by Edith Layton
She, of course, couldn’t dispute his assessment of himself without seeming to be as fascinated by him personally as he’d implied, and neither could she agree without being even more presumptuous. So, as usual, as she’d trained herself to do since she’d taken up her lowly position in life, as all servants must, she did nothing but pretend she hadn’t heard or understood. She walked on silently with him. And he looked down upon that dutifully bent head with its primly drawn-up mass of shining ebony hair and he yearned to shake it free from its bonds even as he itched to shake her bodily from her reverie. And then, sighing, he diverted himself instead by acting as a tour guide, until she looked up and about herself with interest again.
It was a lively section of the city, and an interesting one. And one, as he’d said and she had to admit, that few fine lady tourists even knew existed. It wasn’t a low slum; he knew precisely where that was and would never drive her in a coach within shouting distance of there. But it was a neighborhood for the common man and there’d been a war on. All manner of things were being raucously vended from the lines of carts by the left bank of the Seine, and that filth-choked section of the mighty river was no ranker-smelling than the refuse on the streets that hadn’t been swept into it as yet, and the cast-off, foraged refuse passing as merchandise on so many of the carts.
But the section they strolled to was cheerier, if only because there were so many little wooden cages filled with small birds and animals ranged everywhere there. For, as Arden commented wisely, now that the citizens no longer had to keep from starving by using their little furred and feathered friends in the desperate way they’d had to do during the long wars, they were pleased to have them to dinner in the best meaning of the word again.
She’d stopped to poke one gloved finger through a cage for a tiny orange kitten to bat at, when she heard the sound of crying, so muted it sounded as though some little animal had begun to weep human tears at its homelessness. A very little girl stood near a double row of cages, crying helplessly, and worsening matters by rubbing at her eyes with a dirty fist to keep from weeping more, only to have the tears stream as much from the pain of this fresh irritation as they did from her original misery. Although her hands were filthy, she was plainly but neatly dressed in a faded blue smock, and though her shoes were mended, they were also clean, as was the dark curly hair that had been done up with a tiny bow. She was, even in her distress, far tidier than the hordes of ragged children Francesca had seen playing or scavenging by the riverside.
As she watched, a businesslike woman in black paused by the child and demanded to know what the trouble was. When the little creature only wept the harder, the woman shrugged, and hefting her basket, went on. “There were more children than rats in the gutters of Paris, and if one were foolish enough to decline help,” she muttered aloud as she indignantly walked away, “then an honest woman hadn’t the time to bother with her.”
Francesca forgot her own sorrows and was beside the child in an instant.
“There, there, my dear, are you lost?” she asked as she knelt by the child, only to cause the girl to go off in positive transports of unhappiness, until Francesca remembered to say it in French. But even then, despite her gentle voice and manner, the child refused to answer. She had begun to think the little thing was a mute, until she heard a sigh of great annoyance, and found herself, although still kneeling, practically face-to-face with Arden as he too knelt on one knee in front of the hysterical girl.
“Here,” he demanded in excellent French, “has your mother gone off and got herself lost again?”
The silence that greeted this was as great a relief to Francesca’s ears as it was to her mind. The child grew very still and wide-eyed, and nodded.
“Well, then,” Arden said brusquely, “now I suppose it’s up to you to find her again, isn’t it? Isn’t that just like her, though? Turn your back for a minute to look at a pretty thing, and she’s off and got herself lost,” he sighed in exasperation.
Unmistakably, the child giggled.
“What shall we do, do you suppose?” he asked.
The girl looked as though she were about to speak, but then grew very still and wide-eyed.
“I don’t expect you to speak with me,” he said impatiently, “I’m a strange man, of course. I’d be shocked if you spoke to me. Tell the pretty lady here, instead.”
After a moment’s thought, the child spoke up.
“Find her,” she said, between a sniffle and a hiccup.
