by Georgie Lee
Moira spied him at last and the hesitation of being here alone was banished by the smile spreading across her lips and lightening her pretty face. She wasn’t as striking as some of the young ladies fresh to society, or elegant in the manner of the more matronly ones in their diamonds and feathered coiffures, but she was beautiful in a demure way, like a maiden from the country. She took a step forward to approach him before she remembered his instructions on how they should meet and turned to study the large painting to her right instead.
Bart strolled across the gallery towards her, stopping at various intervals to pretend to view some of the marble statues, but not even the voluptuous woman in the arms of a satyr could draw his attention away from Moira. She stood on the outside of a group of ladies admiring a painting of a family, her simple dress striking beside their more elaborate ones. Experience had given her innocence an edge of worldliness, making her familiar with grief and troubles. Yet somehow she’d remained unsullied by them and he regretted having to tarnish her with his plots and intrigues. However, if anyone could wade with him through the swamp and still come out on the other side with their goodness intact it was her.
At last, when the ladies moved on to the next painting, Bart stepped up beside her.
‘Good evening, Lady Rexford.’ He faced the painting instead of her and focused on the weight of the pistol hidden in his coat to help him stay fixed on uncovering the Rouge Noir instead of Moira’s alluring perfume.
‘Good evening, Mr Dyer. I’m surprised to see you here tonight,’ she said a little too loudly, aware of the people around them. They had no interest in either her or Bart. His reputation as one of the most celebrated barristers in England garnered him a few looks once in a while, but most titled people simply nodded and passed by. They had no reason to speak with a barrister and a few others, like his father, did not take kindly to him prosecuting cases against others of their station. ‘I didn’t think you one for appreciating art.’
‘I’m not, especially pieces having to do with domestic matters.’ Bart nodded at the painting above them of a pretty woman with her husband. Their many children surrounded them on the columned steps in front of their ancestral home.
Moira stepped a bit closer to him and her upper arm brushed his, the pressure of it as distracting as the satin tone of her lowered voice. ‘At one time you were a man for marriage.’
He cleared his throat. ‘Events have since convinced me otherwise.’
The sparkle in her eyes dimmed. ‘You have no desire for a son to train up to be a barrister?’
‘My father hasn’t exactly enamoured me of the idea of parenting offspring.’ It would kill him to be as disappointing a father as he was a son or to bring a child into the world only to treat it the way his father treated him. He tapped his fingers against his thigh, agitation making it difficult to stand still. He could win the admiration of clients, judges and the law community, but when it came to his father he often seemed to come up short.
‘Perhaps you simply haven’t found the right woman to convince you otherwise,’ she mused.
At one time it might have been her. She was the kind of woman who possessed the softness necessary to dull the sharp edges of a man like him. Unlike his mother, who’d allowed his father to run roughshod over her children, expressing her deep love in private but never openly demanding her husband treat them with even a fifth of the kindness she offered, Moira possessed the strength to make sure those she loved were treated well. ‘If I haven’t found the right woman it’s because I’ve been doing a great many other things except looking.’
She touched one finger to her chin and fixed him with an impish smile. ‘Perhaps when this danger is past we might find you some lovely women to make you change your mind.’
‘The danger never passes, Moira. There’s always more lurking in the background, and if not danger then someone in need of defending. My father may not think highly of how I earn my living, but I’ve made a great deal of difference in the lives of many people who appreciate my willingness to see justice done.’
She lowered her hand, making her reticule swing and brush her thigh. ‘I appreciate what you do and it’s very noble of you to do it.’
He reached beneath his coat to adjust the pistol. ‘Then perhaps I should bring you to my parents’ soirée tomorrow night and let you tell my father so.’
Moira laughed. ‘If he refuses to listen to all the people in London who sing your praises, then I doubt he’ll listen to me.’
‘He doesn’t listen to them because they’re commoners, but you have the one thing he admires most—rank.’ Bart stepped closer to Moira, aware of her bare upper arm so close to his wool-covered one. He wanted to trace the smooth skin with the back of his fingers and feel the warmth of her body against his. It was a dangerous and distracting temptation. He wasn’t here to have yet another chance with Moira fail, but to get closer to Lord Camberline and, hopefully, the Rouge Noir. ‘But enough of me and my domestic arrangements, we have other business tonight. Lord Camberline is here with his mother. They just entered the room and are quite taken with the Watteau.’
Moira glanced over one shoulder, her delicate chin above her almost bare shoulders. With her long neck exposed by her hair drawn up against it, she was as stunning as the painted wife on the wall before them.
Moira twisted the other way to snatch a peek at the room. ‘The Comte de Troyen isn’t here.’
‘No, he isn’t.’ He glanced past her at mother and son. ‘They’re alone in front of the Watteau. It’s a good time to approach them and see if you can get them to reveal anything.’
‘How?’
‘Flirt with Lord Camberline.’
