Lessons in French (36 page)

"Aye, it's me," Trev said cordially, moving the knife downward. "Now shut up and

listen, or I'll cut off your pretty baubles and have done with it."

Their huffs of frosted breath mingled in the fading light. Sturgeon made a wordless

growl, his teeth bared, but Trev's arm across his windpipe and the knife at his groin

appeared to be sufficient persuasion. He stood still.

"I've got some good advice for you, Sturgeon." Trev spoke through his teeth. "If the

lady chooses to take you, you'll treat her right, do you follow me?"

For an instant, the officer just stared at him, breathing hoarsely against the pressure at

his throat. Then a half degree of tension left his body, though he held himself stiff against

the wall, well away from Trev's knife point. "Shelford's girl, do you mean?" He lifted his

lip in derision. "Is that all? Damn, I thought you a common footpad."

"I could be," Trev said in a silken tone. "I could strip you and leave you bleeding in the

street, and I may yet. But you'll give up your bobtails and keep your trousers closed,

starting now. You won't shame her or hurt her; you'll treat her like a queen, do you

comprehend me?" He pressed the knife closer.

Sturgeon tried to back up with a little scrabble against the brick. "Good Christ," he

snarled. "What is it you have in for me? I caved to your bloody blackmail the first time, I

broke it off with her— damned if I crawl for the likes of you again. I'll kill you first."

"Blackmail?" Trev held him hard, his eyes narrowed. "Somebody got the advantage of

you, Sturgeon?"

"You know what I mean. What's your game? What do you want from me?" Sturgeon

made a grunt as he tried to break free. "Take your blade away, fight me like a man." He

gasped through Trev's constriction on his throat.

"This is how I fight." As Sturgeon's hand moved, reaching, searching for the knife,

Trev kneed him again. The officer wheezed, well caught between his windmill and his

waterpipe.

"Like a bloodsucking thief." Sturgeon's teeth were white in the shadows.

"Blackmailer!"

"I never blackmailed you, you maggot," Trev hissed. "I don't know what you're talking

about."

"Lie like the two-faced French devil you are!" Sturgeon gasped for air. "I know you did

it. You were there."

"Where? I was where?"

The officer held stiff, glaring at Trev over his arm, his lips compressed. "You were

there. Who else but Hixson could have known?"

"Are you talking about Salamanca?" Trev asked in wonder. "Good God, is that it?"

Sturgeon didn't answer, but his look was answer enough.

Trev held him. "That courier's orders? Someone blackmailed you with it?"

"Oh, the innocence," Sturgeon sneered. "All these years I never realized it must be you,

you turncoat worm, until I saw you with her! It's too bad I didn't have you shot the day

Hixson brought you in."

There was truth enough to the word "turncoat" that Trev had to swallow back an urge to

beat the man to a bloody pulp. His breath came harsh, but he kept his voice dead even.

"Tell me all of it. You were blackmailed into jilting her? Did they ask for money too?"

"They?" Sturgeon gave him a look of scorn. "You! No money, and you know it. But

Shelford wrung me to the last penny for sheering off, if it gives you any satisfaction."

"Oh, it does," Trev said. "Believe me."

"And you didn't manage to get your claws on her fortune after all." His lip curled.

"What happened, did the old earl have you whipped away at the tail end of a cart?"

Trev held himself back from strangling the man on the wave of rage that suffused him.

Instead he blew air through his teeth and gave a bitter laugh. Suddenly he let go, all at

once, and stepped back, well out of range of the heavy blow that Sturgeon threw. He

blocked the next punch, still laughing, an angry sound that echoed in the alleyway until

Sturgeon stood back, huffing for air, looking at Trev as if he were mad.

"I didn't blackmail you, Sturgeon," he said. "I was a prisoner until after Waterloo, you

jackass, how'd you suppose I'd know anything about you, or give a damn? I didn't even

know your name at Salamanca. Hell and the devil, I was grateful to you for taking that

tent out of artillery range. You were welcome to ignore all the orders you liked, by my

lights, as long as you didn't get me shot."

