A Necessary Deception (26 page)

Lydia remained motionless except for her heart, which beat double time.

“I thought it odd,” Christien continued, “so I followed him.”

“What—what did you see?” Lydia could barely squeeze out the words.

“The same thing I’ve seen twice since—him getting into a carriage several blocks from this house or Parliament.”

“That’s not terribly odd.”

“With Gerald Frobisher.”

She was running away again, yet Lydia couldn’t face another minute in London amidst the suspicions and apprehensions, the disappointments and the failures. She needed clean and sweet air, long walks and open moors.

“It isn’t possible,” she’d told Christien in the drawing room. “There is some explanation.”

She repeated the words to herself again and again throughout the evening, then the night, when she couldn’t sleep. She ended up packing instead. Father had an explanation. She must ask him, confront him, do something before they left town.

Running. Running. Running. Running from fear of the truth. Running from the disaster the Season had turned out to be. Running from her desire to cling to Christien and beg him to run with her.

By the time the Watch called the hour of six o’clock a.m., Lydia’s clothes and paintings resided in trunks and bags. All that remained were two felines that had vanished beneath the bed. They, at least, would find the country more enjoyable.

She herself found the country more enjoyable, so why the reluctance now? The country didn’t show her errors in brilliant light as did the city, where Cassandra’s engagement ended, Honore came too close to disgracing herself, and Lydia fell in love.

Her heart compelled her to stay. Her head said that was the best reason of all to leave. Run. Yes, she admitted, run away to the shelter of aloneness.

Aloneness that suddenly felt like loneliness.

Hearing Father leaving his bedchamber one floor below, Lydia slipped out of hers and followed. She caught up with him in the dining room. Lemster was pouring coffee into a fragile china cup, and Father seated himself at the long table, a newspaper in hand.

He glanced up at Lydia’s entrance. “You’re awake early.”

“I didn’t sleep.” Lydia drew out a chair before a footman could reach her and dropped onto it. “I was packing, but I want to talk to you before you go. Will you send the servants away?” She couldn’t give the order with Father present.

“If this is about Honore—”

“Not yet.” Lydia glanced toward Lemster. He had just poured coffee over the sides of the cup and onto the saucer.

“If you must.” Father gave the command, then scowled at the ruined cup of coffee. “You can take care of that for me.”

Lydia obeyed, pouring coffee, selecting bread rolls and strawberries for both of them.

Once the food was served and she sat adjacent to her father, she gripped the edge of the table, leaned toward him, and asked in an undertone, “Why did you get into a carriage with Gerald Frobisher three blocks from this house?”

Father dropped his coffee cup. It hit the table and shattered. Coffee splattered across his plate, his paper, his pristine shirtfront and cravat. Swearing, he snatched up a serviette and began to dab. “Look what you’ve done, girl. I never make messes like this. It’s you who make a mess of everything, including not keeping control over that youngest sister of yours.”

“You mean your youngest daughter?” Lydia rose, found more serviettes in the sideboard, and brought them to the table. “Or is she only that when she’s being a biddable darling?”

“Something you wouldn’t understand. If you’d listened to me, you wouldn’t have married Charles Gale. But you had to have him. And Cassandra wanted that younger son. Now she doesn’t have that much, even if he is the earl.” Father scooped the broken fragments of china onto the sodden newspaper. “And you came here to see to your sisters, and we’ve had naught but trouble, the least of which being Gerald Frobisher.”

Lydia slapped the pile of serviettes onto the spilled coffee. “A gamester and, at least in attempt, debaucher of young ladies. So what were you doing with him?”

“That, young lady, is none of your concern.”

“It is if you’re involved in treason.”

“Treason.” The newspaper balled between Father’s hands. His face reddened, and he opened and closed his mouth like a fish out of water. For a moment, he appeared to be suffering an apoplexy. Then he sank onto his chair, grabbed up Lydia’s coffee cup, and drained its contents. “How dare you?” His voice, though soft, held the razor edge of broken ice. “How dare you even suggest, even think—get out of my sight. Get out of my house. And take your troublemaking sisters with you.”

