The Lily Brand (24 page)

Coldness reached for Lillian, clamping around her heart like a painful vise. Dear God, did none of them see that his smiles were all façade? That beneath the cool veneer he was hurt and suffering the torments of the damned?

She looked around the table, yet all faces reflected delight at his romantic display. Only when her frantic gaze reached de la Mere and Allenbright did she find any who had seen beneath his charade, who had noticed his emotional pain.

Lillian closed her eyes.
I wish I had drowned that night on the Channel. I wish the waves had reached up and closed over my head.

~*~

The damask-covered table could have safely held nine people. It was laid out for sixteen, forcing the guests to squeeze together while course after course of food appeared. Lillian was still unused enough to the opulence of London dinner parties to marvel at the many dishes that the footmen brought for each course—sometimes as many as twenty different delicacies. Lillian tasted mutton roast with thyme butter, pistachio cream, duckling with apple and chestnuts, stewed mushrooms, little fish cakes, roast beef and rosemary sauce, woodcock, boiled potatoes, lobster cream, guinea fowl with asparagus, duck and orange salad, green peas in a white sauce.

During the fifth course—Mr. Allen was busy carving the roast pheasant—Mr. Foscolo got into a heated argument with Lord Eckersley. They leaned forward and backward or stretched up to talk around or over Lady Eckersley, who sat between them. In the height of his agitation, Air. Foscolo’s English got mixed with more and more languages.

In between, Mr. White’s mournful murmurings reached Lillian’s ear. Obviously he was keeping track of each new language Mr. Foscolo brought in. “French… Portuguese… Latin… German…”

“
Diabolo!
”

Lady Eckersley visibly winced when Mr. Foscolo’s fork missed her nose by scant inches.

“Spanish!” Mr. White said almost triumphantly.

His eyes wide with disbelief, Ravenhurst stuck his nose into his wineglass. “This is worse than Bedlam,” he muttered.

“
Gentlemen!
” Lady Holland rapped her fan against the table in a vain effort to stop the heated discussion. All she achieved was knocking over her husband’s glass.

“No! I do not agree, sir!” Mr. Foscolo jumped up, knife still in hand, and proceeded to march around the room, all the while talking rapidly. Important points he emphasized by slashing his knife through the air.

“Oh dear,” Lady Holland sighed. But there was nothing to be done.

After the main courses, the footmen removed the tablecloth and afterward carried up the desserts and champagne wines. Full of wonder Lillian eyed the assortment of exotic fruits, and the creams and puddings that were spread out on the table before her. She tried a bit of the baked Jamaican bananas and the candied pineapple and orange slices. The chocolate cream, however, she liked best of all.

Eventually, the women left the gentlemen to their port and cheroots and ambled back to the crimson drawing room. Here the footmen went around with trays of coffee and tea. Lillian sipped her bitter tea, undiluted by either milk or sugar, while Lady Eckersley discussed with Miss Fox the merits of watercolor. On the settee, meanwhile, Lady Holland told the ladies Swanscott and Holroyd all about Holland House’s priest hole, which was hidden behind a panel in one of the rooms. Apparently, the mistress of the house liked a good, bloody tale, for she launched herself with enthusiasm into a long, gory story of how the Roundheads once searched the house, dragged the poor priest off, and how afterward all came to a horrible, horrible end.

Lillian hid her smile behind her teacup.

She looked up when the door opened and the butler appeared. To her surprise, he strode toward her, bowed, and then leaned down to whisper discreetly, “I beg your pardon, my lady, there is a lady waiting for you downstairs. She says she has important business to discuss with you, but I could not show her up. Lady Holland does not like surprise additions to her dinner parties.” He stood back.

“I quite understand,” Lillian hastened to assure him. Who could this mysterious lady be? Hesitantly, she put her cup on a side table and stood.

“Is everything all right, my dear?” inquired Lady Holland from the settee.

Lillian forced herself to smile. “Everything is fine, my lady. Thank you. If you will excuse me? I will be right back.” She nodded at the butler, who led her out of the room and back to the great staircase.

“This lady, did she not give you her name?” Lillian asked.

The servant shook his head. “She did not. I am sorry, my lady. Yet she has the manner and looks of one of high rank.”

