Miss Fortescue's Protector in Paris

by Amanda McCabe

  Never boring, she knew that much.

  Emily knew that most men claimed a strange chivalry to protect women from life’s challenges, wrap them in cotton wool and put them on a shelf. Keep them from bothering themselves with pesky things like intelligent thoughts or genuine worries. Even James Hertford had said she should not concern herself with business, that her father was not right to force that on her. Chris never did such things. He was different from most men. He was free and he saw no reason why other people should not be so. It made him so attractive—and so dangerous.

  She turned away from the box and made her way a little deeper into the crowd. They pressed closer around her, chattering, laughing shrilly, chattering like a flock of jungle birds, the swirl of so many perfumes making her lightheaded. She started to feel too warm, almost struck with an arrow of panic, and she remembered too well that sudden attack in the street. Someone grabbing on to her arm in the darkness.

  Just as she was sure she would start screaming, she felt a lighter, more careful touch on her silk sleeve, and she whirled around to find herself facing Chris. His brow was creased with concern as he looked down at her.

  ‘Are you ill, Em?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh, Chris,’ she choked. ‘I’ve never been so glad to see anyone!’

  Unable to stop herself, she threw her arms around his neck and held on tightly. He felt so strong, so steady, so warm, his scent comforting now.

  ‘Emily?’ he whispered, now sounding slightly panicky himself. He patted her gently on the shoulder, as if she might break. ‘It’s quite all right, I’m here now. By Jove, it is getting hot here today, no wonder you’re out of sorts. Come on, let’s find a place to sit and wait for your Jeune Fleur to run and rake in our winnings.’

  Emily smiled weakly and took his arm to let him lead her out of the thick of the crowd. She felt rather silly—she never had such moments of weakness! She didn’t have time for them. Surely it was just the heat, maybe working too many hours lately, the memory of that attack in the street. The unthinkable possibility of getting married one day. It was enough to drive any girl a little batty.

  Strangely, it was Chris now, of all people, who made her feel steady again. He was calm and careful, speaking to her gently, holding her arm close. Another facet to him.

  ‘I shouldn’t have left you alone there in the sun,’ he said. ‘Most thoughtless of me. Are you sure you’re feeling better? Should I find a physician? There is sure to be one about.’

  ‘I am quite well now,’ she said. ‘This French light is so much brighter than at home! Quite disorientating. No wonder the English get a little crazy here.’

  ‘Should I fetch you something to drink? Some chilled champagne?’

  Emily was sure champagne was the last thing she needed. It was sure to go straight to her head, make her feel even less like herself. ‘Just a bit of shade and I will be perfectly all right, I promise.’

  ‘Miss Fortescue! Mr Blakely. How perfectly extraordinary to see you here,’ a woman’s light, flute-like voice called out.

  Emily glanced up and saw Lady Smythe-Tomas making her way towards them. It was hard to miss her; everyone else seemed to part before her, staring after her as she sailed past in her gown of purple-striped satin, her tall green hat, the sparkle of her emerald jewellery. She swooped in to press a quick kiss to their cheeks, leaving the trail of her expensive jasmine perfume behind.

  Emily wondered if they were going to see everyone they knew that day. Mr Hertford, Lady Smythe-Tomas...

  ‘I didn’t know you were a devotee of the turf, Laura,’ Chris said with a tight smile.

  Emily was startled. How did he know her well enough to use her first name?

  ‘Oh, I go wherever a party calls me, my dear, you know me,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said with a laugh and a wave of her purple-gloved hand. ‘I am in a box today with some dear friends, including a darling little Bavarian strudel of a man called Friedland. James Hertford has come along, too, so handsome. You must join us! We’ve ordered the most lavish luncheon, there is no possibility we could eat it all.’

  Friedland? Emily wondered what game Lady Smythe-Tomas was playing now. Was she sending some sort of message? Emily glanced up at Chris to see what he made of it all, but his laughter had faded and his face had gone unreadable again.