"Shut up about it." The officer looked as if he'd like to enter into a further brawl, but

Trev could see him thinking in spite of himself, calculating history and distance.

"I didn't return to England till '17," Trev said, to aid him with his mathematics. He held

himself ready, watching Sturgeon put his hand on his sword. "I'd say if someone

blackmailed you, it's Geordie Hixson must be your man, though I'd not have thought it in

his style."

"Hixson was already dead a two-month before I got the note."

"Geordie's dead?" Trev scowled. "How?"

"A damned kettle of turtle soup," Sturgeon said. "Cook left it in a copper pot overnight,

so they said. Or it was poisoned on purpose, belike. Convenient for you that he's not alive

to say his piece."

"Oh, isn't it? You think I murdered him and then blackmailed you out of marrying her?

All the while I was incarcerated at Wellington's behest. The bastard kept me right through

the Paris treaty, and you're welcome to question the Foreign Office on that if you like."

Trev began to chuckle again on a wilder note. "Or save yourself the trouble and ask

Madame Malempré where I was." He gave the officer a swift bow, backing away to make

sure he was out of range as he did. "Were you before me with her, or after, Sturgeon?

Quite a willing little piece, that one."

The officer stood upright, stiffening. His face went white. "I will kill you," he said low.

"I'm sorry to enlighten you as to her liberal character." Trev pulled his pistol from his

pocket. "But you won't be entertaining yourself with that sort of thing anyway," he

informed the officer. "You think me capable of blackmail—I assure you that I am. If my

friends tell me you're embarrassing my lady with any escapades of a romantic nature, or

distressing her in any way, you'll find yourself drummed before a court-martial, and I'll

be very pleased to tell them what I saw that day."

"The word of a French coward against mine!" Sturgeon spat in the street.

"I'd advise you not to take the risk," Trev said softly. "The exposure alone—the rumors,

the questions. Think about it, while you turn about and walk out to the street."

The officer glared at him. For a long moment, they faced one another across the dark,

garbage-strewn distance between them. Then Sturgeon pulled his cloak about him and

turned, striding swiftly toward the open street.

Everyone supposed it was the blow to her head that made Callie stare vaguely out of

windows and lose the tail of her sentences. Hermey watched her with a worried little

frown and asked if she was in pain at least once an hour. To pacify her sister's concern,

Callie submitted to daily attention from Shelford's mumbling old doctor and then locked

herself in her bedchamber to provide Hermey with the happy impression that she was

resting quietly. It was a convenient excuse to avoid Major Sturgeon's frequent calls to

leave f lowers and inquire after her condition. And to avoid making a visit to Dove

House.

She spent the time pacing and leafing through every copy of an outdated paper or

magazine that she had been able to discover at Shelford Hall. She was down to the fish

wrappings, but she'd found nothing that hinted at the trial that had so fascinated Dolly. In

spite of all the concentration she could muster, Callie couldn't recall precisely when it had

taken place. Some time ago: after last Christmas she was certain, but had it been in the

spring or the early summer?
The Lady's Magazine
of March was mute on the topic. The

latest copy, October, had been whisked away by Hermey and was nowhere to be found

amid the gowns and hats and peculiar assortment of possible costumes for the upcoming

masquerade ball that lay cast about her room. All the volumes in between were making

their way along the village circuit, passed from house to house in a strictly defined order

of precedence before being returned to Shelford Hall, where they would be bound and

shelved in neat gilded leather bindings at the end of each year.

She'd found nothing more informative than a folded month-old page of the
Gazetteer

and New Daily Advertiser
, which had slid under a cushion in the library and been missed

by the charwoman. The page contained an odd and passionate letter to the editor from a

Mrs. Fowler, who accused her enemies of besmirching her name in the attempt to

"murder the good reputation of an innocent creature and impose upon the public." Mrs.

Fowler insisted that her whole heart belonged to one man, and one alone, and though he

was no longer at her side, those who knew her best would never doubt this.

