by Amy Lake
“Lord Winthrop—” she began.
“Some tea, I think?” said Aunt Philippa.
Bessie had just arrived with the tray; she was sent back for a third cup. Miss Asherwood bit her tongue and sat down to pour for her aunt and Lord Winthrop.
“Young man,” said Philippa Cavendish, “I’m sure you cannot mean to dismiss the concerns of my niece.”
“No, of course not, but—”
“I have not finished speaking. Marguerite du Merveille may be safe as safe can be, but I’m sure Miss Asherwood would feel more comfortable with that fact established in front of her eyes. In London.”
Lord Winthrop smiled. “Of course. But consider Miss Asherwood’s reputation. The girl—”
“Her name is Marguerite,” said Elizabeth.
“Yes, hmm—Marguerite would not be received in London, as you know well. And—”
“I know nothing of the sort. Mademoiselle du Merveille is, I believe, all of fifteen. Surely even the old biddies of the ton are not that cruel.”
Miss Asherwood stifled a laugh. Was this the Aunt Philippa who had spent the past year in one of Aisling House’s guest bedrooms, writing letters and feeding the cat? And Geoffrey, she saw, was speechless.
“The problem, young man,” said her aunt, “is not London society. Absurd though the ton may be, they are most of them sheep, and someone merely needs to point the herd in the correct direction. The problem is the French. This fire will burn itself out, eventually, but while the flames still spread, ’twould be best for Marguerite du Merveille to be with her sister. Here.”
* * *
Chapter 8
First Impressions
Penny burst into laughter. “Dear Aunt Philippa! She didn’t! Oh, why could I not have been there!”
The two young women were standing on the Marquess of Derwell’s staircase, part of a crush of people waiting to make their bows and curtseys to the host. The ton was never at their best in these circumstances; people pushed and shoved, gowns could be torn or slippers lost, and one had to be on one’s toes every second. Only last week the elderly Lord Bennington had slipped on another one of London’s grands escaliers, and it was said—Lizzie had not seen this, herself—that several people climbed over the poor man before he was helped back to his feet.
“Geoffrey was beside himself. And he could say nothing.”
“Poor Geoff. But your aunt! How unlike her. And you have no idea why?”
“None whatsoever. And I’m not happy with Geoffrey. He spoke as if ’twas his reputation against Marguerite’s life, and he wasn’t sure of the balance.”
Penelope nodded. “He was quite wrong in that,” she said. “But I believe his concern is for you as well.”
“I know.” Lizzie sighed. “He sent a note around later, and apologized.”
“Now what is this of Lord Blakeley and the Foreign Office? I thought he was supposed to be a complete bungler.”
“Lord Bessonby thinks better of him.”
“You have that on rather thin evidence. And he is a rake, according to Susannah.”
“Susannah!”
“Yes, well, we can consider the source all we like, he still doesn’t sound like a proper acquaintance for a young, unmarried woman.”
“Not so young anymore,” said Elizabeth, somewhat ruefully. She had never thought of her age before. There had always been Geoffrey.
The Marchioness of Pepley squeezed by them, trading on her position to cut line, and leaving behind the heavy scent of carnation. The gentlemen next to Elizabeth and Penny grumbled, but said nothing.
Penelope was nodding. “Ah, yes, the ripe old age of—what are you now? Forty?”
“Nearly twenty-one.”
“Good heavens. Well, you might as well meet him then, you’ve no other hope for male companionship.”
Elizabeth stuck her tongue out.
“Charmed, I’m sure,” said Penny.
* * * *
The plan, as Miss Asherwood explained to Penelope, was to gain Lord Blakeley’s attention, and then request his assistance in obtaining information about the current state of affairs in France. Elizabeth thought she would feel more at ease if she could do something, and sending one letter to her sister had simply not been enough.
“I want to know,” she told Penny, “that someone is at least aware of Marguerite’s existence. Someone with connections.”
