by Kate Moore
Even Lynley knew she was behaving outrageously. Older ladies in passing carriages stiffened in outrage, while younger ladies gawked. One young woman in a close-fitting gold jacket that emphasized the striking dimensions of her chest gave Emily a particularly hard look.
“So you’re keeping the ring?” he asked.
She nodded. “Lynley, do you own a hair shirt by any chance?”
“My tailor does not supply them.”
“It’s only that I thought you might be needing one to repent the fun you had last night.”
“Fun?”
“Your aunt has a particularly dim view of fun. And I feel certain that she would strongly condemn your sneaking about at a dinner party, recovering missing government papers and feigning imbecility, that sort of thing.”
“You call that fun?” His fiancée was too perceptive. He would have to distract her from his spy activities.
His baser self immediately suggested a way he could do that. He had not at first imagined taking liberties with her beyond an occasional kiss on her hand. There would be no harm in such practiced gallantry. But in the dark, in the gap between the ballroom doors after she had moved with him so perfectly through the dance, he had been moved to kiss her properly.
“You were quite busy all evening,” she said, “and I gather there was more to do after you bundled me into my carriage. Did you return to Lady Ravenhurst?”
“Lady Ravenhurst?” Maybe his fiancée did not suspect him of spying after all, but of having a flirt.
“I wonder what brought her to the park. She has no need of a husband.”
Lynley asked, “You think she should stay home?”
A headshake was her reply. “Not at all. But as my Husband Hunter’s Guide points out, being seen in an open barouche in the park is essential to husband-hunting. So I wonder what brings Lady Ravenhurst to gather gentlemen around her when she already possesses a husband.”
“Some women never outgrow their passion for admiration.” Lynley’s uncle firmly believed that passion to be the great weakness of beautiful women, one to be exploited at every opportunity.
Emily shrugged. “She’s lovely, of course, but she’s too unhappy to care for compliments.”
“I thought she was taking great pleasure in the gallantries tossed her way.”
Emily shook her head, her expression now grave. “I suspect that her pleasure is entirely artificial. Whatever is making her unhappy, I’ll wager you that she’d prefer to go home, throw herself on her bed, weep her heart out, and consume a platter of cream puffs, rather than smile and accept tributes from a group of gentlemen who prefer their women decorative, demure, and domestic.”
Once she said it, Lynley saw that it was true. Lady Ravenhurst’s public gaiety was false.
He had guessed as much the night before. So why had she come to the park? The most likely answer was that she came to meet someone. The puzzle intrigued him. He wondered if Lady Ravenhurst were in the power of some spy. A brief meeting in the park, as if by chance, without apparent concealment, would be an opportunity to pass information. Gloves, papers, messages, all could be exchanged while what appeared to happen was mere flirtation.
As far as Lynley knew, none of the gentlemen currently around her had any known ties to England’s enemies. A poke in the ribs brought him back to the present.
“Do you have any other relations who might accost me in the park?” she asked.
“None.”
“Your aunt does not have children of her own?”
“None.”
“And your uncle?”
“Never married.”
“Lynley, you must do your share to keep the conversation going. Tell me something about last night, or take me home,” she said.
What could he tell her? Goldsworthy would insist he tell her nothing. The public was not to know that spies or their counterparts existed in London.
She sighed. “You did not stumble upon the missing papers. You were nosing about before we overheard the Ravenhursts arguing.”
“Ah, but I overheard Ravenhurst earlier in the evening. I could tell the plan was flawed, and if I could see that, so could the intended target. It was doomed and would only cause...the lady trouble.”
“So you took it upon yourself to intervene?”
“The plan seemed likely to cause unnecessary distress without solving the government’s problem.”
“What is the problem? Do you know?”
He shrugged, but did not meet her gaze. “Where may I escort you tonight?”
“To the opera. In my mother’s absence I must host her usual party, but I warn you, Lynley, do not try another disappearing act.”
“So, no chance to drop glassware down a stairwell or hide in a closet. However will we manage to amuse ourselves?”
A little shiver was the only sign she gave of her reaction to the idea. She brought her hand back to her lap and put on her glove, and he guided them out of the park.
* * * *
The afternoon post brought a letter from Emily’s mother.
My dear Emily,
I hear from your father and your sister that you may have taken my gift of a guidebook too much to heart, and in your characteristic way have thrown yourself into an engagement with a man quite unknown to your family. Please do not order any wedding clothes without consulting me first.
You may rest assured that I will return to London as soon as your grandmother’s health improves.
As ever,
Your loving mother
* * * *
Lynley found the opera instructive—not the story of the fairy king Oberon’s efforts to regain the affections of his queen through the manipulation of mere mortals, but the display of London society. Bright chandeliers exposed the crowd as well as the performers. From the vast floor up to the tiers of boxes with their red hangings and gilt edges, the Royal Opera House, like the park, was a place for the fashionable to see and be seen.
The scene was nothing like the café cantantes of Jerez, dark and intimate, where he had often escaped from his uncle to listen to a lone guitarist or watch a single dancer.
