The Secret Pearl (27 page)

“I have other plans for this evening,” she said.

“What?” He frowned at her. Water was falling in a steady stream from the brim of his hat.

“I have been invited out to dinner and the theater,” she said. “By neighbors.”

“Who is he?” he asked. “You had better not encourage him, Isabella. I would not like it at all.”

“Can you not conceive of a relationship of pure friendliness, Matthew?” she asked. Cold water was finding its way in a trickle down her back inside her cloak.

“Not where you are concerned,” he said. “Not with your looks, Isabella. We will stay here for a few weeks. But I expect a good portion of your free time. And I do not expect to have to deal with opposition. And that includes the duke. I hope he did not stay with you last night. For your sake I hope it.”

“I am wet and cold through to the bone, Matthew,” she said. “I am going indoors, if you will excuse me.”

He sketched her a bow and turned to run up the marble steps.

Fleur shivered as she let herself in through the servants’ doors. Yes, there was always that—the ultimate choice that she was going to have to make: either to marry Matthew, if indeed he did mean marriage, or to stand trial for murder and theft when the only witness was Matthew himself.

M
R
. C
HAMBERLAIN’S CARRIAGE CAME
for Fleur early in the evening. She looked down in some regret at her blue muslin dress and wished that she had had something else to wear. But she would not let anything spoil her evening. She was going to enjoy herself, she had decided earlier, especially after her talk with Matthew. If she had not had this invitation to honor, she would have been forced to spend the evening with him. Of course, there were tomorrow evening and the evening after that, but she would think of that when the time came.

Sir Cecil Hayward, a gentleman Fleur remembered seeing at the ball, appeared to have no conversation but what related to horses and hounds and hunting. But both Miss Chamberlain and her brother were lively conversationalists, and Fleur found herself very well entertained during dinner.

She had never in her life attended the theater, a fact that amused Mr. Chamberlain.

“You have never been near a theater, Miss Hamilton?” he said. “Amazing! How would the Shakespeares of our world survive if people were all like you?”

“But I did not say I had stayed away out of inclination, sir,” she said, laughing—and remembering a time when she had indeed been near a theater.

“This will be like taking the children out, Emily,” he said, smiling at his sister. “I suppose we can expect Miss Hamilton to be all agog and jumping up and down in her excitement.”

“I promise at least,” Fleur said, “not to shriek and squeal, sir.”

“Ah, then,” he said, “I suppose we can proceed on our way. You are willing to dispense with the port for tonight, Hayward?”

The theater was far smaller than Fleur had expected, the relationship between audience and players far more intimate. The audience hissed a singer who sang slightly off-key, whistled every time one actress with a particularly fine bosom appeared on the stage, cheered the villain, jeered the hero when he was abject with unrequited love, and applauded and catcalled through the final love scene.

Fleur loved every moment of it, action and audience both.

“Philistines all,” Mr. Chamberlain said into her ear. “They came here not to be entertained, but to entertain themselves. Of course, it must be admitted that there are more skilled actors somewhere in this country. I hope this experience will not give you a permanent disgust of the theater, Miss Hamilton.”

“Absolutely not,” she said. “It has been a lovely evening.”

Miss Chamberlain apparently did not agree. The heat and constant noise of the theater had given her a headache. And so after letting down Sir Cecil at his home close to Wollaston, the carriage took Miss Chamberlain home before proceeding to Willoughby Hall. Mr. Chamberlain insisted on accompanying Fleur there at such a late hour.

“Adam was not annoyed at my taking you from the house for a whole evening?” he asked.

“He told me that I might accept the invitation,” she said.

“Some people seem to think that their employees are their personal possessions and are not entitled to any free time,” he said, “let alone—heaven forbid—some social life. I might have known, of course, that Adam would be more enlightened. I have never known anyone who has succeeded in luring away any of his servants, though I have known those who have tried. Apparently he treats them more like family than employees.”

“He is always kind,” Fleur said.

“There was universal rejoicing in this part of the world when he came home so unexpectedly a year after being reported dead,” he said. “Thomas was probably the only one who was disappointed to find that he was no longer duke.”

