And Only to Deceive lem-1

by Tasha Alexander

  "I have. Thank you." Ivy's china-doll complexion glowed. "Perhaps now that you are here, you can rescue Lady Ashton from the unwanted admirer who she seems to think has followed her from London."

  "Who is the unfortunate man?" he asked, looking at me. I searched the path around us but saw no sign of the man with the scar.

  "I don't know his name, but it appears that you have scared him off," I said, forcing a smile and trying to appear completely at ease.

  "You have no idea who he is?"

  "None at all."

  "And you have seen him both here and in London?"

  "Yes. Once in the British Museum. It was very odd, but I didn't think much of it until I saw him later in Berkeley Square staring at the front of my house. I asked Davis to keep an eye on him. He was there for the entire afternoon."

  "Did you report either incident to the authorities?"

  "No. It didn't seem that serious. He didn't actually do anything to me," I replied, suddenly feeling rather silly. "Ivy is right. It's merely a coincidence," I said dismissively.

  Mr. Hargreaves paused, surveying the scene around us, seemingly satisfied that there were no unsavory characters in the vicinity. "I trust that you are both taking precautions against the cat burglar who has been plaguing the city?"

  This mysterious thief had been at the center of Parisian gossip for several weeks. He slipped into houses unseen, stole nothing but the most exquisite pieces of jewelry, and seemed to leave no clues. Often his victims were not even certain when they had been burgled, not noticing that anything was amiss until they looked for a particular necklace or pair of earrings.

  "I have nothing with me that would appeal to him," I said. "His taste, from what the newspapers report, runs to things rather more splendid than the jet I'm allowed while in mourning."

  "Robert puts my jewels in the hotel safe every night," Ivy said.

  "Very good," Hargreaves said, as we continued to walk. "So, Lady Ashton, unwanted admirers aside, has Paris proven the respite you hoped?"

  "More than you can imagine, Mr. Hargreaves. I wonder if I shall ever go back to London."

  "Understandable, but do remember that you cannot stay here forever. Your villa on Santorini beckons," he said, his deep voice teasingly melodramatic. "How have you been occupying yourself other than strolling in the Tuileries?"

  "Emily knows every inch of the Louvre. She spends more time there than you can imagine." Ivy clearly felt pride in my newfound intellectual interests.

  "Ivy is too generous," I said. "After all the time I have given to the great museum, I can say with confidence that I know approximately six square feet of its contents. It's overwhelming. One could spend a lifetime in its halls and never see everything. And now my time there shall be limited, because I've decided to begin drawing lessons after having mortified myself in front of Monsieur Renoir." I related the story to Mr. Hargreaves, who was rather amused.

  "I am glad to see that you have lost much of your sense of decorum. Excellent. Your mother would be pleased."

  "Especially if she knew I was wasting a perfectly good opportunity by talking to one of the empire's most eligible bachelors about such things instead of flirting with him."

  "I don't know whether to be flattered at being privy to your academic pursuits or mortified that you do not consider me worthy of flirtation."

  "Mr. Hargreaves, if you are free Thursday evening, I should love to have you dine with us at Café Anglais," Ivy said. "Emily will be there, and several of our other friends."

  "It sounds delightful, Mrs. Brandon," Mr. Hargreaves said, smiling agreeably.

  "He is lovely, Emily," Ivy said with a sigh after he had excused himself to meet the gentlemen with whom he planned to go riding. "I don't know when I've seen someone so striking in appearance. Can't we find someone among our acquaintances to marry him off to? I'd so like to keep him in our circle."

  "I believe he has no immediate plans to marry," I replied, finding the prospect of a married Colin Hargreaves utterly loathsome. "He travels a lot and probably prefers his freedom."

  "That's what everyone said about Philip before he proposed to you."

  "We have already established that Philip was a gentleman of unique character, my dear. To find two such men in so short a time would be more than one could reasonably hope for."

