Lessons in French (49 page)

"Oh, I am ready!" she exclaimed. "I can go tonight if I must."

"What of your son?" Callie asked, the point on which she was most uneasy with this

snare.

"Oh, he's well enough where he is; I've left him with Mr. Fowler's parents. They dote

on him, I assure you!" She gave a nervous giggle. "I think he would much rather his

mama escape with her life than take the time to fetch him, don't you?"

"It must be terrifying." Callie watched Mrs. Fowler through her mask. "Monsieur told

me a little of how he felt, fearing for what might be done to him."

"Indeed—I thought from what you said he must have told you—and I'm quite in mortal

danger, you know!"

"You must be very courageous, though."

"Oh, I'm the veriest coward, I do assure you, my lady."

"But to forge a note of hand, not once but twice, and then pass them both. You must be

as daring as any highwayman, I think."

She lifted the mask to her eyes and gave a pert twitch of her head. "I suppose it was

rather daring of me," she said. "I shouldn't speak to you of it, though." Her eyes danced

with mischief. "You might witness against me!"

"We need not call my lady to witness, I believe," said a man's voice. Lord Sidmouth

stepped from the shadows behind the tall laundry mangle. The courtyard door swung shut

and revealed Sir Thomas standing behind it.

Mrs. Fowler gave a shriek. The outer door was blocked, but she threw herself past

Callie, making a rush across the laundry room for the corridor. In the dim light, Lord

Sidmouth tried to catch her, but after an instant's struggle, he was left with only her black

cloak in his hand. She escaped to the passage. Hermey's fiancé started to run after her, but

the secretary stopped him with a raised hand.

"Sir Thomas," Lord Sidmouth said calmly, "we don't wish to cause a scene at her

ladyship's excellent fete. Let her go."

"Let her go, sir?" Sir Thomas frowned.

"Let her go." He picked up the card Mrs. Foster had written, and then asked Callie for

the note in which she had confessed. For a time that seemed to stretch to infinity, he

stood reading and comparing the two by the lamplight.

Finally he looked up at Sir Thomas. "You may rejoin your betrothed. I'm certain that

she's wondering what's become of you." Lord Sidmouth tucked the two papers inside his

coat and turned to Callie. "My lady—would you do me the honor of allowing me to

escort you?"

Callie's heart sank. She saw her hope of clearing Trev's name vanish before her eyes in

his easy dismissal of the whole incident. But he held out his arm, and she could think of

nothing to do but accept it. "Thank you," she said in a small voice.

They followed Sir Thomas out into the dimly lit corridor. As his figure disappeared up

the stairs, Lord Sidmouth murmured, "I should like to speak to you in privacy, my dear.

I'm sure all is at sixes and sevens, but is there some respectable place that we may be

quiet?"

Callie was quite familiar with the servants' range. "The housekeeper's parlor," she said,

swallowing her nerves. "She can look in, but she won't disturb us."

"Excellent. And perhaps she'll see that we have a cup of strong tea—I've had a surfeit

of punch for the night."

This plan was carried out easily enough, Callie being a favorite belowstairs. In the

plain, cozy sitting room, Lord Sidmouth dropped a lump of sugar in his tea and sat back

in the housekeeper's overstuffed chair. Callie perched on a straight-backed stool, feeling

much like a frightened maid called up to account.

"My lady," he said, "I must admire your cleverness. The episode produced an

abundance of evidence that can be used in a court of law. But I was brought into it rather

suddenly and find myself a little at sea. If you will be so good as to explain to me, why

did she come to you in search of LeBlanc?"

Callie bit her lip. She still retained her mask, for which she was grateful as she felt the

blood rise hotly in her face. But it was time and enough to speak some truth, she thought.

"He isn't Monsieur LeBlanc. He is the Duc de Monceaux. His mother has resided here in

the village for many years after they escaped from France."

"I see." The secretary accepted that with a thoughtful nod. "He is a friend of your

family, then."

Callie cleared her throat. "Yes," she said, not quite adhering to her intention to speak

the whole truth. "That is, his mother is very dear to me. He came here to say farewell to

her before he left England. He's gone now."

A faint smile flickered over his thin lips. "Doubtless." He regarded her for a few

moments. "I must tell you, Lady Callista, that whatever his name may be, I was under a

great deal of political pressure after his convic tion. The king most sincerely wished to

pardon him."

She said nothing to that, not knowing what reply to make.

"I can't blame you if you don't follow these matters, of course. It was a most unpleasant

case: a young woman of such… attractive manners. The public does not hold with

hanging the young and lovely, and who can blame them? The newspapers became

involved. Sides were taken. We'd have had riots. Yet a great crime had been committed,

and the law must be satisfied. Particularly in a case of forgery. The faith of the nation

rests on a signature, my dear. Our banks would fail if we could not trust the notes that are

passed."

She nodded, feeling a little sick.

"Yes, I can see that you don't like what you hear. But a full pardon was not possible. He

did not defend himself. The lady did. With vigor."

She frowned behind her mask. "But the evidence…"

"Such evidence as there was spared his life. The jury convicted him, and the judge

condemned him to death, in accordance with the law. He received a conditional pardon.

He was not transported by force or sent to the hulks. I felt at the time that a reasonable

compromise had been reached between the demands of the law and humanity."

"At the time?" she asked, her voice trembling.

"Outright pardon is an infrequent grace, my lady, by necessity. The awful power of the

law is tempered by the king's mercy, but you will understand that it must not be casually

extended."

She blinked behind the mask. "But the king himself, you said—"

Lord Sidmouth's lips flattened. "His Majesty in his compassion would pardon the entire

roll of felons in Newgate," he said. "Your king, ma'am, has a very soft heart. And certain

gentlemen of the sporting crowd had his ear in this case. It falls to me and his council to

examine the petitions with a little more severity. When all the circumstances and the

effect on the public mind were taken into consideration, we did not feel that this petition

merited full pardon."

