All Smiles

by Stella Cameron

  “Do you enjoy music?” she asked.

  The princess looked at her feet.

  Meg cast about for some means to ease the girl’s obvious shyness. How could such a plain, gangly duck be turned into a swan—in so short a time? That was such an unpleasant description. But the princess was gangly, pallid, rather plain, dressed completely in gray—apart from a white chemisette—and resembled a schoolgirl recently soaked in a storm and dried out with her clothes on. And she drooped. Everything about her drooped. No spark showed in her. If she had any figure at all, the walking dress—which was indeed much too large—did a fine job of disguising the fact.

  Even if she hadn’t been pleased by Meg’s plan, poor dear Sibyl’s only hope was for this seemingly impossible venture to be a success. Persistence would be the key.

  “Come here, please,” Meg said, summoning a little of the authority she’d been told she must employ. Rather than wait for her wish to be obeyed—and it showed no sign of any such thing—she went to the princess and looked up into her face. “What beautiful eyes you have. Gray. A fine color. We must experiment with your hair. It’s time for it to be put up. Some favor a great many curls. I do not care for that myself, and I think we will see how we do with a smooth coiffeur for you. Your hair is fine, but—” and limp “—but there is plenty of it. We shall see. Perhaps we might begin getting to know each other? I should like to spend our first hours together in conversation. If you would prefer a smaller, more intimate room, I’m sure the Count would be more than agreeable. I want you to talk to me about your expectations. About your hopes. The things you like about London so far, or don’t like about London. Most of all, we must deal with those things you do not understand. Once those are cleared away, the rest will be simple.” Meg widened her smile, although the princess wasn’t actually looking at her. “Shall we summon your brother?”

  Princess Désirée lowered her eyelids.

  “Come, come, now,” Meg said. Her stomach felt so unpleasant. “I will make the decision for both of us. A more intimate room. I’ll ring for someone.”

  “Qu’est-ce que vous pouvez bien faire ici? Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?”

  With one hand on the satin bellpull, Meg froze. She worked her way slowly through what she’d just heard. What on earth was she doing there, and what did—she—want? Not a word of French, the Count had instructed her. He had also assured her that the princess’s English was excellent. “We must speak English,” Meg said. “Your brother insisted.”

  The thin face rose, and Meg was given the questionable honor of a flat stare from her so-called charge’s light eyes. “Je n’y comprends absolument rien.”

  Nothing? Surely that was wrong. Princess Désirée could not mean she didn’t understand any English at all.

  The door opened again and the Count strode in. His smile was brilliant but did not allay Meg’s horror at the certain failure that confronted her.

  “You are getting along,” he said. “Good, good. I have always found that I can trust my instincts in such things. Are you available to start at once, Miss Smiles? This afternoon?”

  Meg looked at the Princess, then at the Count. “If you think that’s a good idea.”

  “Of course it is.” He bent to bestow a kiss on his sister’s cheek. “Remember what I have told you, Miss Smiles. My sister can be very quiet, but she will soon come to trust you—as I already do. The sooner she will chatter away, the better. I am most concerned that her English be as perfect as I know it can be. And I should like to see a pretty new coiffeur when I return home this evening. You shall show it off at dinner, Désirée. Miss Smiles is to retain a modiste for you—an army of modistes. She is extremely knowledgeable in these matters and will supervise all decisions. Yes, I shall look forward to dinner. You shall join us—”

  “Jean-Marc, je suis—”

  “English,” the Count thundered at his sister. “I thought we both understood that was to be your language until I say otherwise.

  “I must go to Windsor,” he said to Meg. “But only for the briefest of visits. The ride both ways will be hard in such a short time, but I’ll expect to see you at dinner. We did not discuss all our arrangements. Remuneration. You will leave that matter to me. I assure you it will be adequate. And your sister will receive the same sum.”

  “Thank you, Your Lordship.” Meg hovered between ecstacy and doom. He would employ them both, and pay them both. They would manage again—as long as she didn’t weaken.

  “The other Miss Smiles may remain where she is, at Number Seven, is it?”

  Meg nodded.

