by Lavinia Kent
Winters glanced at Tristan, who nodded his agreement. Winters slipped back out the door.
Tristan strode over to stand in front of Lady Harburton. “Perhaps you would like to tell me why you have disturbed my wife and myself in this manner?”
“As if you didn’t know. My Simon is gone. We were to announce his betrothal before the end of the month and now he is gone. I have worked so hard to gain him his own comfortable little security. I know a mother doesn’t normally worry about such a thing with her son, but Harburton is a bit of a miser. I know it doesn’t show, but he never wants to spend on more than his horses and stocking his ponds and streams. If I ask for more than ten new dresses a season he shouts that I am a spendthrift. Can you imagine me a spendthrift?” She fanned herself with her delicate lace handkerchief.
Tristan started to reply, but Marguerite stilled him with a glance. He might be a spy and a rather good conversationalist, but he clearly had no understanding of women. She rose from her chair and went to sit beside Minerva on the couch. “Nobody could ever think such a thing of you. You do so many good works. I am sure you don’t spend a penny more than is needed.”
“Quite right, not a penny more. I strive so hard for others, just look at my long correspondence with so many of our finest young men during the war, and even some of our not so finest. I inquired of everybody I knew to increase my lists, spent hours writing letters, and I was so soon forgotten. Harburton didn’t even express any sympathy when they quit writing me after the peace.”
“How horrible. But at least you had your Simon, such a fine young man.” Marguerite tried to look sincere.
Tristan looked like he had swallowed a mouse, but he kept quiet.
“Yes, and, well, you would say that. Simon spoke so often of you, not always as properly as a mother would wish, but with great feeling. I think he would have proposed at your sister’s if I hadn’t explained how unsuitable an arrangement it was and hurried him away. He just didn’t understand these things. He needs to marry the daughter of a duke. It would be the only thing suitable for a man such as he. Do not you agree?” She let the handkerchief fall to her lap and looked at them both through watery eyes.
“I am afraid I must disagree.” Tristan walked to stand next to Marguerite. He stroked her hair. “I found her quite suitable.”
“Well of course you would say so,” Lady Harburton said. “We all know why you married her. I never did believe all those stories of a love match. There is only one reason for such a hurried match.” She turned to Marguerite. “I daresay you’ll be showing before long.”
Marguerite could not believe she was being so insulted in her own house. She sputtered and stood, stepping around her husband and paced to the opposite corner of the room, then she spun to face Lady Harburton. “How dare you even suggest that . . .” she ground to halt. The problem was it was almost true if not in the manner that Lady Harburton suspected.
“Humpf, didn’t think you had anything to say to that one.” Lady Harburton had gone from tears to smug satisfaction in seconds, leaving Marguerite to wonder at the truth of either sentiment.
Marguerite watched the smile grow across Lady Harburton’s florid features. This was too much. “I do not know how you dare say such a thing to me.” That was true. It took real gumption to come to somebody’s home and insult them to their face.
“Well, I don’t know why I won’t say it. Particularly after what my Simon told me. I didn’t like the look of you right from the start. But, then when Simon told me you tried to seduce him in your neighbor’s garden. You lowered your bodice trying to get him to ask for you. What type of woman would try such a thing? It’s lucky that my Simon was wise to your ways.”
Marguerite almost fainted at the words. She knew Simon had been at Clark’s soiree. She even remembered the countless glasses of lemonade he had brought her, but never, not until this moment and she had any inkling of the rest. She knew she’d gone out in the garden with someone, known it must have been someone she had considered kissing, but Simon. She did not even like it now when he held her to dance. She shuddered.
She moved to the chair and sat. Memories winked at the edge of her mind. She had been so hot, so dizzy, and none of it had mattered. She had wanted the magic, felt that she was drifting closer to it. She swallowed the bile rising in her throat. God, what had she done? She closed her eyes trying to remember. She had not minded when Simon put his hand on her arm, in fact she had never minded before that night. He was fun, simply fun. She always laughed when he was about. But, that night. She remembered his hands touching. She did not want them to touch. Then blackness. That was all there was before she awoke with Clark’s hands on her gown, her breasts bare. She wanted to retch. None of it made sense.
