All Smiles

by Stella Cameron

  Lavinia grunted.

  “Perhaps you should consider Meg’s idea about Reverend Baggs,” Sibyl said. “I don’t like to think of you alone.”

  “I’m perfectly happy to be alone, thank you.” Lavinia Ash walked a distance before saying, “The Reverend would never be interested in me.”

  “You don’t know that,” Sibyl said. “Oh, Lavinia, look.” She pulled Miss Ash to a halt beside her. “That person’s coming toward us.”

  Lavinia Ash snorted. “This is a public walkway. Why shouldn’t he?”

  A short, broad figure in a greatcoat and top hat bore down on them. When he grew near, he tipped the brim of his hat with his cane and said, “Good evenin’, ladies. Better get home quickly. No place for women out ’ere in the dark. All manner of rogues abroad.” He growled his words.

  “Thank you,” Sibyl said, but her voice broke.

  “What did you say?” the man asked. He ducked his head as if straining to hear her. “That’s a very little voice you ’ave, miss.”

  Lavinia took her arm from Sibyl’s. She said, “We should hurry, Miss Smiles.”

  “Not at all,” the man said, and rather than pass and carry on his way, he threw an arm around Sibyl and raised his voice in raucous song.

  Sibyl poked his plump middle and struggled.

  His response was to hold her more firmly and start a meandering route through the park—in the opposite direction from the one Sibyl wanted to take.

  A wet cloth hit the side of her neck and liquid trickled inside the collar of her pelisse. The sickening scent of strong liquor tightened the muscles in her jaw.

  Her companion brought his face close to her ear and said, “Might as well join in the fun, love. Come on, let’s hear you sing. ‘A poor little girl from the river,”’ he roared. “‘She were white where she weren’t blue. Poor little girl from the river.’ Come on love, join in.”

  He staggered, and she staggered with him. Struggle as she might, she could not escape his grip. She was alone with him. Miss Ash had fallen back, and when Sibyl managed a glance behind her, there was no sign of the other woman.

  True terror invaded every muscle, each limb. A trembling weakness threatened to make her legs useless.

  “We’re goin’ to a place I know,” the man said. “Not so far from ’ere. People don’t know ’ow close to their proper ’omes they could find good fun if they wanted to look for it. ‘Poor little girl from the river,”’ he sang louder. “‘She were white where she weren’t blue, and her fingers were food for the fishes. Poor little girl from the river. No fingers or toes, and no little nose. Down with her dreams, her fingers—and toes—and her poor little nose.”’

  Sibyl opened her mouth to scream, but a hand encased in leather slapped her to silence. Thin fog rose from the ground. They left the park at the far end, where the coaches on their way to pick up guests from Number 17 had become fewer and fewer in number.

  “Lean on me, love,” the man said. “Ain’t no one coming to your aid. Why would they? Everyone knows a drunk when they see one and no one pities a drunken woman. Drunk, she is,” he cried. “What’s a man to do with a drunken wife?”

  Sibyl struggled afresh and kicked his shins. She allowed herself to go limp and fell through his arms to the hard cobbles.

  “No, no, no.” He bent over her, and she saw he wore a mask. “Be a good girl and get up.” He sounded different.

  “Can’t,” she managed to gasp.

  “Halt at once,” came the shout of a familiar voice. “Halt, I say. The constables are on their way.”

  “Why…” Sibyl’s attacker fell back, losing his hat as he did so. “Of course they aren’t. You can’t trick me.”

  William Godly-Smythe, his shirtsleeves gleaming in the cold night, piled into the man. From the ground, Sibyl looked up to see her second cousin landing a flurry of punches that amazed her. Warm drops spattered her, and she realized with distaste that it was the stranger’s blood.

  “All right,” he cried. “All right, I’ve had enough.”

  The next sound Sibyl heard was the thud of heavy footsteps. William stood over her. The other man hurried away, donning his top hat as he went.

  “I should have acted before,” William said, as if to himself. “What have I done with my caution?”

