For the Love of Lila (4 page)

Her first step toward the looking glass made an alarming clunk on the floor. She managed to make the next one quieter, but her gait felt clumsy, and she judged her steps rather mincing for a young man.
Blast it!
She should have taken the time to practice her stride. Now she’d have to play the part unrehearsed. And, no doubt, Mr. Wyndam would notice.

Before she reached the mirror, a scratch sounded at the door, quickening the blood in her arteries. She reminded herself she had no cause for anxiety, but her heart pounded. Why that organ would not listen to reason eluded her.

She crept up close to the slit between door and frame and whispered, “Who’s there?”

“Wyndam,” the barrister’s voice hissed though the crack.

Her fingers trembled as she undid the latch and opened the door. But the sight awaiting her surprised away her fit of nerves. If she hadn’t known Mr. Wyndam’s identity beforehand, she might not even have recognized him. Though the pre-dawn temperature could not be called chilly, he wore a greatcoat with a high-point collar that hid most of his face. To add to his concealment, he had fixed a top hat down low on his brow. He looked like the villain of a novel rather than the hero that his treatment of her suggested.

She held back from commenting and murmured a greeting, moving aside for him to enter.

He glanced up and down the hall, ducked into the room and shut the door. Taking off his hat, he nodded at her over the ridiculous collar. “Are you ready?”

“I think so.” Afraid she might giggle if she studied his attire any longer, she stepped up to the looking glass to inspect her own. A “young man” stared back at her, slight, but more plausible than she had feared. She couldn’t help but smile. “I make a fine lad, don’t I?”

In the mirror’s recesses, she could see Mr. Wyndam glide up behind her and push aside his collar. Even in the poor lighting, the blue of his eyes stood out as he looked over her shoulder. She admired the way they fixed intently on their object—currently her reflection.

Then she saw his eyebrows crunch together.

“Oh, no.” He shook his head, his gaze skimming the length of her mirrored image. “No, this won’t do at all. Caroline Lamb made a more convincing boy, dressed as a page for that foolish painting she commissioned.”

Her smile flattened.
Caroline Lamb?
Why, the woman’s greatest ambition in life had been chasing Lord Byron. Though Lila conceded that her own alter ego might not appear the most masculine of men, Wyndam needn’t have compared her to
that
aimless coquette.

Chin held high, she turned ninety degrees and observed her reflection from the side. “I think I look well enough. These breeches do a tolerable job of hiding my hips. The shirt, I confess, appears somewhat lumpy. The lawn is too thin to hide my bindings. Do you think I should redo them to get them flatter?”

He glanced at her chest and quickly away again.

His embarrassment prompted a pang of guilt in her. She wondered if she had pushed the bounds of propriety on purpose, testing him, after a fashion. If so, she should have known he would react as he had done. For a man about to embark on a scandalous adventure, Tristan Wyndam was inordinately prudent. She couldn’t have been safer if she’d been traveling with a brother.

“Only look at your face,” he said, though he kept his own gaze averted. “No lad has a complexion so smooth or with such a rosy glow.”

She frowned and stepped closer to the glass. Of course her complexion looked smooth. She didn’t, after all, actually have whiskers to shave. But her cheeks did appear more flushed than normal, like those of a debutante who’d pinched them to impress a suitor.

Lord, she hoped Mr. Wyndam hadn’t thought as much. Perhaps that was the reason Caro Lamb had sprung to his mind.

“It must be the excitement,” she said. “What do you expect, under these circumstances?”

“I hardly expect you to be excited.” The pitch of his voice indicated she’d stunned him. Indeed, he forgot himself enough to focus on her reflection again. “I expect you to be pale with worry about your reputation—the way you ought to be.”

Ought to be?
If he’d wanted a phrase to stoke her indignation, he couldn’t have chosen better. She
ought to
have been able to make a journey to Paris without any necessity for pretense, and until now she had believed Mr. Wyndam thought so, too. The hint that he nurtured “false scruples” put her on the defensive, and she spun away from the mirror to face him.

“Funny, but you appear rather flushed yourself.”

