Lessons in French (42 page)

hand."

"I see," Trev said. She glared at him suspiciously, in case he should be inclined to

laugh, but he maintained a perfectly sober countenance. "Very gallant of him."

"Yes, and he said it would be cruel of me if I wouldn't allow him to make an attempt to

win my heart," she added, to seal her case. "Just now, in fact, in the carriage, he said so."

"Oh?" He turned to face her, his features darkened by the light behind. "Then it isn't

won already?"

"Very near," she lied stoutly. "I believe I can come to love him."

He made a small, taut motion, something between a nod and a jerk of his chin.

"I'm sure that once we've begun our own family," she added, expanding on her theme,

"we'll be exceptionally devoted."

"Doubtless," he said in a clipped voice. "I'm charmed by this vision of connubial bliss. I

assure you that I'll do all in my power to stay out of sight, so that you may continue to

enjoy his attentions to the full."

"I suppose you've bribed the servants?" she asked dryly.

"Of course."

Callie expelled a deep breath. "You may remain for the night." She pointed and then

crossed her arms. "In the dressing room."

He walked away to the door of the adjacent closet. "Certainly. Just toss me a biscuit

now and again, like the rest of the dogs."

Trev closed the door behind him with something just short of a bang. He stood in the

small dressing room, contemplating his many options. He could sleep on the bare f loor,

as he'd done the night before in his mother's room, or prop himself against the wall next

to the chest of drawers, padded by a pillow of clean rags that were neatly folded in one

corner—their use was uncertain, but he thought it likely she was more concerned to

polish some heifer to a high sheen than to have her footwear buffed. For entertainment,

he saw that he could avail himself of any number of books, starting with
CATTLE: Being

a Treatise on their BREEDS, MANAGEMENT, AND DISEASES, Comprising a FULL

HISTORY OF THE VARIOUS RACES; Their Origin, Breeding and Merits; Their

Capacity for Beef and Milk; The Nature and Treatment of Their Diseases; THE WHOLE

FORMING A COMPLETE GUIDE for the FARMER, THE AMATEUR, and

VETERINARY SURGEON
, with 100 illustrations. If that didn't put him to sleep, he could

turn to
THE COMPLETE GRAZIER, or Farmer's and Cattle Breeder's and Dealer's

Assistant,
and get an overview of neat cattle, sheep, horses, and swine, the present state of

the wool trade, and an appendix on
Prize Cattle, Farm Accounts, and Other Subjects

Connected with Agriculture
, all courtesy of A Lincolnshire Grazier, assisted by Several

Eminent Agriculturalists.

He sat down on a stool and looked at her stockings instead. They were of the practical

sort, plain white, knitted with warmth and not style in mind. But they hung over a

wooden rack, along with her petticoats, and showed the shape and outline of a feminine

leg very well. He gazed at them, indulging himself in some highly provocative thoughts,

until his imagination was stimulated beyond the point of comfort.

It wouldn't be easy remaining here. At first, when his mother had seized on the idea,

he'd mocked it, but on finding that he had to make a quick escape he'd snatched at the

first opportunity that presented itself—a pair of postboys from the Antlers who were

more than willing to indulge in a lark for a few coins. That had taken him as far as

Shelford Hall. Once here, the scheme had shown some advantages.

He was, for the moment, as safe in Callie's rooms as anywhere else. With a little care,

he could come and go by the branches of the ancient yew to Dove House. He wanted to

look into his suspicions regarding her fortune, and a glance at any account books he could

manage to find might be illuminating. That would require some prowling about the house

and offices in the wee hours, and perhaps a lock picking or two—not a harmless prospect,

but it would give him something to do besides sit here and bleat to himself about the

torture of sleeping a few feet away from her.

It would keep other thoughts at bay too. Thoughts about how he'd deserted her after

he'd made love to her and about killing Sturgeon for any excuse he could come up with.

The sort of thoughts that had kept him drinking in a gin house until he'd missed his ship

sailing. He surprised himself. Usually he was more successful at such things as leaving

his past and all its strings behind him.

The same old argument began to play in his mind. What was best for her against what

he wanted, which was to be with her, even if it was just hiding out in her dressing room

while she was engaged to another man. When he got to the part about smuggling her

aboard a ship with him while they left the country for France, where he would show her

conclusively that he'd lied about everything from the evil Buzot to the coach and six and

the restored château—at that point, when he was wishing heartily for another bottle of

gin, his unpleasant ref lections were interrupted by a soft rap on the closet door and

Callie's hissed warning to him to stay concealed.

He grew still, listening to the sounds of a girlish voice begging entry to Callie's

bedroom. Trev laid his ear to the door. After the thumps and creaks of entry—she did

have an inconveniently creaky floor, he noted with exasperation—he heard Lady

Hermione say, "Are you feeling better? Can you let Anne make her measures? Because

she'll be sewing half the night as it is, you know, to have a costume ready for you by

tomorrow."

"Oh dear," Callie said, her voice muff led, "I'd forgot about the masquerade. Really, I—

"

"Don't say you won't appear!" her sister said pleadingly. "Please. It will be great fun,

you'll see. And Sir Thomas has had the greatest news! Lord Sidmouth himself is to come!

Right here to Shelford Hall to attend the masquerade."

"Lord Sidmouth?" Callie asked in a blank voice. "Why is he to come?"

"Callie." Hermione took on the tone of a patient but prodded teacher. "He's the Lord

Secretary
of the
Home
Office," she explained, as if speaking to a dull but beloved child.

"And it's the greatest honor, because he's frightfully busy with convicts and laws and the

king and all that, so he almost
never
leaves London. I daresay he'll bring a hundred

undersecretaries with him. Sir Thomas is in alt!"

