All Smiles

by Stella Cameron

  “There is nothing acceptable about our being here, my lord, is there?” Meg Smiles asked. To be less than honest would rob her of any joy she might hope to take away from the night.

  “Not unless we convince each other there is. If we forget who we are, how we are different—even how we are the same—and grant ourselves permission to accept whatever we have to offer and take, then I believe our actions are not only acceptable, but necessary.” He tilted his face to the ceiling and expanded his lungs. “I am a man who is torn between two countries, and between what is expected of him and what he craves for himself. The responsibilities I am ordered to assume weigh heavily. I would like to please those who expect these things of me. But my heart is elsewhere, and I do not know what to do.”

  “My lord,” Miss Smiles said softly, “I feel for you in your struggle.”

  Yes, Jean-Marc believed she did. “These matters are most private. I have not shared even a hint of my true feelings with anyone else.”

  “Why do you share them with me?” Only a gullible person would refrain from asking, Meg thought. “A stranger?”

  “Are you a stranger?” He smiled to himself. “I suppose that is so in hours and minutes, but in here—” he struck his chest “—it is as if I have been coming toward you for a long time. Oh, I didn’t know it, but I do now. You are familiar to me. Familiar yet mysterious, and I want to know you…. Meg, I should like to know you very well.”

  “Full of mystery, betrayal and complications, Cameron’s tale comes complete with an eccentric cast of characters, including a meddlesome, match-making ghost and enough villains to keep readers thoroughly entertained.”

  —Publishers Weekly on More and More

  Also available from MIRA Books and STELLA CAMERON

  MOONTIDE

  UNDERCURRENTS

  ONCE AND FOR ALWAYS

  7B

  STELLA CAMERON

  ALL SMILES

  For the folks at www.stellacameron.com who wanted to return to Mayfair Square. And for all the Rebels—you know who you are!

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  7 Mayfair Square, London, 1821

  Sir Septimus Spivey here:

  It’s not easy being a ghost.

  One must put up with being overlooked, ignored, forgotten, or worse yet, spoken of with heartless disrespect as if one weren’t there.

  Well, yes, of course I’m not there anyway, but in light of who I am—was—surely my name should evoke nothing short of reverence.

  I have suffered too much, for too long, and this must stop.

  I should have listened to my father. He warned me that my generous spirit would bring nothing but disappointment.

  Hmm. Of course, my father never reached, or even approached, the level of my own successes in life. Nevertheless, he was right in this instance. I built a beautiful house for my family—and only for my family. The fact that circumstances have forced me to take up residence elsewhere—in a manner of speaking—is no excuse for the way in which my granddaughter and her nephew now abuse the jewel in my professional crown.

  I was knighted for my accomplishments as an architect. Number Seven Mayfair Square is the best of my extraordinary designs. Hester and her nephew, young Hunter Lloyd, are despoiling their inheritance. They have jeopardized their own reputations, their own standing in society, and thus tainted the very air that touches the face of my precious creation. More importantly, they have sullied a peerless man’s memory—mine.

  In Mayfair Square, address of addresses, golden carrot before the noses of the most ambitious of well-bred noses, the stuff of dreams for those who look longingly but know they are unfit—in this square, at the triumph that is Number Seven—there are lodgers!

  Hester and Hunter are letting rooms.

  I am as angry as I can be and I refuse to tolerate this state of affairs any longer.

  This is insupportable, you know. I have reached a stage at which I should need to do nothing but occupy my favorite vantage point in the fabulously carved staircase I myself sketched for the craftsmen. The faces of members of my family are depicted there in great detail, and so is mine. That is where I retire to rest, and where I should be left in peace to admire what I have accomplished. But, no, no, thanks to my ungrateful relations it’s not yet to be. No matter, I shall prevail.

  And I have a plan.

  Meg and Sibyl Smiles live at Seven B. They are sisters, orphans of some country clergyman. I cannot even remember the name of the village. Somewhere forgettable in the Cotswolds, I believe. Oh, the shame of it all. They try to disguise the truth that Number Seven is being used like a lowly rooming house by speaking of Lady Hester’s “resident protegées,” if you can imagine such foolishness. Since when have protegées paid their champions? And who, may I ask, champions seamstresses and pianoforte teachers—or shopkeepers—or failed painters? Oh, we have them all at Number Seven Mayfair Square, my friends.

  Meg Smiles has certain troubles, I understand. For these I am profoundly sorry. I wish life were treating her better. Regardless, I intend to assist in her removal from my house for other parts. Sibyl will accompany her. Toward that end, this is what I intend: There’s a new fellow at Number Seventeen, name of Count Etranger—Jean-Marc. Fancies himself more English than…than whatever they call people from Mont Nuages. Country about the size of Hyde Park on the border between France and Italy. Anyway, Etranger wants a home away from home, I should think, so he’s brought his sister to London for the Season. Intends to marry her off to the wealthiest, most elevated contender and use the resulting connections to weasel his way into the best places, don’t you know. Good luck to him, that’s what I say.