Lynley’s gaze passed over the crowd. After years in Spain, he could name perhaps only a score of people in the boxes. He needed to do better to find the missing government papers. One fellow particularly intrigued him, a silver-haired gentleman nearer to fifty than forty, dressed with attention to the latest mode, who sat at Lady Ravenhurst’s left elbow in a box across the theater.
It was apparent from the moment the gentleman entered the box that he had some hold over the lady. Lynley’s thoughts on the matter were interrupted by the interval and the arrival in their box of a young man from his distant school days, Roddy Twedell.
“Thought it was you, Lynley. Heard you’d returned from somewhere or other.”
“Spain.”
“You’ve let yourself be caught already, I hear,” Twedell remarked, glancing at Emily Radstock. “Saw the notice in the papers that you’ll be buckled soon.”
“You may congratulate me.”
“Never thought that one would marry. Heard she wouldn’t be under anyone’s thumb. Well, to each his own, but if you want to sample something rather different, let me know. And come by the club. You can tell me about those sherries of Spain.”
“It’s a Palo Cortado you want, Twedell.”
* * * *
Emily’s duties as hostess to those of her mother’s friends who made up the party kept her busy at the interval, making sure chairs were rearranged and everyone had a lemonade or a wine and some cake from a tray of refreshments. When she looked up from a conversation with one of her mother’s oldest friends, she was surprised to see her brother-in-law, who was no opera lover.
“Em,” said Phil, eying the tiny cakes and tarts on the refreshment tray. “Came for Roz
, she wants to know if you did something...indelicate in the park today.”
“Do have a tart, Phil,” Emily suggested. “What makes Roz think that?”
“Miss Throckmorton called. Do you know her?”
“I think everyone does.”
“Thing is, Roz doesn’t want your mama to hear anything to...worry her, you know.”
“There is nothing to worry about, Phil. Miss Throckmorton probably saw me waving Lynley’s ring about in my excitement over our engagement.” At the moment, Lynley’s gaze was fixed intently on Lady Ravenhurst’s box. Emily turned her back on her fiancé. Better not to watch.
“Phil, do you know Lynley’s aunt Silsden?”
Phil shuddered. “Terrible woman. Best to avoid her. Didn’t like Lynley going to school. She had to let him go, of course. His father’s will and all.”
“Well, I met her today in the park. What did she mean by the disaster? What happened to Lynley?”
Phil shook his head, his hand hovering over a tart. “Can’t tell you, Em. Don’t worry about Lynley, great tall fellow like him will always take care of himself.”
“When did he get his height, Phil?”
Phil appeared to consider the question, though his gaze was still on the tart. “Always taller than me.”
“And Spain? Why did he go to Spain?”
“You know, Em, you should ask Lynley these questions.”
“I will. I just don’t want to be wholly ignorant.”
“Lynley’s uncle took him to Spain, straight out of Cambridge. We’d just begun, but the uncle said college was no education for a man of the world.”
“So what kind of education did the uncle want for him?”
Phil shook his head. “Don’t know. Lynley never talks about Spain, except about sherry and horses. Marvelous horses, the Andalusians. Did you know monks bred and trained them before Napoleon tried to steal them, and these brothers, the Zamoras, hid a herd?”
“Monks?”
“Yes.” Phil chose the tart he wanted from the plate. “Lynley has a stallion from Spain. Can’t bring him to town though. Keeps him at Lyndale Abbey.”
The tart disappeared, and Phil’s gaze returned to the plate. “Thing is, Roz has been eating so little, we haven’t had...”
“Cake, Phil?” Emily wanted to keep her brother-in-law talking about his friend. The big mystery remained the “disaster” that had put a fourteen-year-old boy in the care of a censorious aunt and then a profligate uncle. Obviously, part of the disaster was the death of Lynley’s father. No mention had been made of his mother.
In the park Emily had not wanted him to know how shocking she’d found his aunt’s revelations. She had made light of what he’d endured for the four years he’d been in Lady Silsden’s care, but the harsh regimen of scolds and restrictions could not have been easy for a young man of spirit to endure.
Emily tried to reconcile the two different pictures she had of him. On the one hand was the man who appeared utterly imperturbable, the sort who would face cannon fire with a quip and a perfectly arranged neckcloth; on the other hand was the boy who must have suffered at the hands of relations who had used him as a rope in a tug-of-war for family power.
“When did Lynley return from Spain?”
“Must have been several months back. Didn’t see him until he came to town a fortnight ago.” Phil brushed cake crumbs from his mouth. “You two are hitting it off, are you?”
“Perfectly,” said Emily. She glanced at her fiancé. Once again he stood watching the golden beauty in the opposite box.
* * * *
Lynley caught Phil just as his friend stepped out of the Candover box.
“Not staying for act two?” he asked.
Phil shook his head.
“Coward.”
“Don’t care for opera. Just came to check on Em for Roz. Don’t want Roz to worry. In her condition and all.”
“Very proper, Phil. And should Roz worry?”
Phil’s smooth brow wrinkled. “Em says you two are getting along perfectly and that she did nothing...indelicate in the park today.”
