by Regina Scott
“Perhaps he’s a consummate actor,” Harry said, “fooling us all.”
Yvette nodded as they reentered the withdrawing room. “I will meet him. I will know.”
“How very nice to be so sure of yourself,” Patience said, following her. “It must come in handy.”
Yvette shot her a look. “More politeness, I think. You will see. I will make you like me.”
Patience merely smiled.
Villers arrived for dinner with Julian, who nearly stumbled across the threshold when his gaze lit on Yvette sitting on the sofa next to Patience. Harry hurried to introduce both men to his cousin. Julian recovered sufficiently to bow over her hand.
“And did I hear you were unwell, monsieur?” Yvette asked Villers when he did the same.
“A moment’s indisposition,” he assured her as he straightened. “Nothing would keep me from celebrating the holiday with my dear friends. I hope I may shortly count you among them.”
“Such a lovely hope,” Yvette said with a smile. She turned to Patience. “Did I say that right, for an Englishwoman?”
Patience’s smile blossomed. “Exactly right, Miss Orwell.”
“Please,” she said. “You must all call me Yvette.”
Villers glanced between the two women as if he wasn’t sure of the conversation. Harry thought he knew. Quick study that she was, Yvette had decided to take Patience as an example and veil her threats with pleasant words. Perhaps Patience and Yvette might be friends after all.
Patience rose now. “I wonder, Beau, if you would look outside with me. I was so hoping tomorrow would be brighter. Can you tell by looking at the moon?”
“I can think of a number of things to do under a silvery moon, my dear,” he drawled, but he took her arm and led her toward the window.
Clever girl. Harry took Patience’s spot at Yvette’s side even as Julian bent near her.
“Yvette thinks Villers might be our man,” Harry whispered. “She wanted to meet him in person.”
“Well?” Julian whispered.
Yvette frowned at the fellow’s back. “I do not trust him. Send him away.”
Harry shook his head. “Alas, I can’t. Not until the causeway opens. But I’m hoping that will be soon.”
~~~
The causeway couldn’t open fast enough for Patience. She had never spent such an evening. She’d dined with the family at the Carroltons, but, except for the times Lady Lilith had proved fractious, Patience had been largely invisible. Tonight, she felt as if she was constantly being watched, and the least wrong word, an ill-considered movement of her hand, might spell her doom, and Harry’s.
He gave no sign he was under a strain, leading the conversation along insignificant topics like the weather, changes in fashion, and the upcoming Season in London. Gussie kept frowning at Yvette, as if she couldn’t decide whether to confront her with questions or dose her with formulation.
Her frown was better than Beau’s calculating look. He seemed to be wondering if Yvette would taste well in a nice butter sauce. Mr. Mayes’s gaze swiveled from Yvette to Beau to Meredith in turn, and only the last seemed to give him any solace. And Lydia couldn’t seem to decide where to look as she alone did justice to the roast and jacketed potatoes Cook had prepared.
As dinner ended, Patience was able to take the ladies aside and explain the change in accommodations. Lydia readily agreed, and Meredith nodded acceptance. But she held Patience back as they started for the withdrawing room.
“Who is she really?” she whispered, gaze on the Yvette’s back as the Frenchwoman walked with Harry.
“Someone Harry is trying to help,” Patience said. “She’ll leave as soon as the causeway opens.”
“Which cannot be soon enough,” Meredith said, mirroring Patience’s thoughts. “But I wonder at your reactions this evening, Patience. Have you taken Miss Orwell in dislike?”
Patience sighed. “I would very much like to be friends with Miss Orwell. And yet…”
Meredith’s mouth quirked. “And yet, cousin or no, she is pretty and exotic and clearly devoted to Harry.”
“Oh, that couldn’t be the reason I dislike her,” Patience said, but she met Meredith’s gaze, and they both laughed.
“Now, that’s a sound I’d like to hear more often,” Mr. Mayes said, waiting for them in the entry hall.
Patience moved closer to him to give Meredith a chance to withdraw.