  “Just so. And you will decide appropriate times for Désirée’s musical instruction. You, of course, as Désirée’s companion, her right hand, my right hand, her teacher, her confidante, her mother while she is without her own, you will share her suite and be with her at all times. All times. You will live with us.”

  3

  “Old Coot told me Barstow’s in a flap,” Hunter Lloyd said when Sibyl answered his knock on her door. “I realize Meg can’t possibly have been lured away by a suspicious, quite possibly dangerous foreigner, but I assume something unusual has happened.”

  Privacy was impossible at Number 7. Mrs. Barstow, Lady Hester Bingham’s housekeeper and personal maid of many years—a cost-reducing measure everyone knew Lady Hester preferred—managed to be aware of almost every move the lodgers made. “Come in,” Sibyl said. “I hope Barstow hasn’t upset your aunt.”

  “Aunt thrives on being upset,” Hunter said, advancing only feet inside the door. “She waits for whatever gossip others provide. But we do enjoy her, don’t we? Some people live their own lives. Some are threatened by reality. My aunt is of the latter persuasion.”

  Sibyl liked Hunter a good deal. Already a distinguished barrister, he affected no airs. The reason for his continued presence at Number 7 was a puzzle. Although he hadn’t been heard to complain, Lady Hester was a trial to her nephew. He must certainly be well fixed, and he was undeniably handsome. Meg and Sibyl had long expected to learn he planned to marry and set himself up elsewhere.

  He inclined his head and said, “What was Barstow chattering about?”

  “Nothing, I should think,” Sibyl said. “At least…well, nothing.” She was so frightened for Meg that she longed for wise advice and support, but Meg would be horrified if she discovered Sibyl had discussed their problems.

  “Sibyl,” Hunter said, his green eyes serious, “Barstow informed Coot that you’ve been standing in the window for some time. And she said Meg left in a great hurry, and—according to Barstow—dressed as if for an, um, assignation. Barstow’s words, not mine, of course.”

  Sibyl felt a cold shiver. “Meg looked lovely. She always looks lovely. How could Barstow make such a suggestion? Just because she wore her new yellow and her hair is—” Sibyl slapped a hand over her mouth.

  “Her hair is?”

  “Nothing,” Sibyl said, blowing out through pursed lips and avoiding Hunter’s regard. “Oh, bother. I shall have to explain. I know I need not ask you to keep what I tell you a confidence. Meg is applying for a position.”

  “A position?” His voice flattened as if he didn’t understand.

  “As a…an adviser, I suppose, a guide. She learned about the place from Finch. I should have mentioned that at once. Finch wrote to tell Meg that a princess from Mont Nuages is in London to make her Season and she needs an expert on such matters to teach her all the things she doesn’t know.”

  “But—” Hunter flipped his dark blue coat back and planted his hands on his hips. He shook his head. “You have an odd sense of humor, Sibyl.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t making a joke. Not at all. You see, since we need money if we are not to become destitute…” My, my, my. She forced a laugh and was certain she sounded quite jolly. “Now I am joking. But I wasn’t before. Meg is doing exactly what I said she was. She’s with Count Etranger, who is also from Mont Nuages. He’s the Princess’s brother.”

  “What did she s
ay, Lloyd?” Adam Chillworth, the artist who lived in 7C, and who was more a friend of Meg’s than of any other resident of the house, arrived behind Hunter. He was renowned for his dour countenance, but the fierce expression he wore this afternoon rivaled any he’d previously achieved.

  “Everything is quite all right, thank you, Adam,” Sibyl said. Please let her be able to hold her silly, fearful tongue, and rescue her own and Meg’s dignity before it was lost forever. “Thank you both for calling.”

  “Oh, no, you don’t, Sibyl,” Hunter said. “I’d be obliged if you would assist me, Chillworth. Perhaps two minds can make some sense of all this. One isn’t making much of a showing.”

  Sibyl prayed Meg would soon return, but not so soon as to confront Hunter and Adam in the parlor.

  Hunter explained what she’d told him to Adam—in terribly long detail. Adam was the tallest man Sibyl recalled having met. He wore his black, curly hair rather long and had gray eyes currently turned almost the same color as that hair. Sibyl had always marveled at Meg’s unlikely friendship with such an overwhelming person. True, of late the two of them were rarely to be seen laughing together as they used to do quite often, but Meg still regarded him highly.