It was another lesson about London. Inevitably, one’s smallest indiscretion was observed. What happened in the park in the afternoon became the evening’s gossip.
“Phil, I won’t keep you, but I need a quick favor. There is a gentleman whose name I need to know.”
They reentered the box, standing in the shadows at the back as the second act began on the stage below. Lynley pointed out the gentleman sitting at Lady Ravenhurst’s elbow just as the man placed a hand on her shoulder and leaned forward to whisper something in her ear.
Phil stiffened beside him. “That’s Barksted.”
“Who is he?”
“A gamester. A very rum touch. I should think Ravenhurst would toss the fellow out of the box.”
“Ravenhurst isn’t there,” Lynley pointed out.
Phil peered at the box again. “So he’s not. Well, I wouldn’t want a fellow like that around Roz, I can tell you.”
“Why not?”
Phil shook his head. “He’s not a cheat or a sharp exactly, at least no one’s caught him at it, but he likes to hold on to a person’s vowels and make them sweat. He’s a squeezer, that’s what he is.”
Lynley thought Phil was right, but if the pressure on Lady Ravenhurst came from a mere card sharp, not a foreign spy, Lynley had gone down a blind alley in his search for the missing papers.
“Where does Barksted like to play, Phil?”
“Private house in St. James’s, I imagine.”
“The one run by that female, Mrs. Hewitt?”
“Yes, do you know it?”
“I was there last night.” Lynley had not seen Barksted there, but he’d like to find out how the man operated.
“Must get back to Roz, Lynley.”
“Go.” Lynley clapped Phil on the shoulder. “But meet me at Mrs. Hewitt’s establishment after the opera. Shall we say one?”
Phil groaned. “Lynley, I’m an old married man. I’m going to be a father.”
“There’s bound to be an excellent supper at two.”
Lynley remained at the back of the box while the soprano on the stage poured out an aria. The vast audience suspended most conversation to listen. When the crowd applauded, he moved to return to his seat and found himself caught in Emily Radstock’s gaze. The look in her eyes and the proud tilt of her head told him that while apparently occupied with her duties as a hostess, she had missed none of his actions in the interval. It was time to distract her.
Chapter Seven
We are used in our present age to think of a betrothal as a bargain. In families of means the lawyers meet to negotiate the settlements almost before the sweet kiss of a lady’s acceptance fades from the lips of her betrothed. The contract between parties who are to share life’s deepest joys and sorrows appears to be a matter of dowries, jointures, and provisions for offspring. When the ink is dry on these documents, it is impossible to break with one another without facing a protracted legal contest. No doubt many enter into marriage as into a bargain, but how much more like a true marriage might it be to consider the betrothal like a solemn covenant.
—The Husband Hunter’s Guide to London
By the time the knight Haroun and the princess Reiza had been tied to a stake to be burned and the fairy queen and king had been summoned to intervene, Emily had quite lost the thread of their adventures. It was Lynley’s fault. She had warned him not to disappear. Instead he’d dominated her senses with his nearness.
He adjusted her wrap, his gloved fingers trailing down her shoulder. He whispered a question about Puck’s singing, his breath disturbing the curls over her ears. His knee collided with hers as he adjusted his chair to make room for his long legs. His hand brushed hers as he consulted the program. Whenever she t
urned to remonstrate with him, her gaze went to his wonderful crooked mouth, just inches from her face.
She knew what he was up to. He wanted her to forget the attention he had paid to the blond beauty across the theater. Instead her body shook like a teapot on the boil with awareness of him. She tried to fix her attention on her mother’s friends, saying her goodnights and thanking them for coming, but with Lynley at her side, she bungled the simplest goodbyes. And then they were in the carriage, the dark, close carriage, rocking along. She scooted to the far side of the bench.
“Em,” he said, “I did not disappear tonight.”
“Thank you for that.” She was conscious of a slight quiver in her voice. Their engagement gave him the privilege of her name, and at once he had shortened it to one drawn-out syllable.
He reached out and pulled her toward him. She resisted briefly, then let herself be drawn. He tilted her chin up with one gloved hand and lowered his mouth to hers. It was just the touch her senses had clamored for through the evening.
She did not recognize her firm, practical mouth. Her perfectly serviceable lips, which she counted on to admit modest amounts of air and sustenance, now became greedy, as if nothing but the taste of Lynley could satisfy their hunger. The sensation rushed not along the paths of her nerves, but shot straight to her heart, jolting it out of a long sleep.
Emily wrenched her mouth from his and pushed against his chest. His arms released her, and she tumbled back on the seat. She straightened.
“You’re thinking,” he said, his voice a low rasp.
“Of course I’m thinking. You only kiss me to interfere with the working of my brain. What is your fascination with Lady Ravenhurst? Is she the lost love of your youth? Or do you suspect her of concealing government documents in that little blue velvet reticule of hers with the silver ties?”
“Neither. I thought you enjoyed our kisses last night.”
“I don’t deny it. You obviously know what you’re about. But you put a ring on my finger, kiss me senseless, show me the pain that could be ours in marriage, and shove me in a carriage alone? What were you thinking?”