But instead of retreating, Meredith held her ground. “We were just wondering about our newcomer. What do you know of her, Mr. Mayes?”
If he was chagrined that she refused to use his first name, he didn’t show it. “Very little,” he admitted. “Her mother was from France, I believe, a fallen countess if the stories are true. Like many aristocratic families, hers fared badly in the Revolution. I fear Miss Orwell is the last of her immediate family.”
An orphan, like me. Patience drew in a breath. Perhaps Yvette’s made up story was not so far from the truth. If she was all that remained of a once-proud house, had the rest of her family faced the guillotine?
“How horrible,” Meredith said, once more saying Patience’s thoughts aloud.
Patience nodded. “I’m very glad you could help her.”
He smiled, but pleasure was not the emotion reflected in his eyes. “I had nothing to do with the matter, Miss Ramsey.”
Of course! She wasn’t supposed to mention that he and Harry had gone all the way to France to rescue Yvette, further proof of her ineptitude for espionage. When they entered the withdrawing room and he stalked to Harry’s side, she couldn’t help her sigh.
“Did he have something to do with the matter?” Meredith murmured, holding Patience back a little from the others.
Patience couldn’t find the strength to lie to her face. “Mr. Mayes and Harry encountered her in their travels. Very likely he was kind to her. I must try to do likewise. She has obviously suffered great loss. Perhaps all she needs is our support and understanding.”
Meredith smiled. “You are very good at providing that, Patience.”
“Perhaps,” Patience allowed. “But I wasn’t the one who helped you over your worries concerning Mr. Mayes. I noticed you did not run from him this time.”
“Mr. Mayes and I have spoken,” she allowed, shifting on her feet and setting her skirts to swaying. “While we disagree on several points, we can at least be agreeable in each other’s company.”
They were, in fact, the most agreeable people that evening. Beau insisted on cards, and Patience made sure he was in the set with his sister, Meredith, and Julian, the last of which she was certain could keep the topics of conversation away from Yvette. Mr. Cuddlestone erected a second card table on the other side of the room, so at least she, Harry, Gussie, and Yvette had a little privacy.
“So, you are the lady who’s been helping Harry,” Gussie said in an uncharacteristically quiet voice.
Yvette regarded the cards she had been dealt. “’Arry is the gentleman who has been carrying my news to the War Office.” She lay down a card.
Harry played on her card. “A small service compared to the trials of our friends in France.”
“But an important one,” Gussie insisted, volume rising.
“Your play,” Patience reminded her, touching her foot to Gussie’s under the table.
Gussie played, badly. Patience took the trick. Yvette sighed.
She only grew more restive as the evening progressed, her comments becoming terser, her movements tighter. Harry caught Patience’s eye, his look concerned. As they finished a hand, Patience rose.
“Perhaps an early night after all the excitement. If the weather clears, we will have lawn bowling tomorrow and a picnic.”
Lydia perked up at that, but Yvette merely smiled politely.
Harry touched Patience’s arm as the others began leaving the room. “Stay a moment. We must talk.”
Yvette must have heard him, for she threw up her hands. “Talk! Why do we sit and talk while people are d
ying!”
About to leave the room, Beau glanced back with a frown.
Harry stepped closer to Yvette. “No one is dying here, cousin.”
Her eyes were stormy. “Easy to say in your pleasant house, warm and safe. What do you care about people struggling for their lives? What do you know of ridicule, rejection by your own kind?”
Harry’s face fell. “Yvette.”
She stared at him, fingers flying to her lips. “Oh, ‘Arry. Forgive me.” She turned and ran for the door. Beau stepped aside to let her go.
“Charming as always, eh, Harry?” he jibed.
Harry started after her, but Patience caught his arm. “No, Harry. Let me. You have more important matters to attend to.” She nodded toward Beau, who was gazing after Yvette with a thoughtful look.
Harry nodded. “Very well. But I haven’t forgotten our conversation, Patience. I promise we will return to it when the time is right.”