  “Blast,” Adam said when Hunter was finally silent. Adam came from the north and what remained of his accent was appealing, or would be in other circumstances. “This is what comes of women being alone in circumstances suited only t’men. It’s barely a week since she was all but killed by that carriage. Does she want to put her life at risk again? Where is she?”

  Sibyl swallowed and felt close to tears.

  “Please sit down,” Hunter told her. “Chillworth is concerned for you and Meg, that’s all. He doesn’t mean to upset you.”

  “Damn you, Lloyd. Don’t you take it upon yourself to decide what I do or don’t mean. I mean to upset Sibyl if that’s what it takes to get to the bottom of this. Speak up. Where is Meg?”

  She turned away and hurried to the window. Crying was absolutely out of the question. If Meggie were here she would manage not to cry, and so would Sibyl.

  “I say,” Hunter said, and his evident distress brought her even closer to shaming herself. “Please let us help. We can’t leave you like this, and we can’t—”

  “We won’t leave until we know what to do to save Meg.” Adam interrupted Hunter and arrived beside Sibyl at the same moment. “Cry if you must, but answer my questions. Where is Meg?”

  Sibyl gulped and pointed.

  “What are you pointing at?” Adam said, all sharpness. “Speak up, I say.”

  “N—number Seventeen,” Sibyl told him. “It used to be Number Sixteen and Number Seventeen but—”

  “The two houses were made into one,” Adam said. “We all know that. Are you telling us Meg is in that house?”

  She nodded.

  “But it’s empty,” Hunter said.

  Sibyl shook her head.

  “It’s not,” Adam said. “Barstow twittered about there being a lot of nighttime activity over there for some weeks. Lots of beautiful furnishings delivered and craftsmen coming and going. That would have been a time back. Then Old Coot remarked on important personages being in residence. Didn’t take much notice. I should have. I may have thought it would be nice to see something done with this place, but not much more—unless it was to hope I’d wake up one day and find out someone had finally pinched all those ugly animal urns on their uglier plinths. A man gets sick of falling over the things everywhere he turns in the place he calls home.”

  No one took any notice of Adam’s occasional tirades on the subject of deterioration at Number 7.

  He pulled a lace curtain aside.

  Hunter hitched back the other.

  They stood, one each side of Sibyl, staring across the square, past the central gardens where trees budded and early flowers teased the eye, to the white stone facade of Number 17.

  “Meg isn’t qualified for such a position,” Hunter said.

  “You’re right,” Adam said, “but that wouldn’t stop her from applying if she had a strong enough reason.”

  “What reason could be strong enough to make her risk looking foolish?”

  “That’s what we’ve got to find out,” Adam said, “and fast, before she gets herself into some sort of nonsense she won’t recover from.”

  “Agreed. D’you think we should go over there? Put on a united front as friends of the young lady and demand to remove her at once?”

  “Aye.” Adam rested his fists on the sash. “Princesses and counts. What can she have been thinkin’? About time for a sit-down, I think. There’s somethin’ up here and I want t’know what it is. First we’ve t’get her back, Lloyd. We’d best be off.”

  Sibyl summoned all her courage, hurried to the door and closed it. “You will do no such thing,” she said, facing them. “When Meggie returns home I will inform her of your concern for her and suggest she explain her motives for seeking out the position. And—since you have both been quick to give your opinions of my sister’s inadequacies—she may not have made a Season herself, but she is very knowledgeable of the intricacies involved. If you remember, she has sewn wardrobes for several young ladies embarking on the same round. And she is observant and well-read. And genteel. A person may not have had all the advantages of some, but that does not mean that they are bound to embarrass themselves in even the most minor of roles in Society.”

  Color rose on Hunter’s cheeks. “No, Sibyl, of course it doesn’t. I apologize if I have given offense. You know that’s the last thing I would set out to do.”

