“Very common. He wouldn’t have gotten the title at all, except he’s old and without male heirs, so the title will die with him.” Jane smiled at Adorna and whispered, “It’s the way the peerage keep their class exclusive and free of plebs, you know.”
“Like me.” Adorna tossed her head. “He really ought to marry a young woman and father an heir to spite them all.”
Jane laughed. “A delicious thought.”
“I wish my mother had found him when she had to marry.”
Jane thought she detected wistfulness in Adorna’s voice, and said bracingly, “She found your father instead, and made him very happy.”
“Of course she made him happy.” Taking a breath, Adorna said, “She had to marry quickly, and for money.”
Astonished, Jane asked, “What do you know about your mother’s marriage?”
“I guessed it by myself.” Adorna pressed her finger into the indent created by the dimple on her dainty chin. “You sisters were orphaned by your wastrel father when you were ten and she was seventeen. Mama charmed the merchants into giving her the gowns she needed to make a show, and before they caught up with her and demanded payment, she nabbed Papa.”
Jane had matured slowly, and at the death of their father she had withdrawn into herself. She hadn’t wondered how Melba had provided for them before her whirlwind marriage to Eleazer. Now her niece had explained it, and Jane conjectured every word was true. “You remember your mother very well.”
“Of course.” Adorna’s smile trembled. “She was pretty even when she was sick.”
“Like an angel.” Like you.
Adorna gave Jane her most angelic smile, but it faded as she looked over Jane’s shoulder. “Oh, no, what’s Monsieur Chasseur doing here?”
Jane was surprised to see the gangly young tutor walking alone along the ridge. He was a gentleman, of course, but in much the same position as a woman of good family who sold herself into servitude as a governess—no longer acceptable among the finer ranks. “Lord Blackburn extended an open invitation, so I suppose Monsieur Chasseur has every right to be here.”
“He’ll spot us soon, and he wants to start French lessons every day.” Adorna rose to her feet. “Aunt Jane, you won’t let him?”
Surprised again, Jane said, “You didn’t tell me he wanted that.”
“I hoped he would forget. But here he is, and he’ll make me study. Oh, Aunt Jane…” Adorna shifted from foot to foot, impatient to be off.
Jane took pity on her. Today was not a day for lessons, or even for sitting with your maiden aunt. “Go on. Find your companions, but remember, stay in a group and check back with me periodically.”
“Yes, Aunt Jane.” Adorna hurried away.
“No going off with young men to view sundials,” Jane called.
“No, Aunt Jane.”
The wind blew her answer back, and Jane was alone. It felt rather odd, to be within sight of so many people and yet apart, with no friends to greet her. No one would come near Jane; disaster followed too closely on her heels.
The arrival of Monsieur Chasseur did nothing to ease her awkwardness.
“Mademoiselle Higgenbothem.” He bowed, his face solemn. “Was that Mademoiselle Morant I saw hurrying away?”
Jane almost groaned in distress. She would never grow used to the more distasteful duties of a chaperone—such as breaking the news that Adorna wished to take French lessons only twice a week. A brave woman—Lady Goodridge, for instance—would tell Monsieur Chasseur in a forthright manner. Jane found herself smiling kindly. “She will be desolated she missed you.”
His solemn face lightened. “She will?”
“Indeed, for she told me of your proposal to teach her every day, and much to her disappointment, her father wrote and refused to allow it.”
His heavy brows lowered again. “He is a rustre, a boor, a barbarian.”
“Nevertheless, Adorna has promised to study between her lessons.”
“Mademoiselle Morant said this?” he asked, faintly incredulous.
“Amazing, isn’t it?” Jane hoped lightning did not strike her where she sat.
“I think I must…oui, I must…offer to teach Mademoiselle Morant without pay.”
Jane’s relief turned to consternation. “No. That’s impossible!”
“But when a lady wishes so much to speak le français, it is my duty—no, my pleasure—to teach her.” Young Chasseur appeared enraptured by the idea.
