Lessons in French Page 8

  Callie drew a deep breath. She felt her facade of forced cheerfulness slipping. "Good morning."

  He tilted his head, smiling a little, looking at her with such unspoken understanding that she had a very strong urge to walk straight up to him, lay her head upon his elegantly tied neck cloth, and weep her heart out.

  "You forget your mother, my lord," she said, taking refuge in a frosty tone. "Surely you don't intend to leave her alone? I can't think it wise."

  He nodded in agreement. "Yes, it's always useful to pick a quarrel when one is feeling low. Come with me into the high street, and I'll undertake to start a brawl for your further diversion."

  She felt a small smile welling up, overcoming the immediate threat of tears in her throat. "How civil of you."

  "I know. Particularly as I'll be bound to wrinkle my only coat." He let the gate fall closed and took her arm. "My mother is much improved this morning, with some excellent nourishment and a good night's rest. Mrs. Adam has arrived with Lilly to undertake nursing duties, and I am expelled as a dangerous man."

  She glanced at the house. "Mrs. Adam is here? I should go in and lend her help."

  "No, you should not. She's certain that I intend to lure Lilly into the debauched harem that I maintain in the opium dens of Paris." He turned her toward the lane. "Be so good as to thwart me from this evil scheme. You can begin by distracting me with a walk to the post office."

  She smiled, though it was slightly watery. "I see that it's my Christian duty, when you put it so. I only hope I may not succumb to your wicked plot myself."

  "Oh, I have far more sinister plans for you. I mean to entice you to a dish of tea in the public parlor at the Antlers. I will certainly set a chair for you, and possibly I may even speak French."

  Merely walking at his side, with her gloved hand resting on his arm, was rather alarming. She remem bered that he had brought roses, though she had not told anyone they were meant for her. "Thank you for your call yesterday," she said shyly. "And for the beautiful posy."

  "Hardly enough to convey my gratitude," he said.

  She had not, of course, supposed the f lowers were meant as anything more than an expression of thanks. "We'll inquire about the Bromyard woman at the Antlers," she said, grasping at a practical topic. "I have high hopes of her."

  "The dahlias reminded me of your hair," he said pensively. "That deep copper color. Only a little darker."

  "Oh," Callie said. She lifted her skirt and stepped over a tuft of grass. "I do hope she knows how to cook. Truly cook, you know. Something that your mother would like."

  "And the roses—pretty and pale, with a f lush of pink. Very like your cheeks when you blush."

  "A blancmange, perhaps," Callie said brightly. "Or a custard."

  "Your cheeks are nothing like a blancmange, I assure you, my lady. And certainly not a custard."

  "A blancmange would be the true test of her skill," Callie said with difficulty. "I think we should ask her to make a blancmange."

  "They're the classic strawberries and cream. Very English."

  "Any sort of fruit trif le would make a good test, I agree," she said hastily. "But strawberries are out of season."

  "Indeed, but they aren't," he said. He slanted one of those looks down at her that left her covered in confusion. It was very vexing. She ought to tell him to stop. But she didn't precisely wish him to stop. She rather wished to fall right back in love with him, like a veritable ninnyhammer, and believe against all fact and reason that he meant what he said.

  "So you have met my sister and Lady Shelford?" she asked, her voice rather too loud. She could see some pedestrians in the sun-dappled lane, far down where it widened into something that could reasonably be called a street.

  "Lady Shelford," Trev said. "I met her, yes. An awe-inspiring woman, to be sure. I'm afraid I didn't remain long enough to have the honor of an introduc tion to Lady Hermione. She was engulfed in well wishers. Has a date been set?"

  "Next month," Callie said.

  "They're impatient lovers," he commented.

  "But poor Hermey has had to postpone so much because of—" She hesitated, then said, "She's hardly been away from Shelford at all, or met any eligible gentlemen, until we went to Leamington to the spa. Our father was ill for a long time, you see, and then he passed away last year, so we have been in mourning."

  "My condolences."

  Callie did not look up at him. "Thank you," she replied in a small voice.

  Trev guided her round the bowing white heads of Queen Anne's lace that encroached on the lane. He was aware that he should make a better show of sympathy. Callie had adored her father. He knew it well. But he would never forget that whip across his face. He remembered it every time he shaved himself, each time he saw the faded scar in the mirror. For months afterward he had dreamed of revenge with a hopeless violence that only fed on knowing his fantasies were absurd. He'd shot more than one unfortunate British infantryman with the Earl of Shelford in his sights.

  She walked with her face hidden from him. He looked down at the tendrils of reddish copper hair that had escaped her braids and bonnet, tiny curls that lay against the nape of her neck. Callous bastard that he was, the glimpse of white skin, tender and soft, made his throat fill with some unnamed clash of emotion, with resentment and protectiveness and a potent spike of simple lust. She smelled faintly of fresh hay and mown grass, as she always had.

