by Claudia Dain
“If it does, then the intemperance is shared fully by me,” Jamie said. “I was nearly for Canada with no thought of taking an English bride. Yet so you find me today, much changed.”
“Yes. I had realized that,” Aldreth said, his pale eyes glimmering in either amusement or anger, she could not tell which. “Perhaps this woman exerts an appalling influence upon your better judgment.”
“Your Grace!” Her father said in a burst of outrage.
“Or perhaps,” she said, startling herself with her vigor, “I am precisely the influence Jamie needs to make his way on a strange shore. I have proven that I can act with swift determination. I do not quail before grim odds or severe adversaries. Your Grace,” she finished.
Jamie was silently laughing beside her; she could feel it.
“Well spoken, Miss Ardenzy,” the Duke said, the merest of smiles turning up one corner of his mouth. It was Jamie’s smile, mirrored into the future by thirty or so years. She did so want to be there to see that smile on his face thirty years from now. “Well met. Thrust for thrust. I could have wished for nothing better for my son than a woman strong enough to fight for herself, and one who cares enough to fight for my son.”
“And who is wise enough to fight for them both, for such a thing is ever necessary in this hard world in which we make our way,” a female voice said from a far corner. “How perfectly ideal she is. Did I not say so, Aldreth?”
“Yes, my dear. You did,” Aldreth said.
The woman rose from a deeply upholstered wing chair, one that had kept her hidden, and walked toward them, a huge smile on her face. She was a stunning beauty, lushly sensual, and so overtly feminine that Elizabeth arched her back to better display her own curves without quite realizing it.
Jamie’s mother, she could be no other.
Her voice still had the echo of France in its lilt and phrasing. She was enchanting. Her dress was amber crepe, draped in a Grecian style, and around her neck she wore strand upon strand of emeralds.
“Miss Auvray,” her father said, impressing her. Her father knew more of things and people than she had supposed. Her father then did something she would not have thought possible: he bowed to Aldreth’s mistress.
“Mr. Ardenzy, what a lovely girl you have created,” Jamie’s mother said. “How truly sad that her mother could not see what the love you shared between you had wrought. She would have been so proud, would she not?”
“She would,” her father said, his voice tight. Elizabeth looked askance at him; he was very deeply moved, nearly crying, if she could judge. “You express it beautifully. Precisely. Exactly so,” he said, then he cleared his throat and said no more.
“You are satisfied?” Jamie asked his father, his gaze then going to his mother, his eyes going soft with tenderness when he looked at her.
Why, it was true. They were a family. An intimate, warmly loving family. Elizabeth felt her own eyes fill.
“More than satisfied,” the Duke said, motioning for them to be seated near the hearth. They each took a seat, Jamie at her side upon a long sofa. She could not have described the room except to sense its massive size; her tears kept filling her eyes and her heart caught the overflow. “No man wants his son to be alone, not even in Canada.” The Duke’s eyes communicated some humor to Jamie at the remark, and then he continued. “You would not find it amiss if I made the wedding arrangements?” he asked Ardenzy.
“I would be obliged, your Grace.”
“I will see them sent off with every advantage,” Aldreth said.
“Elizabeth comes to the marriage with a very nice settlement,” her father said.
“There is little better than a nice settlement,” Zoe Auvray said on a lilting laugh. “But, of course, if it does not accompany a very nice person then it is of little use at all.”
“Still, better to have one than not,” Aldreth said lightly. “My son is making his way on a new continent, but he is not going indentured.”
“I find this all increasingly embarrassing,” Jamie said. “You?” he asked her.
“Not only embarrassing. Off point. We have each other. We have the future. We have a continent to explore,” she said.
“My thoughts precisely,” he said, grabbing her by the hand and urging her to her feet. “If you will excuse us. We have history to make.”
“‘O, brave new world, that has such people in it,’” Zoe said as the couple walked to the door.
“Shakespeare, isn’t it?” Aldreth asked.
The door to the stair hall was opened by a footman and at the threshold, Jamie tipped her chin up and brushed a kiss over mouth, just a flutter of his lips on hers, just enough to send a tremor down her spine and a tingle to her heart. Just enough to change her entire world.
“Yes,” Zoe said as the door was closing behind them. Elizabeth could just hear her say, “Jamie is quite taken with him, I believe. Upon his recommendation, I started with Romeo and Juliet, but found it too, too tragic. The comedies are much more pleasurable, don’t you agree?”
CLAUDIA DAIN is USA Today bestselling author and a two-time Rita finalist. She lives in North Carolina and is at work on her next Courtesan Chronicles book. www.claudiadain.com
For Ava Stone, with many thanks for her laughter, her generosity and her incredible ability to do a thousand and one things and do them all spectacularly well.
For Claudia Dain, who talks me down, props me up and understands connecting the dots.
For Michelle Marcos. I am so glad that an accidental butt bump turned into a lasting friendship!
Hestia Wright—formerly known as First of England’s Fashionably Impure, once crowned Queen of Europe’s Courtesans—was more than passing familiar with the evils of man. In her long and notorious career, she’d witnessed a disheartening number of the tactics men used to rain ruin and destruction down upon each other, and every one they habitually brought to bear against the fairer sex. These experiences had unerringly altered her fate. Now she was in the business of altering the fate of others.