  Sibyl managed to sit up, and her cousin dropped to his knees beside her. “My poor, dear Sibyl,” he said, and there was no doubt that he was deeply disturbed by what had happened. “Remain still, if you please, and allow me to get you home.”

  When he picked her up, Sibyl argued that she could walk.

  “No,” he said, “you cannot walk, not until I am assured you are not hurt. That no bones are broken. Where is Meg?”

  “You know she must stay at Number Seventeen.”

  “I will get you to Number Seven and see what must be done for you. Then I shall send for Meg.”

  She would save her energy to argue shortly.

  William reached Number 7 and carried her up the steps and into the silent house.

  “How did you know?” Sibyl asked and immediately added, “Miss Ash, of course. I’m so grateful to her for coming to get you.” Much as she disliked the man, she was very glad for his help.

  “She spoke of having to get rest,” William said. “Odd woman.”

  “A good woman,” Sibyl said. “Please let me walk now, William.”

  As if she hadn’t spoken, he carried her upstairs and into 7B, where he set her on the old rose-colored chaise. At once he undid her bonnet ribbons and took off the hat. He peered into her face before setting a kettle on the hob. “Tea is what you need,” he said. “And a warm, wet cloth to freshen your poor face. Did that wretch throw something on you?”

  “Drink, I think,” Sibyl said, embarrassed to reek of the stuff.

  William dampened a cloth and waved her hands aside when she tried to stop him from bathing her face and neck.

  As soon as the kettle steamed, he made tea and gave her a cup. “Drink that and lean back. I’ll find a blanket to warm you.”

  He went into her bedroom and returned with a coverlet, which he arranged over her.

  Sibyl drank her tea gratefully. William’s care filled her with uncomfortable emotions. She owed him her gratitude but could not like him more than she ever had.

  “Have you learned your lesson?” he said.

  “Oh, yes,” she told him. “I will not walk abroad alone—at night—again.”

  “Indeed you will not. Sibyl—” he approached her and sat at her feet on the couch “—Sibyl, I don’t know how to say what I must say. I don’t know where to begin. I am an apology for a man. My skills in such situations are without finesse.”

  She ought to protest, but could not find the words.

  “You are the sweetest of girls. You were a sweet child and I have loved you as long as I can remember.”

  Her blood must surely have stopped coursing through her body. She sat very still.

  “I want to protect you forever. I want to awaken to see your face, and I want your face to be the last thing I see before I sleep. You are all I have ever hoped or dreamed of in a loved one. But I have approached you in all the wrong ways. With bluster and demand. Can you forgive me? As I have said, I am without practice. I have not known how to speak to you of what is in my heart.”

  Sibyl looked into his sincere face and prayed for guidance. She didn’t wish to hurt him, but she could not accept his pledge.

  “I was a boy who couldn’t speak to girls, or flirt with them. My awkwardness has been the bane of my life. If I had known how to do it, I should have begged you to remain after your father died. I have suffered like a man damned ever since you left. That is why I have made sure I knew exactly what your circumstances were at all times.”

  “Thank you.” How inadequate that sounded. It was the best she could do.

  “It is my pleasure.” He removed the cup and saucer from her hands and set them aside. And he took her cold hands to his lips. “I lo
ve you, Sibyl. I will always love you. Please say you will be my wife.”

  30

  Coaches no longer rolled to a stop before Number 17. For that, Hunter Lloyd was grateful.

  He was grateful for very little else.

  There were times when he actually dreamed of shocking the battalions of his friends and acquaintances who would never expect him to be other than a solid, responsible fellow of very little passion.

  He was responsible. He was also passionate. Unfortunately, his responsibilities had left almost no opportunity to explore the other element of his character—passion.

  Damn it all.

  Of all the hellish missions to fall to him. He was to go in search of Meg and tell her Sibyl had been set upon in the park, rescued by that slimy fellow, William Godly-Smythe, and was now disposed to consider accepting the man’s proposal of marriage.

  When Godly-Smythe had come in search of him with his request, the man’s fatuous grin had come close to causing Hunter to do something that might put him on the side of the dock to which he was entirely unaccustomed.

