A Necessary Deception (22 page)

“I’m afraid she has. She was overset by you not coming home in time to take her.” Lemster stepped back to allow Lydia access to the house.

“Then whom did she go with?” Lydia demanded.

“The Tarletons.”

“That’s all right then.” Lydia sagged. If Honore was with the Tarletons, she was all right.

“And Miss Bainbridge went with her too,” Lemster added.

“Cassandra?” Lydia straightened. “Why?”

Lemster glanced at Christien and Lang behind her and cleared his throat.

“It’s all right,” Lydia assured him. “These are my friends.”

“Yes, my lady.” Lemster bowed to the gentlemen. “Miss Bainbridge said something about finding any husband was better than listening to . . . er . . .” He glanced toward the library.

“I understand.” Lydia suppressed a grim smile, then turned to Christien and Lang. “We need to go after her.”

“
Biensur.
But may I suggest, without offending . . .” Christien’s eyes flicked down the length of her.

She laughed. “Yes, of course I’ll change my dress. And I suggest you do much the same, monsieur.”

“I will return for you in half an hour,” Christien said. “Monsieur Lang?”

The men bowed and turned to the door. Lydia spun toward the steps, then raced up them. She heard someone call her name, a male someone. Father, of course. She continued up to her room.

Barbara perched on the window seat with a book. She leaped to her feet, and the book slammed to the floor. “Lydia, where have you been?”

“I need to get ready quickly. The yellow gauze, do you think? Is Vauxhall too common for all those gold spangles?”

“Lydia, you look terrible. Your gown, your hair.”

“Will not do for the gardens, I know.” Lydia began to struggle with the buttons down the back of her dress, gave up trying to reach them, and ripped them free. They flew across the room. Hodge streaked out from under the bed and gave chase.

Barbara shrieked and ran into the dressing room.

Lydia proceeded to change her clothes. She wished she were an old woman so she could wind a turban around her hair and not worry about pinning it up in a manner that would hold the mass in place for at least a few minutes. She compromised by plaiting it and winding the braids around her head in a coronet, then decorating it with a length of ribbon and jeweled pin she snatched from Honore’s room. That would do. She wasn’t trying to charm anyone with her looks.

She’d already charmed a gentleman with something.

Her breath caught in her throat, and she pressed her fingers to her lips, remembering, savoring Christien’s kiss, though it shouldn’t mean so much to her beyond physical contact. Maintaining her good reputation, she hadn’t so much as allowed a man to hold her hand since her husband died. Sometimes that proved a difficult rule to follow after a week of the privileges of marriage. But she had succeeded until Christien walked into her life.

Because she loved him?

“Lydia Bainbridge Gale.” Her father’s voice rang up the stairwell like a warning bell. “Don’t you ignore me when I call you.”

And Christien could walk out of her life when they caught their traitor, regardless of how she felt about him. Men had done nothing but rule her life and cause more trouble. She didn’t need to compound the experiences with another husband.

She opened her bedchamber door to find Father on the other side about to knock. “Yes, sir?”

“I want an explanation as to what you were up to today with that Frenchman.” He settled his hands on his hips and scowled.

“We went for a drive, had an accident, and got tangled up with Whitehall.” She set her lips so she didn’t laugh at his thunderstruck expression. “Now I must go find Honore,” she added.

“Lydia, you will not speak—”

She pushed past him. “Father, I know I am under your roof, but it is only as a courtesy to Mama. Please tell me to leave and I’ll happily do so. You and Mama and the girls can then see to Honore’s ball next week and to repairing Cassandra’s wedding without me.”

And Christien could catch his spy on his own and she could remove herself from temptation.

Behind her, Father said nothing. Footfalls light, Lydia skimmed down the steps and reached the front hall just as Christien returned.

“Are you all right?” He gave her that sweeping glance of his, a frown puckering his arched brows.

“Why would you ask if I am? Do I still appear disheveled?”

“You appear delightful,
ma chère
, but you have some extra color here.” He ran his fingertips along her cheekbones.

“Ah, my father is being autocratic. That being nothing out of the ordinary, shall we go?” She tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and steered him around to the door.

Heavy footfalls pounded on the steps, and she wanted to be outside and on her way before Father reached the entryway.