  14 APRIL 1887

  BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON

  Marriage market becoming more and more difficult to ignore. Would prefer to get the boring business of dealing with it over with as soon as possible. Prospect of finding an acceptable wife from the throngs of ladies who present themselves to me on a daily basis does not seem promising-I would like a spouse who is not abjectly stupid. Truth be told, I really want a wife who captivates me, but as producing an heir is my paramount concern, I shan't have the luxury of gallivanting about in search of my Helen. It would take too long and almost certainly be a futile endeavour.

  Debated with Lord Palmer for nearly two hours this evening after dinner (terrible food). Have not yet persuaded him to give serious consideration to my theory that Achilles is a noble man who is in impossible circumstances. His tantrums, seemingly narcissistic behaviour, and antisocial tendencies are the result of what has happened to him, not a flaw in character. Could we expect any man, even Achilles, to have behaved differently?

  6

  Dinner at café Anglais never failed to delight me, and on the evening of Ivy's party, the esteemed chef outdid himself. Ivy spared no expense on the menu, and I am convinced that we had a meal nearly as extravagant as "Le Dîner des Trois Empereurs" hosted years ago by the restaurant. If anything, ours was better. Czar Alexander II had complained that he did not have foie gras; the chef told him it was out of season. Not so for us on that evening. I have no idea how, but the staff managed to find foie gras in the summer. Every course was exquisite, but it was the simple preparation of the delicacy for which the czar had longed that brought me unprecedented bliss. It was smoother than butter in my mouth.

  The party broke up quickly after dessert. Colin offered to escort me home and asked the waiter to get us a cab, but when we stepped out of the restaurant, I asked if we could walk instead. The evening was cool, and the air felt marvelous, especially after I had so thoroughly stuffed myself. The atmosphere of the city bore little similarity to that of London. In Paris one felt buoyed by a sweeping energy that intensified emotions, made colors softer, and seemed to make even the act of drawing breath a tactile pleasure.

  "I mean it when I say I have no desire to return to London," I said, looking up at the clear sky.

  "I am quite in sympathy with you, although I would not discount the pleasures of London so completely. I do not think you have had the opportunity to thoroughly investigate them."

  "I know you are correct, but I cannot separate London from my mother, and until that is possible, I shall never be comfortable there."

  "I think if you agreed to marry an old, crusty duke with a large fortune, produced several dozen children, and asked for her advice on every possible occasion, you would get along with her famously."

  I laughed. "You appear to spend little time in England. What do you do?"

  "Nothing too different from your husband."

  "You'll forgive me, Mr. Hargreaves, but we weren't married long. I can't say that I really know what Philip did, other than hunt in Africa."

  "That certainly encompassed a lot of our time, although recently more of Ashton's than my own." His voice grew quiet as he spoke of his friend. "We determined, while at Cambridge, that we would visit every famous site from classical antiquity. Caused quite a scene in the harbor at Rhodes looking for the remains of the Colossus, which, I may point out, don't appear to be there."

  "Misguided youth," I said with a smile.

  "Quite. I met that fellow Schliemann in Berlin, and he gave me excellent directions to the site he believes is ancient Troy."

  "Did you go there?"

  "No. We started with the Colossus because we k
new a chap at university who was headed for Cyprus and figured we could travel with him as far as Rhodes. After the next term, we went to Rome but soon became distracted from the project as we both took on more responsibilities."

  "I should love to see it."

  "Rome?"

  "No, I quite prefer the Greeks. I'd like to go to Troy."

  Colin laughed. "I cannot picture you trudging through the Turkish countryside."

  "I thought you had liberal views on what women should be allowed to do. It's not as if I were suggesting joining one of your hideous hunts. I imagine that there aren't wild animals behind every rock in Turkey waiting to charge at helpless humans."

  "I wouldn't object in principle to your going to Troy, but I will admit that I don't view you as an adventurous type." His eyes searched my own.

  "Beast! You don't know me at all."

  "Would you have the wardrobe?" He was laughing, and I realized he was teasing me.

  "Isn't Ephesus in Turkey? Perhaps I could visit there on the same trip. I'll send you a note from the Temple of Artemis, where I assure you I will not appear in evening clothes."

