Lessons in French (39 page)

was developing a deep suspicion that there was something amiss with Callie's fortune,

he'd been forced to abandon the inquiry and leave for a little holiday in the country.

He should have avoided Shelford, of course. He'd meant only to make a brief pause

there to face his final farewells. Getting inside Dove House had not proved to be difficult,

but staying only a moment with his maman proved impossible.

"Who are these… Runners?" she asked, frowning a little.

"Fellows from London. Thief-takers by trade." He saw her glance up at him quickly

and gave her an easy shrug. "It's about the bull, I suppose. Lady Callista's magistrate

friend is a determined prosecutor, but they'll never discover me under your bed, eh?"

She looked at him in that way she had, sidelong beneath her lashes—the one that

reminded him where he had inherited his unsteady nature. Not from his upright patrician

grandfather, certainly. "Oh yes," she said with a little dismissive gesture of her hand. "I

have had news of Lady… Callista. She engages herself again… to marry. It is a very

stupid thing."

Trev grew still. He said nothing, only let it wash over him and past, a wave of emotion

and anger and all the things he had no right to feel. So, she had done it. He'd advised her

to. He gave his mother a tight smile. "Congratulations to her. Sturgeon, I suppose?"

"That military man… who left her at the altar before." She made a sound of vexation.

"It is because… you went away. I cannot approve!"

"It isn't your place to approve, Maman, after all." He took firm hold of his composure,

building a wall between himself and the space Callie occupied in his heart. "It's not a bad

match for her. She wants to have a home of her own and a place for her cattle. He should

be able to give her that much, at least."

The duchesse sniffed, wrinkling her nose. "He doesn't love her."

"What's that to say? It's a marriage, not a love affair. He'll respect her as his wife, that I

can promise you."

"Bah, how is that so, that you can promise it?"

Trev shrugged. "I had a little talk with him on the subject. In a back alley."

She lifted her slender eyebrows.

"You know I won't let him hurt her, Maman."

His mother gave a vexed sigh. She put her handkerchief to her face as it become a

cough. He watched her, concerned and guilty to see how weakly she moved.

"You should sleep now, before Nurse hears you and comes back to discover you

dancing jigs against her advice," he said.

"One thing… would make me dance," she whispered hoarsely.

"Maman—"

"You make me… cross," she said, speaking with effort. "Go and sleep… on the floor.

And if these Runners should come into my… house, you must pull the… blanket over

your head!"

The news that Lady Callista Taillefaire was engaged to be married to Major Sturgeon had

created a sense of wonder and awe among the inhabitants of Shelford that equaled the

appearance of a comet or some other profound astronomical event. Certainly it had

occurred with less warning. But the gentlefolk of Shelford overcame their astonishment

in their eager kindness and sent such a number of small gifts, congratulatory cards, and

perfumed letters that the pile threatened to overwhelm the porter's table in the hall, and

this in spite of the fact that no formal announcement had yet been made.

Callie knew where to lay the blame. Obviously the major had mentioned it to

someone—probably Colonel Davenport, in strict confidentiality—and from there the

word raced with that mysterious speed and force that only a secret in a small country

village could obtain. By the next day after her interview with the major, it was known to

Mrs. Adam, Mr. Rankin, Miss Cummins, and Miss Poole. By the second, Reverend

Hartman, Mrs. Farr, and Polly Parrot were acquainted with the facts of the matter. By the

third day, it was old news to the goats. Callie was only left to wonder if she ought to

make a formal announcement to Hubert. She supposed he must know, through the goats,

but she wouldn't want to hurt his feelings by being the last to mention it to him.

"Pssst!"

She paused, uncertain if she had heard the whisper, which seemed to emanate from

somewhere behind the bales of silk and shawls and cloaks piled high in what passed for

the fashion showroom of Miss Poole's mantua-shop. There was no one else in the back

room; nothing but fabrics and a faint sour-sweet scent that Callie could not quite place.