“Oh, yes,” Arden said in disgust, rising to a stand and looking far down at the child as though he were vastly disappointed in her. “Can you imagine what will happen if we shout. ‘Maman!’ here? Every second woman here will turn around and say ‘Oui?’ all at once, and we’ll have our hands full. To say nothing of the noise. What other name does she have? And where did you last see her?”
“Madame LaSalle. And I’m Sophy. Sophy LaSalle,” the child answered obediently, and pointing one grubby finger, added, “That way, monsieur. Ah, madame,” she corrected herself, looking up to Francesca again.
“Aha. Well then, come along,” he said in matter-of-fact fashion, and pointing one huge forefinger, held it out to the child. She clung on to it as naturally as though it were a lifeline, and the two began to walk down the crowded street together, Arden pausing only to inquire after a “Madame LaSalle” as he stopped at every cart.
It wasn’t long before the frantic young woman pushed through the crowd and with a great cry of “Sophy!” fell upon the child.
“I heard a gentleman was asking for me. I cannot thank you enough, indeed, monsieur I turned my back for only a moment, and she was gone,” she babbled, clutching the child, but not so hard that the little girl couldn’t squirm, so as to give Arden a gaptoothed grin at that. “And the good Lord knows the dangers there are for children here, especially a pretty one like my Sophy, a thousand thanks, monsieur,” she went on, and Arden stood patiently impatient until her praises wound down enough for him to acknowledge them and bid the pair a gruff good day.
“It’s a matter of experience,” he said before Francesca could speak, and he led her on down the street again. “I grew up in a huge family, you see, and my father ran the local orphanage, to boot. You have to understand children to help them. She was far too decently dressed to be on her own, like the other urchins, and though not so entrancing as her fond mama thought, still undoubtedly in danger, and so rightly sworn to silence should a stranger attempt to speak to her. Until her mother’s foolishness was pointed out to her. Children are far too honest and logical to be trusted, you know. For example, she was told not to let a strange man take her hand, no doubt, but was never told not to take hold of a strange man’s finger. And all the while, she felt secure enough to do so, since it was clear she could always let go if she wished. But she wouldn’t have been able to if I were the sort to have beguiled her for nasty purposes.”
Francesca remained silent, remembering how oddly and yet how nicely he and the child had looked together, even though Sophy had scarcely come up to one of his waistcoat pockets and it had taken her whole hand to wrap around his one finger. Francesca smiled at him at the thought, and seeing her expression, he said, just as sweetly, “There are loopholes in every security system, you see, and it’s always been my job to find them. Be warned, Mrs. Devlin, for I’m very good at what I do.”
“But I’m not a lost little girl,” she said, annoyed at being caught in so sentimental a mood, annoyed that he’d caught her at it.
“Oh, but I believe you are,” he said with sincerity.
She began to frame the rude reply she couldn’t make to him at that, but then was caught by his gentle smile. He was such a big man that his broad shoulders cut off all the view behind him, and he stood before her like some benign Colossus, towering above the mere mortals scurrying about the busy streets around him. There was wry acceptance of her hesitation to be read in his rough-hewn face, and he waited as he watched her with the eternal resignatio
n of a man who wouldn’t be surprised at whatever his fellowman or woman did to him, and was prepared to bear all, whatever came. There was such a stillness at the bottom of his eyes, such a kind and questioning look on his face, along with the beginnings of something more, something both comforting and exciting to see, that she wanted against all reason to confide in him. And might well have done so, blurting out her troubles impulsively as they trembled on the tip of her tongue, if Mrs. Deems hadn’t come panting up behind them at that moment and cried out in triumph at finding them at last.
All the way home in the coach, Francesca sat silent as Mrs. Deems marveled endlessly on how she’d no idea of why she’d lost them there in broad daylight, and Francesca silently thanked her for finding them in time. For she’d been about to extend not merely a hand in confident trust, just as the child had done, but more than that as well, and she might have followed Arden Lyons wherever he led then, even though he’d specifically warned her that it was unwise to trust so logically.
