by Amy Lake
“I’m still not sure what you are hoping to gain from him.”
Elizabeth sighed. “Information. A connection. And what if Marguerite has difficulties in traveling? What if I need to help her get out of France?”
“What about the comtesse?” asked Miss Perrin.
“What about her?”
“If the situation is so difficult, perhaps she’ll want to come with.”
Elizabeth hesitated. She hadn’t considered the comtesse. “Of course. If she wishes.”
“And you’ll live as one happy family.” Penny laughed. “That ought to put the ton’s nose out of joint.”
“I can’t think about that now.”
“All right,” said Miss Perrin, who once convinced was a redoubtable ally. “Let’s make a plan.”
It was decided that Miss Asherwood would spend a few days with Penelope in the Perrin’s London home. This happened often enough that it would occasion no comment among the servants of Aisling House. Then, on the following morning Elizabeth and Penny would take the Perrin carriage—which was less grand, and thus less recognizable than the Asherwood equipage—to Saint Ann’s Lane.
“I don’t want to put your reputation at risk in defense of my own,” protested Lizzie.
“Posh. Do you have any idea how many havey-cavey places Henry has visited in that old coach? No-one will give it a second look.”
This would entail, of course, the Perrin’s coachman and tiger being in on the scheme, but Penny had an answer for that as well.
“You’ll be wearing a veil, naturally,” she told Elizabeth.
“Oh,” said Lizzie. “Yes, of course. I hadn’t thought of that.”
“I’ll explain to Peters that a certain lady friend of Henry’s is stepping forward to negotiate one of his debts—”
“—to Lord Blakeley?”
“Exactly.”
“Do lady friends do that?” asked Elizabeth, in innocence. “Pay debts for young men?”
“Well, not with money, exactly.” The existence of an older brother had given Penelope access to certain information denied to Lizzie.
Miss Asherwood’s eyes went wide. “No!”
“Oh, yes.”
“But—”
“I haven’t asked the details. But Henry seems to have considerable . . . powers of persuasion with some females. This will not be the first time.”
“And you are along because—?”
“I am going shopping, with my maid of course. We will be back within the hour to pick you up. I shall send Marta to the door.”
* * * *
Pivens and Mrs. Talliaferro would never have approved the project, but Penelope’s father was rather a free-thinker and the Perrin family ran along much more liberal lines than the butler and housekeeper permitted at Aisling House. The two girls knew that the coachman and tiger—not to mention Marta, Penny’s maid—would have more than an inkling of what was going on, but they could not be sure of the particulars. The Perrin servants were as well-paid as the Asherwoods, a fact associated with the father’s forward-thinking attitudes, and Henry’s escapades had proved time and again that they were disinclined to gossip about the family.
* * *
Chapter 12
A Visit to Saint Ann’s Lane
Elizabeth and Penelope sat in the Perrins’ carriage and debated the details of Lizzie’s plan one last time. Now that they were, in fact, on Saint Ann’s Lane, and only a half-block away from the home of Lord Blakeley, nerves had begun to get the better of Penny. Miss Perrin was no shrinking miss, and if she had been the one walking into a gentleman’s house with only a veil separating her from certain social disgrace, there would have been no question of backing down. Only the fact that her friend carried the risk was weighing on Penny.
“Let us try Lord Carlow again,” she suggested. “You can’t do this, Lizzie. It seems ever so bright outside, someone will see.”
“Of course it’s bright outside,” Miss Asherwood chided her. “’Tis noon.”
“Are you sure?” asked Penny, for the tenth time.
“I’m quite sure ’tis noon.”
Penny rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean.”
“We already decided. I need to do something.”
“Perhaps Geoffrey’s letter to the ministry will produce some effect.”
Elizabeth looked at her. “Do you really think so?”
Penny sighed, perpetually honest. “No.”
“Nor do I.” Miss Asherwood pushed the curtains to the carriage window a half-inch to the side and peeked out. “Well,” she said. “No sense in dawdling.”
