by Ruth Axtell
“Just drape it across the chair for now. Valentine will have a fit if things are not done precisely to her liking. Now, you run along to your own bed. It will be light soon enough.”
“Very well, my lady. Good night then, if you are sure you don’t require anything more.”
“Nothing more tonight. Thank you.”
The voices faded from the room.
Rees counted a full minute in his head before allowing his body to relax the least bit.
Now, to find a way out of this room. There was only the door through Lady Wexham’s bedroom. How long would it take for her to drink her tea and fall asleep?
Clearly, he was in for a long wait yet. He daren’t tiptoe through her room until she was in a deep slumber.
Praying that chamomile tea had sedative properties, Rees eased his cramped feet and loosened his hold on the door. He flexed his fingers to restore feeling to them.
How long he lay curled up in the armoire, he had no idea. He must have dozed eventually. He awoke with a start, dreaming of something. He strove to remember, and it came back to him. He’d been in a coffin, everything completely black before his eyes.
He blinked, realizing just as in the dream, he couldn’t see a thing. Then he remembered where he was and why.
Hearing nothing, he pushed open one of the wardrobe doors a few inches. More darkness and stillness greeted him, so he pushed it a little farther.
Seeing no light from the other room, he dared to open the other door all the way and stretch his legs out of the wardrobe. Immediately pins and needles shot through his feet.
He had to wait a moment for the sensation to ease. Then he set his candle on the floor and eased his body out of the confining shelf space the rest of the way.
He paused, cocking his ear. Still nothing. The countess must have fallen asleep.
He crouched on his hands and knees, rolling his head around to ease the kinks from his neck and shoulders. Then he attempted to put some semblance of order to the shelf he had lain in for some hours. What would Valentine think when she saw the rumpled clothing? Would she ask her mistress about it? He tried to fold the garments in the dark and pile them atop one another.
Then he stood, picking up his candle and its holder and placing them in his pocket. Pausing again to listen, he carefully closed the doors, quietly securing them.
His eyes, adjusted to the dark, made out the shadowy space of the open door to the bedroom. Feeling in front of him with his outstretched arms, he made his way there step by hesitant step. His feet made no sound on the carpet, but when he reached an area of floorboard right before the door, he slowed his pace even more.
Finally, he was through the door. Now, the faint sounds of even breathing came to him. The curtains around the wide, four-poster bed had been drawn, hiding its occupant.
Rees reached another carpet and was able to walk more easily until reaching floorboards again as he neared the door to the hallway. Two steps later, a loud creak sounded under his sole. It reverberated in the still night. He held his breath, not moving a muscle.
Lady Wexham didn’t stir.
Rees shifted his weight to his other foot and slowly eased his first foot—heel, ball, toe—off the noisy floorboard, expecting another creak.
“You mistake me, sir.”
Rees froze, turning halfway and peering at the shadowy bed.
Lady Wexham mumbled something in French, and he realized she was talking in her sleep. Her bedclothes rustled, and she sighed.
Rees waited, counting the seconds until deeming her fully asleep.
He reached the door with no further creaks and paused, his hand wrapped around the brass knob. He turned it a fraction. It gave easily. Completing the revolution, he pushed the door open a crack. A second later, he widened it just enough to ease his body through.
He was in the corridor. A faint light from a street lamp at the front of the house shone through the window at that end of the hallway. He shut the door behind him, taking extra care in turning the knob back to its original position. Just the faintest “click” signaled it was fully closed.
He allowed himself to rest a moment against the hallway wall and wipe his brow with his hand, not daring yet to grope for his handkerchief. Time enough when he reached his room below stairs.
The night had proved fruitless. He hadn’t been able to complete his search of Lady Wexham’s rooms, and who knew when he’d be given another opportunity. Valentine guarded her mistress’s rooms like a jail keeper. Tonight had been unusual for them both to be out. If Lady Wexham had anything to hide, the likeliest place would be in her private quarters.
