Lessons in French (44 page)

Callie sighed. "It must be one of her friends, to congratulate me. Are they talking? I'm

sure she won't miss me until after I feed Hubert."

"You're wanted to hurry, my lady." Anne placed a pin and stood back from an attempt

to secure Callie's hair that was only partially successful. "There. I'll send the hall boy

with some bread to the poor hungry beast. But you must hurry down." She met Callie's

gaze in the mirror with an expression that they both under stood. If Callie delayed, the

countess would make her life miserable in consequence.

"Very well." Callie rose. "Thank you, Anne, that will do, then."

"You looks very pretty, my lady, if I may say. The curls about your face become you."

"I only hope it won't fall down." Callie cast one last glance in the mirror and was

surprised and discomfited to see that she did look rather well, but in a tousled and pink

sort of way, very much as if she had just risen from bed after making love to a gentleman.

Which of course was quite the fashion according to Hermey, but it was rather unnerving,

considering the recent circumstances.

An impassive footman opened the door of the drawing room, which was even more

alarming, since normally John would have returned a nod and smile to her greeting.

Instead he stared straight above her head, which meant Lady Shelford was in high force

this morning. But as Callie passed, he turned just slightly, lowering his lashes and lifting

an eyebrow, and gave her what could only be described as a wink.

She hardly knew what to make of that. Just as she took in the fact that Major Sturgeon

was also present, in addition to Lord and Lady Shelford and several persons who were

strangers to her, she recalled that Trev had bribed the servants. The thought, and the

footman's wink, combined to make her lose all hope of maintaining any composure as

Major Sturgeon rose to take her hand and lead her into the room. She was so flustered

that she hardly knew what she was saying in reply to the introductions.

"But I'm enchanted to meet you!" A very pretty lady stood up from her seat beside the

countess. She was small and fairylike, with a twinkling smile and a confiding air, quite as

if she truly had been longing to meet Callie. "The duchesse has told me everything about

you!" She turned to Lady Shelford as she caught Callie's hand. "It's most kind of you to

receive me, ma'am, out of the very blue this way. But the duchesse insisted that I call on

Lady Callista and give her my wishes to be happy."

"Mrs. James Fowler," Lady Shelford said belatedly. Her demeanor was not quite as

coolly restrained as usual, and she glanced from the young woman to Callie in an odd,

energized manner.

It was that peculiar look more than her words that struck Callie first. She was in the

midst of some disjointed attempt at a courteous rejoinder when the realization dawned

upon her. She stopped speaking, and before she could recover herself, the other woman

smiled at her apologetically.

"Yes, I am
that
Mrs. Fowler," she said, managing to look abashed and charming at

once. "I'm very notorious, I'm afraid."

Callie was simply speechless. She apprehended that her hand was limp as Mrs. Fowler

grasped it warmly; she understood that she had to speak, to appear normal and at ease.

But it was utterly out of her power. "Mrs. Fowler," she repeated stupidly.

She managed to return a slight pressure to the friendly handshake. Next to this

delightful and delicate creature, she felt like Hubert standing beside a fawn. She was

amazed that Lady Shelford had admitted such an infamous caller, but then Dolly had

been fascinated and obsessed by reports of the crime and trial. She had even considering

leasing a window overlooking the scaffold, but Lord Shelford had proved too squeamish

to allow it and protested that she would be exposed to vulgar crowds. It was uncommon

for the countess to submit to her husband's will, but the suggestion of vulgarity had

impressed her, and she had reluctantly given up the plan. To have the scandalous Mrs.

Fowler drop into her lap, or at least into her drawing room, must seem a windfall of no

small proportions.

Callie summoned a shred of self-control, fearing that her shock would appear to be

disapproval. "I'm pleased to meet you," she managed to say. "You are a friend of

Madame de Monceaux?"