He stared at her, and she imagined his face colored a shade deeper before his skin—and emotions—cooled. She had to give him credit for holding her gaze when, she felt sure, he must long to look away.

“I know you have a rational mind, Miss Covington.” The intensity of his eyes surprised her. “Your father was a great scholar, and I can tell from our conversations that you’ve inherited his reason. Do you truly believe that passing for a boy won’t be more difficult than posing as a married woman?”

She meant to tap one foot in annoyance, but a resulting thump embarrassed her into stopping.

Besides, his appeal to her intelligence had mollified her.

“No,” she heard herself say. She moved a step away from him, substituting physical space for the mental distance she felt closing. “But I still feel strongly about my decision.”

“Then, I imagine, you must have grounds for it.”

His approach, she realized, not only mollified but impressed her. How often did a man show such respect for a woman’s intellect? The delicious rarity made her crave more, weakening her vow to conceal her personal beliefs. She wanted to show him the workings of her mind.

“Frankly, Mr. Wyndam, I do not condone marriage.” She met his gaze from the corner of her eyes. “In too many cases, the institution amounts to little less than legal enslavement of a woman. Upon marrying, a wife’s property becomes her husband’s, even if he’s a gamester, a womanizer or a fool. Should he prove any of these, the wife has no legal means of dissolving the marriage. If she leaves anyway, she must surrender her children to their father, no matter how unsuited he is to raise them. But you are a barrister and know the laws better than I. Can you not find it in yourself understand my objections?”

“I understand there are laws that need reform,” he said, the quickness of his answer surprising her, “and not only in the areas you mention. In fact, I hope eventually to enter the House of Commons and work toward redressing some of these injustices. But at present we are speaking of a masquerade, a feigned marriage to which neither of our names would be attached.”

While she took in his words, he continued to watch her face. His respect and logic persisted in eroding the edges of her resolve. But the treatment was so singular that she wondered if she’d fallen for a barrister’s trick, an ability to assess one’s audience and glean what sort of argument would win them over.

She dropped her gaze to the toes of her boots. “I don’t know. It’s a matter of principle...”

At that moment, the sing-song voice of the watch interrupted, drifting in through an open window. “Four o’clock and all is well...”

Mr. Wyndam glanced toward the window, dimly illuminated by a gaslight from the street below. “We should have departed by now. We need to take advantage of darkness’s cover, especially until we reach the countryside. Stay with that costume, Miss Covington, but, while we ride, please put more thought into how comfortable you are dressed as a boy. The decision is yours. I simply ask that you look at all factors carefully.”

Surprised that he’d left the choice to her, she watched him cross the room to where her luggage stood. Could he truly be as

fair-minded as he seemed, or did he have a strategy for every aspect of his position?

He leaned over to pick up her portmanteaux and bandbox. “I’ve obtained several false passports for each of us, so you can make the crossing in either guise you choose.”

More evidence that he thought of
everything
. Still eyeing him, she said, “How efficient you are.”

“I am, when I need to be.” He stashed her bandbox under an arm and took up both of her bags. Glancing about the room, he asked, “Is this everything you packed?”

He looked her way, his gaze catching on hers. She steered her thoughts to his question and nodded, but she felt certain he sensed she’d been studying him.

“How practical
you
are,” he said.

“I am when I want to be.”

The muscles in his cheeks tensed, and his brows began to move together again. The worry he felt about this journey showed clearly on his face. He wasn’t a scheming stoic. His thoughts and feelings showed as much as anyone else’s, and at the moment he obviously felt more tension than she. She remembered how he’d helped Petey and his mother, and her wariness unraveled.

“Don’t worry,” she said, regretting her lack of regard for his feelings. “I shall always listen to reason, and you are quite a hand at serving up an argument. If you present all of your cases with the same logic you used a moment ago, I promise to deliver a fair verdict every time.”

He raised his brows, then startled her with a laugh. “You have no idea how strange those sagacious words sound coming from the mouth of a foppish-looking stripling. Shall you be a judge when you grow up, lad? We could do with a few more of your integrity.”