Elizabeth and Penny’s opinion of the high-ranking men of the ton was mixed. Gentlemen were no more intelligent than the average servant, perhaps, and certainly no smarter than the women—but in the world of government, connections were everything. If one knew the right people, things could be done.
“My cousin thought we were ninnies, so why should Lord Blakeley care?”
“I don’t know,” admitted Lizzie. “But somebody has to.”
“Lud. You’ve never even been introduced.”
“True,” said Elizabeth. “We’ll have to do something about that.”
Penny regarded her critically, he head cocked to one side. “Hmm . . . ” she said.
“What?’ said Lizzie, suddenly worried. She had taken special pains with her toilette that evening, and thought her new gown—the first she had ordered after Sir Terence’s death—particularly becoming. It was an Indian muslin of soft blue, embroidered with silver threads. The bodice was not as revealing as she had seen on some of the other ladies—
“No, you’re fine. Quite elegant, actually. We could tug the neckline a bit lower, I suppose . . . ”
Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “I think not.”
“Then it will have to do.”
* * * *
Meeting Lord Blakeley proved more difficult than Miss Asherwood had anticipated, but in the end it was accomplished, thanks to Penelope’s brother Henry, who owed his sister a favor for remaining quiet on the subject of a certain gambling debt, thankfully now resolved.
Henry was a gregarious sort, and knew everyone; the trail of acquaintances eventually led them to Viscount Mayfirst, as it happened a good friend of Lord Blakeley, who looked at Penny and Elizabeth curiously, but agreed to the introduction.
“I don’t like this,” said Henry. “The man has a reputation for playing fast and loose.”
“My dear brother,” said Penelope, and gave him a speaking look.
Henry sighed. “Very well.”
* * * *
Elizabeth Asherwood. Had he heard that name before? wondered Lord Blakeley, as he and the young lady in question moved through the first figure of the quadrille. Not that he was unhappy with her as his current dance partner—she was quite pretty and had an elegant step—but he had no idea why she had sought him out. The approach had been made in such a way that left it all but impossible to refuse the acquaintance, the girl and her friend smiling and curtseying and begging his pardon, the viscount at their side.
He would have a word with Mayfirst later.
He had noticed Miss Asherwood on a previous occasion, as it happened; it had been the night, in fact, of the Lincolnshire’s ball. He had turned her way as she paused on the steps leading down to the dance floor, and was caught for a moment by the simple elegance of the girl’s dress and the openness of her gaze. She was smiling, and looked as if she expected to enjoy herself.
Blakeley did not meet women like that anymore, if he ever had. The females he associated with were known more for a sophistication that claimed ennui in nearly every circumstance. Mere enjoyment was déclassé.
He had not inquired about Elizabeth on that occasion; had not thought of an excuse to even ask her name. But neither had he forgotten—and then suddenly she was in front of him, as lovely as before, and he was forced to remind himself that even the smallest involvement with one of the respectable ton misses was a bad idea.
For a moment he regretted the strictures that were ever-present in his life.
But why had she approached him in the first place? And where was her mother, or another of the dowagers? It was their respon
sibility to keep the younger females in line, and not allow introductions to gentlemen like Lord Blakeley.
’Twas not about marriage. He’d made his position on that matter clear to every matchmaker and interfering biddy of the ton. The chit might be out for herself, of course. It was a possibility, albeit one which would make her considerably more forward than most young women of society.
He was forced to conclude that Miss Asherwood wanted something else from him, something in particular. And that raised suspicions. Lord Blakeley simply knew nothing about this girl. The situation would now have to change, he realized. ’Twas no desire of his to meddle with an innocent, but was she?
* * * *
What was I thinking? wondered Miss Asherwood, as she moved through the steps of a quadrille with Lord Blakeley. He was terribly handsome but—it was now clear—not at all good company for an unmarried miss.
Most of the gentlemen of her acquaintance had reservoirs of small talk, and a dance was the opportunity to explore common, if superficial, interests. Lord Blakeley was apparently accustomed to a more . . . forward sort of relationship. She could not have explained how she knew this, but she was quite sure.
