All Smiles

by Stella Cameron

  He and his sister, Finch, had shared 7A before Finch married Viscount Kilrood, who had been living at Number 8 then. “Do you miss Finch?” She was appalled at her own forwardness. “I mean—”

  “Yes, I do. But I am glad for her happiness. And I have my work.”

  A man, Sibyl thought, would be expected to find solace in his work. “Your work, of course.”

  Latimer looked up at her again. “Please don’t be offended, but should you ever need anything, I hope you will allow me the honor of helping you.”

  “I’m not offended,” Sibyl said, and she appreciated his kindness, but the idea of being alone in this house, alone whenever she closed the door to the flat, made her heart heavy. She must become stronger, less dependent. “Thank you, Latimer. And if you should ever be lonely, I hope you will let me know.” Again, she said what was not quite the thing.

  He smiled, and the smile transformed him. Latimer More was a most attractive man and more so when he allowed himself to enjoy a congenial moment.

  “Are you ready for Miss Ash?” he asked. “She’s certainly rested long enough.”

  Sibyl frowned and said, “She came up, Latimer. And she’s left to return in the morning. She didn’t thank you? That really was too bad of her.”

  It was Latimer’s turn to frown, but as quickly he cleared his brow. “I have been engrossed in my papers. No doubt she was being considerate in not disturbing me. I’ll bid you good-night.”

  “Good night,” Sibyl told him and glanced upward to the third floor and Hunter’s quarters. She lacked the courage to seek him out.

  Sounds of movement drew her back inside 7B. Meg had changed into a gown of poppy-colored gros-de-Naples, and her matching pelisse was ornamented with a simple ruff and Vandyked mancherons. The material was not of high quality, but the modiste—Meg—had compensated with perfect cut. Meg glanced up and smiled while she tucked writing paper into her worn tapestry portmanteau. “What are you doing out there?” She sounded excited. “Did I hear you talking to someone?”

  “Latimer. He is a dear. Preoccupied, but kind and very much a man. Most appealing.”

  “Really?” Meg paused. “I have always considered him a well-favored man, but vague.”

  “He misses Finch.”

  “Ah.” Meg gathered up her spectacles and her smallest sewing box. “I understand. Finch came to his rescue when money was such a problem. But it was more than that. They really care about each other.”

  “Just as you and I care about each other,” Sibyl replied.

  Meg continued to scurry back and forth from the bedroom they shared. She brought her brush and comb, the small collection of hair ornaments she’d collected over years, even several beloved ornaments that had come from the house in Puckly Hinton.

  Pressing her lips together, Sibyl watched and felt close to tears. Her sister was happier than she’d seen her in too long, and she was taking everything she counted precious to a stranger’s house across the square…. As if she wouldn’t care if she never returned.

  “I really need new shoes and boots,” she said.

  Sibyl blinked and said, “Then you must have them at once. Just as soon as we have a little money.”

  Meg stopped and looked at her. “Please, Sibyl, try to be happy. I am happy. It will all be so exciting. Imagine when you are playing and Miss Ash is instructing the Princess. Why, it will be such fun. I intend to see if I can learn a little myself. After all, I have only danced in the village.”

  “Of all people, you should dance,” Sibyl said. “And once gentlemen see you twirling the floor on a handsome man’s arm, you will be pressed to let them mark your dance card.”

  Meg became serious. “I shall not have a dance card, Sibyl. I am a servant. My presence will be unusual at best, and only because the Count does not wish to remain at his sister’s side for such occasions.”

  “But you may be asked to dance?”

  “I suppose, only I shall have to refuse.”

  “La, la, not so,” Sibyl said. “That would be rude. As long as you return to your place in time to greet the Princess all will be well.”

  “Perhaps,” Meg said. “I had best depart now. I think I have everything I need. Sibyl, I want you to take careful note of what I will tell you. Please dress your hair softly, not severely. A few white flowers tucked into your chignon would be just the thing. And the pale blue becomes you so. Will that please you, too?”

  “Whatever will please you will please me. The blue will be just right, I’m sure. And I should come at eleven?”

  “Just so. Now I go to see what can be accomplished with my mistress before it’s time for her to retire.”

