At least she was able to walk off the ferry under her own steam. She ought to get credit for that, Lucy thought, stealing a glance at Archie’s profile as they headed down the gangway. The late afternoon sun glinted off the inky curls falling down over his brow, making him look particularly roguish. He didn’t glance back, let alone admire her brave stoicism. In fact, he wasn’t paying her any attention at all. Nor had he been for the past half hour.
She gnawed at her lip, worried that her sea-unworthiness had proved too unpalatable for Archie. He’d stopped noticing her, which was most confusing. Especially since Lucy could have sworn that on the ferry he’d been about to kiss her.
She’d been kissed a few times and she’d avoided being kissed plenty of times. She was well versed in reading the signs that a fellow was about to kiss a girl and Archie had definitely been displaying them all. His breath had laced with hers, warm and sweet, his irises had gone all jetty and focused, like she was all that he was seeing or wanted to see, and his body seemed to hum with purpose . . .
She’d wanted him to kiss her, she realized with a thrill of longing. She’d leaned forward, closing her eyes and offering her lips only to be suddenly pushed away, as he flung his coat jacket over her shoulders and then told her not to talk. Normally she would have ignored such a stricture but she was confused and a little offended so she‘d done as bid and shortly thereafter, well, she’d spent another hour leaning over the rail.
Hardly the sort of position that casts one in the best light. Or a kissable one.
When they reached the bottom of the gangway, Archie took her elbow and steered her through the crowd gathered to meet the weary travelers. Hawkers offered pastries, hot lemonade, roasted nuts, and newspapers as street urchins—French street urchins, Lucy noted with a thrill—darted amongst the throng, pantomiming offers to carry bags or clear a path. Scrawny, fleet-footed, and avid, their cheery demeanor masked sharp-eyed opportunism. Lucy knew them well; their English counterparts loitered about theatre back entrances, flitting amongst the swells waiting for the actresses to appear and relieving them of their watches, fobs, and handkerchiefs.
“Best keep a hand on your wallet in this crowd,” she advised Archie as she intercepted a lad of no more than six about to “accidentally” back into him. She’d seen this ploy before: as soon as the boy bumped into a mark, he’d fling himself to the ground as though he’d been hurt and while his intended victim was busy picking him up and dusting him off, one of his cohorts would be emptying their target’s back pocket. It was one of the first dodges she’d witnessed when she’d started working in London.
“What?” Archie hadn’t even noted the boy. She wasn’t surprised. Archie lived in an ivory tower. She spun the kid around and gave him a shove, launching him back into the crowd. He turned his head to stick his tongue out at her before darting away.
“The kids around here,” she explained. “You have to watch out. They’re so light-fingered you’ll never know their hands are in your pockets until you reach for something and find it missing.”
“I assure you, I would have known had that little boy tried to pick my pocket.”
“It’s not him I’m advising you against. It’s his older brother. The one you won’t see standing behind you.”
He regarded her sadly. “Couldn’t the kid simply be trying to earn a few honest pennies?”
She rolled her eyes. “Fine. But don’t blame me when you discover your knickers have gone missing.”
He suddenly smiled, making her forget her earlier grievance. “I won’t. Now, come along before all the cabs are taken and we find ourselves afoot.” He took hold of her hand and pulled her through the crowd to the end of the wharf where cabs had queued up, waiting for fares. He waved to the first cabbie in the line.
“Here.” He yanked open the door and helped her inside as he held a brief conversation in French with the driver.
“Apparently there is only one really decent hotel in town,” explained Archie, “a place called Hotel Ligure, but it’s very expensive.”
“Then that’s where they’ll be,” said Lucy, thinking of Margery’s propensity for staying at the finest establishments when someone else was footing the bill.
“L’emmener,” Archie told the driver, shutting the carriage door behind her.
“What are you sa—doing?” Lucy asked through the window.
“I need to find a telegraph office. I’ll meet you in the Hotel Ligure’s lobby. If your great-aunts aren’t there, we’ll ask around.”