But now she didn’t know what was logical or not.
Her world had been turned upside down in almost every way. Everything she knew about Arden Lyons still clearly told her to mistrust him. Yet, increasingly, everything she saw about him contradicted that.
8
“I’m so glad you decided to rejoin the living,” the gentleman sitting before the window commented, but he paid more attention to his steepled fingers than to the blond young man frowning at his cravat in the looking glass, as he continued, “And I don’t wonder you’ve forgotten how to tie that thing. I doubt you’ve worn anything more than a Hottentot might in the last few days…no, I believe they, at least, affect some sort of grass skirts, don’t they?”
“Loincloths,” Julian said absently as he pushed a pleat into place in his high white neckcloth.
“Ah, well, I suppose you’re right, you are the resident expert on loins, aren’t you?” Arden grumbled.
“You are annoyed,” Julian said in some wonder, turning from the glass to scrutinize his friend. “I wasn’t imagining it. Why?”
“I’ve joined the League for Public Decency,” Arden answered.
“And please don’t make me pull it out of you inch by inch. Out with it, please. What have I done to offend you?” Julian said in some exasperation, running his hand through his fair hair to neaten it, and disarranging it unintentionally, but so fashionably that several gentlemen later that night, seeing it, would threaten their barbers with lawsuits if they couldn’t emulate it.
“Your descent, or ascent, into the realms of pleasure for so long a time made it a bit more difficult for me, but I suppose you haven’t offended anyone but yourself, actually. And Francesca Devlin, I’d think,” Arden answered thoughtfully, but when he gazed up from his fingertips to see his friend’s steady icy stare fixed upon him, he went on. “Well, it strains even my creative efforts to think up a new and nonsalacious reason for your absence from our congenial little group for three consecutive days and nights—whilst Mrs. Cobb, coincidentally, was similarly incapacitated. Good God, Julian,” he said in more lively accents, “you acted like a devout honeymooner, you know. The Deemses were deliciously shocked, but they’ve given up on you, so they can afford to be. But Francesca was mortified, and has been watching me like a hawk to see if I show similar inclinations to snatch up a female of my choice and hide in my den with her until the food runs out. Why don’t you take up racing, or horse breeding? I heard building model ships is quite relaxing.”
The fair young man looked abashed for one moment, before he spoke up angrily. “I held no one against her will, you know. I…suppose you’re right, Arden,” he said, deflated, as he leaned back against the chair he stood beside. “I found pleasure in it, true, but you’re right, not so much as to warrant such total immersion. I was bored, I suppose. And at loose ends. And the lady was exceeding willing,” he added on a shrug.
“And you’re done with her now, I suppose?” Arden asked quietly but with censure underlying his question.
“Actually, no,” Julian said, cheering up, “not at all. But don’t beam like a maiden auntie, Arden, it’s not love eternal, for neither of us. It’s just that Roxie’s very amusing, even when not…otherwise occupied”—he laughed at his friend’s appreciative grin at his choice of words before he went on carelessly—“and I like her very well, and I amuse her too. That’s enough, I should think, for any reasonable man, isn’t it? I thank you for your concern,” he said with real sincerity, “and you’ll be pleased to know that I think the present arrangement will suit me nicely—at least, I won’t disappear like that again for a while. But I seem to have been gone long enough to have missed one important step, haven’t I? Francesca now, is it?” he laughed. “Arden, whatever became of the travesty of your courtship of the little blond Venus?”
“It goes forth,” Arden said on a yawn.
“But it’s the smoldering widow you’re after, after all. I can see you having the one without a fuss, but can’t imagine why you continue to do the pretty with the other.”
“Wrong,” Arden said sharply, not laughing now, giving his friend a warning look, which caused him to look back at him oddly. “I wouldn’t find it easy to ‘have’ the one. She may be a widow, but not a sportive one. She, you see, is a lady.”