  “Well-read’s one thing,” Adam said. No sign of embarrassment on that face. “Bein’ a part of it all’s another. I take it she’s hopeful of becoming this princess’s companion. I doubt it’ll happen, but if it did, how would our Meggie deal with dancin’, for instance. She’ll never have been to a dance other than in the village ye came from. Hardly the same thing.”

  “Meggie dances well,” Sibyl said, smarting from Adam’s belittling comments.

  “And what if the princess decides her companion, or whatever, ought to be able to advise her on—well—the more delicate side of things?”

  “I say, Chillworth,” Hunter said.

  “Oh, Meggie will cope with whatever comes along,” Sibyl said, gaining confidence with her subject.

  “Will she indeed?” Adam’s nostrils flared. “From what I know of the girl, I doubt she’d be over comfortable talking about the married state.”

  “Chillworth.” There was warning in Hunter’s voice.

  “Aye, I’m watchin’ what I say. You and Meg are gentlewomen. Well-bred and too good for this unpleasant city. I happen to think that if the princess asked Meg what to do on her wedding night, Meg would be horrified. And I will be horrified if I think she’s being exposed to any such thing. No. It won’t do, and that’s that. We’ve t’go and get her back.”

  Adam invariably expected the worst. Sibyl wrung her hands and spoke to Hunter direct. “Please, do not do this. I confess I’m very worried about her, but if you interfere, she will never forgive me for revealing her personal affairs.”

  “So, what is it you will agree to let us do?” Hunter asked.

  “I didn’t ask you to do anything,” she reminded him. “It was Barstow’s gossiping—her, yes, her gossiping about matters that are no concern of hers that brought you here. But I’m grateful to know you will come to our rescue if it’s necessary.”

  “You mean we can help ye if some foreign count makes off with Meggie and—”

  “Chillworth, please,” Hunter said. “Why don’t you and I discuss this elsewhere? We won’t do anything without your approval, Sibyl.”

  “Aye, we won’t,” Adam said, marching to the door. He had always been one given to dramatics and expectations of unlikely disasters. “And we’ll hope the wealthy, important Count doesn’t have his way with her before you do approve.”

  4

  Jean-Marc slapped his riding crop against a boot. �
�If I wished to be nagged, I should have a wife, Verbeux, don’t you think?”

  “Couldn’t say,” Verbeux said.

  “Exactly. And what you don’t say becomes a silent form of nagging. You make it your mission to cause me discomfort. I should discharge you, don’t you think?”

  “Couldn’t say.”

  Closing his eyes, Jean-Marc fell flat on his back on top of the counterpane and sought about in his mind for a way to combat this valet without whom he would be lost, but who caused him to question too many decisions. The man had to be the only valet who employed his own valet—one Pierre who, despite being a solid sort of fellow, scuttled about and appeared perpetually nervous. Jean-Marc suspected this must be because, in private, Verbeux was a tyrannical master. Yes, Verbeux was most certainly above himself, but he was also indispensable.

  “Miss Smiles is young,” Verbeux said. “Good-hearted.”

  “So you’ve said. And I agree. From what I observed, Miss Smiles is a good-hearted young woman.”

  “The Princess is difficult.”

  “Not a bit of it,” Jean-Marc said, but when Verbeux set up his familiar hum that meant he considered his employer to be irrational and beyond the pale, he added, “Miss Smiles is strong. I feel that in her. What possible good can I do other than give her the authority to do what must be done, then trust she will do it? If I interfere I will only undermine her confidence and stretch the process of bringing Désirée into line.”

  “If you say so.”

  “I do say so.”

  “But you don’t believe it.”

  “Damn it, but I do.”

  “Very well.” Verbeux made for the door. “Run away. Let Miss Smiles suffer. Don’t help ease the way.”

  “Stop where you are,” Jean-Marc told him. “Come back here at once. You believe Désirée will be less stubborn if she knows I am near? All right, you win. We’ll do it your way. Make the arrangements for them to accompany me to Windsor, if you please. You have wasted so much of my time that we will have to spend the night there. Of course, Miss Smiles may not want to come, but offer just the same. If this were other than her first day with us, I would not give her a choice, of course, but I must be fair. If she should decide to make the journey, allow her to send word to her sister.”