3

The first of the three Bainbridge carriages slowed, turned, stopped. A glance out of the window and Honore’s squeals told Lydia they had arrived at Bainbridge House in Cavendish Square. The Season had begun. Her role as government agent had begun.

She wished the carriage would continue around the circle of fenced-in grass in the center of the houses and depart from London to unknown places.

The carriage didn’t budge. Honore grasped the door handle.

“Wait until a footman—”

Lydia’s admonition fell on deaf ears. Honore leaped from the carriage before a servant lowered the steps. One of the two men sent out to assist with the vehicles stopped and stared at the golden-haired girl racing toward the house.

“She’ll have to lose those hoydenish ways if she doesn’t want to ruin her chances for vouchers to Almack’s,” Barbara said with a sniff.

“She’ll settle after she’s been here a bit.” Lydia rubbed her naked wrist. “We’ll wear her down with shopping. Every day . . .”

Every day they would be out at the shops, buying fabrics, choosing patterns, enduring fittings, purchasing shoes and fans and hats to match. Lydia needed another bracelet so her bare wrist would stop irritating her. She needed painting supplies if she wanted to get work done before Father arrived with his disapproval of her art. Cassandra would want to haunt the bookshops and libraries and would insist on visiting the museums. Honore would want to see what was left of the menagerie at the Tower.

Lydia had a list of printers and newspapers to call upon with her portfolio. She hoped to interest a printer in her work to make more income. The endless activities preceding the Season just might prove to be her savior.

If she wasn’t home, she couldn’t receive callers. If she didn’t receive callers, she couldn’t introduce anyone into Society. If she introduced no one into Society, she couldn’t comply with the blackmailer’s wishes.

Which might turn out to be dangerous.

“I can’t do this.” She clutched at her suddenly throbbing head.

Barbara patted her hand. “We’ll have you into bed with a hot brick and tonic in a moment. All will look so much better with a good night’s sleep and no travel in the morning.”

Lydia squeezed out a smile. “I’m sure you’re right.”

If only Barbara were right. But too much time passed before Lydia could find out if Barbara’s idea worked. First Lydia needed to oversee the unloading of the third carriage with its mounds of luggage and ensure each person’s belongings reached the correct room. Those rooms needed an inspection to make certain sheets had been properly aired, grates swept, and chimneys cleaned before fires could be allowed to burn. Everyone wanted hot tea and a hasty meal.

Fires blazed in a trice, but hot tea and even the coldest of collations remained absent. Lydia promised to find out the reason after she sought out extra blankets for Mama’s room, which seemed oddly absent of warm coverlets.

Lemster, the longtime butler, found her on her knees in the linen room, praying for a few moments of peace more than seeking blankets. She jumped at his cough behind her and glanced up. “I thought we kept blankets on the bottom shelf.”

“We have a special box of cedar on the top shelf, Miss—er, my lady.” Lemster’s gaze flashed upward. “I’ll lift them down for you. They might be too high for you.”

“Of course.”

Lydia stood three inches taller than the butler, but he’d known her since she was born and likely still thought of her as a little girl to whom he’d smuggled sweets from her parents’ parties. She didn’t mind the assistance in the least. A headache pounded behind her eyes.

“About tea?” she asked with a hint of desperation in her tone.

“Ah, yes, that’s why I came to find you.” Lemster sighed. “Cook is having histrionics because you all are here and she’s not prepared.”

“No, I’m sure she isn’t prepared. She didn’t know when we would arrive. Did you or Mrs. Pollock assure her a cold collation is acceptable?”

“It’s no use. She has her pride, and sliced ham offends her sensibilities.”

“I’ll go down.” Lydia closed her eyes. Lights flashed, and she snapped them open again. “Who is the cook these days? I believe Monsieur St. Jacques retired?”

“Ha, that’s what he claimed, the lying—” Lemster closed his lips.

Lydia raised her eyebrows and waited for the enlightenment she knew was coming.

“He took the pension from Lord Bainbridge and went off to the country seat of some French family.”

“In France?”

“No, my lady, émigrés who’ve settled in Shropshire.” He spoke the last word with a curl of his upper lip.

“Now, Lemster, French émigrés are not the enemy.”

Unlike French prisoners.

A shudder ran through Lydia. “So who is the current cook?”

“His daughter.” Lemster looked like she’d served him nothing but lemon tarts minus the sugar.

A corner of Lydia’s mouth twitched. “I’ll go talk to her.”

