Grace was surprised to find herself seated beside Lord Trevor. Then she saw that Calpurnia had been placed across from him, no doubt so that the guest of honor could keep his full attention fixed on their hosts’ beautiful daughter throughout the meal.
Ah. Grace quickly grasped why she had been situated in this post. From here, she could help Calpurnia along in conversation, smoothing over any youthful gaffes. After all, the girl’s mother was seated far away, down at the foot of the table, where she could do little to help, while Calpurnia’s father presided at the head.
As Grace kept her smile fixed in place and set her napkin on her lap, she wondered if she should start sending the Windleshams a bill for all the work she did as an unofficial governess to the headstrong aristocratic chit.
Trevor looked askance at her as he took his seat.
Grace met his glance warily. Lud, she had no idea how she was to smooth over any awkwardness between him and Calpurnia when the air between herself and the ex-spy was charged with more awkwardness than she could endure.
The guest of honor cleared his throat quietly, whisking his napkin into place. Grace’s heart pounded as they both stared down at the name cards on their plates written in beautifully scrawled calligraphy.
After another excruciating thirty seconds or so, they exchanged a hesitant glance, followed by an impeccably polite nod.
Grace still couldn’t read him; he studied her, in turn, as though trying to do the same.
But to her satisfaction, it seemed that not even his spy skills could penetrate her own training: She wore her pastor’s-daughter mask of unshakable tranquility.
God knew it had everybody else fooled.
After that, they must have both mentally dismissed each other as they proceeded to act like everything was normal between them. The only other person at the table who knew about their quarrel was her father, after all, and he could always be trusted to remain discreet.
With that, Lady Windlesham rang the bell, and so the meal began.
Bloody hell. The woman was a wall. And behind that wall, Trevor was fairly sure Miss Kenwood hated him.
This was going to be harder than he had thought.
Or not.
What did he care, anyway? Hadn’t he had enough of females ruining his life?
He decided to ignore her and turned his attention to the other guests instead. There were other neighbors in Thimbleton, after all.
Trevor was genuinely touched by the lengths to which Lady Windlesham had gone to welcome him to the village and into local life.
On the other hand, as the meal wore on, and her daughter stared at him and all but sighed every time he spoke, he was slightly apprehensive about what he might have got himself into.
He had moved here because he liked the house and wanted to put his own stamp on the Grange as a gentleman-architect. Beyond that, he was not at all sure about what other plans the local Quality might have in store for him. But he detected all sorts of worrisome notions floating around the room concerning his future.
Still, he was truly grateful that the Windleshams had gone to all this fuss on his account, and so he paid the baroness the greatest compliment he could think of, and since he was quite familiar with her type, he knew exactly what to say. “On my honor, Lady Windlesham, my mother herself could not have feted her guests more lavishly than this feast you’ve set before us all tonight.”
He was pleased with the results of his offering. Lady Windlesham’s ambitious eyes nearly welled with doting tears. “Oh, my dear young man, how kind of you! We are more than pleased to do it. And if Her Grace should ever come to Thistleton to see your new home, it would be such an honor to make her acquaintance.”
“I’m sure,” he responded, raising his glass to her. “To our hostess.”
As the others joined him in this toast, he was rather sure Lady Windlesham now forgave him for his long hair.
Which was a good thing because although he didn’t really care what anybody thought, he had no intention of cutting it. Why should he?
He had done the dutiful thing all his life, and his usual short-cropped hair seemed to sum it all up, that good boy in the mirror. He had gone where they told him to go, killed whom they told him to kill, followed his orders and never complained. And what the hell had it got him?
His hair had started getting overlong when he was locked in solitary confinement as Nick’s captive. Now he was a free man—not just free from Nick, but free from the Order. Free from Laura, for that matter, who had liked him to look a certain way.
