Lovely, another disappearing maid.
One of Lord Scott’s other men crossed his arms, and a knife glinted in the yellow light cast by the street lamps.
“Are you here to kidnap me by force?” Iris asked. “I will not go willingly, and I will not allow you to hurt my companions.” Not that she had any weapon but her wits, but she’d do the best she could. Mister O’Connell had been nothing but kind to her, and Marie, well, Iris had more questions for her. Like what in Hades did it mean that they were bonded?
“I’m here to bring you home, Miss McTavish,” he said. “Lord Scott found out something interesting about your da.”
Iris took a quick breath to calm the flame of fear that had sprung to life in her stomach at his words. “And what would that be?”
“He said you need to come finish your conversation.”
The damn tightly laced corset kept Iris from taking a full breath, and she blinked against the sensation that the gas flames around her softened and rounded. Don’t faint, don’t faint. “I’ve said all I intended to Lord Scott.”
The two men behind the footmen moved forward, and Patrick pushed Iris out of the way. “You won’t take her, you English bastards.”
Four men emerged from the theatre followed by Marie. Iris thought she’d seen them earlier around the place moving props and backdrops into the storage room.
“There they are,” Marie said. “English thugs come to rob the theatre and Maman.”
“C’est vrai?” asked one of them and pounded one fist into the other hand. “Allons-y.”
At the sight of the Frenchmen coming toward them, the two English thugs melted into the shadows. The footman glared at Iris. “You think this is over, Miss, but we’ll be watching you. And if you come home, it’ll be on Lord Scott’s terms—he said to tell you he hired your cook and now holds the mortgage on your house.”
“There isn’t one,” Iris said.
“There is now. Your da borrowed money against the place to pay for his trip to France. His last trip.” With that comment, he turned on his heel and disappeared down the alley. Iris sagged against O’Connell and felt like she may truly be in danger of fainting this time.
Marie spoke with one of the Frenchmen in whispers, and he nodded.
“Pierre will drive us back to the hotel in Maman’s coach. It was stupid of me to refuse her offer earlier.”
“Thank you,” Iris said to Pierre. He nodded and held up a finger—one moment. He returned driving a coach out of the portico on the side of the theatre.
“So you’re engaged?” Marie asked once they sat in the coach.
“No,” Iris told her. “Marriage isn’t my path, I fear.” She clasped her hands together. The blessed things wouldn’t stop shaking, and they had the strangest tingling sensation like she’d been sleeping on them. “However, Lord Scott disagreed with my decision.”
“Some men won’t take no for an answer,” Marie told her.
“Those men don’t deserve to have a woman. Ever,” O’Connell put in. “It’s a good thing I was there, but it was Miss St. Jean’s quick thinking that saved us. From now on, you don’t go out without at least two of us gentlemen with you.”
The notion made Iris feel smothered, especially since Edward was laid up, and she found his company the most tolerable, if exhausting, of all of them. Mister O’Connell was fine, but she didn’t feel she had much in common with him, and she hardly knew Radcliffe. As for Maestro Bledsoe—she would be forced into his presence enough over the next few days. Worse, she would need to pretend to like him.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I won’t go anywhere unescorted, and from now on will avoid deserted alleys and being out after dark.” A large yawn stretched her jaw and made it pop. “I feel I should sleep for days.”
They made it to the hotel unmolested, and O’Connell wouldn’t let any of the porters handle the trunk with Iris’s and Marie’s new clothing in it. He delivered it and them to their room, then tipped his hat good night.
“He’s a good sort,” Marie said after the door closed behind him.
“Yes.” Iris stripped off her gloves and laid a hand on the trunk, but it didn’t give her much information, just a sense of relief at not having failed to bring them back safely. That’s interesting.
“I’ll hang the clothes, Miss,” Marie said. “Let me help you out of that dress, and I’ll draw you a bath.”
