A Necessary Deception (13 page)

Christien sighed. “
Peut-être
I do, but it is more the truth than not, and Napoleon is happy to bring France’s oldest enemy down from inside.”

“No, it can’t happen here. I won’t . . . I can’t . . .” She raised her hand to her brow and closed her eyes. “If you are telling only a little of the truth, my family is in danger and I’ve failed so much, I—” She dropped her hand to her lap and stiffened her posture. “What am I saying to you? For all I know, what you tell me is balderdash. Why would France want to use Society? You’d think revolution would come from the lower classes.”

“It didn’t in America or, truth be told, France. The lower classes need someone to organize them, someone who is literate and used to leadership. And who is closer to the powers that be to do the leaders damage than those in the Upper Ten Thousand?”

Her fingers writhed on her lap. “I wish you didn’t make sense. I wish I knew whom to believe. Mr. Lang waylaid me in the garden of an inn and blackmailed me into introducing you to Society.”

“Me or Monsieurs Barnaby and Frobisher, one of whom tried running me down with his horse the other day.”

“So you say.”

“And what does Mr. Barnaby say?” Christien spoke through clenched teeth.

“I’ll learn later this morning. At least he said he wished to speak with me.”

“You won’t meet him alone, will you?”

“A drive in the park. Not that that’s any concern of yours.”

“It is my concern. I drew you into this with my letter of introduction and request for further help.”

“You—” She started. “There’s the flaw in your story. The only Mr. Lang I could possibly know is the one who blackmailed me into taking his letters of introduction.”

“But of course you know Lang. He’s delivered two important messages to you. Two letters of introduction—Frobisher and Barnaby, and myself. Or so it appears.”

She opened her mouth, then closed it again. Her brow puckered and her eyes flickered.

He grasped the moment of her uncertainty. “Was the man in the garden the same as the man who delivered my messages? Did you look at the handwriting?”

“I . . . can’t be certain of the former or the latter.” She pressed her fingertips to her temples and closed her eyes. “The letters were destroyed along with all my correspondences. I couldn’t make a comparison.”

“Destroyed?” Christien shot upright and choked on a groan of pain. “How?”

“You didn’t reach my desk, monsieur?”

“You arrived home early.” He smiled at her.

She smiled back, briefly, but enough to lighten his heart. Perhaps, just perhaps, she was beginning to believe a little of what he said.

“All the papers in my desk were ripped to shreds. But left behind so I’d know they’d done it.”

“And done so from inside your household.” A chill ran up Christien’s spine. “My lady, this is too dangerous. You cannot remain in town.”

“How can I leave? Mr. Lang has threatened my family through accusing me of helping you escape from England.”

“He didn’t—” He stopped, shook his head. “My dear lady, we have gone in a circle,
non
? Until you believe that someone is an impostor, we can never work to find the source of the danger to England.”

“If there is danger to England. Oh my, I don’t know.” She rose and began to pace around the chamber, flipping the draperies back from the window to expose a slow drizzle of rain clouding the glass, then stooping to gather something up from the rug beneath the dressing table.

Her gown flowed around her, a swirl of gauzy muslin to emphasize her grace of movement. The errant curl bobbed between ear and cheek, a hint of rebellion amidst the proper—the modest dress and tightly pinned coiffure. Christien wished he were an artist so he could paint her. That way he would have a picture of her to cherish when he concluded this mission and returned to his family and relieved his maman of the burden of running the farm, capable though she was at doing so. He wouldn’t even consider taking the flesh-and-blood Lydia back there. She wanted to run as soon as she dared. Only the blackmail held her in town now.

And loyalty to her family.

The family had taken him in without question, and he had possibly led them into danger if someone within the household worked against him already. He wanted to run too. Yet forces beyond his control held him in place, held him to the assignment, as they had too often, compelling him to undertake roles he didn’t want to play.

Roles that built a wall of deception between him and his loved ones, between him and God.

Despite his throbbing shoulder, he rose and approached Lydia once again at the window. “I cannot make you believe me, not when others have done their best to muddy the waters. But please do not dismiss me out of hand.”

In more ways than one.

“But I understand if you do,” he added.

“Then you’ll understand if I don’t.” She faced him, her eyes pinched at the corners. “If you’re telling the truth, then your cause is just and you need my help. If you are lying, then I don’t dare anger Mr. Lang, the blackmailer. So for now, monsieur le comte, I will remain at your side. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I must speak with my sisters about their behavior.”

