Читать книгу The Adventurous Bride - Miranda Jarrett - Страница 9

“W herever have you been, Mary?” Wanly Diana pressed her hand against her temple, as if the effort of greeting her sister was simply too much. Their Channel crossing yesterday had been grim, rough and stormy and far longer than they’d been told. While Mary had proved a model sailor with a stomach of iron, her sister, Miss Wood and their lady’s maid, Deborah, had suffered so severely from the effect of the waves that they’d had to be half carried from the boat to the dock last night. Then before they could retreat to their inn to rest or even change into dry clothes, they’d had to present their names to the governor, as was required by French law, and then they’d gone to the Customs House to wait while their belongings were searched, cataloged and taxed. The officials brazenly expected their garnish at every step, holding their hands out for the customary bribes before any of the English were permitted to pass into the town. After such an ordeal, it was really no wonder that the three women had required at least this entire day to recover.

Now Diana lay against the mounded pillows in the bed, the curtains of the room still drawn against the sun even though it was now late afternoon. A tray with a teapot and a few slices of cold toast, delicately nibbled on the corners, showed she’d tried to take sustenance, and failed.

Diana groaned, and flung her arm dramatically across the sheets. “Oh, Mary, how much I’ve missed you!”

“And I missed you, too, lamb.” Mary leaned forward and kissed her sister’s forehead. “At least your coloring’s better. You must be on the mend.”

“Thank you.” Diana smiled, happy to have her back. “Though it hasn’t been easy, you know. Miss Wood and Deborah have been ill, too, and the servants refuse to speak anything but wretched, wretched French!”

“Of course they speak French, Diana. This is France. If you’d paid more heed to our French lessons with Miss Wood, you would have had no difficulties now at all.” Mary crossed the room to the window, and pulled the curtains open, letting the sunlight spill across the floor. “I’ve been away for only an hour at most, and when I left you were deep asleep.”

“But then I woke, and you weren’t here.” Diana covered her eyes with her forearm against the window’s light. “It seemed as if you were gone much longer than an hour.”

“I wasn’t.” An hour, Mary marveled. Why had it seemed like so much more to her, too? Only an hour, the hands on her little gold watch moving neither faster nor slower than usual, and yet in that short time, so much had happened.

Diana pushed herself up higher on the pillows. “You weren’t supposed to go out at all, not alone. You know what Father said.”

“He meant that for you, not me,” Mary said. “And besides, I wasn’t alone. I took Winters with me.”

“Oh, now that changes everything,” Diana said. “Winters the half-daft footman, protector of our maidenly virtue!”

“He was quite sufficient for accompanying me,” Mary said, thankful that the half-light of the room hid her blush.

All she’d intended was a short stroll to give herself a break from the sickroom. But then she’d seen the intriguing little shop, and had promised herself only a minute or two to explore inside. Before she’d realized it, she’d discovered and bought a beautiful old painting of an angel for a frighteningly high sum. She’d ignored all the cautions and warnings she’d been given before she’d sailed, and let herself be drawn into a conversation with a stranger. “I’m not you, you know.”

“A pity for you that you aren’t,” Diana said sagely. “A little bit of me wouldn’t hurt. You’d enjoy yourself more.”

“I enjoyed myself well enough.” Mary took the painting from the table where she’d left it, guiltily trying not to think of the stranger who’d bid against her in the shop. She could only imagine how gleeful Diana would be if she learned of him; Mary would never, ever hear the end of it. “I bought a picture of an angel.”

Proudly Mary held the painting up for her sister to see. She should have known better.

“How ghastly,” Diana said, wrinkling her nose. “Angels should be beatific, but that one looks as if he’d bite your leg off as soon as sing a psalm. What a pity Winters didn’t stop you from spending Father’s money on that.”

Mary turned the painting back to her, balancing the heavy gold frame against her hip. If anything, the picture seemed even more special than when she’d first seen it. She liked the stern-faced angel, ready to defend his faith or whatever else had been cut away with the rest of the painting.

“You’re only showing your own ignorance, Diana,” she said, more to the painting than to her sister. “To anyone with an eye, this is a very rare and beautiful picture.”

