Lessons in French (45 page)

disbelief.

"I am not," she said, maintaining her rigid spine. "I wouldn't jest about such a thing.

She wishes to see you." Once again she held out the note.

He regarded it with all the fondness one might feel for an overripe kipper. They stood

facing one another, a few feet apart, as if a bottomless chasm had opened in the f loor

between them.

"She sent this. She wishes to see you," she repeated, feeling he must not properly

comprehend the case.

"Well, I do not wish to see her," he replied sweetly. "Good God, what can she want, the

little—" He stopped himself. "You didn't tell her I was here, did you?"

The tone of this callous rejoinder, while not entirely unwelcome to her feelings,

somewhat shocked Callie. She'd been feeling miserably ashamed, awakened from a brief

dream in his arms to reality again—a reality now graced by the woman he loved so

deeply that he had been willing to sacrifice his very life for her. But he didn't appear to

understand the situation at all.

"Of course I told her," she said. "I've arranged for her to come here masked tonight, so

that you can safely meet."

He shook his head slowly. "Callie. Do you despise me that much?"

She lowered her hand, curling her fingers over the note. "But… she's come to find

you."

"What a gratifying thought. Doubtless she may offer me some further opportunity to

hang on her behalf. Thank you, I believe I'll avoid the prospect—and the adorable Mrs.

Fowler—altogether."

Callie turned away, walking across to her dressing table. She dropped the note in an

empty pin holder and sat down in bewilderment. "I thought you would wish to see her."

"What possible reason could I have to want to see her?" he demanded. "I've had done

with the woman, you may be sure."

She picked up a discarded scarf and began to fold it mechanically. "I suppose… I can

understand that you've come to regret your… sacrifice… on her behalf."

He gave a low laugh. "Oh my God." He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

"Regret!"

"I thought—" She paused. "Then you don't love her anymore?"

"Been reading the newspapers, have you?" His voice was full of scorn.

"I did read of it, yes," she said uncomfortably. She tied a knot in the scarf.

"I see." He gave her a civil bow. "I collect that you subscribe to the school of scandal

rags that casts me as a hero for shielding my wife, rather than a scoundrel who forged a

note of hand for her to pass to her creditors." He made a casual, contemptuous f lick of

his fingers. "I'm not sure which is more flattering, being thought a criminal or a

screaming fool."

"Nothing of the sort!" she exclaimed. "I never thought you a criminal. I hope I know

you better than that. And however much a miscarriage of justice it might be, surely no

one would suggest a gentleman was a fool to risk his own life to protect his wife."

"Doubtless it would be exceedingly chivalrous, if she
were
my wife."

"If she—" Callie started to speak, then broke off and blinked at him. "She isn't?"

"You have to ask me that?" he inquired bitterly. "I would have thought… you, of

everyone—" He blew out a harsh breath. "But what difference does it make?" He

shrugged. "No, she isn't. I've never married. Much to my mother's disgust." He gave a

slight laugh and leaned against the bedpost, watching her from under lowered lashes.

"I've been in love with you, you know, since I was sixteen years old."

He said it in such a composed way, that for a moment she didn't quite take his meaning.

She blinked down at the contorted scarf in her hands, frowning. She forgot, sometimes,

how fine and carelessly handsome he was, but it came upon her now with strong force.

She forgot because he was her friend; he was simply Trev, who made her laugh. She had

adventured with him and had trusted him, slept in his arms.

"But why do I trouble myself to tell you?" he continued, as if he were speaking to

someone else. "You never believe me, and it's not as if I can do anything to the point

about it. I might as well be in love with your hosiery, for all the future there is in it."

"I don't—" She struggled with words. "I don't know that I don't believe you, precisely.

You're very dear to me, and I'm sure I'm dear to you too. We're excellent friends."

"Of course." He nodded. "Friends. And now I'll just go and find a suitable cliff from

which to cast myself."

"Oh come," she said with a wan smile.

"My God." He pushed away from the bedpost. "Friends! And do you fall into bed with

any man who's 'dear' to you? How am I to take that?"

"Of course I don't." She stood up, letting the knotted scarf slip away. "I can't seem to

help myself. With you. About that. It's extremely vexing."

"You're quite right on that count," he said sullenly. "I'm damned vexed. I'd like to vex

you right here on the floor, in fact. And the idea of Sturgeon vexing you is enough to

dispose me to murder. Is that clear? Do you comprehend me?" He took a reckless stride

toward her and caught her chin between his fingers. "I'm not your
friend
, my lady. I'm

your lover."

She was startled into immobility, except to blink rapidly as he looked down into her

eyes from so close. He bent and kissed her, a featherlight touch that belied the strength in

his hand, a kiss that deepened and invaded her until she was quivering in every limb.

He broke it off, still holding her face. "Has he kissed you like that?"

Wordlessly, she shook her head.

"Have any of them kissed you like that?" he demanded. "Have you had any other?"

She drew a deep breath and thrust out her lower lip. "Have you?"

He held her, looking down with a grim hauteur. "That's not an answer. But would you

care if I had?"

It ought to have been uncomfortable to be held in such a forceful manner, but for some

reason Callie was merely breathless. "I suppose I—" She faltered. She found the truth

excruciatingly difficult to admit. "I'm sure a gentleman such as yourself has a number

of… of opportunities, and it would be unnatural, doubtless, if you had not responded."

He let go of her and swung away impatiently. "Oh, I've had other opportunities, true

enough."

As Callie had not herself had any prospects of that nature, she felt at a considerable

disadvantage. "Well, then. Perhaps I might care. A little. That is human nature, is it not?"

She confessed that much with some effort. "But I would not allow it to disturb me

unduly."

He put his arm along the mantel and stared into the cold fireplace. "You're quite

worldly about it, I see," he said with a tight smile. "And here I've been saving myself like

some boy virgin."

