by Diane Gaston
* * *
By the time Tess retired to her bedchamber, Lady Northdon and Miss Glenville were calling her Tess and she was calling Miss Glenville Amelie. She would not dream of addressing Lady Northdon as anything but Lady Northdon, but dropping the formality made it a little like having a family again. It should have given her enough peace to fall easily asleep.
Sleep did not come so easy, though. Alone, under the bedcovers, she thought again of Marc.
Perhaps love was impossible, under the circumstances, but could they at least be the friends they’d become when stranded in the cabin?
* * *
The next morning Tess found her way to the breakfast room with some assistance from the footman attending the hall. When she entered, though, she was alone.
Another footman stepped into the room.
‘Am I too late or too early?’ she asked him. ‘When does the family eat?’
‘Lord Northdon rises quite early and has already breakfasted,’ the man responded. ‘The ladies tend to eat late.’
‘And Mr Glenville?’ Why must her heart pound when she spoke his name?
‘I believe he rose early and went out without eating, miss.’
What could it mean that he left early?
‘Thank you.’ She approached the buffet and glanced at the food. ‘I am happy to serve myself, but I would love a cup of hot tea.’
He nodded. ‘Right away, miss.’
A generous array of breakfast foods was spread out on the sideboard. Not only the breads, butter and jams she was used to at home, but also oatmeal with cream, pound cakes, ham and kippers. It was almost as varied and generous as the breakfasts at Tinmore Hall. She took a little of each offering, which filled her plate rather fully.
She sat and the footman poured her tea and withdrew.
The good spirits with which she’d filled her plate ebbed in the stillness and loneliness. She picked at her food and wondered if she could abandon her plate without the footman reporting it to the cook and housekeeper and ultimately reaching the ear of Lady Northdon.
The door opened and Marc entered the room.
She flushed with pleasure.
He paused and in that moment her spirits plummeted again. He might not be pleased to see her.
Then he smiled.
‘Tess, you surprised me.’ He bowed to her. ‘How nice to see you up this early.’
His pleasure sounded genuine. She relaxed a little. ‘I am used to country hours, I fear.’
He glanced at the footman. ‘Coffee, Wilson, if you would be so good.’
Marc walked to the buffet and filled his plate. ‘I rarely sleep late.’
They shared that trait, at least. Of course they’d both slept too late that morning in the cabin. How different everything would have been, if they had not.
He sat adjacent from her. ‘I’ve given Apollo a bit of a run on Rotten Row.’
Dear Apollo, who’d carried them both through the storm and who’d travelled three days to reach London. ‘Poor Apollo. Did he not deserve a day of rest?’
He glanced at her, but she could not read his expression. ‘I think he appreciated the run. He dislikes holding back.’
She looked down at her food. Why could she not hold her tongue?
He started eating. The footman came with a pot of coffee for him and withdrew again.
He took a sip, then smiled at her again. ‘I must tell Apollo sometime that he has a champion in you.’
When he smiled like that, he made it hard for her to breathe.
He cut a piece of ham. ‘I have an errand to perform this morning. I am sorry to leave you alone.’
He did not sound all that sorry. ‘Do not concern yourself. Your mother and sister are taking me to the shops for new clothes.’
‘Are they?’ He nodded. ‘That should please Maman very much. There is nothing she enjoys more.’
‘She is very knowledgeable.’ Tess took a sip of her tea. ‘She is taking me to a modiste on Petticoat Lane. A Madame LeClaire. Apparently Madame LeClaire is someone she knew in France when she was a girl.’
He frowned. ‘Poor Maman. I did not realise she once knew the modiste. No wonder she likes to buy new dresses.’ He speared a piece of ham and chewed it. After he’d swallowed it, he went on. ‘She’s had a difficult time of it.’
‘It is a shame, really,’ Tess said. ‘She is a lovely person and so fashionable. There is much other ladies could learn from her.’
‘You like her?’ he asked.
Of course she liked her. ‘She’s been very kind to me.’
He reached over and took her hand. ‘Let her order all the clothes she wants for you. As I said before, the cost is of no consequence.’
He cared about his mother. Another thing to like about him.
He released her and she was unsure what the gesture had meant.
‘I am certain I will enjoy your mother’s company and assistance. I only hope that I will look well enough for London.’
His blue eyes pierced her. ‘You look well enough for London already.’
* * *
After breakfast, Marc set off on the first of his errands of the day. A visit to Horse Guards to an office of a gentleman he’d called upon several times before. The visit was a formality, an official end to the clandestine activities of which Marc had been a part these last few years of the war. Now that Napoleon had abdicated, though, his days as a British spy in France were over.
When Marc’s brother died his father insisted he not return to his regiment. Marc had been forced to give up the dream he and his friend Charles shared since they were boys. But not long after, he’d been recruited for another sort of service to his country—as a spy.
On several occasions he crossed the Channel in secret and entered enemy territory. He watched the coast for naval activity, spent time in Paris meeting French contacts, keeping his eyes and ears open, passing for a Frenchman named Renard. Thanks to his French mother, Marc spoke the language without an accent and, with a simple change of clothes, he easily passed for a common Frenchman. The information he had gathered saved many a British soldier’s life.
