A Necessary Deception

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  She’d chosen to stand by him. That fact was all Christien could think about as they headed back to Cavendish Square—that and the feel of Lydia close behind on the jump seat. The former made his heart sing, the latter made him restless. Restless and determined to suggest, insist—whatever was necessary—that she go along with his plans for the day.

  “But Vauxhall tonight—”

  “I’ll escort you, of course.” The gentleness of Lydia’s tone warmed Christien.

  Like him, she held a tender place in her heart for a wayward sister. Miss Honore had best watch her step or she’d find herself back in the country without a Season.

  Thoughts of the day flashing through his head, Christien drew the curricle up before Number Thirty. “May I escort you ladies to the gardens tonight?”

  “We would be better off with a gentleman in tow,” Lydia began.

  “Mr. Frobisher is a fine escort.” Honore scrambled to the ground and hurried inside.

  “We will not go with that man.” Lydia remained on her perch. “Thank you for your assistance. I do apologize for my countrymen and their behavior this morning. About tonight—” Her cheeks grew pink around her mask. “That is kind of you.”

  Christien tossed the reins to a waiting youth and climbed down. He looked up at Lydia. “My lady, I have it in mind not to assist you down but to keep you up there and take you for a drive into the country.”

  “The country? I couldn’t. Cassandra, Honore—”

  “Will survive a few hours without you.” He offered her what he hoped was a persuasive smile. “Now that you’ve decided to trust me, take another step and trust me in this.”

  He read the longing on her face and pressed his advantage.

  “You can bring your painting things along.”

  “I promised Honore she can go to Vauxhall.”

  “We’ll be back in time. While you gather up what you need, perhaps I can get that minx in the kitchen to prepare a picnic déjeuner for us. Bread rolls. Roast chicken? Surely you have some hothouse strawberries.”

  “I should see to Mama’s well-being and details—”

  “Will a few hours make a difference?” Christien held up his hands.

  Lydia placed hers in them and jumped lightly to the ground. “All right, so I can paint. But not far.”

  “Only to Richmond. We’ll be there in an hour and home in four or five at the most. Promise.”

  “Well.” Lydia glanced around as though seeking guidance. “All right. I think it’ll be all right.” Then she picked up her skirt and dashed into the house.

  Christien took his basket and descended to the kitchen. Lisette emerged at once, snatched the basket away, and returned with the hamper loaded. “You will feed an army with this, I think.”

  “Thank you.” He resisted kissing her on the cheek so as not to shock the other servants. He returned to the curricle, stowed the basket under the seat, then headed up the steps. A footman opened the door with the news that Lady Gale would be with him shortly.

  “You may go up to Lady Bainbridge’s sitting room if you like.”

  “Thank you, I’ll wait here.” Christien couldn’t face the lady of the house with the knowledge that he’d deceived her about her cook in order to have a spy in the household. His reasons were good. He wanted to ensure Lydia fared well. But one more deception now lay marking up his copybook.

  One deception he did not perpetrate was how he felt about Lydia. The sound of footfalls on the steps drew his attention upward in time to see her rounding the banister, tall and erect in posture, her hair tucked beneath a white straw hat except for that single curl in front of her ear, a leather portfolio tucked beneath her arm. Her steps, though brusque, carried a hitch in them, a momentary pause before she took the next tread. Her lower lip protruded just a hair over the upper one, and a faint line showed between her eyes.

  Worry. Uncertainty. Reluctance. All understandable. All something Christien intended to erase from her, if only for a day.

  He held out his left hand. “I’ll take the portfolio, my lady. It looks heavy.”

  “I’m used to carrying it, but if you like.” She slid the scuffed and scratched leather folder into his hand. It smelled of charcoal and paint and the sweet citrus scent that floated around Lydia.

  “Shall we be on our way?” he asked.

