A Necessary Deception

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  He knocked on the roof of the coach. “Halt, s’il vous plait.”

  The carriage slowed, stopped.

  “Please,” Frobisher cried, “don’t put me out here penniless.”

  “I won’t.” Christien leaned forward and unlatched the door. “I won’t even tell you to stop gaming. It won’t do any good.”

  As though it were a live grenade that would blow up himself and the carriage, he tossed the bag of coins into the gutter, tore the vowels in half and threw them out to join the other refuse.

  Frobisher scrambled after it, muttering thanks and gasping for breath.

  “Drive on,” Christien called to the coachman.

  Not waiting for anyone to close the door, the carriage rumbled on, leaving Frobisher scrabbling for his money and vowels in the gutter.

  “Sixty-five Curzon Street,” Christien called to the driver.

  They turned to skirt Hyde Park. In moments, the carriage drew up before the narrow house in the street, only fashionable because it lay in Mayfair, a respectable if not prestigious address. A lantern hung over the green-painted door and gleamed off the horseshoe-shaped knocker.

  Christien leaped out of the carriage and used the knocker to pound on the door. When nothing happened for several minutes, he repeated the action, and then again until a voice penetrated the wood of the portal, telling him to try not to wake the dead.

  “But that’s exactly what I have done.”

  At least, he’d awakened part of him that had been dead, dead to everything except for revenge against France and Napoleon specifically. He’d risen from the death of his soul being smothered into compromise and giving up everything in which he once believed—taking steps according to God’s Word, the safety of his family, his own integrity. He’d awakened to the realization that he had put his revenge work above all, allowing Lisette to stay in town as a cook so she could inform for him, accusing his love’s father of treason so that she ran from him, bringing another man to his knees so that he begged for mercy over gambling money. He possessed no more integrity, but perhaps if he repented now, God could see fit to restore his soul.

  The door opened. Elias Lang stood in the doorway, a candle in one hand, a pistol in the other. He wore a velvet dressing gown over a pair of breeches and a shirt with its placket unbuttoned, and his graying hair stood straight up. “De Meuse, what do you want at this hour?”

  Christien took a deep breath. “I want to resign my position.”

  27

  Before the Bainbridge Manor butler slipped the news sheet onto the table beside her plate instead of Father’s, Lydia knew something was wrong. The man’s face, smooth from years of keeping his expression bland, showed a crease between his salt-and-pepper eyebrows, a sure sign of distress.

  “Why are you giving that to her?” Father demanded from behind his copy of the Times.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Dobbins intoned. “It is nothing but a sheet dedicated to the sort of gossip that interests females, not someone with the weight of the country on his shoulders.”

  Lydia’s upper lip curled until she caught the man’s wink from behind Father’s back.

  Father grunted in disinterest, as the aging retainer must have known he would. Dobbins had obviously looked at the sheets before delivering the mail to the table. Ladies’ tattletales meant nothing to a peer of the realm.

  Lydia wished they meant nothing to her. If a fire had burned on the hearth, she might have tossed the news sheets onto the flames without a second glance, without a first look. But this was mid-June, and the breeze wafting through the open windows smelled of freshly scythed grass, roses, and flagstones from the terrace already baking under the south Devonshire sun, and held little in the way of coolness, let alone a chill.

  She opened the rolled paper.

  What little breakfast she’d consumed rose in her throat, bitter and hot. Her eyes burned. Her ears rang with words murmured through a garden with the impact of a scream. You’ll regret running away.

  She’d known then she would. She knew now she did. She’d chosen to go her own way and failed her family in the worst way possible.

  Honore was utterly ruined. The drawing and caption said it all. Though the female in the sketch wore a loo mask and the black-and-white print said nothing to hair color, anyone who knew Honore’s pure oval face, her lush mouth and smoothly rounded chin, not to mention the graceful set of her long neck and slim shoulders, would recognize the maiden seated at a card table with three gentlemen of questionable repute. And the words beneath clarified those who might prove uncertain.

  Did the Honorable Miss H. truly attend a certain gaming establishment with a Mr. G. F.?

  Certain she was about to cast up her accounts, Lydia started to rip the news sheet in half. An unseen hand seemed to stop her. Or perhaps the sound of Father clearing his throat. He would wonder why she chose to shred a mere gossip sheet.

  “If you’ll excuse me, sir, I should see to the—the—” What household task would she need to see to right then? “The menu for the day. If we leave Cook to her own devices, we’ll get mutton again, I do declare, and none of us is fond of mutton.” She made herself laugh.

  Father grunted, deep in concentration in a letter with a crested seal. “All we need is another war.”

  “Another war?” Lydia paused halfway to her feet. “Not the Americans. They wouldn’t be so foolish.”

  “Of course they would. England’s might didn’t stop them thirty-five years ago, and it isn’t stopping them now. The difference is, we’re fighting the French and our resources are stretched thin.”

  Lydia flopped back onto her chair. “Yes, but they can’t have many resources at all.”

  “They seem to think they do. Perhaps we can take them back.” He flashed her a rare smile. “We could use all that forest for new ships and masts.”

  “I doubt they’ll go down easily, though, and I hate the thought of more killing.”

