All Smiles

by Stella Cameron

  Meg stiffened. She was a fool, a weak brain blinded by the attentions of a haunting man. Innocent of such matters she might be—at least on a personal level—but she understood that what he proposed was not honorable. He was asking her to abandon everything she’d ever believed about the sanctity of intimate relationships between men and women.

  Jean-Marc saw when Meg fully comprehended the nature of his proposition. And he saw her reaction to the revelation. He had played his hand badly, much too rapidly and without learning all he needed to know about the girl. She was passionate, oh, very passionate, but he had misjudged her strength of character.

  He lifted her chin and smiled into her eyes. “I’ve shocked you.”

  “You have caused me to disappoint myself.” She straightened her clothes and tucked wisps of hair back into place.

  “You are intoxicating, Meg Smiles. To look at you is a feast. When we first met I saw a demure girl who had the courage to approach a stranger. That was before I touched you. Touched you, Meg. And before I really looked at you. Your hair is like none other I’ve ever seen. And your eyes? Ah, yes, your eyes. The blackest of lashes reflect there. I am no poet, but you make a poet of me. The soft color in your cheeks and your lips…Irresistible, dearest girl.

  “I see you will reject me now, but it will do you no good. Some things—as you have told me—are meant to be. We are meant to be.”

  She wanted him to be quiet. With fumbling fingers, she drove pins more firmly into “hair like none other he’d ever seen” and further smoothed her gown. In the small pouch she wore on a soft belt about her waist, there were all manner of useful items to be used in assisting the seamstresses with the Princess’s new wardrobe. Meg also carried spare hairpins there, and salts to clear her head when there was no time to employ abstracted thought. She slipped her hand into the pouch and felt about for the salts.

  “If you prefer, I won’t press you further now. But I wish you to join me this evening for a small supper. No one will question such an occasion where we will discuss progress with Désirée and plan those events to take place here. It grows late to get out invitations, and we must hurry.”

  His assumptions shamed her. She had made so poor an impression that he considered her a woman without standards. How could she have thought she loved him?

  Surely her heart had stopped beating. Of course she had never considered loving him. Her feelings had been those of a mooning child exposed to l’amore for the first time.

  “We will have supper together this evening, Meg.”

  His expression gave not a hint of gentleness. He was dark, even saturnine of countenance, and the sharp bones in his face showed pale beneath tanned skin. Everything within him had tensed. She felt that tension. He was starkly handsome, and no woman would be able to pretend she was not undone by him.

  “I will arrange the meal in my rooms. We will not be interrupted there.”

  “Of course, I cannot come,” she said, and her hand closed around the vial of salts. “You know very well that to do so would start all manner of gossip in your household. That gossip would spread to Number Seven quickly enough. Even if I did not care for my own reputation, I will not shame Sibyl. Thank you for inviting me. I’m sure we will be able to attend to all these important matters quite well without a supper. Now I think it would be sensible if we did not leave this room together.”

  Jean-Marc stood up. He should be angry, but how could he be when she was so logical and reasonable, and when her straight-forwardness only made him admire her more? But she would bend to his wishes. He had fought too many battles with strong and powerful men over matters of state to be thwarted by the orphan daughter of a country parson.

  His expression only grew more aggressive. She felt a little faint—and who could blame her?

  It was when she started to withdraw her salts that she felt something sharp sink into the pad of her thumb and the outside of her wrist. So sharp was the sensation that it shocked more than hurt. The warm stickiness of blood spread through her fingers. With as much nonchalance as possible, she inserted her other hand into the pouch, located the handkerchief the Princess had given her and clutched it tight in her injured hand.

  She stood up and curtseyed. A pulse throbbed in her thumb and hand and she imagined her blood pumping. Sickness all but overwhelmed her. “Désirée has a dancing lesson with Miss Ash very soon. I would be glad to speak with you in the ballroom while they practice. Désirée would be pleased that you took the time to be there with her, and we could converse without interrupting the others. I must go. Now.” If she didn’t, she was almost certain to show signs of distress.

