by C. J. Chase
“The opera, Maman?” Kit DeChambelle’s deep voice rumbled beside her, melting her composure to the consistency of the sauce. “Are you certain …?”
“But of course.” Lady Chambelston touched her napkin to a corner of her mouth. “We cannot be so rude as to abandon our guest while we indulge ourselves. The opera would give Miss Fraser a chance to see another aspect of London. I expect musical entertainment is different in America, no?”
“Ah, yes. Quite different.” Mattie stabbed the fish dish with her fork and summoned the fortitude to smile despite the turmoil that bubbled within her.
“For which you would be grateful if you knew what awaited you at the opera.” The earl looked to Mattie with a nod. “Four hours of wailing the same words over and over—in a foreign language, no less. I always find an excuse not to go. Stick with your American entertainments.”
“My father served in America during the war,” Kit De-Chambelle explained. “Ah, that is, the previous war.”
“A messy business, that.” Lord Chambelston’s eyes clouded as if he looked back at some painful memory. “I liked the Americans. A few who fought with us were more concerned with vengeance on their neighbors than loyalty to the king, but most were decent, hearty folk with strong convictions. A pity we couldn’t have resolved our differences amicably.”
Mattie stared at the glowing white tablecloth. “I … thank you for those kind words.”
The earl harrumphed.
“War is the worst way to settle a dispute.” A shadow crossed the countess’s deep-set eyes.
Mattie pondered the plentiful fare, the hovering footman, the elegant furnishings—and realized that despite all the De-Chambelles’ wealth and privilege, they had experienced loss and pain.
Kit stretched forward and plucked his glass off the table. The movement, like the dozen or so prior, brought him within range of Miss Fraser’s—Mattie’s—fragrance, discernible beneath the stronger aromas of roast duckling and mushroom timbales. Her cinnamon hair had been tamed into a formal chignon, but missed sleek perfection by escaping tendrils that danced around her face. He limited himself to a small sip to avoid otherwise certain inebriation by the end of the interminable evening.
He needed to be stone cold sober around this woman.
Under the guise of returning the goblet to the table, he glanced at her and caught the censure that sparked in her eyes before she turned her head and shifted ever so slightly away.
No, beyond censure. Disappointment.
Even … sorrow?
Maman gestured to the footman to bring the next course. Though darkness still lingered under her eyes, she forced a hopeful smile onto her face. “I thought perhaps I might invite Mrs. Sinclair and her daughter to our dinner with Julian.”
Father rubbed his forehead. “Julian wants your company, my dear. He would appreciate his time with us more if you did not present him with all manner of female candidates for his inspection. He spent years fighting, Agnes. Let the boy enjoy his holiday.”
“He is not a boy, and enjoying himself is precisely the reason he ought to find a wife.”
Mattie leaned closer to Kit, torturing him with a whiff of her scent. “Who is Julian?”
Of all the times for his parents, for Caro, to come to London. With both Mattie Fraser and his parents in residence, he could hardly expect to keep his relationship to Julian a secret. Another reason to be dismayed by their unexpected appearance.
Mattie reached for her fork—the wrong fork.
Not that he cared about forks, but he knew the faux pas would mortify her when she realized what she’d done. “The other one,” he murmured for her ears only.
A touch of pink caressed her cheeks, but her composure never faltered as she smoothly switched utensils.
In that moment, Kit ascertained Miss Fraser’s allure. It was not great beauty that made her unforgettable, but a composure she wore with an assurance that other women only achieved with diamonds. That remarkable poise hadn’t faltered in the face of indifferent clerks, insensitive innkeepers or even a pernicious vandal. Indeed, if the idea of meeting a countess in a worn gown or attending a formal dinner with unfamiliar dishes bothered Miss Fraser, she masked her abashment flawlessly.
He glanced across the table in time to intercept the silent curiosity in Caro’s eyes as she studied his guest. He’d begun by using Miss Fraser and now he’d involved his family in this … charade. Threats had already followed Miss Fraser to Harrison’s home. What if his efforts to absolve Julian brought harm to his parents—or even Caro? He snatched his own fork and crammed a clump of the dry rice dish into his mouth.
