All Smiles

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All Smiles Page 24

by Stella Cameron


  “There, you see!” Awash in her sea of white lawn, Meg spread her arms as if about to sing an aria. “An accident. A mishap. Oh, Pierre, don’t look so glum. Humans err. So you have erred. Fiddle dee dee, let us forget the matter at once.”

  Fury stiffened Jean-Marc. The little madam must learn her rightful place. “That is hardly your decision to make,” he said to her. “Verbeux, you know what must be done.”

  The valet didn’t answer, and the pained expression on his face only deepened Jean-Marc’s anger.

  “What must be done?” Meg asked, but her smile had fled.

  “Hold your tongue,” he said.

  Ila had the audacity to reach for the girl’s hand and share a sympathetic glance with her.

  “Here?” Verbeux said. “Now?”

  “Here and now. I will not be challenged, is that understood? If it were appropriate, I should do it myself. It is not appropriate.”

  “Pierre,” Verbeux said, and his hands were tightly fisted, “I shall assist you in finding another place. We will speak more of this later.”

  “Oh,” Meg cried. “Oh, how cruel. Mine is the hand that was cut. Mine was the blood that was shed. If Pierre must go, then I must go.”

  “Nonsense,” Jean-Marc told her. “And that is a perfect example of why women should not be present during the decisions men must make. I have a responsibility to protect you, to protect everyone in my care.”

  “Then why do you not have a responsibility to protect Pierre? To protect him from callous treatment that doesn’t fit his supposed crime?”

  “You are unsinkable, Miss Smiles,” he said. “And you overstep your place—frequently.”

  The fight went out of Meg. He was right, she did overstep her place, and now she felt shamed. Shamed but nevertheless determined to help Pierre, who hung his head like the most miserable man alive. “Forgive me,” she said to the Count. “You are right to rebuke me. I am unaccustomed to my current position in life, but that doesn’t excuse bad behavior. However, I still beg you to allow this man to keep his position. I will leave at once, but please don’t punish him more than he is already punished.”

  Even when she probably didn’t intend to do so, Meg Smiles confounded him. “Damnation,” he said. “And I do not apologize for my language. Are you inclined to give Pierre another chance, Verbeux?”

  “I am, My Lord,” Verbeux said, without hesitation.

  “Very well, but the slightest slip and there will be no other chances. You may leave us.”

  Pierre nodded and murmured thanks, and rapidly left the room.

  “You,” Jean-Marc said to Meg, “will remain where you are. My sister needs you, and you have given your word to attend her during her time in London. Let us complete our business elsewhere, Verbeux. Miss Smiles needs to rest. Or meditate, or practice her abstracted thinking—or whatever she does to please herself.”

  “Thank you for changing your mind,” she said. “I will be quiet while you finish dealing with whatever else must be dealt with. You intimated that it concerns me.”

  “Yes, you did,” Lady Upworth said.

  He braced his weight on one of the bedposts. “You see how it is a disaster to place any trust in a woman, Verbeux? Not only do they defy one, they also form alliances against us.”

  Verbeux smiled slightly. “I wish I understood the gentler sex as well as you, My Lord.”

  Jean-Marc wrinkled his nose. “They are no mystery. Allow me to guide you in these matters. Do we need Thomas?”

  “I think not. This is what he found. The intent is obvious.” Verbeux drew something from a pocket in his waistcoat and put it into Jean-Marc’s hand.

  “May we see?” Meg said. She grew jumpy.

  Yet another tap at the door made her skin crawl. She longed for peace and an opportunity to do what pleased her.

  “My Lord,” the under butler said, “Mr. Rench has sent a visitor up. Says everyone else is here, so why not—”

  “Quite,” Jean-Marc said.

  “Mr. Hunter Lloyd from Number Seven,” the man said, and stood back to allow Hunter to come in.

  “I say, I’m sorry for arriving unannounced.” He spoke to the Count but looked at Meg. “These are from all of us at Number Seven.” The bright bouquet of flowers he carried was very large and tied with a yellow satin ribbon.