She left the blanket distribution to the butler and descended the back steps to the kitchen. She pushed through the green baize door to the aromas of cloves and garlic, onions and baking ham, the smells so strong she had to brace her hand against the door frame while she fought off a wave of dizziness. Suddenly, she couldn’t recall the last time she’d eaten more than a mouthful. Probably the day she left for London.

The day she waylaid her journey at Dartmoor Prison.

She jerked her thoughts away from that Frenchman and focused on the French lady. In the center of the room, a petite female in a snowy apron and cap presided over surely every other servant in the house, including Mrs. Pollock, the housekeeper.

“Sliced ham, I am told to serve them. Me, who makes a finer pastry than even my father, expected to serve sliced ham.” The accent was slight, the volume great, and the face as delicate as perhaps one of her self-acclaimed pastries. “If they had but sent a rider ahead, one little boy on a horse, I could have had the meal divine ready.”

“Or wasted it if we were delayed.” Lydia broke into the recital.

The cook fell silent. The servants spun on their heels and bowed or curtsied, except for Mrs. Pollock. She wrung her hands, and it looked like tears would begin to leak from her faded blue eyes, as they did the cook’s big brown ones.

“Miss Bain—I mean, m’lady, we didn’t know you were here,” Mrs. Pollock all but whimpered.

With her lined face, silver hair, and stooped shoulders, the housekeeper should probably be the next servant to retire with a pension. Shadows deepened the set of her eyes, and a tremor showed in her hands.

Lydia felt like crying herself. She’d known the housekeeper all her life.

“Mr. Lemster sent me down.” Lydia blinked. “You have all prepared for us as well as can be expected, and I want to assure all of you, especially you, Mademoiselle St. Jacques, that we will delight in your fine pastries at another time. For now we simply wish for . . . whatever is available.”

Her bed and a hot brick and Hodge. Perhaps a cup of tea and some toast.

“Ah, madame.” The tiny cook rushed forward, parting the crowd of maids and footmen like a cutter parting a wave. “You are unwell. Do sit yourself down and I shall make you the remedy. It’s the head, no? The megrims?”

“No. I mean, yes.” Lydia found herself nudged into a chair.

A clap of hands small enough to belong to a child sent servants scurrying for this ingredient and that. A ham appeared on the table with a footman slicing it as thin as foolscap. Two maids crouched at the fire, slices of bread on toasting forks. For Madame. The chef busied herself pulling a pinch of spices from one box and a scoop of herbs from another. She poured boiling water into a pot and assembled it with a cup on a tray, which she presented to Lydia like an offering.

“This will make you well,” Mademoiselle St. Jacques announced.

Lydia sniffed the steam billowing from the spout of the silver teapot. She caught a whiff of mint, chamomile, cinnamon, and . . . “Lavender?”

“Oui. C’est tres bien. I will pour. Unless you do not wish to partake in the kitchen?”

Lydia smiled. If only the woman knew how she’d prepared most of her own meals and eaten at the kitchen since her marriage. She would probably be scandalized.

“I’d rather not move,” Lydia admitted.

“Bon.” The cook poured the fragrant brew into a cup. “Drink, then eat the toast and go to your bed.”

Lydia took a tentative sip of the tisane. Her nostrils flared at the sharpness of the aroma. Something inside her head expanded like a sail filling with hot air, and she took a full mouthful. “It’s delicious.”

Beaming, the cook darted to the hearth to gather up slices of toast and add them to Lydia’s tray. “Eat and drink. All is well when one has food. Tomorrow I will create the meal most special, and you must enjoy it.”

Lydia suppressed the urge to say, “Yes, ma’am.” Instead she said, “Where are you from, mademoiselle?”

“I am from Shropshire now, a loyal subject of poor King George.” The French woman’s mutinous expression dared Lydia to ask her further questions of her origins, then softened. “I’ve been here for twenty years, but always mon papa said to speak the French, that the English nobility prefer the French.”

“Odd, isn’t it, when we are at war with the French? For myself, I prefer English.”

She doubted she would speak another word of French in her life after her last conversation in that language.

“I will endeavor to speak the English, madame.” The cook went back to work on a kettle suspended over the fire, and Lydia added nibbles of toast to her swallows of tea. By the time she finished the first cup, her headache had eased and her stomach no longer rebelled. She managed to rise and direct a footman to take the tray of food to the back parlor, where her mother and sisters and Barbara awaited, and headed for her bedroom.

