He wondered how she knew him. ‘So I am. Here to call on Miss Fortescue. I thought she might like a petit dejeuner, maybe a look at the Louvre. It’s not so busy there in the mornings.’ In truth, he had just wanted to see her again. Make sure she was all right after their long day at the races.
‘Oh, I’m sure she would, but she’s gone out.’
Chris felt that jolt of worry again. ‘So early?’
A door slammed down the corridor and the maid glanced past him a bit nervously. ‘Would you like to come in, Mr Blakely? I can find some water for those flowers.’
‘Of course,’ Chris said, slipping inside. The sitting room looked like Emily, elegant, clean lines, sunny, pretty but not overdone. The only hint of untidiness was the tray the maid had been clearing from a breakfast table by the window.
‘She was gone nearly before first light,’ the maid said, smoothing a pale green-satin cushion on a chaise. ‘That Lady Smythe-Tomas came to fetch her, they were going to have luncheon at some inn in the country and meet some other people. Miss Fortescue said she probably wouldn’t be back until later this evening.’
Chris frowned to hear that Emily had gone off with Lady Smythe-Tomas. He thought they had agreed last night not to involve Emily. ‘Luncheon in the country?’
The maid shook her head. ‘I think that what’s they said, sir, though it seems a little odd. I mean, we’re in Paris, restaurants on every corner! No need to find a train and all that fuss. But they did seem determined, very serious. Miss Fortescue is like that about her work.’
‘So she is. Do you know where this inn could be?’
‘A village called Chaton sur Mereille, maybe. Lady Smythe-Tomas said they are renowned for their trout amandine there.’
Chris nodded. He knew of the place, it was not terribly convenient to the city at all, though a train stopped at a station not too far away for his purposes. Why was Laura taking Emily there? ‘Thank you very much. You have been very helpful. I’ll look into it all.’
The maid suddenly reached out and shyly touched his sleeve. She looked very concerned. ‘Oh, Mr Blakely—do you think she could be in some kind of trouble?’
‘Why do you think that?’ he asked gently. Servants so often knew everything that was going on in their households, better than their employers could ever realise.
‘She has—well, there has been a bit of bother lately, not that it can slow her down at all. But I do wish she would have a care. I’ve been with her ever so long, you see, and she’s a wonderful employer.’
‘I’m sure it’s just a meal with friends,’ he said reassuringly. ‘Not a thing to worry about. She is most capable.’
The girl nodded, but she didn’t look especially reassured. ‘It’s just—I’ve been a bit concerned about her lately. That’s all.’
‘Why is that?’
She shrugged and turned away to stack the tea things on to her tray. ‘I’m just a worry-wart, I suppose, sir. Never mind me.’
‘I am sure it is all quite well,’ he said with a smile, realising he would get nothing more out her that day. ‘Here is my card, let me know if anything else worrisome comes up. I will call again later.’
He left the hotel, not seeing the chaos of the lobby as he stepped outside into the sunshine again. He had to find the next train to Chaton sur Mereille.
* * *
Emily was quite fascinated. She would never have thought a small, riverside village would attract foreign conspirators of any stripe. It was too far from Paris to be easy to find, via a train ride through beautiful, rolling farmland and then a short, jolting carriage jaunt on dusty lanes past a walled, crumbling chateau. There were no palaces or bridges or tall office buildings, only sleepy sunlight, dappled shadows, meandering goats.
But it was very pretty in the village, with its cobblestone square and red-tile-roofed houses, its ancient stone church tower, music drifting from the open windows of a café. A few tourists wandered about with their open guidebooks, peering up at the church, watching women in red aprons gather water at the fountain.
‘They say Joan of Arc passed this way,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said as they stepped down from the carriage. She led Emily away from the central square with the tourists and the curious village children, and hurried down a narrow, shady alley. The windows in the whitewashed walls were mostly closed, despite the warm day, and even grated, but lines of laundry flapped overhead. It smelled of garlic and herbs, laundry soap, the sharp earthiness of the wandering goats.
