“Where’s Cassandra?” Lydia asked.
“She’s not upstairs,” Honore volunteered. “I haven’t seen her for hours.”
“Hours?” Lydia gripped the banister and took a deep breath to stop herself from screeching. “Why didn’t you tell me she wasn’t ready?”
“Perhaps she is.” Honore shrugged. “I was in the music room playing the pianoforte and thought Cassandra had changed into riding dress before me.”
“Could she have gone out on her own?” Whittaker’s lips tightened. “She wouldn’t, would she?”
“Not for a minute.” Lydia finished descending the steps and patted his arm. “She’s in the house somewhere.”
“But did she not hear us knock?” De Meuse raised his brows. “I noticed she had the myopia, but—”
Lydia laid a finger across her lips. She couldn’t believe Whittaker hadn’t noticed that Cassandra barely saw more than a blur a yard from her face, but she thought he knew nothing and, for whatever reason, wished to keep it that way. It wasn’t Lydia’s or anyone else’s secret to share.
The notion that de Meuse had noticed without even spending time with Cassandra sent a chill rippling along Lydia’s arms, and she flashed a glance at Whittaker. He was speaking to Lemster and hadn’t apparently heard de Meuse.
“I’ll find her.” Lydia gathered up her train and mounted the steps.
A glance into the sitting room warned her that the hour approached with rapidity. If they didn’t find Cassandra and depart within the next few minutes, Barnaby and Frobisher would arrive.
She wished. She doubted.
Her heart as heavy as the extra long skirt of her woolen riding habit, Lydia pushed open the library door. She expected to see Cassandra bent over the desk with pen, ink, and half a dozen books in front of her. But the desk chair stood empty, the surface of the table clear of all but ink and quills. A quick glance hinted at an empty room. Lydia was about to close the door and search elsewhere when she caught the soft rustle of paper.
“Cassandra?”
A thud sounded from the far corner of the room, behind one of the long draperies that half covered the windows. “Who—? Oh.” Cassandra’s pale face showed from around the edge of the crimson velvet curtains that formed an alcove with a window seat. “I didn’t hear you come in. Did you need me for something?”
“We were scheduled for a ride in the park fifteen minutes ago.” Lydia spoke in an even tone with her jaw tight to stop herself from shouting.
“I thought we weren’t going until—dear me.” Cassandra rubbed her eyes. “I misread the clock. I’m sorry. Give me ten minutes more. I’ll be ready.”
Ten minutes more would take them too close to eleven o’clock.
“I’ll see if Whittaker wishes to wait.” Not daring to say more, Lydia spun on her heel and marched down the steps to the waiting group.
The waiting group, and Frobisher and Barnaby just entering through the front door.
Lydia sagged against the banister. “Cassandra will be delayed. Do you wish to wait for her, Whittaker?”
“Of course I’ll wait.” Whittaker’s smile was indulgent, his eyes patient. “She read the clock wrong, right?”
“Precisely. Good day, gentlemen.” Lydia turned her attention to the newcomers, her smile fixed. “Monsieur de Meuse, allow me to present Mr. George Barnaby and Mr. Gerald Frobisher. Though I expect the three of you are already acquainted, are you not?”
“We are not.” De Meuse’s tone was cold, his posture stiff.
Barnaby gave her an equally frosty glare and didn’t so much as nod to le comte. “We had an appointment, did we not, Lady Gale?”
“So did Madame Gale and I.” De Meuse looked down his high-bridged nose at the shorter man.
“I tried to tell you, Mr. Barnaby . . . I prefer to ride with my sisters.” Lydia glanced at her younger sister. “I couldn’t allow Honore to ride out alone with anyone I don’t know well enough to trust.”
Honore might as well have been alone in the entryway with Mr. Frobisher. They stood half a dozen feet apart but gazed into one another’s eyes as though breaking the contact would send them both crumpling to the floor.
Lydia felt sick.
“We need to be going.” Her tone was sharp, an ax to cut the contact between the two young people. Or chop the ice crackling through the air between de Meuse and Barnaby.
