Simone had delayed as long as she could, especially since she did not wish to keep the major waiting for them along the route. She told Sarah to open the communicating window and tell Harold they were settled, ready to leave. She thought she heard a muttered, “About time, b’gad,” under the crack of the whip, and they were off.
So she never got to bid the secretary farewell. Nor did he bother to wish them luck, the dastard.
The last she’d seen of Mr. Harris had been last evening when he handed her a heavy silk purse. The coins were for vails along the way, for her personal use, for emergencies, he said. He might have been handing the major’s precious gold to a leper, the way he half tossed it at her without letting their hands touch. He must think the money was payment for services about to be rendered, the wages of her sin.
Let him think what he would, Simone told herself. She’d earn her pay by using her skills and her wits, not her body. She’d help the major with whatever hugger-mugger he imagined, and she’d try to add to the promised hundred pounds with the courtesans’ contest. She knew she could not win the thousand pound prize, but she’d do her deuced best at the preliminary rounds.
The young maid chattered about Simone’s new wardrobe and exclaimed about the passing countryside, while Simone studied her notes. She’d learned just this morning in a note from the major that two of the women expected to attend were French, but she was not supposed to speak that language with them. Mimi Granceaux was known to be Maisy Grant, born in Seven Dials instead of along the Seine, so she was not liable to converse en francaise. Joseph Gollup’s convenient was also French. He was a wealthy ship owner; his wife was breeding. So, the rumor went, was Lord Comden’s mistress. She’d be no competition at riding or dancing, but betting was heavy over whether the bachelor baron would marry her or not. And so it went. Simone fretted over the competition and Sarah babbled about everything and nothing. The miles flew by under the horses’ hooves.
All too soon for Simone’s jittery nerves, they reached the inn where they were to meet up with Major Harrison. She and Sarah stepped down for refreshment, while Harold took the coach around back, to rest and water the horses.
Sarah clucked her tongue over the inn yard dirt on Miss Royale’s hems, and brushed at them as best she good while they waited in the bespoken private parlor. “We both need to make a good first impression, that’s what Mum said.”
We need to see if Major Harrison did anything about his appearance, Simone told herself, as he’d promised. If he had not trimmed his beard or found more fashionable garments, all Sarah’s efforts were in vain. Miss Noma Royale would look like his nursemaid or his granddaughter. No, her sapphire carriage dress was too fine for the first; too low cut and clinging for the second. They’d look exactly what they were, May and December, an affair of interest. Bank interest, that was.
Many of the women she’d meet were younger than she was. She doubted few of the men would be older than the major. The first impression they’d make? That of a foolish old frump and his avaricious doxy.
What was she doing?
The same as all the rest of the ladybirds were doing. Only for more money, she thought, and for slightly less shameful work.
Perhaps she could walk back to London.
Jem knocked on the door to the private parlor before she could bolt. Whenever they were done with their cider and scones, he told them, they could leave. Simone forced herself to her feet, thanked the innkeeper, and slowly headed to where the hangman, no, Major Harrison, waited. She raised her chin and stepped out the door. She was going to make her fortune, hers and Auguste’s, see if she didn’t.
The carriage was out front, but not the major. Another coach was nearby, with trunks lashed to the back. Sarah headed toward that coach and the familiar bay gelding tied behind alongside a huge, restless stallion. “The master will ride with you from here on. Jem’s to see about the horses while I go ahead with his valet and start unpacking.”
Major Harrison had a valet? That enormous brute was the former officer’s mount? “I would feel better with you with me,” were the words out of Simone’s mouth. “In case my hair comes out of its pins or something.”
“Oh, I am sure Master Harry can repair any damage,” Sarah answered with a wide grin. Jem laughed as he mounted the bay and gathered up the stallion’s lead. “And you need time to get acquainted.”
