by Shana Galen
Ewan tipped his hat and started to walk away, back toward the corner where they had exited the hackney.
“I’ll have Draven order you to attend the next soiree with me.”
Ewan stopped.
“Or perhaps my next engagement is the opera. I know how you enjoy the opera.”
Ewan walked back. “Do it and I will squeeze the air from your throat and crush it with one hand.”
“Tell me how to approach her. Nothing I have done has worked.”
Ewan stared at Miss Fournay across the green park. His pale-blue eyes were so intense, Rafe wondered that the lady did not turn and look back. “I asked you to help me, not scare her away.”
“She looks lonely.”
Rafe’s brows shot up. “Does she?” He glanced at her again. She smiled often enough, but Ewan was right. The smile did not meet her eyes.
“She’s in a foreign country surrounded by strangers. She needs a friend, a confidant.”
“Yes! That’s what I have been trying to do. Become her confidant.”
“No, you have been trying to get under her skirts and wondering why she doesn’t respond. You have to give her something to receive something in return.”
“Say again?”
“It’s like fighting.”
“No, it’s not.”
Ewan ignored him. “When you and an opponent are equally matched, let him land a punch.”
“No, thank you. I prefer my face free of bruises.”
“Let him land several blows. Then, when he’s feeling confident, when he thinks he has you beaten, you pummel the hell out of him.”
Rafe stared at Ewan a long time. Ewan started moving away again. “You can thank me later.”
“Not likely!” Rafe called after him.
He let out a sigh and began to follow, quite slowly, the progress of Miss Fournay and her chaperone. Give her something. Let the opponent land a punch. “Then pummel the hell out of him,” he muttered.
Was pummel a metaphor?
Was he really trying to read something into Ewan’s words?
Not that he had any better ideas.
Miss Fournay was lonely. Rafe would give her something without asking for anything in return. He’d give her friendship. He’d take her around London, call on her, and…and whatever else friends did. Then when she trusted him, when she counted him as her friend, he’d take advantage of that trust and pry the information he needed out of her.
Rafe frowned. And some men accused him of being manipulative. Ewan’s methods were cold indeed. But with his country at risk, Rafe couldn’t afford scruples.
“Mr. Beaumont?”
Rafe looked up. He’d been so lost in thought that he’d practically run into Miss Fournay and her chaperone. Lady Ravensgate looked at him quizzically, while her charge pretended he did not exist. “Lady Ravensgate.” He bowed. “Miss Fournay. What a pleasure to encounter you both here.”
Miss Fournay snorted and looked away. She was decidedly unfriendly.
“The pleasure is all ours,” Lady Ravensgate said. “How is your ankle? Should you really be walking on it?”
“My ankle?” He glanced at Lady Ravensgate, then Miss Fournay, in confusion.
Miss Fournay rolled her eyes. “You sprained it at Lord Montjoy’s ball, monsieur. You had to leave early.”
“Yes. I did. I sprained it.” He lifted one foot as though his weight on it pained him.
“It was the other ankle, monsieur.”
Miss Fournay had a smug look on her face. Rafe wanted it gone. “Imagine that. They both feel as good as new.”
“I wish I could say the same.” Lady Ravensgate moved toward a bench and sat, arranging her skirts carefully. “I tire easily these days.”
“Shall I sit with you and keep you company?” Rafe asked.
“No, no. You two young people continue to stroll. I will wait here for you.”
“But I can’t leave you!” Miss Fournay protested.
“Oh, I am tired, not dying. Go ahead.”
Miss Fournay opened her mouth, obviously struggling to think of another excuse to avoid his presence. Rafe didn’t give her the opportunity. He offered his arm, and she had little choice but to take it. “I will bring her back shortly, my lady. I promise she will have no better friend than me.”
When they had walked a little distance, Rafe commenting on the trees and the sky and the weather, they finally paused near a small pond, where ducks swam. The pond was somewhat sheltered from view by the low-hanging branches of trees, and Miss Fournay snatched her arm away immediately.
“I meant what I said, you know,” he told her.
“About the summer breeze or the oak trees?”
“About being your friend. I’d like to be your friend.”
She glared at him, her dark eyes wide and full of fire. “My English may not be as good as yours, monsieur, but even I know friend is what men often use to refer to their paramours.”
“Actually, the term is usually special friend, and that is not what I had in mind at all.”
“I am not that naive.”
“Good. Then you will understand that there are times when men and women might simply be friends.”
She crossed her arms over her ample chest. “And why would you want to be my friend? Have you no friends of your own?”
He had plenty of friends of his own, but his popularity was not the issue. “I don’t have any women friends, and Montjoy’s ball showed to me that a woman friend, like you, might prove valuable.”
“How so?”
“If I am walking in the park with you or dancing with you or speaking with you, I am safe from other women.”
“Safe?”
“Yes, safe. You think I enjoy constant pursuit?”
“Yes.”
“Well, you’re wrong,” he said, surprised at his honesty. “I grow tired of it, and since you’re the first woman who is not related to me who seems completely immune to my good looks, my unparalleled charms, my witty conversation—”
“Your mammoth arrogance.”