Christien glanced over his shoulder, then quickened his pace to the waiting carriage. It was closed. For a moment, Lydia hesitated, wondering at the propriety of riding alone with a man in a closed vehicle at night, then shrugged off the notion. She was a widow, not a green girl. It afforded her some privileges of behavior.

They spoke little on the ride down to the river. Because of the boatmen, they couldn’t speak freely in the wherry that carried them to the water steps of Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens. Once there amidst the shimmering lanterns, the crushing throng, and the orchestra, Lydia felt as though she still rode on the riverboat, with it sinking to the bottom of the Thames.

“We’ll never find anyone in this crowd,” she called to Christien.

He tucked her arm close to his side and leaned toward her to be heard over the laughter and chatter of hundreds of persons from all walks of London life. “The Tarletons will be in one of the boxes, I’m certain. We will start there.”

They started with the rows of cubicles that persons could rent for the tables and chairs and the meager suppers to be purchased. Beyond them lay the walks—winding paths through shrubbery that gave couples too much privacy. Surely Honore wouldn’t go with Frobisher or any other young man through one of those paths.

Oh, but she would.

Head pounding from the noise and too much cheap perfume, Lydia didn’t hear Christien’s exclamation of triumph until he drew her on a trajectory through the milling, dancing pleasure seekers. Lydia stumbled after him, then paused, a sigh of relief catching in her throat.

Lady Tarleton and Miss Tarleton sat with a handful of gentlemen Lydia didn’t know, but neither Honore nor Cassandra was with them.

“Good evening, my lady, Miss Tarleton, messieurs.” Christien bowed. “We apologize for this intrusion. We were led to believe the Misses Bainbridge are with you.”

The Tarleton ladies exchanged glances. The gentlemen pretended Christien hadn’t spoken other than nodding to him.

“Cassandra said she was staying home,” Miss Tarleton said.

“And Honore said she was attending a rout—or was it a soirée?—with Mr. Frobisher,” Lady Tarleton added.

So Honore was with Frobisher at some unknown location. And where was Cassandra?

He would never catch a traitor if he spent his time racing about after Lydia’s recalcitrant sisters. For a moment, standing beside Lydia, Christien strained at the bit like an intractable horse. Nothing but good manners stopped him from leaving Lydia to head out on her own to seek her sisters, or to go home and leave them to their father. If Bainbridge wanted good matches for his ladies, he should keep a better eye on them than he did, pay more attention to his family than his seat in the House of Lords. Christien had more important matters to tend to.

Matters in which Gerald Frobisher could be involved.

Christien closed his eyes for a moment. His face felt flushed in the warm spring night. He wanted to—needed to—hang his head for his uncharitable thoughts. Had he truly been considering putting duty before Lydia? And he wanted her to love him?

She should be on her own, all right, but not so he could be rid of her. More like so she could be rid of him. He needed to finish his mission before thinking about love and the future.

He bade good evening to the Tarleton party and drew Lydia out of sight of their box.

“How do we begin to find my sister?” she asked.

“To where else did she have invitations?” Christien matched his tone to her coolness.

“There was a rout, a soirée, and a play at Drury Lane. It could take us three hours to hunt for her in all those places.”

“And you think she’s with Frobisher?”

“I do, except that Cassandra went with her.”

“One sister at a time.”

If he could tuck them all up safely in their home, despite the father they didn’t want to face, he might be able to get down to his traitor-hunting.

“We’ll start with learning Frobisher’s whereabouts.”

“How?”

“I know where he lives.”

The boat ride back and carriage ride to the edges of Mayfair took nearly an hour. Frobisher’s establishment wasn’t fine, merely an adequate place to sleep. Leaving Lydia in the carriage, Christien rapped on the door. If Frobisher hired a valet or other form of manservant, getting information might be difficult. His own man proved loyal time and again. He had to be. Quite possibly the same with Frobisher’s. No amount of money bribed a good servant into revealing information.

No private servant opened the door. Instead, a rotund female somewhere past middle age yanked open the portal and scowled up at Christien. “What do you be wantin’ this time of night?”

“Mr. Gerald Frobisher.”

“Ain’t here.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“Mebbe.” The woman shrugged. The fat on her shoulder rippled beneath the thin wrap she wore over her nightclothes. “Depends on what a frog is wanting with him.”

“It’s personal business.”

