Never a Gentleman (18 page)

“Not even while you’ve lived with Lady Kate?”

“She likes opera no more than you.”

He nodded, thoughtful. “True. What about other forms of entertainment? What do you do in your leisure time?”

She had always sewed and cooked and cleaned. “Well,” she said instead, as the waiter traded the soup for sole, “my father
always made sure we had a library with us. I enjoy the classics.”

His fork poised over his fish, he scowled. “Not, please, in the original texts.”

“And why not?”

He groaned. “My dear, you are unnatural, and it shouldn’t be mentioned. Your erudition is quite lost on me. You would have
made a much better bride for my brother Robert.”

She blinked, surprised. “You have a brother?”

It was only a moment, but he hesitated before smiling. “Had.” Grace saw pain at the back of those cool gray eyes. “Lovely
chap. Up and coming churchman, being groomed for great things.”

She wanted to hold his hand. She held herself still. “What happened?”

Another pause. A sip of wine. “Oh, nothing worth remark. He simply wasn’t up to the bishop’s weight.” Before she could continue,
he flashed a bland smile that closed the door. “What about other interests?” he asked. “Theater? Ballet? Anything that would
constitute proper dinner conversation?”

She dug out a smile. “Harry Lidge once organized a production of
School for Scandal
. Harry played Lady Sneerwell.”

“Who did you play?” he retorted easily. “Truehearted Maria?”

He had to know how ludicrous that was. Maria was beautiful.

“The troupe was made up of soldiers,” she said, turning her attention to the
relevé de poisson
. “My role was that of appreciative audience.”

For a long moment, the only sounds between them were the desultory clinking of silverware and glasses as they picked at their
food.

“That was in India?” Diccan finally asked, his voice uncommonly hesitant. “The play? I know Harry said that he met you there.
Over an elephant, I believe?”

“In Hyderabad. He saved me from being trampled.” She smiled at the memory. “I believe the fact that he was the one who got
the elephant drunk in the first place weighed in his actions.”

Diccan cocked an eyebrow. “How much ale does it take to inebriate an elephant?”

“Not ale. Whisky. And pretty much all of the commandant’s supply.”

He chuckled. “No wonder Harry’s still only a major. How long were you there?”

She shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable again, wondering what Diccan really thought of her vagabond life. “I was born there,
in Calcutta. We returned twice, once with Wellington and once with General Lake. As a matter of fact, I was inside Bharatpur
when he put it to siege.”

She wasn’t sure why she said it. Maybe just to see Diccan’s reaction. She wished she could have been surprised. He stared
as if she’d said she was a member of the Hellfire Club.

“You were inside an enemy city in India during a military siege? Weren’t you terrified?”

She thought back to those lazy days in the sunwashed rooms high above the fighting and smiled. “I suppose I should have been.
I was fourteen and had been saved by the locals from bandits on the road to Deeg. Sadly, it was just before our army advanced.
The only reason I was spared was because Ranjit Singh thought I was Irish, and he said it was a fact that the Irish hated
the British.”

“It must have been an immense relief to have been rescued.”

She could see the assumption in his expression: she’d gone from hell to heaven by the mere act of walking out the great gates
of Lohagarh Fort. In her mind, though, she saw how the latticed stone window embrasures of the
zenena
had woven sunlight into lace. She heard the chuckling fountains fill the marble halls with music. She could almost smell
the jasmine again, hear the chatter of the brilliant, birdlike women who had pampered her, feeding her sweetmeats and honey.
And, intruding like the stalking approach of a great giant, the syncopated thuds of the big guns as Lake threw his cannonballs
against the massive mud walls down the hill.

Some days she had stood at the high windows trying to find her father across the great moat, where the army endlessly scattered
and reformed, like industrious ants in crimson. Some days she’d wondered if she really wanted to be saved at all.

But was that something she could share with Diccan? Her chest tight, she tried. “Of course I was glad. My father worried himself
sick. But I cannot say I was abused in any way. I spent the time teaching the ladies of the
zenena
to dice. They gave me henna tattoos. I thought it quite an adventure.”

Behind her, someone gasped. Grace looked over to see that a woman at the next table was leveling an expression of delighted
horror at Grace through her lorgnette. In fact, there were others watching, their hands stilled over cutlery or cups as if
too interested to remember to eat.