  ‘I don’t think we plan to stay so long,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, but surely you will stay through the Galop,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas protested, gesturing to the marked-up racing papers in his hand. ‘You’ve placed your bets.’

  ‘Maybe we could join you for just one drink,’ Emily said, curious to see what was really happening. ‘It’s rather warm today and I would enjoy the shade of a box.’

  ‘You certainly must come and sit down, then, your cheeks are rather pink,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said. She took Emily’s arm without another argument and steered her towards the boxes rising like tiered cakes above the track. She left Chris to follow. ‘The style of hats these days are charming, but so useless against the sun! I often think we could wear a nice, sturdy canvas pith helmet, as they do in India and Egypt. Then we should be quite ready for any adventure at any moment.’

  ‘Have you been to India, then, Lady Smythe-Tomas?’ Emily asked her curiously. She realised how very little she knew of the lady, beyond her flamboyant fashion, her devotion to women’s suffrage.

  Lady Smythe-Tomas gave another airy wave of her hand. ‘My dear, I have been so many places, how can I possibly remember them all? Ah, here we are.’

  A liveried attendant opened the door, and Lady Smythe-Tomas ushered them inside. It was indeed luxurious, with silk-papered walls, a needlepoint carpet underfoot, a buffet of delicacies laid out in the shadows. Along the wall of open windows, looking down at the track, sat a cluster of well-dressed people on rows of satin chairs, sipping champagne.

  Lady Smythe-Tomas took Chris’s arm and drew them forward. ‘My dears, look who I found wandering about like lost sheep! I had to rescue them. It is Mr Blakely and the lovely Miss Fortescue! Of course, you both know the Duc d’Aimiens, and his friend, Mademoiselle Ferent. A ballet dancer, of course, the toast of the Opera, she veritably flies across the stage!’ The elderly duc and his ballet dancer, an elegant young lady with Titian hair and a white tulle dress, nodded. ‘And the Pointons, from Bath, they just arrived in Paris. Mr Hertford, Mr Chester—he rented the box, so kind of him.’

  ‘And I am sure you remember me,’ a voice boomed. Herr Friedland stepped from the shadows, his yellow plaid suit a slant of light. ‘I would be quite wounded if such a lovely lady had forgotten me.’

  Emily studied him, wondering why he had appeared at the races. If she was missing something in his scheme with Lady Smythe-Tomas. ‘Of course I had not forgotten you, mein herr. It is good to see you again so soon.’

  ‘Madame Renard was meant to join us, but had a last-minute engagement,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas whispered in Emily’s ear. ‘We shall see her in the country tomorrow.’

  Emily gave a brief nod and sat down in one of the satin and gilt chairs by the windows. A footman brought her a glass and she sipped at it as she studied the track below, the swirling kaleidoscope of the crowd.

  ‘Monsieur Blakely, I have heard of you,’ the silvery, fairy-like ballerina said, giggling behind her painted ivory fan. ‘Do come sit beside me. Are you a great admirer of the dance, by any chance?’

  Chris gave her one of his most charming smiles, he was being the Chris that was more blinding than the sun. The duc did not seem pleased.

  Emily watched him as he chatted with the lady, making her giggle even more, but Emily could see that he did even more than that. As he seemed to give her his whole attention, he also watched everything going on around him, so subtly it was almost imperceptible. She wondered what his game was, what was really going on with him.

  A loud blast of trumpets signalled the start of the race. One of the foo
tmen handed her a pair of opera glasses and she turned away to watch, grateful to have a distraction from Chris and his mysteries. His flirtations. She watched the horses burst from the starting box, trying to glimpse her Young Flower.

  She spied a movement near the railing, a tall, lean man with distinctively bright hair. Hair much like Gregory Hamilton possessed. A knot clenched in her stomach. Could it really be Hamilton, here in Paris? She hadn’t seen him in a long while, yet the old fear was still there, hidden so deep. Could he really have followed her, after he had been gone so long? Was that what happened that night in London?

  She almost jumped out of her seat when someone suddenly touched her arm. She spun around to see it was just Chris, his brow creased with concern as he looked down at her. She pressed her hand to her pounding heart.

