by Diana Quincy
“Sacré bleu! Then you will appear bracket-faced.” Sophie gathered the unruly mass of curls into an upswept style. Mabel never questioned Emilia’s directives, but Sophie clearly had her own ideas. Pulling several curly tendrils of hair down from the upswept bun, she set them artfully about Emilia’s neck and shoulders.
“Oh no,” Emilia lamented. “You do not understand at all. You are showcasing my hair, rather than hiding it.”
“The plain style with no curls is most unbecoming.” Sophie adorned Emilia’s hair with a string of pearls. “A little ornament will enhance your natural assets. Have a look and you will see for yourself.”
Emilia examined her reflection. She had to admit her hair did not look completely terrible nor ridiculously outlandish. In fact, the looser style softened her features while emphasizing the shade of her eyes, making her appear far more pleasing than usual. “Oh, that’s not so bad. And the pearls look quite lovely. Mabel never put anything in my hair.”
“Zut!” Sophie’s thin lips twisted with disgust. “This Mabel person cannot truly call herself a lady’s maid.”
“She wasn’t really,” Emilia admitted. “Mabel was Cook’s daughter, and we played together as children. When it was time for me to have a lady’s maid, I wanted Mabel to remain my companion and picked her as my maid, even though she had no training.”
Sophie shook her head. “A lady’s maid should be chosen for her skill in making her mistress look her best.” She disappeared into Emilia’s dressing room, reappearing a few moments later with a delicately embroidered mint gown.
“Oh no.” Emilia shook her head as soon as she caught sight of Sophie’s selection. “Not that one. I don’t care for that gown.”
“Pourquoi pas?” Sophie surveyed the gown in her arms. “It is exquisite.”
“That’s what the modiste said as well, but that color tends to make my skin look paler and my hair more obvious.”
“Exactement.” Sophie laid the gown out across Emilia’s bed. “That is why you must wear it. A lady should emphasize her beauty, not conceal it.”
“Me? Beautiful?” Emilia stared at her lady’s maid. Sophie did not seem the sort to curry favor by flattering her mistress, but Emilia also knew with absolute certainty that she was not beautiful.
“The gowns and hairstyles this Mabel”—Sophie uttered the previous lady’s maid’s name as if she’d sniffed something malodorous—“selected for you seemed designed to hide your appeal rather than enhance your assets.”
“She just followed my direction.” Clearly the French had a different idea of beauty if they believed pale freckled skin and loud copper-colored hair were something to be admired.
“Your gentleman will be here this evening, will he not?”
“Mr. Worsely? Yes.” Edmund would be present, along with Cousin Dominick and Sparrow, whom she had not seen since he’d brought her home from their strange adventure two days ago. She had not expected to see him again so soon, but she supposed it wouldn’t be long before he disappeared from her life again. Which was just as well. She needed to focus on her future with Edmund, not her past with Sparrow.
“Sparrow will be here as well, n’est-ce pas?”
She spun around on her dressing room stool. “You know Mr. Sparrow?”
Sophie brushed creases out of the gown. “But of course.”
“How well do you know him?” Running a critical gaze over Sophie’s trim, energetic form, she couldn’t help wondering if her new lady’s maid knew Sparrow in the same way his housekeeper in Hastings did.
“I was lady’s maid to a friend of his in Paris.”
She wondered how close a friend. “When was that?”
“Until last year when she moved back to London to marry, and I eventually followed her.”
So maybe not one of Sparrow’s many rumored conquests. “Why are you no longer employed by her?” She had not seen Sophie’s references, but her father would not have hired anyone who didn’t come highly recommended.
“I go where the need is.” Sophie picked up the gown, preparing to help Emilia into it. “And you are clearly in need of a lady’s maid with certain skills.”
Emilia rose. “What skills are those?”
“Dressing hair and selecting wardrobe.” She came toward her. “And whatever else the situation requires.”
