Lessons in French (29 page)

Miss Ladd and gone to Norwich to have three children; he had not been posted to the

West Indies. For a moment she could think of nothing to say. They had been strolling

slowly, and the door of the Gerard lay only a few steps ahead. It seemed to her to be a

portal of escape now, a place she could run away and hide. A furious part of her wanted

to tear off her veil and reveal herself, but she could not be so rash in spite of the ugly

lump in her throat. She had to be rid of him.

"It's a very affecting story, Monsieur," she said, assuming a cold hauteur. "I thank you

for telling me, but still I don't recall anything of our meeting. I think perhaps you have

confused me with another lady. Now I must leave you. Adieu."

She detached her arm forcibly from his clasp, in spite of his quick objection, and

glanced back toward Charles. The footman came forward with a determined look on his

face. Callie felt a wave of relief as the big servant imposed himself between her and

Major Sturgeon. Charles escorted her up the steps. She dared to glance back once and

was alarmed to see that the major followed them right into the hotel. She hurried her

pace, going directly to the staircase. Only when she reached the upper floor did she

pause, catching her breath. He hadn't the effrontery to pursue her that far, at least.

She looked at Charles. "
Merci,
" she said in grateful French. "I did not know how to

escape him."

"Ma'am, I don't speak that Froggie talk, I'm sorry." The footman bobbed his head

apologetically.

"Oh." It was a relief to slip back into her own language. She'd thought he must be one

of Trev's French retinue. "I'll be pleased to thank you in English, in that case! I'm very

glad to be rid of him."

"Was that officer swell taking liberties, then, ma'am? I weren't certain. I'd 'a made a

dice box of his swallow, if ma'am just give me the office."

His thick slang was almost as foreign to her as the French, but she understood his

meaning. "Yes, I'm sure you would have, but I didn't wish to make a scene." She paused,

not sure if she should speak openly of Trev's plans. "Do you know my maid, Lilly?"

"Aye, ma'am." He nodded toward the street. "The little chick-a-biddy what's giving

Monsieur's bruisers the chaffin' gammon up the tailor shop."

She was entirely mystified by this description of Lilly's activities but decided not to

inquire into it too deeply. "Go down and tell her to wait for me at the dressmaker's," she

said, "but she mustn't let the major see her. I'll stay here until he goes away, and then I'll

be obliged to you if you'll take me to join her."

"Now you just leave that officer nob to old Charlie, ma'am. We'll give him some proper

pepper, me and Monsieur's lads. He'll bolt off right handy, or we'll dislodge some of his

ivories for 'im."

"Oh no. No, you must not start a fight—is that what you mean?"

He shrugged. "Won't be much of a fight, ma'am," he said with some regret. "Not unless

he's got a screw loose."

"I don't want any sort of fight at all," she said hastily.

"We'll just carry him out, then," Charles offered.

"No no, nothing of that sort. We mustn't draw undue attention."

The footman submitted to this, though he seemed disappointed. "S'pec so, ma'am. It

might blow the gaff, aye."

Callie realized that under his powdered wig and formal coat, the muscular Charles was

quite a "bruiser" himself. Trev seemed in the habit of hiring very large menservants, for

which she was rather grateful at the moment.

"I think it's best to wait quietly until he leaves," she said. "I'm sure he won't linger." She

only wanted be out of this disguise, to retreat into the safety of her own rooms to lick her

wounds, but the chambers at the Gerard were at least a refuge for the moment. She was

glad now that Trev was gone for the night, so that she wouldn't have to tell him of her

encounter with the philandering major. Not, at least, until she had composed herself.

"Send word up to me when you're certain that he's gone away entirely. Make sure of it

first. I don't dare to let him see me again."

Fourteen

A FIRE BURNED GENTLY, WARMING THE ELEGANT PARLOR. The tea tray still

stood waiting on the table set for two. If not for Major Sturgeon, she might have been

sitting here cheerfully with Trev, celebrating the successful announcement of the

Malempré Challenge. Instead she was feeling as if she had been soundly slapped. She

took off the veil and sat down heavily.

She had not desired to marry the major, but with no other happy prospect before her,

she had allowed herself to consider it as a practical possibility. A marriage of

convenience merely, but at least she would have her own home. He was so eager to marry

her fortune, she was sure that she could negotiate anything she pleased in terms of her

livestock. She was not averse to a household with children in it. She had a talent with

them, as she had a talent with animals.

Infidelity—she had assumed that she could tolerate that. It wasn't as if she hadn't

known what sort of man he was already. If she had taken a moment to think it through,

she wouldn't have been surprised to find him entangled with another woman again even

as he courted her.

But knowing precisely what he thought of her, hearing it said so bluntly—she felt as if

a miserable thick stone were lodged in her throat. He gave her pretty compliments to her

face, while in fact he thought she was cold and plain and dull. And she was. It was the

truth of it that made what he'd said so painful. She did not really care what Major

Sturgeon thought of her, but he wasn't the only gentleman she knew who could tell a lie

with convincing skill.

She sprang up, gripping her hands together as she paced to the fireplace and back again.

A horrid notion began to possess her. It was mortifying to think of how much she must

have revealed of herself to Trev. He meant to give her three days of happiness, in the best

way that he could. Husband and wife, deep in love, a little pretense of what she longed to

have.

How Lady Shelford and her friend would laugh at that! Dowdy Callie, wed to a man

who might have a love affair with any woman he chose. And she would have to sit with

her eyes fixed on the toes of her shoes and listen to the whispers about it. She would

rather live in a ditch and eat worms.

