by Allegra Gray
He frowned. There had to be more he could do—Monsieur Denis had said if they were successful, the reward would be great. Jasper didn’t need much, just enough to set himself up. He hadn’t been to France in years—not since he was a boy, and his mother dragged him, crying, across the Channel to this gray land where she’d eked out a living making buttons. She’d told him to be thankful for his safety, because his father had not been so fortunate in the turbulent times following the Revolution.
But how could he feel lucky when he had to steal to feed his teenage appetite, when every Brit who heard his accent made it perfectly clear his presence on their soil was not welcomed, but merely tolerated?
It hadn’t taken him long to lose his accent, though along with it, he’d lost his identity. For years he’d struggled to find his path. It wasn’t until meeting André Denis at a boxing match—a real one, not the kind that took place at the gentlemen’s clubs—that he’d discovered a way to get even, and if things went well, to never need an odd job again.
Leaving the cart in the inn yard, Jasper led his horse back toward the road leading to Montgrave. When he reached the woods, he left the road, intending to work his way to the other side of the estate where the rose garden lay.
Before long, though, he heard a cheerful whistling and the clop of hooves on dirt. His own horse nickered and he placed a hand on the animal’s neck to still it. A man on horseback rode along the road, coming from the direction of the duke’s estate. Jasper narrowed his eyes. A lone man on a horse…a messenger? He couldn’t be sure, though the rider’s clothing identified him as a member of the lower classes.
He eased out of the woods to the edge of the road, still leading his horse.
Upon seeing him, the other man pulled up. “Morning.”
“An’ a good morning to you,” Jasper replied.
The man’s gaze took in the fact that Jasper stood on the ground. “Horse trouble?”
“No, jus’ out looking for mushrooms. I have a lady friend who fancies them,” he said with a conspiratorial wink.
“Bit early in the season, don’t you think?”
Jasper put a finger to his nose and wagged it. “Right on, you are. But my lady friend is in a delicate way, as it were, and mere reason cannot satisfy her.”
The man astride the horse chuckled. “I see. Then I hope your efforts are rewarded—though you should know, if you wander much farther in, you will be treading on grounds belonging to the Duke of Beaufort.”
Jasper mustered a look of surprise. “Beaufort? I hadn’t realized I’d come so far.” He nodded gravely. “Thank you, stranger, for the warning. I shouldn’t like to trespass.”
“No thanks necessary.”
Having established trust, Jasper moved on instinct. “You mind if I fall in with you for a bit, then? Follow the road out away from the duke’s grounds?”
“Not at all.”
Jasper swung onto his horse, and the men moved off.
“You work for the duke?” he asked casually.
A nod. “I serve at Montgrave.”
Just as he’d hoped. A few paces later, Jasper asked casually, “What brings you out today?”
The servant hesitated—and that moment’s pause, more than the words that followed, told Jasper what he needed to know. “A task my master entrusted to me.”
“Ah. A man of importance, you are. Say no more.”
Jasper looked down the road. If he were going to act, it would have to be soon. Already they drew near the village.
He eyed his prey, never turning his head. They were of similar size, but Jasper held the element of surprise—an advantage not to be discounted. He started whistling.
His companion never saw the blow coming. Jasper pulled his horse close in, just behind the other man, simultaneously pulling a sock filled with pebbles from his saddlebag.
By the time the other man started to turn in question, the makeshift cosh connected with the side of his skull.
The messenger emitted a grunt and slid from the saddle. Jasper dismounted as well. For good measure, he swung the homemade weapon once more. The man ceased moving. Jasper rummaged through the saddlebags of the messenger’s horse. Nothing of interest.
Damn. They could be interrupted at any moment. He had to hurry.
He turned his attention to the prone form of the messenger. He used his boot to roll the man onto his back, then slid his hands inside his jacket. His fingertips brushed paper.
Ah. He extracted a sealed envelope. His eyes bugged out as he made out the London address. Unbelievable. After days of watching Lady Pullington’s routine—which was no different than any other pampered woman of the Quality—he’d almost believed this assignment pointless.
It looked as though his luck had changed.
Hastily, he shoved the letter, along with the cosh, to the bottom of his own saddlebag.
Next, Jasper slid his arms beneath the messenger’s shoulders and dragged his limp form into the woods, well away from the road. There. No one had seen him. But the horse still presented a problem. If he turned it loose, it would return to Montgrave, signaling the staff that all was not well.
Merde. He hated messy work. Though, at least this time, the duke’s servant provided an unwitting source of clean clothing when the job was done.
He retrieved a knife from the saddle scabbard on his own mount, then led the other horse back through the trees to where his master lay.
Minutes later, Jasper emerged from the woods, mounted up, and rode for London.
Philippe waited impatiently for Beatrice to emerge from her suite. Already much of the morning had been eaten away—first with seeing off Lady Bainbridge, after which his lovely muse had disappeared into her room without explanation. Rather than stalk the corridor of the guest wing, he’d gathered his materials, including a lightweight easel he’d acquired recently in London, and retreated to the library to wait. He’d toyed with a few sketches, but they didn’t hold his attention. He would focus when they reached the rose garden, if the subject of the painting would be kind enough to join him.