Surprised, Iris turned to her. The other woman’s neutral facial expression and vocal tone gave the impression of only being a maid, although Iris knew she was much more. But when she tried to come up with examples of Marie acting like something else, they slipped through her mind like fish seen in murky water—a glimpse here or there, but nothing more.
Or maybe I’m exhausted.
“Thank you,” she said and rubbed her fingertips along her palms. What did Lucille mean when she said we are not so different in refusing to accept our talents? She continued to ponder it until she reached her bed, and exhaustion sucked her from the buzz of her thoughts into a dreamless sleep.
Iris felt like she had been asleep but a few minutes when a pounding on the door woke her.
“No, of course she’s not up yet. We ran into an unexpected delay yesterday evening. Mister O’Connell can give you the details.”
Iris buried her head in the pillows to drown out Marie’s half of the murmured conversation. She was ninety percent sure the person at the door was Johann Bledsoe or someone sent by him, and she was one hundred percent certain she didn’t want to deal with him today, at least not so early. A dull ache settled across her forehead, her tongue felt dry, and she had a foggy recollection of the previous evening’s activities. She needed to ask Marie something, but she couldn’t recall what, and why was her right hand sore?
Then, “Monsieur, no, she is not dressed!”
Iris buried herself under the covers, and she heard the scrape of the bed curtains being drawn back. The duvet disappeared from atop her, and she found herself faced with the blazing gray-green eyes and wild blond hair of Johann Bledsoe, who didn’t look amused. That was fine—Iris didn’t feel amused, and she sat up so quickly he jumped back.
“What is the meaning of this?” she asked in her best Adelaide voice. She rubbed her left thumb over her right palm, which throbbed and put her in more of an ill humor. “Hasn’t anyone told you not to barge into a lady’s room uninvited, or is that something you musicians do on a regular basis?”
“Oho, the cat has claws this morning,” he said. “And does this particular lady intend to sleep through her important appointment at the Louvre?”
“My what?” Iris recalled the itinerary and why they had rushed to Paris the day before in spite of Edward’s condition. “Oh, right. How much time do we have?”
“You need to be ready in fifteen minutes.” He turned on his heel, but shot over his shoulder as he crossed the threshold, “And you had better be presentable. You know the consequences of failing at this. And Marie can stay here—your reputation is safe with me, and they’re looser about that in France anyhow.”
Big hairy ox’s bollocks, Iris swore to herself, both at the time crunch and at the unexpected disappointment that Marie wouldn’t accompany them. “Can we do it, Marie?”
“Don’t worry, Mademoiselle, the French are never on time. Besides, I am accustomed to quick costume changes, and we will keep your hair simple. That is what hats are for, no?”
Edward woke to the sound of pounding on the door of the room next to his, and he checked the clock: seven fifteen. In fifteen minutes, a waiter would bring tea and scones, or at least whatever the French substitute was, and he would shave and dress and start his routine, or at least an approximation of it. He rolled over.
I should be looking forward to this more. Isn’t it what I’ve wanted all along, to have normalcy back?
What if he want
ed to sleep more? He was injured, for goodness’ sake.
But no, Johann entered with a grin and a breakfast tray, which he set on the table by the window.
“You look insufferably smug,” Edward grumbled.
“I had no idea I’d enjoy wake up duty so much.” Johann opened the curtains. The room brightened and emphasized Edward’s sense of wrongness about the whole situation. This wasn’t his room at his—fine, his brother’s house. He wouldn’t be going to the University. He was going to be stuck in this hotel room all day. Again.
“Who else have you been waking?” Not that he cared. He needed some way to get out of this room, perhaps explore. Walking would be good for him.
“Miss McTavish is rather grumpy in the morning, if you were curious. As for you, Doctor Radcliffe will be in momentarily, but I’m to help you dress. We have to hurry so I can give the impression of being put out waiting for our archaeologist.”
