Gilding the Lady

by Nicole Byrd

  Clarissa felt a glimmer of impatience. “We must try!”

  “I think you are right,” Lady Gabriel said, her tone thoughtful. “But, my dear Lady Sealey, you must take thought to all the dangers.”

  The countess chuckled. “I shall leave unsecured only the ugliest of my silver. And perhaps, if I’m truly lucky, they will take the epergne that my great-aunt insisted on leaving to me, the one with the Gothic carvings and engraved gargoyles.”

  Clarissa laughed, and she felt a surge of optimism. “We must inform the earl,” she pointed out.

  “At once,” Gemma agreed, stirring her own tea, which she seemed to have forgotten to drink. “I will send him a note.”

  Clarissa felt a flicker of envy. Protected by her married state, Gemma could do what Clarissa could not.

  She felt the countess’s glance. “I am hearing gossip, my dear. The Ton has noted that the earl is spending much time in your company, and many ladies are seething with jealousy behind their fans. Half of Society has you already engaged.”

  Clarissa flushed. “Nonsense, he is only being helpful. He is very kind and very, very brave!”

  “Indeed,” the older lady agreed politely. Her lips seemed to want to smile, although she controlled them.

  “At least it is better than—you have not heard any hint of talk linking Clarissa to an involvement with the dead—the late matron?” Gemma lowered her voice as the footman left the room, taking out an empty tray that had held small delicious cakes and fruit tarts.

  “No, thank heavens,” the countess told them. “Not a word.”

  “If you have not heard it, then it has not been said, and Clarissa’s reputation is still secure,” Gemma declared, and the others nodded.

  Clarissa wanted to ask if the Ton were still calling her the “fallen Miss Fallon,” but knew the countess would hesitate to confirm her fears, even if they were true. And compared to her neck in the noose, she thought, what did a slip on a dance floor matter? She did not care if the farcical title lingered. The once-painful nickname now had little power to wound her.

  So their plans continued, and that night, Clarissa could hardly sleep as she braced herself for the next morning; she must betray no hint of her suspicions about the tutor. As a result, her dreams were even more confused than usual, but still menacing. She went down to breakfast with heavy eyes.

  When the dancing master was announced at eleven o’clock, she found her heart beating fast. Bracing herself and forcing her expression to remain bland and unrevealing, Clarissa dipped a polite curtsy as Gemma spoke her greeting.

  As it turned out, Clarissa found she hardly needed to worry. Her performance this morning was so bad that she had every excuse for looking flustered.

  Fortunately, Gemma very soon asked Miss Pomshack to join the lesson, and that good lady was even more chatty than usual, so it helped to cover Clarissa’s silence. Between watching her own feet and biting her lip over yet another misstep, Clarissa found the lesson crawled by.

  And it seemed natural, when they took a break for tea, for Gemma to share with Miss Pomshack the news that Lady Sealey had been invited to attend a large house party for the weekend and was, as usual, taking her elderly butler with her, as well as several of the other house servants.

  “They’re having a dance on Saturday night and a concert with a visiting Italian soprano on Sunday afternoon, so I’m sure Lady Sealey will find it a delightful interlude,” she explained.

  “What a shame you were not also invited,” Lady Pomshack said, happy to gossip. “I know that family; they are distantly connected to the Viscount Henley. I once spent two years chaperoning his younger daughter when—”

  Clarissa let her thoughts wander. Miss Pomshack sounded quite natural, and since she had no reason to know their secret agenda, there was no reason she should not. Was the tutor paying attention, stowing away the tidbit as he sipped his tea? Even more essential, would he and his gang take the bait?

  All Clarissa and her allies could do was wait and see.

  Gemma allowed Miss P to ramble on for a few minutes, than glanced at the clock on the mantel. “Perhaps I should return to the pianoforte and allow Clarissa and Monsieur Meidenne one more dance before our time is up.”

