6

What ever had possessed her to purchase a red riding habit?

Lydia stared down at the deep wine-red jacket and skirt, then up at her reflection in the mirror. She didn’t look like a widow. With the red bringing out the roses in her cheeks and somehow making her hair glow with blue highlights, she looked like a lady in search of a husband, and with two men vying for her attention, that was the last impression she wished to give.

Not that they wanted her attention for any honorable reason. Barnaby and de Meuse needed her for her connections in Society. Seen with her, a widow above reproach whose ancestor had signed the Magna Carta, whose husband had died in the service of his country, the men would find themselves welcomed anywhere she requested they be welcomed.

Except perhaps Almack’s. No one told the patronesses whom to invite to those hallowed and—if Lydia remembered correctly—dull halls. But Lady Jersey had an eye for attractive men, and Christien de Meuse was certainly that—attractive, charming, treacherous.

If she could expose him first . . .

Yes, he should be the easiest man to be rid of, being French. Though émigrés dotted Great Britain—from kitchens as chefs, to dressing rooms as ladies’ maids, to drawing rooms as honored guests—the men and women who were or had served the aristocracy of France were not entirely liked or trusted.

With good reason. No one should trust Christien de Meuse. A mere month ago, he had been in Dartmoor, taken when the ship on which his regiment had been sailing was captured by the English Navy. She was supposed to believe he was a double agent, with England the country in which he placed his primary loyalty. That’s what he’d told her as they resumed their leisurely drive along Rotten Row and back. Mr. Lang was supposed to meet her in Plymouth and ask her to help. But a Mr. Lang had met her in Portsmouth and compelled her to help. No doubt, if asked, Mr. Barnaby and Mr. Frobisher would declare they were the loyal subjects of King George of Hanover and Christien de Meuse was the traitor, or the Frenchman in their midst would declare them traitors—Englishmen working for Napoleon.

“How to know the truth?” Lydia picked up her hat and perched it on her head at first one angle, then another.

Hodge leaped from the floor to a stool to the dressing table, then launched himself at the perky feather curling over the hat’s narrow brim.

“Beast.” Lydia jumped back in time to protect her hat and coiffure. “It’s not attached to a bird, I promise. Not that you’ve ever caught anything that flies.” Mice, on the other hand . . . Hodge earned his keep at the cottage. “Be a good kitty and I’ll take you for a walk in the mews later. Maybe even the park.” The idea sounded lovely even as she spoke it.

For now, she wasn’t riding out with de Meuse alone. She doubted she should be alone with any of the gentlemen, not in a carriage, on horseback, or in a parlor, regardless of crowds around them.

She wanted to stay alone in her room or find a quiet corner of the park to paint and think. But the hands of her clock pointed to 10:30, and Whittaker and de Meuse were expected any minute. Barnaby wasn’t expected for another half hour.

And there went the knocker. The banging of the brass ring echoed up the steps of the tall, narrow townhouse. Across the hall, Honore and Cassandra’s bedchamber door opened.

“Lydia?” Honore called. “Are you ready? I believe the gentlemen are here.”

Lydia joined her younger sister in the passageway. “You look lovely.”

“Not as pretty as you. How I wish I could wear that color.” Honore sighed.

“And I’m wishing I’d chosen your deep blue instead of red.” Lydia smiled. “But the blue suits you. It matches your eyes.”

“And Mr. Frobisher’s.” Honore’s eyes grew dreamy. “Did you notice that we have the same coloring? Don’t we make a nice picture?”

“If I say no, it would be a lie, but, Honore, you can’t be thinking . . . I mean, you just met him. You know nothing of him.”

“He’s a friend of your friend. Isn’t that enough? And in my novels—”

“Novels are called fiction for a reason, child.” Lydia smoothed a curling strand of hair off Honore’s face. “Life isn’t like that at all.”

“But you barely knew Sir Charles before you married him. Wasn’t that love at first sight? Didn’t you feel like your heart would just beat out of your chest when you looked at him, and get all warm—”

“That’s not love.” Lydia softened her tone. “Honore, love isn’t a feeling. It’s deeper. It’s friendship and understanding and—”

What did she know about love? Charles had departed for his regiment before the first blush of marital bliss had faded. He’d departed and doused the flames with the chill of rejection.