After dinner. He had to tell Miss Fraser the nature of his relationship to Julian. If she discovered the truth on her own, he’d lose whatever of her trust he’d secured. Trust he needed to exploit for Alderston, for Julian.
Premonitions roiled through his gut. He dropped his fork and grabbed his goblet, gulping the contents to stem the rising tide of bile in his throat.
The movement once again attracted Miss Fraser’s attention. Her disapproval. Her pale, freckled skin contrasted with those hard, glittering eyes of darkest amber—now drawn narrow in a frown.
What he would not give to read the thoughts that germinated behind them.
“Miss Fraser, you mentioned having all your belongings stolen today. James,” Maman nodded toward Kit’s father, “and I would like to make amends, if you will allow us.”
Her shoulders stiffened under the borrowed gown but Miss Fraser managed a serene smile. “Oh, I can’t ask that of you when you’ve already been so kind as to open your home to me.”
“It would be our pleasure. I intend to take Caro to the modiste tomorrow, anyway. Your presence would be so helpful in keeping her entertained while I am being fitted. And Kit did suggest you get out and see some of London. Perhaps we could arrange an excursion to one of our famous sights after our fittings.”
Miss Fraser’s eyes flickered. Interest flashed in their dark depths, like sparks kindling in dried leaves. “I’d like to see St. Paul’s.”
Kit’s fingers tightened around his fork. He wouldn’t have pegged Miss Fraser for one of those evangelical types like Wilberforce or Moore or even his mother. Not when their guest had shown no compunction about disregarding Sunday services this morning in favor of meeting with the Impatience’s captain.
But Maman’s smile widened. “I so esteem St. Paul’s—every time I go there, I feel God’s glory and majesty around me. But I fear that is rather some distance from Bond Street. Perhaps we could make time for services there later in the week, yes?”
“Ah, that would be most gracious of you, ma’am.” Miss Fraser’s mouth flattened into a dubious line.
“Excellent. But for tomorrow, why not a visit to Hyde Park after we finish with the modiste?” His mother patted Caro’s arm. “What color gown would you like?”
“Blue.”
Maman chuckled and glanced at him. “Blue is Caro’s new favorite color.”
Kit’s gaze swept his forever-childlike sister as the weight of love and responsibility crushed against him. Julian had carried the family financially with his years in the navy. Now it was Kit’s turn to protect them. He would have to see Miss Fraser followed tomorrow—for her own safety and for Caro’s. Harrison was his preferred choice, but Miss Fraser would become suspicious if she chanced to see him in such an odd milieu.
Baxter. Miss Fraser already assumed the worst of him after he’d left her waiting so long in the office—in the hopes Alderston would return before their meeting. If she noticed Baxter’s presence on Bond Street, peering into shop windows when he should be clerking at the Admiralty, that would only confirm her belief in his ineptitude.
His mother rose, their signal to end the interminable dinner.
Kit pushed to his feet and looked to their guest. “May I speak to you in private, Miss Fraser?”
His mother’s hand fluttered. “Kit, is that …?”
“I need to confe
r with Miss Fraser about the search for her brother.”
Maman’s frown eased. “I suppose it is acceptable then.”
Kit circled the table and embraced his sister, pulling the small, fragile body against him. The day of travel was taking its toll. Caro’s mouth drooped with fatigue and her eyes had lost their brightness. “Get some rest. You have a long day of shopping tomorrow. I can’t wait to see your pretty blue gown.”
She nodded. “Good night, Kit.”
Kit waited while Maman escorted Caro out, then he turned to his guest.
Miss Fraser tilted her head to one side and arched a single brow. “You have something to ask me?”
He snatched a candelabra from the table and gestured towards the salon they had vacated for dinner. “Perhaps we could adjourn?” And minimize interruptions from the hovering servants intent on tidying the dining room.
