A Necessary Deception

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  He reached the next landing. Two doors opened off it. More rooms ran through the house toward the front, but because of the window tax, they wouldn’t have direct access to the outside. The notion of sleeping in one of those chambers made Christien shudder. It was too much like the black hole, the windowless chamber at Dartmoor where the guards tossed prisoners for punishment.

  He’d gone there for two days when he’d insisted once too often he should be released.

  Shivering in the chilly air of the stairwell, he turned to his left and gripped the door handle. It lifted under his fingers. The door swung inward. He stepped over the threshold to a soft Aubusson carpet in blues and lavenders, silk draperies and cushions, and that sweet, crisp scent of honey and citrus that Lydia wore.

  He couldn’t close the door or he would have no light. No matter. He could see her desk, the most likely place for correspondences to lie.

  He also saw the cat. A ghostly image against the carpet, drifting toward him. “Me-ow?”

  “I’m just intruding for a moment.” He wanted to stoop and stroke the feline’s fur but doubted his ability to rise again. “Perhaps we can get acquainted later.”

  He limped into the room and pulled open the top drawer of the desk.

  And three floors below, the front door opened to a rush of excited female voices.

  “I can walk.” Cassandra pushed against Whittaker’s shoulder. “Let me down.”

  “You shouldn’t. Where should I take her?” He looked toward Lydia.

  Cassandra clenched her fists. “You may ask me, sirrah. I am nearly one and twenty, quite old enough to make my own decisions.”

  “Up to her bedchamber,” Lydia said.

  “And have to endure Honore’s sulks.” Yet Cassandra was the sulky-sounding one at that moment.

  “I’ll take her to the library,” Whittaker suggested. “I have a thing or two to say to her—”

  “I won’t endure you sounding like my father.” Cassandra spoke through clenched teeth.

  “Children.” Lydia sighed. “But the library—”

  “Just set me down and go away,” Cassandra commanded.

  “Take her into the library,” Lydia said. “I’m not certain she needs a physician, but some cold compresses won’t go amiss. Barbara?”

  “I’m here.” Barbara headed for the kitchen. “We should have ice enough to make a cold compress, and I’ll get some tea going.”

  “You’ll get a servant to get tea going.” Lydia pursed her lips for a moment. “If you don’t, our little cook will be outraged.”

  Barbara sniffed and pushed through the green baize door behind the staircase.

  “Set me down or I’ll be outraged.” Cassandra struggled in Whittaker’s hold.

  “Go ahead and be outraged. It won’t compare to how I feel right now.” His mouth was grim, his eyes cold.

  Cassandra shivered. “You needn’t be. I—”

  Two footmen appeared in the corridor. “Not here,” Lydia said with a quick jerk of her head.

  “Lady Bainbridge has gone to bed,” one of the servants said. “Shall I light candles and lay the fire in her sitting room?”

  “Yes,” Lydia said.

  “No,” Cassandra said.

  “I may as well go to my room and pack for the journey home.” Honore flounced toward the steps. “My Season is ruined. I’ve never been so humiliated in my life, dragged away from all those young men. I’ll never find a suitor . . .” Her voice grew fainter as she stomped up the steps.

  Lydia sighed and pressed her fingertips against her temples. “How I wish we could go home. But there’s Honore’s coming-out ball and your wedding—”

  “If Whittaker doesn’t set me down,” Cassandra blurted out, “there won’t be that trouble.”

  “Cassie.” Pain rang through Whittaker’s voice.

  Pain ricocheted through Lydia’s head. She would leave them alone to finish their argument.

  “I’ll return in no more than a quarter hour.” She started up the steps to soothe Honore’s ruffled feathers.

  The family had come home from the theater hours early. Christien stood frozen in the center of Lydia’s bedchamber, listening to the voices, the patter of feet on steps, the bang of a door, for only moments. They were precious seconds lost. He couldn’t get away, couldn’t run, couldn’t sprint down the steps and slip into his room, as innocent as a babe.