Edward swung his legs over the side of the bed. “Why do you insist on trying to irritate her? She’s along because of her ailing father. I’m sure she would much rather be home.”
“I’m not so sure about that. She came in ridiculously late last night, so she must have been up to something fun. From the looks of her, she’ll no doubt need to move slowly this morning.”
“Right. Help me dress, and you can go keep her out of trouble.” Edward’s lower back echoed the twinge of curiosity in his chest as to Iris’s activities. Where had she gone? Who had she met?
“You’re in luck. The tailor I spoke with yesterday had this ready for you.” Johann pulled a suit from the closet and helped Edward dress in that and a shirt but no waistcoat or cravat. “Since you’re not going out for at least another day, I told him not to worry about bringing the accessories until later today. At least this way you’re mostly decent.”
“But what if Miss McTavish visits?” Edward pulled his collar closed. “I feel naked.”
“She’s not going to, remember? Your social interaction hours will be while she and I are out visiting stuffy exhibits and boring museum curators.”
“Oh.” Edward sat at the table and dropped his hands to his lap. In the light of day, the working of his throat muscles with no comforting stricture made him feel exposed, vulnerable. He poured some milk in his teacup so he wouldn’t have to meet Johann’s eyes. No sense in allowing his friend to see his disappointment and distress because he couldn’t explain it himself. Here he was, allowed to spend the day as he’d been wanting and not having to bother with things that society said he needed, but restlessness possessed him.
“The doctor will be in soon. Do you need me to help with your breakfast dishes? Those lids are heavy.”
“I’m not as much of an invalid as everyone thinks.” Edward hoped his hand didn’t shake too much as he poured his tea—the French made thick carafes. “I’m feeling much better.”
“Right.” Johann took the pot from Edward’s trembling hand and poured the tea to a third of an inch below the rim of the cup. “Don’t push yourself too hard. Radcliffe’s a good doctor even if…”
Edward put a quarter teaspoon, or his best estimate, of sugar in his tea. “Even if…?”
“Well, don’t you think it’s suspicious, them ending up in the same little town we did? A doctor stuck without funds? He seems too smart to be caught out like that. Especially since people like him need to be more careful anyway.”
“Perhaps people are less likely to help him because of his exotic skin tone,” Edward agreed. “He is rather…dark.”
“Right, so he’s not going to find aid around every corner like someone like Miss McTavish.” Johann ran his fingers through his hair, giving his blond curls more of a rakish appearance. “But he’s given us no cause to think less of him.”
“So stop suspecting him of something. And go. You don’t want to keep Miss McTavish waiting.”
Edward smiled at Johann’s grumbling as his friend left the room. He wished he knew what his friend had against the young miss other than that she seemed much less worldly than Johann’s usual female companions. Perhaps her innocence perturbed his friend. As for him, he liked her guilelessness. Perhaps she was a female person he could begin to trust.
Chapter Twenty
Hôtel Auberge, Monday 13 June 1870
Twenty minutes later, Iris gazed at herself in the mirror and admitted she looked quite smart in her new day suit, and Marie had laced her corset to to an almost stifling degree, but she could mostly breathe comfortably. She sauntered down to the lobby, where Johann raised his eyebrows and looked at his watch.
“So sorry to keep you waiting,” she said with as sweet a smile as she could muster.
“I’m sure you are,” he said. “Our coach will be here in five minutes.”
She narrowed her eyes at him, and it was his turn to smile without sincerity, as far as she could tell. “How is the professor this morning?”
“Oh, is he no longer Edward to you?”
“Not if we are somewhere we could be overheard. I wouldn’t want anyone to suspect me of any impropriety.” She tried the eyelash batting thing she’d seen other young women do but feared she looked like she had dust in her eyes.
“Because you’ve never been guilty of that.” He placed his hat on his blond curls and held his arm out. “Shall we?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“The doctor has surmised Edward may heal more quickly if he goes back on the routine he’d so carefully established for himself at Huntington Village. Thus, he is being woken and brought his morning tea, after which he will dress and work on whatever interests him until his midmorning break at ten o’clock.”