As though the coldness of his tone had frozen her, Lydia remained standing beside the table, scarcely able to breathe, let alone move.

“Get . . . out.” Still with frigid control, Father drew back his hand.

Lydia fled before he struck her. The front door, open to receive the mail, beckoned her. She should run to Christien, tell him of Father’s reaction to her enquiries.

No, no, she should not. She was free of masculine control, of their power to order her out of the house, to strike her, to leave her penniless in a tiny cottage on the moors. Now she held a nest egg with her paintings and a shop that would sell all she completed. She could support herself, help her sisters if need be. She would not run into the arms of another man and lose that power over her own life.

Which includes You too, God.

She raced up the steps and into her sisters’ room. They both slept, looking as innocent as they had when Lydia left home seven years ago, Cassandra with her hair a tangle upon the pillow, Honore’s hair neatly plaited.

Lydia backed from the chamber. She would find a footman to haul down their trunks and begin to pack for them. If Lisette were still there, Lydia would have used her to send a message to Christien. But no, he could manage things on his own. That his sister had been the Bainbridge cook for so long stood against him. He’d left her there to spy on the Bainbridge family. He’d always suspected them. Lang must have always suspected them, especially once he knew about the blackmail and her acquiescence to it without a fight.

How could she have fought it? It threatened her family. Never could she threaten the welfare of her family, no matter the cost to herself.

Yet in compliance, hadn’t she harmed her family? She’d introduced Gerald Frobisher to her sister. She’d been so intent upon Mr. Barnaby at the theater that she hadn’t paid attention to the tension growing between Cassandra and Whittaker that led to their fight and the breaking of the engagement. And she’d been paying attention to Christien while Cassandra and Whittaker had been left alone in the library.

Halfway down the back stairs, Lydia paused and leaned against the wall, her eyes closed, her breath catching in her throat.

Perhaps she did need a keeper. Or at least an adviser, a wise counselor. Her own decisions in life, the choices she’d made, led to little success. On the contrary, they led to near disaster, from her marriage to confronting her father about meeting with Frobisher.

To running away from God?

You’ve never helped me, Lord. You let me go my own way and make mistakes, and I’ll just fix them myself too.

Decision made, she continued to the servants’ hall, where she found one footman to bring the rest of the trunks out of the box room, another one to order up the traveling coach, and a maid to assist in the packing. Lydia hurried back up to her sisters’ bedchamber and woke them.

“We’re leaving,” she announced.

“Why?” Honore sounded like a petulant child as she sat up and rubbed her eyes. “I’m as much of a success as any lady can be without a betrothal. Even my ball was a success despite the assassination and everyone mourning.”

“The Whigs weren’t mourning.” Yawning, Cassandra slipped out of bed. “But I can’t leave today. I have books to return to Hookham’s and an order to collect—”

“A footman can return the books and the order can be posted.”

“But I’ll never catch a husband if we leave London now.” Honore remained in bed.

“From what I’ve seen of London gentlemen,” Lydia said, “you will do better elsewhere.”

“What? Some manure-caked farmer like a man Father wants for me?” Honore’s face twisted with disgust. “You think I’ll find someone civilized in Devonshire?”

“It’s far more civilized than a London gaming hell.” Lydia went to the door. “You have half an hour to get dressed before I have the servants bring in the trunks for packing.”

“I won’t go.” Honore gripped her bedclothes as though they would hold her in town.

Lydia sighed. “You will if you don’t want Father’s wrath as I received it this morning.” She touched the cheek he had intended to slap, and tears welled in her eyes. “Please, I want to be away from here this morning.”

“Lydia, what happened?” Honore and Cassandra stared at her.

She shook her head. “Nothing. We had a row. It’s always the same. He wants us wed and off his hands.”