  "I didn't realize you had an interest in antiquity."

  "Philip inspired me."

  We had reached the rue de Rivoli and were nearly at the Meurice. "Let's keep walking; I would like to see the river at night." We turned away from the hotel and walked until we reached the Pont-Neuf. The air had grown chilly, and I had not worn even a light wrap; Colin stood near me to shield me from the wind blowing over the bridge.

  "Can you imagine how many people have crossed this bridge?" I asked. "It must be three hundred years old. Do you think that Marie Antoinette ever stood here and looked across the Seine at the city?"

  "Hardly. I think she would have had a greater appreciation for the views at Versailles."

  "We consider this bridge old, but if it were in Athens, would anyone even comment on it? I shouldn't be impressed with anything less than two thousand years old if I were in Greece."

  "Then you would miss some particularly fine Roman ruins, my dear. Why don't you plan a nice, civilized trip to Athens on your way to Santorini when you go?"

  "I shall have to see how it fits with my plan to visit Troy."

  Colin shook his head and took my arm. I let him guide me back to the hotel, but not before contemplating at some length the pleasure I derived from his standing so close to me.

  Colin called on me the next afternoon, and I confess I was delighted to see him. I planned to dine in my rooms that evening and invited him to join me. He readily accepted.

  "What time shall I return?" he asked. "I'll only need to dress."

  "Don't be silly," I replied. "We shan't dress. I ordered a light supper and asked to have it early. It's only the two of us, and I don't think there are society spies lurking to reveal the fact that we intend to dine in afternoon clothes. I imagine that Meg will be suitably shocked, but she'll most likely recover."

  "I thought ladies enjoy dressing for dinner."

  "I'd enjoy it more if I could wear something other than mourning clothes."

  "Yes, I can see that. Nonetheless it does you credit to honor your husband."

  "I mean no disrespect to Philip," I said, hesitating.

  "Of course not. I know you loved him."

  I closed my eyes and sighed.

  "I'm so sorry."

  "Please do not apologize, Colin. But I cannot live the rest of my life being constantly reminded of my dead husband." I stopped. "I don't mean to sound cold. Do you understand?"

  "I think I do," he said, and paused. "I should very much like to have a conversation with you during which I do not feel the memory of Philip looming over us." He looked in my eyes. "Do I offend you?"

  "Not at all," I assured him, feeling a strange sort of thrill at being unable to remove my gaze from his. "I did not know Philip as well as perhaps I ought to have. Our marriage was very short."

  "It takes considerable time for true companionship to develop," he said. "You need say nothing more on the subject. Tell me your plans instead. When do you intend to travel to Santorini?"

  "I'm not sure. Paris has been remarkable, and I have no intention of leaving anytime soon."

  "How long do you think you will stay?"

  "I don't know. I won't be out of mourning until nearly Christmas, so I can't really do anything until then. I may as well be here as anywhere."

  "You're only in half mourning," he said, running his hand through his thick hair, something he seemed to do rather frequently. I wondered if it was this habit that kept him from adopting the style of wearing it slicked back as Philip had.

  "Yes, but that's really nothing spectacular. You can go wherever you want, just as long as you make certain not to have too good a time. And no dancing, of course."

  "Do you like to dance?"

  "I adore it."

  "I admit that I've never given much thought to the practices of mourning. Do you think they have helped you manage your grief?"

  "Not particularly." I smiled, liking his direct manner. "Tread lightly, my friend, lest our conversation return again to Philip."

  "Men do not have to abide by such rigorous rules, yet I cannot believe they mourn their wives less than women do their husbands. Perhaps we ask too much of you ladies."

  "A very enlightened comment. I'm most impressed," I said, smiling. "But in all seriousness, I think it's terribly unfair."

  Colin leaned back in his chair and stared at me. After some time I wondered if I should speak but found myself mesmerized by his dark eyes.

  "Dance with me, Emily," he said quietly.

  "What?"

  "Dance with me."

  "There's no music."

  "I'll hum."