  But he tried. Favoring his right side, he limped to the open door and started into the passageway. A voice on the lower landing sent him slipping backward and closing the door. It wasn’t Lydia. It was one of her sisters, her voice lighter, a little petulant, growing closer with a rapidity that suggested she raced up the steps. Seconds after the latch clicked, leaving him in near total darkness, the top tread squeaked, then a skirt rustled on the other side of the panels. Finally, the door across the way slammed.

  “So where is her ladyship?” Christien addressed the cat circling his ankles.

  “Ma-row?” the feline responded. He rose on his back legs and pawed at Christien like a dog. “Ma-row.”

  “Down, you. Those claws are sharp.”

  “Ma-row.”

  “I can’t pick you up with only one hand.”

  But if he could carry the cat, or persuade him to follow, he might be able to bluff his way out of trouble with his gracious, albeit reluctant, hostess.

  “All right, come with me.” Christien opened the door.

  The cat began to knead his claws on Christien’s dressing gown, right through the heavy silk and into his knee.

  “Arretez-vous.”

  Whether the French cat didn’t speak French or chose to ignore the human, he continued to sharpen his claws on Christien.

  “S’il vous plait.” Christien started to lean forward to detach the feline. The room began to spin and lights flashed before his eyes. “Lord, please help me.” He leaned against the wall and waited for the world to settle down again. “At least keep her away.”

  No voices penetrated the door. Surely they had all gone into a room for tea or chocolate before retiring for the night, especially since they were hours early. If he got the cat to follow him, he could claim the creature had been crying and he wanted to shut it up.

  A lie. Yet one more lie. One more necessary lie, but still a falsehood to add to his decade of falsehoods.

  And he would be lying to Lydia.

  Would he be better off telling her the truth and facing the consequences?

  Before he decided on an answer to that question, the door flew open and slammed into his shoulder. Pain soared through his body, an explosion of white-hot agony that drove him to his knees with a groan escaping his lips.

  “What are you doing in here?” Lydia demanded.

  11

  Candlestick solid in her hand, Lydia stared down at the crouching man. Her knees wobbled. She gripped the door to keep herself from sinking down beside him to make certain he wasn’t about to expire on her. She didn’t want a dead man in her bedchamber. That was the source of her concern.

  She wanted him alive to answer for his deeds. For his misdeeds.

  “The cat.” He drew in a sharp breath that sounded like a cry in the quiet room.

  “What about my cat?”

  Hodge sat in the middle of the rug, a pale blur in the candlelight. His green eyes glowed as though he were up to mischief.

  “Why would my cat bring you up to my bedchamber?” Lydia persisted.

  “He—” Christien let out a breath on a long sigh. “I cannot lie to you, my lady. It wasn’t le petit chat. My reasons—I cannot talk like this.”

  “You’ll talk like that to me or the Watch. I don’t appreciate thieves. Not that there’s much to steal, since you already have my bracelet.” She stepped farther into the room and pushed the door to, without latching it. “Or rather, you had my bracelet. It was sold to the jeweler in Tavistock, was it not?”

  His face nearly as pale as Hodge’s fur, Christien grasped the door handle, atte
mpted to haul himself to his feet—and failed with a grunt of disgust. “Falmouth.”

  Lydia’s hand jerked so hard her candle extinguished. “You don’t deny it?”

  “No, my lady, that much I cannot deny, as it is the truth. The rest . . .” His voice trailed off.

  She couldn’t see his face now, but every word he spoke declared his fatigue and pain. Her heart squeezed, melted.

  “Let me help you back to your room, monsieur.” She opened the door to let light into the room, then reached her hand out to him.

  He grasped her proffered hand, his fingers long and smooth, as a gentleman’s should be. So smooth that the lines of scars stood out in distinct ridges. She resisted the urge to stroke the marks, to ask him how he’d come by them.

  Though he curled his fingers around hers as if she provided the only lifeline off a sinking ship, he didn’t rise. “I need to talk to you.” Crouched on the floor, gazing up at her through the dimness of candlelight a half dozen feet away, he resembled a supplicant, a man forced to be humble before a superior.