Because unmarried daughters embarrassed him, or because wed, he needn’t worry about them if something happened to him?

The former, of course. Nothing would happen to her father. He wasn’t any more guilty of treason than Mama was.

Mama was still sleeping, and Barbara refused to wake her. “She isn’t well enough to travel today. You’ll have to wait.”

“Father says we cannot. Mama will have to follow later.”

“Disgraceful, running away like this, like you’ve something to hide.” Barbara sniffed.

Lydia wished she didn’t agree.

“We’ll be gone before noon.”

They were, in fact, gone before eleven o’clock. Despite being dismissed from the dining room, Lemster must have listened at the keyhole and overheard Lydia’s conversation with her father, for he sent up every footman and maid to assist in the removal. If Cassandra and Honore hadn’t hastened to dress, they might have found themselves bustled out the door in their night rails. They did hurry, however, and once Lydia and Cassandra managed to coax Hodge and Noirette out from under the bed, with the assistance of two footmen moving the heavy piece of furniture to make the refuge less appealing, the three Bainbridge sisters and two cats crowded into the traveling coach and headed south, another carriage following behind with their luggage.

“Why,” Honore asked for perhaps the hundredth time, “do we have to go?”

“Because Father told us to,” Lydia responded for as many times.

“But why?” Honore persisted. “We’ve done nothing wrong.”

But perhaps Father had.

The idea of that set Lydia’s stomach to roiling. Perhaps Mama knew, and that was why she kept to her bed or sitting room when she should have been chaperoning Honore.

No, not even her father would she believe of committing treason. Even if he found liking his daughters difficult, he wouldn’t harm his family, see them disgraced and dishonored, shunned from Society, perhaps forced penniless into exile. As his title and estates were attainder by the Crown, he would be declared to have a corruption of the blood, and all his family, his heirs included, would be made a pariah in England.

So why, Lydia asked herself, feeling like Honore, did he want them gone from town so suddenly, when getting them husbands had been his reason for allowing them all to go to London in the first place?

No answers came from her own head, from her sisters, from the city or farms or daunting edifice of Butser Hill, with its peak ominously titled the Devil’s Cleft. None of them wishing for the steep descent to the downs of Hampshire inside the coach, they chose to stretch their legs and walk along the chalky outcroppings. Rolling hills dotted with sheep and copses of trees spread out below, all the way to the sparkling expanse of the English Channel.

Once again inside the trundling vehicle, they dozed. Cassandra even read or stared out the window. Only ten hours to Portsmouth from London with fine teams along the posting road. They reached the coastal city by dusk, dusty, quiet, too weary to eat.

“I have to walk the cats,” Lydia said once they were settled into a room at the George. Neither sister offered to accompany her.

She clipped leashes onto the collars of each feline and carried them downstairs. At the door, she hesitated, remembering the last time she’d walked cats in that garden. One cat in the rain after dark. But Barnaby was dead. She need not fear anyone pouncing on her.

Shivering despite the mild night, she slipped out the side door of the inn and hesitated beneath the lantern hung over the entrance. Its yellow glow created a pool of light that reached the head of the path, an illusion of warmth. Lydia waited there, inhaling the aroma of lilacs and thyme, rosemary and recently mown grass. She listened to the whisper of the breeze passing through the shrubbery, the singing of passing sailors—

And the crunch of gravel just beyond the pool of lantern flame.

“Good evening, Lady Gale. I see we meet again.”

“No post today?” Christien glanced at his valet’s empty hands and away before the man read his expression.

“No, monsieur. I’m sorry.” The man wasn’t fooled, not when Christien sent him to the receiving office daily. “Perhaps tomorrow.”

“Perhaps.”