Emily tried to picture the warrior-girl saint there, but the silence didn’t let in any images of battle. ‘Is that true?’
Lady Smythe-Tomas shrugged. Her coral and black hat gleamed in the shadows, incongruously modern and stylish against the old walls. ‘I wouldn’t think it would be on her battlefield path. But who knows? It’s a nice story, isn’t it? History soaking into the cobblestones.’
‘Yes. It seems like Joan is rather a Mary of Scots figure. Put her name on a place, any place, and you have a romantic tale. But they can’t have lived long enough to have seen all the places that claim them.’
Lady Smythe-Tomas laughed. For a moment, she looked less remote, less careless and full of brittle style than she usually did, and Emily was surprised to notice how young she actually was. She so often hid behind brisk efficiency, bits of sharp-edged gossip. But after their talk on the train, long and serious and full of the necessity of women’s suffrage, what it might take to win it in the end, Emily found she rather liked her. They had a lot in common.
But what was Lady Smythe-Tomas to Chris? That kept nagging at Emily’s mind, making her worry.
Lady Smythe-Tomas knocked on the door of a tall, narrow brick building at the end of the lane, quiet but petty, laced with bright flower baskets outside the gleaming windows. The handpainted sign declared it to be an inn and café. A maid in a crisp white apron answered the door and nodded when Lady Smythe-Tomas said they were meeting Madame Renard.
The maid led them through a common room, where other servants were cleaning out the grate and laying tables, and up a narrow flight of stairs. It was just like the village itself, sleepy and pretty, not really the place Emily would have said was ripe for secret meetings.
The door at the top of the landing opened, and Lady Smythe-Tomas herself appeared, wearing what Emily imagined a ‘professional beauty’ might think a country business meeting required, a heather-blue tweed suit and tilted felt hat that should have looked silly but instead looked just right. Emily thought she had to find out where the lady shopped.
Behind her was a thin, tall woman with iron-grey hair swept into a neat chignon, a tidy, dark grey dress, her eyes bright and shrewd—much like a French version of Mrs Hurst, Emily considered. ‘Ah, Mademoiselle Fortescue,’ Madame Renard boomed. ‘Do come in and have some cassis, they make it locally.’
‘Thank you, madame,’ Emily answered, feeling a little bit overwhelmed. She sat down at a table laid by the fire, following Lady Smythe-Tomas who gave her a reassuring smile, and watched as Madame Renard poured out the wine.
‘As you know, Mademoiselle Fortescue,’ Madame Renard said, ‘Germany is not at all like your England, or indeed like our own France, where women have always been very influential. They have none of that lovely open outspoken quality. They are all concerned only with order and obedience, with military matters. The Princess is so gentle, so caring, that it is a great pain to her. And, of course, many ladies there are just as concerned for their own advancement, their own freedom, as English ladies.’
‘Of course,’ Lady Smythe-Tomas said solemnly. There in that small room, far from glittering parties, she looked utterly different from her usual merry self. ‘Discretion is the better part of valour sometimes. We are eager to help those of like minds wherever we can.’
‘Perhaps we could begin with these letters,’ Madame Renard said, taking a sheaf of papers from her case. �
��Herr Friedland has been gathering them for us. They must be destroyed after, but perhaps they might be of assistance in seeing what is required.’
Lady Smythe-Tomas took out a lorgnette and studied the messages carefully as Emily read over her shoulders. They appeared to be from Princess Vicky’s ladies-in-waiting, outlining what they would like to see happen from the English League, what they might do to assist. None of the names were familiar to Emily.
Lady Smythe-Tomas finally tucked away the notes and turned to give Emily a long glance. ‘My dear Miss Fortescue, perhaps you would be so kind as to fetch some papers from my case? I left it in the corridor, I think,’ she said.
Emily wondered what game she was playing, what she would tell Madame Renard about the notes. But she knew a speaking glance when she saw one. ‘Of course. I will return quickly.’