“But—”
“I won’t be long.”
Oh dear.
“No need to look distressed. Just ask to speak to the manager.”
But in what language?
He hesitated. “Is there a problem?”
She sat back and tittered as though the idea were nonsensical. “Of course not.” She racked her brain for a reason she would have looked nonplussed and came up with a perfectly valid one. “I’m short of funds, is all. I didn’t realize the expense of things and I’d like to wear something other than this.” She lifted her rough, shrunken skirt.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll be happy to lend you whatever you require. I just need to get to a bank first. I’ll see you later.” He said something to the driver, handed him some money, and stepped back to let the carriage roll past into the street.
Lucy sat forward on the seat and watched until his figure disappeared, torn between wishing he’d come with her and relief that his introduction to “Mrs. Martin” had been postponed, however briefly. She didn’t doubt that Margery had managed to keep his gender secret from her great-aunts; he was a professional. He’d managed to fool some very famous men to very comical effect when he’d first appeared on stage—though just how comical he never did reveal to her, saying she was too gently bred to appreciate the joke. But she had a feeling Professor Grant would be an entirely different kettle of fish; he seemed unerringly perceptive. He certainly had her on her toes.
Ah, well, it didn’t do any good to fret. Things would turn out. She’d adopted that credo early on and lived by it ever since. As a seven-year-old orphan she’d been shuttled from place to place, person to person, without any control over where she went or with whom or for how long. Anticipating a good end had kept the worst fears at bay: that tomorrow’s guardian would be cruel, or that she’d be sent to an orphanage, or abandoned altogether. Far better to cleave to the belief that everything would turn out for the best.
So now, rather than brood, she leaned out the carriage window, putting thoughts of Archie—well, as many as she was able—from her mind as she drank in her first taste of France.
At first blush Saint-Malo seemed very like any English port city but upon closer scrutiny she noted a certain, indefinable élan that was missing from its English counterparts. It revealed itself in the bright blue flowers spilling from the sun-drenched sill of an open window and in a slender gray cat delicately cleaning its paws in the doorway of a patisserie while a swarthy shopgirl reviewed her reflection in the shop window and smiled confidently at what she saw.
A quarter hour later, she arrived at the Hotel Ligure, a two-story brick building, discreet and unadorned, only the plaque suspended above the main door acknowledging the structure’s purpose. Instead of a grand entrance there was just a painted door at the top of a pristinely clean stairway, at the bottom of which a languid-eyed porter in a blue jacket leaned against the exterior wall and smoked a cigarette.
The carriage pulled to a halt and the doorman reluctantly straightened, flicking the still-burning gasper away as he pulled open the door. “Bienvenue, mademoiselle.”
He muttered something in an aside to the driver, who shook his head in reply. She supposed the porter had asked after her nonexistent luggage. She felt a blush rise to her cheeks. She knew the sort of women who arrived at hotels with no luggage. The man gave her a broad smile and a wink as he hustled past her to open the front door, but he did so with such good-natured charm she couldn�
��t find it in her to be offended.
The lobby was furnished in the art nouveau style, tricked out with carved blond wood panels and imitations of Mr. Tiffany’s stained-glass lamps. Slender whiplash curves defined the elegant staircase’s iron balustrade and handmade carpets lay scattered about the highly polished floorboards. A middle-aged man with a thick, bushy moustache emerged from behind the front desk, hastening toward her with outstretched hands.
“You can only be Mademoiselle Eastlake,” he exclaimed in English.
“Yes, how did you know?”
“Your great-aunt told me to expect you. I am Leon Navarre, manager of the Ligure. I am so pleased to see you are finally arrived after your most difficult journey.” His gaze traveled discreetly over her ramshackle appearance. He lowered his voice sympathetically. “You were marooned on Sark?”
“Yes.”
“Quel dommage!” He shook his head, clucking his tongue. Then he straightened, brightening perceptibly. “But you are here now and we will make you forget the discomforts you have suffered.”