  Fog had thickened, but continued to spread itself upon the land and rise to a height of only three or four feet. The effect was eerie, and his own footsteps thudded but produced no echo. Too bad Adam was either sleeping or sulking. Hunter rather thought it might be the latter. Adam had secured a lucrative commission to paint Princess Désirée, but now the fool might actually nurse despair because he could not actually have the girl.

  Hunter mounted the steps at Number 17, reached the door and was delighted to find it unlocked. He had no desire to confront the Count’s pompous butler, or, indeed, any other member of his household. If there should be some question about his having walked in, he would apologize. Simple enough, that.

  Subdued light shone in the impressive foyer.

  Why hadn’t he considered what was the most difficult issue here? He had no idea where to look for Meg—and he had no right to be skulking around another man’s house in the middle of the night. An apology might not seem so reasonable, after all.

  But he must find Meg. She would help Sibyl repulse their second cousin’s persistent demands. Meg would not allow Sibyl to be browbeaten into marrying the dolt.

  Hunter reached the great central staircase, where green garlands and wilted roses hung askew, and climbed slowly upward. The staff would be at work cleaning the ballroom. He could enter there pretending to have left something behind, then ask where he’d find Meg.

  The doors to the ballroom were only slightly open. Very little light showed through the crack.

  Hunter pushed through the doors and went inside. He automatically closed the doors behind him.

  In the deep gloom, a daunting mess confronted him. Glasses crowded every surface. They were even spread on the carpet along the walls. And plates of half-eaten food had been abandoned wherever the guests had lost interest. Chairs faced every possible way, and some rested on their backs. Tablecloths had been pulled askew, resulting in broken china, left where it had landed. Fallen flowers had been mashed in lumps of cake and then onto the ballroom floor. Streamers festooned the walls in mangled ropes. The place reeked of drink.

  But there was not a servant in sight.

  “Lloyd?” It was Count Etranger’s voice that greeted Hunter. “What do you want? Everyone’s gone home.” The man was to Hunter’s right and would have been hidden by a door if it stood open.

  Honesty would definitely be the best, if not the only course here. “I need a few words with Meg Smiles. I wasn’t sure where to look for her so I thought I would start here.”

  “She’s bound to have retired by now. Her duties are exacting. She needs her sleep.”

  “There’s some queer stuff afoot, My Lord,” Hunter said, not about to be put down. “I’m well aware of the various unpleasant events Meg has suffered through. I’ve known her for two years. I assure you she is a quiet woman who lives a quiet life. For someone to try to harm her is extraordinary.”

  Still swathed in his dark robes, and with his feet and a good deal of his legs dangling, Count Etranger reclined on one of a number of small, blue brocade couches in the room. He propped his head on a fist and looked not one whit comfortable. “What makes you think someone’s trying to hurt her?” he said.

  “You know the answer to that as well as I do.”

  “Perhaps those accidents were just that—accidents. There may be no recurrence.”

  Hunter looked down at the other man. A handsome devil in that foreign way the French, or whatever he was, had. Women fell for what they mistook for the mystique every time. “My Lord, do you think there’s no need for further concern? Do you believe the things that happened to Meg were accidental and incredible coincidences, happening as they did to the same woman?”

  “No, damn it.” The Count’s head slipped from his hand, and he made a graceless recovery an instant before his temple would have landed on gilded wood.

  If he had to guess, Hunter might say the Count was a trifle in his cups. “You are aware of William Godly-Smythe—Meg and Sibyl’s second cousin?”

  “Frightful man.”

  “Yes, well, as we speak, that frightful man is pressing his suit with Sibyl. Another unfortunate event took place when she was returning home this evening. She was accosted by a man who tried to carry her off.” He detested the thought of her being subjected to such foul advances. “Godly-Smythe came to the rescue and promptly insisted he must assume the protection of his cousins. At once. He had the audacity to come to me and all but send me in search of Meg. Evidently he intends to secure a residence in Town and take Sibyl—as his wife—to live there. He intimates that, of course, Meg would accompany them.”