She had wandered there on the excuse that she was looking over the fabrics, but in truth

to escape the frequent congratulations from Miss Poole, which seemed to be unremitting.

Callie herself felt rather numb and lacked an appetite, but she could not quite tell if it was

from being engaged or expecting momentarily to hear that Monsieur Malempré had been

sent to his trial in Bristol.

The hissing sound came again. Callie frowned and looked about the dim corners. Her

sister and Dolly drank tea in the front room, poring over the fashion book while Dolly

made acidic comments on the poor selection in a country town. It was only an emergency

that had brought them to the length of consulting Miss Poole. Having got wind that Callie

had used up her sister's rejected coquelicot wool for a costume to be worn at the

masquerade ball two days hence, Dolly had positively shrieked with disgust. The

impossibility of allowing this cloth to be viewed in public by the guests at Shelford Hall,

particularly on Callie, had precipitated a sudden crisis. It was to be a royal blue, or she

could appear in her petticoat, Dolly declared. Callie would have preferred to simply

remain in her room, but Hermey protested that this would make her appear as if she

wished to hog all the attention, when everyone knew that Callie was engaged now too.

They would appear together—in suitably harmonious colors—or Hermey would break

off her betrothal and enter a convent, or become a milkmaid, or something on that order,

but worse. So Callie was at Miss Poole's, to be judged against the silks.

"My lady!" A plump white hand appeared from behind the mantled shape of a dress

form. It held a note, the folded paper waving in the faint light. Callie peered around the

form. Mrs. Easley crouched down behind it against the back door, holding her bottle in

her lap. Callie recognized the sweet scent of gin now.

The woman pushed herself to her feet and leaned against the door frame. "The

madame," she said, pushing a loose lock of hair from her forehead.

At that, Callie snapped the note from her hand. She opened it hurriedly. It said only,
My

good dear Lady Callista—I beg of you to come to me at once.
The handwriting was

shaky, and the duchesse's signature trailed off at the end to a fine thread.

Callie did not hesitate. She edged behind the dress form and followed Mrs. Easley out

the back door of the shop.

"An' so you're to be married, m'lady!" Mrs. Easley mumbled as she made weaving but

gallant attempts to keep up with Callie's stride. A fine sprinkle and lowering clouds

threatened rain, but as yet it was only a misting. "Dare s'y you'll be wantin' a cook for the

new establishmuum?"

Callie ignored this, drawing her shawl up over her head against the light dust of

raindrops. Her heart was too far in her throat to compose any sort of reply that would not

come back to trouble her in the future, so she merely kept walking and hoped Mrs. Easley

would fall behind. That hope took on substance when the former cook halted abruptly,

barely keeping her balance, as they came upon Dove Lane and saw a man in the distance

ahead of them. Callie would have hurried ahead, but Mrs. Easley grabbed her elbow.

"Hssst! M'lady! That's a one of 'em!" Her slurred voice took on sharp urgency, and her

fingers dug into Callie's arm. "Stop!"

Callie had little choice, as Mrs. Easley seemed bent on dragging her bodily back. "One

of who?" she asked, trying to disengage herself from the drunken cook's grip.

"'Em runner fellows, up from London. Thief takers, m'lady!"

Callie looked back. She could see the man loitering far up the lane, moving from side to

side in a strange manner, as if he were inspecting something in the dirt. She gave an

exasperated sigh. A genuine thief taker was a rare article in Shelford. The occasional

disappearance of a farm implement, which was usually discovered next spring where it

had been left under a rick during the last haying season, was what passed for a wave of

criminal activity in Shelford. In fact Callie could not remember ever hearing of one of the

professional policemen in the vicinity before. But doubtless if they were looking about

for thieves, Mrs. Easley had her reasons to avoid them. "You may go back, then," she

said. "The duchesse needs me."

Mrs. Easley seemed readily willing to take this advice, but she retained her hold,

muttering, "Have a care, m'lady! Don't 'er go near 'em!"