  “We’ll be home before four o’clock, will we not? Honore deigned to speak to me long enough to inform me that Frobisher intends to call for her then, and I want to ensure she doesn’t take advantage of my absence to go with him.” She glanced at the stone-faced footmen. “If Father isn’t here, no one will stop her if I’m not back.”

  “We’ll be back by then.” Christien offered her his right arm. The shoulder still ached, but he could manage to escort a lady if she was gentle.

  Lydia was gentle. Her fingers barely skimmed the sleeve of his coat. It was enough for now.

  In the carriage, Christien took the reins from the street urchin, then headed south. “I thought you might be missing fresh air and some open land for sketching.”

  “More than anything. I really need to get some different kinds of paintings done to sell. There’s a shop that will sell my pictures.”

  “You’re selling your pictures?” Christien risked taking his eyes off the crowded streets long enough to stare at her. “Surely that isn’t necessary.”

  “It is if Cassandra is to come live with me. She’s determined to do so. Just keeping her supplied with books will eat away my pension, but how can I say no to her? She’s so . . . sad.”

  “Over her broken engagement? You don’t see any way to mend it?”

  “Not with Whittaker in the north and Cassandra ready to head west any day I say so.”

  “And when will you say so, my lady?” He touched her hand with his.

  “Not as soon as she’d like. If Honore doesn’t secure a match this Season, Father will be angry, and her life at—” She jerked her hand away from his and tucked it beneath her elbow. “I apologize for discussing my family’s business with you.”

  “Please don’t. I want to know about your family. That is, I miss mine.”

  “Then you should stop your games of intrigue and go home.”

  “I will when I do this last service. But it’s not going well. Nowhere do I find even a hint of someone stirring discontent, not amongst the nobles of this country.”

  “Could the Home Office be wrong?” She shifted on the seat to face him, her hands back in her lap.

  Talk of her family distressed her. Talk of spies drew her interest. He would take what he could get for now.

  “They’ve been known to be wrong, but not often. And with Barnaby and Frobisher arriving with letters from Lang too, and the blackmail . . .” He shook his head.

  “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense that they’re wrong. If only we knew what the true goal is, I’d be happy going home.”

  “Would you?” He tried to catch her eye.

  She avoided his glance and faced forward again, her posture upright, stiff, until they left the city behind. As London traffic of carriages, hackneys, and drays thinned to farm carts and wagons, Lydia’s posture, though properly upright, lost its rigidity. Her face softened. She glanced from houses more widely spaced than in town to the patches of green between, and inhaled deeply when they passed a garden bursting with lilacs in every hue from white to violet.

  “I miss the moors.” She spoke at last. “London air always smells of smoke and sewage. Do you miss Shropshire, or haven’t you been there enough to know?”

  “I miss my family, regardless of where they are. But yes, I think I miss the farmlands. And I miss walking. Do you like to walk?”

  “For miles.” She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, and her lips curved in a half smile. “Shall we climb the hill and see if we can spy out St. Paul’s?”

  “Yes, I think we should.”

  Christien unhitched the horses and led them into a meadow of grass, where he tet
hered them to ground stakes. Then he and Lydia headed deep into the ancient park. Through stands of oaks thick enough to shelter the red deer and hedgerows that would burst with brambleberries in the summer, they made their way up the highest hill in the park. They spoke little except to point out a thrush singing in a tree or the hint of a fawn through budding leaves. Fallen leaves cushioned their feet, quieting their footfalls. The freshness of growing plants scented the air. Sunlight spilled through branches like lemon custard, warm and sweet. Christien’s shoulders relaxed even as his legs labored up and up and up, muscles stretching, blood flowing.

  Beside him, Lydia kept pace. Color replaced the pallor in her cheeks. More curls escaped from beneath her hat brim, bouncing and bobbing with each step. She looked younger than her six and twenty years, too young to be burdened with the care of her family, with care for herself. She should be able to think of nothing but her painting and her comfort, and perhaps an occasional thought for her husband—

  For him?