The stranger hadn’t teased her when she’d babbled about the painting’s mystical attraction to her. He’d even seemed to understand, which had been more than enough for her to like him instantly. He’d said his name was Lord John Fitzgerald, that he’d been born in Ireland, and that he was a citizen of the world, whatever that might mean. But there’d been no question that his eyes had been very blue and full of laughter, even when his mouth had been properly severe, and that his jaw was firm and manly and his black hair cropped and curling. From his speech and clothes, he’d seemed the gentleman he’d claimed to be, but then he’d tried to buy the painting for her as a gift, something no true gentleman would ever do.

But maybe this was only one more thing that was different between England and France. Maybe here it was perfectly proper for strange gentlemen to offer expensive gifts to ladies. Maybe in France such conversations and such generosity happened every day, without a breath of impropriety.

And maybe such an exchange, with such a charming gentleman, was exactly the reason she’d wanted to come abroad in the first place—except that she’d been too self-conscious to enjoy it, exactly as Diana had said. She’d meant to be cautious, reserved, her usual sensible self. Instead he’d doubtless considered her to be a hopeless prig, too timid to take a gentleman’s arm. Not that she’d have another chance, either, not with Lord John. They would be leaving Calais for Paris as soon as it could be arranged, and because her life was never like a novel or play, her path would never again cross with his.

“Ahh, Mary, you’ve returned from your walk.” Miss Wood joined them, as pale as Diana, but neatly dressed in her usual gray gown and jacket and white linen cap, as if to defy any mere seasickness to steal another day from her. “No doubt the fresh air off the water would have done Lady Diana and me some good as well.”

Diana groaned at the suggestion, flopping back against her pillows. “She didn’t just walk, Miss Wood. She went into a shop, and bought an ugly picture.”

“It’s not ugly, Diana,” protested Mary. “It’s simply not to your taste. Miss Wood shall be the judge.”

She turned the painting toward the governess, but Miss Wood’s startled expression told Mary more than Miss Wood would ever dare speak.

“What matters is that the picture pleases you, my lady,” the governess said, ever tactful. “Each time you glimpse it, you’ll remember this day, the first of our adventure abroad.”

Mary looked back at the picture. It would, indeed, remind her of Calais, just as that fierce angel would forever remind her of Lord John. But of an adventure—no. Foolish, foolish she’d been, and far too cowardly to seize the adventure that had presented itself.

“Perhaps in the morning you can show us what you’ve discovered about this town, Lady Mary,” Miss Wood was saying. “I should like to see the gate to the city properly before we leave. It’s regarded as the centerpiece of Calais, you know, with a great deal of history behind it. We can even return to the shop where you bought this picture, if you wish.”

“No, no!” Mary exclaimed, stunned by such a suggestion. What if Lord John were there again, and thought she’d come hunting for him? Or worse, a fear that was more selfish and unworthy: what if she did meet him again, but this time he saw only Diana, the way that always seemed to happen? “That is, since I already bought the choicest piece in the shop, there’s no reason for returning to it.”

Diana made a disparaging sniff. “If that picture was the choicest, then I’ve no wish at all to visit such a place. Surely there must be some public parade, or park where people of fashion gather. Why, I’ve heard Calais has more officers of every service than even Portsmouth.”

“No officers for us, my lady, and no parade grounds,” Miss Wood said, clasping her hands at the front of her waist. “I needn’t remind you of the warning your father His Grace gave to you before we sailed. You are traveling to improve your mind and edify your soul, and to learn to modify your behavior regarding every classification and rank of men.”

Diana clapped her hands to her breast as if she’d just sustained a mortal wound. “Ugly paintings and stupid old gates for months and months and months. How shall I ever survive?”

“With grace and dignity as befits your station, my lady.” Miss Wood swung open the window, letting in a breeze redolent of the ocean, mingled with the tavern’s stables on the other side of the yard. “Besides, I expect us to be leaving Calais the day after tomorrow. That’s scarce time for any intriguing, no matter how determined.”

“You are too cruel, Miss Wood!” cried Diana, hurling one of her pillows across the room at the governess. “Too, too cruel!”

“So you’ve often said, my lady.” Unperturbed, Miss Wood plucked the pillow from the floor beside her, smoothed the linen with her palms, and returned it to the end of the bed. “But you’ll have to tolerate my decisions, especially now. There was a letter waiting here at the inn for me from Monsieur Leclair, the gentleman His Grace your father engaged as our bearleader.”

“‘Bearleader,’” Mary repeated, unable to resist the silliness of the expression. “It sounds as if we’re his pack of she-bears in some vagabond circus. Why aren’t they just called guides?”