And she was gone, slipping out the door with a last flutter of her pale skirt and a gentle click of the door latch.

His blessings always came with a barb inserted. He got to keep Lydia near him, perhaps persuade her to care for him, to believe him at the least, yet at a cost to her.

Non
, he mustn’t think that way. He hadn’t created the difficulty unless he could blame his long-ago desire for revenge on the country that had killed his father and taken the smile from his mother’s eyes.

He leaned his brow against the chilled window glass. Nearly ten years of his role was far too long. He should have stopped years ago, perhaps after Charles Gale had died. He should have stopped before he dragged Gale’s widow into the debacle of this mission.

Then there was Barnaby and Frobisher and a man named Lang with connections that had to come from within the Home Office.

Christien couldn’t think. He’d taken too much of the laudanum the day before. Despite continuing pain, he wouldn’t make that mistake this day. If he could obtain some coffee, strong and black with a quantity of warm milk, his mind would function more clearly.

Some of his French habits would never change. They held such a grip on him he would have sworn he smelled coffee.

He turned from the window. He should try for more sleep. Once rested, he would return home. If someone intended to harm him, the last thing Christien wanted was to drag so much as a mouse from the Bainbridge pantry into danger.

He stepped toward the bed. His door opened and closed so quickly he thought perhaps a maid intended to enter then changed her mind. But a quick glance showed him a diminutive creature in white apron and cap, bearing that most blessed of kitchen utensils—a coffeepot.

“I knew you’d be wanting your morning
café au lait
,
mon frère
,” she announced.

“Your brother, indeed.” Christien staggered a step forward and gripped the bedpost. “What are you doing here, Lisette?”

She tossed her head. “What I do better than dancing or husband hunting. I’m the new Bainbridge cook.”

Lydia wondered if banging her head against the wall would do any good. It might make her forget everything around her if she hit it hard enough. She could end up an invalid tucked up in bed with others waiting upon her and no responsibilities.

A pleasant dream despite the need for pain involved. Unfortunately, it was pains she need not endure because she could not become an invalid. Her family was crumpling without her adding the burden of being blackmailed.

As she left Honore’s room and returned to her own chamber, she imagined her forthcoming interview with Father.

Yes, sir, Honore is riding out with an unsuitable young man and wanting to marry to get out from under your authority. Cassandra is a little too close to her fiancé, so she apparently thinks they shouldn’t see one another and shouldn’t get married. A Frenchman who may or may not be loyal to England is recovering from an accident or a deliberate attempt on his life in one of our bedchambers. Oh yes, and I’m being blackmailed, possibly by an associate of that Frenchman.

Her head began to throb as though she actually had been banging it against a wall. She headed down the steps and the knocker sounded, and she recalled her plan to drive with Mr. Barnaby that morning. Cassandra would have to wait. Honore would have to wait. Father would have to wait.

She heard Father in Mama’s sitting room, his booming voice rumbling through the door. As she headed back to her room for her pelisse, she caught her name and her sisters’ and something about the cook.

Of course, the cook. He wasn’t going to like that his precious French chef had defected to another family and sent his daughter to replace him. Yet she’d proven to cook as well as her parent, perhaps even better in the pastry department. But Father was likely to send her packing without a reference and no doubt expect Lydia to find another chef too soon before Honore’s coming-out ball.

Perhaps this was the time to pray for something. Thus far, though, God hadn’t gotten her out of her predicament with Mr. Lang, who was probably not Mr. Lang at all.

Two Mr. Langs? No. Only one had contacted her, whatever Christien claimed should have happened.

Lydia had no idea what to believe regarding Christien’s tale. Part of her—too much of her—experienced an urge, a longing to believe him. He’d been direct in his looks, his blue eyes as limpid as a summer sky. His voice, as smooth and rich as velvet, flowed over her, around her, enveloping her like a warm cloak on a cold day. Not simply agreeing to go along with him because she accepted every word proved more difficult than she’d anticipated when she walked into the room.

Two Mr. Langs?

She hesitated outside his room. Her hand twitched to reach out and turn the handle, ask him questions, questions she hadn’t formed in her mind as of yet. She made herself keep going around the corner and up the next flight of steps.

His voice rumbled through the door, and she stopped, her foot on the first tread. To whom could he be speaking? The words proved indistinct through the thick panels of the door. French or English? Surely someone hadn’t sneaked into the house and met with him. Surely he wouldn’t hold espionage assignations right under her roof.