The two young women had settled on midday as the time most likely for Lord Blakeley to be both awake and at home. An hour ago they had sent one of the Perrin’s footmen to ascertain if Lord Blakeley was receiving visitors.
He was.
“I’ll be back within the hour,” added Penelope.
“Good. I should hate to walk home,” said Lizzie, adding, “How do I look?”
“Exceptionally young and naïve.”
“Lud.”
Elizabeth had dressed with care that morning, in an outfit of white muslin, sprigged in grey, accompanied by a silk shawl, which she hope conveyed the seriousness of her purpose together with an adequately feminine outline. The veil was a deep grey and hid her features well; she planned to wear it only until she was inside Lord Blakeley’s house.
The carriage now inched forward until it was opposite the front walkway to what Miss Asherwood earnestly hoped was the correct address. It must be Lord Blakeley’s home, she decided, as Henry had obtained a good description of the ivy-covered whitestone and the imposing, elaborately carved door. The distance from road to door seemed, in Miss Asherwood’s mind, to be on the order of miles.
Was she really going to go through with this plan?
She was. Penny’s last-minute misgivings had, ironically, given Elizabeth some heart, and when the coachmen opened the carriage door, she was ready.
Elizabeth stood at the door to Lord Peregrine Blakeley’s townhouse, fussing nervously with her shawl. She could not remember walking up the path, or climbing the steps to the front door. Now she stared blankly at the heavy brass fittings and the ornate, carved wood, and wondered what to do next. Vines of ivy climbed the walls to each side, and a huge sweetbriar rose, well in bloom, sent canes arching overhead. Lizzie continued to stare, her mind lost in the intricate traceries of wood and ivy, until Penny’s soft hiss from the coach brought her around.
She glanced back at the carriage, suddenly afraid, her heart hammering in her chest.
Oh, for heaven’s sake, she told herself sharply, that’s enough. You’d think you were moments away from being run down in the street by the post.
She rapped on the door. It swung open so quickly that she jumped back in surprise, wondering if one of the house’s inhabitants had been watching her approach.
“Yes?”
The butler—as she assumed—was no crusty, white-haired dignitary. He was a young man, well dressed for his position, and conveying an air of righteous self-importance.
Elizabeth had dealt with righteous, self-important young men before.
“I’m here to see Lord Blakeley,” she told him, chin high.
A long pause.
“May I inform his lordship of the nature of this call?”
She and Penelope had discussed possible replies.
“No,” said Elizabeth.
“Ah,” said the man. “Then I’m afraid I must decline on his lordship’s behalf.”
“Pah. Tell Lord Blakeley that Miss Asherwood wishes to see him.” Elizabeth lifted her chin another half-inch, adding, “I believe he has been expecting me.”
This was a complete bouncer, of course.
Another long pause.
“Very well,” said the man. He escorted her inside—she held her breath as she crossed the threshold, willing her knees to cease wobbling—and turned and left, leaving Elizabeth in possession of
the first room to the left, a large well-lit space that was clearly Lord Blakeley’s salon.
Figured Persian rugs covered the polished oak floor. Light filtered from tall windows hung with damask draperies. Elizabeth was at first rooted to the spot she had occupied when the young butler left, panic threatening. After a few moments she regained some composure and began to circle the room slowly, examining the various portraits and landscapes which hung on the walls. She recognized a portrait by Sir Joshua Reynolds and, astonishingly, a Gainsborough. The wealth of the owner was also clear from the furnishings, which included a particularly fine Sheraton table. Elizabeth ran her fingers over the gleaming, silky wood, a dark mahogany inlaid with rosewood.
A gentleman of taste as well as fortune, she decided.
The butler returned to show Elizabeth down the hall and into a smaller room, which she took at once for Lord Blakeley’s study. Here the walls were filled with ceiling-high bookcases. A fire burned in the grate, two large armchairs comfortably arranged to one side, with a table full of books within easy reach. She could see the titles of a few: Tristram Shandy. A book of essays by Locke.
