She did not appear vexed, just a little insulted.
“I expect that was annoying.”
“Very annoying. I am not a child. I have seen more of the bad in people than they will ever see, I hope to God for their sakes. And they do not understand you at all, Kendale. You have, I think, been too reserved with them. They do not know the man you are. I had to tell Cassandra that you are not—well, as she said.”
She had defended him. He pictured it and smiled, both amused and touched. He tilted his head near hers. “Do you know that you are the most beautiful woman in this entire assembly?”
She brightened, pleased with the flattery. Not a false flattery, though, such as that spewing from so many other mouths here tonight. Look as he might, he really could not see another woman to equal her.
He wanted to take her away then. He wanted to ride to that house he had let and see if it suited her. He wanted to have her alone, where they did not have to be discreet. Mostly he just wanted her.
They stayed another hour. Marielle enjoyed herself enough that he did not want to interfere with her foray into society. He bade his time and dug up some pleasantries to mumble when acquaintances stopped to talk. When it was over he admitted to himself that it had not been as tiresome a night as he normally found such events. Perhaps that had been because he saw how it gave her pleasure.
Marielle did not walk to her meeting with the new messengers. She rode in the carriage Kendale had hired to be at her disposal when she needed it. She had insisted that he hire one with a French coachman so that one of the émigrés would earn some coin.
As she stepped out she wondered if his men followed her. She could see him doing that for her safety now, much as he kept Jacob across the way. Her reassurances that she was not in danger had fallen on deaf ears.
They did not speak of his questions, and the ones she never answered. She did not even know if he still suspected her of being a spy. He might have convinced himself she was not one, but that did not mean that he did not still consider it a possibility.
The thought of Kendale made her pause beside the carriage. This afternoon, this carriage would take her to the cottage. Kendale would ride in a while later. They would send the carriage away, to return in the morning. Most of the time between would be spent in bed. But not all of it.
Twice now they had visitors. It had surprised her when, two days ago, a man arrived at their door. Kendale went outside with him, and held a serious, private discussion. She had not recognized the man as one from Ravenswood, but she guessed he was part of the private army.
Steeling her spine and her bravery, she put thoughts of Kendale aside and entered the alley just enough so her eyes would adjust to the dim light in it. She had no intention of walking into it deeply. Never again would she be that careless.
She waited, making herself visible. Eventually a shadow moved and a man stepped into the light. He assessed her, and came forward. Only then did she walk another twenty feet. No more.
“Farmen sent me,” he said, naming the stationer in Dover. He spoke English. Monsieur Farmen had indicated he thought English would be better in the future.
“I have only this.” She handed over a letter and the fee. “It is to go to Monsieur Garrett directly. Carry it yourself. Do not leave it with Monsieur Farmen.”
He looked at it. “That is a lot of money for posting a letter that the regular service will carry for pennies.”
“I do not know how to post a letter to Monsieur Garrett. I do not know if that is even his real name.”
“Does he know how to post a response to you, or will you be waiting three weeks for me to bring one?”
“That is not your concern. Just take that to him after you give Monsieur Farmen his fee to ensure he remains a friend.”
He chuckled. “Friend. As good a word for it as any, I guess.” He tapped his hat with the letter by way of farewell.
She returned to the carriage. Her coachman, André, made a skeptical face at her. “Perhaps I should explain to his lord that you meet strange men in alleys.”
“Did he tell you to report my movements?”
He shook his head. “Perhaps he would prefer I did anyway.”
“He would think you did not know your place if you told him such a thing.” She fished in her reticule while she spoke. Clumsy things. Her old pockets had served her with more subtlety. “Here. Take this. Not as a bribe, and certainly not as blackmail such as you foolishly attempted. Rather for keeping watch so carefully, so I would be safe.”
André pocketed the coins. He opened the carriage door and turned down the steps smartly. From his expression, she knew they had reached an understanding.
He trusted her as much as a man could trust a woman who insisted on remaining more than half a mystery. Which meant that as much as he wanted to make decisions based on trust, there were some he could not.
Before making one decision in particular, Kendale called on Ambury at his home on Berkeley Square. He was received in the library. Ambury had been writing some letters. Cassandra’s aunt sat in one of the chairs near the fireplace, reading a book.
Ambury greeted him, pointedly noted the muslin roll he carried under his arm, and suggested they go to his study.
“If you want privacy, you should just ask for it, Ambury,” Lady Sophie said, setting her book aside. “You were here first. I was the one to intrude. I did not realize you expected a visitor.”
“There is no need for you to leave. We will do as well elsewhere.”
“Tosh. I will stroll in the garden. I could use some air.” She gripped the chair arm to support her rise to her feet. After arranging herself upright, she took the time to notice just who the visitor happened to be. Her eyes lit with delight. “Kendale. Oh, my, it is delicious to see you.”
Delicious seemed an odd compliment, but then this was an odd woman. “Thank you. The joy is mutual.”
