“Blast and confound it,” he said, looking at the clock. “It is far too late to send a reply. I wish now I had come back sooner. I shall simply take her at her word. If my earliest convenience tomorrow is too early, I shall simply wait upon her.”
He sat down in the nearest chair, feeling quite suddenly the combined effects of both the quantity of wine he had drunk with his friends and the exertion of his evening walk. He looked helplessly at Mullins, who came over and began to help him out of his coat without further prompting and without comment.
***
Phoebe had herself received a most astonishing note that afternoon. According to Maddocks it had not come by the regular post, but had been brought to the door by a ragged boy who could not so much as say who sent it, but who stubbornly refused to depart until he’d been given a coin for his trouble.
From habit, Phoebe took the letter and headed toward the garden, thinking she would sit in the shade under the hawthorn tree to read the message. She stopped at the door. For the past two days she had not been able to bring herself to go into the garden. It was quite as if Richard had poisoned it. Instead, she turned back and retreated up the stairs to her room on the second floor.
The note was small, written by some parsimonious person on only a portion of a sheet of foolscap. That its author was a woman was quite clear from the handwriting, a schoolgirlish script that lacked style but appeared both laborious and careful.
Intrigued and mystified, Phoebe unfolded the paper and read:
“Dear Madame, What I have to tell you cannot be explained in a brief note. I have reason to believe that your husband is still alive. If you would know more, please to meet me at St. James’s Church tomorrow at the hour of three. You do not know me, but I knew your husband well. I believe we may help each other.”
It was signed “Mademoiselle Jeanette Gimard.”
Phoebe dropped the letter onto her dressing table quickly, as if it singed her fingers. She blinked in shock and surprise. Then, as she began to feel the old tingling numbness spread through her shaking limbs to overtake her body, she closed her eyes and willed herself not to give in to it.
Think, she told herself, do not feel. Focus on what you know in your mind.
She knew very well that Stephen was not alive. She had identified his bloodstained body herself. The horrifying image haunted her worst nightmares. Was the note intended as a cruel jest? No, she did not think so. There was a simple sincerity about the words that convinced her the author believed what she had written. She picked up the letter and read it over again.
Who was Jeanette Gimard? The woman was obviously French. How had she known Stephen? Phoebe retracted the last question as soon as she thought it, for it was simply too naive not to assume the obvious. She had to have been one of Stephen’s lovers. What could possibly have led her to think Stephen was still alive? And after all this time?
Phoebe stood up and began to walk in absent circles on the flowered carpet as she stared at the letter and thought. There was only one way to learn the answers to these questions, and that was to meet the woman. But she did not want anyone to know. How could she manage to do that?
She ran through various possibilities, coming up against obstacles built into each one. She could not ask Goldie or Mary Anne to go with her, for then surely Edward and Judith would find out. Also, someone might identify her by recognizing them. She thought she could disguise herself, ironically, by not wearing mourning dress. She must have something plain in a color that combined with a deep bonnet and perhaps a veil, would render her anonymous on the street. That did not solve the problem of getting from Wigmore Street to St. James’s Church, however. And how would she get away from the house alone?
In the end, Phoebe had written the note to Devenham. He had said he stood ready to help her and had practically begged for her trust. Perhaps he would be willing to loan Mullins to her for a few hours, without knowing why.
The next morning she rose early according to her usual habit and after dressing made her way to the garden with a quick detour through the kitchen en route. She could not continue to stay away, for the poor cats would be hungry. She took a deep breath at the threshold of the door from the basement and forced her feet to step outside, as if she had crossed some invisible barrier.
The morning was cool and dewy, and the scents of the garden hung fresh in the air. The sun seemed to kiss the plants and sparkled in the droplets that still clung to their leaves. With a soft mew of greeting, first the calico and then the other two cats appeared, coming to her to rub their heads against her outstretched hand.
“There, did you miss me? I am sorry that I did not come. You must be hungry, or have you been catching birds and mice? I’d rather you be hungry, yes. I have some lovely scraps of mutton Mrs. H saved for me to give you. So much nicer than birds or mice. See?”
She opened the cloth bundle in her basket and made three little piles of scraps on the gravel path, one for each cat. They ate heartily, every so often stopping to look up at her as she sat watching them from the nearby bench.
She sat there for some time, talking to the cats in a soft voice and watching the changes come over the garden as the sun grew stronger. She tried to draw the peacefulness into herself, banishing the memory of Richard’s hateful presence and strengthening herself for the strange visit with the Frenchwoman that lay ahead.
She found it was Devenham’s presence in the garden she could not seem to banish, remembering his gentle courtesy and the pleasure he seemed to find in her company. What woman would not be charmed by such a man? She remembered, too, how he had looked when he had found Richard with her in this garden three days ago. Would he have looked as dangerous if it had been Judith or any other woman caught that way? She hoped so, but a part of her argued that the earl had developed something more than a passing fancy for her.
Maddocks’s voice cut into her thoughts and made her jump. “Excuse me, madam. Major Lord Devenham?”