  ‘Is something wrong, Em?’ he asked quietly.

  She shook her head and made herself smile. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘It’s the last lap now, thought you might want to keep an eye on your Fleur.’

  Her breathing a bit ragged, she turned back to the course. The man, whoever he was, had vanished. She was sure it must have been her imagination, too many late nights, too much work lately.

  The horses swirled around the corner in a thundering blur and she watched them through her glass. At first, she could make out nothing, until at last a horse caparisoned in pink and chocolate silks, Jeune Fleur’s colours, broke free of the pack and sailed over the finish line. She impulsively threw her arms around Chris in a burst of happiness.

  Chris grabbed her hand and kissed it in excitement, whooping with laughter. ‘Look, Em! You were right. You must be my magical charm.’

  She smiled, but inside she suddenly felt so unsteady, unsure of everything, which wasn’t like her at all. She felt like she understood nothing, not about Chris, about the world around them, or even about herself.

  * * *

  ‘I’m surprised to see you here, Christopher. Are you not tired after your day at the races?’

  Chris glanced up from his desk to see Lady Smythe-Tomas standing in his office doorway. It was indeed rather late; the rest of the building was dark and quiet, everyone sensibly gone off to their lodgings to prepare for the next day’s work. Chris, though, had found that sleep would not come. Once he was alone in his room, with only the silence and a brandy, he could only see Emily’s face. Hear her laughter, feel her arms around him as her horse won, smell her perfume.

  The pretend courtship was feeling too real indeed.

  He tossed down his pencil and sat back in his chair. Even work was no distraction that night. He was actually glad someone else was there, even if it was Laura, who always seemed to know everything that everyone kept hidden.

  ‘There’s so much work to finish before we leave Paris,’ he said.

  Lady Smythe-Tomas sighed and sat down on the edge of his desk. She was dressed splendidly, in a theatre gown of ruby-red satin and spangled black tulle, black feathers in her dark red hair, but she looked rather tired. ‘Indeed there is. And things like trips to the races just take up too much time.’

  ‘Sometimes socialising is an important part of the task. You know that. Is that not a big part of why I was hired in the first place?’

  Her lips quirked in a wry smile. ‘Because we are so dramatic? So charming? I suppose so. Someone must know how to make wary people reveal themselves without even knowing that they do it.’

  Chris thought of the hearty German in her box at Longchamp. ‘Herr Friedland?’

  ‘Of course. He thinks he is so clever. All those old Prussians do.’ She took off her black-silk evening gloves and stuffed them carelessly into her handbag, almost as if they were another useless male she had no need for. ‘But what of you, Chris? You have been spending a great deal of time with Miss Fortescue lately. She is a wonderful volunteer for the League, and a great help to me, but I doubt she is in cahoots with the Germans.’

  Having people see him with Emily was exactly what Chris had wanted, for people to think they were courting. Yet something in Laura’s tone made him feel cautious. He sat up straighter. ‘Her father and I belong to the same club. He asked me to keep an eye on her in Paris.’

  Laura’s brow arched. ‘Really? But she seems so capable, so intelligent.’

  ‘She is, yet she doesn’t work for us. She needs to be kept safe.’

  ‘Perhaps we should think about recruiting her. I’ve been quite impressed with her work at the League and she is going with me to meet Friedland. She doesn’t know what is really going on, of course, but I definitely think she could be trusted. She could be a real asset.’

  Chris firmly shook his head. He would never, ever put Emily in any danger. ‘I do not think that would be a good idea. Nor should she go to the country to meet Friedland without me. I am supposed to protect her, that’s the deal.’

  Laura studied him carefully, too carefully, for a long moment. She shrugged and slid off the desk. ‘You know best, I’m sure. Just don’t underestimate her.’ She gave him a strange, sad little smile. ‘But if you ever need to make her a wee bit jealous, I am always here to help.’

  Chris was puzzled. ‘Why would I do that?’