“Because they’re not, my lady,” Miss Wood said patiently. “In any event, Monsieur Leclair’s mother has been taken grievously ill, and he begs our understanding and forgiveness while he makes arrangements for her. Instead of attending us here in Calais, with our leave he shall join us in Paris instead.”

“Of course he’ll have our leave,” Mary said. “Poor Madame Leclair! She should have her son with her. We can manage perfectly well on our own from here to Paris.”

Diana smiled mischievously at Mary. “You are so independent, Mary.”

“It’s an admirable trait to possess, Diana,” Mary said, praying that Diana would offer nothing more incriminating. “Especially whilst traveling.”

Miss Wood nodded with approval. “That is true, my lady. We’ll have our two days here in Calais, and then on to Paris. That was the itinerary approved by His Grace your father, and we shall follow it even without Monsieur Leclair to lead us.”

Two days, thought Mary with regret, and one of those days was nearly done. Miss Wood and Father had been wise to leave no time at all for intriguing in Calais. Their only miscalculation had been which daughter had longed for the intrigue.

“Oh, monsieur, I do not believe I could allow that,” said Madame Gris, the innkeeper’s wife, guarding the doorway to the private dining room as conscientiously as any royal sentry. The Coq d’Or had its reputation to maintain as a respectable house, especially among the English gentry. “The young lady is dining alone, and wishes not to be disturbed. Her governess and her sister—the mal-de-mer, you see.”

“Then all the more reason, madame, that the lady’s in need of company and cheer.” John glanced down at the bouquet he’d brought for Lady Mary, a confection of pinks and roses gathered in a paper frill and red ribbon, the way that the French did so well. Other times, he would have simply sent the flowers, but given this was bound to be a hasty flirtation at best, he’d decided to bring his offering himself.

But Madame Gris still shook her head, her plump chin shaking gently above her checkered kerchief. “This is no scandalous house of assignation, monsieur.”

“Keep the door open, madame, and listen to every word that passes between us,” John said, placing his hand over his heart. “I swear to you that not even a whisper of scandal will pass my lips.”

The innkeeper’s wife stared at him with disbelief. Then she tipped back her head and laughed aloud.

“You’d laugh at me, madame?” John asked, striving to sound wounded, yet unable to keep from joining her laughter. He never had been able to feign earnestness, and he hadn’t succeeded this morning, either. “You’d laugh at my humble suit?”

“‘Humble,’ hah,” she said, giving his arm a poke with her finger. “I’d wager you’ve never been humble about anything in your life, monsieur, a fox like you! Go, go, take your posey to the lady, and plead your heart to her. But mind you, the door stays open, and if I hear one peep from her—”

“No peeps, madame,” John said, winking wickedly as he slipped past her. “Only the greatest gratitude for your kind understanding.”

Madame Gris laughed and jabbed at John again, her good humor following him as he headed down the hallway to the small private parlor at the end. The inn had welcomed its respectable guests for the last two hundred years, and the wide old floorboards creaked beneath John’s feet, and he had to duck his head beneath the age-blackened beams overhead. Yet the whitewashed room before him seemed to glow, the windows with their diamond-leaded frames open to the bright summer morning and sunlight falling over the girl.

Lady Mary was sitting in a spindled armchair with her back to the half-open door. Her hair was loosely pinned in a knot on top of her head, the sunshine turning the escaped tendrils dark red. She was dressed in a simply cut white linen gown with a wide green sash around her slender waist, the style that the French queen had first made so famous, yet now was associated almost entirely with English ladies. Lady Mary wore it well, the simplicity suiting her creamy skin and dark hair and the full, layered skirts, falling softly around her chair, made translucent by the sun.

Yet what caught John’s attention first, and held it, was the delicate curve of her neck, the pearl earrings gently bobbing on either side of her throat. With her head slightly bent over her dish of tea, her nape was exquisite, the vulnerability of it almost heartbreaking.

His weight shifted, just enough for his foot to make the floorboard beneath it squeak. She twisted around in her chair and caught her breath, a slice of bread with jam forgotten in her fingers.

“You!” she cried, her cheeks flushing a furious pink. “How did you come here? How did you find me?”

“Calm yourself, Lady Mary, please, I beg you!” he exclaimed, holding one hand palm up to signal for quiet, and the other brandishing the flowers. He’d told Madame Gris that she could interrupt if she heard the girl object, and he had no doubt that the innkeeper’s wife would enjoy doing exactly that. “I don’t mean you the least bit of harm!”