“Please,” she said feelingly. “Though first I would like to see my great-aunts.”
“Charming ladies. Absolutely charming. And Miss Lavinia . . .” He kissed his fingertips. “There must be French blood somewhere in your lineage.”
Lucy regarded him in confusion. “Excuse me?”
“Your aunt. She is so . . .” He screwed up his face, his English failing him. “So . . . recherché.” He lifted his hands. “You understand.”
She didn’t, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. One of the many life lessons she’d learned performing in the West End was never to advertise one’s deficiencies.
She smiled demurely. “Of course.” And then, lest her French be further tested, “If you could direct me to their rooms?”
“Alas, I cannot.” Monsieur Navarre’s face crumpled. “They are gone.”
“Gone? Where? When?”
“With their companion, the most gracious Mrs. Martin.”
Good heavens. Margery had kidnapped her aunts.
“ ’Twas she who told me to expect you and,” he lowered his voice to a discreet level, “that you would be paying the older ladies’ outstanding bill.”
“But where are they?”
“First, the bill.” Like a burlesque magician producing a rabbit from his hat, a chit appeared in the manager’s hand. He bowed as he presented it to Lucy.
She glanced down and her eyes went wide. “But this is almost seventy pounds!” It was more than she earned in two weeks and nearly everything she had left in her purse. She’d have to see about wiring Monsieur DuPaul for an advance.
“Exactement,” the manager said cheerfully. “Under Madame Martin’s guidance, your aunts have developed unexpectedly sophisticated palates. They have enjoyed some truly magnificent wines.”
“Mrs. Martin’s guidance?”
“Oui. She says to add the fee to your great-aunts’ bill and that you would pay it as soon as you arrive. Normally I would not agree to such an arrangement. This is a hotel, not a bank. But for your great-aunts, I make the exception. So.”
“But where are they?”
“Ah! I almost forget.” The manager reached into his jacket’s inside pocket and produced a thin envelope. “They have left you this letter. I am certain you will find an answer within it.”
Handing it to her, he discreetly removed himself a short distance, allowing her to read undisturbed. Like its author, Bernice, the note was short and to the point.
Dear Lucy,
Your arrival having been delayed for an indefinite period, and Lavinia feeling uneasy without friends or language to safeguard us, we have accepted Mrs. Martin’s kind offer to accompany her to Châtellerault where we shall meet you at the Hotel St. Georges.
In spite of the inconvenience you have experienced, I do hope your trip proves as pleasant as ours has been. Mrs. Martin is such an inspiration! By the simple virtue of her own intrepid spirit, she persuades one that a woman of a certain age needn’t be overly wary of venturing out into the world. And the world, I am learning, is a very interesting place.
Lucy nearly dropped the letter in surprise.
Frankly, I feel quite confident we would have fared just fine staying in Saint-Malo, but Lavinia is not. Besides which there doesn’t seem to be any reason to deny ourselves Mrs. Martin’s splendid company.
I look forward to seeing you.
Affectionately, Bernice Litton
Post scriptus: At Mr. Navarre’s insistence, we have taken your luggage with us. The ferry’s delay has filled the town with people awaiting its arrival and he claims not to have the wherewithal to store luggage, nor does he feel able to guarantee its security. I know this will be another inconvenience for you, but Lavinia and Mrs. Martin found a very accommodating modiste a few streets away where you might purchase some garments should you need do so. A Madame Tuttle, though Tuttle hardly seems a French name to me, and why Lavinia is suddenly so interested in fashion is a mystery yet to be explained.
“Monsieur Navarre?”
The dapper Frenchman hurried to Lucy’s side. “Oui?”
“How would one get to Châtellerault?”
“Châtellerault? I believe the train to Bordeaux stops there. But there are no more trains today.”
“Drat. How far is it? Could I hire someone to drive us?”
His mouth twisted apologetically. “Not today. Today is Sunday.”