Grace blushed. She sought support from Diccan, but he must have heard the woman, too. His attention was on her, his expression
suddenly tight. “Something you might think twice about sharing,” he said, his gaze swinging back to Grace, distaste suddenly
chilling his voice.

Her fragile hope fluttered back to earth, once again a spent balloon. “Why is that?”

He cocked an eyebrow and lowered his voice. “You truly think stories of time spent in a heathen harem are appropriate for
polite conversation?”

Grace opened her mouth to protest, but Diccan had already turned back to his dinner. She was so tempted to blurt out what
other knowledge the women had imparted behind upraised hands and eunuch-guarded doors. She wanted to assure him that if she
had applied the lessons taught there, she could never have dyed her nether hair any color. She wouldn’t have had any to dye.

“I thought you of all people would be amused,” she said, unable to surrender.

“I’m not sure why.” His smile was cool as he watched the waiter switch courses. The thick scent of beef replaced the memory
of jasmine and sweetmeats. “I hardly espouse the unusual.”

Grace peered at him, praying to see his sly humor peek through the stuffiness. She couldn’t find it. “Didn’t you join the
diplomatic corps to experience the world?”

He picked up his fork. “I joined the diplomatic corps
to be as far away from my father as I could get. So far, it’s worked a treat.”

“If I can’t talk of my life in India,” she asked, “what am I allowed to speak of? As your wife.”

His voice was mild, a teacher with a slow pupil. “Anything that would not shock a proper British woman.”

And a woman who had enjoyed her time in
zenenas
wasn’t a proper British woman. Or a woman who read Greek or shot bandits or made snowshoes. Grace’s enjoyment of their conversation
died after that. Expounding on the difficulty of living abroad as a British man, Diccan focused on his
boeuf tremblant.
Grace wasn’t even certain that he knew she’d stopped eating.

Could Diccan truly be as hidebound as his black-and-white uniform implied? Grace thought of the treasures she’d hoarded back
at Longbridge. The treasures that now might never see the light of day.

By the time Diccan left for the embassy ball, she was almost glad to see him go.

Diccan was still thinking about that dinner an hour later as he did the pretty at the Belgian Embassy ball. Standing by the
balcony doors with a champagne glass in his hand, he watched the guests whirl past in a waltz and thought of the wife he’d
left back in the hotel. He tried to imagine the most invisible woman in the
ton
fitting in among this rarefied company.

He couldn’t. He couldn’t imagine a day when Grace would feel comfortable in this atmosphere. It was too bright, too cutthroat,
too exclusive. She was a soldier’s daughter with a limp.

A soldier’s daughter with a wicked sense of humor and
better stories than he’d brought back from his travels. He smiled to himself. He wished he could have heard the rest of that
zenena
story. She had looked so happy recounting her memories. He wondered what other lessons she’d learned.

Thank God he hadn’t found out. It had been such a close call. If that old harridan at the next table hadn’t gasped, he wasn’t
sure what would have happened. He was sure that observers would have seen him lean in toward Grace, as if he could ingest
her words more easily. They surely would have seen them smiling at each other, maybe touching. She’d come close when he’d
told her about Robert. They might have looked like a couple intent on growing closer.

Just the thought sent a
frisson
down his spine. If Bertie had been right, that was a sure recipe for disaster. Diccan had recognized several people in the
restaurant. He couldn’t have named any as Lions, but the minute he’d looked up, he had felt that odd tingling at the base
of his neck that warned him of a threat. Someone in that room had been far too interested in Diccan’s table.

“Heard you’ve been caught in the parson’s mousetrap,” a sultry voice purred next to him.

Diccan looked over to see Lady Glenfallon standing alongside him, sipping from a flute of champagne. Bette and he had been
lovers once, back in Vienna. He hadn’t regretted her loss at all. She was the very kind of harpy he would have to protect
Grace from.

“I did. General Sir Hillary Fairchild’s daughter. Will you congratulate me?”

Her drawn black eyebrows headed north. “I believe I’ll congratulate me,” she said with a sly smile. “With a wife like that,
it won’t be long before you’re looking for… diversion.”