Of course, there he was, just as if her thoughts had summoned him. She chose to attribute her racing heart to the start Maddocks had given her. She managed to smile.
“Lord Devenham! You are indeed an early caller this morning.” She stood up, gathering her basket and turning toward the house where the earl waited in the doorway. The cats vanished into the nearest greenery at her movement.
Devenham stepped out and came toward her, nodding his thanks to the butler as they passed each other. “Your note said at my earliest convenience. I hope I am not disturbing you?”
You have disturbed me from the first moment I ever saw you, Phoebe thought. He looked more handsome than ever this morning, perhaps because she had not seen him for two days.
“I have frightened away your furry companions once again,” he apologized. His lopsided smile made her heart turn over.
“I have not yet had breakfast,” she answered evasively, flicking her eyes away from him and looking anywhere else—at the garden, the gravel, the empty windows of the house. She should invite him to come in, to join her, she knew, but the garden offered privacy they would not have inside the house. She turned away and began to walk down the path toward the foot of the garden. “However, I did say at your earliest convenience, and I do thank you for coming.” She spoke over her shoulder. “You must have pressing affairs that demanded you get an early start on your day.”
“Not particularly.” The gravel crunched under his feet, and a moment later he was beside her. “I suppose I am such a fashionable fribble I needs must stay abed until noon, to guard my reputation? Someone might suspect I had not been out all night carousing, otherwise.”
She had the grace to blush. “You make it sound an insult to be considered fashionable. That is not how I meant it.”
“I know.” His voice was low and soft. He stopped on the path and, reaching for her elbow, turned her to face him. “Perhaps
I was only eager to be in your company.”
Phoebe felt the current running between them the instant he touched her. She prayed he was not going to kiss her. Her continuing battle within herself could not withstand such an assault. She dared not look into his face, yet she needed to know what was coming. She forced her hesitant eyes to meet his.
What she saw there was desire strong enough to make her breathless, but she also saw tender concern and questions.
“How can I help you?” he whispered.
She closed her eyes, struggling for control over her raging emotions. How much easier it would be to just let go! To throw her arms around him and love him and take the comfort he offered. But it would be cruelly unfair. She would be using him, and in the end he would have the deepest regrets. They would both find only pain.
“There is a small thing you might do for me,” she said carefully, “but I must beg you not to ask for an explanation. Could you spare Mullins for a brief while this afternoon? Perhaps it is not such a small thing.”
“I could spare him,” the earl answered, “but am I not to know to what purpose?”
“I need him to accompany me on a short errand.”
“That is easily arranged.”
“You must give me your word that you will not ask him where we went or what we did after we have returned.”
He looked at her searchingly, and for a moment she was afraid he would refuse. Then he sighed and raised her hand to his lips for a fleeting kiss. “I can refuse you nothing. You have my word on it.”
Chapter Fourteen
Mullins arrived at Wigmore Street in a hackney at half-past two to pick up Phoebe as she had requested. Now as the carriage carried them to the rendezvous at St. James’s Church, she leaned back against the squabs, nervous about the meeting but confident at least that few people would even see them, let alone identify them.
She had dressed in a high-collared pelisse of blue and pink striped silk and a jockey-style bonnet with a deep poke in a shade of blue that almost matched the dress. She had attached a veil to the bonnet to hide her features even more. The pelisse was more fashionable than she had wanted, but she had found nothing in her wardrobe that was plain without being too noticeably out-of-date. How difficult it was to render oneself invisible!
She had been forced to go to elaborate lengths to escape on her errand without raising suspicion at home. She had given Mary Anne an unexpected holiday and had asked Goldie to accompany Lizzie and the children to the park, which she knew he would agree to do with pleasure if he was not otherwise engaged by Judith or Edward. Afterward, she had pretended to conceive a sudden desire to go to Hatchard’s and told Judith that Devenham had offered her Mullins’s services if ever required.
She felt very uncomfortable about lying to her sister. Judith, however, would never have understood her need to meet with the mysterious Mlle. Gimard—if anything, she would have been shocked by Phoebe’s intentions. Respectable women did not consort with members of the demimonde. For that matter, respectable women did not venture too near the area of St. James Street, that special enclave belonging so specifically to the male species. Situated between Piccadilly and Jermyn Street, the church of St. James stood sentinel at the edge of the neighborhood. And of course, respectable women never went anywhere alone.
Phoebe instructed the coachman to drop her and Mullins a few steps beyond Hatchard’s, to avoid being noticed by any of the popular bookstore’s patrons. They walked quickly along the pavement under darkening skies and turned in at the gate of the churchyard.
There was no one waiting in the yard, for which Phoebe was thankful. Apparently Mlle. Gimard had a fine sense of propriety; she had not suggested coming to Phoebe’s home, nor was she flaunting her presence openly at the church. Phoebe instructed Mullins to wait outside and entered the church.