  No, he was being ridiculous. She might like him more than she let on, but her feelings for him ran far from the directions his had taken for her. She didn’t have years of letters and talk of him to fuel the connection with the real person, as did he from her husband’s sharing of the letters, the pictures, the brief memories of the woman at home pining, raging, yearning for what Charles Gale could never give her—a life where her husband stayed put.

  They reached the top of the hill. Puffing slightly, neither spoke for several minutes as they scanned the panorama spread out before them—the Thames River Valley with the river a winding ribbon of silver threaded through green fields and sprawling city, farmland and parkland. And above it all, the spire of St. Paul’s Cathedral speared toward heaven.

  “Ahhh.” Lydia blew out a long, contented sigh, then smiled up at Christien. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He gazed into her big, dark eyes, soft in the sunlight, then his glance dropped to her lips, parted, half smiling. His mouth went dry. She stood so close he smelled her perfume. The simplest of motions would close the gap.

  He jerked away. “Would you like your painting things brought up here?”

  “No, another trip up isn’t necessary. I can hold this in my head.” She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow. “And I believe I would like that repast awaiting us.”

  “Nothing like a brisk walk to build up an appetite.” Christien felt like running, not strolling, but he made himself maintain an even pace. “I suspect you haven’t eaten much lately.”

  “No, I keep forgetting it’s mealtime. There’s been so much, and I’ve failed to look out for Honore . . .” She paused and looked up at him. “Am I being silly to dislike Frobisher so, even if he is friends with Barnaby?”

  “No, he isn’t actually. Barnaby said they met up at an inn on the way, and Frobisher attached himself to Barnaby. He said he knew Lang too.” Christien stopped and faced her fully.

  She frowned at him. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I haven’t seen you.”

  “You should have seen me—no matter about that now. I haven’t trusted him either, but I have seen little of him.”

  “Should we perhaps follow him?”

  “We?” Christien shuddered at the idea of Lydia doing anything so potentially dangerous. “Not you.”

  “But—” She started walking again, gripping his arm harder as they negotiated a patch of rough ground full of stones and protruding tree roots.

  “No we,” Christien emphasized.

  “But, Monsieur de Meuse . . .”

  They stepped into a patch of sunlight, and she paused to study his face. She rested her other hand on his left arm. An ache raged inside him so strongly he couldn’t look directly at her for fear he would wrap his arms around her and draw her close against him.

  Her face alight, she squeezed his arms. “Wouldn’t you look less obtrusive following Gerald Frobisher or George Barnaby, or anyone else suspicious, if you were courting a lady?”

  “You want me to pretend to court you?”

  See her every day? His head felt light.

  “Yes, it seems like—” Her hand flew to her mouth, that soft bow that curved upward even in repose. “That’s it. That’s why Lang compelled me to help you.”

  “He didn’t compel you. But why is it you think he did?”

  “To have a lady on your arm makes you less obviously in pursuit of anything but companionship.”

  “And since I knew your husband, the connection is natural.” Christien laughed. “Tres parfait, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I don’t know if it’s perfect, but it’s logical and practical.”

  “Just like you—a logical, practical artist.” He smiled at her and indulged in a brush of his fingertips across her cheek before he took her hand and headed back to the carriage.

  He retrieved her portfolio and sent her off to sketch while he set up the picnic things and made certain the horses were all right. He returned to enjoy the peace of the tableau—Lydia beneath a tree, sunlight streaming between the new leaves, dappling her hat, drawing blue lights from her dark hair, caressing her cheek. The peace. The quiet. The vision of a future he could have if he left his work.

  And failed to see his father avenged.

  He shook off thoughts of France and its cruelty and unpacked the food.

  “My lady.” He held his hand out to Lydia. She slipped her fingers into his and rose with fluid grace. “I trust you’re hungry. Your cook packed enough food for ten people.”

  “I believe I can eat enough for ten people. That walk and the fresh air have given me an appetite.” She released his hand.

