“We’ll discuss this later, daughter.” Father’s voice held a gentleness Lydia had heard too rarely.
She shook her head, scattering a few tears to sparkle in the sunlight, much to her horror. “There’s nothing to discuss. I won’t remarry and let my life be controlled by someone else.”
“That’s silly if you love him,” Cassandra said. “As a Christian, you let God guide your path.”
“Did you let God guide your path when you broke your engagement?” Lydia shot back.
Cassandra dashed one hand over her eyes. “No, that’s why I want to make amends, if he’ll take me back. If God wills it, it will happen.”
Lydia bit her lip and said nothing. She couldn’t see God wanting to play matchmaker or healer of broken betrothals, giving a young woman what she wanted. God, like Father, gave some people poor marriages and unhappy lives.
Or was that the person making that choice for herself? Cassandra had ended the engagement. Honore had chosen to be wayward. Christien had chosen to fight for revenge against Napoleon.
And she had determined to marry Major Sir Charles Gale. No one but she and Charles had thought it a wise idea with him in the Army. He had promised to leave his commission, so Lydia had said yes and Father had given his consent. Father had given Lydia her own way, and she had made amok of her life. Oh, she had her cottage and her painting and a bit more income now, but if Cassandra didn’t join her in the moorland cottage, Lydia faced days of loneliness now that Barbara had begun to work for Mama as her companion. Yes, Lydia managed her own days, but what good was rejecting love, friendship, and God in exchange for days she ordered only to find them as bleak as Dartmoor itself?
Had God brought Christien into her life for more than a way to help England in these bleak days of war?
“I don’t know what to think, God,” she murmured.
Three days aboard the packet from Plymouth to Portsmouth didn’t enlighten her further. It felt like three weeks, but it took them half the time that riding or a carriage would have. No storms or French privateers annoyed them, and they sailed into the Portsmouth Harbor in late afternoon. A carriage smelling of fish and damp straw carried them to the George, the inn where twice someone had made blackmail threats against Lydia, the first for treason she hadn’t committed, the second against Honore. The first had led her to help Christien without question, the second might have ruined her youngest sister for the rest of her life.
“Lord, can you make any of this right?” She glanced toward the garden as though it were Eden and God walked there, ready to vanquish the serpent of her blackmailers. “If you make this right—” She flopped without grace onto a chair in the private parlor Father had demanded and received at once.
She was in no position to demand things of God. She knew her Bible. She’d been raised going to church and listening to the vicar talk about one’s relationship with God. He wanted that most precious of commodities Lydia refused to give—surrender, the death of her will.
“God, I don’t know how to do that.” She cradled her aching head in her hands.
Around her, Father and Cassandra engaged in talk of dinner, of the quality of mounts available at the inn to convey them the rest of their journey up to London, of what time to start in the morning, what to do if Honore had, by some miracle of travel, reached town before them.
Lydia saw her control of her family’s future and her life slipping away from her into terrifying darkness. “Lord, how can Cassandra be so calm, so accepting of Your will for her future with Whittaker?”
A knock sounded on the parlor door. Father called for the person to come in. Lydia straightened, expecting the servants to march in with laden trays of food.
The man who strolled into the parlor was most definitely not a servant.
It was Lord Geoffrey Whittaker.
28
The last person Christien expected to see at his door was Lydia. Yet there she stood in a dark blue riding habit, the feather on her perky hat bent in the middle so it caressed her cheek, a pallid cheek emphasized by the purple shadows beneath her eyes.
“It’s only ten o’clock in the morning.” Inane words with which to greet a lady on one’s doorstep, but the first ones that emerged from his lips.
“We rode all night.” She swayed, and he caught her upper arms.
“It’s improper, but I think I should invite you in.”
“I don’t care about my reputation. We need your help. Honore is missing, and we think she’s run off with Gerald Frobisher. Everyone we’ve asked says he was last seen getting into your carriage last week.”
“I didn’t do away with him, if that’s what you’re thinking.” Christien drew Lydia toward him. “Come, sit. I’ll fetch you coffee while you tell me what’s afoot.”
“I know I shouldn’t.” She went into his parlor with little resistance.
He left her at a comfortable armchair with a winged back and found his manservant to bring coffee up from the bakery around the corner. “And some pastries too, I think. I doubt she’s eaten.” When he returned to Lydia, he found her dozing with her head tucked into the curve of the chair back.
She jerked upright at his entrance. “I’m so sorry. We left Devonshire four days ago and have sailed or ridden nonstop to get here. I’m such a poor horsewoman I may never walk again.” She managed a credible smile, then glanced around and her eyes grew wide. “You’re packing.”
“Yes, I’m going home.” He started to sit in the tiny parlor’s other chair, then found the yard of distance too far to be away from her and perched on the arm of her chair. “I’ve left my post.”
“You caught the traitor?” Her eyes widened, showed more life than earlier. “Christien, congratu—”
He held up a staying hand. “No, I didn’t catch him. I’m not convinced anyone exists, at least not as I was directed to find. In three months, no one has shown any signs of starting a disruption, and there have been no disruptions.”