“We didn’t have friendship.” Lydia blinked against a mist in her eyes. “Get to know the gentleman a little first, Honore. He mentioned going to Watier’s. Men play a deep game there. You don’t want a gamester for a husband. And we don’t know if he’s a man of property.”

“I have a fine dowry.”

“Honore, please don’t toss your hat over the windmill for the first pretty face you see. Now, let’s be on our way. Monsieur de Meuse and Lord Whittaker are waiting.”

“Not Mr. Barnaby and Mr. Frobisher?” Honore’s full lips dropped into a pout. “But I understood they would be.”

“Perhaps later.”

God had ignored her prayers to keep the men away, at least until de Meuse had departed for whatever occupied his time. She didn’t want to pretend liking or even politeness with either man.

“Then perhaps I should wait.” Honore half turned toward her bedchamber door.

“You’re coming with us.” Lydia curved her hand around Honore’s elbow and steered her toward the steps.

“But there won’t be a gentleman to accompany me. I’m like a carriage with five wheels. It would look unbalanced.”

“My dear girl, if we don’t attract a whole platoon of eligible young men, I’ll be surprised. Now scoot.”

Honore scooted with enough alacrity to give Lydia hope that her younger sister liked the idea of other young men swarming around her. And surely they would. She was so pretty and sweet, if a bit too dreamy. Those dreams—the belief that attraction could be instant and permanent—caused trouble for too many young women. If Honore was one of them . . .

But she wouldn’t be. Lydia would make sure of it. That was one reason she’d asked de Meuse to come a half hour earlier than Barnaby and Frobisher planned to arrive.

With the time limit in mind, Lydia followed her youngest sister down the steps to the entryway. Honore stood talking to de Meuse and Whittaker, who poised beside them in a stance suggesting he intended to dash off somewhere at any moment.

“Where’s Cassandra?” Lydia asked.

“She’s not upstairs,” Honore volunteered. “I haven’t seen her for hours.”

“Hours?” Lydia gripped the banister and took a deep breath to stop herself from screeching. “Why didn’t you tell me she wasn’t ready?”

“Perhaps she is.” Honore shrugged. “I was in the music room playing the pianoforte and thought Cassandra had changed into riding dress before me.”

“Could she have gone out on her own?” Whittaker’s lips tightened. “She wouldn’t, would she?”

“Not for a minute.” Lydia finished descending the steps and patted his arm. “She’s in the house somewhere.”

“But did she not hear us knock?” De Meuse raised his brows. “I noticed she had the myopia, but—”

Lydia laid a finger across her lips. She couldn’t believe Whittaker hadn’t noticed that Cassandra barely saw more than a blur a yard from her face, but she thought he knew nothing and, for whatever reason, wished to keep it that way. It wasn’t Lydia’s or anyone else’s secret to share.

The notion that de Meuse had noticed without even spending time with Cassandra sent a chill rippling along Lydia’s arms, and she flashed a glance at Whittaker. He was speaking to Lemster and hadn’t apparently heard de Meuse.

“I’ll find her.” Lydia gathered up her train and mounted the steps.

A glance into the sitting room warned her that the hour approached with rapidity. If they didn’t find Cassandra and depart within the next few minutes, Barnaby and Frobisher would arrive.

She wished. She doubted.

Her heart as heavy as the extra long skirt of her woolen riding habit, Lydia pushed open the library door. She expected to see Cassandra bent over the desk with pen, ink, and half a dozen books in front of her. But the desk chair stood empty, the surface of the table clear of all but ink and quills. A quick glance hinted at an empty room. Lydia was about to close the door and search elsewhere when she caught the soft rustle of paper.

“Cassandra?”

A thud sounded from the far corner of the room, behind one of the long draperies that half covered the windows. “Who—? Oh.” Cassandra’s pale face showed from around the edge of the crimson velvet curtains that formed an alcove with a window seat. “I didn’t hear you come in. Did you need me for something?”