“Oh, no, no, I didn’t intend that.” Hastily she rose to her feet in a swirl of white linen, the bread still in her hand. “That is, you have surprised me, but I—I am not upset. Not in the least, not when—oh, blast!”

A forgotten, glistening blot of red jam dropped from the bread in her hand and splattered on her arm, barely missing her white sleeve. She dropped the bread, grabbed the napkin from the table, and slapped it over the jam, pressing the cloth there as if she feared the errant jam would somehow escape to shame her again.

John smiled: not only because he knew he was the cause of her being so discomfited, but because that extra blush and fluster was a side of her he hadn’t seen at Dumont’s. There she’d been so much in control of herself that she’d been able to steal the painting away from him. But now—now she was as rattled as a cracked teacup, and all because of a blot of jam.

“I’ll have you know I’m not like this, my lord,” she confessed. “Not generally. Not at all.”

“I’m not like this, either,” he said. “Rising at this unholy hour, begging Madame Gris for entrance, startling ladies at their breakfast. Not like me at all.”

“Of course it’s not.” She rubbed the napkin over her arm one last time to make sure the jam was gone, crushed the napkin into a lumpy knot, and stuffed it under the edge of her plate. “I wouldn’t give you permission to walk with me yesterday, but if you ask to take breakfast with me now—even though it’s a meager sort of French breakfast, without eggs or meats—why, I shall agree.”

“You will?” No matter how confident he’d been before, he hadn’t expected this invitation. Not that he meant to accept it. Because he half expected her sister or governess to join her at any moment, he’d rather coax her out-of-doors, away from the inn, where he’d be sure to keep her company to himself. He already had an image of the seasick sister: plain and peevish and nothing like Lady Mary, and as for the governess—well, she was a governess. “You’ll walk with me after all?”

“I will.” At last she smiled, only a moment. “It’s not often one has the chance to set mistakes to rights. Those flowers are quite lovely. Are they for me?”

He handed the bouquet to her with the same bow that yesterday had earned him only disdain. Now she took the flowers with a happy little chuckle, cradling them in her arms.

“So you will accept flowers,” he teased, bemused, “but not a picture.”

She looked down at the flowers, then back at him. “I suppose that’s a contradiction, isn’t it?”

He shrugged. “Only a small one. Life is full of contradictions. None of them really signify.”

“But this does,” she insisted, once again the serious girl from yesterday. “That painting has already existed for hundreds of years, and with luck and care will exist for hundreds more. Yet these flowers, however lovely, will not last more than a day or two. Which makes them far more appropriate as a token from you to me.”

“Lady Mary,” he teased, striving to seem wounded. “Are you implying that my admiration for you will only last a day or two?”

“Admiration, fah,” she scoffed. “You must know me to admire me, and you’ll scarce have time for either one. Come to the window. Do you see those men in the yard with the blue carriage?”

He came to stand beside her, exactly as he’d been told, and exactly as he’d wished. The window was small, and to look through it with her as she’d ordered, he had to stand so close beside her that he could smell the scent of lavender soap on her skin.

“I see it,” he said evenly, as if standing beside her without touching her wasn’t a refined kind of torture.

“That’s our coach,” she said, “or rather, my father’s coach, though how bitterly he complained over the French taxes he had to pay for the privilege of the convenience! It was sent in pieces on the boat from England, and once the men have put it back together, we’ll be ready to leave for Paris. We’ve already sent a wagon ahead two weeks ago, filled with more trunks to the apartments we’ve let in Paris.”

“He could have hired a cabriolet here for less than the taxes.” John had heard of the richer and more cowardly English who’d import their own carriages to the Continent, but he’d never seen one for himself until now. “Your driver will have the devil of a time maneuvering that great beast on French roads. Monsieur Dessin has tidy cabriolets for a louis a week.”

She sighed. “Father didn’t trust hired carriages. He won’t even use a post chaise. He says they’re unsafe, and that the cushions harbor fleas and bedbugs.”

“So instead he would rather import a carriage just for you,” John said, almost—almost—feeling sympathy for her insulated plight. “What better way to spare you from having any actual contact with the people, let alone their bedbugs, whose country you are crossing?”

“That was Father’s decision,” she said, and John liked the way she made it clear she didn’t agree with her father. “You cannot imagine how difficult it was to persuade him to allow me to leave Kent, let alone come to France.”