Would they lock her up in Bedlam if she simply began to bang her head against the nearest wall?
“The horses have been standing long enough.” De Meuse held out his arm to Lydia.
Before she could decide to take it, Mr. Barnaby stepped forward and took her hand. “I’m desolated not to have this opportunity to be alone, my lady. Surely we can ride ahead and talk.”
“I will ride beside my sister.” Lydia extricated her hand from his grasp and grabbed Honore’s arm. “Come along if you want to go.”
“What? Oh yes, of course.” Honore’s smile radiated enough light to break through a London fog.
The young lady showed to advantage atop her gray mare. She and Cassandra both excelled at horsemanship. Lydia had preferred a sedate trot to whatever site proved the best for her paintings or sketches.
Unbidden, an image floated into her head—an English bull mastiff facing a French boarhound across a frozen stream, with her stuck in the middle like some dinner table epergne. Her fingers itched to pick up her charcoal pencil and get to work.
She picked up her train instead and led the way to the door. Lemster, mouth grim, opened the portal for her, and she stalked down the steps to where several grooms held the horses.
“Lord Whittaker and Miss Bainbridge will be out in a few minutes,” she told the men holding their mounts.
“I’ll assist you in mounting, my lady.” Barnaby stood beside Honore’s mare.
“It is my honor, non?” De Meuse picked the right horse, a gentle roan gelding.
Roan indeed. Her wine-red habit would clash. All the better if she looked a fright. Perhaps she would embarrass the “gentlemen” so much they would choose to abandon her as their entrée into Society.
Barnaby’s eyes narrowed as Honore approached her mare. “I thought Lady Gale would want a more spirited animal.”
“Lady Gale is a gentle lady, an artiste, n’est-ce pas?” De Meuse cupped his hands together.
With the groom still holding the reins, Lydia had no choice but to accept le comte’s offer of a leg up. But she approached him with caution, another image of her sketch spreading through her head—her arms as bones over which the dogs were struggling, each trying to drag her to their side of the frozen stream.
Every nerve ending tense, she approached de Meuse. Always before she’d used a mounting block. Cavendish Square didn’t offer such a nicety, as did her family home in Devonshire. She knew how to mount with the assistance of a strong gentleman, and Christien de Meuse looked strong enough despite his prison stay—something that should have warned her then?—but she doubted her own strength, her own agility in gathering her skirts, holding onto the pommel, and launching herself high enough to land on the saddle and not fall short or go over the other side of the horse’s back.
“I won’t let any harm come to you, madame.” De Meuse smiled into her eyes. “That I have promised.”
“I ’ave ’er reins good an’ tight, m’lady.” The groom spoke up from the front of the gelding. “Nothin’ to fear.”
“Of course not.” Lydia made herself smile, then inserted herself between de Meuse and the horse.
Lydia grasped the pommel of the saddle, thanking God she was on the tall side and didn’t have to reach too far over her head. Then, bracing to keep her legs from shaking, she lifted her left foot and set it into the monsieur’s hands.
“Ready, madame?” His blue eyes held hers. Against the smoky blue of the sky above him, those eyes looked intense. She’d need the old lapis-based paint to get the color right. “On the count of three?”
She nodded. Even through her
boot, her foot felt oddly warm in his hands. It was such an improper thing to do, even though it was how ladies all over the city mounted.
“One. Two—”
On the count of three, she bounced off her right foot. Simultaneously, de Meuse lifted up, and she pulled with her right hand holding the pommel. With grace and dignity intact, she landed with her seat in the saddle.
And she’d forgotten to hold on to her skirt. The tiresome extra fabric, intended to preserve her modesty, draped too far beneath her, tugging the skirt too far down on her right side, tightening the waistband across her middle, and leaving precious little material for the freedom to securely loop her right knee around the pommel. She gasped. She pulled. Wedged beneath her, the skirt didn’t move. She got her knee up, and the skirt pulled tighter.
She either had to dismount and try again, or suffer.
