by Lenora Bell
Indy had never understood the constant rivalry certain females engaged in—always measuring their attractiveness and charms against their sisters. It isn’t a war, ladies, she wanted to say. We’re all in this together.
Miss Lydia, whose eyes were as blue and wide as a field of cornflowers, drew closer. “We’ve been speaking of nothing else since we heard the news.”
“We have wedding fever!” cried Lucy, gripping Indy’s hand fervently.
“However did you manage to keep the circumstance of your engagement secret for so long?” asked Miss Francoise.
“And how did you induce him to set a date at last?”
“It was simple,” said Indy with a shrug. “I told him that if he didn’t wed me soon, I’d perforate him with my dagger.”
“You didn’t,” exclaimed Lucy with a shocked expression.
“You have a dagger?” asked Miss Lydia, her eyes widening even further.
Indy drew her blade from under the fitted coat she wore.
The young ladies gasped and drew closer, the enormous puffed sleeves of their gowns fluttering like butterfly wings.
“Sometimes men are such fools. They don’t really know what they want. All he required was a little nudge in the right direction,” said Indy confidingly. “In Mr. Shakespeare’s time, the men dressed as ladies to perform the plays. I merely reversed the roles. I played the Petruchio to his Kate and forced his hand. If there’s a gentleman you want to bring up to scratch, I advise you to purchase a blade and learn how to use it.”
Lady Susan, with ginger-colored hair and pale eyebrows, tilted her head to the side, like a bird. “Oh, I don’t know if I could do that. It’s terribly shocking.”
“Time waits for no woman,” said Indy. “Grab destiny as though you want it. That’s my motto.”
“I simply couldn’t,” repeated Lady Susan.
Indy held out the hilt of her knife. “Here, take it. See how it feels in your hand.”
Lady Susan accepted the knife gingerly. “It looks wickedly sharp.”
“I have many daggers, but this one is from Norway. The handle is made of polished birch and the blade from steel. Isn’t it beautiful?”
Lady Susan handed back the knife. “Ah, yes. Very beautiful.” Her expression said the exact opposite.
“Speaking of beautiful,” said Lucy brightly, “we want details about your wedding gown.”
“We heard from Mrs. Featherstone that you are to be wed in cascading layers of canary yellow frills from your neck to your toes.”
Indy sheathed her knife. She eyed the exit. If she made a run for it, the young ladies wouldn’t be able to catch her. She was wearing boots and they were wearing silk slippers.
Miss Lydia glanced at her friends. Lucy nodded at her encouragingly. “I wish to . . . that is . . . are you quite certain such a gown will be the most becoming for your figure and complexion?”
The girls crowded closer, cutting off her access to the exit. “I’m quite attached to my pineapple dress,” Indy said firmly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“We know everything,” said Lucy. “The pineapple dress, the duke’s pink silk doublet, the champagne fountain.”
“The swans.” Miss Lydia sighed, clasping her hands. “They mate for life. It’s so romantic.”
“I daresay so many swans might produce some rather unfortunate consequences upon the lawn,” drawled Miss Francoise in her charming French accent.
“Hush, Fran,” said Lucy with a frown. “There will be footmen following after the swans to control any . . . situations.
“Your attendants must wear pale yellow,” said Miss Lydia.
“No, they must wear pink,” said Lady Susan.
“You must carry orange blossoms,” said Lucy.
“She must carry rosebuds,” disagreed Miss Lydia.
What was it about young ladies and weddings? Their eyes shone with a nearly fanatical fervor.
“I was thinking of carrying flowering thistles,” said Indy. “The flowers will match my eyes.”
Lucy’s brows knit. “Thistles? Aren’t they rather . . . prickly?”
“I’m quite prickly, so they’ll be appropriate. Or I could carry an arrangement of artichokes.”
That silenced them. They all looked aghast.