  “Of course.” The governess prepared to take her place, and Clarissa followed more slowly. At least he had no reason to know just why, today, she was reluctant to touch his gloved hand, and he could put her clumsiness down to her usual awkwardness on the dance floor.

  Clarissa thought of dancing with the earl and how very different it had been from these sessions with her instructor, and tried not to feel wistful. Would she ever have the nerve to step out onto a real dance floor again?

  And now the earl would be placing himself in peril, for her sake. . . . Was it possible that the countess’s hints were correct? Could it be that he felt something more than pity at her difficult circumstances, that he felt real emotion for her? She recalled the kisses they’d shared, but caresses were easy enough to give, and he was a man of the world . . .

  She stepped on the tutor’s foot and muttered an apology. But at least, she had forgotten for a moment how strange it was to stand so close to a man who might be the murderer they sought.

  Monsieur Meidenne seemed as relieved as she when their hour was over, and he could bid them a polite good-bye.

  Clarissa dipped a curtsy and allowed Gemma to walk him to the door. Clarissa went to the window and watched the instructor’s slim frame as he strode rapidly away from the house, soon moving out of her view. Would he take the bait? Would the thieves come?

  That afternoon, the earl called, and they had a rare stroke of luck, at least as far as Clarissa was concerned. Not expecting company, Gemma had gone out, and Miss Pomshack had accompanied her, so Clarissa was alone in the drawing room when Lord Whitby was shown up.

  He hesitated in the doorway. “Am I intruding upon your privacy?”

  Having achieved a credible curtsy, Clarissa straightened and shook her head. “Not at all. My sister-in-law will be back very shortly; please sit down.”

  Taking care to be on her best behavior, she bade the footman bring up a tea tray. Keeping her voice dignified, she tried to imitate Gemma’s calm certainty and seemingly effortless poise. When she turned back to him, she found the earl smiling at her as if he detected her efforts, and she grinned back at him. Would he kiss her? But today he seemed unwilling to take chances.

  “I came to hear how the dancing lesson went,” he told her.

  “Tolerably well,” she answered. “At least, I was dreadful during the lesson, treading on the poor man—no, if he is who we think he is, he deserves no pity!—several times. If he is a murderer, I shall be sorry I didn’t break every bone in his foot! But I don’t believe I gave him any cause for suspicion. Heaven knows I’ve been clumsy enough from the beginning, as you well know, so hopefully he did not realize why I was so awkward today.”

  He leaned over and reached to take her hand, pressing it lightly. “You underrate yourself, Clarissa.”

  She doubted the truth of his statement but glowed that he should contradict her. She was sorry when he drew back his hand. “At any rate, Gemma chatted with Miss Pomshack about Lady Sealey’s departure on Friday, and they gossiped at length about the house party, so he has all the pertinent information.”

  “And we must hope that he acts upon it,” the earl agreed. “I hope it was not too trying a morning. You look rather tired.”

  She touched her temple. She did have a headache although she was loathe to admit it. “I didn’t sleep well. It was not the lesson so much, but perhaps the dread of it that brought on one of the nightmares.”

  “You are still suffering from the dreams?” he asked, his tone concerned.

  She tried not to wince.

  “I promised you—”

  “I know,” she agreed. “And I do believe you, really, I do. When you’re with me, I feel quite safe. But when you’re gone, the fear creeps back in, as well as the
dreams.”

  Dominic looked grim. “Perhaps you should talk about it, rid yourself of some of the fears. What was the foundling home like?” he asked her. “Do you have any good memories of the place?”

  She shrugged. “Some of the girls were good to me. Others made sport of me and my ‘uppity’ airs. But I learned to fit in. I suppose we do what we must.”

  “If we have the courage, and you have a great deal,” he told her.

  She flashed him a smile.

  What about—” She paused as the footman brought in a tray laden with a teapot and china and cakes and scones and jam. “Thank you. I will pour.”

  After the servant had left, she very poured out two cups of tea, aware that the earl was grinning at her, not unkindly, and handed him one. “If I drop this on your lap, it will serve you right,” she warned him, then added, more soberly, “Tell me about your dreams. At least, if it will not pain you.”