“We were scheduled for a ride in the park fifteen minutes ago.” Lydia spoke in an even tone with her jaw tight to stop herself from shouting.

“I thought we weren’t going until—dear me.” Cassandra rubbed her eyes. “I misread the clock. I’m sorry. Give me ten minutes more. I’ll be ready.”

Ten minutes more would take them too close to eleven o’clock.

“I’ll see if Whittaker wishes to wait.” Not daring to say more, Lydia spun on her heel and marched down the steps to the waiting group.

The waiting group, and Frobisher and Barnaby just entering through the front door.

Lydia sagged against the banister. “Cassandra will be delayed. Do you wish to wait for her, Whittaker?”

“Of course I’ll wait.” Whittaker’s smile was indulgent, his eyes patient. “She read the clock wrong, right?”

“Precisely. Good day, gentlemen.” Lydia turned her attention to the newcomers, her smile fixed. “Monsieur de Meuse, allow me to present Mr. George Barnaby and Mr. Gerald Frobisher. Though I expect the three of you are already acquainted, are you not?”

“We are not.” De Meuse’s tone was cold, his posture stiff.

Barnaby gave her an equally frosty glare and didn’t so much as nod to le comte. “We had an appointment, did we not, Lady Gale?”

“So did Madame Gale and I.” De Meuse looked down his high-bridged nose at the shorter man.

“I tried to tell you, Mr. Barnaby . . . I prefer to ride with my sisters.” Lydia glanced at her younger sister. “I couldn’t allow Honore to ride out alone with anyone I don’t know well enough to trust.”

Honore might as well have been alone in the entryway with Mr. Frobisher. They stood half a dozen feet apart but gazed into one another’s eyes as though breaking the contact would send them both crumpling to the floor.

Lydia felt sick.

“We need to be going.” Her tone was sharp, an ax to cut the contact between the two young people. Or chop the ice crackling through the air between de Meuse and Barnaby.

Would they lock her up in Bedlam if she simply began to bang her head against the nearest wall?

“The horses have been standing long enough.” De Meuse held out his arm to Lydia.

Before she could decide to take it, Mr. Barnaby stepped forward and took her hand. “I’m desolated not to have this opportunity to be alone, my lady. Surely we can ride ahead and talk.”

“I will ride beside my sister.” Lydia extricated her hand from his grasp and grabbed Honore’s arm. “Come along if you want to go.”

“What? Oh yes, of course.” Honore’s smile radiated enough light to break through a London fog.

The young lady showed to advantage atop her gray mare. She and Cassandra both excelled at horsemanship. Lydia had preferred a sedate trot to whatever site proved the best for her paintings or sketches.

Unbidden, an image floated into her head—an English bull mastiff facing a French boarhound across a frozen stream, with her stuck in the middle like some dinner table epergne. Her fingers itched to pick up her charcoal pencil and get to work.

She picked up her train instead and led the way to the door. Lemster, mouth grim, opened the portal for her, and she stalked down the steps to where several grooms held the horses.

“Lord Whittaker and Miss Bainbridge will be out in a few minutes,” she told the men holding their mounts.

“I’ll assist you in mounting, my lady.” Barnaby stood beside Honore’s mare.

“It is my honor, non?” De Meuse picked the right horse, a gentle roan gelding.

Roan indeed. Her wine-red habit would clash. All the better if she looked a fright. Perhaps she would embarrass the “gentlemen” so much they would choose to abandon her as their entrée into Society.

Barnaby’s eyes narrowed as Honore approached her mare. “I thought Lady Gale would want a more spirited animal.”

“Lady Gale is a gentle lady, an artiste, n’est-ce pas?” De Meuse cupped his hands together.

With the groom still holding the reins, Lydia had no choice but to accept le comte’s offer of a leg up. But she approached him with caution, another image of her sketch spreading through her head—her arms as bones over which the dogs were struggling, each trying to drag her to their side of the frozen stream.

Every nerve ending tense, she approached de Meuse. Always before she’d used a mounting block. Cavendish Square didn’t offer such a nicety, as did her family home in Devonshire. She knew how to mount with the assistance of a strong gentleman, and Christien de Meuse looked strong enough despite his prison stay—something that should have warned her then?—but she doubted her own strength, her own agility in gathering her skirts, holding onto the pommel, and launching herself high enough to land on the saddle and not fall short or go over the other side of the horse’s back.