It felt like she been lost in thought for hours, but she knew that not even a minute had passed. Still when she looked up her husband was watching her with concern.
Lady Harburton made not even a pretense. “You’re looking pale, is the truth so distressing?”
“I would suggest you take care in how you speak to my wife. I do not think that either your husband or polite society would think well of your behavior and certainly not that of your son.” Tristan spoke through gritted teeth.
“I don’t know how you dare speak to me in such a fashion. It is your wife who is the strumpet, not I.”
“I had the truth from your son and he is not as blameless as you paint him.” Tristan strode over until he towered over Lady Harburton. “If there was a victim in the matter I can promise you it was my wife. He is lucky I did not call him out.”
“That is easy for you to say when he is not here to defend himself.” Lady Harburton refused to back down.
“And why do you think he has absented himself. I did not take well to his revelations. And I can promise I would not take well to their being repeated. I can still find him and put a bullet through him.”
Marguerite’s head turned from one to the other. She no longer knew what to think. It had been Simon. Her stomach turned at the thought of all the times she had been with him since that night. Why had she never guessed? And Tristan knew. Tristan had not told her. So much for trust. But, then did she really want to know?
And how had Tristan forced Simon to leave? Would he really have shot him if had not left?
Parry, thrust, parry. It was a duel within her head. Did she trust her husband? Could she ever know that he would not keep secrets and judge her harshly for crimes she did not understand? It was all too much for one day, particularly one in which she had been so tired to start. She rested her head back against the chairs letting the bitter words brush over her.
Finally she could take no more. She knew how to attack for herself. She raised her head and stared right at Lady Harburton. “The tulips are ugly. I do not know why you have created such a fuss about them.” An indirect volley could bypass defenses.
“What?” Lady Harburton stopped speaking to Tristan in an instant and turned to Marguerite. “I thought everything else was bad, but to insult my flowers is cruel. I am known throughout London for my flowers and floral arrangements. They have been the sole topic of conversation at many a morning call.”
“I do not dispute the aesthetics of your arrangements in general, just of your tulips.” This was too easy. All Marguerite had sought was a distraction from Lady Harburton delving into Marguerite’s life. But, this . . . she, continued, “I find neither black tulips nor tulips with green stripes to be pleasing to the eye.”
“That just shows how little you know about the delicate sensibilities of a true artist,” Lady Harburton stated with great authority.
Marguerite could not resist glancing at her husband. He raised a sardonic brow. He evidently had as great a regard for Lady Harburton’s artistic temperament as did she.
“You must be correct,” Marguerite said. “I fear I do quite miss all aspects of their beauty.”
“And their worth too apparently. Each bulb is worth at least a thousand pounds. The
y are extremely rare and hard to cultivate. Without my precious bulbs the variations will be lost forever.”
“I have not heard of such a belief since the Dutch tulip scandal,” Tristan joined in the conversation. “Bulbs worth a thousand pounds? Why would you believe such a thing?”
Marguerite thought the same. She had lost count of how many black or green striped tulips she had seen over the past weeks. Rare? They seemed to be everywhere.
Lady Harburton stood, forcing Tristan to step back. “Why Mr. Huismans told me. He is ever so knowledgeable. We have discussed the merits of various variations and colors at length. He has even promised to name the black ones – which are really deep, majestic aubergine – after me. Can you imagine such an honor?” She started to walk about the room, her arms flapping in excitement. “And he assures me they are worth thousands. And he should know, he is, after all, Dutch. We did discuss the tulip fiasco of the past, but he was definite that this is different entirely. There were simply too many of each bulb in that case. He has made sure there are only a few dozen of each of these bulbs – plus as I said they are entirely impossible to duplicate.”
