Lessons in French (11 page)

"Indeed! I'm sure that endears you to Monsieur Buzot."

"Oh, he only dislikes it when I make him stand with a basket and catch them."

She laughed aloud, her smile crinkling at the edge of her lashes. "You and the evil

Buzot are well suited, Monsieur," she said reprovingly.

They ought to be, Trev supposed, since he had made up the man's existence out of

whole cloth. "But please don't mention it in public, Mademoiselle," he murmured. "I

haven't sold my soul. Only mortgaged it, you understand, at a very reasonable rate of

interest."

"I quite comprehend the fine distinction."

"It's my belief," he said, putting his hand over hers and walking on, "that you are in

grave want of excitement. Have you had one single adventure lately?"

"Hundreds, of course." She waved airily. "We are awash in adventures in Shelford.

Only last week a goat climbed too high in Mr. Turner's chestnut tree, and I was called to

talk it down."

"But I doubt you've climbed down from your window even once."

She hid again, looking down at the hem of her skirt. "I'm afraid I've left the acrobatics

to the goats."

He kept his gaze on what he could see of her face, enjoying the play of emotion and

denial at the corner of her lips. Callie showed everything in her mobile expression, which

was why she kept it concealed so often, he suspected.

"Do you suppose you could still manage it?" he asked softly. "Perhaps I'll put you to

the test one night."

"Trev," she said under her breath. "We are coming into town."

"Should I cover my face with a scarf?" he asked. "Or would you prefer a bag over your

head?"

He could see her bite her lower lip. It wasn't fair to her, this provocation. He hardly

knew why he was doing it. He could have discussed her sister's betrothal or his mother's

health or the weather.

"So it's to be cold-blooded murder for Sturgeon," he said, ignoring his own better

impulse. "And who else would you like me to slay before I f lee the country? I'll require

the names and directions of Numbers Two and Three, and their preferred methods of

demise."

"Mr. Cyril Allen is Number Two," she said, lifting her chin. Her cheeks were quite

pink.

"And what is to be his fate?"

"Oh, he should be strangled," she said strongly. "He told everyone in London that I

wasn't quite right in my head and that's why he jilted me. And then he married his cook!"

"May I chop him into very small pieces first? I'll strangle him when there's not enough

left to do else."

"Yes, you may," she said obligingly. "And I should like to have a slice of him put into

her stew."

He gave a wicked chuckle. "I'm sure I can arrange it."

"Number Three has gone abroad with his exceedingly beautiful wife," she said, pursing

her lips. "To Italy, I believe."

"That will be convenient. I can boil and render Mr. Allen and then, while I abscond to

the continent, drop round to Pisa and push Number Three off the Leaning Tower."

"I suppose it would be described in all the newspapers," she said with relish.

"Quite likely. But your name need not be made public. 'He did it for the honor of a

lady,' they'll say."

"Oh, that will cause a deal of frenzied speculation," she said in satisfaction. "Everyone

will wonder who is this mysterious lady."

"No, of course it will be obvious I did it for you. Any constable could discover that.

What else have these three fellows in common?"

She made a puff of dismissal. "No one would believe you did it for me."

"Why not?"

"Because." She stuck out her tongue at him. "Gentlemen don't do that sort of thing for

me."

"They don't kill their rivals?" he asked in bewilderment. "These Englishmen are such

dull dogs."

"Well," she said with that little glint of mischief. "Yes, they are, rather."

He grinned at her. They had somehow stopped walking. She was looking up at him

shyly, a clear invitation on her lips. The fact that she had no idea of it only made the

latent enticement more tempting. Humble Callie with her kissable mouth and laughing

eyes; she'd be astonished if he gave her a lesson, right here in the public lane, in what a

red-blooded Frenchman would do.

"Good morning to you, my lady!"

Trev looked up, startled by the loud voice. Callie's fingers left his arm as if it burned

her. A portly gentleman paused before them, the fan of his white beard rounding out his

face, spreading like an old fashioned ruff over his clerical collar. He bowed toward Callie

and nodded at Trev.