He grinned. “I thought you and I might be friends. You could help me stave off the female population, and I can help you.”
“There is only one problem, monsieur. I do not need your help.”
“Yes, you do. You must be terribly lonely with only that old bat to keep you company.”
“Not at all,” she protested, rather unconvincingly.
“You have been in London a month? Two?”
“Just about.”
“Have you seen the Tower? The British Museum? Vauxhall Gardens? The Thames?”
She didn’t reply, and her silence spoke for itself.
“Or have you only seen the inside of stuffy drawing rooms and assembly halls? Why not let me, acting as your friend, show you all of London? There’s Bond Street, Covent Garden, ices at Gunter’s—”
“I couldn’t possibly agree to any of that. I must have a chaperone, and Lady Ravensgate has not the strength for a full schedule in the morning and another in the evening.”
“Then bring a maid, or if Lady Ravensgate feels up to it, she may attend. What say you to a play tonight at Drury Lane? I believe they are performing a new comedy.”
She shook her head, but not before he saw a flicker of interest in her eyes. Her arms had dropped as well. Hell’s teeth, but Ewan was a genius. It had only been a few moments of this friendship nonsense, and she was already lowering her guard.
“I couldn’t possibly accept.”
“You have plans tonight?” He knew she did not. He had paid one of Lady Ravensgate’s servants to provide him with their schedule.
“It is Lady Ravensgate’s decision.”
Rafe did not miss how she answered without giving him an answer to his question about her plans. She
was cunning. He held out his arm again. “Then we shall ask her. No, I shall invite both of you.”
“You have that many seats?”
“I am the son of an earl. I have a box at my disposal.”
On the way back to her chaperone, Rafe couldn’t help but steal one, or two, more-than-friendly looks in Miss Fournay’s direction. She wore a bonnet that hid her face when she looked straight ahead, but he could still see the graceful column of her neck before it dipped under the spencer she wore. And he had better not linger too long on the rise of her breasts beneath the spencer. This friendship scheme was just the thing, but he would ruin it all if he didn’t keep himself in check. He’d never before worried about his attraction to a woman who was part of a mission. If he was attracted to her, it made his job easier. Now, his attraction could present a problem, especially as he was more attracted to her than he’d have liked to admit. Rafe wouldn’t have thought he could have much interest in a woman of so little experience, even if she was physically the type he preferred. But there was something thrilling in the knowledge that he might be the first to kiss her, the first to touch her, the first to take her…not that he would do any of that. He was only her friend.
Still, it was annoying that, now that he had what amounted to state approval to seduce a virginal miss, he had decided not to. And this just when he, who had never had any interest in untried females, had discovered what other men found so alluring about them. But virgin or not, Miss Fournay would have attracted him. And like the old saying went, now that he couldn’t have her, the more he wanted her.
Six
Collette’s hands shook so much she hid them in the folds of her cape and hoped Mr. Beaumont had not noticed. The hackney was dark, but he had a keen eye. And his gaze always seemed to be on her. Though he had been polite and reserved, she’d seen the appreciation warm his eyes when he first saw her tonight. He didn’t need to say he thought she looked beautiful. He hadn’t said it, as was befitting their new status as friends, but she’d seen it in his face and heard it in the reverent tone of his voice.
She had been told she was beautiful before—not often but on occasion. And yet she’d never felt as beautiful as she did under Beaumont’s silent appreciation. She wore a dark-green dress of silk with spangles on the hem that shimmered when she walked. Unlike the yellow dress, the cut of this one was a bit more modest, but she still felt she showed too much cleavage. Beaumont’s gaze had not slipped to her chest, so perhaps she was simply self-conscious. Lady Ravensgate had enthusiastically agreed to the night at the theater and agreed to join the two of them. Collette had told her sponsor that Mr. Beaumont was simply acting as a friend, but Lady Ravensgate still gave her knowing smirks whenever Beaumont wasn’t looking. Collette did not care. Beaumont knew Draven, and if he became her friend, she would be able to ask him about Draven and perhaps gain access to the man.
“Ah, here we are,” Mr. Beaumont said.
Collette peered out at the brightly lit entryway filled with distinguished-looking men and glittering women exiting gleaming carriages. Columns lined the portico where coaches paused to deliver their occupants. She supposed the lower classes must attend the theater as well, but perhaps they had a separate entrance. As Beaumont led her inside, Lady Ravensgate having waved off his offer of an arm, Collette craned her neck to admire the architecture before being guided up the stairs and to the boxes. “Which play are we seeing?” she asked.
“It is called The Disguise. I cannot remember the playwright’s name, but this production is new. He’s relatively new. I saw his debut last year, and I chuckled for days. You should enjoy it.”
“Then you attend the theater often?”
“When I have the chance.” He nodded at a group of ladies they passed, and Collette did not fail to notice that two of the four stared longingly after him while the other two shot daggers at him. None of them attempted to waylay him, however. “And you? Do you go to the theater often?”
