Authors: Laura Kinsale
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Historical, #General, #Regency
Miss Ladd and gone to Norwich to have three children; he had not been posted to the
West Indies. For a moment she could think of nothing to say. They had been strolling
slowly, and the door of the Gerard lay only a few steps ahead. It seemed to her to be a
portal of escape now, a place she could run away and hide. A furious part of her wanted
to tear off her veil and reveal herself, but she could not be so rash in spite of the ugly
lump in her throat. She had to be rid of him.
"It's a very affecting story, Monsieur," she said, assuming a cold hauteur. "I thank you
for telling me, but still I don't recall anything of our meeting. I think perhaps you have
confused me with another lady. Now I must leave you. Adieu."
She detached her arm forcibly from his clasp, in spite of his quick objection, and
glanced back toward Charles. The footman came forward with a determined look on his
face. Callie felt a wave of relief as the big servant imposed himself between her and
Major Sturgeon. Charles escorted her up the steps. She dared to glance back once and
was alarmed to see that the major followed them right into the hotel. She hurried her
pace, going directly to the staircase. Only when she reached the upper floor did she
pause, catching her breath. He hadn't the effrontery to pursue her that far, at least.
She looked at Charles. "
Merci,
" she said in grateful French. "I did not know how to
escape him."
"Ma'am, I don't speak that Froggie talk, I'm sorry." The footman bobbed his head
apologetically.
"Oh." It was a relief to slip back into her own language. She'd thought he must be one
of Trev's French retinue. "I'll be pleased to thank you in English, in that case! I'm very
glad to be rid of him."
"Was that officer swell taking liberties, then, ma'am? I weren't certain. I'd 'a made a
dice box of his swallow, if ma'am just give me the office."
His thick slang was almost as foreign to her as the French, but she understood his
meaning. "Yes, I'm sure you would have, but I didn't wish to make a scene." She paused,
not sure if she should speak openly of Trev's plans. "Do you know my maid, Lilly?"
"Aye, ma'am." He nodded toward the street. "The little chick-a-biddy what's giving
Monsieur's bruisers the chaffin' gammon up the tailor shop."
She was entirely mystified by this description of Lilly's activities but decided not to
inquire into it too deeply. "Go down and tell her to wait for me at the dressmaker's," she
said, "but she mustn't let the major see her. I'll stay here until he goes away, and then I'll
be obliged to you if you'll take me to join her."
"Now you just leave that officer nob to old Charlie, ma'am. We'll give him some proper
pepper, me and Monsieur's lads. He'll bolt off right handy, or we'll dislodge some of his
ivories for 'im."
"Oh no. No, you must not start a fight—is that what you mean?"
He shrugged. "Won't be much of a fight, ma'am," he said with some regret. "Not unless
he's got a screw loose."
"I don't want any sort of fight at all," she said hastily.
"We'll just carry him out, then," Charles offered.
"No no, nothing of that sort. We mustn't draw undue attention."
The footman submitted to this, though he seemed disappointed. "S'pec so, ma'am. It
might blow the gaff, aye."
Callie realized that under his powdered wig and formal coat, the muscular Charles was
quite a "bruiser" himself. Trev seemed in the habit of hiring very large menservants, for
which she was rather grateful at the moment.
"I think it's best to wait quietly until he leaves," she said. "I'm sure he won't linger." She
only wanted be out of this disguise, to retreat into the safety of her own rooms to lick her
wounds, but the chambers at the Gerard were at least a refuge for the moment. She was
glad now that Trev was gone for the night, so that she wouldn't have to tell him of her
encounter with the philandering major. Not, at least, until she had composed herself.
"Send word up to me when you're certain that he's gone away entirely. Make sure of it
first. I don't dare to let him see me again."
Fourteen
A FIRE BURNED GENTLY, WARMING THE ELEGANT PARLOR. The tea tray still
stood waiting on the table set for two. If not for Major Sturgeon, she might have been
sitting here cheerfully with Trev, celebrating the successful announcement of the
Malempré Challenge. Instead she was feeling as if she had been soundly slapped. She
took off the veil and sat down heavily.
She had not desired to marry the major, but with no other happy prospect before her,
she had allowed herself to consider it as a practical possibility. A marriage of
convenience merely, but at least she would have her own home. He was so eager to marry
her fortune, she was sure that she could negotiate anything she pleased in terms of her
livestock. She was not averse to a household with children in it. She had a talent with
them, as she had a talent with animals.
Infidelity—she had assumed that she could tolerate that. It wasn't as if she hadn't
known what sort of man he was already. If she had taken a moment to think it through,
she wouldn't have been surprised to find him entangled with another woman again even
as he courted her.
But knowing precisely what he thought of her, hearing it said so bluntly—she felt as if
a miserable thick stone were lodged in her throat. He gave her pretty compliments to her
face, while in fact he thought she was cold and plain and dull. And she was. It was the
truth of it that made what he'd said so painful. She did not really care what Major
Sturgeon thought of her, but he wasn't the only gentleman she knew who could tell a lie
with convincing skill.
She sprang up, gripping her hands together as she paced to the fireplace and back again.
A horrid notion began to possess her. It was mortifying to think of how much she must
have revealed of herself to Trev. He meant to give her three days of happiness, in the best
way that he could. Husband and wife, deep in love, a little pretense of what she longed to
have.
How Lady Shelford and her friend would laugh at that! Dowdy Callie, wed to a man
who might have a love affair with any woman he chose. And she would have to sit with
her eyes fixed on the toes of her shoes and listen to the whispers about it. She would
rather live in a ditch and eat worms.
