a pleasurable romp with an immensely attractive man. It was not as if she wanted him to declare his love and beg for her hand in marriage!
Guilt. Natalya settled on that weighty word, deciding that guilt must be to blame for her churning emotions. She had grown up watching her parents' love affair, and somehow the physical act by itself, without love, seemed wrong. Actually she'd always believed that there could be no pleasure or meaningful passion in the physical act without love, but that certainly wasn't true.... Did that mean that she was immoral? Or did it mean—
His face filled her mind, and she recalled the sound of his voice, the tender intimacy of his touch, his demanding kiss, the heat of his body moving against her own.
Think about the book! Natalya ordered herself, but for the first time, she could not envision her characters. In the tower room at Chateau du Soleil they had acted out all her own suppressed fantasies, more alive than she felt herself to be. Had Eloise and Charles died the afternoon Grey St. James appeared in the courtyard?
Blinking back tears, Natalya vowed to resurrect them on the morrow. It was as if she had lost the key to a secret door, but there had to be a way to get back inside. There had to be a way....
Part 4
To be wise and love.
Exceeds man's might.
Shakespeare
Chapter 21
May 1-3, 1814
Francesca St. James, the Viscountess Altburne, rose from her elegant bonheur-du-jour. The delicate ladies' writing table, veneered in tulipwood and mounted with Sevres porcelain plaques, had been imported from France and was her latest acquisition for the residence she had recently rented in Philadelphia. The tall, narrow town house on Pine Street was owned by a congressman who had since moved with the capital to Washington, leaving much of his furniture behind. This served Francesca's purposes, since she had come to New York, and now to Philadelphia, ill equipped to furnish an entire house.
"I am frightfully restless," she said, crossing the long parlor to gaze out at the courtyard garden. A few tulips were blooming, but they had begun to wilt.
"Dearest, why not sit down beside me and allow me to rub your beautiful feet?" The man seated on the ivory silk-upholstered settee put down his newspaper and gazed at her expectantly. Although not yet thirty-five years of age, he looked much older. His thinning hair had gone prematurely gray, and he had lost considerable weight since his affair with Francesca had commenced two years ago. At social gatherings, he replaced his gold-rimmed spectacles with a quizzing-glass and styled his hair with Macassar Oil, a la Byron. It was enough to fascinate the American women, but he could rarely elicit such interest from Francesca anymore.
She wandered over and sat down beside him but did not remove her kid slipper and offer him her slim foot. "I can't think why I am so restless," she complained again.
"Why don't we ring for some of those raisin cakes you adore?" When Francesca shook her head, pouting slightly, he sighed. Dear God, but she was beautiful! Each time he saw her he experienced the same thrill he'd felt the first time, when he'd returned to London after she'd become Grey's wife. Her slanting green eyes, porcelain skin, shining auburn hair, and full mouth had driven him insane then, and continued to do so. His passion for Francesca had overpowered all else, including duty to family and country.
Not that he'd wanted to continue on in that terrifying war, but now, as fear began to creep over him that he might lose his love, he told himself that he'd thrown everything away for her. He'd deserted Wellington's army during the battle of Salamanca, risking capture, disgrace, and death to return and take her away from England and her marriage to the absent Viscount Altburne. He'd even given up his own name to go into hiding with her! At first it had all been a wild, reckless adventure; they'd thrived on their own misbehavior and reveled in the illicit passion of their love affair. However, after nearly two years...
"I find that something very odd has been happening to me," Francesca said suddenly. "I've been dreaming about Grey."
For a moment his heart caught, but then he saw that her expression reflected uneasiness and fear rather than longing. "Do you know, it's curious that you should say that. He's been in my mind, too. Yesterday afternoon, when I was walking toward the bootmaker's shop, I saw a man turn the corner a distance ahead of me who bore a chilling resemblance to Grey. I knew that I was being ridiculous, but I quickened my pace and followed him. However, when I rounded the corner myself, he had disappeared. You'll doubtless laugh at me for imagining that such a thing was even remotely possible, but—"
"Which corner was it?" she broke in.