A huge mahogany desk stood opposite the fireplace. She stared at the desk, noticing the sheaf of papers on top, neatly arranged, the brass paper weight and blotting pad, the pen knife next to a tidy row of fletched and polished quills.
Footsteps in the hall—
Elizabeth took a deep breath, willing calm. Marguerite, she told herself.
“Miss Asherwood.”
He was standing there. The butler closed the door behind him, and they were alone.
* * *
Chapter 13
Lord Blakeley Is Puzzled
Peregrine Blakeley had scarcely believed his ears when Dewhurst—Anthony Dewhurst, the erstwhile ‘butler’, and actually his lordship’s closest friend since childhood—told him who was waiting in his study in the first hours of a fine London afternoon.
“Elizabeth Asherwood!”
“Indeed.” Dewhurst raised one eyebrow, an invitation, Blakeley knew, to explain.
He could not. Had the woman been conjured up for him out of his dreams? Because she had occupied them rather definitively for most nights since that episode under the Marquess of Derwell’s arbor, and if she was now appearing during the daylight hours he would get no rest at all.
Her arms around his neck—
Gods. He felt perilously close to a horrible word—smitten—and it would never do to let Anthony in on that particular point. He could almost hear his friend’s laughter.
Peregrine Blakeley was never smitten, dammit. On no occasion had his interest in a female even come close.
In addition, there were problems concerning the girl’s current activities, specifically, the provenance of her interest in him, as he was an unacknowledged but very active agent of His Majesty’s government. Blakeley was not unaware of his personal qualifications—he was handsome, and rich, and even charming when he chose to be—but young misses generally gave him wide berth, a choice he had always encouraged.
And yet here was the same young miss again, sitting in his study. Lord Blakeley now asked himself if Elizabeth Asherwood was quite who she seemed.
He had wondered as much on the night of the ball; he had been so troubled, in fact, that he had made inquiries. At first Blakeley did not examine his motives in expending so much effort on one of the ton’s many young misses; called it a whim, and no more. But then a few reports arrived, and the accounts he received from his various sources were puzzling.
Elizabeth Asherwood, in the estimation of everyone asked, was a pleasant and respectable female of about twenty, the wealthy orphan of Sir Terence and Lady Asherwood, and said to be on the verge of an engagement to Lord Geoffrey Winthrop.
She was not a bird-wit.
She was headstrong, perhaps, but not a flirt, nor someone who was in the habit of seeking acquaintance with gentlemen of a certain reputation. And, he reflected now, she was certainly not known for showing up at one such gentleman’s doorstep, sans chaperone, in the middle of the day.
All this was confusing enough, but it was one last piece of information that brought him up short.
Her father, during most of Elizabeth Asherwood’s life, had paid regular visits to France. This had not been brought to Lord Blakeley’s attention previously; many British citizens had business abroad, and it wasn’t possible to keep track of all of them. In Sir Terence’s case, the visits were ostensibly for the purpose of visiting an old friend in Picardy, and had ended only six months before his death. Lord Blakeley had asked for additional details and one of his informants, only this morning, was able to oblige.
Indeed the old friend once existed, one Monsieur Villeneuf, but he had died many years earlier. And Sir Terence’s daughter, with no known family connection to anyone on the Continent, now received regular letters—from France. Letters that, as best he could discover at this point, she discussed with no-one.
How ironic that the girl was here, now. If she had not come to him, Lord Blakeley would have needed to seek her out; much as he had been resisting the idea—and the temptation. Because there was something about Elizabeth Asherwood . . .
Something, Lord Blakeley began to suspect, that did not quite fit.
* * *
Chapter 14
Lord Blakeley Refuses
She should have been nervous. Considering the extent to which she was now stepping past the bounds of proper behavior, she should have been positively overcome with anxiety. Alone in a London townhouse, with an acknowledged rake of the ton—! Not even Geoffrey would forgive her if he knew.