“Artichokes? They eat them quite often in France, you know,” said Lady Susan. “Steamed and dipped in a melted butter. They’re delicious, but as a wedding bouquet? No, no, it won’t do at all.”
“Wouldn’t you rather have a nice bouquet of rosebuds?” asked Miss Lydia hopefully.
“Let her carry artichokes if she wants to,” said Miss Francoise. “And wear her pineapple gown. I for one think it will be quite charming.”
“About the gown . . .” said Lucy. “We had thought you might wish to see these fashion plates from la Galerie des Modes.” She caught Indy’s hand and pulled her toward a round table that stood near the gleaming pianoforte in one corner of the music room.
Miss Lydia turned the pages of a large clothbound book filled with etchings of ladies’ fashions. “Now this is a wedding gown.” She stared lovingly at a print of a simple white gown with puffed sleeves, a narrow low-cut bodice, and an overlay of delicate leaf-patterned embroidery.
An inexplicable welling of emotion and fatigue swamped Indy’s mind. “How about a compromise, dear ladies? Why don’t you choose three gowns from the fashion plates and I promise to take them into very careful consideration . . . tomorrow. Now I must retire for the evening.”
“You promise to take them into consideration?” asked Lucy.
“I solemnly swear.”
“Don’t leave just yet. You haven’t had a pastry.” Lucy gestured to a tray piled with pastries and tarts.
Indy’s stomach grumbled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten enough today. That must account for why the sight of the simple, elegant wedding gown had made her feel so queasy.
As she sampled the refreshments, the girls conversed about weddings they’d attended and which bride had been more breathtaking than the others, and which groom more dashing.
Something about discussing her wedding with Raven, even though it was all a huge fabrication, had her craving solitude. Or buttery French pastries.
Pastries would do for the moment. She ate her way around the top layer of the tiered tea tray and proceeded to the next.
Must be all this talk of becoming a bride. For these girls it was the height of their ambition in life. To become a beautiful young bride and marry the most handsome and gallant of gentlemen.
When her own naïve hopes had been ground to dust, she’d vowed never to be defined by her association with a man.
She’d achieve her ambitions alone, and on her own terms.
She’d never be a duchess. She didn’t want to be a duchess.
What a lot of trouble that would be. She was barely upholding the standards of lady-hood. Actually, she wasn’t upholding them at all.
She was far too ambitious and adventurous. She’d never become anyone’s wife and give up her life of daring and freedom.
All the pastries were gone now and most of the tarts. Yet she still had a craving for more treats. “I don’t suppose you ladies keep a bottle of sherry in the music salon?” she asked hopefully, interrupting their sentimental recollections of weddings past.
“Heavens, no,” said Lucy. “You’d have to go Father’s study for sherry.”
India sighed and popped the last flaky pastry into her mouth.
Raven was probably smoking a cheroot and drinking an excellent aged Cognac at the moment. He would be pressing Sir Charles for information about their suspects, conducting important investigations while fanatical ladies on the hunt for wedding details interrogated Indy.
She could have brought her fake moustache, trousers, and Hessian boots to Paris and embarked on her own search for the stone wearing a masculine disguise.
Instead, she was staying in the same house with Raven and pretending to be his fiancée
in truth, instead of merely on a meaningless piece of paper.
Chapter 12
“You sly devil, hiding your engagement all these years.” Sir Charles poured Raven another glass of wine. “Are you sure you’re man enough to tame that one? She seems a right spitfire.”
“I’ve no interest in taming her.”
“You like her unpredictability and spirit, eh?”
“It does keep life interesting.”
“I’ll wager it will keep the marriage bed interesting as well,” said Sir Charles with a lascivious wink.
Not going to think about marriage beds. Beds with Indy in them. Beds in general.
Sir Charles had always been one of Raven’s best contacts. As a diplomat he was their eyes and ears in Paris. Charles knew Raven worked for the Foreign Office but he wasn’t privy to the secret nature of his position.