If the maid had opened the wardrobe this evening, how would he have explained his tall form huddled on the bottom shelf? His body shuddered.
He’d have to be more careful. He couldn’t afford to be suspected by anyone of the household, least of all by its mistress. Everything depended on her believing him to be nothing but a butler.
2
Céline’s headache was completely gone by morning. She blinked at the clock on her night table. Seven o’clock. She must indeed have fallen asleep right away to be up so early.
Yawning and stretching her arms above her head, she thought about the day ahead. Her best ideas came upon just awakening, so she burrowed back among the pillows and bolsters, reveling in that feeling of relaxation and well-being after a sound night’s sleep.
Her lips twisted at the thought of the previous evening. First a long dinner, then a rout. For engagements which promised brilliant company and conversation over the table and in the drawing room, each had proved sadly flat. When was it that each London season had begun to blur into the preceding one?
Perhaps that’s why she’d agreed to Roland de Fleury’s request.
She punched at one of her pillows, not wanting to think about that, preferring instead to berate the English.
They tried so hard to surpass their rivals across the Channel in thought and manners, but all they succeeded in doing was transforming the dining table into a feeding trough, and as for conversation—she wrinkled her nose. On-dits and innuendos instead of stimulating discussion. What did they know of salons where not only the best and brightest convened to debate ideas, but public policy was even shaped? Céline had grown up on her mother’s tales of the brilliant company gathered in those Parisian parlors.
Holland House was the closest the British came to the French salons of Madame Necker, Madame de Roland, and Sophie de Condorcet. But it was all the way out in Kensington. Paris boasted its best literary and political salons in its heart. Even the Terror had not succeeded in closing down this avenue for the exchange of ideas.
She sat up in bed and tugged on the bell pull. It was likely time for another dinner party. It had been over a fortnight since her last, what with poor Mr. Rumford injuring himself and sending his nephew as replacement butler. She hadn’t dared a dinner party with an untried butler.
In the intervening time, she’d scarcely heard any news worth passing along to Roland. Perhaps it was time to stir the pot and see if anything rose to the top. By gathering a select company of politicians, journalists, and artists around a dinner table, one never knew what one might hear.
Céline studied her nails, wondering whether to have Valentine buff them again. The soft peach color and shine of the oil rubbed into them was already fading, and the pretty almond shape could certainly use a bit of reshaping.
She brought a forefinger up to her lips and bit on the nail, her thoughts returning to that which she’d rather avoid.
Even after six months, she did not like—or feel at ease with—the task of collecting information. But the cause was a worthy one, as Roland had pointed out. Not only worthy but of the utmost urgency. France needed her help. Whatever happened to Napoleon, the royalists must not regain power.
Céline shuddered, picturing the fat, aging Comte de Provence living in exile at Hartwell House, just beyond London, waiting to return to France as Louis XVIII if ever Na
poleon should fail.
With the abysmal news from the Russian front, that likelihood was growing stronger each month. She sighed, not liking to think what would happen to her beloved France in the aftermath of this wretched war. She longed for the day of peace, but at what price would it come?
She forced her finger from her mouth, looking in dismay at the damage she’d done. Valentine would scold and file her nails with enough vigor to draw blood.
Napoleon would not fail. He had always managed to overcome his adversaries, and he would do so again.
Céline threw aside the bedcovers just as her maid entered the chamber with a can of hot water in one hand and a pile of towels in the other.
“Bonjour. How are you feeling this morning?”
“Perfectly fine.” She yawned. “I haven’t slept so well in an age. Virginia fixed me a tisane.”
Valentine stopped before her, eyeing her critically. “You look as pale as bleached muslin.”
“Merci, chérie, for your fortifying words.” Even though Céline strove to speak English with her two French servants whenever anyone else was around, in private they usually lapsed into French.
Valentine ignored her sarcasm. “And the headache?”
Céline waved a hand. “Completely gone. But it was enough to make me ill disposed to stand the crush at Princess Esterhazy’s last night.”
