“Designs?” Meg’s breathing became difficult. “I don’t understand, but I think it would be best if we terminated this subject.”
“Oh, we will. Soon enough. And perhaps if you pay attention and do not question what I know is true, we need never concern ourselves with the matter again.”
“There is nothing to say, Princess. You have too big an imagination.”
“I imagine very little. I know what I saw in my brother’s eyes back there. And you must foil him, or he will claim you and disaster will follow. Count Etranger’s reputation suggests he is a man of lusty appetites. I have heard him described so, amid an unpleasant type of laughter and whispers about the current object of his appetite.
“Jean-Marc is a brilliant man. His talent is for diplomacy—a skill he practices so successfully for our country. He intends to get you into his bed and you could well be helpless to resist his relentless and persuasive methods. Much as I should appreciate your firsthand insights into what lies behind the black squares, I implore you not to allow him to claim your body.”
11
Jean-Marc paused in the foyer of Number 17 to follow the hurried progress of his sister and Meg. Désirée lifted her skirts and ran upstairs. Meg managed to retain more dignity while all but matching the speed of her charge.
On their arrival in Mayfair Square, he had expected her to excuse herself and go at once to Number 7, probably never to return. The relief he felt because she was still here was undoubtedly misplaced. She could leave at any moment.
Verbeux emerged from the study and said, “You’re back.” The audacity of the man. Not a hint of apprehension although he must expect his master’s wrath at the manipulative methods used to ensure Désirée and Meg—he must be careful to address her only as Miss Smiles—would travel to Windsor.
“You and I will be meeting alone. Now,” he told Verbeux. This was not the first time the man had overstepped the mark when he’d decided he had a brilliant idea and his master must be made to recognize the fact.
The motives had changed, or at least overlapped. Meg Smiles was needed because not only did he believe she could do a good job with Désirée, but they actually liked each other. Amazing. Désirée avoided friendships of any kind. But Jean-Marc also wanted Meg Smiles for other reasons. He wanted to know he would see her frequently. They could have no future and to form any alliance with her was unfair, and dangerous, yet he would do it if he could.
“Painful?” Verbeaux asked quietly.
Jean-Marc started. “Dash it, man, what do you mean?”
Verbeux shrugged hugely. “You want her? Your affair.”
No, no, he would not allow the man the pleasure of drawing out information to which he had no right.
“You looked at her.” Verbeux glanced meaningfully toward the stairs. “Not your usual.”
“We will have that meeting, I think.”
“You’ve got a visitor.” Verbeux grinned. “Mr. William Godly-Smythe. Puckly Hinton.”
Jean-Marc took the card his man offered. “Godly-Smythe? Puckly Hinton? Don’t know the man.”
“No.”
“Where’s he from?”
“Puckly Hinton.”
“I know that. I meant, who is he?”
“Godly-Smythe.” A subtle shift in Verbeux’s stance suggested he knew he’d gone too far. “Miss Smiles’s cousin, from what he says. Pompous.”
The cousin who inherited, Jean-Marc wondered? He experienced an uncomfortable moment before he quickly discarded the notion that the man could have come to reveal knowledge of what had passed between Meg and Jean-Marc. “In there?” He indicated the study.
“Seemed best. Not social.”
He scanned the tiers of galleries flanking the upper floors. Verbeux’s man, Pierre, watched from the third floor. Ready as always to jump at his master’s bidding. Rench stood at the foot of the stairs, eyes straight ahead, white-gloved hands crossed before him. Jean-Marc felt oppressed and in need of peace. To Verbeux, he said, “Make sure we are not interrupted, hmm?”
Verbeux went smoothly to open wide the door to the study. He walked in and swept an arm toward a very stiff-backed blond man. “Mr. Puckly Hinton to see you, m’Lord.”
“Godly-Smythe of Puckly Hinton,” the man said, and his large, light eyes swept over every inch of Jean-Marc.
Unperturbed, Verbeux said, “This is Count Etranger,” and left as smoothly as a skater traversing a frozen lake.