She gave him a doubtful look. "I beg your pardon?"

He leaned on his fist. "To answer your question— yes, I've had other opportunities," he

said brusquely. "Yes, I've taken some up. But something always stopped me in the

breach. I don't know if you can understand that. I don't know that I understood it myself

until lately. But I seem to be yours, Callie. Body and soul." He didn't sound as if it made

him happy. "I will be till I die."

She stood silent, turning the words over in her mind as if they were a strange device

that she could not find the key to understand. With a shy move, she looked away and

caught a glimpse of both of them in the mirror on her dressing table. Herself, with red

hair and a high-colored complexion—if not quite dread fully plain, then certainly with no

particular beauty— and him, watching her in the glass, dark-eyed and masculine,

exceptionally handsome by any measure.

The f lush on her cheeks deepened. She felt strange to herself, mortified and confused.

"I don't see how that can be true," she whispered.

"No," he said. His mouth was grim. "No, you can't, because all you can see is what's in

that mirror. So!
Eh bien! Sell yourself to Sturgeon. I'll b
e removing to France in any

event," he added, "where I'll find myself some vintner who'll overcome his republican

scruples so that his daughter can call herself a duchesse. And everything will be
très

convenable,
n'est-ce pas?"

"You're mine?" she asked in a faint voice, still bemused by his words.

"I'll do my best to overcome the sentiment, so do not concern yourself about it." He

thrust his hands in his pockets. "Ah, and here is your key." He withdrew the key and

tossed it onto her dressing table. "I found nothing amiss with the books. They conform to

the bank ledgers perfectly, so no hope that the good major can be dissuaded from his

engagement to marry your fortune."

She picked up the key and turned it over in her palm, looking down at it. "Did you wish

to dissuade him?"

"No such thing," he said in a curt voice. "I merely wanted to satisfy myself as to who

had blackmailed him. But it remains a mystery, and I daresay it always will now. Since

Mrs. Fowler has managed to locate me, and you've all these assistant secretaries running

haphazardly about the house, I don't think I'll tarry here much longer."

"I don't understand you. If you weren't married—if you never loved her—then why—"

She clenched her fist on the key. "
Why
did you do such a thing for her?"

"Because I
am
a screaming fool, that's why!" he snapped. "It wasn't out of love for
her
,

you may be sure. I did it for a friend."

"A friend!" she cried indignantly. "What sort of friend would ask such a thing of you?"

"Hush. Do you want to bring the secretaries down upon on us?"

Callie plopped down in a chair, looking up at him. "What I want is to know how you

came to be convicted of a crime on behalf of this Mrs. Fowler. I'm coming to dislike her

extremely now, and perhaps I may turn her over to one of these secretaries myself."

He shrugged. "A benevolent thought, but it would do no good. There's no evidence

against her that hasn't already been dismissed by the court. You'd have to bring her to

confess to Sidmouth himself, and there's slim chance of that. She may complain of her

notoriety, but she likes having her neck spared well enough."

"But why did you do it? You didn't raise a finger to defend yourself!"

"It was ill-judged, I'll admit. Though it might have been worse."

"So it might!" she agreed angrily. "I should like to know what so-called friend caused

you to put yourself in such peril! And then I should like to see him tossed head over heels

on Hubert's horns." She paused. "Or her," she added conscientiously.

"Him," Trev said. "But you'd have liked him, Callie. And I know he would have very

much liked you. We had a quip between us—" He stopped himself, looking conscious.

"Well, that's no matter. Perhaps a female wouldn't appreciate the humor."

"Perhaps," she said. Some of her rigidity left her, but she felt dissatisfied that she wasn't

to be let in on whatever humor this might be. "I collect he is no longer living?"

"No," Trev said shortly. "He's dead."

"I'm sorry." Callie lowered her eyes. To be candid, she found herself jealous of any

friend who commanded such loyalty from him. "I'm sure you miss him," she said,

attempting to enter into his feelings. "Was he a Frenchman?"

He gave a laugh. "The Rooster? No, not hardly! Though I met him in France."

"Oh," she said. "Oh, of course. The pugilist." Callie supposed she shouldn't be taken

aback; the papers had mentioned his association with Mrs. Fowler's late husband, but she

had never imagined that Trev would have a close rapport with one of the great, hulking

men who pounded one another to bloody, raw flesh in their illegal bouts.

He seemed to read her thoughts, for he clasped his hands behind his back and bowed. "I

haven't led a very respectable life since I left Shelford, my lady."

She bent her head. "No, I suppose you haven't."

"I expect if you've read the papers, you know that I've got no property in France,

either," he added gruff ly. "It's all a great fabrication that I made up to please my mother."

She had deduced that, in fact, and spent a number of her nights composing scornful

remarks to her pillow on his general perfidy and falsehood. But she only said, "I see."

"I made an attempt to recover it," he said, "and all I received for my trouble was to find

myself in the clutches of a moneylender the likes of whom I'd knife in the back if I met

him today. But I was young and witless, and I wanted to have Monceaux; I wanted to go

to my grandfather and tell him I had it back. Sadly for these fine ambitions, what I got

was beaten sense less in a back alley of Paris."

Callie listened with her eyes lowered. In mockery he called her worldly wise, but she

had stayed in Shelford, dreaming of adventures, reading his letters full of humor and

invented tales, while he had gone out and been beaten up in an alley.

"But to shorten this unedifying story," he continued, "I fell in with some English

deserters after the war. Big fellows. We were all starving to death." He gave a humorless

laugh. "I had the lucky notion of making an exhibition of English boxing in Paris. None

of us knew a thing about fighting, so we fixed it. It was a sensation. I'd call for a

volunteer to take on these English
goddamns
—you'll pardon another lesson in my