Jane realized she hadn’t been tactful; she had been encouraging. “Really. We can’t permit you—”
“I will go now and speak to her. Discreetly, mademoiselle, I promise. I know what the English gentlepeople think of émigrants like me.”
“Nothing so bad, surely.”
“Mais oui, they think me ungrateful and beneath them. I know this.” His eyes flashed with fire. “But I will tell Mademoiselle Morant of my plan, and I will teach her a phrase for the day…Did she tell you of the phrase I would teach?”
“Yes, but—”
“Merci, mademoiselle.” He bowed from the waist. “I will not disappoint you.”
He strode off, leaving her protest to die on her lips. She had managed to mangle a simple situation; no wonder everyone left her alone.
Yet she had her own entertainment, if she dared. Violet had made a point of tucking Jane’s paper-filled portfolio, with a collection of sharpened pencils, into her satchel. Sketching was a ladylike endeavor, like playing the pianoforte or arranging flowers. Other ladies had taken out their sketch pads. Why shouldn’t Jane?
For no one wanted to sketch the scene more.
One last time, Jane checked to make sure she was solitary, then keeping her spine rigidly erect and her eyes on the Thames, she stripped off her gloves. No matter how improper a display of bare hands might be, she could never draw in gloves, and so she laid the thin kid daintily in her lap.
Without removing her eyes from the rolling river, she leaned forward until her fingers found the bristly woolen bag, and slid her fingers inside. The portfolio’s leather cover pricked at her; she grasped it and, still alert, she pulled it out.
No one had noticed. Over the years she had smothered these inclinations, yet now the need to perfect her art had returned with the force of deep waters too long dammed.
Seeing Blackburn had made it worse.
By taking pencil in hand, she embraced possible catastrophe, yet she couldn’t resist this compulsion.
Stretching forward again, Jane fumbled until she found the wooden box and furtively opened it. Testing the points with her finger, she chose the sharpest.
What should she sketch?
Involuntarily her mind went to Blackburn, and she glanced around.
Her thoughts must have summoned him. Informally dressed in riding clothes and fingering his quizzing glass, he strolled among the blankets and chatted with his visitors with a geniality Jane considered nothing less than outlandish.
He seemed not to see her, and she studied him, her artistic instincts yearning. Blackburn looked like a man who could be sketched as the symbol of British courage, or painted as a god of nature’s forces, or sculpted in clay and cast in bronze and kept to weep over when this fantasy had ended.
But no. Not him. Not again.
She wrenched her attention away.
She could add to her collection of portraits—quick sketches of Monsieur Chasseur, of the girl who swept the street, of Lady Goodridge and Eleazer and Athowe.
Instead, she should re-create the day in a way that would forever capture this sensation of sinking doubt, sharp interest, and unwilling hope.
What would she reveal? The gathering itself? No, the people were too many and too mobile. The background of rolling hills and tumbling river? No. It was Lady Goodridge’s home. Blackburn’s sister’s home. Someone might think her covetous. No, she had to draw something different, something…
A flotilla of ships rounded the point of the Thames and headed for the open sea. In these dark days of Napoleon’s con
tinental blockade, when Britain hovered on the edge of disaster, they were the only thing that kept these innocent people safe from invasion. Yes, she would sketch the ships as a symbol of hope.
She went to work. On a loose sheet of paper, an outline of the scene took shape before her. Gray clouds loomed on the horizon, but the vessels’ sails flapped in the brisk wind, and the dark frigates themselves almost seemed to fly like seabirds seeking their abode.
Involved in swiftly capturing the outline of the ships, she didn’t hear the crunch of footsteps. When a shadow fell across her pad, she looked up in annoyance.
“Pardon, mademoiselle!” Still blocking her sun, Lord de Sainte-Amand smiled down at her. “You have the look of a very strict teacher just now.”
“My lord de Sainte-Amand, how good to see you.”
“And so soon.”