Her pretty mouth dropped open. ‘I can’t do that! He’s too young for me’
‘He’s a single man searching for a wife and you’re a widow recently returned to society. No one would question you flirting with him.’ Those words were harder for Bart to say than when he’d asked for her help yesterday morning. He didn’t relish her turning her charm on any other man except him, especially one possibly involved in treason.
‘I won’t act like a ninny in front of a man who’s barely reached his majority. I’m sure I can find another topic to entice them.’
‘Try praising Napoleon and see how Lord Camberline reacts.’
She wrinkled her nose in disgust. ‘I hate Napoleon.’
‘Not tonight you don’t.’
‘It seems my impressions of a great many people are about to change.’ She took hold of the back of her dress and, with a confident flick, flung the small train behind her. ‘Wish me luck.’
She strode off across the gallery towards the Camberlines.
Bart admired her boldness. She might have hesitated when entering the gallery alone, but she didn’t shrink from setting herself up in a position to catch the Marchioness’s eye and begin the slow and steady process of working her way into their favour. He hoped whatever she said to Lady Camberline moved things on quickly. This afternoon, he’d visited Mr Fink, a talented forger in St Giles who produced fine documents for various clients both high and low born. After a generous payment had restored his memory, Mr Fink had told Bart about a recent shipping pass he’d done for Mr Dubois. Bart guessed it was in anticipation of an upcoming blockade run to France, and this, combined with Mr Roth’s actions, suggested something was going to happen soon. Bart didn’t have time to wait for the delicate sensibilities of societal etiquette to help Moira obtain entrée into Lord Camberline’s circle. She needed to do it now.
* * *
Moira’s heart pounded in her chest as she crossed the room. For all her pretence to courage, without Bart beside her she was nervous and she hoped it didn’t show. Leaving the house to attend a society function had not been as difficult as Moira had feared. Freddy had been occupied in the sitting room with Nicholas and Miss Kent, ob
livious to them even being in London for the Season, and Aunt Agatha had made plans to dine quietly with her old friends. She’d been thrilled at Moira’s decision to be seen more in society by attending the exhibit. Aunt Agatha and Freddy would have apoplectic fits if they discovered exactly what it was in society Moira was doing and with whom.
What am I going to do?
Her courage began to waver and she paused in the centre of the room to glance back at Bart. He stood sideways beside the painting, watching her out of the corners of his eyes while pretending not to. Sensing her nervousness, he turned his head slightly and nodded his encouragement. In such a pose, he reminded her of one of the marble busts of a Roman emperor positioned on a pillar between the paintings. He was so sure of himself and unafraid to face any challenge. She couldn’t say the same, but she would do her best to mimic him tonight.
Taking a deep breath, she offered him a little smile in thanks for his silent support and continued on to the Camberlines.
‘Lady Camberline, it’s a pleasure to see you here,’ Moira greeted as she stepped up beside the Dowager Marchioness.
‘I adore French art.’ Lady Camberline nodded to Mr Watteau’s Soldiers on the March hanging on the wall before them.
‘So do I,’ Moira lied, the words tripping over her conscience as they came out. She wasn’t one for falsehoods and deceits and here she was embroiled in one. She much preferred English painters like Gainsborough over French ones, but what she was up to had little to do with artistic preferences. ‘Nothing can compare to their depictions of the glories of France, especially those before the Revolution, the ones my grandmother used to describe. I’ve done what I can to encourage a love of France in my nephew the way my grandmother did in me.’ She said a silent prayer for her grandmother to forgive her for besmirching her memory.
‘And have you succeeded?’
‘In some ways...’ Moira took a deep breath before she spoke her next words ‘...but my brother and I don’t see eye to eye on Napoleon. He doesn’t recognise the benefits the Emperor has brought to France and many other countries.’
Moira studied Lord Camberline while she spoke. He didn’t seem as interested in the conversation as his mother and the only response her comment solicited was the slight curl of his lips in distaste. She wasn’t sure if it was distaste for her or her comments. The desire to retreat back to the safety and anonymity of Bart took hold of her before she fought it back. She would not be frightened away from helping him, not by the disapproving Marquess or her own doubts.
‘And what benefits do you see?’ Lady Camberline asked with a great deal of reserve.
Moira swallowed hard. She might very well be putting the lady completely off her by airing such false thoughts, but there was only one way to discover it. ‘His ability to govern well. Think of the law and order he’s brought to France. There are a number of countries in need of such forceful rule of law.’
‘Indeed,’ Lady Camberline murmured with, if Moira was not mistaken, an air of approval. ‘Napoleon has turned France from a backward nation of rebels into a glorious empire. At present the north of England could benefit from a stern hand. But alas, we fight him instead of learning from him.’
‘We do.’ Hearing Lady Camberline praise Napoleon made it all too clear there were people who should know better who were enamoured of the Emperor. Whether or not Lady Camberline or her son was enthralled enough with the Corsican to act on their convictions remained to be seen. ‘My grandmother would have been proud to see France returned to its former splendour.’
‘I’m glad to hear, unlike so many children and grandchildren of émigrés, you have not forsaken your ancestry.’ She slid her son a hard look he met with one of his own. If Moira didn’t know better, she’d think he didn’t share his mother’s views, but she wasn’t certain and it forced her to play on.
