Nothing But Deception

by Allegra Gray

  No. “We need to take this note to someone who will know what to do with it.”

  “Who?” Charity asked.

  A good question. Who could she trust?

  Philippe? She gave a half laugh. Simply because the letter was in French, she’d thought of him first. Or perhaps he was already at the forefront of her mind. Her body stirred at the mere memory of the last time they’d met, the way they’d kissed.

  But in truth, she did not know the charming French painter well enough to engage him in a political game of intrigue and subterfuge.

  “You mentioned the Foreign Office,” Charity prompted.

  “True. But how does one go about reporting such a matter? If it is what we think, we cannot simply arrive at their offices and reveal everything to the first person who opens the door.”

  “They might not take you seriously. But if you enlist the support of someone they respect…Bea, could you take the letter to Alex?”

  Of course. “Charity, that’s perfect.”

  Elizabeth’s husband would know what to do, and his title and connections gave him the power to take any necessary action. Relief flooded her. Bea may have stepped into the middle of an intrigue, but she had no desire to remain mired in it. One taste had been enough.

  One taste of the smooth French painter, however, had not been enough. Beatrice could not stop thinking about him.

  Their last parting had been awkward, true. Upon returning to Montgrave from the abandoned rose garden, the tension between Bea and Philippe had been palpable. Though if their “chaperone” had noticed it, she’d mercifully chosen not to mention it. Instead, the duchess had claimed a full recovery from her earlier ailment—no surprise to either Philippe or Bea—and filled the ride home with pleasant but meaningless prattle. She was thrilled to hear they’d chosen a site on Montgrave for the painting, and Bea was relieved to let her steer the conversation.

  Philippe had been characteristically enigmatic—answering questions about his work with enthusiasm, but leaving Bea to wonder if the same chaotic emotions she was feeling seethed under that charming façade. But perhaps he’d not been so affected.

  The only hint at his feelings came in the fact that he’d insisted on working out the details of their next meeting—the meeting she was desperately preparing for now—before delivering her home.

  He’d wanted a witness, Bea thought, so she wouldn’t be able to wiggle out of seeing him again.

  Philippe had asked Bea to look over his sketches this afternoon, so that they might select one to develop into the final painting. She was thrilled that he valued her artistic input—yet panicked at the idea of being near him once again. He fascinated her, but his talent, his public success, was intimidating.

  Her maid held up a muslin day dress in spring green. Bea shook her head. “Not that one.”

  “My lady, this is the fourth gown you’ve passed up, all of which look quite fetching on you, if I may be allowed to say,” her maid pointed out. “But if you tell me what look it is you’re set on achieving, perhaps I might do better in finding a gown that will suit.”

  “I’m sorry, Maeve,” Bea said. The older woman had been her maid since she’d been out of the nursery. She was Irish, hired by Bea’s mother, Lady Margaret Russell, when Bea and her sisters were young. When Bea had married, Maeve’s cheerful loyalty had earned her a permanent place on the staff, even when it became fashionable to hire French ladies maids.

  The maid bustled back into the closets, and Bea returned to worrying over Philippe—in spite of telling herself to stop. After all, it was just a kiss—and from a man who’d clearly done a good deal of kissing. One needn’t read too much into it.

  She ground her teeth in frustration as Maeve returned with a gown in each arm, then smiled apologetically when she realized the poor maid thought her frustrated expression a reaction to the new gowns.

  “The pink, I think,” Bea said, indicating the gown in Maeve’s left arm. Her harried servant looked relieved. Bea cocked her head, considering the gown. She’d been wearing pink—well, rose—the night of the salon. Her life hadn’t been the same since.

  It was in Bea’s nature to analyze, to overthink. In some cases—as with the note she’d translated—her interpretation was quite valid. But in matters of the heart, she wasn’t so sure.

  Maeve pulled the gown over Bea’s chemise and stays, adjusting until everything was in place, then picked up a hairbrush. “Relax, my lady,” she soothed, brushing long strokes. “I thought if we put your hair up—just so—and wind this ribbon through, to set off your dress?”