  She looked up at him, seeing shadows in his face that he usually kept hidden. She wanted to ask him more, but she hesitated.

  He took the cup, then looked away from her gaze. “I dream of the battlefields, but mostly I don’t see the whole panorama, it would be too much, even in memory. So my visions show me one wounded soldier lying drenched in his own blood or one horse trembling with its foot blown off—”

  She must have made a sound despite herself, because he shut his lips firmly together.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to distress you.”

  She shook her head, still appalled, but also sorry she had stopped the flow of his words. “I’m sorry, but you should not be. You went into battle to serve your country, and save us from Napoleon’s threat of invasion. You make me realize that my own suffering was mild in comparison.”

  “Not in the least,” he objected. “I was a soldier, a grown man, and most of all I regret the fact that I might have done more to avert the carnage, the suffering of my men. You were only a child, and had no one beside you to protect and comfort you. This was a very different circumstance. You have every reason to feel what you feel.”

  For a moment, they sat in silence, and she clung to his hand.

  “Does it get any better?” she asked, her voice quiet.

  He gazed at her, as one wounded soldier to another. “I think so, in time. Perhaps it never departs completely. But if you face your fear, it will not overwhelm you.”

  “How on earth do you do that?” she demanded. “When the hurtful times are in the past, when your foes are long departed, how do you go back and face them down?”

  His glance at her held meaning, but she could not read it. “You will discover a way,” he told her. “When you are ready.”

  There was too much pain in his eyes. Perhaps she had no right to encourage him to revisit his own visions of struggle and loss. Had he not done enough for her already, risked himself enough?

  He still held one of her hands between his own. She lifted the other and touched his cheek very softly.

  His eyes lightened, and he put up his left hand to hold her palm against his cheek. She felt the warmth of his skin beneath her palm, the slightest prickle of barely visible facial hair. He was so overwhelmingly masculine, and the way that he looked at her made feelings stir again inside her. She moved her hand slowly across his cheek, down to his mouth, to trace the outline of his lips beneath her fingers.

  He drew a deep breath, pressed her hand to his lips and kissed the palm.

  Clarissa felt the thrill run through her whole body. It was a small gesture, but so intimate, and the touch of his breath made goose bumps rise on her arm. If only—

  Then there were footsteps in the hall, and to her great regret, he released both her hands and turned.

  She drew a steadying breath. When Gemma and Miss Pomshack appeared in the doorway, Clarissa tried to find her voice.

  “Lord Whitby called to see—” she said, then paused, remembering that Miss P did not know about their plot.

  “To see how you all are,” he finished for her. “I fear I must be going; I have some business to set into motion.”

  He sounded quite controlled again, but as he made his bow, the glance he threw her way made her quiver.

  Clarissa clasped her palms together and tried to hold on to the warmth their two hands had shared.

  Two nights later, Dominic found himself, as planned, sitting quietly in the shadow of the large bookcases in the countess’s study. He was prepared for a long night of tedium. They had no way of knowing if the gang would come—assuming they came at all—on Friday, Saturday, or Sunday.

  But he had to be here, just in case. He glanced around him. The large house was very quiet, and the darkness broken only by slivers of palest light where the draperies were not quite closed. A clock ticked from the mantel, and he could hear the large clock in the hall striking the hour. One o’clock. The house creaked, a faint sound, but it made him stiffen and listen hard. But after a few moments he decided it was only the floorboards settling a bit as the air cooled.

  Outside on the front door, the brass knocker had been removed, and the drapes were drawn mostly shut. He had allowed a few cracks at the windows in order to filter in the light from the street lamps, so the interior of the house was not completely black. They could do no more to announce that the house was empty except paint a sign on the front! He only hoped that the wrong thieves would not appear.