“I see.” The oaken banister felt slippery under Lillian’s hand.

They reached the landing and rounded the bend in the stairs, allowing Lillian a clear view of the woman who was waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. A tall, sleek man hovered behind her.

When the woman caught sight of Lillian, her ruby red lips lifted into a smile. “
Bon soir,
chérie
,” she said.

Chapter 14

It was, Troy had to admit, the sneakiest, most perfect revenge possible. Mr. Prestwood Smith, Esquire, did not stand a chance. First Allen drank with him, soon to be joined by Luttrell. Even Mr. White broke his vow of asceticism for the good cause, sidling up and regaling the stout lawyer with numerous toasts, some in Spanish, some in Irish-Gaelic, some in Latin and Greek. As soon as Drake and Justin had smelled the rat, they cheerfully raided Holland’s drinking cabinet and armed themselves with bottles of whiskey and brandy.

“Look at that!” Drake whistled appreciatively. “Jamaican rum!”

“And Austrian gentian schnapps!” Justin grinned.

“And kirsch! Have you ever had kirsch? No?” Drake had problems balancing all the bottles in his arm. “My dear Prestwood Smith, you simply
must
have some kirsch. I insist on it. It is
delicious
, I tell you, delicious!”

The two friends joined the group around the lawyer, and less than half an hour later, Mr. Prestwood Smith, Esquire, slowly slid off his chair and landed on the floor with a dull thud.

“Dearie me,” said Luttrell.

Mr. Allen took a handkerchief out of his pocket and started to wipe his spectacles. “The poor fellow—”

“Will have such a dreadful headache come tomorrow morning,” Justin finished. He shook his head.

“
Slaínte!
” Mr. White added, his expression slightly less mournful than several minutes before.

“Whatever has happened to poor Mr. Prestwood Smith?” inquired Lord Holland from the other side of the room where he had been absorbed in a discussion with Lord Swanscott about the assets of ancient Greek literature.

With great care, Mr. Allen put his glasses back on his nose. “I am afraid he feels rather indisposed at the moment. In fact, it appears that the food and drinks at Holland House do not quite agree with him.” He peered at his friend. “My lord.”

“I see.” Lord Holland cleared his throat. “Gentlemen, I suggest we join the ladies next door lest anybody else should start feeling… um… indisposed.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Mr. Allen bowed courteously.

Grinning, Troy emptied his glass and left it on the table. As they were all walking toward the door, he sauntered over to his friends. “You two are quite incorrigible,” he said with amusement.

“Troy, my boy, I am devastated.” Drake’s eyes sparkled with devilment. “You do realize that you’ve begun echoing your wife.”

Troy frowned.

“Besides,” Justin said, poking one long finger into his arm. “You have to admit that it was great fun. That odious man only got what was his due. Regard it as a form of… well… higher justice.” He raised his hands in a Gallic shrug.

“Higher justice.” Troy stared at him. “You mean, Drake Bainbridge and Justin de la Mere are the helpers of the gods?”

Drake shrugged. “You heard what Lady Holland said. We are the Dioscuri.—Ahh, Lady Holland, we were just talking about you.” Smiling, he went to the settee where the mistress of the house reclined.

Idly, Troy went to the sideboard and poured himself some coffee. Cup in hand, he turned and scanned the room. Luttrell and Kemble helped Lord Holland, who, after all the sitting, apparently could walk only with great pain, to one of the upholstered chairs. Mr. Foscolo had decided to join Lady Eckersley and Miss Fox in order to regale them with some more of his Italian adventures. Lady Holland was busy ordering Mr. Allen around, while Mr. White had started a conversation with Lady Swanscott.

Troy took a sip from his cup. The bitter coffee hit his tongue in a scalding wave, nearly causing him to drop the delicate china. “
Damn!
” he muttered.

“You were saying?” asked Luttrell, who had come up to the sideboard to pour two cups of tea.

“Nothing.” Troy coughed. “General Luttrell, you haven’t by any chance seen my wife?”

“Your wife?” The other turned, brows lifted quizzically. “Have you misplaced her?”

Troy frowned and let his eyes glide over the assembled party again. “It would seem so.”

