by Jane Feather
“Maisie, I think I’ll wear the topaz set with this gown,” she said, examining herself critically in the long mirror. Her gown was of a very dark gray silk with an almost opalescent sheen, and the deep golden hues of the topaz would provide a dramatic contrast. The color reminded her of William’s tawny gold gaze, and she felt that familiar jolt of lust in her belly whenever she thought of him. He wouldn’t be there, of course. It was impossible to imagine him moving with that leonine stride through those rooms full of preening beaux and simpering maidens. Her lip curled unconsciously. It was all so pointless when there was so much suffering, so much work to be done in the world.
A tap at the door brought Aunt Emily into her chamber. “Oh, Hero, dear, you look lovely,” she said, smiling and nodding, setting the plumes on her rather elaborate headdress bobbing frantically. “I wonder whose eye you will catch tonight, my dear. I do so wish . . .” Her voice trailed away, and she seemed visibly to shake herself. “Well, I’m sure you know your own business best. The carriage is at the door. I won’t wish to be out late, but the carriage can return for you if you wish to stay and enjoy yourself.”
“I’m sure I shall be more than happy to return with you, Aunt,” Hero responded with some feeling. She turned so that Maisie could drape a cashmere wrap over her shoulders. “Shall we go, ma’am?” She gestured to the door, and Aunt Emily sailed ahead of her, the stiff folds of her rather old-fashioned damask gown rustling around her.
The windows of the Assembly Rooms were brilliantly lit as the Bruton town carriage drew up to the door, easing its way forward as the long line of vehicles moved up to deposit their occupants in turn. Hero had the sudden vivid image of the tumbrels in Place de la Révolution moving forward one by one to disgorge their victims at the steps to the guillotine. She shuddered, wrapping the shawl more tightly around her shoulders. They were images that she knew would stay with her for the rest of her life.
“Are you cold, dearest?” Emily looked at her in concern. “I do wish you young girls would wear more clothes. That dress is so flimsy, it’s a wonder you don’t all catch a consumption.”
“I’m not in the least cold, Aunt. It’s quite a warm evening.” Hero urged her aunt up the steps to the grand hall. They discarded their outer garments, which in Emily’s case took quite a while, and then climbed the wide flight of stairs to the upper salons. Hero’s heart sank as it always did at the familiar faces, the scene that never seemed to change. The orchestra was playing a country dance as they entered the ballroom.
“Oh, there’s dear Lady Hammond,” Emily declared, her eyes surprisingly sharp as they swept the room. “I must congratulate her on her niece’s marriage . . . such a grand affair that was. Come, Hero.” She took Hero’s arm in a surprisingly determined grip and took off around the side of the room to where a group of matrons was gathered in cozy congress.
Hero played the part expected of her and took a seat beside her aunt among the chaperones, waiting for the inevitable moment when one of the patronesses would present her with a partner. She was playing idly with the tassels on her fan, her eyes gazing absently at the delicately painted chicken skin between the ivory sticks, when a voice said, “Lady Hermione, may I present Chevalier Dubois. He has asked to be presented to you.”
Hero looked up, unsurprised, as she’d expected the interruption to her thoughts at any moment. Lady Jersey was smilingly gesturing to a man with a strangely shaped eyebrow. He bowed, extended his hand. “An honor, Lady Hermione.”
A thin smile flickered across the Lizard’s thin lips, and for one dreadful moment that seemed to last for an eternity, Hero felt the room spin and she heard again the roar of the blood-mad crowds in Place de la Révolution.
Somehow she managed to go through the motions, grateful suddenly for a routine that, while irksome, was so familiar she could respond without thought. “Chevalier, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance.” She gave him her gloved hand. He lifted it to his lips and looked at her with a smile that contained neither warmth nor humor. His eyes, so pale as to be almost colorless, were as flat and impersonal as a dinner plate.
“Charming . . . quite charming. May I entice you onto the floor, ma’am?”