He mocked her, insinuating intimacy, but Jane was not amused. She had been ruined once before in such a situation; she wouldn’t let it happen because of one inconsiderate man’s words. “I won’t come to your house again if you tease me.”
He sobered quickly. “That would be a tragedy, and I would be in trouble. May I see?”
Leaning over, he looked down at the maroon portfolio, then up at the ships, then down at the portfolio again. Jane could not define the expression on his face—excitement, or disbelief.
“Magnifique! You have captured les navires perfectly.”
“Thank you, but it’s not done. I’ll have to fill it in later.”
“You protest, but the ships, they are very beautiful. I would love to have this tirage.” He stretched his hand out, and his fingers were quivering. “You will permit?”
Jane felt a pang. The sketch was good, a representation of the day, just as she wished.
De Sainte-Amand withdrew his hand. “But I am too bold. I can see you want to keep the drawing. As a memento, no?”
“Yes.” She felt rather silly, and far too emotional if this man, a virtual stranger, could read her thoughts so easily.
“Ah, you are la femme, and les femmes are sentimental. This is sweet. But please, don’t tell anyone that I, too, am sentimental.” He winked at her. “These stiff Englishmen would laugh at me.”
Inspired, she said, “I could create a sketch for you, too.”
“You are too good.” He glanced out to the river. Under full sail, the ships were clipping along at a good rate. “That is a handsome one.”
She looked where his finger pointed on the page, then to the river where the ship, the Virginia Belle, plain and brown as far as she could see, raced past the current. “Yes,” she said politely. “It’s a lively specimen of good English shipbuilding.”
“Exactly. You have such an eye!” Lord de Sainte-Amand flattered her. “If you would draw this ship for me, then I would have a memento, too.”
With a clean sheet before her, she used quick strokes to outline the Virginia Belle while de Sainte-Amand squatted beside her, praised her artistry, and pointed out details she might have missed.
When the flotilla had disappeared over the horizon, she said, “There. That’s the best I can do. I’ll take it home and finish it—”
“No, no! I wish to take it just as it is. The quickness of the work somehow shows the swiftness of le navire.”
“Nonsense. It is not my best work.”
“But it’s finished. It’s good enough. This tirage, my people will treasure toujours.” He put his hand on her portfolio and tugged.
She tugged back, confused and a little angry. De Sainte-Amand had done her a favor, true, but he was not her art teacher. He had no right to tell her when she was finished. “No.”
“Mademoiselle, s’il vous plaît. You will do as I say.” He grabbed her fingers and began to twist, like a bully intent on enforcing his will.
“Lord de Sainte-Amand.” Her voice rose in exasperation and disbelief. “What are you doing?”
“Sh.” He glanced around to see if her cry had brought attention on them. “Mon dieu!” He let her and the portfolio go as if they had burned him. “Who am I to tell an artiste what to do? You take le tirage home and finish it.” Standing, he backed away from her. “We will meet later and you can give it to me then. In the meantime—perhaps you should hide this.”
Thoroughly confused, she said, “I beg your pardon?”
“Lord Blackburn is headed this way.”
Chapter 16
As de Sainte-Amand hurried away, Blackburn saw Jane place her drawing in her portfolio and shut it hurriedly. Then, looking for all the world like a puppy caught shredding her master’s slippers, she tilted her head up and stared straight at him.
The pained anticipation in her wide eyes squeezed his heart, and his first instinct was to allay her worries. His second was to carry her away and lock her up at Tourbillon until he’d taught her some sense.
Thus his manner was rather crisp when he said, “Miss Higgenbothem.”
She smiled with patently false enthusiasm, and answered just as crisply. “Yes?”
Not at all the mood he sought. Lowering his tone to a more intimate level, he murmured, “Jane.”
Her smile faded.
“I’m pleased you accepted my invitation to visit my sister’s home.”
“I found myself unable to decline.” She blinked at him with false innocence.
The sarcasm was new, but he deserved it, and…she amused him.