She already knew the major and his peculiar ways. She supposed he wanted to give her last-minute directions, or more instruction in the art of flirting for the audience they’d soon have. His kisses were not half as bad as she’d thought they would be, and his cuddles were pleasant. She’d manage, as long as he did not ask more of her. And she’d smile, as if she were enjoying every minute of it.
The other coach pulled away, and still she sat alone, growing more nervous and vaguely nauseous. Now wouldn’t that make a good first impression on the gathered swells and their strumpets?
She leaned out the window for fresh air, and to call to Harold if he knew how long before they could leave. He did not bother to turn around. Somehow he loomed larger. All her troubles did.
Then a strange man opened the door to her coach. Not the innkeeper bringing a hot brick, not the major, not anyone she had ever seen before. She’d remember this fellow, who looked more like the man of her dreams—of any maiden’s dreams—than any footman or messenger. He had pitch-black hair cut in short waves, a square chin with a cleft in it, broad shoulders in a caped riding coat, form-fitting deerskin breeches, and high boots. Good grief, he was a highwayman! Then why wasn’t Harold whipping the horses up? Or the landlord running with his blunderbuss?
Simone clutched her reticule and its valuable store of coins to her chest. “I am sorry, sir. You must have the wrong carriage. The one with the baggage and valuables just left.”
He grinned at her, a white-toothed smile with dimples. “Oh, no sweetings. This is right where I want to be.” He bounded into the carriage and slammed the door behind him.
A rake. Worse and worse. The major would be coming and, heavens, what would he think? That she was being unfaithful before they arrived, or that her virtue needed defending? Either idea was appalling.
“You must go.”
Instead he rapped on the roof and called up to the driver, “Move on.”
“No!” she shouted. She wished she’d thought to see if the major carried a pistol in his carriage as some travelers did, to guard against thieves. Gracious, a robber was in her carriage, across from her, grinning. Then he was reaching out, as if to take her purse. Simone might not have a pistol, but she was not entirely defenseless. Ever since the first libertine had tried to take advantage of her, she’d fixed a long hat pin with a beaded head to the front of her reticule, like a decoration. Now that pretty weapon was decorating the hand that was reaching for her money, and who knew what else.
She hadn’t meant to sink the hat pin entirely through his thumb, but the carriage lurched forward just then. Harold must have had more than a pint of ale while he rested the horses. He’d be no help, trying to get control of the horses.
“Eeeow!” the intruder yelled, pulling the hat pin out and sticking the wounded thumb in his mouth. “Dash it, woman, don’t you know me?”
Now that he seemed cowed, like a little boy sucking on his finger, Simone took a better look. He was still devastatingly handsome, of course, but she finally noticed that his dark-rimmed eyes were a brilliant blue, blue the exact color of her carriage gown that Sally had insisted she wear. He seemed a bit familiar, although she could not imagine how or where. Yes, she could. “I dreamed you up, from the stories, that’s all.” And the inn’s cider must have been tainted.
“Harry.” That was all he said, his thumb still in his mouth, but he pulled a ragged false moustache from his pocket.
“Harry?”
He made a half bow, there in the carriage, and handed back her hat pin. “At your service, Miss Royale.”
She ignored the proffered weapon, reached
over, and slapped him.
Now he rubbed his cheek, where a handprint was forming. “Lud, woman, you are a hazard. I thought you’d be happy I’m not a weak old man.”
She’d been betrayed. “Sally knew, and Jem. And Mr. Ha— There is no Mr. Harris either, is there?”
“Are you going to attack me again?”
“I just might. Is there a Mr. Harris?”
“Uh, that depends.”
“Do you mean your answer depends on who you are lying to? You, who demands the truth from everyone else? You bastard.”
“I told you I was a bastard the day we met. That was the truth.”
“Well, I never liked Harris anyway. And now I do not like you, whoever you are. I want Major Harrison back.” She knew her words sounded absurd. Worse, she could hear the quiver in her voice.
