All Smiles

by Stella Cameron

  They looked into each other’s eyes. “With the greatest of care,” Jean-Marc said quietly, for Meg’s ears only. “Because she is of the greatest value to me. I have never loved anyone, Meg. I don’t know how such emotion would feel. But what I become when I am with you is a different thing than I have ever been. A good thing, perhaps, although it leaves me desperate.”

  “Desperate? I cause you great discomfort?”

  “You cause me bliss, and when we must leave each other, my bliss goes with you.”

  20

  “Do not look so troubled,” Lady Upworth said to Meg. “I am not an enemy and I am an accomplished nurse. I have certainly had a good deal of experience.”

  “Thank you for your kindness,” Meg said, but she disliked having the woman wait upon her and could not consider the ministrations as anything other than a means to impress Jean-Marc.

  “The entire household is shocked,” Lady Upworth said. “You must have been terrified.”

  “I was.” There was little point in pretending otherwise. “It was as if the horror of it would never end.”

  “Who can dislike you enough to do such a thing?”

  Meg glanced at her but did not respond. Time enough to share her feelings and thoughts on what had happened when she spoke to Jean-Marc. “You are kind to me, My Lady, but I know my sister could manage. I can manage alone.”

  Lady Upworth smiled. “You are too self-sufficient, Miss Smiles. Isn’t she, er, Miss Smiles?” She glanced at Sibyl, who nodded. Poor Sibyl hovered at the side of the bed and didn’t take her eyes from Meg’s face.

  Dressed in one of her favorite night rails and a robe of soft white lawn embroidered by her own hand, Meg suffered Her Ladyship to put more salve on numerous small cuts. The coach’s shattering windows had embedded small shards in the back of Meg’s neck, and more fragments had slid inside her gown to cut her shoulders.

  Meg stilled Lady Upworth’s hands. “My Lady, do you think you could dissuade the Count from having his doctor come to me?”

  The lady’s sudden laughter surprised Meg. “I see you do not know the Count well. If he has made up his mind on a certain course, then I doubt there is anyone who could divert him. Rest on your pillows now. You will have some discomfort, but all looks clean and no glass remains. Your most troublesome wound will be to your nerves, Miss Smiles. You have suffered a frightening experience.”

  “Thank you,” Meg said, and did as she was told. Gratitude for Lady Upworth’s kindness warred with a desire not to like the woman one bit.

  “The Count wished to see you as soon as you were settled,” Lady Upworth said. “Shall I send word that you’re ready now?”

  There was no help for it but to agree. “I suppose so.”

  Sibyl had brushed Meg’s hair and plaited it. She was certain she looked like an ugly child but at least the light in her red and gold bedchamber was low enough to ensure she could not be seen too clearly.

  “I’ll ring,” Lady Upworth said, and did so.

  A tap at the door came too quickly to be in response to the bell. A maid bustled in and put more coals on the fire. The room was far too grand for a paid companion, but Meg had already been honest enough with herself to admit she enjoyed it.

  “Millie, Miss,” the maid said, bobbing to Meg. “I’m to tell you the doctor’s coming up now.”

  “Fie,” Meg said, then, “Forgive me, please, My Lady.”

  Lady Upworth laughed again and said, “You are most restrained. I might say a great deal worse. May I sit with you while the doctor is here?”

  To refuse would be rude. “Thank you, yes,” Meg said.

  The next knock on the door was firmer and louder, and a tall, portly man with white hair came into the room, allowing Millie to escape as he did so. “How is the patient?” he asked, his voice full and jovial. His luxuriant mustache bobbed with each word. “I am Dr. Weller. First I will give you something to calm you. I’m certain I don’t have to remind you that you must accept the limitations of your gentle sex and expect to be confined to bed for some time.”

  Meg couldn’t make herself look into his eyes for fear he would see what she thought of his assumptions.

  “Quiet, I see. Only to be expected.” He placed a bulging bag on the table beside Meg’s bed and rooted inside until he produced a bottle filled with disgusting-looking green fluid. He glanced at Sibyl. “She is to have a spoonful of this every two hours. It will keep her asleep. Should she wake at all, give her another spoonful.”

  Sibyl made a small sound.