  Tears sprang to Meg’s eyes. “Thank you, Hunter.” Her emotions were too unruly. “How kind you all are. Is everyone well? I miss you.” She knew she spoke with her heart rather than her head, but did not care.

  Hunter’s reserved manner slipped. “We miss you, Meg. We will be glad when you and Sibyl are returned to the fold. My aunt is beside herself worrying about you. Even old Barstow is moved to say almost pleasant things about you.” He smiled a little, and she was reminded why she and Sibyl expected him to announce he had been captured by some eligible female. Hunter was a most appealing man.

  “Kindly take the flowers, Ila,” Jean-Marc said.

  When she looked at him, his posture disquieted Meg. He was angry again, and although it could not be so, one might think that anger was directed at Hunter.

  Lady Upworth dutifully took the flowers and set them artfully in the ewer that contained water for washing. “Just for now,” she told Hunter, smiling a captivated smile. “You must be Lady Hester Bingham’s son.”

  “Nephew,” he said, and withdrew a small packet from a coat pocket. He gave it to Meg. “This is the item you sent for.”

  “Ah, that’s right.” Lady Upworth lowered her eyelids and returned, gracefully, to her chair. “I believe you are a barrister, Mr. Hunter.”

  “Yes, My Lady.” He made what were intended to be covert glances around the room. “Should you like me to take you home, Meg? It would be more comforting among good friends at such a time.”

  Jean-Marc gave her no time to answer. “For the present time this is Miss Smiles’s home,” he said, absolutely cold. “And she is among friends here, also. I’m sure she appreciates your concern. Don’t hesitate to inquire after her health again.”

  Rather than being quelled, Hunter stood fast and fixed Jean-Marc with a green-eyed stare that must stand him in good stead in court. “Are you asking me to leave, My Lord?”

  “I’m suggesting Miss Smiles should be left alone to rest.”

  “Hunter,” Meg said anxiously. “Please tell Lady Hester I shall visit her soon. Adam has promised to produce samples of his work, but he hasn’t done so yet. Would you remind him, please? He may paint Princess Désirée’s portrait.”

  Hunter gave her his full attention, and she saw that he understood that she was delighted to see him, but that she had reason to remain where she was. “I shall pass on your messages.” He came to her side, took one of her hands and kissed it. And he gave her a significant glance. “Are you, er, comfortable? You feel, er, safe?”

  “Yes, yes,” she said quickly. “Don’t worry about me.”

  “In that case, get well.” He continued to take every opportunity to search about the room—who knew for what? “Promise me, Meggie.”

  She did not recall his ever having used her pet name before. That he did so now pleased her. “I promise,” she said.

  Hunter bowed to Lady Upworth, who promptly offered him her hand. If he was taken aback, he disguised his feelings well and kissed the lady’s hand with enough slow enthusiasm to bring a satisfied smile to her lips.

  Verbeux reached the door before Hunter and held it wide open for him. When Hunter had gone, Verbeux stared hard at Lady Upworth, who fluttered her lashes at him.

  “Well.” Jean-Marc cleared his throat. “You have obviously charmed the household at Number Seven.” And he didn’t care for their proprietorial attitude, or for smooth Mr. Lloyd’s possessive attitude. That must be changed, and soon.

  “May we see what M. Verbeux gave you?” Meg asked. “Before Hunter came?”

  She was not to be diverted, that much was now absolutely clear. “It’s nothing,” he said. The strain of this day mu
st already be too much for her. “Nothing to do with you at all. You should sleep. Perhaps Weller’s elixir might be a good idea, after all.”

  “I choose to pretend you didn’t make that suggestion,” she said. “Kindly be honest. And be honest quickly. What did M. Verbeux give you?”

  He shrugged. A wise man knew when to give in to a determined woman. “Where exactly was this found, Verbeux?”

  “Under the noseband. Where the cheek strap crosses.”

  Meg had no idea what the man talked about.

  “There,” Jean-Marc said. “Now you know.”

  “I do not know anything.”

  Lady Upworth said, “Oh, dear.”