Christien left his rooms for a long walk through Green Park. He could be attending half a dozen entertainments, even that late in the Season, but the pain of hearing nothing from Lydia ran too deeply for him to share it with anyone. Lydia’s silence spoke volumes. She wanted nothing to do with a man who would be so attached to the work he had taken to gain revenge on France that he would accuse her own father of treason. He should have known better than to say anything. He and Lydia thought, after all, that Gerald Frobisher was nothing more than a gamester. He did frequent the worst of the gaming establishments. But three times now, Christien saw Frobisher rendezvousing with Bainbridge, a man everyone knew never picked up a die or a playing card. Something odd was afoot there.

So Christien concentrated his efforts on keeping a record of both gentlemen’s movements. Unfortunately, after the third time he saw Bainbridge and Frobisher together, the time that prompted him to say something to Lydia—the action that drove her away—both men ignored one another, even when they came face-to-face at a soirée Christien attended. Bainbridge left town the next day.

Christien longed to follow him. If Lydia wouldn’t write, he would go to her. But Lang said no.

“Your work is here,
mon ami
. I cannot spare you.”

“We’ve made no progress,” Christien objected. “I’m wondering if we’ve been mistaken about someone attempting to provoke trouble, even revolt. My first suspect turns up dead, and the second one spends his time playing cards.”

“And what is discussed over a game and a glass, eh?” Lang gave Christien a half smile, a knowing smile. “Have you tried?”

“I don’t gamble.”

Lang laughed, a low, throaty chuckle. “Of course you do. You’ve been gambling for ten years. What is worse? Your life or a game of chance?”

Christien wished Lang weren’t correct. “I’ll give it some thought.”

He thought about it while having his valet teach him how to play whist. In the meantime, London simmered in the rising heat of summer, like a steam engine getting ready to blow off the top of its stack. During his long walks through Green Park or Hyde Park, Christien caught the huddled groups of people on street corners, murmuring about the mismanagement of the war, the laziness of the prince regent, the Luddites creating havoc in the north.

“They’ve sent in soldiers to kill good Englishmen,” more than one man protested. “Killed us like dogs for fearin’ for our jobs ’cause of them power looms. We’re goin’ t’ have ourselves a civil war if this continues.”

Which was exactly what Christien did not want to hear. Added to concern over soldiers going up to the northern counties to fight the men breaking up looms came talk of Wellington doing badly in Spain, increasing the threat of France and starting rumors of invasion once again. As though that weren’t enough to bring the country to its knees, more rumors of Americans declaring war began to circulate around the middle of June. Official word hadn’t reached town yet, but people had heard that the American president, Mr. Madison, had requested their government—Congress, they called it—to make the declaration.

Three wars and a staggering economy left the nation ripe for an explosion. All some Englishmen needed was another man like the one in the north calling himself Captain Ludd to send Londoners racing for the palace to seize the king or storming the walls of Parliament.

But that man couldn’t be Lord Bainbridge. He had departed for his estate, along with his wife. If Frobisher was the guilty party, he was trying to accomplish his task over a stack of playing cards.

And why not? Christien watched the young man dealing and betting, along with three other men scarcely out of university, and felt a tugging in his gut at their grim faces. If they enjoyed play, their frowns and hooded eyes spoke otherwise. They could be playing too deeply and have concerns only for their ability to meet their debts, but Frobisher was worth watching. Christien couldn’t forget that the young man had come to town with Barnaby, who’d held what had to be forged letters of introduction from Elias Lang. And Barnaby was now dead.

But two months of following Frobisher had gotten Christien nothing but Lydia’s contempt for accusing her father of involvement in treasonous activities, and the knowledge that Miss Honore was easily led astray by a handsome face and charming manners. And Frobisher supported himself with a shocking number of wins at deep play.

Wondering if tonight would find him good enough to deal himself into a game, Christien returned to the parlor, where a young lady with protruding front teeth and mousy hair played the pianoforte with the skill and heart of a true virtuoso. He slipped to the back of the room and leaned against the wall to absorb the liquid notes flying, floating, or thundering from the instrument.