Lady Harburton spun suddenly to face Tristan. “Which reminds me, I want them back. Don’t think I don’t know you took them. It was all a way to get back at my dear Simon.”
“I am afraid you are mistaken. I have never seen one of these bulbs in my life. I have no interest in flowers – or anything related to gardens.” He caught Marguerite’s glance. “Or at least I had no interest until very recently.”
“What rubbish. My darling Simon left a note. He said that he was going to look over some strange ruins on the continent – he never had any such interest before – but that you would be able to explain everything. What else could he have meant?”
Marguerite watched as her husband pressed his lips together. She had learned that the tiny gesture meant he was debating how much to say. He clearly knew the answer to Lady Harburton’s question, but whether he would say was in debate. His lips relaxed – he would tell all.
“I believe,” he began, “that all your son meant was that I should tell you he had taken the bulbs himself. Apparently he was impatient for the small security you spoke of – there may also have been the matter of some gambling debts. In any case, he reported that he tried to sell the bulbs, but found them worthless.”
Lady Harburton’s obvious agitation increased. “What nonsense. First, my son would never steal, not from me. And second, my bulbs are not worthless. Huismans said they were worth a fortune and so they are.”
“You put a great deal of faith in Huismans,” Tristan said. “Why do you have such confidence? And why if they are worth so much, would he give the bulbs to you?”
“Well, he didn’t give them to me – not exactly. I actually had to talk to my husband and a couple of his friends about how little interest England need have in the China Seas. Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous? Why would we care about such foreign parts and their peoples anyway? We are English. We need only to wait and the world will come to us. Harburton was quite in agreement once he realized I’d let him leave for his trout streams as soon as he promised to vote along such sensible lines.”
Tristan grew pale at her words, but his eyes flashed. “Mr. Husimans wanted you to persuade your husband of this?”
“Well, yes.” Lady Harburton stopped pacing and looked smug again. “Can you imagine anything easier? I was lucky that he came to me first. He made the same promise to other ladies of my acquaintance, but, of course, he promised them inferior goods. It was part of our agreement.”
“And why did you trust him? Put such faith in him? I am sure a lady of your refinement would have needed some evidence that he would act in good faith.” Tristan walked to the couch and sat down. He appeared relaxed, languid almost, but Marguerite could see the betraying tap of one booted toe.
“Well, Mr. Downey recommended him to me and I’d long had a fine relationship with Mr. Downey.”
“Mr. Downey? Also known as Monsieur Dupree?” Tristan felt the pieces totter and then fall into place. Could it be so easy? Could he have been so blind on so many occasions? He was very afraid that he could have been. Marguerite had been right, he did not always listen to women.
“I’ve never heard of Monsieur Dupree. He sounds like a frog. I don’t speak to the French to this day – well except for my modiste, but that doesn’t count,” Lady Harburton exclaimed. “But, Mr. Downey he’s an old friend. He kept me company all through the war. He was quite an unusual man, but so kind. He always brought me the most wonderful gifts of lace and other knick-knacks. He understood how hard it was to keep a gracious home during the war. He was most helpful.”
He was so close. It was only one more step. “And did he also ask nothing of you? Did he give you all these fripperies simply to share the pleasure of your company?” He hoped Lady Harburton did not detect the slight sarcasm in the ending. He avoided looking at Marguerite. He could imagine the irony caught in her expression.
“No, nothing but my company.” Lady Harburton looked like a well-fed cat.
The last puzzle piece refused to fall. Lady Harburton did not have secrets to share. He still could not see her as the master manipulator.
“And what did you do in all the time you spent together?” Marguerite entered the conversation. He looked in her direction, and saw that she also had a most superior expression upon her face.
“Why, we read together,” Lady Harburton explained.