“We have business?” Jean-Marc said, buying time in which to assess the fellow.
“We do now,” Godly-Smythe said. “Where is my cousin, Miss Meg Smiles?”
He could be vague and, if Godly-Smythe mentioned Meg’s post, say he was too busy with important affairs of state to concern himself with the names of servants. Yes…no. If this was Meg’s relative then, much as he pitied her, he also owed it to her to show the man some respect.
“I asked where—”
“Indeed, sir, indeed.” Those big, luminous eyes glowed with an almost childlike clarity that was at odds with everything else about Meg’s cousin. A disturbing person. “Miss Smiles was engaged as my sister’s companion during her preparation for her Season, and through the Season itself. Miss Smiles is with my sister now.”
“I have come to take her home. We are not a family familiar with going into service. I cannot imagine how Meg was persuaded to accept such a post.”
Another man might have paced. Godly-Smythe had a quality of stillness. A stocky man whose muscular neck bulged over his neck cloth, he stood, unmoving, his arms hanging at his sides. Jean-Marc rather thought he intended to appear ominous. The impression he gave was of egotistical eccentricity.
“My Lord,” Godly-Smythe said, “I would respectfully request that you produce my cousin at once.”
Outside the study, at the foot of the stairs, in fact, Meg heard her cousin’s embarrassing demand. She paused and looked upward. Verbeux gave her an encouraging nod. He’d come to the Princess’s rooms to say William Godly-Smythe had arrived and was giving the Count orders at that very moment.
There was nothing else for it but to confront William and lead him from Number 17 at once. She had managed to help the Princess retrieve Halibut from the coachman and tuck the cat away on a hidden cushion. Now Meg must give this up. There was no way for things to work out after last night, and after the debacle she’d just overheard.
William continued to tell—tell, mind you—the Count what he expected of him. “This may well be actionable,” William said in his fulsome voice. “My cousin is not worldly. You escorted her away in a coach—alone. You were seen. And you kept her away overnight.”
Meg gave the lightest tap on the door and entered without being summoned. She curtseyed to the Count, looked at William and discovered her dislike for him had only increased in the three years since they had last met.
He strode toward her, hands outstretched, an expression of abject pity on his ruddy face. When she made no attempt to offer her own hands in return, he grasped her shoulders and placed a wet kiss on her forehead. He held her away and studied her.
The red hair. If he mentioned it, she would die.
William smiled at her then, and gazed into her eyes. She disliked his eyes intensely. The pale blue color of a young child’s, and very big, they were essentially empty as if the man hid behind them. Surely he would remark on the color of her hair and Jean-Marc would learn what a scheming fraud she was.
“I should have visited you and Sibyl a long time ago,” William said. “This is my fault. If I had assumed the responsibility for taking care of your welfare, you would not have strayed, Meg.”
“I haven’t strayed.”
“I would have seen what a very lovely woman you have become and known you were in danger, and in need of protection.”
The Count was a blurred figure just outside the range of her vision. She knew his arms were crossed and that he listened intently.
“Meg, there are always men on the hunt for attractive
, unworldly young women. Why didn’t you get a message to me the instant this man approached you?”
She did look at Jean-Marc then. His expression showed little of what he might be thinking, but he looked at her with the faintest of smiles.
“I want you to tell me now—in front of this defiler of innocents—tell me exactly what he did to you last night.”
Jean-Marc strolled forward and leaned to sit on the edge of his desk. From this spot he could see both William and Meg. “There is no need for you to be exposed to such foul accusations,” he said to her. “Please return to the Princess and I will have you informed when your cousin and I have finished our discussion.”
“The hell you will,” William said. “Meg is a blameless girl who had the gentlest of upbringings. She was motherless from an early age, but the ladies of her father’s parish made sure she and her sister were appropriately raised.”
If she lost her temper and told this posturing pigeon of a man what she thought of him, he could make more trouble for her and Sibyl. “I’m glad you approved of my father’s efforts,” she said evenly.