She made her way back downstairs to the common room, wondering what was really in those letters. Was it a code of some sort? A way to reach real contacts? Still puzzled, she told the maidservant what was required and went into the public sitting room to wait for the drinks. She did know one thing for certain—she had no idea why she was there, what part she was meant to play. And she never liked being kept in the dark.
She froze at the sight of Chris lounging at a table by the window, his golden hair turned to sparkling gilt by the sunlight, looking lazy and leisured and perfectly at his ease. But surely it was no coincidence. No gentleman seeking a pleasurable day out would come to Chaton sur Mereille.
‘Chris, what on earth are you doing here?’ she demanded, marching over to his table. She glared down at him, hands planted on her hips. Yes, they were meant to be courting, but no one was there to see them in the country.
He grinned up at her, unrepentant. ‘Just looking for a bit of fresh air in the countryside. Imagine seeing you here, Em!’
‘Oh, don’t be so silly, Chris. Did you follow me here? Why?’
He leaned across the table, looking suddenly serious. ‘I called on you at your hotel and they said you had gone away with Lady Smythe-Tomas. I was a bit worried. Wherever she goes, trouble is sure to follow her.’
‘Chris.’ Emily shook her head, feeling a mix of happy that he worried about her and irritation that he thought he had to. ‘I am touched you care. I know it might not look that way sometimes, but I really can usually take care of myself. Lady Smythe-Tomas is a safe enough companion.’
‘Compared to some, maybe.’ Chris reached out and took her hand, holding it tightly. She was so surprised by the touch that she couldn’t pull away. ‘Em, there are so many things you haven’t thought about. Shouldn’t have to worry about. I just want you to be careful.’
Emily was confused, both by Chris’s words and whatever was happening in the sitting room upstairs. She hated not knowing what was going on, hated feeling like she was deceived. ‘If you know something, you should tell me what it is. How else can I be on my guard?’
He shrugged and sat back. ‘You know me, Em. I am utterly clueless about everything. I just want you to be safe, that’s all.’
‘And you think I don’t want that?’ Emily sighed in deep frustration, sure he was hiding something from her—again. ‘I cannot live my life always frightened, always hovered about. It’s impossible. I am happy you care about me, but there is no need. If you can’t be honest with me...’
‘Emily...’
The maid appeared in the doorway with the tray of refreshments and Emily shook her head at Chris. ‘I must get back now. I will see you in Paris.’
‘Em, wait!’
She whirled around and hurried away. She felt like her life was suddenly submerged in a murky river, she couldn’t see two feet in front of her, couldn’t see what was happening around her, and she was churning frantically to get away. To see clearly again. She hated not being in control.
Upstairs, she found Madame Renard and Lady Smythe-Tomas talking about the structure of League meetings, as if nothing else had ever happened. But still that feeling of disquiet lingered at the edges.
Once she was back in Paris, she was determined to confront Chris once and for all, and find out what was really happening.
* * *
‘Blast it all!’ Chris growled, and curled his hand in a tight fist to keep himself from pounding it on the table. He had made a right mess of that, as he so often seemed to do with Emily. He’d lost all his subtlety, all the arts of acting and subterfuge that served him so well in his work, and just plunged ahead like a clumsy old bull.
He would never be able to keep his promise to Mr Fortescue, or his promise to himself, to keep her safe. In fact, he should not have left her to return to Paris and would not have if he hadn’t known Laura was there with her. If he was to succeed in his mission, and it was vital that he did, he would have to learn some artifice again. Quickly.
Emily was no fool. She could surely sense something was amiss. But she couldn’t know about his true work. No one could.
He had to find some distance within himself, see Emily not as his friend, not as a beautiful woman, but as an assignment. That was the only way he could make sure he returned to England safely.
He had to forget everything else.
He made his way back through the crowded streets of Paris, not really seeing anything around him, the flower carts, the barking dogs, the café terraces. He only thought about Emily. In his quiet, cold room, a stack of correspondence waited for him as usual. Not official business; that went to the Foreign Office’s central post. There was a letter from his mother, more news about a likely heiress she had met, a lecture passed on from his father, a note from an old friend inviting him into a new wine club. A billet-doux from an old dalliance who’d heard he was in Paris again.