  The sister is Princess Désirée. She understands fiddle-all of the ins and outs of going about in Town, and Etranger knows this is so. He needs absolutely trustworthy assistance with the girl’s preparation. Someone, or more than one, who can guide the young lady in basic areas without having any pretensions of their own. Who better to fill the post—posts—than the sisters Smiles?

  They will do well enough as companions expert in questions of style (although they have none), elocution, voice training and mastery of the pianoforte. After all, how much experience could be necessary to fill such posts?

  Of course, companions are also for the purpose of keeping their charges company. To this end they must move to Number Seventeen. My task will be to ensure Meg and Sibyl do not return to Number Seven.

  Trust me. They won’t.

  1

  “Single ladies should not discuss eligible gentlemen so…intimately,” Sibyl Smiles told her sister, Meg.

  Seated on the very shabby rose-colored chaise in the parlor at 7B Mayfair Square, Meg rearranged the black lace mantilla with which she’d draped her head and f
ace and said, “Who should discuss them intimately, then? Married ladies?”

  “Oh, fiddlesticks,” Sibyl said. “I think you want to shock me and it’s really too bad of you.”

  “I want to say whatever I’m thinking—when I’m thinking about it. That is whenever I’m forced to abandon my meditation for matters of the mundane world. And it isn’t as if I were discussing an actual man, for goodness sake. Simply men in general and why one might or might not find one man in particular more attractive than another man in particular. These are things I must be clear about, and very soon.”

  “Why?” Blond and ethereal, lovely Sibyl fluttered over Meg.

  This was where caution became imperative. “Don’t worry so, Sibyl. There is no absolutely clear direction for all this. I’m gathering information, simply gathering to broaden my understanding.” Slight understatements, or even fabrications could occasionally be justified. “I should think a man’s hands would be most important, shouldn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “But why do you think so, Sibyl?”

  “I…Well, if you must know, I do not at all care for men with soft hands. There, now you know. They are not manly to me. And I do not like small hands. That is more difficult to explain except to say that I should prefer a man’s hands—if I were interested in him at all—that is, if I noticed him at all—I should prefer a man’s hands to be larger than mine. Much larger. There is something inside me that insists this is important, yet I don’t know why. Yes, large, strong, well-shaped, long-fingered—perhaps blunt at the nail—yes, yes, that is what I prefer.”

  Meg watched her sister’s deep concentration and smiled. “Hmm. I agree.” And all this from dear Sibyl, who didn’t think they should as much as have an opinion on a gentleman’s person.

  “I also dislike those small, neat feet some gentlemen seem to take pride in. But again, the reason is beyond my reach. It’s just that I know it could be important.”

  “Hmm. Yes.”

  “Height is not of such great importance. But a good carriage is essential, and fine, strong-looking shoulders—legs that look well without padding, particularly when the gentleman is on horseback and the muscle is flexed. Yes, very pleasant. One doesn’t, of course, tend to see a gentleman’s chest other than when he adjusts his waistcoat, but there are those moments. A solid-looking chest. Firm, with good muscles again. Oh, yes, that is quite the thing. And I do warm to a charming smile. I shouldn’t care for a man who smiled all the time since I prefer a serious side in all acquaintances, but a charming smile so becomes a handsome gentleman’s face, don’t you think? And dimples here?” She touched her own face just below each cheekbone.

  Meg scarcely dared move one of her own muscles, or take the smallest breath for fear of diverting Sibyl from this absolutely wonderful revelation. Sibyl was human. Sibyl had longings. Sibyl was no different from Meg in reacting to certain qualities in the male.

  “Meg?” Sibyl said. “Do you agree?”

  “Oh, I do, I most definitely do. Oh, very much so, I assure you. But do go on.”

  “Go on? What do you mean?”

  Fiddle dee dee, the spell was broken. “Nothing. I didn’t want to interrupt if you had more to say. I thought you might have an opinion on, um, well, a gentleman’s…derriere?”

  Aghast came close to describing Sibyl’s expression.

  “No,” Meg said rapidly, “I see you don’t. But I do. Muscle is important there, too—only to ensure the fit of the trouser, of course. But, moving on to another subject, I’m going to make certain our affairs turn out well. It’s just that I have things to learn, and quickly. Because I do have a plan.”

  Sibyl’s blue eyes sharpened with worry. “Oh, no, no, Meggie. I don’t know what you intend, but already you frighten me. This is all part of this, this—” she waved a hand at Meg “—this new preoccupation with strange, foreign notions. Oh, do take that thing off your head, Meggie. I can’t think what’s come over you of late. You are quite changed.”

  “A grateful parishioner brought the mantilla back for Papa,” she said, still hoping to deflect any alarm. “From a long sea journey. It never had any purpose before. But it does now. It calms my inner self and helps me achieve a serene state. Familiar objects can do that, Sibyl. And if I am changed it’s because the world has changed me—for the better, I prefer to think. I am a woman of spirit, a woman with a backbone. I am a woman who will not sit with her hands crossed, waiting for disaster—waiting to become destitute. I am.” She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

  “You are what?” Sibyl whispered.