“Nothing has occurred to besmirch Miss Smiles’s spotless reputation,” Jean-Marc said. “And I did not travel alone with her yesterday. My sister was with us.”
“Not from what I was told.” William was belligerent. “You handed my Meg into the coach right before the eyes of all in the square. They did not see your sister join you.”
If it were not for Meg, Jean-Marc would take pleasure in raising the man by his breeches and tossing him from the front door. “I owe you no explanation, but Princess Désirée entered the carriage in the mews. Now, kindly leave this house.”
“Where did you spend the night, Meg?”
Jean-Marc sympathized with Meg for having so odious a relative, not that he didn’t have his own share of impossible family members.
“At the Count’s home near Windsor,” Meg said. “There is more than a little work to be done to make the Princess comfortable in what is to come. We started yesterday.”
“You met Meg yesterday,” William said to the Count, an ugly sneer lifting his upper lip, “and you were so certain she was the perfect candidate for the position you wanted to fill that you took her at once to Windsor where she stayed the night?”
“Correct,” Jean-Marc said, disgusted with the creature, but also aware that the man’s conjectures were too close to truth. “My sister was in great need of female companionship. Miss Smiles was free and willing to begin at once. So the arrangement was perfect.”
William spread wide his arms and guffawed. “Do I look like a fool?” He pointed at Meg and struck a pose that showed off his exceedingly muscular limbs to advantage. Waiting for his next words, she quaked. “She knows nothing of the intricacies of life in polite society. She would not know a member of the ton if she were closed in a room where they alone congregated.”
That, thought Jean-Marc, was more than enough from Mr. Godly-Smythe. “Well, sir,” Jean-Marc said, “since you have, as far as I can tell, no rights in relation to Miss Smiles, I must ask you to leave.”
Godly-Smythe stood his ground, apparently quite smug to have caused annoyance. “I am her closest male relative,” he said.
“She is not a minor,” Jean-Marc pointed out. He looked at Meg’s forlorn face and said, “Are you?”
“Hardly,” she told him, and her nostrils flared.
“As I thought. Out you go, Godly-Smythe.”
“Damn you to hell. I will not leave. Not without Meg.”
Meg couldn’t bear what was going on a moment longer. To do so at such a time was a risk, but even if Jean-Marc or Cousin William did wonder about her sanity, at least a little meditation would calm her, and she hoped, silence them. Abruptly, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
Jean-Marc watched, fascinated. Meg folded her hands at her waist, and her face became smooth and pale and devoid of expression.
Godly-Smythe took a step toward her, but Jean-Marc stayed him with the digging fingers of one hand. He shook his head sharply.
“What’s wrong with her?” the cousin said. “She’s ill.”
“No,” Jean-Marc told him.
Without a sound, Meg sank to sit on the carpet. She drew her crossed limbs beneath her skirts.
Jean-Marc had to exert considerable effort to restrain Godly-Smythe. “I have seen such things before,” he told the man. “Or heard them mentioned.”
Godly-Smythe’s vacant eyes displayed alarm. He attempted to pry Jean-Marc’s fingers from his arm. “Let me go, damn your eyes. This is nothing more than a hysterical tantrum—probably brought on because her mind is weakened from the accident. I must make her collect herself.”
“A trance should never be disturbed,” Jean-Marc said, biting the inside of his cheek to resist any urge to laugh. “It’s true I have never learned of other cases when women practiced such things, but I suppose it’s possible.”
“A trance?” Godly-Smythe whispered. “She’s in a trance?”
Very slowly, Meg bent forward from the hip and flattened her entire upper body, rested her forehead on the floor, spread her rotated arms from the shoulder, turning the palms upward.
She was remarkable—in a number of ways.
“She has been bewitched,” Godly-Smythe said, turning an accusing stare on Jean-Marc. “What have you done to her?”
“I am,” Meg said. “I am.” Her arms jerked, then grew utterly still.
Godly-Smythe trembled. “This is evil.”
“Not so,” Jean-Marc told him. “Such things are part gift, part practice. Probably unknown to anyone, Miss Smiles had studied the ancient Veda. Yoga, I believe it is called by some. She is able to pass to a higher plane.”