“I won’t let any harm come to you, madame.” De Meuse smiled into her eyes. “That I have promised.”

“I ’ave ’er reins good an’ tight, m’lady.” The groom spoke up from the front of the gelding. “Nothin’ to fear.”

“Of course not.” Lydia made herself smile, then inserted herself between de Meuse and the horse.

Lydia grasped the pommel of the saddle, thanking God she was on the tall side and didn’t have to reach too far over her head. Then, bracing to keep her legs from shaking, she lifted her left foot and set it into the monsieur’s hands.

“Ready, madame?” His blue eyes held hers. Against the smoky blue of the sky above him, those eyes looked intense. She’d need the old lapis-based paint to get the color right. “On the count of three?”

She nodded. Even through her boot, her foot felt oddly warm in his hands. It was such an improper thing to do, even though it was how ladies all over the city mounted.

“One. Two—”

On the count of three, she bounced off her right foot. Simultaneously, de Meuse lifted up, and she pulled with her right hand holding the pommel. With grace and dignity intact, she landed with her seat in the saddle.

And she’d forgotten to hold on to her skirt. The tiresome extra fabric, intended to preserve her modesty, draped too far beneath her, tugging the skirt too far down on her right side, tightening the waistband across her middle, and leaving precious little material for the freedom to securely loop her right knee around the pommel. She gasped. She pulled. Wedged beneath her, the skirt didn’t move. She got her knee up, and the skirt pulled tighter.

She either had to dismount and try again, or suffer.

She chose to suffer. She didn’t want to put her foot into de Meuse’s hands again. She didn’t want the odd yet accepted intimacy of him slipping her left foot into her stirrup. The morning held a chill. Her lower limb should not be warm and tingling through leather boot and silk stocking.

“Is that stirrup a good height?” de Meuse asked. “I can adjust it if it is not.”

She would have endured the wrong height rather than allow him to brush aside the excess fabric of her habit skirt and adjust the straps.

“It’s the right height.” She spoke in a tight voice, not looking down, looking straight ahead where the others were already mounted and milling about the square on their horses to keep them from standing too long. “Do please mount, monsieur. I need to get this poor beast moving.”

“But of course.” He gave her a last look, lingering on her face, before striding to his own horse.

He mounted with the fluid grace of a man who had grown up riding horses and continued the practice regularly. Of course. He was an officer in Napoleon’s Army.

Wasn’t he?

Lydia nudged her gelding in the side and set the gentle mount stepping forward until they drew level with Honore and Frobisher. The couple rode along the square at a leisurely fashion that allowed them to gaze at one another without risking limb or life.

“I’m surprised to see you going so sedately,” Lydia observed.

Honore glanced around. “We’ll get a good gallop in at the park. Well, perhaps not a gallop, but at least a canter.”

“Don’t get too far ahead of me.” Lydia shifted on her saddle, trying to readjust her skirt.

“Are you all right?” Honore whispered loudly enough for everyone to hear in the quiet residential neighborhood.

Lydia frowned at her. “But of course.”

But of course not. Her right knee felt as though the weight of her heavy skirt would drag it off the pommel at any moment, and she could scarcely breathe with the waistband pressed into her middle.

Somehow she must tug some of the fabric out from under her. Now was the best time, before they left the square and headed into traffic, and certainly before they reached the park and everyone chose to ride faster.

As surreptitiously as she could manage, she gripped her reins in her left hand, raised herself a hair off the saddle with her weight on her stirrup foot, and pulled at her skirt with her right hand.

It didn’t budge. Her mount, however, didn’t seem to like the shift of balance and sidled, bumping Lydia into Honore’s mount. The high-strung mare took offense and leaped forward, away from the offensive contact. Honore laughed and called out something that sounded like encouragement. Frobisher shouted back. The two of them disappeared into a parade of carriages, phaetons, and drays.

Lydia lost her balance and began to slide toward the cobblestone street.