She held that promise to her heart as she hurried after Yvette.
Chapter Eighteen
Harry squared his shoulders as Patience hurried out of the room after Yvette. At least Villers did not attempt to stop her. After the last few hours, Harry would likely have snapped.
As it was, he made himself stroll up to the fellow. “Bit early for me. Care for a game of billiards before retiring? I’ll spot you three points.”
His smile was entirely too self-satisfied. “I’m more interested in another game.”
Harry sighed. Not cards. The fellow would only bait him. One crack about his father would set him over the edge as well.
“I’m not sure I’m up for a fencing match,” Harry joked. “And you’ve already beaten me soundly.” He made a show of rubbing his arm.
“Ah, yes, your wound.” Villers smirked. “Never fear. I don’t intend to damage your consequence further. Not if you cooperate.”
Harry frowned. “What are you talking about?”
He glanced out the door. Harry could see no one in the entry hall, but Cuddlestone would likely be coming through shortly to lock up for the night now that most of the guests were headed for bed.
As if he feared interruption as well, Villers drew Harry deeper into the room. “Harry, we must talk. I have an issue with you.”
“Bedchamber not large enough?” Harry guessed as they came to a stop beside the dying fire. “Roast overcooked?”
“Why, Harry,” he said with a shake his dark head, “what an unsatisfied guest you must think me. My time at Foulness Manor has been illuminating, and I believe, profitable.”
Harry eyed him. “I won’t offer for your sister. That ship has sailed.”
His smile was sharp. “Nor would I wish you to offer for Lydia, not knowing what I know now.” He leaned closer and lowered his voice. “I’ve seen you out at night.”
He could not have confirmed his suspicions, not lying abed the last few days. Or had he too managed to slip out unseen?
“If you mention the matter to her husband, I will deny it,” Harry informed him.
He laughed. “You should have gone on the stage. I fancy even Gussie was fooled. But I know the truth. You’re smuggling. Admit it.”
So, he didn’t know all yet. Harry made himself shrug. “I may have purchased wine of questionable provenance, but that is no more than any gentleman seeking champagne these days must do to stock his cellars.”
“How well you lie,” Villers said with an admiring shake of his head. “But it seems you bought a little more than wine this time. She’s no cousin of yours. I saw Gussie staring at her all evening. And that coarse dress, her lack of proper escort. I’ll say this for you, Harry: you have some nerve bringing your mistress to a house party.”
Harry’s hand fisted, but he kept from smacking it into the fellow’s leering face. The smartest thing would be to play along, but he couldn’t blacken Yvette’s reputation. Until all this was over, she’d have to live in England for her own safety. She’d find few friends if it was thought she was Sir Harold Orwell’s doxy.
“My cousin,” he said, “is a lady. She may not dress the part at the moment, but that can be rectified. Your behavior, however, is more suspect.”
“As is yours,” he pointed out. “But I know the value of silence. One hundred pounds, every quarter, and no one need know your secrets.”
Harry snorted. “Do you think you can do anything to my reputation that hasn’t already been done?”
He straightened. “Perhaps not. But if you will not think of your dear cousin, think of poor Patience. How will she hold her head up, engaged to such a scoundrel? Why, she might even call off the wedding.”
He wanted to laugh in the fellow’s face. Patience, bless her, knew all about him, and still she stayed by his side. But Villers was close enough to the truth that Harry couldn’t allow him to learn more. He lowered his head as if ashamed.
Villers clapped him on the shoulder. “I’ll leave you to think on the matter. We’ll speak more tomorrow. Sleep well, Harry.” He turned and strolled from the room.
He could not know it was a false threat. Most of those in the village already knew their Sir Harry was supporting the smugglers. Undene and his men even knew why. Those in the aristocracy suspected Harry of worse crimes. Yet how could he subject Yvette and Patience to the same ridicule?
One hundred pounds a quarter was a steep price. Likely Harry would have to have Julian pull some of his investments from the Exchange. Yet if he didn’t pay, Villers might eventually uncover the real reason for Harry’s nighttime excursions, which could make Yvette more visible as well.