  Bea nodded assent.

  “You’ll look ever so fetching, my lady.”

  But looks were not what had Bea worrying. Did Philippe value her artistic opinion—value her—enough for her to risk sharing her soul?

  For the first time in her life, she was working with someone who not only understood the act of creation—creation of art, that is—but actively imbued those creations with emotion, with intimacy.

  For years, she had longed to do the same. To let her pen pour out the thoughts and feelings so long pent up.

  In school, they’d been expected to study poems and sermons, then mimic what they read in their own rudimentary efforts at composition.

  Bea had quickly figured out that all the great poets alluded to deeper matters of love, loss, even death. Some addressed them outright. But her teachers always insisted the students limit themselves to topics appropriate to their delicate sensibilities—nature, perhaps, or moral education.

  But even nature abounded with opportunities for allusion to romantic love—that is, until Bea’s teacher had figured out her intent, and, red-faced, humiliated her in front of the other young ladies who’d attended the lesson. To make matters worse, he’d suggested the work wasn’t even hers—that she’d stolen it, copied from some other, more talented poet.

  For the remainder of her time at the finishing academy, Bea had submitted only topically-appropriate assignments devoid of anything deeper than surface observations.

  She’d received passing marks on each, and left the academy subdued—but not beaten.

  Someone tapped on the door, and Bea heard the butler announce, “Lady Elizabeth Bainbridge has arrived.”

  A moment later, the door cracked open and Elizabeth’s crown of red hair poked through. Her eyes widened. “Bea, is something wrong? You are always the prompter of the two of us—and I believe Monsieur Durand was arriving just behind me.”

  Maeve’s fingers working her hair kept Bea from shaking her head. “Nothing is wrong.”

  They heard the door open below, and the low murmur of male voices. Elizabeth peeked over her shoulder. “He’s here!” She slipped fully into Bea’s room and closed the door.

  “Oh, dear.” Bea’s fingers fretted at the trim on her sleeves. “Do you think this gown suits?”

  Elizabeth glanced up at Maeve, who was now working feverishly to pin up the rest of Bea’s thick brunette hair. “You look beautiful. And I think your dear maid might stick me with a pin if I suggested you change.”

  Bea let out a choked laugh. “You are no help at all. E., please be a dear and entertain him while I finish getting ready?”

  “Of course.” Elizabeth left once again, but not without a look that told Bea they’d be discussing this later.

  She took a deep breath, willing herself to relax as her thoughts drifted back to the pattern they’d held before her friend had come in. It was no crime to keep a gentleman waiting, even if it was not something she normally did.

  When she’d first married, Bea had still harbored the ideal that, even if she didn’t love her husband, they might develop a “lasting fondness” for one another. After all, that was the advice most young ladies received when entering into advantageous but loveless marriages. She’d hoped to build some common ground, some depth of understanding for one another.

  With those hopes, she’d told Lord Pullington she was a poet. And she’d been dismissed as though
she were a child.

  Oh, he hadn’t actively disparaged her work. He’d just never read it. He’d said, “Of course you’re a poet. All young ladies are,” as though she’d informed him she’d taken pianoforte lessons in school. He’d simply never considered that it might mean more to her than the standard education and “minor accomplishments” of most genteel young women. He hadn’t been interested in her.

  After that, she’d learned to keep her passion to herself.

  But with Philippe, she had the sense things were different…that he might be someone who could understand. After all, what he did with a brush was the same thing she tried to do with a pen.

  But Philippe Durand was famous, and she a nobody. Last fall, she’d seen one of her poems published in The New Monthly Magazine. Not that anyone else knew it was hers. It had taken all her courage just to send in the work anonymously. She’d known a moment of secret warmth when an acquaintance, hoping to impress her with his cultural awareness, had praised the poem during a dinner she’d attended. Even then she hadn’t revealed herself as the author.

