Lessons in French

by Laura Kinsale

  The same old argument began to play in his mind. What was best for her against what he wanted, which was to be with her, even if it was just hiding out in her dressing room while she was engaged to another man. When he got to the part about smuggling her aboard a ship with him while they left the country for France, where he would show her conclusively that he'd lied about everything from the evil Buzot to the coach and six and the restored château—at that point, when he was wishing heartily for another bottle of gin, his unpleasant ref lections were interrupted by a soft rap on the closet door and Callie's hissed warning to him to stay concealed.

  He grew still, listening to the sounds of a girlish voice begging entry to Callie's bedroom. Trev laid his ear to the door. After the thumps and creaks of entry—she did have an inconveniently creaky f loor, he noted with exasperation—he heard Lady Hermione say, "Are you feeling better? Can you let Anne make her measures? Because she'll be sewing half the night as it is, you know, to have a costume ready for you by tomorrow."

  "Oh dear," Callie said, her voice muff led, "I'd forgot about the masquerade. Really, I—"

  "Don't say you won't appear!" her sister said plead ingly. "Please. It will be great fun, you'll see. And Sir Thomas has had the greatest news! Lord Sidmouth himself is to come! Right here to Shelford Hall to attend the masquerade."

  "Lord Sidmouth?" Callie asked in a blank voice. "Why is he to come?"

  "Callie." Hermione took on the tone of a patient but prodded teacher. "He's the Lord Secretary of the Home Office," she explained, as if speaking to a dull but beloved child. "And it's the greatest honor, because he's frightfully busy with convicts and laws and the king and all that, so he almost never leaves London. I daresay he'll bring a hundred undersecre taries with him. Sir Thomas is in alt!"

  "Oh," Callie said. Then she seemed to catch on to the matter. "Oh, these are his colleagues from the Home Office?"

  "Yes, so you see what an honor it is. He says that it almost certainly means he'll be advanced in the next election."

  "That's excellent news," Callie said. "A hundred undersecretaries."

  Lady Hermione giggled. She dropped her voice confidingly, though it still came through clear enough as she moved closer to the dressing room. "Major Sturgeon is going to come as a sultan; he told me so. And here, I've just the thing to make you into a veiled sultana from a harem! See this blue and green gauze? Even Dolly agreed it would be perfect. Will wonders never cease?"

  Trev moved back quickly, seeing the dressing room knob turn. He was just contemplating how fast he could open the window and leap out when Callie said in a hurried voice, "Yes, of course, that's lovely! Is Anne in your room? Let's go there and measure. It's half dusk with this weather, and the light is so much better on your side."

  "You'll wear it, then?" Lady Hermione let go of the door knob with a gay laugh. "Come, it won't take a moment, and then you may go back to dreaming of how you'll arrange the cattle sheds on your new home farm. I vow, I can't think for wonder at it all. Sir Thomas has said I may fit up his town house just as I please. We'll have our own homes, and I can bring the children to visit you in the country, and…" Her

  naïvely happy voice faded as the outer door closed behind them.

  Callie didn't speak to him or acknowledge his presence when she returned from her sister's bedchamber. Trev stayed discreetly out of sight in the dressing room, brushing up on animal husbandry in the unlikely event he should ever have reason to deliver a calf or cure the gripes, and wondering how he had allowed his life to sink to this point. He did not care for the idea of costumes of veiled harem girls and Callie playing sultana to Sturgeon's sultan. For one thing, it made him imagine her wrapped in sparkling blue gauze that grew more and more transparent the more he thought about it, until he was strongly in the mood to visit a harem himself. For another, he was going to strangle Sturgeon with his own turban.

  And now Sidmouth of all people would be in the house, along with some army of undersecretaries, any one of whom might have seen Trev at his trial. Not that he wouldn't mind having a few pointed words with the Lord Secretary. He'd understood the deal to be that he'd receive a full pardon in return for putting up no defense—but when the royal pardon came down from the king's council, signed by Sidmouth, it was conditional and made an explicit point that he'd leave the country or hang. Trev had never met the Home Secretary, but he wondered if the fellow had something in for him. A bad bet, perhaps, or a fixed match that he blamed on Trev or the Rooster. Or perhaps he simply believed Trev was guilty.

  It would have been gratifying to have the answer to this burning question, but confronting Sidmouth with a complaint about his pardon didn't seem the wisest course. He'd lived for a fortnight in Newgate under a sentence of death before any sort of pardon at all had come down; an experience he did not care to repeat. As a condemned felon, one got rapidly off the scaffold at the first opportunity and didn't look a gift horse in the mouth.

  He sat glumly in the dimming room, propped against the wall. He couldn't even pace, because the damned f loor creaked. He heard her take supper on a tray in her room and noted that she didn't invite him to join her. She was turned against him, looking forward to starting a family with Sturgeon, which was precisely what Trev had wanted, of course. He was perfectly delighted.

  Boston was too close. It would have to be Shanghai.