She found great satisfaction in offering shelter and opportunity for women left with neither. She relished her reputation as a champion for all women suffering under society’s often harsh and unjust tyranny. But the burdens that came with such a life were heavy. They could, if unchecked, skew her toward a woeful imbalance of spirits. She countered the effect with the occasional rare day to herself—and she often spent those days here, in the British Museum.
Here she could experience the other side of the coin. Here she could forget her worries and indulge in the strange and the wondrous. Anonymous amongst the crowds she could enjoy history, art and artifacts, and let herself wallow for once in the beauty wrought by man.
Today was meant to be such a holiday.
Today, though, her vocation had followed her to the museum. And not once, it appeared, but twice.
The first case had come to her attention early in the day. Several times throughout this visit she’d encountered the little girl, usually in and about the natural history rooms. Reasonably well dressed and shod, she showed no tendency to be loud, to run about weaving amongst the throngs as other children did. No, this appealing little scholar studied the displays intently, seemingly fascinated with anything related to exotic and foreign animals. And always she appeared to be utterly alone. Right now she stood at the top of the grand staircase, focused on the ragtag trio of preserved giraffes standing guard over the landing—and still there was no sign of a parent, sibling or even a servant tasked with the watching of her.
Hestia’s second concern had also come to roost on the landing. Quite an unusually pretty young woman, she’d also wandered the museum alone today. In contrast, though, Hestia had never seen her pay a moment’s attention to any of the treasures in the buildings. All of her awareness remained centered on the people moving through the many rooms, and as the afternoon faded, so did the young lady’s countenance. She stood now at the top of the stairs, examining faces as they moved up and down, pass
ing to and from the entrance hall below. A pendant watch, fairly expensive, hung from her waist. She checked it often, her shoulders drooping further as each newcomer failed to be the person she so obviously awaited.
Hestia’s instincts told her that both of these females needed her. She moved forward, her mind already awhirl, conjuring the right words, and options for the future. But something gave her pause. She looked between them once more. Perhaps what they needed . . . was each other.
Hestia had long ago learned the wisdom of listening to her inner promptings. Smiling, she stepped forward again.
London 1810
Lisbeth Moreton was a listener.
True listening was, in fact, a harder feat to accomplish than most people realized—and a far more valuable asset. Really listening when someone talked gained one more than knowledge. It allowed Lisbeth to see more than others wished to reveal. It gave her insight into intent, motivation, and occasionally even truth. She tried to truly listen as often as she could. Which was why she now had to stop putting off the inevitable and listen to the truth that had been trying to make itself heard for the better part of the afternoon.
He wasn’t coming.
Lisbeth stopped watching the faces of the people moving around her. She leaned against a great window and let the awful certainty wash over her with the late afternoon sun. She’d put all of her faith in the Honorable James Vickers, heir to Lord Bridgeford—and he had failed her.
The steady stream of visitors moving up and down the Grand Staircase slowed to a trickle, as did the blood in her veins. Three hours ago they were to have met. Another bit of excited hope and expectation died with each tick of the clock since.
She clutched numb fingers about her portmanteau. Her hands had gone freezing, despite her best gloves, despite the fact that the rest of her was flushed hot and perspiring beads of fear, anger and panic.
Silently she cursed the one person she had steadfastly refused to listen to. Her wretched stepfather disguised insult as concern, even as he labeled her as headstrong, impetuous and too forward in her ways. She let out a long, shuddering breath. Now she’d gone and proved that he’d been right all along.
She’d known it was a gamble, writing to James for help. But she’d been frantic, and it had largely been a symbolic gesture. Even as she’d posted the letter, she’d expected it to go unanswered, as had nearly all of her earlier communications. His swift reply had been a shock, but his outrage on her behalf had been a balm to her soul. His precise instructions—to meet him here, on this landing, on this day, at noon—well, they had felt like an answer to her prayers.
So she’d tossed aside a lifetime of sensible, practical behavior. She’d followed her flighty mother’s example, ignored the needs of others and thought only of herself. She’d rolled the dice. Packed her things, taken her pin money and a bit extra from the household accounts—she’d more than earned it—walked to the next village and hired an enterprising farm boy and his wagon to carry her through the night and deliver her to London.
But her toss had come up empty. James was not here. She was alone, in London, without friend, family or a place to go. She’d risked all and lost. Her legs trembled, but she looked down and past them to her boots, now set firmly on the path to ruin. She could not, would not go back. She must come up with an alternative.
James’s rambling letter had mentioned his mother. It would have been lowering enough to allow James to present her as a charity case, in need of support against her miserly, manipulative stepfather. She’d have done it, though, to escape his plans for her. No chance of that now. She could hardly present herself on the woman’s doorstep without even the dubious sponsorship of her son.
What else was there for her to do? Her mind wandered to the other, unanswered letter she’d posted. Now there was a London address that should have been a refuge. But darkening that doorway would only gain her a speedy trip back home. She shook her head. She had James’s address, but did she dare go to his rooms? A lone young woman, showing up at a gentleman’s bachelor’s quarters—she would truly be sunk beyond reproach. But was she not already? What choice did she have?