She rose instantly, her body automatically obeying the rules of the game. Had she shown her surprise, that instant of fearful recognition? Hero didn’t know what her eyes had given away in those first moments, but now she was back in control, allowing him to lead her to the dance floor, where a cotillion was forming.
“I haven’t seen you in town before, Chevalier. Have you recently arrived?” she asked as she curtsied deeply at the beginning of the movement.
He returned her curtsy with a deep, ceremonial bow. “I’ve been in London for several weeks, but business has unfortunately prevented me from enoying many such delightful social occasions.” He gestured to their surroundings as they moved through the opening steps.
“Business?” Her eyebrows lifted as she gave a little laugh. “How very tiresome for you, sir.”
“The affairs of my unfortunate country are perhaps tiresome to those not directly involved in them,” he returned. “I would hardly expect them to impinge upon Society’s pleasures.”
“That sounds suspiciously like a rebuke for our thoughtless indulgences, Chevalier.” As Hero turned away from him in the dance, moving around the square, she was aware of a rush of excitement, a thrill of danger, the sense of walking on a knife-edge. The Lizard would not outwit her. It was possible this meeting was mere chance, but it was also possible there was a more sinister motive behind it. The fact that she had not seen him in the last weeks did not mean that he had not seen her. But why would he be interested in her . . . unless he had seen her with William?
They had been together in public on very few occasions—the time at Ranelagh, the conker game in the square garden—but William had asserted that he was certain he was not under surveillance. When he had visited the house with Marcus on that one occasion before Alec and Marie Claire had left for the country, both of them would have ensured they had no followers. And yet she could not be sure. Whatever else she had learned from William, she had learned that there was no such thing as an assumption of safety.
“Forgive me, Lady Hero, I would never be so presumptuous as to imply any such thing.” He resumed the conversation as if it had never been interrupted when the dance brought them back together. “There is no reason you and your compatriots should think twice about the travails of my countrymen. You have all been more than hospitable, and we are pathetically grateful for whatever crusts you may offer us exiles.”
“That, sir, sounds remarkably like another put-down,” she stated, flicking a smile at him from beneath her eyelashes. “We are perhaps rather too preoccupied with our own little affairs, but, indeed, life is so full of diversions it’s hard to find time for the more serious and unpleasant facts.” She sounded so silly, Hero thought with satisfaction. An empty-headed little fool who could not think beyond her next party or her next flirtation.
The Lizard’s expression didn’t change. He passed her along the dance again and gave his attention to his new partner, a damsel Hero knew to be capable of eye-watering inanity. She must pay more attention to Lady Millicent and take some lessons, she thought, still bubbling with that thrill of danger.
When they came back together, Dubois kept the conversation to the smallest of small talk, and Hero responded in the same way, and when the dance concluded, she curtsied with a smile of thanks as he bowed in return. “May I fetch you a glass of lemonade?” He offered his arm to lead her off the floor.
“If it cannot be champagne, then I would be glad of a glass, thank you, Chevalier.” Again, she gave him that up-from-under, slightly flirtatious little glance.
He led her into a window embrasure, where two chairs offered an invitation. “Pray wait there, ma’am, and I will be back in a moment.” He moved off towards the refreshment room, and Hero g
athered herself together.
She had to be careful. She could not allow this frisson of danger to trump her sense of caution. There were others involved, and if she took risks just for the pleasure of the game, she would endanger them. William would probably be livid if he knew that she was engaging his nemesis on any level. It would have been so easy to have danced with him and then excused herself to sit quietly again with the chaperones. A new partner would have presented himself quickly, and that would have been the end of it.
“Madame . . .” The Chevalier stood before her, two tall glasses of lemonade in hand. He set them down on the windowsill and glanced once over his shoulder before, with a quick, conspiratorial smile, he reached into the inside pocket of his black coat and withdrew a silver flask. He opened it, and the heady aroma of cognac filled the air as he poured a generous measure into their glasses. The flask disappeared into his coat again, and he handed her a glass. “This might improve the shining hour, my lady.”