  Sibyl wanted to press Meg to come home then, but stopped herself.

  “The Count takes such pleasure in every small success he sees in his sister. You should have seen his face when she walked into the dining room with her hair up. He has the most devilish smile, but it makes everyone around him want to smile also.”

  “Does it?”

  “Oh, yes, and he complimented her so on the gown I managed to find. Tomorrow we arrange for modistes and a large staff to come in so that a wardrobe may be selected and rapidly prepared.” She paused for breath. “He even compliments me. Can you imagine such a thing?”

  “Yes, I can.” And she was ashamed that she felt so threatened by this man she had never met. “He will love you in your poppy, Meg. Go. They will be waiting for you.”

  “You think so?”

  Sibyl regarded her sister’s beautiful light brown eyes and the lush effect gained by her red hair. Her lashes were darkened and rouge carefully applied to cheek and mouth. She was radiant. “I do think so. How could he not be waiting?”

  Meg filled her lungs, and her bosom rose. Sibyl did not usually think of such things, but Meg had a magnificent figure.

  The door wasn’t entirely closed. Barstow, in the gray uniform that matched her hair and rustled over her ample frame, presented herself, deep disapproval etched into her features. “Coot is exhausted from such constant disturbance,” she said. “That man of Count Etranger’s is downstairs. An arrogant man. But what can one expect from these foreigners? He says he’s come to escort you. Escort you, mind. I told him you would not be thinking of going anywhere at such an hour, but he will not leave.”

  “Thank you, Barstow,” Meg said. “You are a dear woman and I’m glad we have you.”

  Once the expression of shock faded from Barstow’s face, that lady said, “Hmph. It is Lady Hester who has me. But I know the value of human kindness to all I meet. I wouldn’t do any less than support you, of course. Even if I do disapprove of your behavior. And that hair…Well, only my good nature and respect for Miss Sibyl stops me from telling you that I think such things as dyed hair are associated with houses of ill repute. I’ll leave you to deal with that man.”

  Sibyl held her breath until Barstow’s footsteps faded on the stairs to the upper floor. Then she sputtered and covered her mouth in an attempt to smother the sound.

  “I’m glad you are amused at my expense,” Meg said, but not without grinning. “I’m sure Barstow’s experiences in houses of ill repute must be huge. Oh, I must be quick.”

  Yes, Sibyl thought, you must be quick, and I should give a great deal to know if your enthusiasm is only for your position with the Princess. “Is the Count a handsome man, did you say?”

  “Oh, yes.” Meg clasped her hands together beneath her bosom. “When I met him, all I could think of was your list of what would make a perfect man for you. Sibyl, Jean-Marc could be that man. In every way including his hands, his legs, his shoulders, the dimples beneath his cheekbones when he smiles. He is your perfect man personified.”

  Sibyl swallowed. Fear curled about her belly. “Jean-Marc?”

  Suddenly quite still, Meg turned red.

  “You used the Count’s first name. That is unusual, and you know it. In fact, it is ominous. Meg, surely nothing has occurred between you to encourage such an intimacy.”r />
  The dreadful possibility of feeling forced to lie to Sibyl had never occurred to Meg. “Princess Désirée calls him Jean-Marc all the time,” she said. “I used his name by accident. But thank you for reminding me. I shall be careful there is no repeat. Sibyl, I’ve been thinking, when you come in the morning you might as well bring Miss Ash. I will have spoken to the Count about her by then. If he doesn’t wish to see her, I will send word.”

  “Someone is waiting for you,” Sibyl said. Never had she felt such a heavy weight upon her, not even when Papa died. “You must go.”

  “Yes.” Meg cast about, her skirts flying and her face filled with anticipation. “If I’ve forgotten something, it will be easy to get it. Wave me off, dear Sibyl.”

  She all but skipped from the room.

  “Meg.” Sibyl caught her arm. “Look at me a moment. Please.”

  Meg did so. “What is it?”

  “You are excited about your arrangements.”

  “I have said I am.”

  “Because of the opportunities they offer?”

  “I…” Meg blinked rapidly. “Yes, yes, of course.”