—
The décor in the St. George drawing room, as in most of the town house, could not be called subtle. The walls were hung with crimson velvet damask and the matching window dressings fell from the coved ceiling to the carpeted floor. Numerous gilt-framed pictures adorned the walls. Sparrow arrived at the appointed time to find Emilia’s betrothed standing with one elbow propped on the carved gilt chimneypiece, engaged in conversation with her father.
“Vale, do join us.” St. George waved him over. “We’re still waiting for Dominick and the ladies. I understand you’ve met Edmund Worsely.”
“Indeed.” He inclined his head. “We had a very brief acquaintance in Paris.” In truth, they’d barely spoken. As the grandson of a duke, Worsely had taken little notice of Sparrow, a mere Home Office operative, which had suited Sparrow. Given his line of work at the time, the less attention people paid him, the better.
“Sparrow.” Worsely spoke in the affected, slightly bored tone certain men of the ton found to be fashionable. “How do you fare?”
“Well enough.”
Worsely’s quizzical glance went to St. George. “Did you refer to Sparrow as Vale?”
“Indeed I did.” St. George beamed. “Hamilton here has come into his cousin’s title.”
“Is that so.” Worsely’s cool mask remained in place, but Sparrow observed the slight tightening around his mouth. “How unexpected. I understood the late Viscount Vale had both a son and a grandson.”
Compassion deepened the lines in St. George’s face. “They were killed in a boating accident at their estate in Devonshire.” He shook his head. “Such a terrible tragedy.”
Worsely ran an assessing gaze over Sparrow. “That explains your manner of dress.”
“Beg pardon?” Sparrow replied with a surprised questioning half laugh.
“I presume that jacket is from Weston’s.” Worsely said, referring to Mayfair’s premier gentleman’s tailor. “It is impeccably cut.”
“I’ve no idea.” Sparrow ran a cursory glance down the aubergine contraption Gibbs had outfitted him in. “My valet sees to matters of dress. I don’t give it much thought.”
“Ah, that explains much.” Worsely plucked a glass from a silver tray proffered by a footman in red-and-gold livery. He sniffed the claret before sampling the burgundy liquid. “In any case, I suppose felicitations on your recent elevation are in order.”
“I suppose they are.” The man appeared about as pleased with Sparrow’s sudden ennoblement as Sparrow himself, but Sparrow bared his teeth in a forced smile, mostly to aggravate Emilia’s betrothed. By God, whatever did she see in him? “It is a great responsibility.”
“How relieving it must be to be free of your entrenchment at the Home Office.”
The fool assumed Sparrow was pleased to be free of a daily occupation? “Not at all. I prefer the challenge and diversion a vocation offers. You understand, given your own work at the embassy.”
“Indeed. The life of a diplomat offers many pleasures.” But something about the way Worsely pursed his lips suggested otherwise, which surprised Sparrow. One would suppose that a promising, well-regarded young diplomat, who was expected to rise quickly through the ranks, would enjoy his work.
Worsely cut the conversation short by excusing himself to find the retiring room. Once he quit the salon, Mrs. St. George appeared. Emilia’s mother was an elegant woman who still retained much of her youthful beauty. “I’ve just had a message from Dominick,” she said to her husband after graciously greeting Sparrow. “He’s ill and unable to attend. He sends his regrets.”
St. George frowned. “That boy is forever hiding himself.” He reache
d for the note she held out to him and studied it. “Well, I suppose the evening will be even more intimate than you intended, my dear.”
St. George excused himself to write a return note to his cousin’s son while his wife went to check on supper, leaving Sparrow in the opulent drawing room, but he didn’t remain alone for long.
“Good evening.” Emilia appeared on the threshold, a becoming blush on the apples of her curved cheeks. His mouth went dry and he tried not to stare, which took effort because she looked absolutely ravishing. There was no other word for it.
Instead of her usual severe style, she wore her glorious titian locks loosely upswept, with several curly tendrils cascading about her pale neck and shoulders. And her gown’s deep square neck offered a tantalizing glimpse of her ample breasts; smooth and pale as ivory, plump and round.