  The Count took hold of her arm as she tried to slip past and jerked her injured hand into the open.

  “My God,” he said. “What have you done?”

  Blood soaked the handkerchief. The flimsy material was sodden and would drip at any moment. “I have to go,” she said.

  Jean-Marc raised her arm with no evident concern for ribbons of blood that coursed to her elbow then dripped on the carpet. Applying pressure to her wrist, he took her with him to the bellpull near the white marble fireplace and tugged repeatedly on the red velvet cord.

  He released her for long enough to drag his shirt from his trousers and rip off a piece of the fine linen. Cradling her hand in both of his, he carefully removed the handkerchief, which had stuck to the wound.

  What confronted them horrified Meg. A long, curved wound arced from the tip of her thumb, crossed both joints and reached the flesh on the outer edge of her wrist.

  The Count wrapped the piece of linen around the injury, pressed her fingers together and held them so tightly she struggled not to cry out.

  “Now,” he said, pulling her pouch open wide, “Let’s see what dangerous weapon you arm yourself with.”

  “I arm myself with nothing,” she whispered.

  He looked at her sharply, said “damn” a deal too forcefully and backed her to sit on a stool. “Put your head down or you’ll faint,” he said, and made sure she did so by pressing on the back of her neck. “Stay there.”

  Once more he attacked her pouch. At his exclamation she raised her head, but he promptly pushed it down again.

  In his hand Jean-Marc held a shaving knife, its blade open from a bone handle. He tested the steel and felt how it had been stropped to sword-edge quality. A desperate weapon indeed.

  “Are you telling me this knife isn’t yours?”

  Meg looked up. Jean-Marc held the most vicious-looking gentleman’s shaving blade. It was fully open, and there were traces of blood on the handle—her blood.

  “Meg?”

  “Of course it isn’t mine. I can’t imagine what it was doing in my pouch. I carry scissors in case I need to snip something. I have never seen that thing.”

  “Where the devil is Rench?”

  “I don’t want any fuss,” she said, starting to rise. “Please, nothing that will draw attention to me.”

  Her reaction puzzled him. “Why? All I intend is to make sure this wound is cleaned and dressed and that the bleeding is stanched.”

  “I will attend to it.” Even though she felt too weak to stand. Her legs wobbled, and she sat on the stool again. “I beg of you, do not arouse any suspicion among the servants.”

  “Now there’s an odd word,” he said, checking the wound again. “Suspicion? As in suspicion of a crime of some sort, an attempted crime of some sort?”

  “No!”

  “But of course that’s what you mean. Did you open this blade and put it in your pouch?”

  “I…no.”

  “Have you ever owned a gentleman’s shaving blade?”

  “No.” She could hardly make herself heard.

  “Ever used one at all?”

  “Never.”

  He expanded his lungs. “Ever seen this particular blade before?”

  “No.”

  “Very well. Someone opened this thing and put it where they knew there was a good chance you would
injure yourself on it. Does that seem possible?”

  “Thank you for the bandage. I will mend your shirt so the rent doesn’t even show.”

  He released her wrist and held her face in his hands. “Meg Smiles, what happens to you happens to me. This may not have been intended as a deathblow, but it was intended to deal a serious injury. Who do you think did this thing?”

  “I don’t know.” She grew so tired.

  “But we made progress because you do see that this wasn’t an accident, don’t you?”

  What she didn’t want to see was the potential puzzle that lay ahead. “You’re right. Someone put the blade where it was almost certain to inflict an injury on me. I don’t know who that would be, or why, but it frightens me.”

  “It has frightened you. There is no need to be frightened anymore. I am with you. Nothing shall touch you again, my love.”

  She looked away.

  “I will not allow you to thwart me,” he said. “What I want, I get, and I want you. No matter if you aren’t ready yet. I will give you all the time you need. For now I intend to discover who played this foolish trick, and deal with them.”

  The door opened without warning, and Verbeux trudged in, an expression of foul annoyance on his face. “Yes?” he said, slamming the door behind him.