Rather spry suddenly, she advanced on him, giving him a thorough scrutiny from head to toe. “I always said there was more to you than others gave you credit for.”
“Thank you again. I think.” He looked at Ambury, wondering if he was among those others, or only his wife. Ambury opened his hands in a gesture of perplexed confusion.
“But a Frenchwoman?” Lady Sophie said. “With your lack of experience, do you think it is wise?”
He found himself at a loss for words.
“I understand the appeal,” she continued. “Such a lovely language, for one thing. Even base matters sound elegant in French. Merde, for example. How much nicer that sounds than sh—”
“Aunt Sophie, I do not think Kendale’s head gets turned by the sound of a language.”
“Nonsense. Everyone loves the French language and is lured by it. Goodness, my head was turned by a Frenchman who had nothing else to speak for him except the sound of his voice. I only acknowledge his limitations in hindsight, of course. At the time I was madly in love for a good fortnight.” She caught herself, and smiled apologetically. “I did not mean to imply that your current affair will only last a fortnight, Lord Kendale. I am sure it will see you through the Season.”
“It is reassuring to know that you believe I will have enough time as that.”
“You will have time if you make time and you take time, sir. Too many men do not comprehend that l’amour and impatience are not compatible. You appear puzzled. I would be happy to explain. If you have taken up with a Frenchwoman it would not do to have you ignorant. For the pride of England you must acquit yourself well.” She looked around, seeking a chair on which to perch so the conversation could continue.
“The garden, Aunt Sophie. I believe you said you wanted some air,” Ambury interrupted.
“I did? Well, it is a fine idea, so I will embrace it. Farewell, Lord Kendale. Call whenever you need advice. You will find none better than mine.”
“My ap
ologies,” Ambury muttered while she walked to the garden doors. “She has lost all notions of discretion.”
“She could not be indiscreet with me unless others first were with her. I am glad my suitability to maintaining an affair with Miss Lyon is providing the entertainment in drawing rooms this week.”
“Hell, what did you expect? You accompanied her to Fairbourne’s grand preview. The whole world saw you leave together too. Do not let it annoy you. The scandal sheets will move on to others soon enough.”
He had no idea he had been in the scandal sheets. He never read them and right now, even if he normally did, he did not have the time for such frivolities.
“What is that there?” Ambury pointed at the roll covered in muslin.
“A conundrum. You are going to help me see my way clear out of it.” He set the roll on the desk, untied the string holding the muslin in place, and allowed the whole of it to unroll.
Ambury bent his head to the engraving on the top. “Interesting. These are being made either for the French market, or to sell to the émigrés here. I would think the former. Who is he?” He pointed to Lamberte.
“A government lackey in one of the provinces.”
“Well, someone is accusing him of the sort of embezzlement that gets heads lopped off over there.”
“I was more curious whether you see anything at all on that image that might be other than it appears. A message, for example, that only the initiated would see and understand.”
“Do you mean a code?” Ambury peered hard at the image, then at the words engraved all over it. “Would have to be a very short message if it is among those sentences. I can see nothing to suggest such a thing. Can you?” He lifted the top image and held the paper to the window’s light.
“No. However, I wanted another opinion, and another pair of eyes.” Satisfied, he began to roll the prints again. Half of his conundrum had been solved. He trusted Ambury to give good advice on the other half.
The door opened then, and Lady Ambury entered. She looked around the library, and sighed with exasperation. “Where has she gone? I told her to wait here. Ambury, did you see Aunt Sophie?”
“She has gone to the garden.”
“Oh, no. How could you allow that? We are to make calls together. Now she will be covered in mud and—” She noticed the engravings. She came over, curious. “What have you there? Ah, she has turned her scorn on French fools, I see. That is understandable, but I will miss how she skewered our English ones so neatly.”
“What do you mean, she?” Ambury asked.
“Why, Marielle. This is her work, I am sure. Did you not tell him, Kendale?”
“No, he did not, although one of his questions makes more sense now.”
Lady Ambury lifted the top print to reveal an identical one below. “Why, these are new. She has not sold any of them yet. I hope that you have not scolded about this, Kendale. Those views of hers are much more artistic, but they do not sell nearly as well as her satires.”
“I do not think I have seen her views,” Ambury said.
“Nor I,” Kendale said.
“They are lovely. Scenes of the river, mostly. She would not show them to you. I am surprised she did with these. She would fear that you would be scandalized that she plied a burin on copper, just as the women who dab that paint never admit to others that they labor for pay in that house.” She stilled suddenly, as the last words emerged. She flushed. “She did not show these to you either, did she? You discovered them on your own somehow, and I have revealed something she would not want you to know.”
“Do not castigate yourself over it,” Ambury said. “Kendale here understands that Miss Lyon must earn her bread. He has seen that house. These can hardly shock him.”
“They do not shock me at all. I am glad to know she made them.” He could not decide if that would make what he had to do easier or harder.