“Good Lord.” This sounded like a desperate prayer. “It cannot be natural. I shall awaken her at once.”
“And risk losing her?” He might feel contempt for the fellow, but even so, this fiction he made up as he went along felt outrageous.
“Why should I lose her if I wake her up?”
“Because she is not there.” Jean-Marc indicated Meg. “Not if my memory serves, and I believe it does. The practitioner of such disciplines leaves the body.”
Godly-Smythe moved away violently, and twisted his arm from Jean-Marc’s grasp. He stared and said, “What are you saying?”
“That to interfere with the body while the mind roams free could make it impossible for the mind, or whatever, to return.” Might he be forgiven for such flagrant invention! “If you meddle, you might have her death on your soul.”
“Can she hear us?” Godly-Smythe spoke softly. “Is she here?” He peered furtively in all directions.
“Yes, to both, I should think. Most likely up there.”
“Up there?” Godly-Smythe stared at the ceiling. He produced a monocle and fastened it before one eye while he darted about, his head ducking and rising as if to aid a search for a being concealed by some trick of air and light. “Why would she resort to such tricks?”
“I scarcely know Miss Smiles, but from what I’ve been told, this sort of thing is a defense against extreme emotional discomfort. The skilled practitioner can summon a trance at will, but does so most usually to escape unpleasantness. I fear you and I are to blame here.”
Godly-Smythe puffed up as if preparing for a further display of outrage. His gaze returned to Meg’s still form, and he turned pale. “What explanation can I give poor, dear Sibyl?”
“None at all, I should think. Why concern the girl?”
Meg stirred and hoped she’d timed her return effectively. “I am,” she murmured, drawing the second word out. There was no doubt that even though this was not a planned meditation, it had provided a measure of peace and of distance from turmoil.
She assumed a sitting position, but rested her upturned hands on her knees and kept her eyes shut.
“Is she back again?” Cousin William asked.
To giggle would be to ruin everything.
“Count Etra
nger? Is she in there?”
“Are you, Miss Smiles?”
She opened her eyes and looked into Jean-Marc’s. He’d bent his knees and placed his hands on them to bring his face close to hers. His solemn expression was a marvel when there was such glittering laughter in his eyes.
“Miss Smiles?” he said.
“I am Meg Smiles.”
Having allowed Jean-Marc to take any potential risk, William came nearer. “I shall go at once to Sibyl.” He shook both hands in the air. “Never fear, I shall not mention what I have seen here. I will tell her…I…”
“Tell her I shall return shortly,” Meg said, smiling at William. “Thank you for caring about me, Cousin. I must take a little time to regain my strength, then I will tell Princess Désirée where I am going.”
William’s smile was nervous. “Just so,” he said, “just so.” And he fled the room before any attempt could be made to have him shown out.
Meg did not dare look at her employer. Instead she stared at the carpet and contemplated how she might get up with some grace.
He stood where she could see his boots, boots still dusty from returning to Town on the coachman’s box.
“Your sister will be anxious to see you, Meg,” he said, his voice lowered. “Would you be so kind as to tell her we will look forward to meeting her in the morning?”
She said, “Yes.” He was not going to dismiss her? Even following so outrageous a display?
“Désirée is difficult, has always been difficult and aloof. Yet, after a brief time, she already likes you. She actually seems lighthearted. Should you like me to help you get up?” He offered her his hand.
Meg accepted and was grateful for her agility as she rose quickly to stand.
“You are a minx, you know,” Jean-Marc said.
She angled her head. “Perhaps.”
He laughed and released her hand. When he didn’t speak again, Meg searched for something to say but found nothing.
“My sister has never had a close friend. Oh, she hasn’t pursued friends, but I cannot fault her for that. Those she should have been able to trust have kept their affection from her. She has been too much alone. It will be a blessing if she meets a man who will appreciate her for herself—if that is possible—someone who will enjoy her quick mind. She deserves a fulfilling life of her own.”
All Smiles Page 12