Valentine harrumphed. “And your hair! Quelle horreur! Couldn’t that good-for-nothing maid manage a simple plait?”
Céline touched her loose locks. When she tried to run her hand through them, she understood Valentine’s horror. “I sent her to bed. The poor girl had been asleep when I rang for her—and I only did so because I couldn’t manage my stays. My head was certainly not up to having someone pull a hairbrush through it,” she ended with a significant look at her maid.
Valentine appraised her a few seconds more, tsk-tsking before she was satisfied that Céline was not suffering from a worse ailment than a head of tangled hair. “Bien. I will pour this water. Sally is bringing your chocolat and croissant. I hope that will do something for your looks.”
“Am I that washed out?” Céline walked to the dressing table in the next room and peered into the mirror. “Oh, my.” Her hair did indeed look a fright.
Valentine poured steaming water into her pitcher and mixed it with cold. “Pardonnez-moi that I was not here when you came in. If I’d known you’d return so early, I, too, would have come back.”
“How were you expected to know?” Céline leaned over the porcelain basin, lathering her hands and face with the lavender-scented soap and then rinsing them off. She grabbed up a towel and patted them dry. “Pray, how was your evening?”
Valentine paused from shaking out Céline’s gown and gave a Gallic shrug. “Bah! The usual. Those English, they are so bêtes!”
Céline laughed. “Stupid only in that they don’t appreciate your French charm?”
Her maid picked up her garments from the chair where Virginia had laid them. “What can one expect from a land so drenched in fog? Where people eat roast mutton and boiled potatoes without a hint of herbs or wine?” She examined the overskirt of the lemon-yellow gown for any stains or rips.
“Well, you cannot complain in this household. Gaspard is an excellent Provençal cook.”
Valentine checked the chiffon slip. “If one can overlook his tantrums, then, yes, his cooking is worth it.” She frowned at a stain. “You spilled something on this.”
Céline glanced over the towel. “Likely champagne. That bumbling fool Orrington bumped into me before dinner. I think he was already foxed long before he arrived.”
Valentine sniffed her displeasure and set the gown aside. She picked up the silk petticoat and muslin shift from the chair and slung them over her arm.
Céline turned back to her washstand and attempted to run a hand through her hair again. What a tangled thicket. Hopefully, she wouldn’t end with another headache brought on by Valentine’s comb and brush.
Her hair fell to her waist, and sometimes she was tempted to hack it all off like Lady Caroline Lamb. Valentine would have a fit.
“C’est quoi cette saloperie?”
She turned at her maid’s exclamation of outrage. “What’s the matter now? Have you discovered my shoes to be soiled or my tippet to have lost some feathers?”
Valentine was kneeling before the lower shelf of one of the armoires. Céline frowned. “What is it?”
An unintelligible sound issued from the abigail’s throat as she gestured at the rumpled mound of garments spilling out onto the floor.
“Don’t glare at me. I haven’t been rummaging about in there! I know better than to do any such thing.”
“Then it must have been that lazy, good-for-nothing Virginie. I knew I couldn’t trust her to take my place for one evening.”
“I assure you, my dear, poor Virginia had nothing to do with it. I dismissed her as soon as she’d helped me undress and brought me a tisane. I know how particular you are about my clothes, so I told her you would see to everything on the morrow.”
The news did not allay Valentine’s ire. She began pulling out the garments one by one, muttering Gallic imprecations. “Then who made such a mess of your gowns?” Angry sounds issued from between her teeth as she began refolding the gowns. “Do you think I would leave things in such a state? I shall have to iron these anew. Ohh!”
Céline turned at the sudden exclamation. “What is it now?”
Valentine’s mouth a thin, hard line, she said nothing but marched to where Céline sat and thrust a pale blue satin gown under her nose.
Céline stared at the blotch of hardened wax the size of a button on the bodice. “Oh, dear.” She took the gown from her maid. “What a pity. Do you think it will come out?”