In a heartbeat, she was across the landing with her ear to the door. Only a few seconds. Soon a footman would be coming up to find her, if the person at the door was Mr. Barnaby.

“. . . Protection and peace.” The voice was clear now. Clear and strong with a hint of tension. “Please, even if You’ll do nothing for me, give her guidance to find the truth . . .”

Lydia shot away from the door as though someone had opened it. Someone might as well have. Christien’s interlocutor knew she was listening.

He was praying. He was more than praying—he was praying for her.

Feeling lightheaded, she gripped the banister and climbed the final flight to her bedchamber. Her pelisse lay on the bed, ready for her to go out driving. But of course she couldn’t drive today. Rain fell in earnest now, streaking the window and pinging against the glass.

She couldn’t wear her pelisse either. Hodge lay in the middle of the scarlet silk, his pale fur a stunning contrast to the coquelicot color of the fabric, but not a particularly attractive decoration.

“You’d think I’d know better than to leave clothing lying around.” She stroked Hodge’s back.

He began to purr without lifting his head.

“It’s a good day to stay in bed and sleep.” She shivered in the chill and retrieved a shawl from her dressing room, then returned to Hodge.

His purr sounded like the velvety voice rumbling through the door of the room below hers. The voice of a man praying for her—for her safety, for her peace of mind, for her guidance into the future.

Surely no man who prayed thus could lie about his role in life, in the war. But Charles had prayed and he’d lied about staying with her and leaving his regiment. The lure of intrigue had been stronger than the love of his wife.

It could be the same with Christien. The thrill of espionage could outweigh the need for truth and faith and putting God first.

As if she put God first. Yes, one more thing at which she proved to possess too little skill.

Some things she mustn’t fail at, though. Working out who was telling the truth was one of them. She mustn’t let a pair of beautiful blue eyes and a black-velvet voice deceive her.

And how would Mr. Barnaby deceive her?

A knock sounded on her door. She opened it to find a footman waiting in the hallway.

“You have a caller, m’lady. Lemster has placed him in the parlor. There’s a fire there, and everyone else is in Lady Bainbridge’s sitting room with Lord Bainbridge.”

And they hadn’t called her down to join them?

Lydia squelched the twinge of pain. Father had been clear when she refused to live with them at Bainbridge Manor that his first daughter would be his last.

“I’ll be right down. Will you see to it that tea is brought in, in about a quarter hour?”

“Yes, m’lady.” The footman withdrew to descend the back steps behind their narrow, concealing door.

Lydia descended in the opposite direction, her footfalls growing heavy with each flight. Second floor, where Christien’s room lay silent now. First floor, where her father’s voice rang loudly enough as if there were no door. Ground floor, where the chill dampness from outside penetrated one’s bones and firelight from the parlor drew her as though she were a moth.

This man didn’t draw her in the least. Christien tempted her to moments of yearning for other worlds behind them and different countries between them . . . For no good reason, George Barnaby didn’t appeal to her. Unless perhaps it was because he came from Mr. Lang first without any previous acquaintance. She couldn’t forget Christophe Arnaud in that prison, grateful for her help, speaking of his faith and his American mother.

Now Barnaby was in her family’s house, speaking of Christien before making an attempt on his life.

Thinking perhaps she believed Christien, she pushed the parlor door the rest of the way open. George Barnaby stood with his back to the fire and his eyes on the door. Candlelight and illumination from the window brightened his face. Lines showed at the corners of his eyes, as though he’d spent a great deal of time squinting into the sun or smiling. The lines at the corners of his mouth suggested the latter.

He smiled now, the curve of his lips and flash of rather good teeth making him attractive. He bowed with grace. “My lady, so good of you to see me.”

“Of course. I gave you my word and feel I should apologize for the rain that keeps us in.” She swept forward, seated herself beside the fire, and gestured for him to sit. “We should go undisturbed here, however. My father has just arrived, and my mother and sisters are with him.”

“And your companion? Will she join us?” Barnaby took the chair adjacent to hers, a little too close.

“I don’t believe she will. I’ve left the door partly open and there’s a footman in the hall, so no need for a chaperone.”

“But I wish for this conversation to be private.” He glanced toward the door. “Unheard by anyone.”

“My father is speaking in the room at the top of the steps. I doubt the footman can hear you.” Lydia smiled to take any sense of parental criticism from her words.

Barnaby rolled his eyes upward, where the rumbling voice penetrated the ceiling painting like continuous thunder. “Of course. A drive would have been preferable . . .” He shrugged. “My lady, any time in your lovely presence is welcome.”