It was a strange letter, fervently written but repellent to Callie's mind; a washing of

one's linen in a public newspaper that hardly seemed appropriate to any situation. The

name Fowler seemed distantly familiar, but it was common enough and there was no

reference in the letter to any trial. The remainder of the page was taken up with a

description of a concert by an Italian violinist, a discussion of the new Navigation Act,

and three advertisements for linen drapers. Callie had smoothed the paper, folded it again,

and placed it in her pocket diary. It disturbed her in some way that she couldn't quite

fathom, but she found it impossible to discard.

She was carrying the diary when at last she had herself driven to Dove House a week

after her return from the disastrous fair at Hereford. She dreaded to call, but when she

heard that Lilly had sent to Mrs. Adam for the ingredients for a chest plaster, Callie felt

she must look in on the duchesse. Constable Hubble was sitting opposite the garden gate,

perched on a crate with the remains of a substantial luncheon about him. He put aside his

mug and a half-eaten pie and stood hastily as the trap drew up, straightening his coat with

a stern look.

When he recognized Callie, he eased his severe expression and pulled off his hat.

"Afternoon, my lady." He offered a rough hand to help her down. "We ain't caught 'im

yet, ma'am, but I've set a net, as you can see. We'll snap him up if he comes near, mark

my words."

"A net?" She paused, glancing up from the generously packed food basket at his feet.

"Aye, ma'am. I'm here m'self, in the flesh, as you might say, and I got my boys posted

both ends up the village, that I do, my lady. He won't get past us!"

Callie relaxed slightly. She had thought for a moment that he meant a real net, one

capable of actually trapping someone. Once she understood that it consisted of the

constable and his two lads barricading the single road through Shelford—well

provisioned by Cook, too, it appeared—her immediate alarm receded. Trev was out of the

country by now in any case, so there was little fear that Constable Hubble would be

required to desert his picnic basket in the line of duty.

"Thank you," she said. "That relieves my mind. I hope you enjoyed your dinner?"

"Aye, my lady, that I did. Her's a mighty cook, that woman come to work for the poor

duchesse. Her can make a kidney pudding to rival my old Fanny's, rest her soul, and I

wouldn't say that about nobody else."

It was high praise indeed, this comparison to Constable Hubble's beloved late wife.

Callie nodded. "I'm pleased to hear it. But do you say the duchesse is poorly?"

He gave a solemn nod. "Cook tells me the lady ain't got no appetite—that's why her

brings us out so much broken victuals." He twisted his hat and ducked his head. "We

wouldn't gobble so much otherwise, my lady, but Cook don't want it to go waste, y'see."

"I understand." Callie was glad at least to know that Trev must have arranged for ample

provisions to the house. She could see that someone had been working in the garden,

clearing away the chaos that Hubert had left and trimming the plants down to winter

crowns. There was a pot of Michaelmas daisies on the stoop, with purple petals and

cheerful yellow eyes.

She took a deep breath, gathered her skirt, and walked up to the door. Lilly answered

the bell promptly.

"Oh, my lady!" The maid stepped aside as Callie entered, closing the door. "I'm so

thankful you've come—Madame asks so many questions and looks at me so odd, and I

don't know what to say! My lord told me that I mustn't worry her, and I've tried, my

lady— I've tried, but—" Suddenly her eyes filled and she dropped a belated curtsy. "I beg

your pardon, but—" She put her apron over her face and burst into tears.

Callie felt all the guilty weight of her neglect in delaying to call. She put her arm about

the girl and guided a sobbing Lilly toward the kitchen. Cook turned about from her

chopping, took one look at them, and lifted the teakettle from the hob. Lilly wiped her

eyes and plopped down in a chair.

"She asked me when the duke was to call again!" the maid exclaimed in tragic tones.

"And I knew I was meant to say that he would be here soon, b-but I c-couldn't seem to

say it a-right. And she looks at me
so
! And now her cough is worse, and her fever is