  “This,” Jean-Marc said, holding out a palm in which a nail rested, “was placed against the head of one of my horses. One of the horses that pulled the coach today. Here—” he touched his own cheek a short distance above his mouth “—beneath the leather straps you have likely noticed on my animals.”

  She rubbed the cold skin on her arms. “It’s a nail. It could be thrown up by a hoof. That’s what happened. It landed where it was by chance.”

  “And by chance it was threaded in such a manner as to assure disaster?”

  “You can’t be sure it wasn’t.”

  “Yes, I can. Explain, Verbeux.”

  “Nothing to explain. Nail pushed through noseband. Minute Thomas made the team move, band and cheek strap tightened. Nail drove into horse’s cheek. All the way through to the inside of the animal’s mouth. Horse went mad. Ran wild. No chance involved.”

  21

  Spivey here.

  How can such carefully made plans be going so wrong?

  Something most odd is happening—all the more odd because as yet I see little evidence to guide me to those who are intent upon injuring Miss Meg Smiles. Or appear to be. But I do have a notion or two, naturally. I am a brilliant man. I must simply employ my considerable intelligence and become the observer I know so well how to be.

  Imagine, I am now forced to attempt to avert exactly what I was originally so determined to promote between Count Etranger and Meg Smiles. Since the outcome will be so much more certain, I have to bring about a tryst between that odious William Godly-Smythe and Sibyl Smiles. That done, Meg Smiles will pop along with them, docile as a fat cat, and settle wherever her frightful second cousin decides to take his feeble-brained relations.

  This means that what I fear may be very imminent between the Count and Meg Smiles must be stopped. If I could believe Miss Sibyl would accompany her sister, even if it were to a place where she would reside as Etranger’s ladybird, all would be well. I doubt that would be so.

  Ash displeases me—not at all suitable—but I have no choice and must make the best of her. I do know what I shall have her do.

  By the by, I cannot begin to explain my disgust with acting as that lumpish Princess’s dance master. The Count calls me—I mean, Ash—a caper merchant. Insulting fellow.

  But as to Ash, I intend to turn her into a diplomat. Not, you will agree, a simple task. However, it shall be done.

  Back to the mystery that surrounds certain events. There is some secret that is as yet hidden from me. That secret will reveal what it is that is bringing about these mishaps. I must know who is the target. And I am not convinced it is Meg Smiles. She is too insignificant to attract so much attention.

  You know, her cousin is an upright fellow. Why she is not flattered at his wishing to marry Sibyl and care for them both, I can’t imagine. I should think she has ideas above her station. Possibly she even imagines herself in love—how I hate those empty words—but in love with the Count. Ha, such audacity makes me laugh. The poor creature doesn’t as much as guess at the cavalier behavior the object of her affections must be capable of employing. How could she?

  No matter, the chit’s feelings are of no interest to me. This very evening I expect to be called on to foil disaster. Even though it is Sibyl rather than Meg that Godly-Smythe wishes to marry, he would not wish to take a fallen woman under his protection. Or so I should think. But he must take her. Seven B Mayfair Square shall be rid of lodgers forever.

  Did you see that Hunter hovering over Meg Smiles? Bringing her flowers? They must have cost a pretty penny. Oh, what have I spawned? What cruelty that I must defend a family so unworthy of my fidelity.

  Enough of that. I have some instructions for you. They are not onerous. If you should see any sign of the Count and Miss Meg Smiles, er, keeping company this evening, getting together by some clandestine means, perhaps, creeping about as if they don’t want to be seen…Get my attention. Just in case I am considering other matters. Use your minds. Concentrate on reaching my thoughts with your own. Of course you are incapable of attempting such an effort successfully—I’m not asking you to do so. I’m asking you to make yourselves receptive to me by calling me with a quiet voice in your head.

  You know, I’ve had a marvelous idea. If things have progressed somewhat far by the time I arrive, I have a plan to stop the event cold—stone cold.

  I appreciate your assistance.