  Her imagination, or a clever act on his part? Either way, it further softened her heart toward him.

  “We can talk in the morning.” In the morning, she had committed herself to a talk and a drive with Barnaby. A breakfast cose with the Frenchman would make no difference. “Right now,” she added, “you are in no condition to talk.”

  “Peut-être, non.” He rose then. A low moan escaped from his lips, and he swayed.

  “Let me help you.” She laid his arm over her shoulder and left her room.

  He didn’t resist. He leaned upon her, silent save for an occasional grunt of pain.

  “If you needed to talk to me,” she said as they made their way down the steps, “you didn’t need to skulk in my room.”

  “I wasn’t skulking in your room to talk to you. I wasn’t skulking in your room at all. You came home early.”

  Lydia missed the last step. He caught her shoulder, held her upright, turning her to face him.

  For a heartbeat, they stood with nothing more between them than the layers of fabric of their garments. Lavender scent rose from his, the aroma of the leaves in which his borrowed dressing gown had been packed since the previous Season, too sweet for him. He should smell of sandalwood or bergamot, something heady and exotic.

  Only a lightly sun-bronzed hue to his complexion kept the pallor of fatigue at bay. Dark shadows beneath heightened the blue of his eyes. And his mouth—firm, full lips set above a cleft chin . . .

  She tore her gaze away from his mouth and licked her dry lips. “You were looking for something in my room.” For her own sake as much as to taunt him, she added, “Because you’re a French spy.”

  “Oui, Madame Gale, I am French and I am a spy. But matters are not what you think.”

  She jumped. She hadn’t expected him to be so blunt, so honest.

  Too honest? A disarming action?

  With her entire body tense from the effort, she managed a cool, “Indeed.” She stepped away from him. “I’ll send one of the footmen up to assist you further. Tomorrow I expect an explanation.” She reached the third step of the next flight down, then tossed over her shoulder, “A truthful explanation.”

  “So you shall receive.”

  She would believe that when she heard it, and she didn’t expect to hear it. Even blackmail couldn’t guarantee her silence, surely, if she learned he intended to do something truly harmful for England.

  Halfway down the steps, she paused to lean on the banister and stare into the well. Far below, a footman awaited orders for something. She should send him to bed. The family could manage without making a servant stay up half the night. They didn’t have guests other than—

  But they did!

  Lydia sprinted down the last of the steps and eased open the sitting room door. Her first glance showed her empty chairs and sofa. Her second fell on the couple. She frowned and took a deep breath as much to relieve a heaviness in her chest as to calm herself before speaking.

  “That’s enough.” She managed the words in an even tone.

  The couple sprang apart. Their faces glowed with either embarrassment or passion. Cassandra’s hair hung down her back with pins gleaming on the sofa and carpet around her, and Whittaker’s hair stuck straight up in back. His cravat drooped, and Cassandra’s gown . . .

  “Go to your room, Cassandra.” Lydia felt as though she hadn’t slept in a week. “I’ll be up to talk to you in a minute. No, better yet, go to my room.”

  Where the Frenchman had been up to no good, most likely, and distracted her from the couple in the sitting room. She’d delayed more than a quarter hour. From the look of the pair, it was good she hadn’t delayed longer.

  She fixed her gaze on Whittaker. “I’ll talk to you down here.”

  “It’s not your place to say anything, Lydia.” Cassandra scrambled to her feet without assistance, though Whittaker held out his hand to her.

  “Someone has to.”

  “Father will be here tomorrow.”

  “And you’d rather we talk to him about your behavior with Whittaker?”

  Cassandra dropped her gaze. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “We differ on that, and I hold the winning hand here.” Lydia stepped out of the doorway. “Wait for me.”

  Cassandra trudged past her, not saying a word to her sister or fiancé. The steps creaked in an uneven pattern, a wordless testimony to Cassandra’s injured ankle.

  “You should have let me carry her up,” Whittaker said.