At least he could rule out Villers as their assailant. Why shoot at the man you intended to blackmail? That only meant someone else was out to get Harry.
He’d come so close today to offering Patience his heart. He’d even considered refusing further work from the War Office, just for the opportunity to reclaim his reputation and marry her. He was only fooling himself. There would always be men like Villers who sought to bring him low. Patience deserved a husband whose reputation was as spotless as her own, someone who could live up to her high standards. As soon as the causeway opened, he should send her to the safety of Bath, encourage her to go on with her life.
But he no longer believed it would be easy to go on with his without her.
~~~
Patience caught up with Yvette in the upstairs corridor. The Frenchwoman turned her face away, but not before Patience saw the shine of tears on her cheeks.
“We’re in here, I believe,” she said, opening the door to the room that had been Lydia’s.
Mr. Cuddlestone and the staff had done a good job. Patience would never have known anyone else had used the room. Fresh sheets showed on the big box bed, the cream bright against the navy cover embroidered with gold thread. Gold tassels held back the blue and red pattern of the bed hangings, and the thick blue carpet showed no sign of a recent footfall.
Patience’s things had been arranged on the dressing table, her meager wardrobe hung neatly. She went to the dresser and located her nightgowns.
“This one’s clean,” she said, turning to offer it to Yvette.
The woman accepted it with a nod. “Merci. I apologize for my behavior earlier. I have not been in company I could trust for a long time.”
Patience took out her own nightgown. “I cannot imagine what you’ve been through.”
“I would not want you to imagine it,” she said.
There was a rap at the door, and Emma bustled in. Her cap was askew, and one dark curl escaped to brush her rosy cheek. “Sorry, miss, miss. Too many ladies tonight, and I haven’t even gone to help the mistress.”
Yvette backed away. “I need no help.”
Emma advanced on her. “Course you do. A lady can’t sleep in her corset, can she? And don’t you go cutting your laces like Miss Gussie. I can’t tell you how many perfectly good strings we have to throw out when she’s done with them.”
Yvette held her ground, eyes turning stormy again. Patienc
e stepped between them.
“I believe what Miss Orwell means, Emma, is that we can help each other tonight. Go to Gussie. I’ll ask Harry tomorrow to find someone in the village to assist you. I’m sure you could recommend someone.”
Emma stepped back. “Likely I could. Thank you, Miss Ramsey. If you’re certain.”
“Very,” Patience assured her. “Good night, Emma.”
With a last look of puzzlement at Yvette, Emma curtsied and left.
The Frenchwoman sighed. “Only two weeks in prison, and I must learn to be a lady again.”
“Would you allow me?” Patience asked.
Yvette eyed her, then turned to give her access to the closures at the back of the gown. As the spruce fabric fell, dark patches sprang into view against the white of her arms, along with a leather sheath strapped to one forearm.
Patience held back her gasp. “You’ve been injured.”
“A bit.” She busied herself removing the sheath and the dagger it held. “And you must forgive the state of my corset. Madame Undene donated a dress, chemise, stockings, and petticoat, but she and I did not share the same physique.”
The corset was nearly as battered as its owner, the once fine silk frayed and stained. Patience undid the lace and helped her out of it. Then she went to fetch her mother’s ointment.
“This can help,” she promised Yvette. “I will be gentle.”
She must have been, for the Frenchwoman did not call out to stop her as she covered the bruises and chafed skin.
“How do you know to do this?” Yvette asked. “Are you an apothecary?”
Patience smiled. “No, only the companion to an elderly woman who had a number of ailments.”
Yvette sighed. “She must have loved you.”
“Not in the slightest,” Patience said, rubbing the ointment remaining on her fingers into her own hands. “But I would never presume to compare my pitiful travails with yours.”
“I can manage now,” Yvette said, stepping back.
Patience turned to give her privacy. “You have no need to be ashamed of those bruises, you know. The shame is on those who inflicted them.”