  So much more important than her sister’s reputation. And yet a war with America lay thousands of miles away. The war with France rested close to home, perhaps lay at home, in England, in her very family.

  The blackmailer would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, not even ruining the future of a wayward but kindhearted and lovely young lady.

  She should have given in. Once again she should have succumbed to blackmail for the sake of her family. But this was different. This man wasn’t the same one as before with threats of accusing her of treason. He threatened to expose Honore’s escapade at the gaming hell if Lydia didn’t do as he requested.

  She hadn’t waited to find out. She refused to let herself succumb to blackmail again. Blackmail had ended up forcing her to introduce Gerald Frobisher to Honore for no reason, because the blackmailer was now dead. Since few men knew of Honore’s folly, Lydia presumed it was Frobisher wanting money Lydia couldn’t afford to pay him. Nor would she go to Father, Christien, or anyone else of her acquaintance.

  But he had divulged Honore’s shame, and now, unless some other scandal superseded this one, Honore was ruined for London Society until at least the next year.

  Lydia left the sunny breakfast room before the smell of coffee and kippers made her ill. She made her way to the garden. Seeing two of the gardener’s assistants pruning the lavender bushes, she continued through the gate and into the trees of the park. Coolness washed over her. She inhaled a lungful of the freshness beneath the trees and remembered Christien, running through the woods with him, pausing to listen for pursuit, kissing him.

  A pain so profound it brought her up short stabbed through her heart. She stopped and leaned against the rough bark of an oak, her hand to her chest, the other hand still clutching the news sheets. She was running away again. She loved Christien but ran from him because she was determined to control her own life. She ran from God because she was determined to control her own life. She ran from a blackmailer because she was determined to control her own life. Now she faced an empty and aching heart an
d a ruined sister because she had done a poor job of managing her life and everyone else’s.

  “God, I don’t know what to do.”

  As if God would listen to her when she had rejected His help for years because—why?

  He had plans for her life, and she was weary of others with their plans for her life, from her father to her husband to her mother-in-law to a now-dead blackmailer. She had her own plans.

  The crumpled news sheets, her aching heart, her very presence at Bainbridge Manor instead of her cottage on the moors told their own tale of how well she managed her own life. But she wasn’t about to turn it over to Father or Christien.

  Or God?

  “I don’t know about that yet. I have to accomplish something right on my own.”

  Spoken aloud, the thought sounded arrogant, self-centered. She snorted and headed back to the house. Repairing Honore’s reputation lay at the top of her list of things to correct. Reuniting Cassandra and Whittaker came next. Both seemed impossible.

  Cassandra greeted Lydia from her seat on the terrace. A book lay on the table before her, but she wasn’t reading it. Creased as though it had been folded inside a letter lay the same news sheet Lydia clutched in her hand.

  “Who would do this?” Cassandra asked. “Frobisher?”

  “I think so. How did you get a copy?”

  “Someone sent it to me.” Cassandra held up a sheet of vellum with a blank seal, and color tinged her cheeks. “But I recognize the handwriting.”

  “And you blush?” Lydia took the paper and examined the address. “This was franked by a member of Parliament. And—ah.”

  Cassandra ducked her head. “He’s been sending me news sheets and some scientific articles without actually writing to me. I’m not certain why.”

  “May I guess?” Lydia knelt beside her sister and rested a hand on her shoulder. “Have any of those articles been about ballooning, by any chance?”

  Cassandra nodded, and her eyes shone behind her spectacles.

  “He regrets what happened between you two and wishes to make amends,” Lydia said.

  Cassandra nodded again but kept her lips tight.

  “Would you like to travel to Lancashire to see him?”

  “He—he’s in London, and we can’t go there because of Honore.”

  And Lydia couldn’t go there because of Christien. “What’s he doing in London?” she asked.

  “I think he wants to be there in the event the lords need to discuss matters pertaining to the Americans likely to declare war.”

  “You know about that?”

  “He sent me a copy of the Times too.”

  Lydia grimaced. “Don’t let Father know. He doesn’t approve of females reading anything but—” She stopped at the crunch of masculine footfalls on the flagstones. “Father, what is it?”

  “News sheets.” His complexion was high, his brows thunderous. “You should have told me what was in that nonsense you females like to read.” He held up a third copy of Honore’s condemnation in print.

  Lydia dropped her brow onto the edge of the table and groaned.

  “Sit up, Lydia.” Father’s voice rang out above her. “You look a fool.”

  “I am a fool.” She remained as she was.

  “You don’t think I should have known about my daughter’s behavior in London?” Father demanded.

  “We thought it was all right once we got her out of there,” Cassandra said.

  “Not ‘we,’ miss.” A chair creaked, and Father sighed. “You were at the Chapter House coffee shop, I understand.”

  Lydia wondered if she could dash her brains out on the edge of the marble tabletop.

  “How did you find out?” She straightened to confront him, his wrath.

  Except sadness clouded his face instead of anger. “Gerald Frobisher tried blackmailing me on three separate occasions. The eleventh of May, the twentieth of May, and the first of June.”