All of those seemed to belong to someone else, to an old Chris who was gone now. He tossed it all in the wastepaper bin and only then did he notice a letter marked from the Poseidon Club at the bottom of the pile. Curious, he opened it and his eyes narrowed at the signature.
Albert Fortescue.
He swiftly read it, then had to read it again.
My dear Mr Blakely,
Thank you for your kind, if brief, note informing me of my daughter’s safety in Paris. I am most content with the situation and most grateful. I only have to say if you ever called on me to ask for my daughter’s hand in reality I would be only too happy to consent.
I know I ask a great deal, but I also know what a prize my dear Emily is, and I do not make this offer lightly. I know of your old reputation, but I also know reputations can be misunderstood. I see deeper than some men, as I have had to do for my business. And I see that you are a man to be trusted.
It would not be an easy task. You know my daughter well enough to see her independent spirit, but I also believe you see her sensitive heart, her vulnerabilities, and understand my deep wishes and fears for her happiness. I think you are the man who could help her.
You would find me a generous father-in-law, of course, if you consider my request. And I need not say that Emily needn’t know anything of this conversation.
I look forward to seeing you at the Poseidon Club as soon as you return to London and to a satisfactory conclusion to our business.
Your friend,
Albert Fortescue
Chris dropped on to the nearest chair, staring at the letter in astonishment. No respectable man had ever wanted him as a son-in-law before, especially not a man he admired as he did Albert Fortescue, a fine businessman and loving father. As for what the man suggested...
Chris had to admit he found it more than intriguing. And much too dangerous.
His feelings for Emily had been strong even from the first moment he saw her and now they grew whenever they were together. But he could never put her in any danger. Never hurt her. He was not worthy to be her husband.
Still, he could not quite bring himself to toss away the lette
r. Someone, someone as important as Emily’s own father, actually thought he could be worthy of her. Maybe he could even think that about himself one day, though he would not be with Emily.
He put it in the desk drawer, where only he would know it was there. Only he would know the hidden words there he longed to hear, even as he knew they could not come true.
Chapter Thirteen
‘This letter came for you this morning, Miss Emily,’ Mary said as she deposited the breakfast tray on the bedside table. Teapot, toast rack, the post, just like always.
But not quite. Emily remembered too well her quarrel with Chris.
Mary threw back the curtains, letting in the pale morning light of the city. ‘What do you have planned for today, miss?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Emily murmured. ‘Just work, I think.’
Mary made a tsking noise as she opened the wardrobe and sorted through the suits and day dresses arrayed there. ‘You work too much, Miss Emily. Surely that can wait until we’re back in London. Paris is—well, it’s Paris! You should go up the Eiffel Tower. Stroll in the parks. Buy a hat.’
Emily laughed. ‘I already have enough hats for the Season!’ She gestured at the rows of chapeaux atop the wardrobe: feathers, fruit, lace, straw, felt. ‘But you are right. Paris is indeed Paris. I should do something a little special.’
‘That Mr Blakely called yesterday, wanting to take you to the Louvre. That might be nice.’ Mary shook her head at a jacket whose hem needed mending. ‘You are young, miss. I worry sometimes that you forget that.’ She laid out a mulberry-silk skirt and smoothed the lace trim. ‘You’re always working, working.’ But there had to be time for their courtship, as well. For people to see them.
‘Someone has to do the work, Mary. There are hats to pay for. What else would I do with my time?’
‘Just enjoy yourself a little, that’s all I’m saying, Miss.’ With one last sniff over a small spot on the skirt, Mary bustled away with the clothes over her arm.
Just enjoy herself. Emily sighed. If only it was that easy. She always seemed so preoccupied by so much—her father and his health, ledger figures, imports and exports, the household, the League. How could there be room for much fun?
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