Iris swallowed around the parched feeling in her throat. Tea would be the thing for both her headache and her mood. But she wasn’t going to ask him for anything.
“And before you ask,” he continued, “we’re going to be out during the normal times he would have company, so you won’t be seeing him today.”
“I remember our agreement,” she said and tried to appear that she was nonchalantly gazing at the bustle of traffic in front of the hotel. A closed blue steamcoach with white and gold monograms on the side stopped in front of them.
“Oh, I couldn’t tell,” he said and handed her into the brightly colored vehicle.
She chose to ignore his comment and asked, “Whose vehicle is this?” once they were settled inside.
“My friend, the Marquis de Monceau. He was in town for the day, so he offered us the use of his coach while he is in his meetings to prevent his driver from idling his day and salary away in the gambling halls,” he told her in a quiet voice.
“I see.”
“You’ll meet the marquis at breakfast. He’s going to introduce us to the curators of Classical art and Renaissance art at the Louvre.”
They traveled down a series of wide boulevards with uniform appearance. Iris wondered if they were to be excavated in the future, would it be difficult to catalog the finds due to the lack of variability of the stone in the buildings? What would the archaeologists of the future think about their time? And would she have the opportunity to change the course of history with the discovery of a practical application for aether?
“We’ll be breakfasting in the courtyard at the Palais Royale,” Bledsoe said as the coach slowed. “Try not to gawk. It’s quite an unusual place.”
They drove through a narrow shrubbery-lined lane and into a wide courtyard surrounded by shops. Some of them looked shabby, others prosperous. It seemed a strange juxtaposition of old and new, wealthy and poor. From what Iris could tell, there wasn’t any interaction between the shopkeepers and restaurateurs. Indeed, contrasted with the noise of the boulevards, the silence of the courtyard settled over them like cold dew. The steamcoach rolled to a stop in front of a small cafe, and Iris welcomed the clinking and clattering noises that invaded her ears
when the coachman opened the door. For a few seconds, anyway, until her head started to hurt again.
The maitre d’ led them to a corner table, where three men waited for them, and they all stood. Each complimented Iris and kissed the back of her hand when they were introduced, and she was almost relieved for Johann’s steady if disapproving presence.
This must be how a fish in a bowl surrounded by cats feels.
He held a chair for her, and everyone settled back into their seats.
The Marquis de Monceau wore a coat of royal blue that would have seemed a century out of date had he not paired it with a tailored shirt and tie. The ensemble gave him a devil-may-care air, as did his too long wavy dark hair and chocolate brown eyes that assessed Iris more thoroughly than Madame Beaufort’s tape measures had. She shifted in her seat at the feeling of being naked under his scrutiny.
“Oh, lay off the young lady, Monceau,” Johann told him. “She isn’t interested in you, and she’s too proper a miss for your propositions.”
“You wound me, Maestro, like that cut over your eye but in my heart,” the marquis said and put a hand on his chest. “I am interested in why you brought Irvin McTavish’s daughter rather than the great man himself.”
“My father is ill, so he sent me in his stead,” Iris said.
“Ah, then bienvenu and please pass along our wishes for his speedy return to health.”
With each repetition, it felt like it could be true, that Irvin McTavish was merely ill and waited for her to visit him in the south of France and catch him up on her adventures. A memory of Jeremy Scott’s footman telling her that the odious lord now held the mortgage on her house surfaced. She folded her hands in her lap and tried to pay attention to what the other two men—obviously toadies trying to gain the Marquis’s favor—said, but her heart wanted to beat through her ribcage. Now even if she did acquit herself successfully, she wouldn’t have a home to go to, at least not as long as she continued to refuse young Lord Scott.
A waiter brought soft-boiled eggs, and another poured coffee into Iris’s and Johann’s cups.
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