At long last, he heard voices in the corridor. Shortly after, the door leading to the study opened, and Beatrice came through, followed by the freckled companion provided for her stay.
“Ladies.” He stood and swept them both a gallant bow.
Beatrice smiled benignly. Her companion—Mrs. Lily Moffett, he recalled—giggled and dropped an awkward curtsy.
“Are you ready to begin? I’ve asked the staff to pack a picnic lunch, that we may work uninterrupted.” Not only that, it would give him an excuse to send Lily off to fetch it when they were ready. Though she seemed an agreeable sort, Philippe was not anxious to share the abandoned rose garden with anyone other than Beatrice.
“Lovely,” Bea said. She offered no excuse for the lengthy delay in her room. Interesting. He knew ladies had need of privacy at times, but his Beatrice was turning out to be more mysterious than he’d first anticipated.
“Ooh, a picnic. How fun.” Lily’s eyes were bright—unusually so.
“Are you certain you are feeling well, Mrs. Moffett?” Philippe asked. Barring the possibility she was feverish, he had a fairly good idea what caused such a physical reaction—not that he’d stoop to calling her on it in front of others.
She giggled again, this time, he thought, nervously. “Oh, yes, Monsieur. Let us go.”
He nodded, gathered up his things, and led the way out the door and toward the path, keeping an eye on both women. Until recently, he’d thought himself fairly adept with the ladies; in France and Italy, he understood their passion, their sultriness and sulkiness. But England was teaching him a great deal. He’d had to come to this odd country to discover his own mother was not the person he’d thought she was. And the English women were something new, as well. They were…quirky.
Quirky meant unpredictable—which could be a problem, given what Philippe hoped to accomplish this day. It might take all his powers of persuasion to get Beatrice to a
gree, but if she did, the result would be worth it—the difference between a good painting and one that approached the transcendental.
They reached the rose garden, and Philippe set down his satchel on the bench, then propped his easel against it.
“Where shall I sit, that I will not be in the way?” Mrs. Moffett asked.
Back at the house, Philippe thought dryly—though he bore her no real ill will. But Beatrice pointed the woman to an unobtrusive spot, where she settled in, watching Philippe and Bea with curiosity.
Philippe took his time setting up easel and canvas. It had made an awkward load to carry all at once. For future sittings, he thought, the assistance of a footman might be useful.
Eventually, Lily Moffett lost interest in the slow proceedings and opened a book. A few minutes after that, her eyes drooped, and her chin bobbed forward. Bon. Luck was with him. It would be hard enough to convince Bea to do what he wanted without the looming judgment of another female.
By the time everything was ready, Bea, too, had drifted into daydreams—though unlike her companion, her eyes remained open. She reclined on the bench, her head tipped up to the patch of blue sky above the treetops. Her lips were softly parted, her features peaceful. For a moment, he wished this was how he’d chosen to paint her. He approached quietly, kneeling until they were level and he could speak quietly. “So, ma belle Beatrice, the sketches are done, and I have prepared the canvas. It is ready to begin. But there is one matter we have not yet discussed.”
“Yes?” Bea asked, a soft smile playing at her lips.
She looked soft, pliable. Open to persuasion. He kept his tone light, almost teasing. “I know where I will paint you, and how you will be posed…but what will you be wearing?”
“Oh.” Bea sat up. “I suppose we haven’t discussed that. I can’t imagine why it hasn’t come up. I should have asked.”
Philippe knew exactly why he hadn’t raised the topic—he’d wanted the proper widow completely at ease with him first. Finally, she seemed to have reached that state.
“Do you need me in the same thing each sitting?” Bea asked. “I have gowns in a great many colors,” she offered. “I am certain that if you tell me what you are thinking, I can produce one that will suit.”
He considered her for a moment. She might have closet upon closet of gowns—but he doubted very much any of them bore the slightest resemblance to what he had in mind. One corner of his mouth quirked up in a half smile. “No, I don’t think you can.”
“Monsieur?”
“Do not take offense, beautiful Beatrice. From what I have seen of your wardrobe, each and every garment is both lovely and fashionable. Unfortunately, each and every garment is also quite proper.”
Her eyes widened, and her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. He smiled, resisting the urge to taste them as she just had. Instead, he used his hands, gesturing as he told her his vision for this painting, hoping she would see the same thing.
“I intend to portray you not as a London socialite, but as a muse, an enchantress—like the women painted by the Italian masters of old. As to what a muse should wear, I envision something transcendent, almost…translucent.”
“Oh, Lady Pullington, you must. It sounds so lovely.”
Philippe stifled a groan at the sound of Lily’s voice—he’d thought her well asleep. Although, it appeared she was on his side—hardly what he would have expected, but then, the Duchess of Beaufort had chosen her, and he was beginning to suspect Bea’s closest friend had a rather unusual perception of the duties of both chaperones and companions.
Bea appeared to be considering the idea.
“Mrs. Moffett,” Philippe requested, “would you be so kind as to check with the staff about our picnic? And ask them to add some extra lemonade—the weather is turning quite warm.”