“But why would anyone send you on this mission if no one existed?”
“Poor intelligence. It happens.”
“But you’re leaving before you know for certain?” She looked appalled. “Do you truly not care what happens to England after all, if France wins this war? I suppose you can simply go home and not care that Englishmen will suffer—”
“Silencez.” Realizing his harshness as soon as the word exploded from his lips, he moderated his tone. “S’il vous plait.”
“I thought better of you. I thought you were a man to be counted upon.” She struggled to rise. “I apologize for interrupting your flight from duty.”
“My flight? Mine?” Christien helped her rise, then gripped her fingers and held her gaze. “I did not hide away for seven years when my spouse abandoned me. I did not hide away when my sister misbehaved herself. I did not run away from a person who loves me more than a life’s work—”
“Work you’re abandoning unfinished.”
“Because it made me compromise my self-respect and what matters.”
Her hands relaxed in his grip, and she gazed up at him, her eyes like pansies. “What are you saying?”
“I was sitting at a gaming table taking every penny Gerald Frobisher possessed and then some, because I wanted information from a man who didn’t have any.” Christien raised one hand to her face and stroked the fine lines of fatigue at the corner of her lips. “I lost the lady I love because I made an accusation against her father with little proof. And I let my quest for revenge lie between me and my relationship with the God I knew as a young man.”
“Oh, Christien.” His name sighed from her lips. For a glorious heartbeat, he thought she intended to kiss him.
Then his valet entered with a tray of coffee and rolls, and she broke away.
“I don’t have time for refreshment. Honore—”
“Ten minutes will make no difference in what is amiss with Miss Honore, but it will greatly improve you.” He grinned. “If any improvement is necessary.”
> She laughed at that, albeit feebly, and accepted the coffee.
Once the valet departed, Christien prompted, “What’s wrong, ma chère?”
“You know about news of Honore and the gaming establishment reaching the news sheets?” Lydia took a deep drink of coffee, and a blissful expression crossed her face. “We all received copies. So she left without telling any of us except a note saying she would elope with Frobisher to set things right. She didn’t get that much of a head start, but we haven’t caught up with her except to learn she was on the mail coach.”
“Is it possible you passed her?”
“We have to find Frobisher, if he hasn’t left town after telling everyone of Honore’s disgraceful behavior.” She set her cup aside. “I know about his trying to blackmail my father. Do you?”
“Yes, I know. It was one of the things that shamed me into resigning my position. To accuse your father of treason spoke of my desperation and not the quality of my work.”
“Father paid, but then Frobisher came back and wanted more. And there’s something else, Christien.” She leaned toward him, gripped his arm. “Someone tried to blackmail me again, the very night Frobisher was trying to blackmail my father.”
Christien set his coffee cup down with extra care. “Who?”
“I thought it was Frobisher. He spoke of Honore’s disgrace, and if I didn’t do what he wanted, he’d tell everyone about it.”
Christien struggled to keep his voice calm. “And what did he want?”
“I don’t know.” Lydia blushed and bowed her head so that charming curl bobbed against her cheek. “I ran away. I gambled with my sister’s reputation and lost because I turned coward and ran.”
“But you didn’t know—”
“No, and I didn’t stay to find out. I never do. That’s the worst of it.” Tears stood in her eyes. “Christien, I thought it was Frobisher, but it wasn’t. It couldn’t have been. This man was blackmailing me at the same time Frobisher was blackmailing my father. And if Barnaby is dead—”
“It couldn’t have been him,” Christien concluded with her. “Ah, ma chère, we have something afoot that is more serious than your sister’s running off, n’est-ce pas?”
Lydia’s face worked for a moment, then she took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes. As bad as it is to let Honore find her own way home or—or let someone else see to her rescue, we need to find out who met me at Portsmouth.”
“C’est ma belle dame.” He caressed her cheek, wiping away the traces of spilled tears. “My beautiful lady. Beautiful and brave. You’re not running now.”
“I want to run toward whoever has made havoc of my life for the past four months.” Her hands clenched into fists.
Christien took them in his and raised her to her feet. “We will go.”
“Where?”
“We will start with the only quantity we know—Gerald Frobisher. Now, did you wear a veil to that charming chapeau so you don’t ruin your reputation coming into my rooms?”
“This is more important than my reputation.”
“Then we shall go.” He offered her his arm.
She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow and followed him onto the street. They didn’t wait for his carriage to be brought around but hailed a hackney instead. Christien gave the jarvey directions to Frobisher’s rooms, not so far from Christien’s.
Few members of London’s Society walked or rode about the streets of Mayfair that early, if half past ten o’clock was early. To the haut ton it usually was. Frobisher would likely be in his rooms. They might find Honore there too. Or neither of them.
“Did you come to town alone?” Christien asked Lydia.
“My father and Cassandra came too. And Whittaker now.” She smiled at that.
“Vraiment? Lord Whittaker?”
“Yes. We encountered him on his way west to see Cassandra. I think he intended to abduct her back to Lancashire if she wouldn’t agree to marry him after all.” Her eyes shone.
Christien’s heart twisted. “It is true then that absence makes the heart fonder?” He looked into her eyes, wouldn’t let her glance away.