“It is ruined.” Valentine’s chin trembled with ire. “C’est abominable.” Once again, a string of French imprecations followed, among them how one couldn’t trust this household of English pigs.
She narrowed her eyes at Céline. “I will find who was responsible, and they will pay!”
“I wish you luck, since the maids know enough to leave my things alone. They go in too much fear of you, ma chérie, to risk your displeasure.”
Valentine said no more, her back rigid as she put things back to order. Céline returned to her bed and picked up a writing tablet and pencil to begin composing a guest list.
A few moments later, Sally, the other housemaid, entered with Céline’s breakfast tray.
“Thank you. It looks delicious.” Céline pulled the tray toward her and unfolded the napkin, realizing how hungry she was since she had scarcely enjoyed her dinner last evening.
She pulled apart a croissant and inhaled its buttery fragrance. “Nothing like the French to produce a pastry that melts in the mouth.” Spooning a small dollop of marmalade onto the piece of croissant, she anticipated the first bite. “At least the British know how to make jam.” She smiled at the young maid.
The girl smiled back at her. “That they do.”
“I’m glad you brought me my tray and not Virginia.”
Sally stopped in the act of plumping a pillow. “Why is that, my lady?”
“Valentine is quite cross with her—without cause, please assure her.”
The young maid’s eyes widened with worry. “Oh no. What did she do?”
“Nothing at all. Valentine is likely just jealous that I had to ring for Virginia last night when I returned early. Anyway, it’s nothing for her to worry herself about. Just tell her to stay out of Valentine’s way for a few hours.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll be sure to warn her.” Sally returned to her task, her tone still betraying concern.
Céline poured out a cup of steaming hot chocolate from the silver pot and unfolded the edition of the Morning Post. No earth-shattering news on the front page. “Speaker Addresses Committee in Opposition of Catholic Relief Bill”; “Ackermann’s Repository Illuminated by Gas Light.” Hmm. At least the prints w
ould be more visible. She would judge for herself at Wednesday’s literary reception. She wondered whether the poor émigrés employed in the back room painting screens and flower stands would benefit from this new lighting.
Céline continued perusing the headlines and skimming through the articles that interested her. “Sense and Sensibility: Princess Charlotte Ignores Father’s Advice and Visits Her Mother after Grandmother’s Funeral.”
Céline’s lips curved into a smile at the revised account of the crown princess’s visit to her mother despite the Regent’s estrangement from his wife. Only a few days ago, the Morning Chronicle had published an account of Princess Charlotte throwing herself upon her father’s chest in gratitude for allowing her to attend her maternal grandmother’s funeral.
Who knew what to believe in the newspapers? One paper was Tory, the other Whig, the one defending the Prince Regent, the other decrying all his excesses.
Her smile grew at the next story. “Russian Cossack Gives Riding Exhibition in Hyde Park.” She read the article of the visiting military hero performing stunts in his baggy trousers, red tunic, and fleece hat, his shashka at his side, his musket slung on his back.
Despite the amusing account of the man’s skill and bravado, a wave of sadness passed over Céline at the thought of how many brave young Frenchmen had so recently perished in the forests and fields between Moscow and Minsk. How many at the hands of this one Cossack?
All the more reason she must help her countrymen.
Céline laid aside the newspaper and returned to thoughts of a dinner party. Parliament was in session. By now, everyone who was anyone in politics and foreign affairs was in town.
She sipped her chocolate, ticking names off in her head. Yes, Castlereagh and Lady C., Lord Wellesley—perhaps she’d learn something of his brother on the Peninsula. Would he bring Lady Hyacinthe? She was scorned by all, but at least Céline could speak French with her. Poor woman, if she had lived in France, she would have been accepted everywhere. Even though Wellesley had finally married her, the ton still snubbed her because she was a former actress at the Palais Royale. Of course, it didn’t help that she didn’t make the effort to learn English.