It was some consolation for not being at Ciudad Rodrigo to keep Charles from volunteering for the Forlorn Hope. Charles was one of the first to storm the walls; one of the first to die.
Marc walked up to the office of Lord Greybury, his superior, to say his final goodbye and receive his official release from duty. Only a select few, no more than he could count on one hand, knew what Marc had done for the war effort. That was all well and good. Marc had not risked his life for the glory of it.
He’d always known his days as a spy would come to an end. How different this end was than what he’d planned. He’d planned to help take Charles’s place in Charles’s family, and, in return, abide in a house that scandal had never touched, where rational thinking and calm discourse existed instead of shouted words and deliberate misunderstandings.
He and Tess would begin their marriage in scandal. Would they, like his own parents, wind up without having a civil word to say to each other?
The mere thought of her, though, stirred him. His rational mind might bemoan this scandalous marriage, but another part of him was in a hurry to wed her.
His next stop would be to Doctors’ Commons at the office of the Archbishop of Canterbury where he would arrange a special licence. He and Tess would be able to marry within days.
He told himself this would be the best way to minimise the gossip that would ensue when word escaped that they’d been caught in a compromising situation. When they presented themselves as a married couple, there would be little to talk about.
Was that truly his reason? Or was he merely eager for the wedding night?
* * *
After his visit to Doctors’ Commons, Marc had one more call to make.
He walked through Mayfair to the street where Mr Caldwell’s town house was located. Likely Caldwell would be at the Home Office where he worked for Lord Sidmo
uth. That was for the best. It was his daughter Marc needed to see.
This house had been as familiar as his own ever since his school days when he and Charles became the best of friends. They’d both been mad for the army and obsessed by anything to do with it. Even as young boys they plotted to purchase commissions in the same regiment. For years the two of them had debated which regiment it should be and what part of the world they most wanted to see. India? The Colonies? When the time came, though, the Battle of Trafalgar had just been fought and both Charles and he were keen to fight Napoleon.
He and Charles joined the Eighty-Eighth Regiment of Foot, Connaught Rangers. The Devil’s Own.
Marc reached the town-house door and sounded the knocker. The butler, who’d known him since those early school days, greeted him warmly. ‘Glenville. Come in. Come in.’
A few minutes later, he was in the drawing room waiting for Doria. He’d known her nearly as long as Charles.
She entered the room as serene as always. ‘Marc. How delightful. You are back in London. It is good to see you.’
She was, he realised, quite an attractive woman, dark and intense, with thick, grave brows framing fine, intelligent eyes. There was no reason for her not to stir his blood.
But she did not.
She extended both hands and he clasped them. ‘Are you well, Doria?’
‘Very well.’ She smiled and led him to the sofa.
‘And your father?’ he asked.
She sat. ‘He is in good health. But tell me about you. Did you enjoy Scotland?’
Her question seemed more out of politeness than genuine interest. ‘Scotland was pleasant.’
‘Would you like some tea?’ she asked.
He joined her on the sofa. ‘No. I cannot stay long.’
He’d never discussed marriage with her, not specifically, not since they were children and she had insisted in all seriousness that she would marry him. She was much like her father. Practical, intelligent and impassive. Their house had always been serene—unlike his—and he’d always preferred being there instead of his own home.
Charles had been equally as quiet on the outside, but his heart had always been full of big dreams and strong emotions admirably held in check—unless Marc pushed him to unleash them. Marc’s emotions always seemed to burst from the seams, exploding from him like they constantly did from his mother and father. He taught Charles to let loose sometimes, to get into adventures. And scrapes. They’d had great fun.
And when they went too far, they could always return to this house. Here Marc learned he could keep his emotions in check, as well as his wild schemes. Charles, his father and Doria were masters of control. They taught him serenity.
So what had happened that Charles so lost his good sense? How had he allowed his emotions to go unchecked? Too soon after losing his brother, Marc had lost Charles, as well.
The grief of losing Charles washed over him, but Marc tamped it down. It was in this house where he’d gained that skill.
‘I have something to tell you,’ he said to Doria.
She gazed at him in friendly interest.
He took a breath. ‘I am to be married.’ He paused. ‘Soon.’
Her thick brows rose. ‘Married? What a surprise.’
Did she have any emotion beyond surprise? He could not tell. ‘It is sudden, I realise.’
She blinked, then shook her head as if tossing away an unwanted thought. ‘Who are you marrying?’
Had he hurt her? She would never allow him to see it, if he had. ‘She is Miss Summerfield, daughter of Sir Hollis Summerfield of Yardney. You do not know her. She has not been to town before.’
‘No, I do not know her.’ She spoke so softly he barely heard her.
Her father would certainly have heard of the scandalous Sir Hollis and Lady Summerfield. She’d soon learn of it from him.
‘I wanted to tell you before an announcement is made.’ He wanted to spare her feelings as much as possible.