“Her desire to remain anonymous would explain why there is no credit taken or any address, I suppose,” Ambury said. “I merely thought them unfinished.”
“They are unfinished, I believe,” Cassandra said, bending over the print. Her dark hair dangled in long tendrils that brushed against the paper. “I was once shown a satire she did and it had a name and address. All fictional. Her views will have her address, but not her name. She uses male names instead.”
“So the engravings being colored in that house are made by her,” Kendale said.
“Some of them. Mostly she brings in others from printers. If you asked, I am sure she would explain it all to you. Now, I must find my aunt before she pulls out half the garden. Please excuse me.”
After Cassandra left, he finished rolling the prints.
“Your question, about the code,” Ambury said. “You are still not sure of her.”
“I am sure of her. I was not sure about these.”
“Yet she makes them. So . . .” Ambury shrugged. “If we are all wrong, she is unlikely to do anything with you in her life. She would not have much chance for it, would she? Nor would she get away with it. I trust you have not embarked on this affair for that purpose, Kendale. To keep watch on her and her movements, that is. You risk far too much if you have.”
“I came here to be convinced that I was not making excuses and refusing to see what I did not want to see. Also, to ask for advice. She does not know that I have these. She thinks they were lost. I allowed her to believe that.”
“You lied to her.”
“At the time I believed I was lying to a spy. I would like to return them to her now, and explain.”
“You would like to rectify that lie so it might not stand between you in the future.”
“Exactly. How to achieve that has puzzled me. I thought you might help.”
“Let me see if I can provide you with the words. My darling, at a time when I did not yet enjoy your favors and we were not as one, I discovered these images and kept them, unbeknownst to you, because I believed them to be evidence that I could use one day to have you hanged.”
“I can be that clumsy all on my own. You are supposed to find a better way to say it, so I do not appear a scoundrel to her.”
“My dearest, I have been in possession of some of your property for some weeks now, and thought it best if I returned it to you. My only excuse for my deception is that at the time I believed you to be the worst fraud, and entirely untrustworthy.”
“That is hardly better.”
“Kendale, there is no good way to say it. It can’t be prettied up with eloquence. Better to say it in your Kendale way and hope she has enough affection for you to understand.”
He left Ambury’s house even less contented than when he had entered. By now the mystery of Marielle should be unwinding. Instead it only seemed to deepen. Ambury’s questions did not sit well either.
He had toyed with the idea that an affair would keep Marielle close, so he could easily keep watch over her. It had been one possible excuse that he considered for doing what he wanted to do, during her first days at Ravenswood. She had convinced him she was not one, however. He did not want to think that had merely been lust making him blind after all.
This was not a time he wanted to be doubting her. Soon, too soon, he would embark on a mission that held risk and danger, and he wanted to spend the remaining time enjoying the rare contentment he experienced with her. Instead the last hour had him wondering if that contentment had turned him into the worst idiot, the kind he had sworn he would never be—a woman’s fool.
He did not think she had used her wiles to obscure his thinking, but . . . An engraver, now. In England the daughters of the aristocracy might draw or do watercolors, but engraving? He thought it unlikely that the niece of a comte would have been taught this skill. Men in England served apprenticeships for such work. Using a burin on copper did not lend itself to dabblers. Cassandra had said that the other pri
nts, the views, were lovely too. An expert engraver, then.
He wondered how many people knew she possessed this skill. The rumors she was a charlatan could have emerged from people learning about it.
He could no longer pretend that the rumors were wrong.
Chapter 17
Marielle loved the cottage. She enjoyed looking out the windows and watching buds and shoots emerge in the rustic garden outside. She found the low-beamed ceilings cozy and the big hearth domestic. She noted how, whenever André pulled up outside and she emerged from the carriage, it seemed she had stepped into another world.
A fantasy world, perhaps. One where no dangerous quest waited and no dangers lurked. One where, for a while, Kendale was not a viscount and lord, but just the man whom she embraced in peace and passion.
She had taken to arriving at the cottage early, so she would have a few hours to play at being a simple country woman with nary a care in the world. Today she sent André off with instructions to come back for her in the morning, and eagerly entered the house. She carried a basket of food that she had cooked in the kitchen of her house, darting in to stir the stew and knead the bread between dealing with the new engravings, some to be colored.
She set the bucket of stew near the hearth and stirred in embers she had brought in a firepot, so that there would be some warmth for both food and the night. She put the bread on the table and admired the fine job she had done with its form and baking.
The cook had found her intrusions into the kitchen odd and annoying, and even seemed surprised that she knew how to form a loaf. Marielle Lyon should not. It had given her joy to do it, however, and to know that Kendale would eat food made with her own hands. Quite a bit of nostalgia had filled those private moments too, and memories of doing this for her father.
Not a sound interfered with her hour in the cottage, other than those of nature outside. She savored the calm, and her happiness. Thoughts of Kendale’s arrival brought poignancy to her heart, and also a stirring anticipation.
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