As she hoped, Hodge and a hot brick resided on her bed. She snuggled under the quilts, fell asleep within minutes, and dreamed of a Frenchman with deep blue eyes and a melodious voice. She kept shouting at him to speak English, but he continued to prattle on in French.

“Fool.” She woke herself up with a start.

Her headache had indeed gone, but fearing she would dream of Christophe Arnaud again, she climbed from bed and pushed the curtains aside. Gray light spilled into the room. At the top of the area steps below Lydia’s window, the cook berated a tradesman for doing something inferior.

“I’ll have to speak to her about making so much noise this early,” Lydia grumbled.

A glance at the enameled clock on her mantel told her the time was not all that early. She had slept for nearly twelve hours. And the cook’s harangue explained why she’d been dreaming of a Frenchman.

Lydia hoped it wasn’t because, somewhere in her brainbox, she thought of him with kindness. After he had betrayed her, no kindness toward him should remain.

Shivering in the morning chill, she pulled the bell rope and began to hunt out clothes to wear. She’d planned to take a day or two to recover from the journey before launching into shopping and sightseeing excursions, but her thoughts of the day before prompted her to drag her sisters out of the house that morning. Honore would be no trouble. Cassandra, on the other hand, was likely to rebel. The London townhouse boasted a fine library full of books collected by Bainbridges for the past fifty years.

Dressed with the assistance of a housemaid, Lydia descended to the library and found Cassandra poring over a thick volume, a quill in one hand, a cup of coffee in the other. She wore her dressing gown and spectacles, and her dark hair hung in tangled ribbons down her back.

“What will Lord Whittaker think of you looking like that in the morning?” Lydia asked.

Cassandra jumped. Her spectacles slipped down her nose and she snatched them off. “He won’t. He’s never seen me in spectacles. I’ll take care to wear them only when—when he’s not about.”

“Hmm.” Lydia didn’t like the sound of that. “Cassandra, perhaps you should tell him first. You can’t always be alone once you’re married.”

“You were always alone after you were married.”

Lydia’s face tightened. “So I was. What could I know?” She started to turn away.

“Oh, Lydia.” Cassandra leaped from her chair and flew across the room, displaying a shocking amount of leg through the parting dressing gown and a too-short night rail. “I didn’t mean—I never think—I’m a beast. What can I do to make it up to you?”

Lydia braced for Cassandra’s hug. “Get dressed and be ready to leave the house within the hour.”

“Where are we going?”

“The Pantheon Bazaar for fabric and Gunter’s for ices and cakes and wherever else we must.”

“We’ll be out all day?” Cassandra’s face registered dismay. “I really cannot go. I need to finish this canto and just discovered the answer to a phrase—”

“You are getting married in three months. You need clothes for your wedding journey and your new status. Those pale muslins won’t do any longer, which is good. They make you look sallow.”

“Whittaker says I have a creamy complexion.”

And a fine dowry for a younger son, who hadn’t expected to inherit the title and estates and cotton mills of his brother.

But she shouldn’t be so cynical. She had scarcely spent an hour with the young man. For all she knew, he desperately loved Cassandra. She was a charming girl, once one got her nose out of books.

“Let’s find fabrics that complement your coloring,” Lydia said. “It’ll take weeks to outfit the two of you.”

Weeks in which Lydia hoped to avoid meeting callers with letters of introduction.

A vain hope. As London began to fill with persons preparing for the Season, many noticed that the knocker hung on the door of Number Ten Cavendish Square, and calling cards began to appear on the entryway table. Lydia wished she could sweep them up and use them for tinder in the fires, but she knew not returning the calls meant social ostracism for her sisters. As their chaperone, she needed to advance their status, not decrease it.

So on the Monday after their entry into town, she ushered the girls to the homes of ladies in their neighborhood. The day was clear and fine, and the Bainbridge ladies walked the short distance to the first house, directly next door to theirs. They stayed only long enough to leave their card and mention the date of Honore’s coming-out ball, a terribly late May 11, then they proceeded to the next house.

And so March passed without a hint of anyone arriving at Bainbridge House demanding an introduction to Society on the word of Mr. Lang. Peace settled over Lydia. She even began to enjoy wearing fine clothes again, scouring bookshops, and chattering lightheartedly over cups of tea. Perhaps this would all go well after all.

Then, on Good Friday, the twenty-seventh day of March, as they readied themselves for church, Mama emerged from her usual place beside the fire in her sitting room. “We must begin to receive callers, girls. I’ve decided that Mondays will be our at-home days beginning with next Monday.”