“Really, Sparrow.” She nervously fingered a coppery curl. “It isn’t polite to stare. And you’re starting to make a habit of it. That’s not very viscountlike of you.”
“Forgive me.” He went to her. “I suppose it’s the shock of not seeing you outfitted like a middle-aged schoolmarm.”
She screwed up her face. “I know I look garish. It’s that new maid. She has strange ideas about beauty. It must be because she’s French.”
Good old Sophie had outdone herself. Emilia looked positively bewitching. He couldn’t help staring. Had she always been so alluring? Back when they’d been betrothed, how had he failed to be dazzled by that sharp tongue and those tantalizing curves? “You look lovely.”
She laughed. “I do not.”
His eyebrows inched up. “Must you always be so contrary?”
“How am I being contrary?”
“I say you look lovely and you dispute it.”
She stared at him for a moment, as if unsure of what to make of his admiration.
He grinned. “You really have no idea how to take a compliment. Don’t they teach those graces to girls before unleashing them on the marriage mart?”
Insolence sparked in her emerald eyes. “I must have missed that instruction since I was already betrothed to you when I came out of the schoolroom.”
“Ah, that explains it.” He pulled a small gold-and-enamel dagger from his pocket. “I have something for you.”
Her eyes widened. “For me?”
“Yes.” Holding the ornate handle, he slid off the matching sheath. “It’s small, so you should be able to get a strong grip on it.”
“Goodness, Sparrow. Some gentlemen bring a lady flowers.”
“This is for your safety. Carry the blade with you whenever you leave the house. It should fit nicely into your reticule.”
She took it from him, holding the weapon in the flat of her hand while running a perfectly tapered pointer finger over the ornate gold embellishment on the handle. “It’s beautiful.”
“I picked it up in Russia.”
She looked at him. “You expect me to use this to protect myself.”
“In the event there’s not a rock around for you to bash someone over the head with.”
Amusement flashed in her eyes before they grew serious again. “Is there any word from Graves, my erstwhile attacker?”
He shook his head. “Nothing comprehensible. He awakens for brief spells, long enough for a bit of sustenance, but remains mostly in a state of delirium. My staff will send word if that changes.”
“Emilia.” They both turned at the sound of Worsely’s voice. And ridiculous as it was, regret panged through Sparrow at the thought of having to share Boadicea’s company with the arrogant coxcomb. “My dear, you are in good looks this evening.”
“You are too kind.” She slid the sheathed dagger somewhere in her skirts, casting her eyes downward, almost as if she were playacting the part of a shy maiden, which Sparrow was now in a position to know she most certainly was not.
Worsely came closer, his keen gaze studying her. At least the man had the good sense to admire Emilia’s obvious physical appeal. “Your hair is different.”
She fingered a curly tendril again. “I know it’s a bit much. I have a new lady’s maid.”
“Nonsense, you are a vision of loveliness.” The words were perfunctory. Worsely offered her his arm. “And if you’d like, we can find you a new lady’s maid once we’re married, one with skills to dress your hair in a manner you find more becoming.”
“Of course.” Emilia’s smile stayed firmly in place as she took the jackanapes’s arm, but Sparrow registered the hurt that dulled her vivid eyes. Rage heated his neck. Did the blunderbuss not realize what a unique jewel he had in her?
What sort of idiot would fail to appreciate her appeal? Realization settled in his chest when the answer came to him. An idiot like Worsely. And like Sparrow himself, who’d barely registered her presence when they’d been betrothed all those years ago.
A strange sensation dug hard into his chest; it almost felt like regret at having squandered the opportunity to make her his while he’d had the chance, back when he’d still been capable of being the husband she deserved.
—
Later that evening, Sparrow arrived home to discover he had a visitor, although not the sort of guest who came to the front door.