"An acquaintance merely," Mrs. Fowler said vaguely. "But I was on my way north to

reunite with my little boy, and I couldn't but pause to look in on her, she is so amiable, is

she not?" She gave Callie's hand a pat and looked directly into her eyes. "She particularly

said that I must leave a card on you, Lady Callista." She paused. "Of course I didn't hope

to find you at home, but what an honor it is!"

"Thank you. Pray be seated," Callie said weakly. This was Trev's wife, this exquisite

small creature with the pixie eyes. And that pressure on her hand— Mrs. Fowler had been

sent by the duchesse—she was here not to congratulate Callie but to find her husband, of

course.

As Mrs. Fowler returned to her chair, a gaunt and balding gentleman stepped forward,

the wispy remains of his hair floating behind his ears. He placed one hand at his back and

offered the other to her. "Sidmouth. Your servant, my lady," he said, brief ly bending

over her fingers. "Accept my wishes for health and great happiness in your union."

A large dose of smelling salts would have been more useful to her. "Thank you," she

whispered. She sat down abruptly in the chair that the major provided and clasped her

hands.

Dolly turned to Mrs. Fowler and began to inquire about the conditions of women in the

Fleet Prison, apparently oblivious to any crudeness in her enthusiasm to satisfy her

curiosity and gather some morbid tidbits to spread. Mrs. Fowler replied gracefully and

without any sign of resentment, describing her treatment as perfectly humane. She even

glanced at the Home Secretary with a confidential smile, as if they were both

connoisseurs of prisons, which Callie supposed they were. Lord Sidmouth, however,

returned the familiarity with a cool and impassive glance.

A servant handed Callie a cup of tea. She sipped, finding herself so far beyond frantic

that she was almost calm, sitting with her fiancé on one hand, the Home Secretary on the

other, and directly opposite—but she could not even quite compose the thought in her

mind. Mrs. Fowler kept glancing at her, even while replying so tolerantly to Lady

Shelford's questions. With every look, Callie felt more naked, as if her hair had fallen

down and her clothes vanished and she were lying tumbled in the bed with Trev the way

they had been all night together, with his outraged wife standing over them in righteous

fury.

Mrs. Fowler did not appear furious, however. She couldn't know the truth, of course—

though Callie had rather the idea that a wife could somehow deduce these things by

intuition or mesmeric currents or something on that order. It was the most disconcerting

thing of all, to suddenly think of herself as the other woman, particularly in regard to this

petite elfin beauty. Callie could perfectly comprehend that a gentleman would sacrifice

his life and honor for a woman like Mrs. Fowler. She was a princess from a fairy tale,

lovely and sweet and charming, with lips like a rosebud and petal-soft skin. Dolly seemed

fascinated, and Callie could hardly blame her. It was absurd to think of this delicate

creature sitting in a prison cell, and even more ridiculous to suppose that she could be

hung for a crime.

But for the Home Secretary, who appeared to find her uninteresting, all the gentlemen

in the room seemed quite taken with Mrs. Fowler. Only Major Sturgeon made any

particular effort to keep himself from smiling foolishly at her. Callie saw him catch

himself once and look deliberately away, glancing toward Callie to see if she had noticed.

She took a gulp of her tea and lowered her lashes. She hardly blamed him. If Major

Sturgeon had not been strongly attracted to Mrs. Fowler, Callie would have feared he was

coming on with some sort of condition.

But while all the masculine attention was fixated on the fairy princess, her attention

seemed to be fastened on Callie. After a polite period of bearing with Lady Shelford's

avid interest, the infamous caller found some means to excuse herself and come to sit

beside Callie, evicting the major from his seat with a pretty pleasantry.

"Now," she said, sitting down with a bright look, "we must have our private whisper

together, as all the ladies do with the bride-to-be, you know!"

Callie didn't know anything of the sort, but she nodded dutifully. "The picture gallery at

Shelford is thought to be of interest. Perhaps you would like to view it?"

"You're kindness itself, Lady Callista. The duchesse assured me it was so. Of course I

should be honored if you'll show me the paintings."