Or possibly of national interest. For Honore’s sake, he hoped not.

He slipped a shilling into the woman’s pocket. “We have a debt to settle.”

“He can settle the debt he has with me first. Ain’t paid his rent in a fortnight, and I’m about to sell his fancy clothes, for all his pretty face pleases me.”

Revulsion crept through Christien, but he maintained his smile. “How much does he owe you?”

“You willing to pay?”

“If it’s reasonable.”

“Two guineas.”

The sum was exorbitant and probably exaggerated. Nonetheless, Christien gave her half and held the other coin in his hand. “His whereabouts?”

She told him. Christien groaned silently at the idea that Honore could be with him there. Most young ladies would demand to be taken home. Honore, however, sought adventure and excitement and probably would encourage her inclusion in such an excursion.

Christien thanked the woman, gave her the other guinea, and returned to the carriage.

“What did you learn?” Lydia demanded the instant he opened the door.

“Frobisher’s favorite place is what is commonly known as a gaming hell.”

Lydia grimaced. “Such a vulgar term. It makes me cringe when I hear it.”

“
Oui
, but it aptly describes the condition into which it leads too many men, and women too—outcast and completely despairing.” Christien dropped onto the seat beside her and knocked on the roof to signal for the coachman to get moving. “They’re nearly the worst of the dens of iniquity in this town.”

“What could be worse than a place called a—a hell?” Lydia choked on the word.

Christien touched her arm. “I don’t know if he’d take Miss Honore there.”

“She’d go.”

“I’m afraid I agree.”

Lydia covered her face with her hands. “Where did I go wrong? I’ve tried to tell her how to go on here in town, and she seems determined to ruin herself. And after Cassandra . . . I just want to get their futures safely established so I can go home and forget.”

Forget what? Him?

He tamped down the selfish pain. “Lydia, you’re not responsible for their futures. Their futures are in God’s hands and the hands of God’s caretakers on earth—your parents.”

“Who have designated them to me this Season. Mama is too frail to manage, and Father—” She flung up her head. “I don’t know why Father expects me to manage. He never thinks I do anything right. All my life he’s criticized whatever I do. If I was obedient, I didn’t succeed in what I did do. My painting, my marriage, my—” She paused. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t tell you all of this.”

“But you should.” He took her hand in his and laced their fingers together as best as one could wearing gloves. “Tell me more. What did he do when he was displeased? Did he . . . beat you as children?”

“Sometimes I wish he had. That pain would have been easier than the coldness, the constant criticism, the reminders of our failures.” She turned her face away from him, though the carriage lay in darkness. “I wish he weren’t right about my failure to succeed at even the most basic of womanly duties.”

“Oh, Lydia.” Christien’s throat closed. He swallowed and held himself rigid to stop himself from drawing her to him. She needed more than the physical comfort he could offer. “I want to tell you that God loves you whether or not you are what others think is a good wife or daughter or sister, but it’s difficult for me to believe for myself.”

“Was your father autocratic too?”

“No, my father was the kindest of parents. He disciplined us when we needed it and loved us the whole time.” Warmth and the familiar ache of loss expanded in Christien’s heart. “He brought us up to love God and be obedient to Him, but when Papa died at the hands of the French, I abandoned his teachings and set out on my current course. I don’t think God approves, and until I’ve stopped my attempt to cripple Napoleon, I don’t think God will have a great deal to do with me.”

“But if He’s all-loving, wouldn’t He, regardless of what we do?”

“He loves us, but we do have to repent, and I can’t do that yet.”

“And I don’t know how a loving God could give me the father I have and tell me to honor him.”

“The father you have has made you strong and courageous and determined not to give up.” Christien drew her hand to his cheek. “Your letters to your husband spoke of your ability to face adversity with a cheerfulness that helped me keep going when I sometimes wanted to let a French firing squad end my pain.”

“Christien.” She started to turn toward him.

The carriage stopped, and the coachman opened the hatch. “We’re here, monsieur.”

“
Tres bien.
” Christien released Lydia’s hand. “You wait here.”

“I’m coming in.”

“Do you have a mask? You can’t be seen here.”

“I’ll use my shawl like a veil. The lace is fine enough.” She proceeded to drape the gauzy wrap over her hair and face like a Spanish mantilla gone awry.