  “The first of June?” Lydia scrambled to her feet, her mouth open, her eyes wide. “Father, are you certain it was him?”

  “Of course I’m certain it was him. We met face-to-face at the Cocoa Tree.”

  “But—but—” Lydia tried to breathe, to think, to get her voice to emerge as something besides a squeak. “He tried blackmailing me at the George in Portsmouth on the first of June.”

  “Impossible.” Father surged to his feet. “Someone thinks he can play May games with the Bainbridges. You didn’t pay him, did you?”

  “No, not a farthing. Did you?”

  Father’s face flushed again. “The first time. Couldn’t have him ruining Honore’s ball. But the second time . . . I should have. Put an end to this. I tried the third time.”

  “Or just go on forever.” Lydia rested her hand on his arm. “But if he has an accomplice . . . We need to get to London and find him straightaway, do we not?”

  “I’ll go. You stay with your sisters or come later by carriage. I’m going by sea.”

  Lydia swallowed. She’d never been to sea. “I’ll go with you. Sea will be faster. But isn’t it dangerous?”

  “Not along the coast,” Father said. “But—”

  “The others don’t need to come.”

  “I’d like to,” Cassandra said.

  “Then be ready within the hour.” Father strode away toward the stables.

  Lydia exchanged glances with Cassandra.

  “There’s more to this than you’re saying,” Cassandra said.

  “Perhaps. I don’t know.”

  Christien would know. Lydia couldn’t wait to find him and talk about . . . everything.

  “We’d best change and get a valise or something small packed.” Lydia spun on her heel and raced for the French window leading into the library, ran through it to the entry hall, up the grand staircase, and down the corridor to her bedchamber.

  Where she skidded to a halt.

  Honore’s door stood open. Lydia glanced in. She should tell her youngest sister they were leaving. She deserved to know why and choose whether or not to come with them.

  But Honore already knew. A fourth copy of the news sheet lay on her dressing table. Below the caption, she had scrawled, I’ve gone to make things right the only way I know how. I’ll elope with Gerald Frobisher.

  “Only a harebrained chit like my youngest daughter would think an elopement will solve this problem.” Father exploded with the declaration for perhaps the tenth time since they had departed from Bainbridge Manor, sailing aboard a packet with little room and fewer comforts. “How can one scandal eliminate another?”

  “A hasty wedding is preferable to attending a gaming establishment with women of questionable virtue,” Cassandra said.

  Lydia clung to the rail and concentrated on not succumbing to mal de mer. “I wonder if she knows about the blackmail and figures it’s one way to stop it. If Frobisher gets her marriage portion, he won’t have need to blackmail us into giving him money.”

  “But he couldn’t have blackmailed both of you.” Cassandra leaned to one side and flipped the flounce back into place at the bottom of Lydia’s skirt. She maintained her balance on the heaving deck without holding the railing.

  Just looking at her sister gave Lydia vertigo.

  “Who could be the other extortioner?” Cassandra persisted.

  “I don’t know.” Lydia closed her eyes, felt as though she were sliding to one side, and popped them open again.

  “That Frenchman?” Father demanded from her other side. “He seemed a bit too involved in our family affairs.”

  “With good reason.” Lydia’s stays felt too tightly laced. “He was my friend.”

  “I’d say he was more than a friend to you.” Cassandra’s smile was sly.

  Lydia’s face heated, and she stared at the bobbing horizon and the distant shoreline in silence.

  On her other side, Father cleared his throat. “I suspected as much. I couldn’t scare him off for anything.”

  “You couldn’t what?” Lydia’s hands
slipped on the spray-wet rail.

  Cassandra slipped her arm, sturdy and strong, around Lydia’s waist to steady her.

  “I didn’t think he was good enough for you.” Father turned his back on them and gazed at the ranks of canvas flapping above them.

  Lydia and Cassandra moved as one to stand on the other side of him.

  “What do you mean, not good enough for me?” Lydia demanded. “He’s a kind, Christian man who has sacrificed a comfortable life to serve this country. Just because he’s French doesn’t mean—why are you two laughing?”

  Cassandra’s low chortle blended with Father’s rough chuckle, a laugh with a rusty edge.

  “I knew it.” Cassandra managed to clap her hands. “Didn’t you, Father?”

  “I suspected as much.” Father nodded.

  “Knew what?” Lydia asked the question, though a burning from her middle to her hat brim told her the answer.

  “You’re in love with him,” Cassandra declared. “And it’s obvious he loves you. If Whittaker looked at me like Monsieur de Meuse looks at you, I’d never have doubted he loved me.”

  “If a gentleman looked at me like I’ve seen Whittaker looking at you,” Lydia returned, “I’d marry him.”

  “Then you’d better prepare yourself for a wedding.” Cassandra patted Lydia’s hand. “That man adores you. Has he never said so?”

  “Yes, but—” Lydia ducked her head. Guarding her tongue was easy. She had managed to say little for so long that doing so now was no hardship. But she couldn’t stop her mind from the memories, the sound of his voice calling her his dear, his heart, declaring his love. From recalling the feather touch of his fingertips on her face, the heat of his lips on her mouth.

  Emptiness ripped open inside her, and her throat closed.