Absently, Hero took a generous sip, wondering now how to proceed. Clearly, her performance as a silly, empty-headed debutante had not impressed him. One did not offer doctored lemonade to such maidens. So what persona should she assume now? Before she could decide, his next words put paid to any sense of excitement she might have felt.
“I have the strangest feeling we have met before, Lady Hermione.” He regarded her closely over the lip of his glass. “Somewhere most unlikely . . . and yet I just can’t think of it.” He set down his glass and reached for her fan, taking it from her suddenly nerveless fingers. “Allow me, ma’am. It is very warm in here, and you look a little heated.” He wafted the fan in front of her flushed face.
Hero cursed her inexperience, the overweening sense of confidence that had somehow led her to believe she could play with fire and remain unscorched. She took another sip from her glass and coughed and sputtered a little. “Oh, forgive me, sir. I am not accustomed to cognac. So silly of me . . . I had just thought to try a little, but it burns one’s throat so.”
“My error.” Smoothly, he removed the glass from her hand while continuing to waft the fan. “I had thought perhaps . . .”
Hero remembered abruptly how on that voyage in the fishing boat across the Channel, a flask of rough apple brandy had been passed among the crew and offered to their two passengers. She had accepted the flask eagerly, hoping it would combat the cold and the damp. “No, I assure you, sir, I am accustomed only to a little champagne or ratafia on occasion.” She tried for an ingenuous and flustered smile. “I feel so foolish . . . if you would excuse me, I must return to my aunt.” She stood up so abruptly her chair skittered away from her, and with another inane titter, she hustled her way towards her aunt and the chaperones.
Dubois remained where he was for a moment, watching her hasty departure, tapping her closed fan against his palm. She had fallen so neatly into that little trap with the cognac. Any other young lady in the Assembly Rooms would have been horrified at such an addition to Almack’s insipid lemonade, and Lady Hermione hadn’t given it a moment’s thought, tossing it back as easily as the silent young lad in the fishing boat all those many months ago. And those vivid green eyes were unmistakable, even though he had only glimpsed them briefly that night on the waters of the Channel.
He was forced to admit, however, that if he hadn’t been alerted to the St. Julien connection, which led inexorably to Ducasse, he probably would not have given Lady Hermione a second glance. And for that, he had only himself to blame. He had been too occupied with the urgent business taking him to Paris that night of the Channel crossing to pay much attention to the boy accompanying them. In different circumstances, he would have made inquiries of the boat’s captain and would have certainly watched to see what his fellow passenger did when they got to Calais. But his coach had been waiting for him at the quay. Robespierre had sent for him, and a man did not gainsay Robespierre at the height of his powers. A few months later, the all-powerful tyrant would lose his own head to Madame Guillotine, but at that time, his rule of terror was still absolute.
Lady Hermione was very striking, however, with a boldness to her that was barely concealed by that ridiculous show of debutante inanity. A rather unpleasant smile lurked behind his pale eyes. Unless he was much mistaken, this path to Ducasse might well afford a satisfying challenge on the way. He had been watching her for a week now, with the best man among his deputies keeping a close eye on the house in Grosvenor Square. He himself had been observing her social movements from a distance, until tonight, and apart from a certain air of bored distraction, he had seen nothing particularly out of the ordinary, but tonight had revealed a different side to the lady.
He made his way around the floor to where she now sat decorously amidst the chaperones. “Your fan, Lady Hermione.” He bowed before her, presenting the article to her on his crooked arm with an elaborate gesture. “And my thanks for a most enjoyable dance.”
“The pleasure was all mine, sir,” she returned, taking the fan but keeping her eyes lowered to her lap. “Ma’am, allow me to introduce Chevalier Dubois.” She turned slightly to her aunt, who offered the Chevalier her usual blandly amiable smile, extending her fingertips. “Lady Emily Harrington.” Hero performed the second part of the introduction, aware that her tongue seemed rather thick.