To his surprise, much about the day had amused him. Since his return from the Peninsula, he had dreaded going out in public. But today he had spoken with many people he had never spoken with before. He had eavesdropped on conversations and led women to confide secrets about their husbands—dastardly deeds by a gentleman’s code, but necessary to Blackburn’s duty. And even spying, he discovered, gained relish with the prospect of seeing Jane, of being impaled by her sharp tongue, and of courting her—no, use the correct term—of chasing her while she fled in disarray.
If only his suspicions of her did not disturb him so. “May I sit?”
“As you wish.” She managed to look disinterested.
She was the only one in the vicinity to succeed. All around them heads craned to watch the entertainment of the season. They were silly people, oblivious to the fighting on the Peninsula, pretending not to see the scars Blackburn bore for their sake.
When he had first come back, battle-scarred and cynical, he had wanted to shake each and every one of the ton until they comprehended how precariously close Napoleon was to cutting off England’s livelihood. Napoleon would subject them to every indignity in the name of France. He would strip them of their wealth and use it to feed his armies. And the ton paid no heed, but complained about the quality of their tea.
Today…well, today he looked at these people, frivolous and languid, and resolved no tyrant would ever strip their innocence away.
He was like Jane now, he realized—no longer a dilettante, but a laborer.
And he was thankful for the ton’s preoccupation with gossip, for that made them perfect pawns. He had hoped his courtship would distract attention from his objective of searching for a traitor; as he glanced around at the interested faces, he recognized he had prevailed beyond all reason.
And as he looked at Jane, he decided this was not such a difficult duty.
The edges of the blanket fluttered in the breeze. A picnic basket held one forward corner down. Her outstretched feet held the other. The wind flirted with her hem, tugging it from beneath her ankles and displaying her legs and their slender length.
Lucky wind.
“What did you say?” Jane stared at him as if he were mad.
“I said, what were you drawing?” Settling himself on the blanket’s opposite corner, he sat discreetly apart, yet half turned to face her.
“I believe you have forcefully expressed your disinterest in my art, my lord.”
She looked at him as if he were a cretin, unable to appreciate the finer things in life, and he remembered Jane not only amused him, but
annoyed him. Lifting his silver quizzing glass, he surveyed her. “Too forcefully, if we cannot have a simple conversation about it.”
“Are we again making conversation and squelching any gossip?”
She was insolent beyond bearing, but he knew how to thwart her. “No, Jane.” He allowed his gaze to travel down her body, lingering at the places that most interested him. When he looked at her face again, her chin jutted out and she glared belligerently. He almost meant it when he said, “I am making conversation to woo you.”
She clearly meant it when she answered, “I wish you wouldn’t.”
“It seems the least I could do.”
Leaning forward, she said fiercely, “And when you have had enough, and drop me once more into the grease, I will fry in hell while you go your merry way.”
Dropping the quizzing glass, he allowed it to dangle from its chain as he propped his arm on his upraised knee. “My dear Jane, if I drop you in the grease and leave you to fry in hell, it will be for a damned good reason.” Like treason.
“The drawing, my lord, was not of you.”
He spoke of treachery. She spoke of art. And if her earnest expression was anything to go by, she thought of nothing else. But she was an accomplished actress, and he was not misled by her. After all, he had Wiggens and the report on her activities. “I’m crushed by your lack of interest. Has my form lost its allure, then?”
“Yes.” Her bald answer didn’t match the look she gave him, all over and quickly, as if she couldn’t resist.
More acting? He preferred to think not. “You’ll go to hell for lying faster than you’ll go to hell for having discourse with me.”
She still clutched the portfolio, and one of the papers stuck out and flapped in the steady wind. “What do you want to talk about?”
He’d won the first skirmish, and he could afford to be generous. “I wanted to apologize for dismissing your worries at Susan’s ball. I didn’t realize Miss Morant had such a penchant for trouble.”
Sitting straight, shoulders back, Jane searched until she found Adorna with her gaze. She relaxed infinitesimally. “She has little sense, and men, when they are around her, have even less.”
That Scandalous Evening Page 13