A glance held a second too long, a half-smile.
Elizabeth learned much later that Lord Blakeley had made it a habit to steer well clear of young females such as herself. But at that moment, feeling his warm hand around her waist, a hand placed with no hint of gentlemanly reticence, she was at sea.
“I . . . I feel faint,” said Elizabeth, and it was not entirely a fib. “I’m dreadfully sorry, could we step outside for a moment?”
“Of course,” said Lord Blakeley.
This was it, thought Elizabeth. This was her chance. Her plan was to walk a few steps onto the terrace and find a bit of shadow. People did it all the time, and as long as the couple was at least theoretically in sight of the ballroom ’twas generally allowed.
Susannah spent entire evenings on ballroom terraces.
Her scheme for what happened next was a little hazier. Miss Asherwood had no experience of playing the coquette, although she had heard stories. A hand on Lord Blakeley’s arm, a shy look—from underneath fluttering eyelashes, which Penelope and Elizabeth had practiced as schoolgirls, in front of a mirror—and a soft, earnest plea; those were as far as her imagination had taken her. But whatever her plans may have been, the gentleman was not cooperating. Lord Blakeley had her firmly by the elbow, and he wasn’t stopping on the terrace, shadowed or otherwise.
“Oh, I don’t think—” began Miss Asherwood.
“’Tis much more pleasant below,” said Lord Blakeley, without a moment’s hesitation.
They descended the wide, white-brick staircase into the Marquess of Derwell’s gardens, a series of parterres bordered by wide gravel paths. Lord Blakeley’s pace was such Elizabeth, whose slippers afforded nothing like the support by his Hessian boots, had difficulty keeping up.
“Lord Blakeley—”
He swept them past the first parterre, and around the corner onto a narrow walk that was covered by an arching, wrought-iron arbor. The arbor was draped with Japanese wisteria and hidden from view of the ballroom, or anyone else who did not happen directly along the path.
Penelope would have watched them leave the ballroom, Elizabeth thought. She wondered if Penny knew where she was now. But without coming onto the terrace herself, how could she?
This is what you wanted, Lizzie told herself. The chance to talk to him alone, uninterrupted.
Evidently she was about to get her wish.
* * * *
A number of excuses for his behavior passed through Lord Blakeley’s mind. He could tell himself that it was merely a professional obligation, a need to investigate the girl’s motives in approaching him. Or that Miss Asherwood really had felt faint, and he was concerned for her well-being.
Hah.
He knew exactly why he was really here, in an arbor heavily covered with wisteria vine, out of sight of the house. It was impulse, pure and simple, something he believed that he had wholly erased from his life.
They hadn’t proceeded more than ten steps into the arbor before Lord Blakeley stopped. He was breathing hard, she noticed, as Elizabeth was as well.
She was also irritated. Miss Asherwood did not consider young women to be fair game for titled men. Miss Asherwood did not like to be pushed.
This is for Marguerite. Your sister cannot afford the particulars of English propriety.
Thus she reminded herself. But giving in to an importunate male went against the grain. Worry and anger and determination were all at war inside Elizabeth, along with another emotion that was confusing and new to her, but one that Lord Blakeley could have identified all too easily.
“You work for the Foreign Office, I understand?” she managed, finally.
Something flickered in the man’s eyes. “I do,” he said, frowning.
“I have . . . a request. My father—”
The man was looking at her strangely. Lizzie felt that she had only a few moments before events spiraled beyond control.
“My father was Sir Terence Asherwood,” said Elizabeth, trying for common good manners, trying to smile. But then she faltered. Her companion’s expression was attentive, or even more than that; Lizzie felt that he might be memorizing every word, so unwavering was his gaze. The strong line of his jaw was clear in the fading moonlight, even as the planes of his face fell into shadow. His dark eyes held hers and she was caught like a mouse in a trap, unable to move.