Dubois bowed over Lady Emily’s hand, raising it to his lips in a courtly gesture. “An honor, madame.” He turned with a smile and walked away.
“I think, my dear Hero, that I am ready to go home,” Emily declared. “Should I send the carriage back for you?”
“No . . . no, indeed not, ma’am.” Hero jumped readily to her feet. “I will send a servant at once to summon the carriage and fetch our wraps.” She could not wait to get away from the overheated room. The brilliance of the candles was hurting her eyes, but nothing was as hurt as her pride. She had made a complete and utter fool of herself, and the sooner she could leave the scene of her humiliation, the sooner she could lick her wounds and try to decide how much damage she had caused.
TWENTY-ONE
What a most pleasant evening,” Emily declared with a little sigh of satisfaction, settling into the coach. “Did you not find it so, my dear?”
“Pleasant enough, Aunt,” Hero managed. “Did you enjoy a comfortable chat with Lady Hammond?”
“Oh, yes, delightful. The wedding sounds to have been a most congenial affair.” Emily nodded her head. “The Chevalier appears to be a delightful gentleman. I wonder I have not met him before. One of those poor émigrés from that dreadful revolution, I daresay.” She shuddered. “So shockingly uncivilized of a country to have a revolution, one always thinks.”
Despite her inner turmoil and general dismay, Hero was hard pressed not to laugh, even as she had to bite her tongue on a sharp response. Emily knew nothing of the world outside her own sheltered, pampered existence. She would have an apoplexy if she had the slightest hint of what her supposedly gently brought-up young relative had witnessed and experienced.
“I daresay you’re fatigued, ma’am,” she offered, knowing Emily’s mind would immediately switch to her own concerns.
“Oh, yes, I’m sure after such dissipation, I shall be obliged to keep to my chamber tomorrow. A day of rest with a little light broth and tea and toast will be the most restorative.” She smiled and nodded, her eyelids drooping as the carriage turned into Grosvenor Square.
Hero accompanied her aunt to her bedchamber and gave her into Harper’s waiting hands. The lady’s maid murmured comfortingly as she fussed over her mistress, urging her to the fire with promises of a hot posset to restore her after the exertions of the evening.
Hero made her way to her own chamber, thankful that she had told Maisie not to wait up for her. She couldn’t bear the prospect of responding to anyone at the moment. Her head felt as if it would burst as the stupidity of what she had done seemed to grow like some evil black fog, obscuring all clarity of thought.
Huddled in the cashmere wrap, she sat on a low ottoman in front of the fire and tried to think. How bad was it? But she could not banish the image of those pale eyes, the faint hint of triumph skidding across their flat surface as she had realized her mistake with the cognac. She could not banish his voice, the French accent quite pronounced, although his command of English seemed impeccable. The insinuating twists and turns of his conversational gambits had seemed like a challenge she couldn’t resist, and her arrogant overconfidence had led her to cross swords with a master, to tangle with a man who could extinguish her with his little finger. And not just her, although he would need more than his little finger to extinguish William.
That thought somehow did not give her the reassurance she had hoped for. She shuddered suddenly, an instinctive convulsion of pure fear filled with the memory of the gray, heaving waters of the Channel, the cold, pale eyes she could feel again on her face, taking her in despite the darkness of the night and the thick hooded cloak that obscured much of her face. She hadn’t thought at the time that he had even noticed her particularly, but now she knew differently. The memory of every moment of that voyage was suddenly as vivid as if she was reliving it.
And Hero knew at her very core that she had not the skills to combat the Lizard. She had thought herself invincible, hardened by her experiences in Paris, a worthy opponent for any French agent, but now she knew herself to be a rank amateur, a pathetic novice in the arena of blood and death where men like the Lizard and William fought.