  Sibyl had another theory. “Be very careful, dear. Men of the world—so I’m told—cannot help but be attracted to innocent young women who are also beautiful. A flirtation with a powerful and handsome man might seem delicious now, but when he loses interest in you and you find yourself with a reputation in tatters, your prospects will be dashed. Please remember what I have said.”

  “You speak as if I were already contemplating such a thing.”

  There was a time for direct conversation, Sibyl thought. “Yes, I do. And I believe you are. Say nothing more, but remember I often know what you are thinking, and I rather think you are dashing to return to this man. I am frightened as never before, but I shall pray and I shall also be very glad to meet him for myself. It cannot hurt for him to know you have a sensible relative who cares for you.”

  Resentment toward her sibling was a new sensation. Meg struggled toward the stairs with her luggage. “Don’t worry about me, if you please. I am the strong one, remember? I’ll see you in the morning.”

  And Sibyl knew she had come too close to the truth for Meg’s comfort.

  “Allow me.” A man’s deep voice with a heavy French accent greeted them. A moment, and M. Verbeux bounded up the stairs to relieve Meg of her burdens. “His Lordship sent me. He suggested a carriage. I told him you’d prefer to walk.”

  “Thank you,” Meg said, sounding subdued. When they reached the foyer, she told Verbeux, “I should like you to meet my sister, Miss Sibyl Smiles. Tomorrow she will begin the Princess’s instruction in music and voice.”

  Sibyl had been behind Meg. Now she emerged and dropped a brief curtsey.

  Meg witnessed the amazing spectacle of Verbeux staring fixedly at Sibyl.

  “Good evening,” Sibyl said. “Thank you for taking care of my sister. I should not like her out alone at such a time.”

  In slow motion, Verbeux reached for Sibyl’s hand. When she let him raise it, he took her fingers to his lips and remained thus for so long, Meg expected Sibyl either to giggle or find a way to extricate herself. She did neither.

  Meg surveyed the Frenchman with different sensibilities. True, he was intriguing in a foreign way, but she would not have expected Sibyl to respond to him.

  “Enchanté,” he said at last, before releasing her hand. He gathered up Meg’s possessions again, and ushered her through the front door. He looked back at Sibyl and said, “Please be certain the door is firmly locked.”

  She said, “I will,” but looked to Meg again.

  And in that instant, Meg knew her sister sensed something of what was in her heart. “I see what you are thinking,” she told Sibyl. “And I know you are afraid for me—for both of us. May God watch over us.”

  13

  Spivey here.

  My dear reader, you must bear with me in difficult times.

  Few men would show tolerance in conditions such as these. The strain is overwhelming, yet I see no means of escape.

  Meg Smiles is a trollop! Who would have thought it? While I was away, doing all that exhausting flying and so on, well, she went to Windsor with the Count and his sister. Easy enough to see why a man like that would glance her way. In the mood for a little dalliance, I should think. I got down there later than I would have chosen, but early enough to suffer a terrible shock, I can tell you.

  I’m more than grateful that you were not exposed to that disgraceful exhibition. I should not have remained there myself had I not needed to assess the way the land lay between those two. You would have been amazed. They didn’t exactly, well—you know. But silly Meg probably thinks they did—you know, did.

  Take it from me, you don’t want to know all the details.

  One thing is obvious. The Count’s blood heats at the sight of our Meg Smiles, but my challenge is to ensure it remains heated long enough to lure him into a permanent arrangement. Given what transpired, it’s likely he intends to take her as his mistress. And I’d be satisfied with that arrangement since I’m sure Sibyl would join the household—or go wherever the man sets Meg up—but I’ve run into a most annoying problem: Reverend Smiles.

  There I was, minding my own business—all right, possibly I was complaining somewhat (but to myself and quietly) about the difficulties associated with getting rid of the lodgers in my home, and I must have mentioned the Smiles sisters. Before I could collect myself and depart for a lecture on keeping one’s feet on the ground, this Smiles fellow pops up and introduces himself. Seems he’d been listening to my private conversation with myself and now he has implored me to look out for his dear daughter’s virtue.