“Oh dear.” Luttrell glanced around the room. “You should ask one of the footmen. John?” He snapped his fingers. Immediately, one of the livery-clad figures hurried toward him.

“Sir?”

“Have you any idea where Lady Ravenhurst has gone?”

“Sir?” Hesitantly, the man looked from Luttrell to Troy and back again. “Mr. Lund—the butler—he said there was a lady who demanded to speak to my lady. But he could not let her up, of course. So—”

“Yes?” Troy prompted, growing impatient. He could not imagine what kind of scheme his precious wife was spinning here, but he found it rather annoying. Especially since he had almost,
almost
been prepared to believe his friends were not totally wrong about her.

“So Lady Ravenhurst went downstairs to meet her.”

“And this mysterious lady,” Luttrell drawled. “Does she have a name?”

“No, sir,” said the footman. “I mean, sir, she did not give Mr. Lund one.”

“I see.” Troy put his cup back on the sideboard. “Are they still downstairs?”

“I do not know, my lord.”

“Never mind, I’ll have a look. No,” Troy halted the man. “There’s no need to accompany me. You have got enough work here. I shall find the way by myself.” Giving Luttrell a tight smile, he strode off.

He went through the short passageway into the wainscoted room and through there to the main staircase. From below the sound of murmuring drifted up, too quiet to distinguish the voices, too quiet really to say whether the speakers were male or female. It might be servants talking.

Troy hesitated.

Outside night had long ago fallen, and the staircase was brightly illuminated by several candles. Through the doorway at the far end of it, however, Troy caught a glimpse of another, much smaller and more dimly lit staircase, the servants’ passage most likely. If he was lucky, it would take him to the back of the main staircase, from whence he could observe the speakers unnoticed. Without further ado, he walked to the back stairs and down into darkness. A beam of flickering light showed him another doorway, on level with the first landing of the main staircase.

The voices were much clearer now, much, much clearer.

Cautiously, he approached the archway, making sure that he kept to the shadows all the time. He could already see the head of his wife. Just a little bit nearer now and the second speaker would be visible. Just a little bit…

Troy stopped dead.

A wave of dizziness swept through him.

It cannot be!

His body broke into cold sweat.

It
cannot
be!

Yet the voice—he would never forget that voice, never in his whole life. That melodious voice that flowed over blood-red lips, that rippling laughter that made the tiny hairs on his arms stand on end.

He steadied himself with one hand against the wall and took an unsteady step forward, bringing him into the shadows next to the threshold, just out of the light. Breathing hard, he pressed himself against the wall. His heart thudded in his ears. The metallic taste of remembered fear filled his mouth.
Dear God…

He squeezed his eyes shut, balling his hands into fists. He tried to still the helpless trembling of his body, tried to calm his racing heart so he would hear something over the drum of his pulse.
You have to get a grip! Think! Concentrate!

He opened his eyes again.

La Veuve Noire
had brought one of her men, he now saw. Antoine, the best-loved of her pets. He stood behind her like a golden shadow, his eyes fixed on Lillian, his wife, who was wringing her hands behind her back.

Troy frowned.

There was something in her posture, something he remembered now but had not seen since France: that submissive half-bow of her head. Her eyes would be cast down, he knew, remembered.

He shook himself like a wet dog, willing the last roaring in his ears to subside.

He blinked.

“…ran off like that. Do you not know,
chérie
, that nobody just slips away from Château du Marais? Of course I had to come and see how you are.” The French sounded almost lyrical. “Quite the refined lady you have become, I see.” The woman raised one of her perfectly trimmed eyebrows and waited.

His wife’s answer was almost inaudible. “
Oui, maman
.”

La Veuve Noire
smiled. She reminded Troy of a cat that had caught the mouse but enjoyed playing with it for a while before squashing it under her paw. “And married, I have heard.
Toutes mes félicitations, ma
chérie
.”

“
Merci,
maman.
”

When the Black Widow reached out and trailed one long, ruby-red nail over the younger woman’s cheek, Troy saw his wife flinch.

“So shy,
chérie
?” The sound of the woman’s laughter drifted up, making him feel sick. “Tell me, have you told your husband about the present I gave you? About that precious, precious gift? That magnificent toy?”

His mouth went dry as he realized the woman was talking about him. He swallowed.