“Of course. Paris is known for its theater.” Too late, she realized she had said the wrong thing, but before she could cover her error, he gestured to the curtain before them.
“This is my family’s box.” He held the curtain open for her, and as soon as she entered, she gasped in a breath. The light was incredible. It was so bright that she almost thought it daytime.
“Ah, I see they finished the installation of the gas lighting,” Beaumont said.
Collette might have admired the colors and the well-lit faces of the other attendees longer, but a tall, handsome man rose and stood before her.
“Rafe. Your sister said you would be joining us.” He bowed formally. In the chair beside him, Collette recognized Lady Birtwistle. The man standing must have been her husband. And he’d called Beaumont Rafe. So that was his given name. It felt like intimate knowledge.
“Lord and Lady Birtwistle, may I present Lady Ravensgate and her cousin Miss Fournay.”
“Oh, we’ve met already,” Lady Birtwistle said. “I am so glad you could join us.”
Lord Birtwistle bowed again. “A pleasure as always Lady Ravensgate, and it is lovely to meet you, Miss Fournay. Please do take a seat.”
He gestured to a seat beside his wife, but when she moved to take it, Beaumont stepped before her and angled it so Lady Ravensgate might sit. That left one unoccupied seat in the front row and four behind. Collette moved to take the empty seat beside Lady Ravensgate, but Beaumont pulled out a chair behind the older woman.
“You aren’t so cruel as to leave me all alone back here, are you?”
Collette hesitated. Lady Ravensgate looked from Collette to the chair to Beaumont. “You had better be on your best behavior, Mr. Beaumont.”
“If you look over your shoulder, you will see my halo, my lady.” He gave that charming smile of his and, after Collette took her chair, sat in the one beside it. She made a point of pretending to study the theater and peer at the crowd, but mentally she was attempting to think of an explanation for why she would have attended the theater in Paris so often when she had told Beaumont she’d lived in the country. It was the first real mistake she had made while in London, and she cursed herself for becoming too comfortable around him and lowering her guard.
“The theater burned down seven or eight years ago,” Beaumont told her. “This building is relatively new.”
“The gas lighting is amazing.”
“I agree. They’ve extended it to the stage. I believe it is the first theater in England to be gaslit throughout.”
“But isn’t gas lighting dangerous?”
“I fear candles and open fire are more dangerous. The theater has burned down three times already, and the owners are hoping the gas lighting will mean there won’t be a fourth time. I wish we had a better box, but my father never attends the theater. He only keeps the box for the sake of appearances.” He went on, telling her about some of the more memorable productions he had attended, and Collette found herself listening and laughing at his descriptions of actors and mishaps during the plays or operas. When the play began and he turned his attention to the stage, she missed their conversation.
And she also blew out a relieved breath. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed her slip of the tongue. She was grateful for that. She was also grateful that it seemed he was sincere when he’d said he wanted to be her friend. He had made no attempt to flirt with her and, except for a few appreciative glances, had treated her as though she were his sister. In fact, he and his sister had exchanged a few comments, and he spoke to her very much in the same manner he spoke to Collette.
She shouldn’t have felt disappointed that he had so easily transitioned from a man who had seemed desperately attracted to her to a platonic friend, but that was what she had wanted, was it not?
She turned her attention to the play and enjoyed it for the first quarter hour. Then her sense of unease began to grow. The title of the play was apt, as every characte
r in the play wore a disguise of some sort or another. For some of them, like the pretty young woman in love with a young man whose family owned a print shop, the disguise was physical. She dressed as an errand boy who stood about on the shop’s stoop all day so she could be close to the man she loved. He, of course, never noticed her. He was in love with an older woman who was also an artist. Except the artist was not a woman at all, but a man who dressed as a woman because he thought it made his art more interesting if people thought it was the work of a woman.
And then there was the shop owner, whose disguise was more of a mask. He had owned the shop for twenty years, and he had hated every day of it. He didn’t care for art or prints. He longed to work in the soil, to farm or garden, to do something with his hands, something that was useful. But he pretended with each of his customers and the artists whose work he purchased.
The play reminded Collette very much of her own circumstances. Indeed, at one point, the similarities must have struck Lady Ravensgate as well because she turned to look back at Collette, who sat stiffly in her seat. She was very much a woman pretending to be someone she was not. And the frequent slips the characters made, slips in behavior or speech that revealed who they really were, made her remember her own misstep earlier tonight.
But if Rafe Beaumont had any idea she was not who she appeared, any idea that the play unnerved her, he did not show it. He paid rapt attention, leaning over to murmur comments once in a while, laughing uproariously at the characters’ mistakes, and generally seemed to enjoy himself immensely. He was perfectly charming and perfectly behaved, and she could hardly believe he was the same man who had all but trapped her on the terrace at Montjoy’s ball.
Finally, it was time for intermission, and Lady Ravensgate and Lady Birtwistle excused themselves to speak with friends in nearby boxes. Collette made to follow, but Beaumont stayed her. “Please, I beg you, do not abandon me.”