  Later, much later would be soon enough to deal with Verbeux’s inappropriate behavior. “Why didn’t Rench come?”

  “Because you’ve scared him. Scared whole household. Raging. Swearing. Rench sent for me. Don’t blame him.”

  “Good,” Jean-Marc said silkily. “Very good. You’ve had experience with the wounded in battle. Miss Smiles has been wounded by some manic creature who may well have sought to deal a desperately dangerous cut to her wrist. Fortunately the attempt was a failure. Damaging enough, but no threat to her life. Please bring me water.”

  Meg found the strength to get up, wrap her hand firmly and start for the door. “I appreciate your concern, but it isn’t necessary. I will clean myself and join the others in the ballroom. My Lord, do not dwell on this, please. It must have been an accident. We will discover some perfectly reasonable excuse—you mark my words.”

  “We will discover a reason,” he said. “You are to remain quiet today.”

  Scuffling and giggling sounded on the gallery outside the room. The door shot open, and Princess Désirée fell through the opening. Miss Ash, her face flushed, followed with long, determined strides.

  “I must talk to you, Meg,” Désirée said, and Meg could not fail to note how the girl spoke to her but stared at her brother with a narrowed, assessing gaze. “Miss Ash thinks it’s time for my dancing lesson but you and I can have a little time first, can’t we?”

  “Your Royal Highness,” Ash said, her voice thinly reverberating via her nose. “Discipline and a schedule are everything. We have several hours of hard work ahead of us and must begin.”

  “I will come to the ballroom,” Princess Désirée said, and turned her back on Miss Ash. “I think there is something I am most clear about, Meg. We have discussed the matter before, but I have done more study and read more, and I can read certain signs around me. I believe they are dangerous and should be unfrocked at once.”

  “Unfrocked?” Jean-Marc said. “What can you mean?” He did not trust his sister when she was in this mood.

  “Unmasked then. I may have used the wrong word. Revealed, examined and put in their place.”

  “I ought to go and wash,” Meg said. The wound pulsed most unpleasantly and began to sting.

  “Go quickly,” Désirée told her. “I am going to make Ash teach me the waltz this afternoon. It should be such fun.”

  “What is this obsession with speed?” Ash said. She slapped the crown of her floral cotton cap and tied the ribbons more securely beneath her chin. Her gown was the same black she’d worn every day. “Sedate. That is what is appropriate. Waltzing. The new King doesn’t approve, I can tell you. I’ve heard as much. There’s a man who appreciates enjoying all things to the fullest without hurrying one of them.”

  “Certainly,” Princess Désirée said, sounding too gay for Jean-Marc’s comfort. “I understand he eats all day, to get the most out of his food, and takes hours to dress, in order to annoy and frustrate his servants for as long as possible, and I’m told that in his bedchamber he is a frightfully long time about something or other—my sources refused to tell me what, which is very mean of them—but whatever it is, it takes a long time because the Prince consumes such large quantities of strong drink. Now, I can make no sense of any of that. I’m simply pointing out that the King is generally slow, so his opinions are to please himself only.

  “Little wonder he doesn’t want his wife at the Coronation. Queen Caroline is much too lively for him. I imagine she will want to waltz at the festivities.”

  “Thank you, Désirée,” Jean-Marc said, as much amused as irritated. “You will do as Miss Ash tells you.”

  Meg saw Ash’s sheep teeth begin to appear. Désirée said, “Oh, I know Miss Ash won’t be able to teach me the waltz. I was joking. Only those familiar with the most up-to-date steps would know the waltz.”

  Jean-Marc didn’t give Désirée the satisfaction of arousing his temper again. “Run along,” he told her. “I shall come to see how you’re doing. Not you,” he told Meg when she tried to join the other two women. “You are in no condition to rush about this house today.”

  “And why is that?” Désirée said, peering at Meg. She ran her eyes over every inch of her companion. “You have injured your hand? What else has occurred here?” She turned her eyes from Meg to Jean-Marc.