At first, she saw no one inside the building either. Even on this dark afternoon its graceful, Wren-designed interior was filled with light from the plain glass windows except for a few shadows in corners beneath the galleries or behind pillars. She lifted the veil from her bonnet and looked at the watch she had pinned to her bodice; it was not quite three o’clock. Perhaps she had arrived first. Or perhaps the other woman had changed her mind. She would wait a little while to see. But as she took a step toward one of the pews, she heard a woman speak.
“Lady Brodfield?” The sound was hollow in the empty church. A woman emerged from the shadows at the far end of the sanctuary and came toward her.
As she approached, Phoebe could see that she was dressed very respectably in a daygown of figured muslin with a military styled spencer of dark blue over it and a dark blue silk bonnet. Phoebe was not quite sure what she had expected, but the woman’s good taste surprised her. “You must be Mademoiselle Gimard.”
The other woman nodded, clearly taking stock of Phoebe and making some judgment before saying anything more. “I was not certain if you would come.” Her English was heavily accented.
“I was not certain if I should come,” Phoebe replied. She noted that the Frenchwoman was quite attractive. She had fair skin and a well-proportioned figure. A few curls of honey-colored hair escaped the confines of her bonnet. Phoebe guessed she was only a year or two younger than herself. “Perhaps we should sit down?”
Mlle. Gimard nodded again, and they entered one of the pews. Phoebe wondered how to tell the woman that she was mistaken about Stephen.
“I must say I was quite astonished by your note,” she began, speaking in fluent French that had been drilled into her throughout childhood by a long series of tutors. “What gives you the idea that my husband might still be alive?”
“I have seen him.”
Phoebe felt a chill crawl up her spine despite her certain knowledge that the statement could not be true. She stared at the woman.
“It was only from a carriage window, I admit, but I would know him anywhere. It is essential that I find him. And then I thought that you would want to find him, too, madame.”
For a moment Phoebe considered whether the young woman might be mad. Had her mind conjured up a vision she simply wanted to believe in? Might she be dangerous? But no. There was no madness in the woman’s face, only something haunting and desperate in her eyes that touched Phoebe’s heart. She thought that she should despise this woman, who had been her rival for Stephen’s love along with who knew how many others, but she could not. She wondered if Mlle. Gimard had loved Stephen as much as she had.
“Mademoiselle, I am sorry,” she said gently. “What you thought you saw is not possible. My husband is dead.” Quite unintentionally, her eyes misted. “I saw his body and identified it myself. That was a year and a half ago.”
The Frenchwoman looked stricken. “You loved him!” It was a statement of discovery, given in a peculiar tone of distress.
“Why, yes.”
“Then that is another charge I have against his account.” The woman looked straight at Phoebe. “He has deceived us both, madame, God help us. I love him also, but he told me that you had no feelings for him. I am sorry.”
Phoebe did not know what to say. She had never thought Stephen would lie, even to a mistress. But certainly he had deceived her. She had never even guessed at all the things she had learned after his death. To discover now that he had denied her love hardly hurt her, after so much other pain.
“It seems he did deceive us, mademoiselle, when he was alive. I do not think it possible for him to deceive us any more, from the grave.”
“Ah, madame. I saw him. When I saw him from the carriage, I cried out his name, and I saw his face go pale. He is alive.”
Phoebe was beginning to feel a hint of frustration. “How can you think he would be out walking in the streets if he were in hiding, supposedly dead, mademoiselle? It makes no sense.”
To her distress, the other woman burst in
to tears. “I do not know! I have waited for him so long. It has taken me all of these months to return to England to discover why he never came. First I learned that he was dead, and then I saw him on the street. I must find him.” She turned her tearful face to Phoebe. “He is the father of my child.”
A fierce but momentary stab of jealousy lanced through Phoebe. Then it was gone, and she put her hand on the Frenchwoman’s arm in a small gesture of comfort. “He would never have abandoned you if he had known. Your child—is it a boy or a girl?”
Mlle. Gimard looked puzzled. “It is a boy—my son, Gaston. But he did know. I was increasing when he sent me back to France. He gave me a little money and said he would soon join me. I am sorry, madame. He said there was nothing between you and him.”
“Your lover was not my husband,” Phoebe declared. “Perhaps the man you thought was him is still alive, mademoiselle.” She hesitated, wondering if she should go on. Opening the wounds would bring back the pain. But something was very wrong here, and she saw no other way to sort it out.
“My husband wanted children more than anything in the world. As did I,” she added in a whisper. “It proved to be something I could not give him. He had reason to seek outside our marriage for the one thing he wanted most, although I never knew he did so until after he died. He used to tell me it did not matter, but I knew better. He would never, never have abandoned you, Mlle. Gimard, if he had known you were carrying his child. He would never, never have—have taken his own life.”
She looked at the Frenchwoman, wondering if the agony she was feeling showed on her face. “It is almost enough to make me wish he had been your lover, mademoiselle. He would have lived.”
Mlle. Gimard shook her head. “Have you any likeness of your husband, madame?”
Persistent Earl : Signet Regency Romance (9781101578841) Page 18