He smiled, thinking of how different it was for well-bred boys and girls, especially when the difference was widened by wealth, or the lack of it. “My father was so eager for me to leave home that he shipped me off to Calcutta when I was fourteen, with the sum of my belongings in a single trunk.”

“Calcutta!” she said, her dark eyes widening with wonder. “Oh, what adventures you must have had there!”

“Oh, by the score,” he said lightly, for most of his adventures in the service of the East Indian Company were not the sort he’d wish to share with her. “Likely more than you’ll find if you stay locked in Papa’s coach.”

“But I’ve already had two adventures, my lord.” Her chin rose with the same challenge that she’d shown the day before, and he could see the swift rise and fall of her pulse at the side of her throat. “I cannot believe you haven’t guessed them.”

“Only because you haven’t asked me to.”

She laughed, her eyes sparkling with her secret. “I bought my first painting yesterday.”

“Ahh, the picture.” He needed to talk to her about that painting, and his suspicions about it, and about Dumont—all of which would certainly qualify as an adventure by anyone’s lights. That had been the main reason he’d permitted himself to come call on her here in the first place. But now that he was here, with her telling secrets, he didn’t want to be…distracted by the painting. Not yet. “I suppose in Kent, that would be considered an adventure. Though I’m almost afraid to ask after the second.”

“You shouldn’t,” she said, her voice once again dropping to a breathless whisper. “My second adventure was meeting you.”

“You flatter me, my lady.” He chuckled, delighted with her answer. For whatever reason, she’d clearly thought better of running away from him yesterday. Now it seemed as if she were practically willing to leap into his arms—yet still, somehow, on her own terms. He took the flowers from her arms and tossed them back onto the table, his gaze never leaving hers. “I wouldn’t say we’ve had an adventure, not yet.”

“Miss Wood believes we’ll be leaving tomorrow.” Wistfully she glanced back at the men assembling the coach in the yard. “That’s not much time for—for a true adventure, is it?”

Idly John brushed a loose lock of her hair back from her forehead, letting his fingertips stray down along her temple to her cheek. “That depends, my dear lady, upon how adventurous you are.”

“I will be adventurous, my lord,” she said fervently. “If you ask me again to walk with you. I told you that before. I will go, and I will enjoy myself, and your company.”

A walk: a walk. So that was her idea of adventure. How did the English aristocracy manage to reproduce itself if it continued to keep its women so idiotically innocent?

“Be adventurous, pet,” he said softly, his finger gently caressing the soft skin beneath her chin. “Come with me, and I can guarantee that you will enjoy—what in blazes is that?”

With a startled gasp, Lady Mary jerked away from him and rushed back toward the window. Dogs were barking, men were shouting and women shrieking, horses were snorting and pawing the dirt, and she heard the groaning, creaking rumble of an enormous wagon or carriage laboring to stop before the inn.

“I can’t see!” cried Lady Mary with frustration, her head already leaning through the open casement. “What do you think it is, my lord? What can it be?”

“The diligence from Paris,” Jack said, frustrated as well. “It’s a kind of oversized public coach made of wicker, usually packed with at least a dozen travelers from every station of French life.”

“Oh, I must see that!” She pulled her head back in from the window. “If I’m to be adventurous, I must go out front to the road!”

Eager to see the arrival of the diligence, she grabbed his arm and pulled him along down the hall with her, out the front door and to the road. A servant from the inn stood on a stubby stool beside the door, solemnly ringing a large brass bell by way of announcement, as if the rest of the racket weren’t announcement enough. A small crowd had already gathered, some with small trunks and bundles of belongings who were waiting to climb on board, others there to welcome disembarking passengers, and still more in tattered rags, waiting with hands outstretched to beg. Surrounded by clouds of dust from the road, the lumbering diligence finally ground to a stop before the inn, the four weary horses in the harness flecked with foam and coated with dirt, and the men riding postilion on their backs, not much better, their whips drooping listlessly from their hands.

“What a curious coach!” exclaimed Mary, standing beside John. “I never would have seen such a thing if I’d stayed in Kent!”

It was, she decided, as good as any play. With its thick wooden wheels and double-horse team, the diligence did resemble its English cousins. But the body of the coach was long and flat, and made not of panels, but of tightly woven splints, with a small, covered compartment with an arched roof in the front to protect the driver. The passengers packed inside and on top looked like so many eggs gathered in a basket for market.