  It was all a gamble, and it might all be for naught. He would have given up three nights of his usual boring social rounds to sit in an empty house . . . and Dominic found he had no regrets at all at the notion. Until Miss Fallon returned to Society, there was no one in anyone’s drawing room or ballroom that he wished to see. . . . The thought brought a flicker of surprise with it. When had her presence become so indispensable to his happiness? No, more than that, his satisfaction, his contentment, his—

  Another creak broke his train of thought.

  Where had the noise come from? The attics were currently empty; all the female servants who had not gone with her ladyship had been sent away for their own safety, in case Dominic’s ruse was successful.

  There—it came again. Someone was forcing a window, somewhere toward the back of the house, he thought. The door to the study had been left open, and Dominic strained to hear the small noises. Yes, now there were footsteps, stealthy but detectable in the hush of the apparently vacant house.

  The other men who waited in the darkness had been given strict orders not to interrupt the burglary until Dominic commanded it; he hoped no overzealous law officer would forget his instructions.

  Now he heard people moving about the house, their footsteps muffled, but the occasional creak of a floorboard gave them away. And now he made out clinks of metal as silver was shoved into bags. He hoped this did not go wrong and the countess did not lose a good part of her household goods. Despite her brave words, she could not put too much away, or the gang would be suspicious.

  Dominic felt his nerves crawl with impatience. Where was the ringleader? Was this even the right gang?

  At last, a shadow appeared in the doorway. It was a man’s form, slim and only medium in height. Stepping into the room, the figure paused to get his bearings.

  Dominic sat very still, knowing that, in his far corner, he was effectively hidden in the deep recesses of the wing chair he had chosen for the purpose.

  The man in the doorway crossed to the desk, and without fuss, pulled open a drawer, then another. He found the cash box and made a small grunt, likely in disappointment. They had left some money inside it, but not a great amount. There was the jingle of coins as the thief slid them into his pocket and replaced the box, then a pause. A sudden burst of light appeared, like a solitary firework breaking the inky darkness of a smooth summer sky.

  Dominic blinked, and the light, dazzling in its first flare, resolved itself into one small flame. The intruder had lit a candle, and with its light, he began to search the desk and scan the papers inside.

  Dominic lifted th
e pistol he had been resting on his lap and stood.

  The thief’s head jerked; he must have seen the motion from the corner of his eye.

  “Stand very still,” Dominic commanded.

  Instead, the man moved his arm in one swift, fluid motion.

  Some instinct left over from the battlefield made Dominic twist to the side before conscious thought could move him. A slim, lethal blade sank deep into the leather cushion of the wing chair. It had missed him by only inches.

  He muttered a few succinct words and lifted the pistol, but the thief was moving again, diving for the doorway.

  It would do little good to have the man dead; they could not prove that he was the one who had murdered the matron if he were unable to speak! Cursing, Dominic ran into the hallway after him.

  “He’s making for the street! Come out!” he shouted.

  At the agreed upon code words, the men who had been carefully hidden sprang out of pantries and anterooms and from beneath curtained tables. The hush of the house was broken by curses and the sounds of blows and a crash as some small piece of furniture was sent flying.

  Dominic hardly noticed. He pursued the fleeing thief, who made a beeline through halls and doorways retreating to the open window in one of the back kitchens where the pack of scoundrels had entered. With apparently not a care about the rest of his gang—loyalty among thieves, my ass, Dominic thought cynically—the man ran for his life.

  Dominic ran after him.

  He scrambled through the window only a few seconds behind the other man, who was smaller in frame and made his exit more swiftly. Dominic had to squeeze his own shoulders through the opening, but at last he made it, dropping to the alley below.

  He got his balance and listened. The sound of muffled footsteps led him on. Dominic kept a firm grip on his pistol and pelted after the escaping thief. After all this, he could not lose him!

  The alleyway was dark, with no streetlights. But by the smell, it ran along the stables behind the big houses. In the darkness it was hard to keep his eye on the slim shadowy form that by now had gained a few yards on him. Keeping his pistol ready, Dominic settled into a hard run. In another block, he had narrowed the gap between them.