"I beg your pardon?" He turned to find Francesca holding one hand over the low bodice of her cream sarcenet gown, pressing her fingers against her heart. Her catlike eyes were wide open and brilliantly green against the pallor of her face. "Do you mean you want to know which street corner the man turned?" he asked as a sense of foreboding stole over his own body. "I haven't the foggiest notion, dearest. Philadelphia is still a maze to me."
She gripped his hands, her own damp with panic. "What if he's here?"
"In Philadelphia?" He laughed hollowly. "Impossible! Dearest, you are getting yourself in a taking over a dream and a man who simply happened to resemble Grey. It's all coincidence, I assure you!"
"Perhaps." She calmed herself, staring thoughtfully into space. After a time she said in an even voice, "It's all well and good to reassure ourselves that Grey could not be anywhere else but in France, but we mustn't underestimate him. He's extremely shrewd and determined when the situation demands. I want to take extra precautions." Her voice turned colder. "You'll have to take rooms of your own, David. If Grey is in Philadelphia, he'll find me, and it wouldn't do for him to discover his late brother in my bed...."
* * *
"It was good of you to see me so late at night, Mr. Stringfellow," Grey said to the engaging white-haired Englishman as they seated themselves in front of the hearth in the coffeehouse's keeping room. "I know that you must be tired."
"Call me Stringfellow. Everyone does." The older man crossed his nimble legs and grinned. "And I don't mind the hour. It always takes me a while to slow down after the coffeehouse empties at night. I run about from dawn to midnight, and when I get into bed I feel like a clock that's been overwound." Pausing, Stringfellow drank thirstily from his mug of ale. "I understand that you've seen our dear Lisette."
"I have indeed. She and her family took me in after I escaped from one of Napoleon's prisons. I was half-starved and running from two of Boney's thugs, so their hospitality was keenly appreciated." Feeling increasingly at ease, Grey stretched out his booted legs and propped them on a low stool. "Mrs. Beauvisage is delightful, and I cannot imagine that she ever looked more beautiful. She reminded me of a yellow rose in full bloom." He paused, searching his memory. "Our meal was delicious, completed by an apple tart that she said was from a recipe she used to make here."
Stringfellow inquired after the rest of the Beauvisage family, and Grey obliged by giving detailed reports. "In truth, Adrienne is a little spitfire," he said in closing. "The man who falls in love with her will have his hands full."
"Ah, just
like her lovely mother! How I long to see them all. As soon as this bloody war is over, I'm going to take Nancy, my wife, abroad. We've never gone because of the children, or because we couldn't leave the coffeehouse, but life's short, hmm? Can't afford to put it off forever...." Stringfellow stared into the dying fire for a long minute, lost in thought, then turned back to Grey with bright, dark eyes. "Now then, how can I help you?"
"You already have, my good fellow. You gave my manservant, Jasper Speed, a great deal of important information regarding the woman you know as Frances Wellbeloved. I have merely come to ask a few more questions. You're the only one who can tell me anything at all, and I feel that I can trust you."
"Alexandre Beauvisage stopped here yesterday and encouraged me to assist you in any way I could. He said that you brought his daughter Natalya safely home all the way from France." Stringfellow appeared to drift again, remarking, "I should like very much to see her again. Has anyone told you how perfectly gorgeous she was as a child? Hair like silken honey and those huge eyes. Never seen eyes that color before or since. Like the sea.... Her mother's another beauty. Used to pop in here with Natalya years ago, after Lisette went to France. Little Natalya would take center stage and have everyone in the keeping room looking at her. She'd flash her dimples at us, say charming things—get us all laughing—and insist on helping Hyla with the cooking, standing on a stool and waving a wooden spoon about like the conductor of an orchestra. I used to say that she'd be on the stage one day, but I understand that she's become an authoress. Is she still a feast for the eyes?"
Natalya Page 23