“And yet,” Fleur said, “he is a very pleasant gentleman.”

“Oh, yes,” he said, smiling at her in the darkness of the carriage. “Granted. You are coming to Timmy’s birthday party?”

They conversed easily for a while before lapsing into a comfortable silence.

Mr. Chamberlain turned to her as his carriage crossed the bridge at the end of the lime grove. “I will kick myself for a coward and an imbecile and a slowtop if I do not at least try to kiss you before this carriage stops,” he said. “May I, Miss Hamilton?”

What could one say to such a request? No, she supposed, if one disliked the gentleman. She did not dislike Mr. Chamberlain.

“I see that my audacity has silenced you,” he said. “And I suppose it is difficult to say a polite ‘Yes, sir,’ to such a question. I hope it would not be so hard to say ‘No, sir,’ if that is what you wish to say.”

She saw him smile in the darkness before setting one arm
about her shoulders, lifting her chin with his free hand, and lowering his mouth to hers.

It was warm, firm, pleasant. He did not prolong the embrace.

“I wait meekly for a stinging slap on the cheek,” he said, withdrawing his arm and hand and sitting upright again. “None? I hope I have not offended you. Have I?”

“No,” she said.

“I shall look forward to seeing you in a few days’ time,” he said. “Perhaps we will even be able to exchange a few words above the shrieking of the children. Birthdays always cause more noise than any two other occasions combined. Have you noticed?”

He waited for his coachman to put down the steps before descending to the wet terrace in order to hand her out. He escorted her up the steps to the main doors, rapped on them, and bowed over her hand, raising it to his lips, before turning to leave.

“Thank you for your company, Miss Hamilton,” he said. “I have enjoyed the evening more than I can say.”

“So have I,” she said. “Good night, sir.”

She looked about her as the door closed, half-expecting Matthew or the duke to step out of the shadows. But there was no one except the lone footman who had opened the door.

She ran up the stairs and along to her room. She undressed quickly and climbed into bed, pulling the blankets up about her ears.

She would think only of the evening. At least for one night she would go to sleep happy. She thought about Mr. Chamberlain and his friendly humor. And about his kiss. And she wished that life could have started a little less than a month ago. She wished that there were no Matthew and no Hobson’s body lying under the ground somewhere close to Heron House. She wished there had been no London, no necessity of
remaining alive there. No Duke of Ridgeway. She even wished in some strange way that there had been no Daniel.

She wished there had been only Willoughby Hall and Mr. Chamberlain.

She thought again of his kiss, which she must not allow to be repeated. And of his attentions, which she must not encourage.

And she remembered warm strong arms tight about her, and a strong-muscled chest against her cheek, and a strongly beating heart against her ear. And she thought of waltzing with a partner who twirled her about with a firm hand at her waist and whose cologne had been a part of the beauty of the night.

She burrowed her head farther beneath the blankets.

T
HE FOLLOWING DAY CONTINUED WET
. The duke rode out in the afternoon with two of his more hardy guests to call upon some of his tenants. When they returned, too late for tea, it was to discover that the entertainment for the evening had been arranged already. Everyone was tired of charades, Lady Underwood informed him, meeting him in the great hall. They were going to dance in the drawing room.

“Indeed?” he said. “And who is to play for us? Miss Dobbin?”

“She is quite willing to do so,” Lady Underwood said, “but Walter insists that she be free to dance at least some of the time. Have you noticed that he is quite smitten with her, Adam? And have you noticed that I am less than smitten with Philip but have to make do with him in order to avoid dreadful boredom, you annoying man?”

“Well,” he said with a smile, “you will have dancing to entertain you for this evening, it seems. Who is to play when Miss Dobbin is dancing?”

“Oh, the governess,” she said. “It is all arranged.”

“Is it?” he said. “At whose suggestion, pray?”

“Matthew’s, of course,” she said. “He claims to have a slight acquaintance with her. I believe it is considerably more than slight, but only time will prove me right or wrong on that. Anyway, she is to play. Do tell me you will waltz every waltz with me, Adam. You do it so divinely.”