  “Not a thing,” Meg said, a deal too loudly. “Absolutely not.”

  The Princess tipped her head on one side and studied her brother. “You are flushed, Jean-Marc.”

  “Not at all. Go to your lesson.”

  “You want me to stop questioning you about what’s been going on here.”

  “Young lady, be quiet. You are upsetting Miss Smiles.”

  Meg longed to convey to Désirée that she was hurting, not helping her.

  Slowly the Princess, dressed in one of her old, rather childish gowns, made a circle around Jean-Marc. Her perusal was entirely too personal. In fact, she seemed interested only in parts of His Lordship that no lady should ever look at.

  Meg had looked at them. She’d like to look at them again—do a great deal more than look at them. She digressed, possibly because she was in shock.

  “As I thought,” Princess Désirée said. “You are covering something up, Meg. You’ve seen the truth of it all, but you’re hiding it away again now.”

  “I don’t understand you,” Meg said, although a horrid knot formed in her stomach.

  “That’s because she makes no sense,” Jean-Marc said. “I have instructed you to leave, Désirée. Kindly do so.”

  “I will, I will, I assure you. In fact, I’m on my way. Meg, I’m glad you’ve obviously had such a successful mission.”

  “Your Highness?” Meg said.

  Princess Désirée grinned. “By getting behind those black squares,” she said. “Now our aim must be to get rid of them altogether. If the subjects in question have no place to successfully hide their indicators, then we shall be able to see exactly what they’re thinking, yes—and what moves we can expect from them next.”

  The Princess, Meg decided, had been reading far too much.

  15

  Désirée had left only moments before the Count was called away. He had already insisted that Verbeux should attend to Meg’s hand. In the music room, and with a little maid named Fanny in attendance, the valet went swiftly about his task.

  “Ooh, that must ’urt,” Fanny said, or rather repeated. “Ain’t she brave, Verby?”

  The familiarity earned the girl a cold sideways glance from Verbeux’s dark eyes. “Not deep,” he commented, his spectacles glinting. “Blade penetrated at a shallow angle. Deeper and higher, and—” with a forefinger he made a curving line acro
ss Meg’s wrist “—and she might have bled to death.”

  Fanny cried, “Ooh,” closed her eyes and shook her head.

  Meg raised her shoulders and tried not to visualize the wound he described. “Thank you,” she told him when he returned to wrapping her hand. “I was fortunate.”

  Verbeux regarded her solemnly. “Let us hope so,” he said.

  Meg took advantage of an opportunity to survey the man. His interest in Sibyl became less obvious after their introduction, but Meg had observed that whenever the two crossed paths, there were subtle long glances from the man. Sibyl merely colored slightly and hastened her step.

  He was self-assured, yet distant. His manner left one in no doubt that he was an educated, thoughtful person. Clothing of fine quality and cut benefited from his manly figure. Meg had not embarrassed Sibyl by prodding her about her feelings, but it was easy to see how she might be dazzled by him.

  “M. Verbeux? Do you enjoy England?”

  He looked startled by her personal question. “England is pleasant,” he replied. “I prefer my homeland.”

  “Ow,” she said. He wound the bandage too tightly, but glanced up when she exclaimed and loosened it again without comment. His sharp, brief stares disconcerted her.

  Fanny patted Meg’s shoulder, clucked and said, “You’re a brave ’un and no mistake, Miss Meg.”

  Once more Meg received disturbingly direct scrutiny from Verbeux. His sudden and disarming smile ensured she must smile back. “You are brave, Miss Smiles,” he said.

  This comment so astonished Meg that she made no attempt to reply.

  Fanny had no such difficulty. “That she is, Verby,” she said merrily. “And nice as she can be, too.”

  The girl’s insights earned her another withering look. Verbeux tied off the bandage. “Clean up here and return to your duties,” he told her.

  Smiling, Fanny went about doing as she was told.

  “How does the wound feel?” Verbeux asked.

  “The throbbing has almost stopped. Will it bleed a great deal more?”