His butler had relegated Roger Tanner to the back entrance along with the servants, deliveries, and service staff. Tanner had performed various tasks for Sparrow when he’d worked at the Home Office. He was a smallish man with a compact body and perpetual frown that turned to wonder when he walked into Sparrow’s library.
“Well, well.” He whistled, his brows reaching his hairline as he surveyed the room. His gaze moved past Sparrow’s grand mahogany desk to the matching shelves filled with books and stopped to examine the mint-green wall pasted with black-and-white reproductions of the old masters. “Look like you come up in the world, guv’nor. Way up.”
“Appearances can be deceiving.” Sparrow glanced at the bills piled up on his desk, the result of unnecessary extravagances like refurbishing this chamber. In fact, the entire town house was in pristine condition, most of the chambers having been redone shortly before the previous viscount met his untimely demise. More evidence of Cousin Barclay’s taste for the finer things, despite lacking the coin to fund them.
“Well, consider me fooled.” Tanner crossed to the sideboard to splash brandy into a spotless glass.
“Help yourself,” Sparrow said caustically. “Dare I hope, at least, that you’ll relay some useful information before drinking me dry?”
“I got the information you wanted, guv.” Tanner upended the glass and drained the amber liquid in one long gulp before reaching to pour himself another.
“And?” He’d tasked Tanner with finding out what he could about Graves’s client, the person who wanted Emilia dead.
“Graves was hired by some nob”—he saluted Sparrow with his refilled glass—“just like you.”
“His name?”
“That I ain’t got.” Tanner sipped his brandy more slowly. “But I do know Graves was hired by the quality who expected to come into a shipload of blunt.”
“How do we know that?”
“Because your hired killer did something that he ain’t never done before.”
“Which was?”
“Graves usually makes customers pay half before he does the job and half after.”
“That much is well known by anyone acquainted with the man.”
“But this next part ain’t. Graves agreed to take less than half of the chink this nob owed him.”
Sparrow leaned forward in his chair. Graves was all about the monetary reward. If you couldn’t pay, he wouldn’t spare you a moment. “Why would he agree to take less than half?”
“The nob was able to convince Graves that he was coming into a pot of gold. The cove was willing to pay Graves a fifty percent premium once the target was expended as ordered.”
Icy air filled his lungs. Whoever wanted Emilia dead wanted it badly enough to pay a king’s ransom. And a person that hu
ngry wouldn’t stop just because Graves was currently indisposed; he’d find another way to get the deed done. “Keep digging. And I have another job for you.”
Tanner sipped his brandy. “Always happy to be of service.”
“There’s a man named Dominick Ware. I need to know everything there is to know about him. Where he goes, who he sees, all of it.”
“Gotcha, guv.” Tanner bottomed out his glass. “Given yer new circumstances, I’m feeling the need for a raise.”
Sparrow gritted his teeth. “The same wages as always.” If anything, he had less coin than before. A lot of good inheriting a viscountcy had done him. “Now get on with it or the only thing you’ll be feeling is the point of my boot in your arse.”
“Easy, guv.” Tanner held up his hands in surrender. “I see you’re fitting in jes fine with these peers, being stingy and all, jes like them.”
After Tanner left, Sparrow poured himself a glass of arrack and sank into one of the new chairs his late, free-spending cousin had ordered. He marveled at its soft comfort, which no doubt hadn’t come cheap. Shifting, he made himself comfortable, figuring he might as well enjoy these creature comforts since he was footing the bill for them.
He reached for a book on the history of Devonshire, which topped the stack of information about the Vale properties he’d been studying. Times had certainly changed for him. Only a year ago, he’d been chasing French spies on the Dorset coast. Now he was a titled landowner in the neighboring county. Grounded for life when he’d expected to spend his days as a wanderer, serving his country.
Yes, his current existence was completely different. And he couldn’t say the changes were for the better.
Chapter 6
The following day, Sparrow ventured back over to the St. George town house in hopes of catching Emilia alone. With her puffed-up betrothed constantly underfoot, the opportunity to speak with her at length had eluded him the previous evening.