  Meg made a pact with herself never to allow a drop of the green stuff to descend her throat.

  “Now I shall check you for injuries.”

  “I’ve done a deal of nursing, Doctor,” Lady Upworth said, and she winked at Meg. “I nursed my dear departed husband in his final weeks. I took the liberty of making sure Miss Smiles has no broken bones. She doesn’t. And she has no internal pain anywhere. However, she does have some wounds on the back of her neck and her shoulders from the broken glass she fell on in the carriage.”

  That brought a humph from Dr. Weller—and a surge of gratitude from Meg. Really, she had been wrong about Ila, Lady Upworth. The doctor bent Meg forward and examined the numerous small cuts she had suffered.

  “They appear clean,” he announced through his mustache. “Are you certain you have no pain elsewhere?”

  “None at all, sir,” Meg said in a rush. She did not want to endure further examination.

  The next knock was soft. Jean-Marc put his head around the door and said, “May I come in, please?”

  “Yes,” Meg said, and knew she’d spoken too quickly, too eagerly. She also knew Jean-Marc’s presence at this time was unconventional.

  “She’ll do well enough,” Dr. Weller said. “I’ve left a medicine of my own making for her, My Lord. It will ensure that she sleeps. Sleep is the greatest healer for the weaker minds.”

  “Really?” Jean-Marc said. “I doubt Miss Smiles will need to avail herself of your prescription, then. But I thank you.”

  Dr. Weller showed no sign of having noted Jean-Marc’s rebuke. He closed his bag. “She has a considerable number of small wounds on her back. They should be kept clean.”

  “They will be,” Jean-Marc said. He looked only at Meg.

  “I’ll take my leave, then,” Dr. Weller said and waited, obviously expecting Jean-Marc to accompany him downstairs. “I’ll take my leave, then,” he repeated.

  “Good day to you,” Jean-Marc said, standing over Meg, a brooding frown rumpling his brow. “I’m sure you know the way out.”

  His face redder and his mustache wiggling ferociously, the doctor left.

  “Miss Smiles is brave,” Lady Upworth said. “Much braver than I could ever be.”

  Sibyl broke her silence. “Meg has always been brave. She takes care of us both. How dare that doctor talk about her having a weak mind, about all women having weak minds!”

  Her sister’s outburst surprised and pleased her, and made Meg proud. Sibyl might be shy, but she could also be forthright when necessary.

  “He is of another generation,” Jean-Marc said, and although he didn’t smile, humor shone in his eyes. “We forward-thinking men know better than to underestimate a woman.”

  Lady Upworth chuckled. “How very wise of you, Jean-Marc. And how very politic. Flattering a woman has always been the best way to impress her.”

  Jean-Marc studied Ila. “Am I so transparent? I suppose I am,” he said. She puzzled him of late. Vocal as she was in expressing her gratitude for his championship of her, she no longer sought opportunities to flirt with him—and since her return to London and his house, she had treated him with fond deference but had made no overt approaches. What, he wondered, was her current plan? He was certain she did have a plan.

  “Apparently we are to have a busy evening,” he said to Meg. With her hair in two long plaits she appeared very young—not a thought that made him comfortable. “Certain events have transpired today and
must be attended to. They do have a bearing on what has happened to you, but I hope you will allow me to deal with them. I see no reason for you to be involved.”

  “I do,” she said, rising from her pillows to sit very straight in her high bed. “I most certainly do. In fact, I insist.”

  A fiery miss. Each time he was with her she spun him a little tighter into her web. The ardor in their responses to each other grew dangerously strong. Kissing her in the coach, and her potent response to that kiss, would cause him an uncomfortable night to come.

  “You insist, do you, miss?” he said, intending to mock, but managing only to sound indulgent. “I do believe that may present difficulties unless you are comfortable with my conducting interviews in your bedchamber.”

  “Perfectly comfortable,” she told him. “And I have a number of questions of my own to ask you.”

  “Ask away.”

  “Later would be more agreeable to me, if you please, My Lord.”

  What would really please him could not be voiced in present company. “We shall see.” He would not allow a chit to force his hand. He went to the door to speak with an under butler, who had been stationed outside the room.

  “Who is there?” Meg asked. “Why is he outside my room?”