"Mr. Hartman," Callie said, sounding as if she could not catch her breath. "Mr.

Hartman, oh yes." She became tangled in an introduction in which she could not seem to

decide who to introduce to whom, or what anyone's name was. "That is—um,

Monsieur—you'll remember our rector. Ah, of Monceaux. Monsieur… our parson!" She

made a gesture of her hands as if she were shooing them toward one another.

"Of course." Mr. Hartman took off his hat with a practiced expression of concern. "I'm

just on my way to pay a call at Dove House, Monsieur le Duc. I fear Madame is in a

grave crisis?"

As he spoke, he assumed an odd affectation of an accent, so that Trev was
moo-shur

l'duck
. The citizens of Shelford always took to French when they wished to put him in his

place. Clearly Mr. Hartman did not approve of Callie's escort.

Her cheeks were the color of crushed strawberries. Trev was embarrassed too, caught

enjoying himself while his mother was in a grave crisis. He was instantly annoyed with

Hartman.

"She's a good deal better this morning, thank you," he said with easy English and a cool

demeanor.

"Ah, she's improved." The news did not seem to please the parson. In fact his face drew

downward into a more severe frown. "I felt deep apprehension from what I was told. I did

not wish to leave her spiritually unattended at such a time."

"It's kind of you to come," Trev said dryly. As adherents of the Roman Catholic rite, his

family had seen very little of Mr. Hartman over their years in Shelford. "But I have some

hope she'll survive for a few more hours."

"Well, certainly. I didn't mean, of course—" Mr. Hartman sputtered a little. "I should be

glad to provide any comfort that I may in her extremity."

"Lady Callista has seen that my mother has every comfort," Trev said. "I suppose it's

not too late to alter her popish tendencies, but I advise you to hasten."

"Really, sir!" Mr. Hartman gasped. "I had no intention, I assure you!"

"But pray don't let us detain you while she's in her extremity." Trev could see by the

look Callie gave him that he was being outrageous. He took her arm again. "We're on our

way to the Antlers for tea, leaving her to her fate. Good day!"

With a little application of force, he walked on, carrying Callie along with him. She

threw a quick good morning over her shoulder and then allowed him to direct her

forward. They walked at a brisk pace as far as the crossroad.

He stopped so suddenly that her skirts swirled around his boots. With a harsh

exhalation, he said, "I beg your pardon. But by God—what a meddling old crow. What

does that fellow mean by calling on my mother now, when I daresay he's never set his

foot in her house before?"

"He's a meddling old crow," Callie said wryly. "But you were perhaps a little

disrespectful."

"Impudent, you mean. I suppose that will be all over town by noon."

"Oh no." Her mouth made a tiny quirk. "By the next quarter hour, I should think."

"Well then," he said. "Do you prefer the scarf or the bag?"

"Perhaps I should cover myself with a rug." They were nearly abreast of the first thatch-

and-timber houses that lined Shelford's only street. No one else had passed them yet, but

there were a few people walking and one horseman ahead. "Good morning," she said

hastily, in response to a greeting from the gentleman who trotted past. Her steps were

growing more unwilling as they approached the populated part of the street.

"This is a Mrs. Farr about to accost us, as I recall," Trev said under his breath. "Widely

known for her kind soul and foul-mouthed cockatoo." He took off his hat and bowed,

reckoning he'd best make an attempt to rehabilitate himself. "Good morning, ma'am," he

said cheerfully.

"I declare!" exclaimed the apple-cheeked widow, dropping a quick curtsy toward Callie

amid an abundance of petticoats spared from sometime in the last century. "Good

morning, milady. It couldn't be our young Frenchman who has you on his arm, now?"

"Good morning, Mrs. Farr," Callie said softly. "Yes, indeed, here is Madame's son

come to her."

"An excellent thing," Mrs. Farr said in her quavery voice. "There's nothing to top it.

What a fine gentleman!"