The blue skirts swished with Miss Fraser’s purposeful walk as she vacated the room. His feet plodded behind, reluctance making them heavy and slow. She paused next to a chair, one hand resting on its arched back as he pulled the door shut.
The crystal decanter hailed him from the sideboard, promising courage for the forthcoming interview as well as relief from the memories of when another woman had upended his world. He joined it on the other side of the room, situated the candelabrum beside it and lifted a goblet. “Would you care for a drink?”
Her shoulders snapped back. Golden flames smoldered in the depths of her eyes, and her regal bearing conferred an illusion of height. “Surely you didn’t invite me here to offer me a drink.”
“Not exactly.” Although mellowing her sharp mind and tongue had its merits. But perhaps it was just as well she refused. No need to arm her with a crystal weapon before his confession.
Despite the quantity of alcohol he’d already consumed, Kit filled a goblet for himself. Unfortunately no drink would drown the inappropriate and dangerous feelings he was developing for their guest. Guilt and remorse, of course.
But something else? Something more?
Something worse?
He quaffed the brandy despite her disapproval. Or perhaps because of it. A bit of rebellion against the woman who threatened his world, his peace, his family. And yet, the fine liquor tasted of bitterness in his mouth and burned like acid in his stomach.
“You asked the identity of Julian.”
“Yes.”
“He’s my brother.”
The brown gaze flickered to him. “And he lives here in London.”
“Yes. Yes, indeed. My brother—Julian Thomas Robert DeChambelle, Viscount Somershurst. Of late, captain of His Majesty’s Ship, the Impatience.”
Chapter Seven
Mattie gripped the chair while the earth rolled beneath her feet. Her dinner churned and rushed to her throat, threatening to disgrace her right here. Right now. Right in front of this … the man she’d trusted, who’d seemed so eager to help.
All a lie. There was indeed another persona behind Kit DeChambelle’s obliging disguise. A deceitful scoundrel more adept at deception than even her brother.
Why had he waited to impart this little nugget? And why tell her now?
“So after three days, you’ve finally decided to confess this little oversight? I don’t suppose you considered this important until tonight?” When his parents arrived. Oh, he’d intended to continue the lie—would have continued the lie—but for the summary arrival of his family.
He poured himself another drink. At the rate he was consuming, he’d be in a stupor before he answered her questions. If he even intended to do so. “I feared the truth would only bring you additional grief. I hoped to get your answers without exposing you to any more pain.”
“How kind of you to be thinking only of me.” She didn’t even try to soften the sarcasm sharpening her words.
“I didn’t think it would matter. I’d get your answer and you could return to America none the wiser.”
“And now? Does it matter? After I’ve been evicted? Received a threatening letter? Had all my possessions destroyed?”
“What threatening letter?” Agitation clipped his words, giving them same edge as when he’d interrupted her eviction at the Captain’s Quarters.
“The one ordering me back to America—the same sentiments you seem to share. I’ve been in London over two weeks, yet only after I met you—and asked uncomfortable questions about a man who is, as it so conveniently turns out, your brother—have such troubles befallen me.”
“I had nothing to do with any of those.”
She ignored his protest as comprehension hammered through her mind. At last she understood his reluctance to introduce her to the Impatience’s captain. He’d never intended her to meet Viscount Somershurst or learn the truth about her brother’s fate. Why? What was there to hide beyond George’s death? “Did you even speak to this Julian?”
“Of course. I told you, I spoke to him that first day.”
“And yet you have no answers for my questions, nor will you let me ask them myself.” Her brother’s blood cried out to her, demanding she take action.
He smacked his goblet against the table. She stared at the sparking crystal, at the fingers wrapped around it with dangerous tension. The tendons on the back of his hand rose in taut ridges. “I’ve told you the truth.”
The entire truth? But she didn’t challenge him, not when his past conduct already imparted his answer. “Under the circumstances, I think it would be best if I found another place to stay.”
He held up a hand, suddenly—suspiciously—conciliatory. “I understand, and I apologize for the way my actions appear.