He’d chosen his position badly. Several young ladies with bobbing curls and waving fans wagged their tongues on both ends. He started to move away from the hissing whispers, then caught what they were saying.

“Now we know why her sister whisked her out of town so fast.” The speaker shook her head. A black curl bobbed against her cheek so much like Lydia’s that Christien’s heart twisted like hemp on a rope walk.

“She might be the prettiest girl who came out this Season,” another dark-haired beauty declared, “but she was no better than she should be with her wild ways. Imagine going to a gaming . . . you know what they call those places.”

Christien stood motionless. Could they possibly be discussing—?

“Honore Bainbridge seemed so sweet and kind.” A third young lady, with just enough freckles to lend her face charm, stuck her tip-tilted nose in the air. “But we now know she was consorting with those kind of females.”

“Perhaps that’s why Lord Whittaker wouldn’t marry Cassandra Bainbridge. I heard she was at a coffeehouse late at night with two men, of all things.”

“And Lady Gale spent all her time with a Frenchman.”

The girls squealed as though they’d just spoken the name of the evil one aloud.

Christien slipped away amidst a storm of applause for the talented musician. He scarcely heard the praise heaped upon the young lady. The other females’ gossip rang in his ears—talk against the Bainbridge ladies. He knew of only one person outside of his coachman and the Bainbridge family who knew Honore had been to the gaming hell, and that same person, along with Cassandra’s ballooning friends, was aware she had gone to the coffeehouse that same night.

Gerald Frobisher.

Across the corridor, that young man still played whist with his friends. Christien glided up behind one of the friends. “I’d like to take the next hand with Frobisher alone.”

The men stared.

“I’ve never seen you play,” Frobisher said. “Heinous, iniquitous, I believe you called that place you found me.”

Christien shrugged. “That was for the benefit of the ladies. Can’t have them thinking I can play,
n’est-ce pas
?”

And lose another piece of his soul.

He dropped onto the chair one of the friends vacated. “In for a penny, in for a pound.”

“Guineas.” Frobisher’s upper lip curled. “I only play for guineas.”

Christien stared at the cards and the gold coins glittering against the green baize of the tabletop, and a prayer formed in his head. He shoved it away. He couldn’t pray to win a game like this.

But he did win. Every card he chose, every bit of pasteboard he slapped down proved correct. He took hand after hand until Frobisher turned pale and thin-lipped, until the clock struck midnight, until Christien wanted to throw the gold coins worth a pound plus a shilling into Frobisher’s face and run out of London, to Lydia, if she would have him. Home if she would not.

He’d never run away from anything in his life, so he stayed until Frobisher called for pen, paper, and ink and wrote out a vowel for money he couldn’t afford to pay and Christien didn’t need.

Lord, I don’t want to keep winning.
He did pray.

And he won again.

Frobisher’s friends drifted away. The music ceased across the corridor. The card room emptied.

Christien finally folded his cards and lay them on the table. “Enough. You’ve lost enough.”

“Just give me one more chance to win.” Frobisher’s eyes pleaded.

“I will, but not now. Not here.” Christien rose, collected his winnings and the slips of paper with the simple vowels
IOU
and Frobisher’s signature, and led the way out of the house.

Frobisher followed, pleading like a puppy begging for a denied meal. Christien felt like he’d kicked the puppy as well as starved it.

“Join me in my carriage,” he told the younger man. “I’ll take you home.”

“No, I need to recover my losses.” Frobisher hung on the carriage door. “There’s a place—”

“Get in.” Christien gave him a gentle shove.

Frobisher climbed in. Christien followed. A footman slammed the door behind them, and the carriage trundled off across the cobbles.

Christien took the bag of coins and slips of paper from his pockets and held them out to Frobisher. “You may have these back if you give me information.”

“I haven’t any information to give.” He was sulky again.

“Why did you start rumors about Miss Honore Bainbridge?”