With Major Sturgeon's cold words to steady her mind and prevent any f lights of fancy,
she tried to think back on the things Trev had said to her, the contradictions and awkward
moments. He did care about her, she had no doubt of that. He didn't wish for her to be
unhappy. He'd tried to buy Hubert back for her, he'd created this outlandish scheme to
make an adventure for her, he worried that Major Sturgeon would hurt her. He said… he
said that he loved her.
She should put no great stock in that, of course. Trev could not endure to see
unhappiness around him. Nearly every adventure she had shared with him had been a
rescue of some hapless creature from captivity, or a clandestine attempt to emulate Robin
Hood on behalf of a downtrodden victim. If truth be told, she had known him to go to
absurd lengths in his efforts to heal the smallest hurt or suffering in those he cared for.
And if he could not do it, he would disappear.
She felt a deep chill inside, a prickle at the nape of her neck. She squeezed her eyes
shut, remembering how she had almost—almost—blurted her dream out loud to him. He
had understood her perfectly, of course, but he had not betrayed it. It was like a play, and
they each had their parts. She could be Madame Malempré and enjoy this moment that he
offered, understanding that it was only as enduring as a single waltz, but better at least
than sitting out every dance.
Callie's throat felt closed and swollen, but she did not weep. She felt no anger now
when she thought of Major Sturgeon, only a vague distaste, and a sharp hole in her heart
that was impossible to fathom. With mechanical moves she made tea for herself, pouring
water into the polished kettle and placing it on an ornate hob beside the fire. She sat
down, toying with one of the delicate slices of cake.
They were friends. She should not, could not, must not, think of more.
It calmed her to reach this conclusion. She had been struggling in a welter of confused
feelings ever since his return, unable to make sense of his intentions. As it all came clear
to her now, the heavy feeling in her chest receded. It was not as if she had ever really
believed that she would marry Trev. She couldn't even imagine it, in truth: living in
France among strangers, dealing with aristocratic guests and the evil Buzot and great vats
of wine. It was as improbable as her fantasies of Trev as a pirate and herself the captive
governess who stole his heart by learning to wield a cutlass like a Cossack.
She smiled a little at her own absurdity. The kettle began to boil, a soft rumble in the
quiet room. Callie made her tea and sat sipping it, trying to take a sensible view of her
future. It was high time that she left behind these silly daydreams, before she became odd
and ended up locked in some attic, collecting bits of string and candle wax and muttering.
She must exert herself to make the best of things as they were. She was dull and plain; a
definite pronouncement had been made on the subject, and it was stupid to argue the
point any further, no matter what Hermey and her father and the village goats might
claim. They loved her—at least Hermey and her father did; she couldn't say about the
goats—and people who loved one saw a different person, a person bathed in the flattering
light of affection. Look at how Hermey seemed so taken with Sir Thomas, who was
certainly as dull as Callie, and perhaps even duller.
No, to live out her life as a spinster sister, politely unwanted, was impossible. She
would marry Major Sturgeon in spite of his faithlessness. There was no other tolerable
prospect. She knew the truth about him, and while she didn't enjoy knowing, there could
be no further wound in it. Her eyes were open. It was a common thing among the ton, she
believed, for a married couple to live quite-unrelated lives.
Before Trev went away, she would make sure that he knew she had accepted the
officer's very flattering proposal. He wouldn't depart thinking she was unhappy with her
choice. She had never lied to him before, but she would.
A gentle knock made her put down her cup. The boot boy's muff led voice spoke the
name of Madame briefly as he slipped a folded paper underneath the door. She stood and
peered down at the handwriting.
Major Sturgeon had not yet given up and gone away, it seemed. The preposterous
man—he had sent up a letter, which Callie put into the fire without breaking the seal. She
had a pretty exact idea of what it would say. He must be desperate indeed, to be so rash
as to send a missive to the very chamber where Monsieur Malempré himself was
supposed to be resting with the headache! No doubt the thought that he might find
himself engaged at any moment to the tedious Lady Callista made him wish to cement a
more agreeable alliance at once.
For an instant she wished Trev were there to share the bleak comedy of it all. She
laughed in spite of herself, thinking of what he would say about Sturgeon lurking at the
hotel door and writing fraught pleas to Callie under the illusion that she was his long-lost
paramour.
Just what the world needs: more bloody fools.
In the wee hours of the morning, a sleepy groom threw a blanket over Trev's horse and
led it away, its breath frosting in the lantern light. After a warm autumn afternoon, the
wind had arisen and the temperatures dropped suddenly to a bone-cracking cold. By the
time Trev reached Hereford, well after midnight, his muffler was frozen and his hands
were stiff inside his gloves.
Fortunately he'd left word that he would return late. The boots unlocked the door
promptly, greeted him in a cordial, low voice, relieved him of his great coat, and led him
upstairs with a shielded candle. The service at the Gerard was excellent.
Trev sat down by the fire, pleased to see that it was still well tended. He allowed the
boy to pull off his boots, gave him a generous coin, and then sent him away, murmuring
that he could do for himself tonight. By the red glow of the coals he stripped, feeling
prickly sensation come into his toes as they warmed after a long ride in the icy night. He
sat drowsing in his shirttails, his bare feet stretched out beside the fire.
He'd lingered late with his maman, for she'd been in a lively humor, full of questions
and gentle gibes, laughing over the portly "peeg," and demanding a full description of
what the couturier had done for Lady Callista's wardrobe. She'd scowled at the intrusion
of Major Sturgeon, as engaged in the difficulties as if she'd been in the midst of the
Hereford scheme herself. He could see that she expected him to announce at any moment
that Callie had agreed to marry him. He did not disabuse her of this notion. To be
perfectly candid, he might even have encouraged it a little, because it pleased him to see
her look so knowing and contented, smiling like a cat over a bowl of fresh cream.