She chose to suffer. She didn’t want to put her foot into de Meuse’s hands again. She didn’t want the odd yet accepted intimacy of him slipping her left foot into her stirrup. The morning held a chill. Her lower limb should not be warm and tingling through leather boot and silk stocking.
“Is that stirrup a good height?” de Meuse asked. “I can adjust it if it is not.”
She would have endured the wrong height rather than allow him to brush aside the excess fabric of her habit skirt and adjust the straps.
“It’s the right height.” She spoke in a tight voice, not looking down, looking straight ahead where the others were already mounted and milling about the square on their horses to keep them from standing too long. “Do please mount, monsieur. I need to get this poor beast moving.”
“But of course.” He gave her a last look, lingering on her face, before striding to his own horse.
He mounted with the fluid grace of a man who had grown up riding horses and continued the practice regularly. Of course. He was an officer in Napoleon’s Army.
Wasn’t he?
Lydia nudged her gelding in the side and set the gentle mount stepping forward until they drew level with Honore and Frobisher. The couple rode along the square at a leisurely fashion that allowed them to gaze at one another without risking limb or life.
“I’m surprised to see you going so sedately,” Lydia observed.
Honore glanced around. “We’ll get a good gallop in at the park. Well, perhaps not a gallop, but at least a canter.”
“Don’t get too far ahead of me.” Lydia shifted on her saddle, trying to readjust her skirt.
“Are you all right?” Honore whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear in the quiet residential neighborhood.
Lydia frowned at her. “But of course.”
But of course not. Her right knee felt as though the weight of her heavy skirt would drag it off the pommel at any moment, and she could scarcely breathe with the waistband pressed into her middle.
Somehow she must tug some of the fabric out from under her. Now was the best time, before they left the square and headed into traffic, and certainly before they reached the park and everyone chose to ride faster.
As surreptitiously as she could manage, she gripped her reins in her left hand, raised herself a hair off the saddle with her weight on her stirrup foot, and pulled at her skirt with her right hand.
It didn’t budge. Her mount, however, didn’t seem to like the shift of balance and sidled, bumping Lydia into Honore’s mount. The high-strung mare took offense and leaped forward, away from the offensive contact. Honore laughed and called out something that sounded like encouragement. Frobisher shouted back. The two of them disappeared into a parade of carriages, phaetons, and drays.
Lydia lost her balance and began to slide toward the cobblestone street.
7
“Catch her.” Christien leaped from his mount and charged toward the widow. “Lydia.”
Horses whinnied and stamped. Lydia’s horse reared, hooves rearing at the air. Women shrieked. Men shouted. If Lydia’s foot remained in the stirrup and that horse bolted . . .
Christien lunged forward. A horse bumped his shoulder. He dodged aside and ducked to avoid the flailing hooves of another mount. He could never reach her, could never stop her from landing on the cobblestones, from breaking something—like her neck.
“Ma chère!”
He arched his body forward and caught a flying handful of riding habit. The fabric held. Lydia’s fall continued. Still gripping the habit skirt, Christien twisted. If he could get beneath her, break her fall—
A blow from a flying hoof slammed into his right shoulder. He landed on his back, the wind knocked from his lungs. Lydia sprawled across his chest, the hooves of a dappled gray gelding mere inches from his head.
“I am so sorry, de Meuse.” Barnaby dismounted and squatted beside Christien and Lydia. “My horse was quite out of control there for a moment. Lady Gale, are you all right?”
“Yes.” She pushed herself to a kneeling position beside Christien. “Everything feels intact . . . except my pride.”
Her cheeks blazed nearly as red as her habit. Her hat had fallen away somewhere, and her hair tumbled down around her face in a silky black curtain.
She looked young and beautiful and oh so very kissable.
Christien tried to draw in a breath. Pain seared through his back, and he gasped.
“Monsieur de Meuse.” Lydia laid her hand against his face. “You’re not all right. You broke my fall and now—don’t all you men just stare. Fetch some help. A litter. A physician.”
“Non, non.” Christien shook his head. “Just winded.” He got his left elbow under him. When he tried to move his right arm, it disobeyed. Pain screamed through his right shoulder, and he flopped back onto the cobbles like a landed trout.