"I'll say nothing of your activities, I can promise you," Callie assured her. She pulled

away and took a determined stride toward Dove House. Mrs. Easley tried to cling,

uttering some further slurred objection, but Callie shook her off and turned down the

lane. She doubted any thief-taker would dare to accost a lady. She was walking quite

quickly by the time she reached him, and didn't hesitate or give him notice. She merely

hastened past, aware that he stopped and stared at her as she turned in at the gate of Dove

House.

The garden gate swung closed behind her with a bang. She didn't pause to ring, but to

her surprise the cottage door was locked. She rattled at the latch, then rang the bell with a

clamor. After a few interminable moments, Lilly's muff led voice came through the door,

demanding in a rather quavering tone who was calling.

"Lady Callista!" Callie responded impatiently. Her fear of the duchesse's condition was

rising with every obstacle that delayed her. "Do let me in!"

The door cracked. Lily peeked out, grabbed her arm, and pulled Callie inside, slamming

the door and turning the key in the lock. "Upstairs, my lady!" she said urgently. "Oh,

hurry!"

Callie ran up the stairs, almost colliding with the nurse at the top. "I'm sending Lilly for

the doctor, my lady," Nurse exclaimed. "She won't let me in the door, Madame won't!"

Callie looked at Nurse in dismay. She could hear the duchesse coughing violently.

"Won't let you in?"

"Locked me out!" Nurse said. "I fear the worst, my lady." She looked grim. "She's gone

out of her head."

"Go for the doctor yourself," Callie ordered. "And send Lilly to the Antlers to fetch Mr.

Rankin. He'll be able to unlock the door. I'll see if I can coax Madame to let me in.

Hurry."

As the nurse pounded down the stairs, Callie faced the duchesse's closed door. The

coughing beyond had ceased, which frightened her even more. She put her hand on the

latch and pushed, expecting it to resist her.

It gave way easily. She opened the door. A strong hand grabbed her arm. For the

second time in a few moments, she was yanked inside as a door shut behind her with a

sharp thump.

She caught herself and turned, looking from the duchesse, who was sitting up in bed, to

Trevelyan, who was engaged in locking the door. She had expected to find the duchesse

alone and dreaded to discover her in the midst of fatal spasms. Instead she was looking

quite animated and gesturing at the door with her handkerchief. For an instant Callie was

unable to perfectly comprehend the scene.

She glared at Trev.

"
You!
" Her whole body seemed to lose any sense of up or down; her hands went slack

and then began to tremble. "What are you—" She blinked back a peculiar stinging in her

eyes and nose. It was difficult to find any air for a moment, and then all her feeling came

rushing back upon her at once. "
You
!"

He gave her a look, a little shamefaced, a wry half smile, and a shrug, so much like him

that she put her hands to her mouth, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath into her

lungs. When she opened them again, he was still standing there. He was not a figment of

her strained nerves or imagination.

"What are
you
doing here?" she cried. "And that man… that man outside…" She

paused as the ramifications all came clear to her. "Oh my God—he's a
thief-taker
!"

Nineteen

"MY DEAR—WE MUST BEG FOR YOUR AID—IF YOU WILL assist us one more

time. I am so sorry to trouble you again! But there is a thief-taker, yes. I fear so."

The duchesse gave a little wry smile, and Callie saw where her son had inherited that

particular expression of self-deprecating appeal. But Callie hadn't gone through coaxing

Hubert out of a kitchen, masquerading as a Belgian lady, suffering an animal rout at the

cattle fair, and then discovering that Trev was married to some person who forged bank

notes, without learning anything. She resisted forcefully the danger of succumbing to any

Gallic charm.

"I'm very sorry," she said, holding herself stiff. "I had thought you were unwell, ma'am,

and so I came as quickly as I received your note. I'm happy to see that you aren't in

danger. Regarding thief-takers, I don't see what I can do in such matters. If you'll excuse