“You’re certain?” Lucy asked. She wasn’t overly worried yet about making it to Saint-Girons in time for the anniversary since she’d allotted a week for sightseeing. But the misadventure with the ferry had already used up nearly three days and she wasn’t sure how far out of their way Margery’s detour had taken her aunts. And after paying the staggering sum of this bill, she would be short on funds.
“Very certain.” The manager gave an apologetic shrug. “A driver might be arranged for tomorrow but it would be costly and it is at least an eight-hour trip. Better to have a ba—” He caught himself just in time, “to freshen up, have a good meal at our most exceptional restaurant, then sleep. Tomorrow you may leave bright and early on the train.”
What he said made perfect sense. Which meant she and Archie would be traveling together, just the two of them, for a bit longer. She suddenly smiled.
“Do you know where Madame Tuttle has her shop?”
Monsieur Navarre nodded approvingly. “Just two streets down, off the main thoroughfare. I highly recommend it. She can be most nimble-fingered for a price. And speaking of price, would you care to see to your great-aunts’ bill now?”
“Later. Thank you, Monsieur Navarre.”
She glanced down at her attire. She was loath to spend any of the money she had left, but her current state was truly dreadful. She wanted to remind Archie that she was more than a troublesome, seasick songbird. She wanted him to see her in a more appealing light—she looked down at her stained and shrunken clothing—and dress.
After all, she was in France, the home of Worth and Fortuny and Poiret. How could she return home without at least one French gown?
Archie looked around the Hotel Ligure’s lobby. With the exception of the over-moustached man behind the front desk poring over a newspaper, it was empty. He couldn’t deny his disappointment at not finding Lucy—and her great-aunts—but neither was he surprised; he’d been delayed longer than he expected.
It hadn’t taken long to find a telegraph office but on the way back he’d passed a dry goods store, the sight of which reminded him that he didn’t have so much as a toothbrush to his name or a kit to carry it in, let alone any clothing fit to dine in. It would be . . . disrespectful to Lucy to appear at dinner in such shabby clothes. He didn’t want her thinking he didn’t consider that she deserved his best efforts. The same effort he would have made for any lady.
No, his inner, obnoxiously honest voice informed him. Not any lady. Her. Just her. He couldn’t remember when he had given his personal ap
pearance a second thought.
Fine. She brought out an unanticipated desire to look . . . acceptable.
Acceptable for what? The inner voice demanded. For kissing?
Fine. Yes. He’d wanted to kiss her. He wanted to take her in his arms and feel her body next to his. He wanted. More than he could remember wanting anything in a very long time. Wanted as in craved. With the same ardent desire that had led to so many unpleasant consequences in his youth. But he’d learned since then. By God he had. Wanting to do something did not mean one must do it. Ruthlessly he drowned that nobly honest inner voice, refusing to examine his motives further. He was going to find a toothbrush and that was all.
He’d found a toothbrush and small leather satchel easily enough, but when he’d asked the sales clerk where he could at least buy a fresh collar, he’d only been answered with a shrug and an impatient gesture for him to move along to make way for the next customer.
Outside the shop a teenaged lad had approached him, exuding pleasant sympathy. He’d overheard Archie’s query and would gladly escort him to a nearby haberdasher, his uncle, who could supply him not only with collars and cuffs but a ready-made shirt.
Archie had gratefully accepted the offer and was now in possession of a pristine set of collar and cuffs, and a clean, well-fitted shirt. He hoped Lucy approved. And, of course, her great-aunts, too.
“Monsieur?” he asked, approaching the front desk.
“Oui?” The Frenchman didn’t raise his gaze from the paper.
“I am looking for a girl.”
The man turned the page. “Are not all young men?”
“No. You misunderstand.”
The man gave up trying to read his newspaper and sighed. “I doubt that, monsieur. But this is not the sort of place in which to find one.”
“Not that type of girl. I am looking for Miss Lucy Eastlake. She was supposed to meet me here. I was hoping to find her and her aunts.”
This abruptly triggered the man’s interest. He straightened, eyeing Archie closely. “You are a friend?”
The Songbird's Seduction Page 15