"I trust you're as well as you look, ma'am," Trev said. It was easy to smile

affectionately at Mrs. Farr. "And how does Miss Polly do these days?"

"Oh, she's as cross as ever she was. Just fancy you remembering Miss Polly!"

"How could I forget? That bird taught me how to have my mouth washed out with

soap."

"Pshaw, you aren't supposed to hear what she says!" Mrs. Farr said, lowering her voice

with a quaking chuckle.

"No? You should have warned me before I repeated it to my mother."

"Evil boy!" Mrs. Farr simpered. "You never did!"

Trev winked at her. "Come into the Antlers and sit down to a cup of tea with us, Mrs.

Farr. Lady Callista has undertaken to help me find a new cook for Dove House. I've no

doubt your advice would be invaluable."

"I should be glad to do what I can to help." Mrs. Farr picked up her skirts and stepped

toward the inn with a briskness that belied her gray hair and ancient voice. "And to guard

milady's virtue," she added with smug smile.

Trev bowed gravely. "Everything I know of vice, I learned from your parrot, Mrs.

Farr."

"Pshaw, you never did!" the widow said, sweeping ahead of them into the door of the inn.

Six

THE ANTLERS BOASTED ONLY ONE SMALL PARLOR beyond the taproom, with

just space enough for two tea tables and a small sofa set before the fire. The whiff of

baking gingerbread gave the atmosphere a pleasant aroma. Mr. Rankin stood with his

hands behind his back, leaning a little toward Mrs. Farr with a good innkeeper's solicitous

attention while that lady wavered between the choice of the bohea or the souchong.

Trev excused himself to negotiate the cost of sending his letter postpaid. He had just

come to an amicable agreement on mileage and postal notations with Mrs. Rankin when

the blare of a tin horn made her hurry back into her kitchen. An open landau came rolling

to a smart halt in the street outside. Trev glanced toward the door, his eye drawn by the

sweep of a large cocked hat and a glimpse of uniform. He paused, watching the officer

descend.

A dragoon guardsman, though he couldn't make out the badge. Since the war had

ended, British uniforms had changed, aspiring to such stylish splendor now, that this

fellow fairly glowed with heavy gold and scarlet, draped in braids and plastered with

massive gilt facings across his chest. A tempting target for a marksman, Trev thought. He

turned back to pick up his coins from the bar and toss his letter into the postbox.

The innkeeper did not quite abandon his other guests, but he came out of the parlor with

a rapid step. Trev looked round again as the officer entered the door. The newcomer had

a distinct familiarity about him. Trev caught the man's moment of hesitation as they

glanced at one another briefly, and saw that he also was recognized. But he couldn't place

the face. A square-jawed, handsome English face; light blue eyes and a high forehead…

it could be from any of a thousand past encounters. Trev had dealt with innumerable

English gentlemen and officers, named and nameless, in smoky, dim-lit quarters and

thronging crowds.

He gave a faint nod, received the barest acknowledgment, and they went their own

ways, having agreed to ignore whatever passing acquaintance they might have had. Trev

doubted it was the sort of thing a regimental officer would care to recognize in public. He

was not eager to be forthcoming himself. It was bound to happen, of course—he would

encounter gentlemen who had known him under other names and circumstances, but he

hoped that they would match his discretion with their own. It was to no one's advantage

to make a case of it.

He rejoined the ladies, sitting down to a conversation about the price of tea carried on

largely by Mrs. Farr, with the occasional nod and "yes, ma'am," from Callie. She did not

seem to be paying strict attention, for which Trev could hardly blame her.

"I don't care for your green teas," Mrs. Farr said decisively. "The half of them have

been doctored with such abominable tricks that there's no saying what's in them. I won't

have green tea in my house, I tell you."

"No, ma'am," Callie said. "Certainly not."

Mr. Rankin appeared at the parlor door with the officer behind him. "If you'll just take a

seat beside the fire, sir." He ushered the new arrival into the room, accepting the man's

hat and cloak. "The boy will see to your baggage. Will you be taking a refreshment?

There's gingerbread just coming out of the oven."