  “Because it is my responsibility to keep you safe.” He looked at Sibyl, then at Ila. “Only one of you need remain. I’m sure both of you have more pressing things to do.”

  “There is nothing more pressing to me than Meg,” Sibyl Smiles said, and her throat moved sharply as she swallowed. “But I know you will care for her if I leave for a while. Shall you mind if I do that, Meggie? The Princess awaits me in the music room. She hasn’t been told about your horrid accident but I’d better inform her now and make sure she is using her time wisely. Then I need to go to Number Seven to find music I need.”

  “Of course, I don’t mind,” Meg said. “Will you please tell Désirée that the musicale and its hasty arrangements mean we must concentrate on several areas of her instruction? She should practice smiling.”

  Jean-Marc crossed his arms. “Smiling? Is there nothing more important than having my sister grin?”

  Meg didn’t as much as look at him. “Tell her she has a lovely smile and it will make up for those things she does not yet do to perfection. Look in a mirror, tell her, and smile agreeably while she considers all manner of remarks that might tempt her to use her wit inappropriately. Where is Ash?”

  “She said she did not feel well,” Sibyl said, and Jean-Marc sensed discomfort with the subject of the caper merchant. “Miss Ash has a delicate constitution that is not suited to visiting the sick.”

  Meg threw her coverlets aside and said, “Please leave me. I must dress. There is no time for this foolish lolling.”

  “You will loll,” Jean-Marc said, and covered her again.

  She tossed the bedclothes aside again and swung her limbs from the mattress. “I will not loll. I will tend to my duties.”

  Such very lovely ankles. He turned her, covered her and leaned on the edge of the bed, making it impossible for her to defy him again.

  Meg made for the opposite side of the bed.

  Sibyl made for the door. “I will return as soon as I can, Meggie. And I will make sure the Princess is usefully engaged. Do be sensible.”

  Jean-Marc met Meg as she prepared to slip to the floor again. “Stop,” he said, “or I shall assume you have done damage to your weak mind and send for the sawbones again.”

  “That is insupportable,” Ila said sharply. “You do have a most unpleasant need to insult women, Jean-Marc.”

  Meg regarded Jean-Marc’s face, which was entirely too close to her own for comfort, and lowered her eyes.

  He said, “I’m sorry,” but didn’t sound subdued. “Surely you understand that I am concerned only for your health, Meg.”

  “Thank you,” she said quickly, but knew Lady Upworth had heard the slip. She scooted to the middle of the mattress, arranged herself and decorously held the sheet to her chin. “I admit to some anxiety but I’m sure the morning will be soon enough for me to accomplish my tasks.”

  He stood straight.

  Lady Upworth pulled a chair beside the bed and sat there.

  “Um, yes,” Jean-Marc said. “Verbeux is on his way. We should dispose of pressing matters quickly.”

  Minutes passed while the three of them avoided eye contact.

  Jean-Marc added coal to the fire.

  Lady Upworth reached to pat Meg’s hands. “I hope you at least saw someone interesting in Bond Street,” she said. “The upcoming Coronation is already bringing the most elevated personages to England. Just think how they will add to the glitter of this Season.”

  The Coronation was far from Meg’s mind. “No,” she said, “I was too busy with shoes.” She looked pointedly at the Count, who did not appear to have heard her comment.

  At last a knock came, and Verbeux was admitted. “You sent for me, My Lord?”

  “Some time ago,” Jean-Marc said pointedly, while he wiped his hands on a handkerchief. “I understood you had something of considerable importance to reveal—before we discuss the other matter.”

  Verbeux glanced briefly at Meg, then spent much longer looking at Lady Upworth. The lady returned his regard and lifted her chin as she did so. Meg felt a tension between the two, and it puzzled her. There was no doubt that Verbeux had a remarkable presence.

  “Are you recovered, M. Verbeux?” Meg asked, somewhat tentatively. “You took a terrible fall.”

  “And landed on my feet.” His abrupt bark of laughter startled Meg.

  “You didn’t say you’d fallen, Verbeux,” Lady Upworth said.

  “No.” Verbeux’s answer was a trifle too rapid. “Privacy for business, My Lord?” he said.