They rose together. Dolly and the earl both wanted to accompany them in order to

acquaint Mrs. Fowler with the illustrious history of the artworks, but she put them off,

insisting that they must not desert their distinguished guests for such a nobody as herself.

Lord Sidmouth, who seemed a perceptive gentleman, said that he would be glad to view

the gallery but only after another cup of tea. So Callie and the nobody were allowed to

depart without a full escort.

The long, gloomy promenade at Shelford, with paintings on one wall and a line of tall,

narrow windows on the other, offered an excellent location for a tête-à-tête. The weather

still waxed inclement, and hisses of rain added to the usual echoes, creating a suitably

murky background for any private exchange. Mrs. Fowler nodded and walked slowly

along, pretending an interest in the historical account that Callie pretended to give her,

but when they reached a safe distance from the drawing room door, the petite lady paused

and turned.

"The duchesse told me that you're hiding her son here," she said hurriedly, interrupting

Callie's mono tone on the comparisons between the Gainsborough portrait of her great-

grandmother and the Reynolds of the same subject.

Callie bit her lip. She glanced along the gallery to make sure they were still alone. She

gave a quick nod.

"Where is he? I must see him," Mrs. Fowler said.

Callie could not bring herself to say that he was staying in her bedroom. But the woman

had every right to see her husband, of course.

When she hesitated, Mrs. Fowler said anxiously, "Can you arrange it?"

"Yes." Seeing her fretfulness, Callie felt a sharp wave of guilt. She debated and

discarded a number of possible meeting places in her mind. Even the carriage house

wouldn't be safe, as all the vehicles were being readied to fetch guests for the

masquerade. "Oh!" An impulsive thought came to her. "Mrs. Fowler, can you come by a

costume of some sort? A mask?"

The other woman looked at her and then smiled mischievously. "Can you get me a

ticket?"

An instant after she made it, Callie was already regretting the suggestion. Anyone must

recognize Mrs. Fowler, it seemed to her, even masked. And it meant that Trev would

have to be abroad at the masquerade too—a thought that appalled her. "I'm not certain.

Where are you staying? If I can, I'll have it sent."

"Thank you!" Mrs. Fowler clasped Callie's hand between hers. "I haven't a room

bespoken, I fear. Is there an inn?"

"The Antlers," Callie said. "In the village."

"Oh, I do thank you!" Then she fumbled in her reticule and pulled out a note folded

over so many times and covered with so much wax that it was only a lump. "Give him

this." She pressed it into Callie's palm. "You are a heroine to do this for us!
Thank you!
"

By the time Callie reached her bedroom, she had found a target for the roil of emotion in

her breast. And he was so amiable as to be waiting for her, stepping out from behind her

door to take her about the waist and bestow an ardent kiss on the nape of her neck. As

Trev turned her in his arms she trembled with fury, which he seemed to misinterpret as

romantic passion, so that he was taken entirely by surprise when she planted a shove in

the center of his chest that set him reeling backward.

"Do… not… touch me," she said through her teeth. As he caught himself on the

bedpost, she lifted one eyebrow in scorn. She waited, breathing deeply, until he pushed

away from the bed and stood upright. "A Mrs. Fowler wishes to see you."

He'd glanced down to straighten his coat sleeve. At her words, his body stilled. He

looked up at her. "I beg your pardon?"

She held out the folded note. "Here."

He ignored it. "Mrs. Fowler?"

With a supreme effort, Callie held herself back from a vulgar display of her feelings,

such as screaming aloud or stabbing him with a hairpin. Instead, she said with a

dangerous coolness, "I believe you are acquainted with her?"

Trev stood looking at her. "Are you making a jest?"

Callie had a moment's pause. He made no attempt to soothe her or offer any excuse or

explanation for himself. He appeared to have no desire to hurry to Mrs. Fowler's side or

even to read her note. He didn't do anything but give Callie a look of slightly affronted