“You’re not all right.” Lydia leaned forward and touched his shoulder. Her glorious hair caressed his face. Her scent filled his nostrils.
“Madame, please do not.” He could hardly speak.
She seemed not to hear his plea for her to move away. Her fingers probed his shoulder. To his shame, a cry escaped his lips.
“Fetch a physician, now,” Lydia commanded. “Mr. Barnaby, Mr. Frobi—where has everyone gone? This man is injured.”
“The grooms have gone for help.” Barnaby pushed back a strand of Lydia’s hair from her face.
If she hadn’t jerked away from the man’s touch, Christien feared he himself would have knocked the interloper onto his posterior.
He chastised himself for the uncharitable thought. The man looked at Lydia with admiration blazing in his gray eyes. It was the same kind of puppy-dog adoration Christien feared he displayed. And Barnaby could be on Christien’s side, a comrade in arms.
Just as long as he stayed out of Lydia’s arms.
Barnaby rested his hand on Lydia’s shoulder. It appeared as though he did no more than steady her or even himself as they crouched beside Christien. The only way to stop that contact, Christien figured, was to make his body obey and get up.
This time he tried to roll onto his left side. The instant his right arm left the pavement, agony rocketed through his body, and he collapsed yet again with an unmanly groan.
“Mr. Barnaby, do see what’s taking so long.” Lydia’s face had turned white. “Something is seriously wrong.”
“Indeed.” Barnaby turned his face so the lady couldn’t see it, but Christien caught the curl of the man’s lip. “I’ve heard the French are weak.”
“When struck from behind,” Christien gasped out, “all men are weak.”
“I don’t like your meaning.” Barnaby shot to his feet. “When you stop malingering to attract the lady—”
“There is only . . . one meaning in . . . truth.” Christien closed his eyes. The pain increased with every word. He clutched at the air with his good hand, his operable hand, seeking something to grasp, to ease the pain turning the world black around the edges.
Long, strong fingers slipped between his. “Hang onto me, monsieur. The grooms are coming with a litter now.”
&nbs
p; “Where will they take him?” Barnaby demanded.
“Into our house, of course.” Lydia spoke with calm strength, like her steady hand in Christien’s. “If you would like to assist to make up for your discourtesy of a few moments ago, I doubt monsieur le comte will object.”
He wouldn’t, but only to please her.
“Yes, ma’am, of course it’s the best option.” Barnaby’s booted feet tramped around to Christien’s other side. He flinched as they passed his right ear, and braced for the “accidental” kick against his injured shoulder.
But that was nonsense. Barnaby wouldn’t deliberately injure him. That was a madman’s way. Or the way of a man assaulting an enemy he wanted weakened. Even if Barnaby were on the wrong side of matters, he wouldn’t want Christien so injured he had to remain in the Bainbridge household for any length of time, in Lydia’s company. No, Barnaby would want him well, not out of commission.
But that blow . . .
Christien’s lips hardened. He opened his eyes and found Lydia peering down at him, her face tight with concern.
He managed a stiff-lipped smile. “My apologies for being so clumsy, madame.”
“As though I blame you when it was for my sake.” She dropped her thick, dark lashes over her eyes. “I am not a good horsewoman.”
“We must remedy that, non?”
Feet crunched nearby, and something clunked onto the cobbles beside Christien. Instead of answering him, Lydia began to direct the men to move the litter to his other side.
“And be as gentle as you can. I believe his right shoulder is dislocated.”
“Biensur,” Christien grumbled.
The hoof that had barely missed his skull, that would have smacked his skull if he hadn’t twisted to break Lydia’s fall with his own body, had been powerful enough to dislocate his shoulder. The good news lay in that, once someone set it back into place, the pain would go away, but he wouldn’t be riding for a while, at least not lifting a lady into her saddle. Dancing would be out of the question, as no lady deserved a one-armed partner. And driving in the park would prove difficult at best. All prospects led to the worst news of all—he wouldn’t make his entrée into Society.
A Necessary Deception Page 7