“Excuse me?”
Lisbeth started and turned. She knew it was not James behind her, but still her breath caught as her eye fell upon the stunningly beautiful woman, standing close and smiling at her. Late sun streamed over her, highlighting porcelain skin and burnishing her hair to angelic gold. Lisbeth’s mouth dropped open. Surely no real female had ever looked so perfectly . . . perfect. She suffered the foolish notion that before her stood one of the museum’s pieces of art, come to life.
The vision frowned—and the appearance of a small wrinkle in that flawless brow relieved Lisbeth of her fancies.
“I do beg your pardon, but I couldn’t help noticing that you appeared to be looking for someone.” Shifting, the woman gestured to the other side of the landing. “You wouldn’t happen to be searching for that young girl, would you?”
“No.” Lisbeth craned her neck to look. “I’m afraid I’m not acquainted with the girl.” She clenched a fist. “And it appears that the person I was to meet has forgotten our appointment.”
“Oh, dear. I was hoping that you were the one responsible for her.” The other woman offered a friendly smile. “Forgive the presumption, but I’m Hestia Wright.”
Lisbeth curtsied. “Miss Elisabeth Moreton.”
Lowering her tone, the woman leaned in. “I have an appointment myself shortly, one that must be kept, but I can’t help worrying about the child. It seems she’s been left alone here for the entire afternoon.”
A flash of sympathy jolted through her. “Oh?” She glanced over at the girl again. She stood very close to the rail separating viewers from three massive, stuffed giraffes. “That is worrisome.”
“I knew you would understand!” Hestia Wright beamed at her. “I wish I could take the child with me, but I cannot bring her to a business appointment. And yet, neither can I just leave until I know she has not been abandoned.” The woman raised her brows. “I know it must be a dreadful inconvenience, but perhaps you would keep an eye on her . . . just until I can get back?”
Lisbeth bit her lip. “I . . . I hardly—”
“Oh, do say yes?” the other woman pleaded. “I fear if I come back and find her gone I’d be haunted, wondering if she’d been found by her people or if she’d come to some harm. But if you will just watch over her, then I’ll come and take her over when I’m free. And if you agree, and if I were to return and find you both gone, then I’ll know that you saw her safely seen to.”
Lisbeth hesitated. She had her own troubles. She should be making plans, trying to find lodgings for the night, attempting to figure out where she could go from here. But the thought of the girl’s plight stiffened her spine. Who better than to protect the child than she, who knew how damaging neglect could be? It was strange that the child had been left here, on her own, where anyone could take note of her vulnerability. Where it was possible she might encounter any number of unsavory people.
She winced. Likely the girl’s family would consider her one of those unsavory numbers, now that she’d gone and nearly ruined herself. But what sort of family were they, allowing her to remain alone for hours in such a place? An indignant wave of empathy drowned out her sensible objections. She gave a nod. “Of course, Mrs. Wright. I’d be happy to help.”
“Oh, thank you, my dear.” The other woman flashed a bright smile. “But it’s not Mrs. Wright.” She held up a hand to stall Lisbeth’s stuttered apology. “No, nor Miss, either. I’m just Hestia. And you may call upon me for help at any time, dear.” She began to move toward the stairs before Lisbeth could ask what she meant. “I shall see you shortly, shall I?”
Lisbeth saw a porter give the woman a nod as they passed at the bottom of the stairs. Climbing up, he took Hestia’s place upon the landing. “Make way!” he called, with a clang of a small bell. “Finish your tours and make way toward the exits. The museum will close sh
ortly!” He moved on and Lisbeth heard him take up the cry further down the main passageway.
A quick glance showed the girl unmoved by the call, but Lisbeth suffered a moment’s panic. What if they were forced to leave before Hestia Wright returned? Where would the child go? Lisbeth had no wish to follow her through the unknown streets of London. A chill went down her spine. Worse, what if the streets were the only place either of them had to spend the night?
She crossed over to stand behind the child, who had reached a hand through the rails to tentatively stroke a giraffe’s patchy hide. The delicate little face bore a serious mien and an intense focus better suited to someone well beyond her years.
Lisbeth looked the worn specimens over, but could find no good reason for such dedicated attention. Nevertheless, she felt she had to make a connection. Breathing deep, she plunged in. “These markings are wonderfully distinctive, are they not?”
The child jerked her hand back, but after a glance askance at Lisbeth, she poked it through the rail again. “None of the other animals has them.”
That answer had a definitive ring to it. “Have you checked them all? The ones the museum has on display, I mean?”
The girl nodded, still solemn. “I’m not all the way through the prints. Yet.”
Lisbeth recalled the densely packed books in the Print Room and blinked. “Do you come here often, then?”
Her shrug was noncommittal. “I like the days when no tour guide is required, like today.”
“I hadn’t realized they were ever required,” Lisbeth confessed. “This is my first visit. There are so very many interesting things to see.”
The child went back to her contemplation of the animals. After a moment, Lisbeth tried again. “You must live nearby, to come so often?”