  They could be friends. He truly wished for that. A friend would enter into her obvious distress with real sympathy, the way she had instantly come to his aid with his mother. He tried to summon words of kind ness for her father's death, but they were not there. The only sort of words that came to him were sarcastic comments on just how pleased the old man would doubtless be to see her walking with him now.

  Finally he said, "I'm sure you miss your father." It came out more stiff ly than he wished, but he had said it.

  "Yes," she said. "Very much."

  "He cared a great deal about your welfare."

  "Oh yes," she said.

  Trev hoped that was sufficient. He bewildered himself with the fresh rage that overcame him. He had no right to it, as he had no real right to tease and f lirt with Callie when he could go no further. Her father had rejected him as a penniless nobody of unsteady character, and that was in Trev's respect able days. Now he was one step ahead of the hang man's noose.

  "He was very disappointed when I didn't marry," she said, so softly that he could barely hear. "He wished very much for that."

  "Ah," Trev said. His rage found a new object: these three silly sods who had jilted her. He walked along for a few moments, all tame in his gentleman guise, gazing at wildf lowers and trying to think of a kindly and understanding response. With sudden ferocity, he uttered, "I'd like to kill them all for you."

  She gave him a startled glance. Then she laughed, causing the trace of a tear to tumble down her cheek. The sound made his heart rise amazingly.

  "Thank you!" she exclaimed. "I've been so vexed that I can't do it myself!"

  He took deep pleasure in the happy crinkle that appeared at the corner of her eyes. "Only tell me who they are," he said, giving her a little bow. "I'm wholly at your service."

  She sniffed and smiled. "Perhaps it wouldn't be quite the thing," she said. "It would cause a vast increase in the number of widows and orphans in the country."

  "Reproducing themselves rapidly, are they? Just what the world needs, more bloody fools. I'd best set about eliminating them without delay."

  She giggled, with a little hiccup of a sob. "Trev," she said, holding his arm with her gloved hand.

  No more than that. Just his name. She looked up sideways at him under her hat, that shy, half-laughing look that had always made him want to pull her down in a rick of new hay and tumble her under him and do lustful and luxurious things amid that sweep of loosened coppery hair.

  "We'll start with Number One," he said. "He should be skewered first, for setting a bad example to the rest.
"

  "Major Sturgeon," she said readily.

  "Sturgeon," he repeated. "Sturgeon, as in the fish?"

  She nodded.

  "So you might have been—dear God—the Lady Callista Sturgeon?"

  "Well," she admitted, "I did consider that."

  "A mortifying thought. I'm not sure that we shouldn't let him live, for sparing you from this fate."

  "No, he should be skewered," she said firmly.

  "As you wish, ma'am. Will it be swords or a knife in the back? Or I could shoot him at dawn, if you like."

  She considered this, pulling at the dried blossoms of a wildf lower as they passed. She shook her head and scattered the seeds, dusting her glove on her skirt. "No—no duels, if you please. I wouldn't wish to see you put yourself in danger on my behalf."

  "It would be an honor to put myself in danger on your behalf," he said gallantly. "But I'm a fair shot, I promise you. In the—" He paused. He'd been about to say that he'd been promoted to tirailleur and assigned to a battalion of sharpshooters in the Grande Armée because of his accuracy. "In the vineyards at Monceaux," he revised, "I can shoot a cluster of grapes from their stem at a hundred paces."

  "Indeed! I'm sure that endears you to Monsieur Buzot."

  "Oh, he only dislikes it when I make him stand with a basket and catch them."

  She laughed aloud, her smile crinkling at the edge of her lashes. "You and the evil Buzot are well suited, Monsieur," she said reprovingly.

  They ought to be, Trev supposed, since he had made up the man's existence out of whole cloth. "But please don't mention it in public, Mademoiselle," he murmured. "I haven't sold my soul. Only mortgaged it, you understand, at a very reasonable rate of interest."

  "I quite comprehend the fine distinction."

  "It's my belief," he said, putting his hand over hers and walking on, "that you are in grave want of excite ment. Have you had one single adventure lately?"

  "Hundreds, of course." She waved airily. "We are awash in adventures in Shelford. Only last week a goat climbed too high in Mr. Turner's chestnut tree, and I was called to talk it down."

  "But I doubt you've climbed down from your window even once."

  She hid again, looking down at the hem of her skirt. "I'm afraid I've left the acrobatics to the goats."

  He kept his gaze on what he could see of her face, enjoying the play of emotion and denial at the corner of her lips. Callie showed everything in her mobile expression, which was why she kept it concealed so often, he suspected.

  "Do you suppose you could still manage it?" he asked softly. "Perhaps I'll put you to the test one night."

  "Trev," she said under her breath. "We are coming into town."

  "Should I cover my face with a scarf?" he asked. "Or would you prefer a bag over your head?"

  He could see her bite her lower lip. It wasn't fair to her, this provocation. He hardly knew why he was doing it. He could have discussed her sister's betrothal or his mother's health or the weather.