“You needn’t flatter me to get me to hear you out, sir.” Lydia sat as stiff as a fashion doll on the edge of her chair.

“It’s not flattery.” Barnaby looked into her eyes, and Lydia started with the realization that he spoke the truth.

Admiration gleamed in the dark gray depths. His gaze swept from her twisted-up hair to her shawl-clad shoulders to her scarlet slippers, and her blush rose in the opposite direction, climbing from those daring slippers to her middle to her cheeks.

No one had gazed upon her with such blatant interest, the type a man demonstrates to a woman, since her first Season. Soon those looks stopped, after Charles began to court her. No one wished to incur his wrathful glare in return. After that, she was married, then a widow poorly dressed, often with her hair in a rat’s nest of unkempt curls, even more often with charcoal pencil or paint daubing her cheeks. Here, however, she was groomed and pampered, dressed well and with her hair reasonably neat. And her face was clean. For her efforts, two men—two gentlemen, whatever their purpose—had expressed interest in her just that morning.

“Thank you.” She managed the two words through stiff lips, while struggling to think how to proceed.

The rattle of china in the hall gave her an idea, a reprieve. Sighing with relief, she jumped up to greet a footman with a tray of cups, teapot, milk pitcher, and tiny sweet biscuits.

“Thank you,” she said to the servant. “Just set it on the table. I’ll pour.”

The footman did as bid and withdrew. Lydia poured, offered the plate of biscuits, and took her own cup of tea to her chair. The pallid liquid sloshed in its cup. She’d poured too much milk in it. She didn’t even like milk in her tea. What had she been thinking?

She set the cup aside and clasped her hands together in her lap, much as she had done while listening to Christien’s tale of wanting revenge on the country that had killed his father and robbed his family of their heritage. “So, Mr. Barnaby, tell me why I should believe your tale and why you are working with Mr. Lang.”

“Mr. Lang works for the Home Office.” Barnaby settled back on his chair as though about to smoke a cheroot in perfect ease at a gentlemen’s club. “Helping me be accepted into Society is doing one’s duty by the realm.”

“Indeed.” Lydia’s lip curled, and she posed the same question she had to Christien. “Since when does the Crown have to resort to blackmail to get its subjects to do their duty?”

“Blackmail?” Barnaby’s hand jerked. His eyebrows shot up toward a lock of hair now charmingly drooped over his forehead. “I know nothing of blackmail.”

So clear was his gaze, so direct, he was either telling the truth or a consummate actor.

Lydia laced her fingers together. “You’re telling me you know of no blackmail?”

“I know of no blackmail. If someone calling himself Lang blackmailed you into doing something, then it’s the wrong Mr. Lang.”

Nearly the same thing Christien had said.

“It’s the only Mr. Lang I’ve met,” she said.

Unless Christien was correct and Lang was the mysterious man, the one she’d presumed was a smuggler, who had made those two early-morning deliveries to her Tavistock cottage—one with the bracelet and news of Charles’s death in Spain, the other with news of Christien de Meuse née Christophe Arnaud, in Dartmoor and needing her to fulfill her promise to help him, as he had helped her husband.

“Are you certain?” Barnaby had paled, and no man could make himself pale. “My lady, this is distressing.”

“Indeed it is. I don’t like my family being in danger.”

“Oh no, your family isn’t in danger. We would never endanger you or your family. I just need the introductions and will see to the rest of the . . . investigation.”

Lydia slid even closer to the edge of her chair. She leaned toward Barnaby, her gaze intent upon his. “And what, sir, is that investigation?” She held her breath, waiting to see if he would say the same thing as Christien or something far different.

“You needn’t know, my lady. It’s best if you don’t.”

“Then I am free to go to the Home Office and tell them what has happened to me and ask about you? Or perhaps simply go upstairs and tell my father. He’s a member of Parliament and sits in the House of Lords.”

Barnaby’s hand clamped down on her wrist, and his eyes turned to pure steel. “Don’t do that, my lady. Please. The fate of Great Britain rests on your discretion and assistance and silence.”

“Why?” Lydia whispered the word through gritted teeth, and she forced herself not to jerk away and smack him across the face for grabbing her.

“Because we have traitors in the highest echelons of Society, men who are to England what Lafayette proved to be to his class in France—revolutionaries.” Barnaby released her and returned to his relaxed pose. “This I blame on the influence of French émigrés. Not all are here because they object to Napoleon’s reign.”