  Bea’s temptation to share, to tell Philippe of her work and seek that understanding between souls, was tempered by fear. If the French artist looked at her as an amateur, no different than any other woman who dabbled at the arts to pass the daylight hours, she would be devastated.

  For now, perhaps, it was best to wait. Philippe was interested in her as a model, a muse. Until she knew him better, she could be content with that.

  Maeve pinned the last of Bea’s hair into place and adjusted the ribbon. “There, my lady. I am sorry if we kept the French monsieur waiting, but I do believe the effect is worth it.”

  “As do I,” Bea assured her—but truthfully, keeping Philippe waiting was less about the effect of her hair, and more about not letting him know just how much effect he had on her.

  “Lady Pullington, what a pleasure.” Philippe rose as Bea finally entered the formal salon. He took two long steps to meet her, then bowed lavishly over her hand. “I declare, your beauty grows more abundant with each renewal of our acquaintance.”

  Bea stifled—barely—the urge to giggle and simper, managing instead a gracious smile. “And you, monsieur, are charming as always.”

  She thought she detected the faintest arch of Elizabeth’s brow at their interaction, but then her friend simply smiled.

  “Here.” Philippe gestured toward the large windows, where the curtains were pulled back. “Come over where the light is best, if you will, my lady. I was just about to set out the sketches I began the other day. I have worked on them since, and while I have my thoughts, I would like to hear yours as well. It is important that my subject be pleased with the work meant to honor her, no?”

  “You are too kind—I am sure an artiste of your experience needs no input from an untrained eye such as mine,” Bea replied, determined to match his charm and flattery.

  “Au contraire,” he argued, extracting a sheaf of papers from a leather satchel and spreading them across the long narrow table near the window. “I am told you have an eye for fashion—is that not, in its own way, also art?”

  “Perhaps,” she allowed, leaning over the papers. She forgot all about their banter at that moment, as her mind was drawn back to the rose garden at Montgrave. The sketches were rough, but the talent behind them undeniable. The images popped from the page as though living. She could see where he’d experimented with angles and perspectives, rough charcoal strokes overlapping in the quest to breathe life onto paper.

  “You choose,” he prompted.

  “Me?”

  “Oui.” A smile played at his lips as he watched her eyes rove over the sketches.

  He stood close. Bea inhaled the male scents of leather and sandalwood. Suddenly it was difficult to concentrate, knowing he was watching her study his work. The intensity emanating from the man was just as evident in his sketches. How could so much passion be present in one human?

  She straightened her shoulders, forcing herself to view the sketches with a judgmental eye.

  One did stand out above the rest. Her paper self stood at the stone basin, an expression of delight on her face as her fingertips grazed the twigs of a tiny bird’s nest, nestled in the branches of a just-budding sapling. She recalled the moment precisely—she’d been looking for the source of the broken robin’s egg at the basin’s bottom. She just hadn’t expected Philippe’s sketches to capture the occasion so completely.

  The choice was clear, but Bea hesitated nonetheless in making it. What if there was something magical about one of the others that she could not see? Would her choice disappoint him? Finally she pointed. “That one,” she whispered.

  His smile broke out in full, and he nodded approvingly. “Bon. That is my favorite, too.”

  A bubble of pleasure, absurdly large, rose in her.

  Elizabeth peered over her shoulder. “Oh, how lovely.”

  Philippe picked up the chosen drawing and motioned Bea to the settee. When she sat, he joined her, keeping enough distance to prevent them from “accidentally” touching, but close enough for both to study the sketch he propped on his knee.

  Would she ever have the opportunity to kiss this man again?

  Philippe swept a finger across the drawing, indicating the angle of light he hoped to affect in the final painting.

  What had he just said? Bea bit her tongue, hard, and tried to gather her foolish thoughts back to the task at hand.

  Elizabeth sat serenely, seemingly absorbed in embroidering a tiny pillowcase. Since Bea knew how much her friend despised the monotony of embroidery, this was either testimony to her joy at impending motherhood, or a sham designed to allow her to observe Bea and Philippe without seeming like an overbearing chaperone.