  “I wouldn’t let you near a bedchamber with my sister.” Lydia closed the door and leaned against it, her arms crossed over her middle. “Whit, I don’t want to do this. I’m only a year older than you are. And I’m a female, albeit a widow. But if I don’t say this, no one will. You know as well as I do that Father would be likely to forbid Cassandra to see you until the wedding if he finds out you two can’t be trusted alone together for five minutes.”

  “I know it looks bad.” Whittaker mopped his brow with his limp cravat. “All right, Lydia, it was probably as unacceptable as it looked. And I have no excuse, not even the old one about how we’re to be married soon.”

  “That makes it a bit more understandable, but no, it’s not an excuse. After the wedding—”

  “That’s what I’m saying, Lydia.” Whittaker rubbed his hands across his face and speared his fingers through his thick, dark hair. “I’m not sure there will be an ‘after the wedding.’ I’m not sure there will be a wedding.”

  “Whit—” Lydia sank onto the nearest chair, her legs no longer strong enough to support her. Between Cassandra’s fall, finding Christien in her own bedroom, and finding her bookish sister in a fairly compromising position, the burden of the entire household landed on her shoulders.

  She gazed up at her future brother-in-law—she hoped. “Why do you say that? You just had a little spat tonight.”

  “It wasn’t that little.” Whittaker shoved his hands into his coat pockets and paced to the window. “Something’s terribly wrong if she believes I’d stop loving her because she wears spectacles. But what’s worse is that I didn’t notice she can’t see a yard in front of her face. I didn’t notice something so important. I only notice her—her gentleness, her sweetness, her beauty. Mostly her beauty.”

  “Attraction is important.”

  Whittaker’s shoulders slumped. “That concerns me. Attraction might be all we share. That is to say, the other things about her, her intelligence and sweetness . . . I try to think about those instead, but I don’t, as you can tell from our behavior. Attraction is a start, yes, but we’ve been betrothed for nearly a year. There should be more.”

  “And you fear there isn’t?” Lydia brushed a hand over her own brow. “What does Cassandra say?”

  “She doesn’t believe I love her. And do I, if I’m persuading her to compromise her modesty? Willingly?” He let out a bark of humorless mirth. “I’m not certain anymore. It was so muc
h easier before I inherited the earldom and the estates and mills. For some reason, Cassandra believed I loved her then.”

  Lydia stared at Whittaker’s slouched posture and understood.

  “But we haven’t seen one another for nearly six months. I’m afraid . . . in that time . . .” Whittaker swung around so fast Lydia jumped. “I can’t do it without hurting Cassandra, but I think perhaps we should postpone the wedding again.”

  “I think—” Lydia stopped. She couldn’t support him in that. It was too self-serving. “I’ll talk to Cassandra. If she thinks waiting is best, then we’ll all talk to our father when he arrives tomorrow. Unless—” She narrowed her eyes at Whittaker but couldn’t ask him the question. She would have to pose it to Cassandra.

  But Cassandra wasn’t in Lydia’s room. Hodge perched on the dressing table grooming himself in the mirror. Otherwise, the room lay quiet and empty and smelling of lavender.

  Lydia wrinkled her nose and crossed the hallway. No one responded to her tap. She pushed the door open. The room lay in silence too, save for Honore’s even breathing from the bed. Cassandra wasn’t there.

  Grinding her teeth, Lydia descended the steps to the library. As she suspected, Cassandra sat in there, but she wasn’t reading.

  “My spectacles are in the sitting room.” She rubbed her red-rimmed eyes. “I threw them across the room.”

  “A little childish, don’t you think?”

  “I wasn’t thinking.” Cassandra blinked several times. “I want to go home to Devonshire.”

  “So do I.” Lydia slipped an arm around her sister. “But we have to stay for Honore and your wedding.”

  Cassandra shook her head. “Not my wedding. Whittaker needs someone better than I am now that he’s the earl. I’ll make a terrible countess.”

  “Would you marry him if he were still the second son?”

  Cassandra nodded. “We used to talk then about interesting things like books. He never would have worried about me wanting to go up in a balloon. He’d have joined me. But he can’t now because he’s the last of his line and needs to produce an heir. I’m not certain I want to live that kind of restrictive life.”