He almost reached out to pat her shoulder, then thought better of it. “I’m sorry, but that’s impossible. You see, that’s what the whole charade is about, so people know we are two different people. The major is still in London, or someone who looks a lot like him is going about his business.”
“While you create a stir in Richmond.”
“Precisely. And continue investigations for the government in secret, do not forget that.”
She took the hat pin and skewered it through the fabric of her reticule again, not looking at him. “Is your name Harry?”
“It’s what I have been called since I was born.”
“Not Harrison?”
“No, but I lived with that family for many years after my mother died. I was their son in all but blood and name. I bear my mother’s name, Harmon, and her shame, I suppose. Between Harmon and Harrison, Harry was an easy step.”
“But that is not your true name.”
“I never use my given name.”
She moved to open the little window to the driver’s box. “And I never deal with people I do not trust, or who do not trust me.”
He grabbed her hand before she could touch the communications window and order the driver to halt. “I could not. Surely you see that. Lives are at stake. Mine, for one. I’d like to live the rest of it in peace, as Harry Harmon.”
“What would happen if I made Harold st— That’s not Harold, is it?”
“I am afraid not, my dear. And he will not obey any orders but mine.”
She toyed with the hat pin, but he was watching her closely with eyes that saw too much and revealed too little. “What if I told Lord Gorham of all your disguises when we arrive?”
Now his eyelids drooped and he brushed a speck of mud off his boot. “Do you think you would enjoy Canada?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, my dear, that no one can be permitted to destroy the government’s plans, no matter how it would pain me. First I would convince our host and his guests that you were a revolting drunk.” He removed a flask from an inside pocket and held it up, as if he’d pour it down her throat, or over her gown. “Then I’d have you on a ship out of England so fast your new shoes would not get dirty. You’d be drugged, of course, in case you tried to natter on to someone else. I cannot afford to have my secrets made public.” He took a swallow of whatever was in the flask, without offering her any.
She might have accepted, anything to deaden her shock.
Harry tucked the flask away. “Will you tell?”
“Why would you believe me no matter what I say? I hardly believe anything you tell me.” Except, perhaps, his threats.
“If you promise to hold your tongue until after the house party, I will believe you. After that, no one else will believe your farfetched gibberings.”
“What is your real name?”
“Harmon, as I told you. My mother was Ivy Harmon, an opera dancer. A rich man’s mistress. I did not lie about that. In fact, I may have misled you, and I certainly did not reveal all the truth, but an outright lie? I try not to. It tastes bad.”
“Botheration, enough of your obfuscation. Lies taste bad, hah! Either you trust me with your first name, or I do not trust you. I’ll run off to find the local magistrate and ask his protection. I am not afraid of you.”
“You are lying, but it is Royce.”
“Royce, as in the earl?”
“An earl who would be embarrassed by the revelation. His undeserving lady wife would be mortified, my half-brother and cousin made uncomfortable. We rub along well now, and I am accepted in all but the highest circles, but there’s no need to rub everyone’s nose in my bastardy. The ton accepts only what it can ignore.”
Simone was thinking about what she’d heard. “If Lord Royce is your father, Viscount Rexford is your half brother, and your cousin would be…Mr. Daniel Stamfield. I’ll murder him.”
“Not until we reach Gorham’s place, please. It’s not good for the horses.”
“He’s driving? Harold?” She tried not to scream, or cry, which would ruin the coloring on her eyelashes. “Daniel is Harold?”
“Only for awhile. He wanted to come and he’s a handy fellow to have around.”
“You are both insane. You and your whole household. Why, Lydia Burton knows, too, doesn’t she?”
“She lived next door to the Harrisons.”
Oh, lord. “Who else knows?”
“My family, of course, both of them. The Judds, naturally. My personal staff and perhaps two or three of my superiors at the war office. The Duke of Wellington, the prime minister, Prinny.”
“Prinny? The Prince Regent?”
He smiled at her, almost in sympathy. “Well, the future king ought to know who is working for him, oughtn’t he?”