  They spent the evening hours in mutually ignoring one another while the incessant rain rumbled in the gutters. As it neared full dark, he finally opened the dressing room door, stood for a moment without precisely looking at her, and announced to the air in general that he was going to take supper with his mother. She bade him a chilly good evening from her seat by the fire, in a tone that suggested that he need not hurry back. Trev stalked to the window. He opened the inner shutters. Even in the dark, he could see that the rain was beating against the glass in sheets. If he raised it, the window seat—not to mention himself—would be deluged.

  He closed the shutters again and turned round.

  She appeared to be wholly occupied by the tatting

  that was spread across her lap, moving a shuttle briskly in and out of some knotted lace with deep concentration. The firelight brought a rosy bloom to her cheek, a warm copper glint to her hair. She wore it in a stylish upswept bun today, instead of her usual neat braids, but her thick curls seemed inclined to revolt against the more fashionable style and drape gently down to the nape of her neck. He watched her for a moment.

  "Shouldn't you thread some yarn in that needle?" he asked dryly. "I'd think it would make the work go more efficiently."

  She threw the shuttle down in her lap and glared up at him. Trev tried not to smile, as she appeared to be in no mood to be amused at herself.

  "I thought you were going to make a call on your mother," she said stiff ly.

  "You'll observe that the weather is somewhat inclement."

  She gave a great sigh, as if he had arranged for the downpour merely to inconvenience her. Trev walked over and helped himself to a decanter of wine from her tray, pouring it into the untouched glass. He sat down in the other chair. "Can we not be civil at least? If we're no longer friends."

  She bit her lip, turning her face toward the fire. For an instant there was a faint quiver at the corner of her mouth, which made him long to go down on his knees and gather her still hands and press them to his face. He took a sip of wine instead.

  "I'm still your friend, Callie," he said. "And I always will be."

  She nodded, looking down. "Of course."

  "This masquerade is opportune," he said conver sationally. "I want to investigate the Shelford account books. Are they locked away?"

  "You want to see the Shelford accounts? Whatever for?"

  He debated whether to tell her of his suspicions. He didn't want to frighten her. But since he had every intention of seeing that any money that had been embezzled from her fortune was replaced, even if he had to fund it himself, he thought it safe to be open. "I had a talk w
ith Sturgeon before I went away. I'm concerned that something's not right with your trust."

  "My trust?" She looked baff led. "I don't under stand. You spoke to the major about my money?"

  He gave a brief nod. "Indirectly. There's something odd, Callie. Not about Sturgeon; I don't mean that. But I discovered that he was blackmailed out of your first engagement."

  She gazed at him. "What on earth do you mean?"

  "I mean that he didn't want to break it off. He was forced to do so."

  The shuttle slid from her fingers to the f loor. "Blackmail? Oh come, that's nonsense."

  "It's true. It's nothing to do with you, or your marriage now, you needn't concern yourself with that. It has to do with his honor as an officer. He made a decision during the war—saved men's lives, in fact— but he disobeyed direct orders. It isn't something he wants to come out in public."

  "Oh?" she said in a dubious voice.

  "I don't fault him for what he did, myself." He retrieved the shuttle for her, careful that their hands did not touch. "He had his reasons. But he's an officer, and if it were known, he'd be like enough to lose his commission and face a court-martial. So he broke off the engagement to prevent it coming out."

  She shook her head slowly. "Are you certain? Blackmail, of all things!" Then she pursed her lips. "No. I don't believe it. I think he simply didn't care to marry me and preferred another." Then she glanced at him and raised her chin. "At that time. He assures me that he feels quite differently now."

  Trev gave her a small smile. It didn't surprise him that Sturgeon was coming to love Callie in spite of himself. And well enough, if it would make him a better husband to her. Trev would be in Shanghai, making arrangements to become an opium addict.

  "You aren't saying this just to butter up my feelings, are you?" she asked suspiciously. "I don't mind that he broke it off before. You needn't make up silly stories about it just to make me feel better."

  He scowled. "It's not a made-up story. And it's hardly silly if you've been embezzled of your fortune."

  She gave a little gasp. "Nonsense! What are you talking about?"

  "You'll have your money back, I'll make certain of that," he said. "But he was blackmailed, Callie. Why would someone try to prevent him from marrying you? And then the rest of them cried off too, on the thinnest of reasons. It's devilish strange, and I've been doing some looking into the matter."

  "In between your escapes from the Bow Street Runners, I suppose?" she asked haughtily.

  He held his temper. "Who would be most likely to have access to the accounts and the trust? Who's your trustee?"

  "My cousin, of course," she said. "Are you saying poor Jasper blackmailed Major Sturgeon and stole all my money, and then made the rest of them cry off too? And this while my father would have been alive—I don't suppose you're accusing him of embezzling me?"

  "Of course not." Trev was becoming annoyed at her resistance. "But stranger things have happened, you know, than the heir apparent wishing to help himself a bit early. How many years has your cousin had access to the Shelford accounts? I want to see the books."