However, please reconsider. You have limited resources, especially now, and you want answers from my brother. Well, Miss Fraser, I want answers, too. I want to know why Julian avoided you and now me—why he has disappeared from London so precipitously without a word to anyone, even my parents.”
She flexed her fingers against the back of the chair, tightened her grip on her temper and hardened her heart against the last niggling of her conscience. Moments ticked by as she considered her options—her extremely limited options, given the dismal state of her finances. Kit DeChambelle possessed the knowledge she needed to complete her mission. Perhaps she would be best served remaining here. Near him. Using him, as he had used her. “Very well, I concede your point. I accept your apology and your offer to remain here.”
“I ask but one thing of you.”
She lifted her chin. “Yes?”
“Whatever happens, whatever you learn, be kind to Caro.” A shadow crossed his face and filled his eyes with … emptiness. And yet she sensed a honed edge—indeed, almost a threat—on his words. “She doesn’t deserve your wrath.”
Mattie gave him an abrupt nod. Whatever she might think of his evasions—whether out of his purported consideration for her or for some ulterior reason—she didn’t doubt his concern for his sister. “I can make that promise.”
The hands of the clock raced through the minutes as the fitting dragged. Mattie drew in a deep breath. A pin in the gown’s bodice protested the movement and scratched her side.
“Hold still, mademoiselle.”
Mattie locked her aching shoulders into place while the woman with the French accent—fake, Lady Chambelston had whispered with no small amount of amusement—pushed, prodded and pinned.
“Eez beautiful, non?” Madame Celeste praised her creation with modesty as feigned as her accent.
Beautiful? Exquisite. Never in her life had Mattie worn its equal. Despite the gathering gloom outside the window, the golden-yellow muslin radiated sunshine, its burgundy ribbons fluttering when Mattie shifted tired muscles yet again.
“At least she don’t look like a beggar in that.” A seamstress muttered her comment loudly enough for Mattie to overhear.
Well, she was a beggar, dependent on the charity of others for her shelter, her sustenance and even her skirts and shifts.
“You look lovely, Mattie,” Lady Cha
mbelston complimented.
“Thank you, ma’am, but another brown frock would be more practical.”
“You do not need more than one brown gown.”
Truly Mattie didn’t need anything but bare, boring brown. She was a simple shopkeeper’s daughter, after all. And yet, the countess had ordered her four gowns—four!—in assorted colors with all the associated accoutrements. Even the new brown boasted a finer fabric and fit than anything in Mattie’s prior experience. “Practical colors suit me.” Indeed, Mattie could see only a future bleaker than her ugly American gown stretching before her. Either a return to a life of drudgery in America or a stay in an English gaol. And probably a short stay at that, followed by an even shorter rope.
The modiste unpinned the bodice and Mattie breathed normally again. “I shall have zis for you in a week, madame,” Madame Celeste said to Lady Chambelston.
“The dark green and the opera gown tonight, this one tomorrow and the brown on Wednesday. And Madame, I appreciate all your effort.”
“It eez a very great effort, non?”
“Of course.”
Understanding zinged from one woman to the other. Shopkeeper’s daughter that she was, Mattie knew the countess’s appreciation would accompany extra financial remuneration.
The modiste shrugged, the avarice glittering in her eyes like gold and giving lie to a nonchalance as feigned as her modesty. “As my lady wishes.”
The mantel clock chimed a cheery count of the hour, an impatient reminder of the day’s growing lateness. Mattie must be on her way or Nicky would worry.
Carefully yet quickly Mattie removed the gown—only scratching herself three more times in the process—and dressed again in the coarse woolen clothes she’d brought from America, the sole survivors of the attack. The color, a blend of drab and dull, looked even worse by comparison to her fine new gowns. She covered the hapless wool with one of the countess’s pelisses—a stylish gray garment with fur trim—shoved the matching bonnet over her hair and pulled on a pair of gloves. Suitably attired, she joined Lady Chambelston and Caro as they prepared to leave.