  "I shouldn't. I'm in mourning."

  "You're not dead," he said, standing, never taking his eyes off me. I gave him my hand, and we began to waltz in what little open space my sitting room offered. His grace surprised me, but not as much as the way my skin responded to his touch. The feeling of his hand on my waist caused me to breathe deeply, and when at last he released me, my hands trembled as I stumbled back to my seat.

  "I think I should go," he said quietly.

  "Yes, you're probably right," I agreed, not sure what to think. "But we haven't had dinner."

  "I find that I am no longer hungry." His eyes shone with an intensity I had not seen before in anyone. He kissed my hand, his lips lingering longer than strictly necessary, and rushed from my rooms.

  21 APRIL 1887

  BERKELEY SQUARE, LONDON

  Met a stunning girl at the Brandons' last night-Earl Bromley's daughter. Could not dance with her, as her card was already full. Dreaded encounter with Miss Huxley worse than expected. Will have words with Anne for having introduced me to her. Not only is she capable of speaking for fully a quarter of an hour without drawing breath (and on topics so boring that a mere three hours later I can't recall a single one), she has a way of clinging to a chap's arm that suggests she has no intention of ever letting go. Managed to eventually pry her away and sicced her on Hargreaves, who was unable to escape with as much ease as I did, not having the option of handing her off to a more handsome friend.

  Have given thought to Lord Palmer's views on Hector v. Achilles and cannot agree. Hector is what man can strive to become; Achilles is that of which he can only dream. Who would not prefer the latter?

  7

  Soon thereafter I hired, on Renoir's recommendation, a drawing master called Jean Pontiero to instruct me twice a week. His mother was French, his father Italian, and the two countries seemed engaged in an endless battle for his soul. He preferred Italian food, French wine, Italian music, and French women. Once I learned to decipher his speech, an odd combination of the two languages, we got along famously. He did not judge my limited skills too harshly; in return, I included a pasta course at luncheon on the days he came to me.

  "The view from your rooms is too French. We cannot work here any longer," he told
me one day.

  "I'm afraid we shall not be able to escape the French landscape, so we shall have to make do. Why don't we go sit in the park? It's quite warm today. A breeze would provide welcome relief." Monsieur Pontiero sniffed, packed up my drawing materials, and led me to the Louvre, where he set me to the task of sketching the first of ten paintings by Francisco Guardi showing Venice during a festival in the eighteenth century.

  "I do have quite a keen interest in antiquities, Monsieur Pontiero. Perhaps I could draw something Roman instead? The sarcophagus reliefs in the Salle de Mécène?" He ignored me and began to lecture on the use of light in the painting before me. I sighed and began to sketch. Before long we were interrupted by a short, rather pale Englishman, whom my teacher quickly introduced as Aldwin Attewater.

  "You would be interested in his work, Lady Ashton," Monsieur Pontiero said, smiling. "He copies antiquities."

  "Do you really?" I asked. "I should love to see your work. Monsieur Pontiero won't let me draw anything but these landscapes, but I'd much rather sketch Greek vases."

  "Black-or red-figure? Which do you prefer?" Mr. Attewater continued without waiting for me to answer. "I'm partial to the black myself. Of course, a mere sketch cannot do such a piece justice, which is why I prefer to reproduce it entirely."

  "It also brings a much higher price that way," Monsieur Pontiero added. "Aldwin does a great deal of work for you English aristocrats who are willing to pay exorbitant prices for obvious fakes."

  "My work is never obvious," Mr. Attewater replied. "It can be found in some of the world's best museums."

  "Perhaps in your imagination, Aldwin. But look at my pupil's work. It is good, no?" Mr. Attewater looked over my shoulder at my uninspired rendition of poor Mr. Guardi's landscape and shrugged.

  "Decent form, little passion. Move her to another gallery, Pontiero. If it's antiquities she likes, she should draw them. She is paying you, after all."

  "Money, money, that's all you think about," Monsieur Pontiero jibed good-naturedly. "It is the art that matters, and she should start here."