She shook her head, when she really wished to bang it against the side of the carriage. Then maybe her scrambled wits could find their feet. If wits had feet. Heaven help her. “No one would believe this.”
“I am hoping the man who is trying to kill Major Harrison does not.”
“There really is such a person? Not another of your machinations?”
“There have been several attempts on my life. The major’s, that is. Harrison is an important figure, if seldom spoken of, rarely seen. He and his office have accomplished much for England, and destroyed many of those who would see it brought down.”
“I am in the middle of a nightmare.”
“No, you are in Griffin Woods. We entered Gorham’s gate while you were shrieking.”
“I was not shrieking. I am merely understandably upset.”
“You are right. You have every reason to be upset. I thought you knew.”
“I suspected something, but my conclusions were so outlandish that I ignored my doubts.”
“I really am sorry.”
Simone wasn’t ready to accept an apology from a blue-eyed snake. “Hmph.”
“Should we kiss and make up? After all, this is our first lovers’ spat.”
“We are not lovers, we are not having a spat, and I do not kiss strangers.”
“Should I put on the fake moustache?”
“If I ever see it again, I will—
He placed his fingers over her lips. “Come, pet. We must act like lovers for our grand entrance. You look stunning, if no one has told you, or if everyone has told you. I’ve never known a more beautiful woman, and I’ll be the proudest man in the kingdom to have you on my arm. I did place bets on you, you know. On Harry Harmon’s companion. All over London.”
“Who placed the wagers? Which one of you?”
He grinned. “Everyone I could think of.”
Simone ignored the smile, dimples and all. She was thinking ahead to the house party, the days, but especially the nights. Harry, this Harry, was not a feeble old man. Not by half. “Does our agreement still hold?”
Harry did not pretend to misunderstand. “It might kill me, but I will not go back on my word. Your honor is safe with me. Will you keep your promise?”
“Which one?”
“To help me. To keep my secrets. To act like you worship the ground I walk on.”
“Th
at’s three.”
“I am not such a bad chap.”
“That’s what everyone says. I’ll reserve judgment.”
“There’s no time, sweetheart.” He reached over and pulled her into his lap, as if she were as light as thistle down, and kissed her soundly. Then softly. Then as if he were sharing his soul along with his life’s breath. “Trust me, Noma.”
She kissed him back, which he took as an answer and encouragement to continue. His hands stroked her back, and hers wove through his short wavy hair. She lost herself in the kiss and caresses and sighs of pleasure, or were those low murmurs hers? This was far better than their first kiss, with no scratchy beard or coarse moustache, no worries that Harry would have a heart spasm, not this Corinthian, this nonsuch, this…this fork-tongued viper. She pulled away.
“Ah, now you have stars in your eyes.”
“And you have lip rouge on your mouth.”
He wiped at his face but not very thoroughly. “That will make our act all the more convincing. Come, love, the curtain rises.”
Chapter Twelve
Almack’s never glittered so brightly. Of course Simone had never attended the hallowed assembly rooms where the beau monde gathered to dance and converse and arrange marriages, but this was how she imagined it. Mrs. Olmstead had read her enough gossip column reports to build a fair picture in her mind. Beautiful young women wore elegant gowns of silk and lace, while the gentlemen appeared courtly, attentive, and handsome. The men raised their quizzing glasses and wine glasses; the women flashed bright smiles and brighter jewels, from head to gem-studded sandals.
The Almack’s patronesses would have apoplexy here.
The jewels may have been real; the smiles were not. A few of the men were already unsteady on their feet, and a few of the women too. The couples at Griffin Woods stood too close together, hands where no hands politely rested, and some actually disappeared into dark corners and draped alcoves. The women’s gowns revealed more of their charms than they hid, and the men did not bother to hide their stares. Worse, this was mid-afternoon, not close to midnight.
The Scandalous Life of a True Lady Page 11