Rather than cutting his hair, he had let it grow long as a defiant symbol of his liberty. Anyone who didn’t like it could jolly well hang.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he caught Grace Kenwood giving him a cynical little smirk after his compliment to the baroness. It seemed to say: You are so full of shit, my lord. Though, of course, the virgin saint would never use such naughty words.
He turned his head and smiled charmingly at her. “Miss Kenwood, may I refill your wine? Oh, you’ve hardly touched it,” he observed. “Perhaps you should.”
Might loosen you up a bit, no?
She narrowed her eyes at him, understanding perfectly. “How kind of you, my lord. But I can fend for myself. Perhaps Miss Windlesham could use a bit more, though.” She lifted her wineglass and took a defiant little sip.
“That’s all right,” Calpurnia assured him, waving off this pointless suggestion. “Miss Kenwood, he’d have to reach through the candelabra to help me!”
“Well, we wouldn’t want him to catch his arm on fire,” she answered in a tone that said she’d find that prospect terribly amusing.
Harrumph. Trevor set out to ignore her once again and turned his attention to the food for a while.
A silver tureen of lobster soup sat in the center of the table. Around it, symmetrically arrayed, were platters of boiled trout opposite veal cutlets; chicken pie opposite orange pudding; bright green blanched asparagus across from Jerusalem artichokes.
And that was only the first course.
In due time, the second was brought out, fresh with springtime specialties: roasted duck across from rabbit fricassee; lamb tails opposite a ham. There were green peas and carrots from the fields outside, and roasted sweetbreads sat opposite steaming, buttered crab.
“You really will spoil us, my lady,” Reverend Kenwood said warmly to their hostess.
The mention of people being spoiled must have reminded Lady Windlesham to bring her daughter to the fore. “Calpurnia and I have been wondering what sort of plans you may have for the Grange, my lord. We hear you are thinking of improvements.”
He nodded and took a swallow of wine before he replied. “Certain repairs need to be done. I have a shipment of supplies coming soon on the canal boat. Timber and roofing slates and such.”
“Really?”
“A lot of work needs to be done. Part of the roof over the north wing has already caved in, unfortunately. But the walls are sound there, so I was thinking of replacing the roof with a glass one. It would be a fine place for an orangery, I should think.”
“An orangery!” Calpurnia exclaimed. “Oh, how elegant!”
“Indeed,” her mother agreed in approval. “If you need advice on your interior decorations, do not hesitate to call on me, my lord. As you can see, I can boast a certain skill in making a residence beautiful.”
Miss Kenwood stifled a cough at the frank boast.Likewise, Trevor hid his surprise. “Quite so, my lady.”
“More importantly,” the baroness said with a knowing smile, “I have passed on my abilities to my daughter. It is imperative that a young lady of Quality learn all those subtle enhancements that turn a house into a home before she marries, don’t you think?”
He nodded politely, but from what he’d seen so far, he found it hard to believe that Miss Calpurnia was the dome
stic sort. Then he asked Dr. Bowen-Hill about his medical books in order to escape being the subject of scrutiny for a while.
The mild-mannered physician modestly described his latest tome of remedies that could be made at home from ingredients either grown in the kitchen garden or easily acquired. He credited his wife, however, with having authored the recipes for ladies’ beauty potions that ran alongside those for his health concoctions.
“So much knowledge in one couple! Do you have children?” Trevor asked politely, then he wished he had not, for he saw Mrs. Bowen-Hill wince.
“No, my lord.”
“Oh, we are frightfully proud of our local doctor,” Lord Stokes chimed in, adding a testimonial. “One of my tenants’ children broke an arm last summer falling off the hay wagon. Ghastly! You could see the bone. Fortunately, Bowen-Hill was there in a trice to save the day. The child didn’t even have to lose the arm. We were all sure he was going to die. You are quite the miracle worker, sir!” Lord Stokes toasted the physician, who colored with modesty.
“The young mend quickly,” Dr. Bowen-Hill murmured.