  She laughed and gently patted his cheek. ‘Oh, Chris. Sometimes a bit of jealousy is all a person needs to think clearly. I’ll be going now. Don’t work too hard.’

  Chris waved at her and in the silence Emily was there with him again. And he found that she was all he wanted.

  Chapter Twelve

  Despite her worries about all that was happening with her work, all the details Lady Smythe-Tomas hadn’t been able to discuss about the Friedland business, Chris felt rather strangely—buoyant as he made his way through the streets of the arrondissement in the soft light of morning. Paris always had that effect, of course. Unlike the heavy, grey gloom of London, Paris always seemed suffused with glimmering gold, the streets filled with beauty and laughter. Time moved more slowly there, filled with endless glasses of pastis, smelling of exotic flowers and fresh baguettes.

  Yet he knew very well that it wasn’t just Paris that made him want to break into ridiculous song that day, to dance along the pavement. It was Emily. She was the one who made him want to do a fancy waltz step right there on the cobblestones, if it wouldn’t have shocked the black-clad gaggle of matrons hurrying past.

  He remembered their day at the races yesterday. How serious she looked as she perused the runners, her expression as intent as a farmer reading the weather report, but with a soft pink light from her delightfully frivolous hat cast over her face. That was so perfectly Emily. As deliciously pretty as a bonbon, as hard as steel, her brain always whirling with thoughts he wished he could read. Wished he could kindle an approving light in those beautiful eyes.

  He thought of what happened when her longshot horse won and she leaped up with a burst of laughter. The feel of her arms thrown around him, her hand under his lips as he kissed her. How he wished in that moment that he had created that burning flash of happiness for her! That he could make all her days just as light and free. That their false courtship could be real.

  Chris paused on the street corner, staring up at the façade of an ancient church, St Gervais, pale pink in the morning light. It made him think of her pink hat and just how quickly that effervescent moment faded. How fast the shadows came over her face again. She had quickly turned to Lady Smythe-Tomas and the German, chatting with them for the rest of the afternoon, and then she was so quiet on the journey back to her hotel. So full of thoughts he couldn’t read.

  Chris frowned at the thought of the German. What was Emily’s business with them, really? How much did she know of what was happening? He had warned Laura not to involve Emily, that his job was to protect her.

  He knew she was not a soft, delicate lady to be protected, to be made to sit at home sewing as her men shielded her from the world. He had always known that ab
out her. She was hard-working, always plunging ahead, not caring what the world thought. Chris had seen that in her the very first time they met and that answering determination inside of him yearned for her. Yearned to know everything about her: every thought, hope, dream, even the fears he knew she would never show, even to herself. That attraction never faded, but only seemed to grow stronger, more dangerous, every time he saw her.

  But he couldn’t let her in, as he sometimes longed to. He would keep her safe, even though she would never know it. And now she was in danger. Even her father knew that was so, but they also knew locking Emily away would do no good. Em would never back down to anyone.

  He just had to figure out how to keep himself safe, as well, to guard his feelings very carefully. That would be the hardest part of all.

  He crossed the street and made his way towards Emily’s hotel. The pavements were more crowded now, Paris coming to life. Men in their black hats hurried to work, maids strolled past with their market baskets, shutters went up, doors opened, while the flower cart on the corner was bursting into bright colours. Chris paused to buy a red rose for his buttonhole and a small bouquet for Emily, before making the flower girls giggle and continuing on his way.

  In the gilt and marble lobby, heavy with the scent of large arrangements of lilies in silver vases, people were also bustling past, arriving and checking out, mountains of trunks zipping past on carts, lapdogs yapping. Paris was always full of such life, everywhere he went. Chris glanced around for Emily, but couldn’t glimpse her face, or her distinct chestnut hair under any of the elaborate hats. He took the lift up to her floor and knock on the door of Suite Cinq, as she had told him, careful that no one saw him in the quiet corridor.

  At first, all was silent and he started to worry she had gone out and been followed again. But then a pink-cheeked maid opened the door and smiled up at him. ‘Oh! Mr Blakely, isn’t it?’