  Now there’s a pickle. Smiles is one of the new goody-goody boys—duckies, we call them, because they have these fuzzy bumps where wings of honor will come if they’re called Up There. Anyway, word has it he’s got a good chance at higher things so I can’t exactly afford to upset him, can I? When I’ve finally managed to do what I absolutely will do at Number Seven, and if I decide I want to take another stab at getting some celestial wings myself, I might want him to put a good word in for me. On the other hand, I may decide to let them offer them to me, then refuse. That’ll let them know they should have allowed me to pass their angelic test the first time I applied. Too worldly, they called me. Not ready to let go. I never could abide judgmental people.

  Smiles is too holy to play truant from his training and come down here (it’s against the rules), so I promised I’d look out for Meg. And I will—all the way into the Count’s bed. Well, she’s already—ahem, she has shown signs of interest in that direction. I’ll let you know how that progresses.

  What I haven’t had a chance to share with you is the business of L. Ash, the retired teacher from my relation’s old school. How was I to know L. Ash wasn’t a man? Caper merchants—dancing teachers to you—are always men, or so I believed. And I haven’t time to find a replacement.

  Do you have even the faintest idea how uncomfortable it is to wear corsets? A chemise? Frightful divided pantaloons, or whatever? And skirts? Oh, it is all so frightful. And she is so frightful—Miss Lavinia Ash. Those teeth! To have to be so close to her is a nightmare.

  Fortunately I cut quite the figure on dance floors in my time. With that woman to provide the newer steps, I shall manage perfectly well. But I will not pretend that I do not fear complications. The cousin, Godly-Smythe, could become a nuisance with his meddling. And if Miss Meg Smiles proves more unpredictable than she already has and causes matters to move too quickly, well, then…Well, then.

  At least I shall return to a good bed tonight—my own bed for so very long. The woman is safely out of the way and happily sleeping. I shall bring her back in the morning. But, for tonight, the house is mine again and I do so enjoy the hard bed in my post, where I can see the front door.

  Are you fond of carved beds? You haven’t experienced one? Fear not, you will. Getting in can be a bit of a probl
em—getting the formula right, shrinking to fit and so on, but it’s well worth the effort.

  14

  Jean-Marc closed the door to his study and leaned against it. “Damn it all, Verbeux, this house resembles a bazaar—or an asylum.”

  “A lot to be done. Not much time.”

  “True.” But he didn’t have to like the noise, or the flurry, or the constant questions.

  “Lucky to have Miss Sibyl and Miss Meg—even Miss Ash.” Verbeux shuddered. “Best not to look at her. Or listen to her.”

  “Meg handles her—Meg Smiles handles her well,” Jean-Marc said, gauging that it was safe to leave the door and go to his desk. “Sibyl Smiles is far too gentle a creature to deal with such overwhelming arrogance. I’m not sorry I retained Ash, but I admit this has been one of the longer fortnights in my life.” Not only because of the dance teacher, Jean-Marc thought. With his every coming and going, he either saw or heard Meg. He was a pragmatist. Surely it was likely that the very element of danger attached to pursuing her was what increased the excitement she aroused in him.

  He had tried to keep his distance, other than when his opinion or decision was required.

  “Artists need too much attention,” Verbeux said, standing to Jean-Marc’s right. “Musicians. Dancers. Designers. Writers. Painters. Actors. Difficult people. Demanding.”

  “Also colorful,” he said. “They entertain us, but I would not wish to be quite so entertained quite so close to home again. No doubt we shall soon see some finished creations for my sister? And for Meg Smiles?”

  Verbeux pushed out his lips and hummed. He rolled onto the balls of his feet and jiggled.

  “Verbeux?”

  “Yes. We will.”

  “We will see gowns for Princess Désirée, and Meg Smiles?”

  “For the Princess.”

  “You didn’t arrange for Miss Smiles’s wardrobe?”

  “I tried.”

  Damn it. “Why must I do everything myself? Why, when I retain people who are supposedly capable of making sure I don’t have to be involved in minutia, do I fail to get what I pay for?” He stood up and threw down the pen he’d been holding. “Follow me, Verbeux. You shall learn how these things are handled.”