She swallowed. “I think we’ve arrived at Mr. Frobisher’s rooms.”
So they had.
With a sigh, Christien left the hackney and approached the door. The same slatternly landlady answered his knock.
“I haven’t seen him since last week,” she claimed and slammed the door in Christien’s face.
His skin crawled from the odor of garbage from a nearby alley, from the smell of fear emanating from the landlady.
Last week. Possibly the night disgust with himself had prompted him to remove Frobisher from the carriage without concern for where he set the young man down or how much money he was carrying. If he’d gotten Frobisher killed because of his self-centered actions—
He gave the jarvey directions to the gaming hell, where they’d found Frobisher with Honore, and climbed back into the vehicle. Just as he pulled the door shut, a thought occurred to him, and he leaped down again and pounded on the door.
“Go away,” the landlady cried.
“I need information. I’ll pay for it.” Christien glanced back at Lydia, then up and down the street, where several young men stopped to stare, quizzing glasses raised to red-rimmed eyes. If any belonged to Society, what Christien said next would ruin Honore Bainbridge for certain.
“Go ahead,” Lydia said from within the hackney.
Christien rapped on the door again. “Madame, has a young lady been here? Blonde hair?”
“Aye.” The door burst open. “The little troll.”
Lydia’s sharp intake of breath hissed from the open hackney doorway.
“I’m weary of people pounding on my door wanting that no-good. He ain’t worth the rent.”
“It’s paid up then?” Christien stuck his foot in the door so she couldn’t slam it in his face again.
“Yeah, t’ other one paid it.”
“What other one?” Christien and Lydia asked together.
“Dunno. Man who looks like nothing.” With surprising strength, she kicked Christien’s foot free and slammed the door. A bar dropped into place with a thud on the other side.
Christien sprinted for the hackney and yanked the door shut. “Allons,” he shouted.
“Let us be going,” Lydia said in English.
The vehicle jerked, then trundled forward.
Christien stared at Lydia. “Who looks like nothing?”
But he knew the answer. Why he would be in search of Gerald Frobisher, Christien didn’t know. Nor did he like the notion. He had been the one who declared Frobisher was nothing more than a gamester.
And Christien had believed him.
“We believed him.” Lydia met his gaze from across the carriage. “We’ve always believed him.”
“We may be mistaken.”
“Honore will be wherever she’s found one of them.” Lydia reached out.
Christien took her hand in both of his. “We will do what we can.”
“I should have sent for Father. He has authority. He’s off making enquiries along the roads north. He should have stayed home. I should have stayed home. I thought I was running toward something for once . . .” She trailed off.
If only she were running toward him.
Christien moved across the carriage so he sat beside her. “We will find them. London is not so large.”
“It’s too big. I want Tavistock, where no one can hide, where I’m safe in my cottage with no one to concern me—” She shook her head. “I’m simply wanting to run away from the messes I help create. What I need to do is—is—” She gulped. “I need to ask God to take care of this.”
“We both do.”
As the vehicle rumbled over the cobblestone streets, Christien and Lydia squeezed themselves onto their knees in the narrow well between the seats. Hands clasped, heads bowed, neither of them said a word for several moments.
“I don’t remember how to p
ray,” Lydia whispered, as though God wouldn’t hear her.
“I’m still accepting that I have a right to. But if this is drawing me back into my work, it is of His will, not mine. I left it behind and have asked forgiveness for my desire for revenge.”
“Then you pray.”
Christien started to do so, then shook his head. “It’s your turn to surrender.”
“My sister’s reputation, perhaps even her life, may depend on this prayer. It has to be right.”
“And come from you to be right.”
Her face twisted as though she were in pain. Christien ached to help her, to speak the words for her. He knew he could not, he must not. Lydia needed to surrender to the Lord herself.
She dropped her head onto his shoulder. Her tremors raced through him. “Father. Heavenly Father, I—I don’t know what to say except I cannot succeed in life without You. The more I try, the worse it gets. Like now. Please help us—no, please save Honore from whatever trouble she’s in. I—” She took a long, shuddering breath. “I can’t do it on my own.”
The carriage stopped in front of the gaming hell. Christien and Lydia struggled to their feet. He opened the door and leaped to the pavement, then offered her his hands. Around them, the street lay in silence, as though holding its breath.
“Wait for us,” Christien directed the jarvey.
The man grunted. “It’ll cost you.”
“I know fares are regulated. It’ll cost me what’s right, and you’ll not get work here this time of day.”
“Will this place be open this time of day?” Lydia asked.
“It’s open every time of day. Some men—and women too—don’t know when to stop.” Christien turned the handle.
It didn’t move. He knocked. Knocked again.
“Go away,” a smoky voice called through the panels.
Christien kept knocking. Beside him, Lydia wrung her hands until the portal sprang open and a burly man in a stained smock stood in the entryway.
“Pardonez-nous, s’il vous plait.” Not waiting for the man to step aside, Christien shoved his shoulder into the man’s chest, grabbed Lydia’s hand, and ran down the steps.
A Necessary Deception Page 28
