Lessons in French

by Laura Kinsale

  "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 f lickered 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 satis fied. 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 f lattened. "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 f lushed 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 f loor. 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 f loor, all looking toward her. Lord Sidmouth also watched, tall and grave, without a mask to hide his stern features and f lyaway 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 acknowl edgment. "My lady. I must ask you to allow me the honor of escorting you to the refreshments."

  "Thank you," she said, "but I wish—"

  "Pray consider what you say, ma'am," he said in a warning tone.

  "Major—"

  "Do you not see where we are?"

  "Major, I—"

  His face was turning red. "Do not speak!" he hissed under his breath, so viciously that she drew back a little.

  Trev's hand closed over hers. He stood beside her, regarding Callie with a faint quirk at the corner of his mouth. Then through the eyehole of his mask, he positively winked at her.

  She gathered herself, giving one look around her at all the staring faces.

  "Major Sturgeon," she said in a level, carrying voice, "I'm sorry to say that after all we should not suit. My affections are previously engaged."

  In the silence that met her words, she bit her lip and brushed the feather back out of her eyes. Major Sturgeon stared at her, his mouth a hard, set line.

  Trev pulled his mask down from his face. A ripple of sound went about the ballroom, faint murmurs of surprise and wonder.

  With a slight, ugly laugh, the major said, "As you will, then, madam. I wish you joy of your bargain." He gave a short bow and turned his back on them, striding away with the crowd parting before him.

  Someone began to clap enthusiastically. It was Hermey. Her fiancé joined her. Another took it up. Callie blinked around her, realizing with bewilder ment that everyone was applauding. Trev grinned and took her hand, bending deeply to kiss it. Then he pulled her close to him, as if to kiss her cheek, but instead he whispered fiercely in her ear, "We must go. No farewells, I'm sorry."

  She let him lead her—if not quite drag her—past Hermey and Dolly and the other clapping guests, who seemed to be taking it all as part of the entertain ment. Even Dolly was applauding with a rather wild enthusiasm. She gave a frenzied wave toward the conductor, and the orchestra started up again, so that Callie and Trev made a grand exit to the rising strains of an Austrian galop.

  He still had her by the hand when they reached the archway to the stable range. There he stopped and pulled her into his arms and kissed her until Callie was in danger of losing not only her feathers but her wits.

  "We'll have to steal a horse, I fear," he said, letting go. "You've cast in your lot with me now; I hope you won't shy away from a felony here and there."

  Callie lifted her foot to worry at a piece of gravel that had found its way into her slipper as they'd run pell-mell across the drive. "Steal a horse? Why?" She hopped on one leg, holding onto him for balance.

  "We're in a great hurry, ma mie. You'll have to become accustomed to it, at least until we're out of England. Sit down." He pushed her onto the mounting block and reached down to pull her slipper free, shaking it out. But he paused in his great hurry long enough to slide his hand up her ankle. He lifted her stockinged foot and kissed the arch of it. "I adore your petticoats and bells, my love, but this is the last time you show them in public."

  Callie retrieved her shoe from him. "Let's steal my horse," she suggested.

  He gave a nod, rising. "A good notion," he said approvingly. "Strictly speaking, it won't be a crime, eh?"

  She followed him into the shadow of the stable yard. "Where are we going?" she asked curiously.

  "We're for Liverpool and the Boston packet," he answered, keeping his voice low. "I'm sorry you had no time to say your good-byes, but you can write from there."

  "Very true," she agreed. "Hubert will want to know where I've gone."

  He pulled her close to him again, ho
lding her tightly. "I'm sorry. We'll find someplace for your cattle—some land. There's a great deal of land in America."

  "So I understand," she said in an equitable voice. "Let me have the groom harness my mare to the gig. I'll drive out and pick you up at the archway.

  He gave her a squeeze. "Intrepid girl."

  "Certainly," she said. "I collect we're eloping?"

  "We are," he said. "Unless you'd prefer it to be a forcible seizure. I don't know when we'll find a proper parson."

  "Kidnapped from a masquerade!" she said with relish. "After I jilted my betrothed in front of a great crowd of people. On behalf of the editors of The Lady's Spectator, I thank you."

  He laughed and straightened her feather. "Bring out our escape vehicle, you notorious female"—he kissed her on both of her eyelids—"before the Home Secretary remembers where he saw me last."