  Now, without going into details, I want you to know about the frustration I encountered last year—when I was thrust into a most unsavory position. That was when I first realized I must attempt to preserve the dignity of my home and family. I’d thought things were going quite well—until a certain young woman turned into a creature entirely lacking in decorum. She thought nothing of disporting herself on a table in…Oh, dear, I forgot myself for an instant. She disported herself with a certain man—but in the end that was as well since it was part of my plan. However, witnessing such deplorable antics upset me deeply.

  There were other events I had to observe in order to gain my ends, too. I shudder at the thought. I had to watch for hours to be certain I hadn’t imagined what I’d seen.

  Please listen carefully. The most trying part of last year’s debacle—when I managed to get Finch More out of Seven A only to have her brother, Latimer, remain—was that I couldn’t control or trust those I needed to rely on for support. People rather like you, dear reader, only not as clever or trustworthy.

  I request that you follow my instructions carefully. Keep a lookout for anything you think I should know. I will be very busy gathering information elsewhere. But when you become aware of potentially ruinous behavior on the part of Count Etranger and Meg Smiles, close your eyes and think of me—I will come. And, unlike your predecessors, do not shame yourselves, or risk losing my esteem, by allowing yourselves to witness acts we all abhor.

  Remember, copulation between gentle people is purely for the purpose of procreation. Should a man feel the natural urge to enjoy himself more often, well, if he is a man of the world, he knows where to go.

  Ladies—absent yourselves the instant you sense imminent intimacy.

  Gentlemen—I understand your natural drive to seek excitement, but this business is beneath you. Make me proud, men, make me proud.

  22

  Jean-Marc turned the pages of his book without knowing what he read. He would remain in London until the musicale was over, less than three days from now since midnight had passed. Afterward he would remove Désirée and Meg, and essential members of his London household, to Windsor for a few days. Something treacherous had been set in motion. He needed time to explore what that might be—time and some separation from the confusion that made it much easier for villains to go about their business.

  The attacks could not have been intended for Meg. Why would they be? He wanted to fight back, but feared for his sister’s and Meg’s safety.

  Verbeux slipped into the study in Jean-Marc’s apartments and leaned against the door. “Been thinking,” Verbeux said. “Treason. Got to say it.”

  Jean-Marc sprang to his feet. “What are you talking about, man? Treason? That is what I heard you say?”

  “The Duke—Louis. Prince’s brother. Your uncle.”

  “I know who Louis is,” Jean-Marc said through his teeth. “Damn him.”

/>   “You dislike him. Because you are to take his place? The place he thought was his?”

  “Dislike him?” Jean-Marc sank slowly into his chair. He crossed his hands behind his head and rested them on the back of the favorite, worn leather wing chair his father had thoughtfully shipped to London.

  “Dislike him,” Verbeux echoed.

  Firelight played among the trees in a dark pastoral scene painted on the ceiling. Jean-Marc attempted a little abstracted thinking, failed and shot to his feet once more. “I don’t dislike him,” he said. “I hate the man. I hate him for his stupidity because it has brought me to a pretty pass. It has brought me to a place I never desired. Had he not been foolish enough to act as if he already ruled Mont Nuages, instead of waiting until my father was dead, he would yet be heir to the throne. And I would not be faced with a duty Papa has decided should come to me by default.”

  Verbeux stared moodily into the fire.

  “The Prince is determined.”

  “Yes.” Jean-Marc did not intend to discuss, with anyone, that he continued to hope his father would finally notice that his daughter was brilliant and well-suited to rule—in time. And, despite Papa’s conviction that he was not long for this world, there was no apparent reason to suspect his death to be imminent.

  “The Duke has many supporters,” Verbeux said.

  Jean-Marc waited until the other man looked at him before saying, “Your point?”

  Evidently Verbeux had donned his coat hastily—and without remembering a waistcoat. The sight of his valet in less than immaculate dress disturbed Jean-Marc. Even Verbeux’s hair was rumpled.

  “Your point, Verbeux?” Jean-Marc pressed.

  “An attempt to go against the Prince’s wishes would be treason.”

  “It could be.”

  “If the attempt was to kill you, it would be.”

 

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