He wanted to tell the bitch that the last thing he would
do was betray an honorable woman. He knew he couldn’t. He lifted his glass in a toast. “I am in awe of her industry and compassion.”

Bette’s laugh sparkled. “Oh, a worthy woman, is it? I can only hope I can meet this paragon. Will she have you going to church,
do you think? Supporting indigent widows and climbing boys?”

“Of course. Can I count on a contribution?”

Eventually she wandered off. He watched her go and felt his spirits sink even more. He couldn’t expose Grace to women like
Bette. They would destroy her. They wouldn’t be crude, of course. They were far too subtle, their weapons words and glances
and the fine art of silence. But those were much crueler weapons to a woman like Grace. They would wear at her like poverty
until there was nothing left of the woman he’d called Boadicea but misery. He had to keep her from them for her own good.

He nodded to Lord Castlereagh. Across the room, Sir Charles Stuart smiled and waved. Diccan didn’t want to hurt Grace. She
was a nice woman. She
was
worthy, damn it. But this wasn’t her world. It was his. He felt alive when he was swimming in these waters, where policy
was woven and futures staked. He was damn good at it. But what chance of success did he have with a wife like Grace?

Just then, Marcus Drake stepped up, an intent look on his face. “I need to speak with you.”

Diccan felt that tingling at the base of his neck again. Without a word, he stepped outside onto the balcony.

“You were seen being very friendly with your wife tonight,” Marcus accused without preamble.

Diccan sighed. “The entire report should have mentioned the fact that we left each other in a less felicitous manner.”

Drake looked over at him, as if assessing his veracity. “I know this is difficult, but you must realize that we’re not the
only people watching you.”

It took Diccan a moment to answer. “Do you know that for sure?”

Drake looked out onto the darkened garden. “One of Thirsk’s men has seen them.”

Diccan hated the idea that he hadn’t seen his shadows. “Anyone I know?”

“No. I’ll have him point them out for you.”

“Good. I think I might be for an early evening tonight then. Fill in my people.”

“Not ’til you hear the rest.”

Diccan heard the portent in those words and stopped cold. “What rest?”

Marcus looked down the balcony, but it was empty. “Bentley is dead.”

Diccan froze. “What? Not suicide.”

“No. Not like Evenham.”

Not like Evenham; in an explosion of gore that he could still smell in his sleep.
“Then how?”

“His throat was slit.”

Diccan felt the air go out of him. “I don’t suppose…”

“That there was a message carved on him?” Drake shoved a hand through his hair, and Diccan could see the distress in his eyes.
“This information is privileged. The story will be that he was set upon by footpads. But yes. It was down his torso.
It is a wise father who knows his own son
.”

Diccan rubbed at his forehead. “The Surgeon. Does that mean the old man was involved?”

“We don’t know. Did you manage to get your person stationed in his house?”

Diccan nodded.

“I need you to come back with me. We have to bring your people up to snuff, and then we need a more experienced eye on the
situation. Bentley was last seen with Thornton.”

Diccan was already shaking his head.

“Thornton? He doesn’t have the brains to plot a birthday party, much less a revolution.”

“Yes, but he is close as inkle weavers with Geoffrey Smythe, who does, and who works in Sidmouth’s office. We think it’s time
for you to reacquaint yourself with that crowd.”

Diccan bristled, suddenly furious at all the duplicity. “Why not let the professionals do that?”

Drake leaned close. “Evenham said there was a leak in Sidmouth’s office. I think he’s right. Which means that we can’t trust
them to investigate their own people.”

Diccan rubbed at his temple. “I’ll send Grace a message to say I’ll be late.”

“You’ll send Grace nothing.”

Diccan looked at his friend and mentor and cursed. Of course he was right. He couldn’t tell Grace. He couldn’t afford her
the most basic courtesy. He was liking himself less and less.

Grace didn’t sleep that night. She kept listening for Diccan’s footsteps and feeling foolish for it. Was this what her marriage
would be? Would she be forever waiting for her husband to return? She wished she didn’t care. But she did. She was bound to
a man who would never appreciate her. A man who saw her more as
aide-de-camp
than lover.
Oh, she couldn’t expect him to ever love her. But suddenly, in the thick silence of a strange room, she wanted him to
want
her. To need her. To miss her when she was gone and be glad when she returned. She wanted to belong to him.