  "I believe you've run mad. You don't suppose he altered the accounts! Cousin Jasper couldn't add a sum correctly if it were two plus two."

  "Couldn't he? I'd like to be certain of that."

  "It's quite impossible. I manage the accounts. At least I supervise him at it, because he's hopeless at the task."

  "Perhaps that's all a show. It was damned odd of him to gamble Hubert away—he may have come short in his reckoning and required money to cover himself. Or perhaps it could be the countess behind him? God knows she's as cold as any thief in Newgate."

  Callie made a face. "I'll confess that I'm not fond of Dolly, but I don't suppose she's a criminal." She reached down to her basket and pulled out a ball of white yarn. "Perhaps you may have been too much with that class of person and become excessively suspicious."

  Trev f lung himself out of the chair, almost knocking over his wine. Callie looked up, wide-eyed, which made him realize the violence of his action. He took command of himself. "Perhaps I have," he said coolly. "And it's taught me that anyone is capable of deceit, from the pink of the ton to a dustman."

  She gave him a long, clear look, then turned her face down to her work, taking a turn of yarn around the shuttle. "Undoubtedly," she said.

  They both watched the shuttle move in and out of her tatting. Trev stood feeling much as he had in the dock: judged, tried, and condemned. "You may doubt me, if you please," he said finally. "But someone blackmailed Sturgeon, and they did it for a reason."

  "Very well," she said. She stood up and set her work aside, crossing the room to her dressing table. "Here is a key to the desk in my cousin's study. It's on the ground f loor, in the south wing. Please be certain to tell Major Sturgeon if you discover that all my money is gone, so that he may jilt me in good time before the wedding." She held out the key, making a stiff little curtsy. "And of course you'll want to be prepared to escape through the window when you're discovered breaking into the earl's desk. I'd recommend the one to the far right, nearest the fireplace, as the others have a tendency to stick in humid weather."

  Trev caught the key from her hand and closed it in his fist. "He won't jilt you. I won't allow that to happen."

  "Of course he will," she said calmly, "if it's true that I have no fortune. And perhaps it's for the best. I'm sure my hand would grow quite sore from all the kissing, and the posies merely wilt."

  Trev gripped the key. "Damn it," he said, taking a stride to her. He put his arm about her waist and held her up close against him and kissed her passionately, countering the moment of resistance in her, asking and demanding at once, until she made a helpless sound and her arms slid round his neck and a thousand nights of being without her ended in this hard embrace, clinging to one another as if they were drowning together.

  She leaned against him, her fingers opening through his hair, pulling him down to her. The sound of the rain seemed to grow to a roar in his ears as her lips opened under his. Trev lost all reason. He drew her down, dragging them both to their knees in a deep, long kiss. He retained just enough sense to know that he must not lay her down on the carpet and take her there. They were in her bedroom, in Shelford Hall—as the world spun around him in sweet, hot lust and he outlined the shape of her body with his hands, he saved one mite of sanity and confined himself to kissing her mouth and her chin and her ear and throat and anything he could reach without pulling her gown entirely open—only down off her shoulder, only that much, or more, until the little modest ribbons and catches gave way and he tasted the ivory white skin just above her breasts.

  She was making those feminine sounds that drove him to wildness, lifting herself to him, her body pressed against him in an invitation to much more. Trev squeezed his eyes shut. With an effort that was physical pain, he let go of her. He sat back to gain some control, and then stood up and walked across the room.

  He threw open the shutters. He would have liked to open the window and douse his head under the roaring cascade off the roof, but all he did was lean his arm and forehead against the glass, breathing deeply of the chill air.

  When finally he regained some composure and turned, she was standing, holding the gown up to her shoulder and trying to refasten it. Her hair had come down, cascading in a wave of tangled copper to one side, giving her a tousled and bewildered look. She glanced up at him, her face all warmed and softened by his kisses.

  "Now I feel remarkably foolish," she said resent fully. She turned her face aside. The firelight outlined the curve of her bared throat, and he thought perhaps he would die just looking at her.

  "Well, you appear remarkably desirable," he said. "Which is awkward, under the circumstances."

  Her lashes swept downward as her chin came up. "I must beg your pardon for inconveniencing you," she retorted. "I didn't wish to… to succumb… to that sort of thing."

  "I fear you only make it worse by looking at me
that way."

  "What way?" She looked down at herself and up, tugging nervously to straighten her skirts.

  "As if you'd like to slap me and be kissed at the same time." He strolled over, made as if he would pass by her, and then at the last moment caught her waist and leaned his face into her throat. He brushed a light kiss over her skin. "Where can I find a mask?"

  "A mask?" she repeated helplessly.

  "I think it best if I don't remain here where we might… succumb, as you put it." He nuzzled her ear. "Unless you'd prefer it?"

  He felt her breasts rise and fall with unsteady breath. "Oh, that is brilliant," she said in a voice that would have been sarcastic if it hadn't ended on a slightly cracked and upward note. "So you intend to prowl about the house in a mask instead?"