  “Oh, no, Verbeux.” Jean-Marc swept a hand before him. “We are entered into a new age when the ladies are about to knock on the very doors of our clubs and demand admittance. To attempt to spare them from the more tedious aspects of life must be avoided. We will conduct our business here.”

  “My Lord?” Verbeux’s elegant brows shot up.

  “You heard what I said. What did you want to tell me?”

  “Pierre,” Verbeux said, evidently uncomfortable. “Pierre must be present.”

  “Your man?” Jean-Marc barely remembered speaking to Pierre on more than a handful of occasions. “What has he to do with our affairs?”

  Verbeux appeared to make up his mind about something. He returned to the corridor, and Jean-Marc heard him speak quietly to the under butler. The rustle of Ila’s satin gown reminded him of her presence. Her attention was firmly on the door. If he were a man given to conjecture, he might think she was overly attentive to Verbeux. The very thought amazed him, since his valet—if he had any amorous connections—kept them utterly private. Verbeux and Ila? Now there was an unlikely pair.

  “Must wait for Pierre,” Verbeux said when he returned.

  “Whatever. All facts must be set before us. Who could possibly wish Miss Smiles harm? They could not, I tell you. Far more likely that these attacks on her are intended for another.” He would not expand on that in the present company.

  “Or perhaps intended to get your attention, Jean-Marc,” Ila said.

  He regarded her thoughtfully. “Anything is possible, I suppose.” No fool was Ila. He regretted that to ask her to leave would appear suspicious.

  There might never be another opportunity to ask about a valet having a valet, Meg decided. After all, any unusual comment on her part could be put down to her supposed fragile condition. “Is it a French custom for a gentleman’s gentleman to have a gentleman?” she asked.

  Lady Upworth didn’t cover her smile quickly enough.

  “Not at all,” Jean-Marc said. “Verbeux is assisting close family friends by training Pierre. As a kindness. Eventually Pierre will leave Verbeux and do so with the highest possible references. He will obtain an excellent position. And then, no doubt, Verbeux will decide
to bestow his kindness on another fortunate candidate.”

  The well-built young man in question entered hesitantly, his good-looking face drawn, his brown eyes downcast. “You sent for me, M. Verbeux,” he said, and repeatedly and nervously sucked his bottom lip between his teeth. He actually wound his hands together before him.

  Meg’s stomach turned. A solid person, Pierre didn’t seem his usual robust self this evening. He appeared to shrink inside his immaculate clothing, and she longed to tell him to stop punishing his lip.

  “For God’s sake, man,” Jean-Marc said. “What is it? What’s happened to you?”

  Pierre looked to Verbeux, who breathed through his nose before saying, “Collect yourself. Explain.”

  “My Lord.” Pierre bowed low and stood square before the Count. “The shaving blade.”

  “What about it?” Jean-Marc asked.

  “It belongs to M. Verbeux.”

  “That cannot be.” Lady Upworth half rose from her chair, but dropped back.

  Disbelief froze Jean-Marc.

  Meg did manage to leave the bed then. Looking childlike in her simple robe, and with bare feet, she positioned herself where she could see everyone present. “Why must people of a certain station speak yet say nothing?” She pointed, actually pointed at him. “You, My Lord, have no more facts than I do, yet you are dumb from the deductions you have made. The shaving blade? Are we speaking of the shaving blade on which I cut myself?” She held her injured hand aloft.

  It was Pierre who said, “Yes, Miss.”

  “Do not overset yourself, Miss Smiles,” Jean-Marc said. “You are not well. Please return to your bed.”

  For an instant he thought she would argue, but she thought better of it and climbed onto the mattress once more. There she assumed her extraordinary cross-legged position with her gown and robe spread about her. Her hands she rested, palms up, upon her knees. Even as he watched, he saw her begin slow, deep breathing.

  Verbeux said, “Tell your tale, Pierre. And quickly.”

  “I was late that morning. I was cleaning the blade when I was called to another duty. It was an accident. I left with the blade in my hand and didn’t notice it until it was too late. I could not go into M. Verbeux’s presence in such a manner. The pouch was open on a bench nearby. I dropped the blade inside, intending to retrieve it when M. Verbeux dismissed me. When I returned, the pouch was gone. I went in search of it, but did not know where I should look since I had never seen it before.”