The third course arrived, another well-balanced dance of flavors in season. Over roasted venison, broiled salmon, forced cucumbers, French beans, and a charming addition of apricot puffs, somebody finally got around to asking him about his career as a spy.
Trevor was ready. He figured it was coming sooner or later. Might as well get it over with, now that the company was well lubricated with wine.
Since they had gone to such great lengths to welcome him, he conceded to regale them with certain stories, each carefully edited for just such occasions into harmless picaresque tales.
He started with a funny one about how he had been sent off to the Peninsula disguised as an army captain, his mission, to figure out which aide-de-camp of a certain British general had been tipping off the French of future troop movements in order to fatten his own purse.
“The task required me to pose as a captain of the regulars. As part of my role, of course, I had to carry out the normal duties of a man in that position. Well, one day I was sent out as a scout to do some reconnaissance of the terrain ahead.
“Unbeknownst to me,” he continued, “the Spanish field through which I was so stealthily passing was home to an enormous black bull, a champion of the local bullring. The beast took one look at my red uniform—and charged.”
As the guests gasped, Trevor shook his head and laughed. “My friends, any foolish rumors you may have heard about me being some brave hero must be quickly dispelled if you could have heard me scream. The next thing I knew, the bull flipped me over his horns and tried to trample me to death. Fortunately, I avoided being gored.”
“Olé!” said Lord Stokes.
Trevor chuckled. “Indeed.”
“How ever did you escape the beast?” Calpurnia asked, wide-eyed.
“Some of the farmer’s field hands saw me getting attacked and waved the brute away. As it happened, one of them had a tip for me about the aide-de-camp’s corruption, so it all worked out for the best.”
When they pressed him for more, he moved from humor to intrigue.
“A colleague and I managed to intercept a code being used to signal three American privateer ships out of New Orleans that we learned were bringing supplies to the French. We got to the cliff side above the harbor where the ship was expected and were able to signal him with lanterns not to come in. If that ship had succeeded in unloading fresh materiéls, who knows how long that particular battle might have gone on? Instead, the French surrendered two days later.”
“Bravo,” Lord Windlesham murmured.
“Oh, do please tell us more,” Lady De Geoffrey insisted.
He was ready once again, moving back to the safe ground of humor. “I suppose I can’t do any harm now if I tell you about how we rescued the opera diva from Naples.”
“Not the great Benesini?” Lord Stokes gasped.
“The same,” Trevor answered gravely, allowing them their awe at so famous a star. “Though Napoleon had made his brother King of Naples by that time, La Benesini remained loyal to the Bourbons. In fact, she was a personal friend of Queen Maria Carolina, who, being a sister to Marie Antoinette, hated everything having to do with the French Revolution and Napoleon, as well. Unfortunately, she was not among the royal party as they fled from Naples when the French troops arrived. She was left behind when power changed hands.
“The opera singer’s great talent and her fame shielded her from the usual fate suffered by the Bourbons’ more prominent friends. She was invited in, to become an ornament of Joseph Bonaparte’s court, just as she had been under King Ferdinand.
“Now, this cannot leave this room,” he warned them half in jest, “but she accepted, and given her position in the court, it wasn’t long before Madame Benesini had collected a considerable amount of information on the new rulers of Naples. She was prepared to share that intelligence with us in exchange for safe passage out of Italy. So we went in and got her.”
Murmurs of admiration at the nerve of such a rescue passed around the table. Even Miss Kenwood looked a little impressed in spite of herself.
But he truly did not want them thinking he was a hero.
He didn’t deserve it. Virgil had been a hero. He was just an ordinary chap doing his job—though he took some pride in doing it well.
“Gentlemen, if any of you ever thought you’ve dealt with a difficult lady, I challenge you to conduct a covert rescue of an opera diva. The Regent’s wife herself could not have been more demanding.” He laughed as he recounted the tale, though, to be sure, it had not been very funny at the time.