With Major Sturgeon's cold words to steady her mind and prevent any f lights of fancy,

she tried to think back on the things Trev had said to her, the contradictions and awkward

moments. He did care about her, she had no doubt of that. He didn't wish for her to be

unhappy. He'd tried to buy Hubert back for her, he'd created this outlandish scheme to

make an adventure for her, he worried that Major Sturgeon would hurt her. He said… he

said that he loved her.

She should put no great stock in that, of course. Trev could not endure to see

unhappiness around him. Nearly every adventure she had shared with him had been a

rescue of some hapless creature from captivity, or a clandestine attempt to emulate Robin

Hood on behalf of a downtrodden victim. If truth be told, she had known him to go to

absurd lengths in his efforts to heal the smallest hurt or suffering in those he cared for.

And if he could not do it, he would disappear.

She felt a deep chill inside, a prickle at the nape of her neck. She squeezed her eyes

shut, remembering how she had almost—almost—blurted her dream out loud to him. He

had understood her perfectly, of course, but he had not betrayed it. It was like a play, and

they each had their parts. She could be Madame Malempré and enjoy this moment that he

offered, understanding that it was only as enduring as a single waltz, but better at least

than sitting out every dance.

Callie's throat felt closed and swollen, but she did not weep. She felt no anger now

when she thought of Major Sturgeon, only a vague distaste, and a sharp hole in her heart

that was impossible to fathom. With mechanical moves she made tea for herself, pouring

water into the polished kettle and placing it on an ornate hob beside the fire. She sat

down, toying with one of the delicate slices of cake.

They were friends. She should not, could not, must not, think of more.

It calmed her to reach this conclusion. She had been struggling in a welter of confused

feelings ever since his return, unable to make sense of his intentions. As it all came clear

to her now, the heavy feeling in her chest receded. It was not as if she had ever really

believed that she would marry Trev. She couldn't even imagine it, in truth: living in

France among strangers, dealing with aristocratic guests and the evil Buzot and great vats

of wine. It was as improbable as her fantasies of Trev as a pirate and herself the captive

governess who stole his heart by learning to wield a cutlass like a Cossack.

She smiled a little at her own absurdity. The kettle began to boil, a soft rumble in the

quiet room. Callie made her tea and sat sipping it, trying to take a sensible view of her

future. It was high time that she left behind these silly daydreams, before she became odd

and ended up locked in some attic, collecting bits of string and candle wax and muttering.

She must exert herself to make the best of things as they were. She was dull and plain; a

definite pronouncement had been made on the subject, and it was stupid to argue the

point any further, no matter what Hermey and her father and the village goats might

claim. They loved her—at least Hermey and her father did; she couldn't say about the

goats—and people who loved one saw a different person, a person bathed in the flattering

light of affection. Look at how Hermey seemed so taken with Sir Thomas, who was

certainly as dull as Callie, and perhaps even duller.

No, to live out her life as a spinster sister, politely unwanted, was impossible. She

would marry Major Sturgeon in spite of his faithlessness. There was no other tolerable

prospect. She knew the truth about him, and while she didn't enjoy knowing, there could

be no further wound in it. Her eyes were open. It was a common thing among the ton, she

believed, for a married couple to live quite-unrelated lives.

Before Trev went away, she would make sure that he knew she had accepted the

officer's very flattering proposal. He wouldn't depart thinking she was unhappy with her

choice. She had never lied to him before, but she would.

A gentle knock made her put down her cup. The boot boy's muff led voice spoke the

name of Madame briefly as he slipped a folded paper underneath the door. She stood and

peered down at the handwriting.

Major Sturgeon had not yet given up and gone away, it seemed. The preposterous

man—he had sent up a letter, which Callie put into the fire without breaking the seal. She

had a pretty exact idea of what it would say. He must be desperate indeed, to be so rash

as to send a missive to the very chamber where Monsieur Malempré himself was

supposed to be resting with the headache! No doubt the thought that he might find

himself engaged at any moment to the tedious Lady Callista made him wish to cement a

more agreeable alliance at once.

For an instant she wished Trev were there to share the bleak comedy of it all. She

laughed in spite of herself, thinking of what he would say about Sturgeon lurking at the

hotel door and writing fraught pleas to Callie under the illusion that she was his long-lost

paramour.

Just what the world needs: more bloody fools.

In the wee hours of the morning, a sleepy groom threw a blanket over Trev's horse and

led it away, its breath frosting in the lantern light. After a warm autumn afternoon, the

wind had arisen and the temperatures dropped suddenly to a bone-cracking cold. By the

time Trev reached Hereford, well after midnight, his muffler was frozen and his hands

were stiff inside his gloves.

Fortunately he'd left word that he would return late. The boots unlocked the door

promptly, greeted him in a cordial, low voice, relieved him of his great coat, and led him

upstairs with a shielded candle. The service at the Gerard was excellent.

Trev sat down by the fire, pleased to see that it was still well tended. He allowed the

boy to pull off his boots, gave him a generous coin, and then sent him away, murmuring

that he could do for himself tonight. By the red glow of the coals he stripped, feeling

prickly sensation come into his toes as they warmed after a long ride in the icy night. He

sat drowsing in his shirttails, his bare feet stretched out beside the fire.

He'd lingered late with his maman, for she'd been in a lively humor, full of questions

and gentle gibes, laughing over the portly "peeg," and demanding a full description of

what the couturier had done for Lady Callista's wardrobe. She'd scowled at the intrusion

of Major Sturgeon, as engaged in the difficulties as if she'd been in the midst of the

Hereford scheme herself. He could see that she expected him to announce at any moment

that Callie had agreed to marry him. He did not disabuse her of this notion. To be

perfectly candid, he might even have encouraged it a little, because it pleased him to see

her look so knowing and contented, smiling like a cat over a bowl of fresh cream.