She grinned back. “An interesting prospect.” Before she could think twice, she found herself adding, “I am, however, more inclined toward a career in writing.”

“Ah, like your father.” He turned toward the door, somehow managing to balance all of her luggage.

She thought she ought to share the burden but suspected he would not agree. Allowing him this gallantry, she stepped ahead and opened the door for him. She peeked up and down the hall, then nodded to him.

As he exited the room, she couldn’t resist whispering, “I don’t work in the same genre my father did. I am currently writing a novel. I plan to do translations, as well, chiefly for the sake of income.”

“Interesting,” he whispered back. “You must tell me more about your work—as soon as we have stolen our way out to the carriage.”

She hadn’t meant to say as much as she had, but his receptiveness made her eager to tell more. They would have to talk about
something
on the road, she reasoned as they slipped through the hall. Her writing seemed a harmless enough topic.

They escaped the house without detection and scurried around the corner to a hired carriage. By the time they had stowed her luggage and climbed atop the box of the barouche, Lila had already explained the theme of her novel. When they reached city limits, she was divulging the problems her chosen vocation had already caused her.

Mr. Wyndam expressed appropriate offense on hearing that her Aunt Elizabeth had intercepted her queries to
Blackwood’s
magazine. And he was properly shocked that Uncle Casper had burned two hundred pages of fair-copied manuscript.

“Is your cousin Felicity more supportive of your writing career?” he asked, around the time that lavender light started to bleed into the horizon.

She watched the dew along the country roadside begin to sparkle—but a tightening in her abdomen hampered her enjoyment of the scene. “I believe she will be, once I’ve discussed it with her. My cousin and I haven’t seen one another in quite a few years. We shall need to update each other on many aspects of our lives.”

In her peripheral vision, she noticed his gaze shifting to her face, but she continued surveying the passing farmland.

“I should hate to see you exchange one intolerant home for another,” he said. “How much do you know about your cousin’s views of the world? Though there are a growing number of female authors, many people disapprove of women writing for money. Has your cousin shown a liberal mind in other matters you’ve discussed?”

The knot in her belly constricted, but she forced herself to look at him. “She was liberal enough to leave my aunt and uncle’s home and take up on her own—though, Lord knows, she must have been provoked. I must admit that I don’t know the exact circumstances of her departure. I wouldn’t feel comfortable asking Felicity to defame her parents. As for my aunt and uncle, as you may have surmised, they do not speak of their daughter at all.”

He frowned and looked ahead to the dusty lane. “I see why you two have catching up to do. You must have had difficulty exchanging letters while living with her parents. I hope she will look upon your ambitions kindly.”

“My father called Felicity a ‘free thinker.’“ She neglected to mention that Sir Francis had nothing further to say about his niece, even when questioned. He had never quite shared Lila’s endorsement of women’s freedom, as he’d made apparent in leaving her a trust rather than a clear inheritance.

Mr. Wyndam smiled, guiding the horses around a bend in the road. “Well, if Sir Francis described your cousin so, I look forward to meeting her. I think, however, that we may want to avoid telling her we traveled to France alone together. I doubt she is so progressive that she won’t object to such an unusual arrangement.”

“Perhaps you are right,” she murmured. She didn’t like deception, but that blasted knot kept curling inside her stomach. She did wish she knew her cousin better. Felicity had always been a lively, amiable girl, but she was six years Lila’s elder, a difference that had seemed great in their youth. The whole truth was that they had not corresponded since Felicity left home, nearly a decade ago. If Mr. Wyndam had known this particular, he never would have agreed to take her to Paris.

She looked at his profile, hoping she could conceal the details from him for the remainder of their trip.

“What is it, Miss Covington?” he asked, glancing her way until one of the horses drew his attention with a neigh. When the horse made no further noise, he asked, “Are you concerned about how your cousin will receive you?”

“Hardly,” she said quickly, making an effort to smile. She looked ahead to where the rising sun radiated pink streaks into the sky. “What a lovely day we have for traveling. How far do you suppose we’ll get today?”