  Meg breathed in again, long and deep through her nose, and repeated, “I am, that’s all. One day, when you are ready and no longer frightened of anything you don’t understand, one day I shall begin your instruction in abstraction.”

  “I cannot bear it,” Sibyl said, pacing the drab floral carpet. “If Papa were alive he would put a stop to it. This is what comes of women attending lectures by foreigners. They get foreign ideas. I’m not at all certain all this abstracted thinking, and muttering of mantram, or whatever you call these meaningless words you chant, isn’t, well…I’m just not sure, that’s all. I thought you only chanted when you assumed you were alone, but now you are perfectly content to worry me with your muttering and humming, and with assuming such completely unladylike poses at any moment at all. They just—”

  “Are,” Meg finished for her sister.

  “There, you see?” Sibyl planted her feet and pointed at Meg. “You do it all the time. Dear, dear. I’m just not sure what to do about you. We won’t discuss the subject further at this time.”

  “Good for you,” Meg said. “Now do sit, Sibyl. I have something wonderful to tell you. I was going to wait, but perhaps it will cheer you, and since I am expecting a message on the subject, we might as well get the explanation out of the way.”

  Sibyl shook her head. Her serviceable gray morning gown became her, but then, anything became Sibyl. “You are afraid,” she said. “No, don’t interrupt me, please. You were experimenting with this strangeness before, but now—since the…you know what—you’ve only become so, so obvious since that.”

  Since she had been pushed into the path of a coach near the Burlington Arcade. “I will not lie to you,” she said. “There are moments when I want to make my mind so busy there is no room in there for being frightened.”

  “If we only think good thoughts,” Sibyl said, “then we cannot possibly be frightened.”

  With a great deal of effort, Meg held back a retort that would upset dear, good, Sibyl.

  “There, you see now?” Sibyl sounded triumphant. “You can’t argue with the truth. Papa—God rest his soul—would be so pleased and proud of you that you are willing to examine your motives in this.”

  “I wish Papa were here now,” Meg said.

  “Oh, so do I.”

  “If he were,” Meg continued, “I should give him a piece of my mind and he would not be at all pleased with that.”

  “Meggie, you are disrespectful.”

  “I am practical. If Papa had been sensible enough to find a way around leaving our home to a wretched male relation, we should not be in our current dilemma. My current dilemma. We should be safe in dear little Puckly Hinton, not in rented rooms in London, trying to support ourselves while someone tries to…kill me.” The time had passed for mincing words.

  Sibyl halted her agitated pacing. Sun through the window shimmered on her hair. Her soft mouth trembled. “You cannot be certain someone pushed you. It’s perfectly possible that in such a crush, you tripped, or imagined you were pushed. After all, you do have an active mind, Meggie.”

  “We won’t pursue the subject further at this time,” Meg said. “My plan is the result of a letter I received from Finch in Scotland.”

  “You heard from Finch?” Sibyl was instantly distracted. She plopped down beside Meg on the chaise. “You didn’t say she’d written. How is she, and His Lordship? How is Hayden faring—and d
ear little Oswin?”

  Finch had been Finch More when they’d all met. Her brother, Latimer More, still lived in the rooms beneath Meg and Sibyl’s. Latimer was at 7A Mayfair Square whereas the Smiles lived at 7B. Above them were Lady Hester Bingham, owner of the house, and her nephew Hunter Lloyd, Barrister at Law. Adam Chillworth, artist and Meg’s friend, lived in the attic. That was 7C. Lady Hester might be on the third floor but her address was 7, since it was her house. Finch had married Ross, Viscount Kilrood, who owned Number 8, and they were currently at their Scottish estates.

  “Meggie? Do tell.”

  “Sorry. I’ve rather a lot on my mind. They are all well. Finch mentions Hayden often and is glad His Lordship took him in.” Hayden had come to Viscount Kilrood as a street urchin paid to carry a message. And he’d stayed, together with his dog, Oswin. “I miss them all. But I’ve no doubt they’ll be back in London sometime during the Season.” The Season, which was all but upon them, and which Meg intended to exploit in order to provide the Smiles sisters with the opportunity they urgently needed.

  “It will be lovely to see them,” Sibyl said. “Meggie, forgive me if I am sometimes sharp. You know, the mantilla becomes you. Your eyes sparkle most mysteriously through the lace.”

  Meg said, “Thank you,” and reached to embrace her sister.

  “Your hair!” Sibyl’s mouth opened and remained so.

  This had been inevitable. “Let me tell you what is about to happen,” Meg said.

  “What have you done to your hair?” Sibyl was not to be diverted. She peered through the mantilla. “Why didn’t I notice it before? Meggie, it’s turned red.”