“The woman was incapable of keeping her voice down, and her list of demands on how she must be treated exceeded anything that I have ever seen. She had a little wee dog that she carried around in a velvet purse. The dog took precedence over everything. But that was just the beginning. She had to have a certain kind of soap in her stateroom on the ship—lavender with a hint of orange. I’ll never forget it. And if anyone woke her up at the wrong time—even by accident!—well, I daresay La Benesini could’ve turned even King Henry VIII into a meek, docile husband. If he had disobeyed her, he was the one who would’ve lost his head. Frankly, I was glad to escape with my own.”
Everyone was laughing.
“Was she able to go and sing elsewhere, Lord Trevor?”
“Yes, did La Benesini find her way to a new stage?”
“The last I heard, she was dazzling audiences in Saint Petersburg. I’m sure she’ll make her way to London on her tour soon. And when she does, remember—you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Well, Lord Trevor, you make it all sound like a grand lark,” Lady Stokes remarked, “but I’m sure you must have seen your share of tragedy and danger.”
He gave a slight shrug. “I cannot deny it, madam.”
She leaned closer, narrowing her eyes as if to goad him. “No doubt you have been placed in the position of having to take an enemy’s life.”
“Antonia!” Lady De Geoffrey exclaimed.
“What, it is a reasonable question, is it not? I for one am always fascinated by our officers’ experiences at the war.”
“She likes those gothic tales of the macabre, too,” Lady De Geoffrey chided in disapproval, but Trevor merely smiled.
“I was not technically an officer, my lady.”
“Yes, but you know what it’s like to kill,” the large, ruddy countess intoned in an ominous voice.
“Madam, honestly,” Sir Phillip chimed in.
Trevor did not wish to be the cause of animosity among his neighbors. “It is unavoidable in war, you’re quite correct, Lady Stokes. But still, I prefer saving lives to taking them.” He strove to turn the conversation. “Did I mention that my fellow agents and I were given extensive training in battlefield medicine? Perhaps Dr. Bowen-Hill and I might dis
cuss it some time.”
Young Calpurnia was having none of it.
“I think what Lady Stokes is trying to ask, Lord Trevor—well, what we’re all really wondering after all they wrote about you in the papers is—how many men have you killed?”
“Ha!” Lady Stokes burst out, as if not even she had dared ask this but very much wanted to know.
At the same moment, while Trevor stared at the debutante, frozen—indeed, cornered—all of a sudden, Miss Kenwood seated beside him went into a burst of violent coughing.
He turned to her in distraction, still wishing he could be anywhere but here.
Then his eyes widened as he realized she was choking.
“Good God!” Pushing back his chair, he leaped to his feet with alacrity, smacking her soundly on the back once, twice.
“Can’t—breathe!” she wheezed, pounding herself on the chest.
“Grace!” her father shouted in alarm.
“She’s turning red! Doctor, do something!” their hostess cried.
Dr. Bowen-Hill was already scrambling out of his chair and starting to race around the table. Reverend Kenwood was on the verge of bursting out in prayer, while Calpurnia shouted at her to breathe.
“Oh—dear!”
Suddenly she was all right again, on her feet now, gasping for breath. She clutched Trevor’s arm as he steadied her.
“Good heavens,” she gasped out, catching her breath again. “I’m so sorry, everyone.”
Lady Windlesham was outraged at the disruption at her table. “Miss Kenwood, you must be more careful! You gave us such a fright!”
“Y-yes, Your Ladyship. I-I think it was a cucumber seed.” She sank back down apologetically into her chair, then Trevor pushed it in for her, frowning. “It must have gone down the wrong pipe.”
“I daresay,” Lord Stokes said with a knowing twinkle in his eyes.
His pulse pounding, protective instincts still on high alert, Trevor handed Grace her wineglass, this time without sarcasm.
She took a swallow to clear her throat. “Thank you so much,” she murmured, avoiding his gaze.
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