  They retreated to their picnic. Silence lay between them as they ate. With trees and hedgerow separating them from the occasional passerby or vehicle on the lane, they’d never been so alone, more free to talk of whatever they liked. Yet words failed Christien. All his planned gambits about his family or places he’d seen on the continent, his experience at Dartmoor Prison or the discomfort of his brief voyage aboard the transport, fled from his brainbox. Unable to look at Lydia, as much as he might have liked to, he gazed at the pale blue sky, the pale green grass, the pale linen cloth, until his body felt so tense he jumped at the raucous cry of a rook. His glass of lemonade flew from his hand and smashed against a nearby tree trunk.

  “I am so sorry.” Christien leaped up before the sticky liquid reached his breeches. His plate tumbled onto the linen, sending greens, poultry, rolls, and hothouse strawberries skittering toward Lydia.

  She let out a squawk not unlike the cry of the rook and jumped up. Her plate remained in her hand, its contents intact, but her lemonade glass toppled, splashing citrus yellow over the mess of food.

  “Quel désastre.” Christien groaned and covered his face with his hands. “I am so sorry, my lady. I—”

  A choking, gasping sound interrupted him. He lowered his hands and stared at Lydia. She stood two yards away, her hands pressed to her mouth, her eyes brimming with laughter.

  “I’m sorry to laugh.” Her words came out in gasps. “But your face . . . your voice . . . You look so elegant all the time, and you—oh, I must stop, but I haven’t laughed in weeks.” She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of her pelisse.

  Christien closed the distance between them and produced a clean linen handkerchief. “I am glad I am so amusing.”

  He tried to sound severe. The corners of his mouth twitched. A chuckle rose from his chest with the slowness of a well bucket on a rusty chain, but rise it did until they both laughed over the absurdity of his clumsiness, the silliness of laughing at clumsiness, the pleasure of laughing.

  And somewhere in the hilarity, they wound up holding hands. And gazing into one another’s eyes.

  “Why are you so nervous, monsieur?” Lydia asked in a whisper. “I’ve never meant you harm.”

  “No, but—” His face felt hot. “Lady Gale, I haven’t been alone with a lady in too many years. Not a lady who isn’t a sist
er.”

  She laughed, but ruefully this time. “Nor I with a man, except for my husband those brief days after our marriage and a few moments beforehand.”

  “And he took too little care of his precious gift.” Christien gazed into her face, seeking the right words to say. “I know it is unforgivable for me to say this so bluntly, but he shared your letters with me and his—and with others.”

  Her eyes widened. Her face paled. “Even—even the shrewish ones, the ones that kept him away?” Her voice was barely audible above the sigh of the wind in the overhanging tree branches. “Tell me not those.”

  “I can’t and not lie to you, my lady. But I can add that those letters didn’t keep him away.”

  “Duty to country, I suppose?” Her upper lip curled.

  “Mostly, oui.” He released one of her hands to stroke his thumb along that sneering lip, softening it back to its gentle curve of a natural smile.

  Not the mouth of a shrew. The mouth of a kindhearted lady. A mouth to be kissed into openness, into softness, into—

  He cleared his throat. “Mostly it was fear. He thought you too perfect to his dying breath.”

  “Me?” She shook her head. “You must be mistaken.”

  “I don’t like to argue with a lady, but no, I’m not mistaken.”

  “But I’m so . . . I didn’t . . . I accomplished nothing as a wife that I should have. And I’m accomplishing nothing I intended to this Season. Cassandra’s wedding plans are a disaster. Honore is sneaking out with a young man we have reason to suspect of sedition. And I haven’t sold any of the paintings in the shop yet. Nor have I done anything but cause you trouble.”

  “You haven’t caused me a bit of trouble and have given me great pleasure in your companionship, even when we disagree.” He released her other hand and stepped back before he moved closer. “Now that you mention Miss Honore, shall we be on our way so she doesn’t think we’ve abandoned her?”

  “Oh, goodness, yes.”

  “Let me help with this . . . um . . .”

  “Désastre?”