“You’ll tear up my vowels for that?” Frobisher laughed. “You’re a fool, Frog. It’s simple. Her father wouldn’t pay for my silence.”

“You’re telling me that you tried to blackmail Lord Bainbridge in exchange for keeping your mouth shut about Miss Honore?” Christien felt as though someone had slammed him between the shoulder blades with a sledgehammer. “That’s why you met with him?”

“Would I need another reason? If I couldn’t get money by marrying her, then I tried to get it another way. Now she’s ruined and will be pleased to marry me.”

His valet would think him mad, but Christien would want a bath when he reached home after spending so much time with this man.

“Now may I have my money back?” Frobisher held out his hands.

“I’m not certain I believe you.”

“You’ve got to.” Panic tinged Frobisher’s voice now. “I was counting on my wins tonight to—”

“To what?” Christien let the coins chink together.

Frobisher made a grab for them. “Please. I’m ruined if I don’t pay.”

“Ruined by whom?” Christien tucked the bag behind him.

Surely more lay in this than simple blackmail for an advantageous marriage.

“It doesn’t matter to you. Just me. My life. Please.” Frobisher breathed hard through his nose, sniffed. “Please. I’ll tell you anything necessary if you just give me my money back.”

“Who killed Barnaby?” Christien demanded.

“Barnaby? How should I know?” A note of hysteria entered the younger man’s tone. “Not me. He was an acquaintance, nothing more. I swear it. I beg of you.”

And he did beg. He slipped to his knees on the floor of the carriage and raised beseeching hands.

Christien felt sick. He didn’t like Gerald Frobisher, thought him despicable for his gaming and the way he’d led Honore into imprudent behavior. But to see any man humbled like this—on his knees in a cramped well of space, raising his hands in supplication as though Christien were some sort of deity—released a veil, a black curtain from inside his head, and shone light as bright as day upon himself, his actions, his behavior.

He knocked on the roof of the coach. “Halt,
s’il vous plait
.”

The carriage slowed, stopped.

“Please,” Frobisher cried, “don’t put me out here penniless.”

“I won’t.” Christien leaned forward and unlatched the door. “I won’t even tell you to stop gaming. It won’t do any good.”

As though it were a live grenade that would blow up himself and the carriage, he tossed the bag of coins into the gutter, tore the vowels in half and threw them out to join the other refuse.

Frobisher scrambled after it, muttering thanks and gasping for breath.

“Drive on,” Christien called to the coachman.

Not waiting for anyone to close the door, the carriage rumbled on, leaving Frobisher scrabbling for his money and vowels in the gutter.

“Sixty-five Curzon Street,” Christien called to the driver.

They turned to skirt Hyde Park. In moments, the carriage drew up before the narrow house in the street, only fashionable because it lay in Mayfair, a respectable if not prestigious address. A lantern hung over the green-painted door and gleamed off the horseshoe-shaped knocker.

Christien leaped out of the carriage and used the knocker to pound on the door. When nothing happened for several minutes, he repeated the action, and then again until a voice penetrated the wood of the portal, telling him to try not to wake the dead.

“But that’s exactly what I have done.”

At least, he’d awakened part of him that had been dead, dead to everything except for revenge against France and Napoleon specifically. He’d risen from the death of his soul being smothered into compromise and giving up everything in which he once believed—taking steps according to God’s Word, the safety of his family, his own integrity. He’d awakened to the realization that he had put his revenge work above all, allowing Lisette to stay in town as a cook so she could inform for him, accusing his love’s father of treason so that she ran from him, bringing another man to his knees so that he begged for mercy over gambling money. He possessed no more integrity, but perhaps if he repented now, God could see fit to restore his soul.

The door opened. Elias Lang stood in the doorway, a candle in one hand, a pistol in the other. He wore a velvet dressing gown over a pair of breeches and a shirt with its placket unbuttoned, and his graying hair stood straight up. “De Meuse, what do you want at this hour?”

Christien took a deep breath. “I want to resign my position.”