What was Marguerite trying to do? Lady Harburton was simply not a master spy – she did not have the network to bring together the strange collection of facts and trivia the mole he tracked had leaked.
“And what did you read? I cannot picture a man pouring over the Belle Assemble or one of the other periodicals I know you favor.” Marguerite continued her pursuit. Where was she heading with this?
“Why of course not.” Lady Harburton looked at Marguerite as if she were an idiot. “We read through my correspondence together. Mr. Downey understood how fatiguing it was to read the scrunched print some of these infantrymen employed. He would read the letters to me and sometimes even write my replies. He was so helpful with my good works. Being a man he understood what matters soldiers want to discuss – where they were, what their supplies were like, if they knew where they were going next.”
Marguerite lay back in her chair and closed her eyes with a sigh. How had she done that? She did not know what information he sought, so how . . . ?
He turned to Lady Harburton. “So, he would tell you what question to ask and you would ask them – and the timing it can take so long for a letter to travel and a reply to return.”
“Sometimes it did and sometimes it didn’t. We received a few back in record time. It made Mr. Downey so happy. It became a game between us to see how quickly we could get a reply.”
“And where did you get these names? I would not have thought a lady of your exulted station would correspond with infantrymen.”
“I was most ingenious. I began merely my corresponding with the sons of my friends – keep their spirits up and all. I knew they would want to know the details of all the balls and excitements here in Town.”
“I still don’t see how –“
“I was just getting to that.” Lady Harburton cut him off. “After Mr. Downey started to visit me – I believe he’d heard I was a great correspondent and he had an interest in the correct forms for writing letters. Well, he expressed an interest in seeing how a lady would address somebody lower in station than she and then it became a game. I talked to all the servants and rewarded any who could find somebody new for me to write. Mr. Downey and I had ever so good a time whenever we found a new correspondent. He always brought me the nicest presents afterwards. We even had many men who needed to find someone else to write their letters for them.”
“And none of the soldiers ever received anything from you? Why would they write?” Tristan rested his head back against the couch.
He’d never thought he’d get a headache from the simplicity of a plan.
“You think I need to bribe men to write to me? How ridiculous. Soldiers like to receive letters, news of any kind. Mr. Downey explained it all to me. And he was right. I told you he was trustworthy and if he vouched for Mr. Huismans then I could also trust him.”
“You are a fool, Minerva, if ever there was one.” Lady Smythe-Burke entered the room, behind her hovered Winters clearly unsure whether to announce her post-entry or not, behind him hovered a maid a heavy tea tray held firmly in her hands.
If this was a farce everyone would take one step back and the tray would fly through the air to land with a resounding crash. As it was not a farce – despite the fact it was beginning to seem like one to Tristan – Lady Smythe-Burke sailed in head high, Winters disappeared to that mysterious land servants retreated to when not on view, and the maid deposited the tea tray on the table without even the chink of china.
“I, a fool? How could you possibly say such a cruel thing?” Lady Harburton looked at Lady Smythe-Burke.
“I’ve been standing at that door for a full five minutes waiting for that butler to decide if he should interrupt.” Lady Smythe-Burke chose a well-frosted cake from the tray. “Most foolish, servants are just not as well trained as they used to be. Every generation gets a little sloppier – what happens when you don’t get a proper education? Schools for all. That’s what we should do, boy, girl, any class. Yes, schools for all. A capital idea, that.”
“I think it sounds rather horrid,” Lady Harburton replied. “Can you imagine what the world would be like if the lower classes had education? Simply horrid. But, you distract me from the point. How am I a fool?”
“You supplied information to the French throughout the war, still don’t realize that you did so, and I imagine are now helping Dutch interests as I am sure Wimberley has also just discovered.” Lady Smythe-Burke sat down beside Tristan on the couch, positioning herself next to the tea tray. “Should I pour? I am afraid that you look rather pale, Marguerite. I don’t think I would trust you not to spill.” She proceeded to pour and pass cups without waiting for an answer.