She bent her head, gripping her hands together and trying not to show her emotion. This

seemed so unjust and capricious that she could not even speak— that he allowed Mrs.

Fowler to escape in order not to disturb a mere ball, but would make an example to the

country of Trev when they must have known he was not guilty.

"However," Lord Sidmouth continued evenly. "There are those rare cases in which the

evidence of innocence is overwhelming." He looked up at her. "Reconsideration must be

made. As you seem to take a friendly interest in his… ah… his mother… you may inform

her that on the basis of what I have witnessed tonight, and these notes in evidence, the

petition will be reopened. He will receive a full and unconditional pardon."

Callie sprang up from her seat. "Sir!" she exclaimed. "Oh, sir."

"Full and unconditional. She has my word on it."

Twenty-Three

SUCH WAS HER EUPHORIA THAT CALLIE WAS ALL THE way up the stairs and

hurrying into the crowd of guests before she brought to mind that she had no one to tell

the news. She paused, pushing the dangling plume from its favored position covering the

right eyehole of her mask. All day she had felt benumbed, until she had discovered Mrs.

Fowler's note, and then her determination to act on it had kept all other feelings at bay.

But now the full impact of his absence came over her. It was nearly midnight; she

couldn't even go to the duchesse. She experienced such a rapid descent in her emotion

that she nearly stood there in the midst of the masqueraders and burst into tears.

"My lady." A gentleman spoke low, very near her ear.

Callie turned. Her mask and the plume obscured her vision, but that voice sent a shock

of recognition down her spine.

"I've come for you," he said. He laid his hand on her arm.

She turned and saw him: masked, dressed in loose shirtsleeves, his collar open and a

bloodred sash about his waist. He carried a sword in a glittering sheath, a real one—she

recognized the elegant weapon that hung above the mantelpiece at Dove House. With his

black hair and dark skin and a pair of yellow breeches thrust down inside his tall boots in

the billowing Cossack style, he looked a corsair indeed.

She could have blurted out her news. It was her first thought, but hard on that came the

memory of his leaving and what he had said to her. She stiffened, resisting his touch.

Guests nearby gave them curious glances, as well they might, for of all the costumes,

his was the most simple and yet the most dramatic. Scandalous, without a waistcoat or

cover for his shirt, with the muscle in his shoulders obvious and his collar points dangling

carelessly down so that his throat and chest were half revealed. Dolly, in a small coterie

of her friends, was staring openly.

"I'm shocked to see you here," she said, with more dignity than she could have

summoned without a mask to hide her face.

He did not reply. He looked down at her, his mouth grim below the black mask tied

across his eyes. The first notes of a waltz drifted above the crowd of guests. He caught

her about the waist and swept her into the dance.

"I thought you were going elsewhere," she said, blowing the plume from her face as

they turned.

Still he did not speak. Resentment began to rise in her, that he would come back again.

Again! How many times was she to be teased and mocked? If he said again that he loved

her, and that he must go away, she would scream. Perversely, she suddenly wanted to

keep her hard-gained victory on his behalf to herself.

"To the devil, in fact," she added, lifting her chin.

"Oh yes," he murmured. "And this time I'm taking you with me."

Callie glanced up at him, tripping a little. He held her up in balance, turning them both

to the music. Through the mask, his eyes glinted. She was already flushed from the

dance, but these words caused her to lose her breath for an instant.

Her agitation increased as she noticed Major Sturgeon coming toward them across the

floor. Her fingers tightened on Trev's shoulder. He glanced over her head and then gave a

smile that was most piratical under the mask.

"Oh dear," she whispered. "Don't make a scene."

The smile vanished. He gazed down at her steadily. "Is that what you want? No

scenes?"

As they swung and whirled to the music, his arms held her firmly but lightly, like a

question. Another turn, and Callie saw the major again. He had stopped to let another

couple dance past. She was having trouble finding her breath. Dolly and Hermey and Sir

Thomas were standing along the edge of the floor, all looking toward her. Lord Sidmouth

also watched, tall and grave, without a mask to hide his stern features and flyaway hair.

With each circle, she realized that the audience to her waltz was growing, speculative

glances and whispers behind fans. Callie felt herself shrinking. She was what she had

dreaded to be all her life: the center of attention.

The music began to sweep to a close. Major Sturgeon reached them just as the orchestra

ceased to play and a gong started to toll midnight. It was the signal for everyone to

unmask, but instead, when the bell fell silent there was a frozen stillness; everyone

paused and turned to look at Callie and her partner.

"Unhand my betrothed," the major said, his voice low but carrying in the weird

quietness of the ballroom.

Trev ignored him. Instead he stood looking down at Callie. She was aware of her

costume all disordered, her mask askew from the dance and her feathers fallen down. She

must appear a ridiculous figure. But Trev tilted his head a little, an inquiry. "Make your

choice, my lady," he murmured.

Her fingers rested on his open palm. The answer was hers to make: he would let her go

in a moment.

Callie took a deep breath, in hopes of preventing herself from swooning on the spot.

She turned to Major Sturgeon. He wasn't even looking at her; he was glaring through his

mask at Trev, reaching for the weapon at his side. He appeared to have forgot that it was

a scimitar of pasteboard.

"I beg your pardon," she said. Her voice seemed to catch, but she cleared her throat and

pushed her mask up above her face as he glanced at her. "I beg your pardon, Major," she

said, so much more strongly that her voice made an echo in the hushed room.

He turned to her, making a slight bow of acknowledgment. "My lady. I must ask you to

allow me the honor of escorting you to the refreshments."

"Thank you," she said, "but I wish—"