A dozen arguments on his tongue as to why she should remain in the coach, Christien climbed down and assisted Lydia to the pavement. In front of them a lantern displayed a plain white door. No brass plate beside the portal or swinging sign above gave an indication as to the nature of the establishment. Nor did its neighbors help. They lay in darkness despite the rules about burning a light outside at night. The stench of refuse strong enough to taste told its own tale of a less than savory neighborhood. Christien half expected to hear a scream.

Instead, he heard a meow.

A cat, half the size of Hodge and as black as Lydia’s cat was white, slipped from the shadows and began to wind itself around her ankles.

“It’s so thin.” Lydia stooped to pet it.

“Don’t. It probably has fleas.”

“But it’s so dear.”

Indeed, the creature had begun to purr.

“Perhaps they have more than drink inside and we can bring something out to it.” Christien raised his hand to knock.

“Yes, yes, of course. Inside. Honore. I feel like I should pray she isn’t there, but I don’t want to be disappointed with God if she is.”

Before Christien could respond—if he had a response—the door opened. A man taller than and as wide as the opening stood before them. “What do you want? This is a private house.”

“I don’t know the password, and I don’t want to cause trouble. I’m merely looking for a young lady.”

“This ain’t that kind of establishment.”

“No, not for that.” Christien’s ears burned. “She may be gaming and doesn’t have the money to do so. I’d like to take her home to her family.”

“Willing to pay her debts first?” the behemoth asked.

Lydia gasped. “Debts? She’s gaming?”

“Well?” The doorman pressed.

“Yes,” Christien said.

“But—”

He raised a palm to stop Lydia’s protest. “But not her companion’s debts,” Christien added.

“That one.” The guard spat a hairbreadth from Christien’s left shoe. “He can go hang for all I care.” He stepped back. “Come in, but if you cause trouble for this house, I’ll personally see you’re sorry.”

“We won’t.”

A moment later, Christien wished he hadn’t made such a promise. They descended a stairway darker and tighter than the servants’ stairs at a townhouse, pushed through an ironbound door, and entered a room so full of smoke and the stench of perspiration and cheap perfume he could scarcely breathe. Candlelight blazed with a lurid glow through the smoke, and faces appeared as mere blurs.

“No wonder they call it a hell.” Lydia stood as close to him as she could, her arm locked up with his. “How will we find her?”

“Especially since all the females are wearing loo masks.” Christien began to walk, seeking honey-blonde hair for Honore or guinea gold for Frobisher. Surely they would stand out.

They did. At the back of the room, past tables of faro and piquet, dicing and roulette, they found a table with three gentlemen and one female in card play, and several onlookers.

“Only one thing left to give up, sweeting,” one of the latter shouted. “Your virtue.”

Lydia gasped and gripped his arm harder, if possible. Christien clenched his fists. Planting the man a facer would do no good for anyone and would likely cause trouble.

“How much does she owe?” he asked.

All eyes turned toward him. Honore’s hands flew to her mouth, and she sprang to her feet fast enough to knock her chair into the man behind her, the one who had suggested she offer up her virtue for debt payment. The heavy back struck him in the middle and he reeled into the man beside him. The two of them staggered in a weird dance and careened into a third observer, and the group went down like ninepins, taking a tray of glasses with them. The pungent odor of brandy added its stink to the room. People shouted, cursed, began to fight.

Christien scooped Honore into his arms, flung her over his shoulder, and headed for the exit at a trot, Lydia still clinging to his side. Hands flung out to grab them.

The guard from the door stepped into their path. “Payment,” he shouted.

Christien veered to the side, knocked a table over between his group and the guard, and kept going.

He set Honore down at the steps. “Go.” He gave her a nudge in the center of her back.

“But my reticule—”

“Go,” Christien and Lydia commanded together.

The door behind them opened on billows of smoke and the roar of the tumult inside.

Honore went, running headlong up the steps. Christien and Lydia followed, the latter ahead. They burst into the night, the air sweet compared to the Hades belowground.

Door open, the carriage waited. Christien lifted Honore and then Lydia inside and leaped in after them. “Go!” he shouted to the coachman and slammed the door.

A fist pounded on the carriage. Shouts and the rumble of wheels rang out behind them.

“
Me-ow
,” said a fourth passenger inside.