Malcolm had said not to trust Charles, that he’d gone rabid and must be leashed. There was something slightly off about his demeanor. A grayish tinge to his skin as though he’d been indulging in unhealthy nights on the town.
Still, Raven found it difficult to believe Charles would help Le Triton steal the Rosetta Stone. What could he possibly gain from it? He may have taken a French mistress, and he was burning the candle at both ends, but to betray his country in such an ostentatious manner would end his career ignobly and open him to being tried for treason.
Though there was always the possibility he’d been blackmailed into helping orchestrate the theft.
“What brings you to Paris?” asked Sir Charles. “I know it’s not wedding shopping. I heard something about the Wish Diamond?”
“You heard correctly. I’m here to find a purchaser for the necklace. Lady India doesn’t want me to keep it. Though she’d rather I donated the priceless antiquity to a museum.” He shrugged. “Weddings are expensive. Especially the outrageous affair she’s planning.”
“Heard about that. Making you pay for your indiscretions, is she? You’re not really going to wear a pink doublet and silver spurs on your shoes?”
“Not a chance.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“She spoonfed the newspaperman humiliating details to bring me down a notch or two.”
“I know the feeling. Lady Sterling has become increasingly difficult of late. A fellow needs his diversions, am I right?”
Which must be a reference to Margot. Charles didn’t yet know that Raven was aware of the affair.
“You’re not wrong,” said Raven with a practiced grin. “I’m sure you’ll be able to help connect me with potential buyers for the Wish Diamond.”
“I have the perfect venue. I’m hosting a small diplomatic affair here at the residence the day after tomorrow.”
“Splendid. I’ll attend with Lady India.”
Raven had read about the plans for the diplomatic affair in the dossier. It was the perfect safe activity for him and Indy to attend together. A safe diplomatic event would keep her out of harm’s way. She’d be occupied with evaluating every attendee for possible culpability.
“I’ll have my valet help with your evening attire,” said Charles. “These formal occasions are so strict on protocol.”
“Thank you.”
He probably knew more about Sir Charles right now than his own wife did. He knew that he was up to his red-rimmed eyeballs in gambling debt, he knew that Margot Delacroix had him twisted in knots around her dainty finger, and that he hadn’t shared the marital bed with his wife in over a year.
“Lady India’s décolletage will be the perfect setting for the diamond, if I may be so bold as to say so,” said Sir Charles. “Everyone will be salivating over her . . . necklace. I’d consider buying it myself, as a gift for a lady friend, but I’m sure I won’t be able to afford your price.”
Raven didn’t move the smallest muscle, but the crude remark grated on his nerves. And yet Sir Charles was only mimicking the sorts of shameless things Raven used to say.
Did say. There was nothing different about him. He was the same cold-blooded agent with the same careless, hedonistic persona. He wasn’t changing or metamorphosing in any way.
“No doubt she’ll spark a bidding war,” said Raven. “Will Le Triton attend the affair?” He already knew that he hadn’t been invited, but he wanted to watch Sir Charles’s reaction.
Sir Charles obliged by turning one shade grayer and developing a slight tic at the corner of his left eye.
Interesting.
“He won’t attend the diplomatic event, but we can visit him at his gaming house, La Sirène. I have an engagement there tonight. Le Triton has been pouring funds into the Louvre’s new Egyptian exhibit. He’s made several large gifts of antiquities from his collection. I purchased several items of furniture from him for the residence.”
Even more interesting. A connection between Sir Charles, Le Triton, and the Louvre.
Raven remained silent. Sir Charles was agitated about something, and listening quietly sometimes caused people to divulge secrets.
“You wouldn’t believe the deals I’ve negotiated on exquisite French antiquities recently,” said Charles. “I have whole warehouses filled with sixteenth-century windows and medieval carved stonework that I purchased for a song. I’m planning to ship it all to England and rebuild my castle in Dorset in majestic style.”