  Could she sense the tension between them, or Bea’s barely-quelled desire to touch Philippe, to scoot closer, or touch his arm as they discussed various aspects of the sketch? How obvious were they? She probably could; Elizabeth, Bea knew, was no stranger to passion.

  Philippe, she did not doubt, knew exactly what she was feeling. He always seemed to know.

  Fortunately, he did not press her on those feelings, as he had when they were alone. Instead, he maintained a professional focus that Bea had trouble matching.

  “I would like to rework this sketch on a larger scale,” the Frenchman said, “with greater detail, before setting paint to canvas.”

  At this, Elizabeth spoke up. “I have already informed the staff at Montgrave that you are using a site on the grounds as the setting of your next work, and that you may come and go at will. They are ever so pleased to have the notable Monsieur Durand as a regular guest, and I am certain you will find them eager to accommodate any need.”

  “Your Grace, you are beyond kind,” Philippe declared. He turned to Bea. “I am at your disposal, Lady Pullington. I must travel briefly to Kent during the early part of the week, but should return on Thursday. I hope not to delay too long beyond that, for the season is nearly perfect to begin the full-scale work on canvas.”

  Bea blinked. “I am happy to oblige, Monsieur Durand, although I must consult my schedule…”

  “Saturday?” Elizabeth suggested brightly. “I can’t think of a thing going on in town—at least during daylight hours—on Saturday, save for Lord Sidmouth’s cousin’s recital, and I dare say no one should be sad to miss that.”

  “Oui, perfect. If that would suit Lady Pullington?” Philippe glanced back at Bea, eyebrows raised.

  “Saturday, then,” she confirmed, wondering if Elizabeth’s suggestion indicated her friend was once again offering the services of a companion.

  Philippe took her hand as he bid her farewell—and pressed a tiny, folded square of paper into her palm. Bea’s heart began to pound as she clenched her fingers around it. For the second time since meeting him, she’d received a secret note—though this time, she knew from whom. But what could the normally flamboyant Frenchman wish to tell her that he dared not say in front of Elizabeth
?

  Somehow, she maintained a calm façade as Philippe exited the room. She turned to Elizabeth, heart still racing as she resumed her seat and surreptitiously slipped the square of paper between the cushion and the back of the settee, praying it had escaped her friend’s notice. And praying, as a second thought occurred to her, that this note was in no way related to the first, more nefarious one she’d received.

  “So…” Elizabeth’s grin was impish. “Monsieur Durand is very…intense, is he not? And quite taken with you.”

  “Oh. Well. Yes, I suppose he is quite intense…I cannot say about me, but he pursues his art with great passion.”

  “Great passion, hmm?”

  Flames engulfed Bea’s neck and face, but it was too late to take back the revealing words.

  “Oh, Bea, you know I will not judge. You remember better than anyone how much trouble I was in before Alex and I were married. If he pleases you, let him pursue you—I’ve no doubt he will anyway. And you deserve to have some fun. You’ve been a dutiful wife and a respectable widow long enough.”

  It was true—Elizabeth had broken nearly every rule of propriety, including running from home, hiding from her family, and taking Alex as a lover—though only Bea knew that this last was true. It had taken every ounce of her friends’ and family’s influence, and London’s respect and fear of the duke, to put her back in Society’s good graces. Bea wasn’t ready to go quite that far…But Elizabeth was right. She was ready to have some fun.

  “Some chaperone you are,” Bea teased.

  “Me?” Elizabeth placed a hand on her hip, mocking the expression of one offended. “I’ve no intention of playing at chaperone, my dear friend. I’m playing at matchmaker.”

  Bea stifled a groan. Heaven help her now.

  Chapter 7

  By the time Beatrice was finally able to retrieve Philippe’s note from where she’d crammed it into the settee, her heart had near worn itself out from nervous fluttering. She unfolded the little square, her fingers clumsy in haste.