‘Grandmother made sure I always appreciated the superior tastes and culture of her homeland.’ Moira glanced back and forth from mother to son, none too subtle in her desire for an introduction.
Lady Camberline studied her as if weighing whether or not she should oblige. Then she raised her jewel-bedecked hand and levelled it at her son. ‘Lady Rexford, may I introduce my son, Lord Camberline?’
‘A pleasure to meet you, Lady Rexford.’ The young man offered a shallow bow, his face emotionless as he eyed her. He was tall, with the same grey eyes and long nose as his mother. Some of the softness of youth still hung in his cheeks and she guessed in a year or two he would lose it and, if he wasn’t already married by then, he would become an even grander catch for all the heiresses new to the marriage mart.
‘It’s been ages since I last spied you in society.’ Moira tipped forward a touch while curtsying to offer the young man a better view of the tops of her breasts above her bodice, deciding to take Bart’s advice to flirt, no matter how much of a fool she felt like for doing it.
Lord Camberline didn’t appear to appreciate or welcome the generous view. His smile, which had never been wide or welcoming, faltered about the corners before vanishing. He bowed to her again and then to his mother. ‘If you ladies will excuse me?’
‘Where are you going?’ Lady Camberline demanded with a terseness to make Moira’s back straighten. The Dowager’s words didn’t have the same effect on her son. He scowled at her, drawing more of her silent ire.
‘To view the other works and to leave you both to enjoy your love of all things French.’ Lord Camberline strode off towards the door leading to the adjoining gallery. Moira hazarded a brief glance at Bart who watched Lord Camberline with the seriousness of a terrier rooting out its quarry. Then he strolled off as though he were simply moving on to the next exhibit and not deliberately following the young man.
‘Please forgive my son for his lack of manners. He doesn’t share my enthusiasm for my native land, despite the French governesses and nursemaids I hired to help instil it in him. He is also having a difficult time accepting his duties as the Marquess, especially where his need to wed is concerned.’
‘He is set on someone?’ Moira pressed casually, trying not to put her off by being impertinent whilst at the same time drawing her into a confidence.
‘He thinks he’s in love with a lady entirely inappropriate for a marquess.’ Lady Camberline stuck her nose further in the air with indignity. ‘Eventually, he will come around to my way of thinking and give up whatever romantic notions he holds about choosing his wife.’
She seemed so certain it made Moira’s heart ache for both the young lord and whoever was the object of his heart.
‘I’m sure, with your good guidance, he’ll come to realise the betterment of his family name is more important than anything else,’ Moira stated, almost choking on the words.
Her statement seemed to work on Lady Camberline as well as her admiration for France for the woman viewed Moira with new potential. ‘Perhaps further conversation with you could help convince him of the wisdom of following my counsel instead of the fickleness of his heart?’
‘I’m not well acquainted enough with your son to impart such wisdom.’
‘That can be changed. You must come and have tea with me tomorrow. I should love to speak further with someone who truly understands and appreciates the way of things, and the old days in France.’
‘I’m afraid, in regards to France, I can only offer you my grandmother’s memories,’ Moira said with a smile, ‘almost all of which were from the days before the Revolution had gutted it.’
‘They will have to do.’ Lady Camberline flicked a quick glance over Moira’s shoulder, focusing on something or someone there before settling her attention back on Moira. ‘Until tomorrow.’
With a shallow curtsy of dismissal, Lady Camberline swept off across the gallery and into the next room, joining Lord Moreau, Lord Lefevre and a young blonde woman Moira didn’t recognise in front of another Fre
nch painting.
Moira looked around for Bart, wondering if she should risk joining him to tell him about the discussion. Lady Camberline’s openness about her son and the invitation to tea were promising. Perhaps in the privacy of her sitting room, the other woman might slip and reveal if her admiration for Napoleon had led to her or her son’s involvement in the Rouge Noir. Moira laughed to herself. If Lady Camberline’s son was involved in treason, she wouldn’t be careless enough to tell it to a near stranger, but perhaps there were ways to subtly draw her out, ones Bart could suggest.
Moira approached the other room, searching for Bart, eager to gain some guidance on how to proceed with Lady Camberline. She spied him near the far corner and began to make her way towards him. Here, in public of all places, she was free to chat with him, to listen to his smooth yet forceful voice, to stare into his dark eyes and bask in his intense focus on her. It was broken by brief bouts of humour she longed to see more of, to watch it brighten his eyes and perhaps hear again the laugh she’d enjoyed five years ago.
Don’t be silly. He isn’t with you for amusement, but to seek out traitors.
She played with the cord on her reticule as she paused before yet another painting, wondering if she should approach him or if she should go home. For her own protection, they couldn’t give those around them any hint the two of them were working together, but something in her longed to be a little bit reckless, like the night she’d slipped out of the house to join him at Vauxhall Gardens and enjoy a few stolen kisses in the shadows of the garden.