  “The hell he does.” Count Etranger pushed himself to a sitting position, swung his long legs before him and studied his feet as if they surprised him. “Hmm. Meg Smiles remains with me…. She remains here. She does not care for her second cousin.”

  “I don’t believe this has anything to do with liking. The Godly-Smythe person is preying on Sibyl’s understandably shaken nerves, and what I believe to be the peculiar condition of the sisters’ finances, to get his own way. After all, who can blame the man for wanting Sibyl?”

  The Count glanced up at him, and Hunter realized his own regard for Sibyl must be obvious. “Mm, quite so.” Etranger swept wide an arm. “Look at the condition of this ballroom. A disgrace.”

  “I should say so,” Hunter agreed. “No doubt the staff thought you had retired and planned to deal with the task in the morning.”

  “No such thing. I sent them away. Too much noise. Touchy head, you know. Too much of that infernal caterwauling, and so-called music.”

  Too much claret, Madeira, or whatever, Hunter thought.

  The Count held up a hand. “What the devil’s that? Blast it. Someone else sneaking about. With luck they won’t come in here.”

  Scuffing and rustling noises came from the gallery. Hunter drew back and sat on the nearest chair. He had no more interest in another encounter than his reluctant host.

  “Bound to stay out if we don’t make a sound,” the Count whispered.

  “Or to come in if they’re hoping the room is empty,” Hunter replied.

  Etranger struggled with the dagger in his belt. Evidently it had worked its way into an uncomfortable position. “You sound like one of those infernal, pedantic barristers,” he said and sucked in a breath. “Damn it.”

  “I am a barrister,” Hunter pointed out. “I hope you haven’t done yourself an injury, My Lord.”

  “They are coming in. Damn it.”

  Hunter sat quite still while one of the doors opened slowly. This intruder didn’t close the door.

  “Halibut!” The whisper was desperate. “Halibut, are you here? Come, Halibut, come.” A series of kissing sounds followed. “Come, sweet, come to Meg and she’ll find you some fresh meat. And one of those little kidney pies you like. Come, dear little Halibut, I won’t let anything else happen to you. Ouch. Ouch!
Oh, do come, Halibut. I’ll even find you some syllabub. You know how you love syllabub. It’s bad for you but you shall have just a little.”

  Count Etranger had already risen to his feet. Hunter was certain they were of one mind—they did not want to shock Meg.

  Almost crouching, she moved between obstacles and called softly to the cat.

  Hunter stood and tapped Etranger’s arm. When the man turned his face toward him, he jabbed a finger in the direction of the gallery, indicating they should attempt to leave without Meg knowing they’d been there.

  Unfortunately the next assault on the ear was the clatter of a dagger as it hit the arm of the chaise.

  Meg whirled about.

  “Nothing to worry about,” the Count said, still in a low, hoarse voice. “Only friends here, Meg, only friends. We’ll help you find that—Halibut.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Meg said, astounded, and sat on a chair with a plop. Jean-Marc and Hunter. She made certain her ankles were covered, not that the blisters would be noted with so little light. They were painful and stung badly. Inside, she felt shaky. The horrid man who had tricked her into following him had stopped his attack as quickly as he began. With a final order for her to persuade Jean-Marc to go away with her—at once—he had left. By the time Meg climbed from the table, gathered up her slippers and crept down the stairs, there was no sign of him. By miracle or design, the bottoms of her feet were not harmed, but still the pressure of each step and the brush of hems on her ankles caused repeated torment.

  Jean-Marc approached her swiftly. Once at her side he put a finger beneath her chin and raised her face. “You should be in your bed. Tomorrow will be an exceedingly tiring day for you.”

  Really, Meg thought, his behavior had been beyond all this evening. “I shall not shirk my duties,” she said. Ridiculous as it seemed, she was certain he was grasping another opportunity to remind her that if Sir Robert Brodie called, his visit would be short. “Halibut…He ran from the Princess’s apartments. I must get him back.” Once the intruder had left, the frightened cat had shot from some hiding place and dashed past Meg.

  “My Lord,” Hunter said, “if I may—”