If you live that long, thought Raven. Associating with Le Triton tended to shorten men’s lives. “I’d love to tour your warehouses while I’m here,” said Raven casually. “You know what a delight I take in such things.”
“Oh, ah . . .” Sir Charles cleared his throat. “I suppose that could be arranged.”
Raven would tour the warehouses secretly this very night. It would be a simple matter to find the warehouse records in the locked drawers of the handsome escritoire behind them.
“Where do you find your architectural pieces?” asked Raven.
“I have my contacts, just as you have yours.”
Which was another way of saying that Charles hadn’t acquired his antiquities in an honest way. “Aren’t you worried about the French mounting a protest if you take too much of their country home with you?” asked Raven.
“Not a bit.” He puffed out his chest. “I do what I please. I control things around here.”
Raven added delusional to his list of Sir Charles’s rapidly growing list of suspicious traits.
“I think I’ll retire for the evening,” said Raven. “Where have you placed me?”
“Your usual chamber on the first floor. Lady India is in the one next door.” Another suggestive wink.
“Uh . . . isn’t this a large house?”
“Thought you’d want to be close to her. Besides, Lady Sterling is refurbishing the guest quarters and those are the only two rooms available. Are you sure you want to retire so early? Why not come with me to La Sirène?”
Le Triton’s gaming house in the Palais Royal was a notorious hub for criminal activity. Raven didn’t want to engage Le Triton until he’d done more investigating
Sir Charles was hiding something. Raven would spend his evening searching the man’s warehouses and going through his other records.
“A quiet evening’s what the doctor ordered,” Raven said.
“Not going soft on me, are you?” asked Sir Charles. “Does your charming fiancée have you on a short leash?”
Raven smiled. “Not a bit. I’ll accompany you to the gaming house later this week.” He rose and took his leave.
On his way upstairs, he heard the sound of female voices. He stopped outside the music salon. Indy must still be inside. He heard her low voice, and then the soft, high giggles of her companions.
Curious. He thought she would have retired by now.
The door stood ajar. He moved closer to hear what they were saying. He heard his name and paused, listening intently.
“When I was your age I wanted a very simple wedding,” he heard Indy say. “Only Ravenwood and our closest family. I was going to wear a wh
ite gown, very similar to the one you showed me, Miss Lydia. For our honeymoon we would have journeyed to Athens to view the Parthenon.”
The wistfulness in her words jabbed at his heart like a doctor searching for bullet fragments.
He’d wanted the same thing. And everything had gone so very wrong.
Learning that his father had been a spy . . . that his dying wish was for Raven to become one as well.
Learning to detach from his emotions. Losing the desire for personal fulfillment and existing only for the mission.
“Why did you not marry the duke when you were our age?” one of the girls asked. “Why did you wait so long?”
“Life is a long and winding road, if we’re lucky,” said Indy. “Sometimes paths diverge, and then they align again. So it is for the duke and I. We weren’t ready for marriage then. He was too wild and restless, and I . . . I didn’t know it at the time, but I needed to strike out on my own. Find my own way in the world.”
“How thrillingly unconventional,” was the reply.
“Now I really must leave you, ladies. I’m very tired. Thank you for the refreshments.”
Raven rapped on the door so Indy wouldn’t catch him lingering outside, eavesdropping on her. He entered the room.
Indy was surrounded by a bevy of young girls, like a queen with her attendants. “Your Grace.” She nodded regally.
The girls giggled softly.
“We’ve kept you too long,” said Lucy. “The duke is restless.”
More giggles and sidelong glances.
“Will you join me, Lady India?” he asked.
Indy nodded. “With pleasure. It was lovely to meet you, ladies.”
“Don’t forget your promise,” called Lucy as Indy left with him.
“I won’t,” said Indy over her shoulder.
“What promise?” Raven asked.
“They don’t approve of the plans for the pineapple gown. They want me to choose from their French fashion plates.”
“Most ladies take these matters quite seriously.”
She glanced at him from under her lashes. “They do, don’t they?”