‘How kind of you.’ Her voice seemed composed. ‘Is Miss Summerfield in town now?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘She is staying at my parents’ town house. We will be married by special licence.’
Her brows rose again. Whatever she assumed was his reason to act with such haste, she would soon learn, as well.
‘Yardney is in Lincolnshire, is it not?’ Doria was well versed in geography as well as most other subjects. She was well practised in making conversation, too. ‘Will you be returning there or staying in town?’
‘I do not know.’
A silence fell between them, a silence he had no idea how to fill. Had she been Charles he would have told the whole story, even down to his confused emotions regarding Tess Summerfield, but he and Doria had never been confidantes, and the very thing he most valued about her made it impossible for him to tell how his news had affected her.
She smiled politely. ‘My father is giving a dinner party. Perhaps you and Miss Summerfield might join us.’
He could not think of anything worse. ‘I could not attend and leave my sister and parents.’
‘Then they must attend, as well,’ she said.
‘Please do not feel obligated, Doria.’ The Caldwells had kindly included Marc’s parents in invitations before. They were among the very few who did.
‘Nonsense. They will be welcome,’ she said. ‘Your sister, too, of course. Is Amelie not of an age to be out?’
‘She is.’ Amelie had turned eighteen, an age most society daughters made their come-out.
‘Then coming to my party will be a treat for her. There will be other young people there. My cousin and some of her friends. It will be good for Amelie to be introduced to them.’
He could not refuse. This party might be the very thing for his sister. It might lead to more invitations and more opportunities to meet potential suitors.
‘Very well, Doria. We will attend your dinner party. It is exceedingly kind of you to extend the invitation.’
‘It is tomorrow night,’ she said.
Tomorrow night?
‘Do you have another engagement?’ she asked.
‘No. No.’ Certainly no other engagements.
‘Good.’
‘I must go.’ He stood, suddenly too uncomfortable in the place he’d once always felt at ease.
She stood, as well. ‘Wait a moment. I will pen a note to your parents and Miss Summerfield.’
She walked out.
He glanced around the room. He’d once counted on spending many more peaceful hours in this room. He’d always imagined he’d feel Charles’s presence here, but the room seemed empty and strange.
She returned and handed him a folded piece of paper. ‘We will see you tomorrow, then.’
He placed it in his pocket said goodbye to her there, walking out to the hall alone. The footman brought him his hat and greatcoat and he stepped out into the street.
He’d thought perhaps this was to be his last visit to the house where so many of his happy childhood memories resided. Now he would return. This time he’d squire his new bride to the home of his once-intended bride, with his parents in tow.
All for the sake of his sister.
* * *
Tess’s morning had been filled with trying on dresses, discussing alterations and embellishments, and planning for other gowns. Lady Northdon and Amelie took her first to the modiste, who had several dresses already sewn that could be altered to fit her. After purchasing four gowns and ordering more, they went on to a linen-draper, a hat shop, a glove shop, a shoe shop.
In each shop, Lady Northdon knew the shopkeepers. She conversed with them happily, asked after their families, oohed and ahhed over their merchandise and appeared to thoroughly enjoy herself.
They were her friends, Tess realised, although the lady was not free to invite them to her home or call upon them at theirs. Tess’s heart went out to her, a woman caught between two rungs of society and not belonging to either one.
It was a sham
e, really, that the aristocracy would not give Lady Northdon a chance. Amelie, as well, could be such a success with her beauty and style and pleasant manners. Gentlemen on the street noticed her. Some even turned around for a second look at her. In a ballroom, how could she not fail to have gentlemen standing in line to be her dance partner?
If Tess thought about it, her own place in London society was equally in question. She already felt as though she did not belong in this fashionable, busy city. She no longer belonged in Lincolnshire, either, though.
* * *
It was nearing two o’clock when they stumbled back into the Grosvenor Street town house. The three ladies retired to their bedchambers for a much-needed rest. Only Nancy, who had accompanied them at Tess’s request, seemed to have gained energy from the expedition.
She’d been a proper servant during the expedition, staying in the background, not speaking unless spoken to, carrying parcels. Now, however, she was bursting with words.
‘I never saw such beautiful fabrics!’ Nancy gushed. ‘And the designs! So clever! I could make you one of those dresses, miss. The modiste gave me so many wonderful ideas.’ Her eyes grew huge. ‘Perhaps I could make your wedding dress! I could make it out of some of those lovely silks we saw. An ivory-silk gown with a silver net over it? And beading. And lace! I know I could make it.’
A wedding dress? Tess had not thought about what she would wear. ‘I am sure you could make a delightful dress, but you have your maid duties and you will not have much time.’
‘I will. I know I will.’ Nancy’s eyes pleaded. ‘All your dresses will be new. They will not require much care. Everything will be new. I will not have enough to do, I am sure of it. Will you please allow me to sew the wedding dress?’
Tess did not care what she wore—that was not true. She wanted Marc to admire her in it.
And it would make Nancy happy—happier, she meant. ‘Very well. I will ask Mr Glenville for the money and you may go purchase everything you need.’