Instead, Elizabeth felt . . . fine. Her heart had stopped hammering, her breath had quieted, and she thought she might even be able to manage a half-smile.
I’ve come this far. What more is there to be afraid of?
Perhaps, in some inner recess of her mind, Miss Asherwood had already begun to recognize what the ton did not; that Peregrine Blakeley was someone who could be trusted.
Lord Blakeley stood in front of her, impossibly handsome. She noticed the dark hair, pulled back in a simple queue, the strong lines of his face, although—
He looks tired, thought Elizabeth.
Blakeley had said nothing beyond an unruffled, “Miss Asherwood?”
“Thank you for seeing me,” she told him, and then, without preamble: “I realize this is somewhat irregular. But I need your help.”
“My help?” He had stepped closer, and motioned her to one of the two armchairs next to the fire. She sank into the chair, which was large and surpassingly comfortable. They sat close to each other, but Lizzie no longer cared.
In for a penny, thought Miss Asherwood, and suddenly grinned to herself. Miss Perrin hated that saying. She took a deep breath, raised her eyes to Peregrine Blakeley, and began to explain.
Miss Asherwood had prepared her speech well. She quickly sketched the details of Marguerite’s birth and present circumstances, ending with the recent letter requesting a visit, which she produced for his lordship.
She had answered this letter, and was awaiting a reply from mademoiselle du Merveille, after which more definite plans could be made. The reply was delayed, and she was beginning to worry. In the meantime, could he assist her in obtaining more information about the situation in Picardy? He had contacts through the Foreign Office, Miss Asherwood was sure, in France. And if possible, could he suggest a name, someone she could—
“No,” said Lord Blakeley.
It took a moment for this to sink in.
“No!”
“Absolument pas.”
His lordship’s tone of voice made the meaning clear. Absolutely not.
What an insufferable man! Elizabeth could not believe this response. “But as I’ve explained to you, my sister is only fifteen. It’s possible that she may need assistance at some point. She may need it now. And I am merely asking for information—”
“Mmm.” He was staring at her with an expression
that Miss Asherwood found completely unreadable. “And where did you say the chateau is located?”
Elizabeth frowned. She’d already told him where the comtesse lived.
“In Picardy. Near the town of Doullens.”
Lord Blakeley nodded, as if he was satisfied with something. “And once you have the information you seek—whatever that might be—your idea is to do what?”
Elizabeth hesitated. Her reason for appearing at his lordship’s doorstep sounded thinner by the minute, disappearing under Blakeley’s quizzical gaze. “I don’t know. It just seemed . . . prudent to . . . ah . . . ” She sighed in frustration, and then burst out, “You must know someone in France with whom I could speak!”
“Because I work for the Foreign Office.”
Was the man short of wit? “Of course because you work for the Foreign Office.”
“And what, exactly, have you heard of me?”
This was uncomfortable territory. She had heard almost nothing of Lord Blakeley other than—according to her friends—he was incompetent and a womanizer, which either hardly explained why she was at his doorstep, or explained it all too well. Only the offhand remark from Lord Bessonby had sent her in his direction, which at the moment, sitting in an overstuffed armchair in the gentleman’s study, did not seem an adequate excuse.
I was at a musicale and I happened to overhear two gentlemen talking—
No. That would never do.
“’Twas Lord Carlow’s suggestion,” Elizabeth told him, hoping that her tendency to blush when she lied could be explained by the warmth of the fire. “He is—Lord Carlow, I mean—Penelope’s cousin. Oh—Miss Perrin—my friend, that is. And Lord Carlow said—”
Lord Blakeley’s face was impassive, although she saw one corner of his mouth twitch.
What was I thinking?
But she had no choice now but to continue. “—said that you were the man for the job. In France, I mean,” she finished, feeling the heat rise to her cheeks.
Blakeley nodded. “Ah,” he said.