"Oh," Callie said. Then she seemed to catch on to the matter. "Oh, these are his

colleagues from the Home Office?"

"Yes, so you see what an honor it is. He says that it almost certainly means he'll be

advanced in the next election."

"That's excellent news," Callie said. "A hundred undersecretaries."

Lady Hermione giggled. She dropped her voice confidingly, though it still came

through clear enough as she moved closer to the dressing room. "Major Sturgeon is going

to come as a sultan; he told me so. And here, I've just the thing to make you into a veiled

sultana from a harem! See this blue and green gauze? Even Dolly agreed it would be

perfect. Will wonders never cease?"

Trev moved back quickly, seeing the dressing room knob turn. He was just

contemplating how fast he could open the window and leap out when Callie said in a

hurried voice, "Yes, of course, that's lovely! Is Anne in your room? Let's go there and

measure. It's half dusk with this weather, and the light is so much better on your side."

"You'll wear it, then?" Lady Hermione let go of the door knob with a gay laugh.

"Come, it won't take a moment, and then you may go back to dreaming of how you'll

arrange the cattle sheds on your new home farm. I vow, I can't think for wonder at it all.

Sir Thomas has said I may fit up his town house just as I please. We'll have our own

homes, and I can bring the children to visit you in the country, and…" Her naïvely happy

voice faded as the outer door closed behind them.

Callie didn't speak to him or acknowledge his presence when she returned from her

sister's bedchamber. Trev stayed discreetly out of sight in the dressing room, brushing up

on animal husbandry in the unlikely event he should ever have reason to deliver a calf or

cure the gripes, and wondering how he had allowed his life to sink to this point. He did

not care for the idea of costumes of veiled harem girls and Callie playing sultana to

Sturgeon's sultan. For one thing, it made him imagine her wrapped in sparkling blue

gauze that grew more and more transparent the more he thought about it, until he was

strongly in the mood to visit a harem himself. For another, he was going to strangle

Sturgeon with his own turban.

And now Sidmouth of all people would be in the house, along with some army of

undersecretaries, any one of whom might have seen Trev at his trial. Not that he wouldn't

mind having a few pointed words with the Lord Secretary. He'd understood the deal to be

that he'd receive a full pardon in return for putting up no defense—but when the royal

pardon came down from the king's council, signed by Sidmouth, it was conditional and

made an explicit point that he'd leave the country or hang. Trev had never met the Home

Secretary, but he wondered if the fellow had something in for him. A bad bet, perhaps, or

a fixed match that he blamed on Trev or the Rooster. Or perhaps he simply believed Trev

was guilty.

It would have been gratifying to have the answer to this burning question, but

confronting Sidmouth with a complaint about his pardon didn't seem the wisest course.

He'd lived for a fortnight in Newgate under a sentence of death before any sort of pardon

at all had come down; an experience he did not care to repeat. As a condemned felon, one

got rapidly off the scaffold at the first opportunity and didn't look a gift horse in the

mouth.

He sat glumly in the dimming room, propped against the wall. He couldn't even pace,

because the damned floor creaked. He heard her take supper on a tray in her room and

noted that she didn't invite him to join her. She was turned against him, looking forward

to starting a family with Sturgeon, which was precisely what Trev had wanted, of course.

He was perfectly delighted.

Boston was too close. It would have to be Shanghai.

They spent the evening hours in mutually ignoring one another while the incessant rain

rumbled in the gutters. As it neared full dark, he finally opened the dressing room door,

stood for a moment without precisely looking at her, and announced to the air in general

that he was going to take supper with his mother. She bade him a chilly good evening

from her seat by the fire, in a tone that suggested that he need not hurry back. Trev

stalked to the window. He opened the inner shutters. Even in the dark, he could see that

the rain was beating against the glass in sheets. If he raised it, the window seat—not to

mention himself—would be deluged.

He closed the shutters again and turned round.

She appeared to be wholly occupied by the tatting

that was spread across her lap, moving a shuttle briskly in and out of some knotted lace

with deep concentration. The firelight brought a rosy bloom to her cheek, a warm copper

glint to her hair. She wore it in a stylish upswept bun today, instead of her usual neat

braids, but her thick curls seemed inclined to revolt against the more fashionable style

and drape gently down to the nape of her neck. He watched her for a moment.

"Shouldn't you thread some yarn in that needle?" he asked dryly. "I'd think it would

make the work go more efficiently."

She threw the shuttle down in her lap and glared up at him. Trev tried not to smile, as

she appeared to be in no mood to be amused at herself.

"I thought you were going to make a call on your mother," she said stiff ly.

"You'll observe that the weather is somewhat inclement."

She gave a great sigh, as if he had arranged for the downpour merely to inconvenience

her. Trev walked over and helped himself to a decanter of wine from her tray, pouring it

into the untouched glass. He sat down in the other chair. "Can we not be civil at least? If

we're no longer friends."

She bit her lip, turning her face toward the fire. For an instant there was a faint quiver at

the corner of her mouth, which made him long to go down on his knees and gather her

still hands and press them to his face. He took a sip of wine instead.

"I'm still your friend, Callie," he said. "And I always will be."

She nodded, looking down. "Of course."

"This masquerade is opportune," he said conversationally. "I want to investigate the

Shelford account books. Are they locked away?"

"You want to see the Shelford accounts? Whatever for?"

He debated whether to tell her of his suspicions. He didn't want to frighten her. But

since he had every intention of seeing that any money that had been embezzled from her

fortune was replaced, even if he had to fund it himself, he thought it safe to be open. "I

had a talk with Sturgeon before I went away. I'm concerned that something's not right

with your trust."

"My trust?" She looked baffled. "I don't under stand. You spoke to the major about my

money?"

He gave a brief nod. "Indirectly. There's something odd, Callie. Not about Sturgeon; I