Lord Blakeley took Elizabeth in his arms and, with a groan, crushed his lips to hers.
Peregrine was experiencing something completely unanticipated, a happenstance which he always tried to avoid. Unanticipated could get one killed, although violence was not the current threat to his well-being.
He was, against all expectation and habit, in the grip of a powerful, indeed overwhelming, physical attraction to Miss Elizabeth Asherwood. The attraction seemed to have sprung full-borne into his head—and into his loins—in the time since they had left the marquess’ ballroom, not five minutes earlier.
Gods, he thought. What is wrong with me?
The girl was very lovely. But Lord Blakeley spent his life around lovely women, most of whom were willing and available, youngish widows or wives with more understanding of the world and reasonable expectations.
An insipid schoolroom miss, was what he thought of any girl Elizabeth’s age. And yet, somehow, this description did not fit Miss Asherwood. Her boldness in approaching him, the intelligence in her eyes—
Peregrine thought he would give much to discover her thoughts, to spend long hours in conversation with her. He was imagining those conversations now—perhaps on horseback in Green Park, or ensconced in armchairs in front of a fire—seeing the two of them together, talking and laughing, seeing the enjoyment in her eyes.
But was she hiding something? The patterns of the last few years reasserted themselves, and Lord Blakeley told himself that he should be on his guard, that every moment counted in these exchanges, every word or gesture could be a clue to his companion’s real motives. He should be thinking carefully over his next moves.
He must have said something. She smiled, uncertain, and Blakeley was again lost. She had no idea— His mind was suddenly consumed with images of possession, of the young woman before him, alone with him on his bed. He reached out for her, feeling the smooth skin of her arms under his fingertips, past caring why Elizabeth Asherwood had wished for an introduction.
“Miss Asherwood! Elizabeth!”
The voice was completely familiar to her, which is why Lizzie was confused when—for several moments—she could not put a name to it.
Lord Winthrop. Oh, dear heavens. Oh, no.
Lord Blakeley pushed her gently away, something that Elizabeth, at that moment, could not have managed herself. She heard Geoffrey’s footsteps on the gravel and felt her companion’s hands in her hair.
“What—?” she began.
<
br /> “Hush,” he said, and she realized that he was repairing her coiffure, deftly popping hairpins back into her thick curls.
“You seem quite skilled at this,” she commented drily, under her breath, surprised that she had the wit remaining to make any comment at all.
Lord Blakeley said nothing.
They had only a few seconds before Geoffrey gained the arbor. Elizabeth smoothed down her skirts and took a calming breath. And then—out of desperation, out of love for a half-sister she had never met, and perhaps prompted by something else that she could not name—Elizabeth whispered, “Lord Blakeley—”
Their eyes locked for a moment and her breath stopped.
I must speak to you. I must see you again. Had he understood her? She could not say the words aloud.
“Miss Asherwood,” said Lord Blakeley, his voice rough. “I am at your service.”
* * *
Chapter 9
News from Paris
Alice du Merveille folded the page of vellum and put it back in the envelope. She took a sip of tea, now cool, and sat back in the wicker chair. The late spring air was fragrant and warm. The slate terrace where she was sitting overlooked the chateau gardens to the back of the main house; her daughter Marguerite was, as usual, nowhere to be seen.
Perhaps that was just as well for the moment, thought the comtesse. She needed some time to consider the information that she had just received from one of her cousins, who wrote that Paris was once again in tumult. Something called ‘the Committee of Public Safety’ had just been created and that horrid name, thought the comtesse, said all that needed saying. When one formed a committee for public safety, then there was none. Her cousin—Sebastien—had described a mob scene that occurred just a fortnight ago, nearly underneath his window on the rue St. Jacques.
“We thought they might burn the house,” he wrote.
It was not the first such letter from Sebastien. And the comtesse had been concerned enough to allow Marguerite to suggest a visit to her half-sister in England, something the girl had wanted for months, pleading with a persistence that alternately amused and exasperated her mother.