  "So it's to be cold-blooded murder for Sturgeon," he said, ignoring his own better impulse. "And who else would you like me to slay before I f lee the country? I'll require the names and directions of Numbers Two and Three, and their preferred methods of demise."

  "Mr. Cyril Allen is Number Two," she said, lifting her chin. Her cheeks were quite pink.

  "And what is to be his fate?"

  "Oh, he should be strangled," she said strongly. "He told everyone in London that I wasn't quite right in my head and that's why he jilted me. And then he married his cook!"

  "May I chop him into very small pieces first? I'll strangle him when there's not enough left to do else."

  "Yes, you may," she said obligingly. "And I should like to have a slice of him put into her stew."

  He gave a wicked chuckle. "I'm sure I can arrange it."

  "Number Three has gone abroad with his exceed ingly beautiful wife," she said, pursing her lips. "To Italy, I believe."

  "That will be convenient. I can boil and render Mr. Allen and then, while I abscond to the continent, drop round to Pisa and push Number Three off the Leaning Tower."

  "I suppose it would be described in all the newspa pers," she said with relish.

  "Quite likely. But your name need not be made public. 'He did it for the honor of a lady,' they'll say."

  "Oh, that will cause a deal of frenzied speculation," she said in satisfaction. "Everyone will wonder who is this mysterious lady."

  "No, of course it will be obvious I did it for you. Any constable could discover that. What else have these three fellows in common?"

  She made a puff of dismissal. "No one would believe you did it for me."

  "Why not?"

  "Because." She stuck out her tongue at him. "Gentlemen don't do that sort of thing for me."

  "They don't kill their rivals?" he asked in bewilder ment. "These Englishmen are such dull dogs."

  "Well," she said with that little glint of mischief. "Yes, they are, rather."

  He grinned at her. They had somehow stopped walking. She was looking up at him shyly, a clear invitation on her lips. The fact that she had no idea of it only made the latent enticement more tempting. Humble Callie with her kissable mouth and laughing eyes; she'd be astonished if he gave her a lesson, right here in the public lane, in what a red-blooded Frenchman would do.

  "Good morning to you, my lady!"

  Trev looked up, startled by the loud voice. Callie's fingers left his arm as if it burned her. A portly gentleman paused before them, the fan of his white beard rounding out his face, spreading like an old fashioned ruff over his clerical collar. He bowed toward Callie and nodded at Trev.

  "Mr. Hartman," Callie said, sounding as if she could not catch her breath. "Mr. Hartman, oh yes." She became tangled in an introduction in which she could not seem to decide who to introduce to whom, or what anyone's name was. "That is—um, Monsieur—you'll remember our rector. Ah, of Monceaux. Monsieur… our parson!" She made a gesture of her hands as if she were shooing them toward one another.

  "Of course." Mr. Hartman took off his hat with a practiced expression of concern. "I'm just on my way to pay a call at Dove House, monsieur le duc. I fear Madame is in a grave crisis?"

  As he spoke, he assumed an odd affectation of an accent, so that Trev was moo-shur l'duck. The citizens of Shelford always took to French when they wished to put him in his place. Clearly Mr. Hartman did not approve of Callie's escort.

  Her cheeks were the color of crushed strawberries. Trev was embarrassed too, caught enjoying himself while his mother was in a grave crisis. He was instantly annoyed with Hartman.

  "She's a good deal better this morning, thank you," he said with easy English and a cool demeanor.

  "Ah, she's improved." The news did not seem to please the parson. In fact his face drew downward into a more severe frown. "I felt deep apprehension from what I was told. I did not wish to leave her spiritually unattended at such a time."

  "It's kind of you to come," Trev said dryly. As adher ents of the Roman Catholic rite, his family had seen very little of Mr. Hartman over their years in Shelford. "But I have some hope she'll survive for a few more hours."

  "Well, certainly. I didn't mean, of course—" Mr. Hartman sputtered a little. "I should be glad to provide any comfort that I may in her extremity."

  "Lady Callista has seen that my mother has every comfort," Trev said. "I suppose it's not too late to alter her popish tendencies, but I advise you to hasten."

  "Really, sir!" Mr. Hartman gasped. "I had no intention, I assure you!"

  "But pray don't let us detain you while she's in her extremity." Trev could see by the look Callie gave him that he was being outrageous. He took her arm again. "We're on our way to the Antlers for tea, leaving her to her fate. Good day!"

  With a little application of force, he walked on, carrying Callie along with him. She threw a quick good morning over her shoulder and then allowed him to direct her forward. They walked at a brisk pace as far as the
crossroad.

  He stopped so suddenly that her skirts swirled around his boots. With a harsh exhalation, he said, "I beg your pardon. But by God—what a meddling old crow. What does that fellow mean by calling on my mother now, when I daresay he's never set his foot in her house before?"

  "He's a meddling old crow," Callie said wryly. "But you were perhaps a little disrespectful."

  "Impudent, you mean. I suppose that will be all over town by noon."

  "Oh no." Her mouth made a tiny quirk. "By the next quarter hour, I should think."