“Of course, monsieur.” Lily jumped up, then took a moment to steady herself, as though she’d risen too fast, before hurrying down the path. Unless he missed his mark, she would not hurry nearly so much in returning to them.
Philippe smiled. “Beatrice, will you trust me?”
Eyes still wide, she gave him a solemn nod.
He stood and moved to the bags in which he’d carried his supplies. From one, he withdrew a folded length of cloth.
Turning to her, he shook it out.
Bea gasped as rays of sunlight danced off the most beautiful fabric she’d ever seen. A pale rose color, shot through with gold threads, the silk was incredibly fine—and incredibly sheer.
I intend to portray you…as a muse, an enchantress, he’d said, his face alight with creative possibility.
Bea could picture it, too, and the very decadence of the image aroused more than her artistic sensibilities. Heat pooled at her woman’s core. She didn’t know if she could be so daring, but she took a wicked thrill in the idea of it—the idea of standing in the woods, clad in something akin to gossamer fairy wings, with Philippe close by, capturing her every curve with the skilled strokes of his brush.
She stood, drawn to the shimmering fabric as though it held some strange power over her. She fingered it lightly. “Beautiful,” she whispered.
Philippe rose as well, holding the sheer curtain of material between them, and in the depths of his blue eyes she saw the intense hope that she would share this vision of his—that she would allow him to paint her in this magical fabric.
There was a problem, though. “It is beautiful,” she repeated. “But the fabric is uncut. To have it sewn into a gown would surely take too long.”
Philippe chuckled. “Indeed, it would.” He held the length against her shoulders. “But I do not think the ancient muses wore proper English gowns. If it were draped, just so, with a few pins to hold it…”
Bea drew in a shaky breath. He wanted her clad in a sheer swath of fabric with naught but a few pins to keep it in place? Oh, if only her sense of propriety were stronger than her imagination, she could say “no.” But now that she understood his vision, now that it had sunk in, she knew nothing else would suffice.
“Will you trust me, Beatrice?” he asked again.
The question jarred her from the fantasy—but only slightly. Philippe’s question referred only to art, to the matter of her attire. Not to weightier matters of trust, like treason or espionage. Or love. And thankfully, this interlude at Montgrave had given her no further cause to believe Philippe anything other than an artist—one whose vision for her was so captivating, she simply had to help make it reality.
“Yes,” she whispered, placing a hand over his that still held the fabric against her. “Show me how you wish me to begin.”
Chapter 11
Lily Moffett was not a fool. A souse, perhaps, she admitted to herself as she ambled toward the manor house. But not a fool. Jean Philippe Durand couldn’t have cared less whether their picnic lunch was ready. He just wanted Lily away from the rose garden. Well, she didn’t mind obliging him.
The picnic would undoubtedly be waiting the moment she inquired—the duke’s staff never missed a beat. But after all, there was no hurry…
Cousin Elizabeth had not misled her—the wine meant for meals was entirely pleasing to the palate. Yet it could not staunch the craving for something more intense. Something she knew was within reach, waiting for her, calling to her from the cabinet in the study. She felt it the moment she set foot in the house—as though invisible, silent arms stretched out and drew her inexorably toward the brandy.
The glassware was conveniently stored on a shelf just above the bottles, waiting for her. She plucked a short glass from the first row. She could always wash and replace it—no one had to know.
Next, she picked a bottle that was already open and poured just the tiniest taste. Why, that was barely half a finger. But brandy such as this practically required a proper mouthful to truly be appreciated. She poured a tad more.
Lily inhaled deeply before taking that first sip. Oh, yes. Yes, yes. She knew women who were fools over men. But this was far more
satisfying than any man—not to mention more reliable. Some might call her a sot, but truly, she had a passion for fine spirits.
The liquor flooded her veins, working its magic like always, softening the edges of a capricious world. She relaxed into the haze, allowing herself just one more pour when the first disappeared all too soon. But then she stopped. She could not afford to lose her wits completely.
Would the duke notice that the bottle held a bit less than before, the next time he selected it? Likely not. That could be months from now. Still, to be on the safe side, she poured a measure of water into the bottle. There. To the eye, if not the tongue, the bottle appeared no different than before she’d first touched it.
Even better, this lovely little trick would work just as well on the remaining bottles as it had on the first. Thank you, cousin Elizabeth. For once in her life, Lily Moffett was in for a good time.
“What do you think has happened to Mrs. Moffett?” Philippe asked, voicing the question on both their minds.
The sun rode high in the sky, filtering through the trees to warm the little clearing where Bea and Philippe stood.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Bea told him honestly. They’d been waiting for her companion’s return for some minutes—ever since Bea had realized she would need someone to assist her with changing out of her own structured garments and into the beautiful folds of gold-shot rose Philippe had shown her.
After that realization she’d stood nervously, trying not to think how much of her body would soon be bared before Philippe’s eyes. It was one thing to get caught up in a kiss, to touch him in the dark safety of an enclosed carriage. It was quite another to freely, knowingly expose herself in the clear light of day.
A wicked thrill shot through her as she met his eye now. “Likely she’ll return at any moment,” Bea said. “Are you hungry?”