“Good Lord, Lion!” Julian shouted, in his merriment coming up with his friend’s oldest nickname. “You’re caught! At last! That I have lived to see this day!” he laughed, and the more because for the first time since he’d known him, his huge friend seemed decidedly uncomfortable, and his tanned face, although studiously impassive, was, in fact, amazingly enough, growing darker, but not with rage.
“Ah, well,” Arden said, rising and going through a semblance of a lazy stretch as he collected himself, before, as a master of dissembling must, he diverted himself from his true emotions by assuming other ones. He laughed as well.
“You’ve found me out, lad. She’s won me entirely. It seems I find the word ‘no’ stimulating, ‘no, no’ enchanting, and ‘no, never’ positively enthralling. I thrive on rejection, my lust grows with every snub. I’m so afire, in fact, that I believe I just may propose to her. Yes. Wedlock. You’re not the only one at loose ends, my boy. I’ve made my fortune, after all,” he said, looking away from the startled expression on his friend’s face and walking to look out the window at the growing evening instead, “I’m grown no younger in the process, and with wars over, both international and private, I think at last it may well be time to go home and raise those evil children I’ve always threatened that I would.”
“And it’s to be Francesca Devlin?” Julian said wonderingly, thinking about what he knew of the widow. She was comely, or at least he thought she could be; perhaps she could even be beautiful if she could be anything but an impoverished chaperone. She’d been born a lady, and behaved as one, and seemed to hold herself in careful check because of her position, but he’d always thought she smoldered with unexpressed passions of every sort. Oh, yes, he thought, smiling to himself now, Arden was a knowing one who always saw beneath every surface. He’d be sorry to lose his friend’s company, but yes, he acknowledged, this might well be just the lady for him. He only wondered how deeply involved Arden really was, and realized he’d likely never know, as Arden turned back from the window with an expression that was a great parody of an enraptured swain’s.
“Francesca Devlin, it is,” he said on a gusty sigh. “How can you have doubted it for a moment? She’s tried to stymie my every evil intention, and has, without doubt, planned to thwart some even more wicked ones that I haven’t yet dreamed upon. My friend, she’s made for me. Hair like midnight on the high toby, the grace of a footpad—why, man, she moves with the stealth of a burglar, and thinks like one too. Yet when I catch her at one of her schemes to cross me, she speaks up her innocence like a magistrate, but all in the voice of a drowsy child…”
He paused then, and it might have been that there’d been some deep sincerity in his voice, befor
e he caught himself and went on with is mock paean to love. “Yes, she’s got the hauteur of a hangman. And the form of a courtesan with the stated morals of a nun, yet her eyes hint at more sins than even I have to my credit. Oh, yes,” he said as he turned his eyes rapturously toward the ceiling, “a face like a saint’s, with a mind as devious as a dog’s hind leg behind it. She’s more than I deserve, which is, of course, why I must have her. In holy, or in our case, surely, unholy wedlock.”
“Bravo, Arden!” Julian applauded. “I can’t wait to dance at your wedding.”
“Put by your dancing slippers,” his friend answered, suddenly serious. “It may never be. But I’ve at least a chance. She’s in an unenviable position now.”
“You’ve more to offer than escape from an unenviable position, Arden,” Julian answered, equally seriously.
“Have I?” Arden said, looking hard at his friend, his face suddenly no longer amiable, suddenly again as it had been when they’d first met: hard, guarded, closed, and with more than a hint of menace in it. “I don’t think so. I’ve lived an unadmirable life, Julian—trust me to have had enough decency to at least know what I did, if not to have stopped me from doing it. No, I deserve very little, but it’s no insult to Francesca to hope I can win her, even so. Whatever I am, at least I’m better than servitude to her inferiors, or loss of honor with her reckless Papa. I may be her inferior, but I’ll not ask servitude from her. And I plan to be less reckless, after, that is, my one last wild stab at fortune—when I offer for her.”