“I will be honored to dance the first with you,” he said. “Pardon me, ma’am, I must change out of these wet clothes.”

Did Fleur know how her evening had been organized? he wondered. Had she been consulted? Had she been told or asked? And did she think him responsible again for making use of her talents? He winced at the possibility. She was employed as Pamela’s governess, not as entertainer for his guests.

He wondered if anyone had thought of such details as having the furniture moved back in the drawing room and the carpet rolled up and music brought from the music room. He would wager no one had.

F
LEUR HAD BEEN LOOKING FORWARD
to a quiet evening with her embroidery in Mrs. Laycock’s sitting room. But just after lessons had finished in the afternoon she had been handed a hastily scrawled note from her grace, summoning her to play the pianoforte for a dance in the evening.

She was not unduly upset. She had been half-expecting some summons from Matthew, and while this might well be it, at least she would be in the drawing room in company with all the guests. She would not be alone with him.

A line of footmen was still busy rolling the carpet when she arrived in the drawing room. She walked back to the hall to wait until the room was ready for her. And she looked about her at the magnificence of it all.

She looked up to the dome, shadowed in the gathering dusk, and at some of the gilded carvings on the walls between the columns. Winged cherubs blew into slender pipes, their cheeks puffed. Violins were crossed with flutes.

“It was designed to be a place for music,” the duke said at her shoulder. “The gallery was made to be used by an orchestra. Unfortunately we have not had a grand concert or ball here for more than a year.”

Fleur turned toward him. His face was caught by the shadows of the hall, his eyes blacker, his nose more aquiline, his scar more noticeable than in the light. He was standing close to her, his hands clasped behind him. And she felt breathless and very aware that a solid Corinthian column was at her back.

“You have consented to play for us this evening?” he said.

“Yes, your grace.”

“Tell me,” he said, “were you asked?”

“Her grace sent me a note,” she said.

He grimaced. “I promised this would not happen again, did I not?” he said. “I was from home this afternoon. Miss Hamilton, will you do us the honor of playing? You are quite at liberty to refuse. This is not part of your duties as governess.”

“I will be pleased to, your grace,” she said.

He treats his employees more like family than servants
, Mr. Chamberlain had said of the duke the night before. Her grace had summoned. He had asked.

“You may wish to dance when you are not playing,” he said. “I am sure there will be several gentlemen who will be pleased if you do.”

“No,” she said. “Thank you, but no, your grace.”

“And yet,” he said, “you appeared to enjoy dancing during the ball a few evenings ago.”

“That was quite different,” she said.

“Allow me to escort you to the drawing room,” he said. He did not offer her his arm.

The drawing room looked somehow larger and more magnificent with the carpet rolled up and the white-and-gold chairs, upholstered in painted silk, moved back against the walls. The pianoforte too had been moved into one corner.

It was one of the most beautiful rooms in the house, Fleur thought, looking about her, unself-conscious because none of the guests were yet present. The walls were a pale blue, the coved ceiling blue, white, and gold. Great sheets of mirror made the room seem larger than it was and multiplied the effect of the crystal chandelier.

“The paintings are from Europe,” his grace said, seeing her interest, “though I have tried to gather works of our own artists in some of the other rooms. These are by Philipp Hackert and Angelica Kauffmann. Would you like to look through the music?”

She settled herself at the pianoforte and looked through the pile that someone must have been assigned to bring from the music room. All of it was music suitable for dancing. Many of the pieces were waltz tunes.

During the next two hours she grew increasingly more relaxed in the task she had taken on. Except for Sir Philip Shaw, who came up to the pianoforte and kissed her hand on his arrival in the drawing room, everyone else took remarkably little notice of her, calling to her only when they wanted a particular tune or type of dance. The waltz was an overwhelming favorite. Miss Dobbin appeared to have forgotten that she was to play for part of the evening, and Fleur willed her to continue to forget.

But the time inevitably came when she looked up between dances to find that Matthew was leading Miss Dobbin her way.