And a diverse assortment of passengers it was, too. There were the usual half-drunk sailors with long queues down their backs and soldiers in ragged uniforms to be found on any English coach. But there were also two fat monks in brown robes, their tonsured heads gleaming in the sun, a grumpy-faced woman dressed in a red-striped jacket who carried a cage full of chirping canaries, an old man with an extravagantly tall white wig and a rabbit-fur muff so large it hung to his knees, and a pair of young women with gowns cut low enough to display their rosy nipples through their neckerchiefs, much to the delight of the sailors and soldiers. Around her bubbled a rush of French words and exclamations and likely curses, too, all in dialects that bore scant resemblance to what she’d learned in the schoolroom.

“So does the Paris diligence qualify as another adventure, my lady?” John asked. He was smiling so indulgently at her that she felt foolish, more like a child hopping up and down before a shop window full of sweets than the touring lady of the world she was trying to be.

Purposefully she drew herself up straighter. “It would be an adventure if I took my passage to Paris in it. Hah, imagine what Father would say to that!”

His smile widened, daring her. “Then do it. The driver and postilions will change the horses, turn about, and leave for Paris again. I’ll come with you for—for companionship. You’ll have a score of chaperones to keep your honor intact, you’ll improve your French mightily, and I’ll give my word that you’ll have a true adventure.”

She stared up at him, more tempted than she’d wish to admit. “But we’ve no provisions, no food, no—”

“Dinner and supper are included in the fare,” he said. “And I guarantee that those meals, too, won’t be like anything you find in Kent.”

“None of this is like Kent,” she said, but she was laughing, pushing her breeze-tossed hair back from her face. She’d never even considered doing anything as scandalous as riding in a public coach for days and nights at a time with a man she scarcely knew, and yet somehow now it seemed less scandalous than, well, adventurous.

“Then come with me,” he said, cocking his head toward the unwieldy diligence. “Be brave. This is Calais, not your blessed Kent. No one knows you here, nor cares what you do. When else will you have such an opportunity?”

She shook her head, laughing still. What was it about him that made the most ridiculous proposal she’d ever received seem so wickedly intriguing? If it had been Diana with one of her swains, she would have been horrified.

“Do you like strawberries, my lady?” he asked, out of the blue. He raised his dark brows, and held out his hands, slightly curved, as if offering the largest imaginary strawberry for her edification. “Juicy and sweet upon the tongue, fresh as the morning dew in the mouth?”

“Excuse me?” she said, and laughed again. She’d never met another gentleman who could make her laugh so often, or so richly. She’d always prided herself on being practical, responsible, capable. Who would have known that she’d have such a store of laughter inside her, as well? “Why ever ask me of strawberries now?”

He shifted behind her, resting his palms on her shoulders, and gently turned her toward the diligence. “Because there, climbing down from the top, is a sturdy French farmwife with a basket in each hand, the sort of deep, narrow basket that is used only for strawberries in this region.”

He’d kept his hands on her shoulders after the reason for having them there was done, and his palms were warm, the weight of them oddly pleasant, as if in some strange way they belonged there.

She twisted her head around to face him. “I do like strawberries, Lord John,” she said, delighted by how his eyes were the same blue as the June sky overhead. “In fact I am monstrously fond of them.”

“Then I shall fetch some for you directly,” he said. “Perhaps they’ll persuade you to make an adventurous journey with me.”

He winked—winked!—and gave her shoulders a fond, familiar pat before he went striding toward the farmer’s wife with the berries. The tails of his coat swung with a jaunty rhythm, his square shoulders broad and easy, his dark hair tossing in the light breeze.

If he’d tried to kiss her, she would have kissed him back. It was a staggering realization for her to make. He might still kiss her once he’d returned with the berries, and she knew she’d kiss him them, too, and that was more staggering still.

“Lady Mary!”

She frowned and glanced around her, not knowing who was calling her name. Hadn’t Lord John just reminded her that in Calais she was a stranger?

“Lady Mary, here!” The shopkeeper Dumont was standing in the shadow of an alley beside the inn, half-hidden by a pyramid of stacked barrels. He wore an old slouch hat pulled low over his face, a grimy scarf wrapped many times around his throat, and the same leather apron she remembered from his shop. Agitated, he looked from side to side to make certain he’d not been noticed, then beckoned to her.

“If you please, my lady, if you please!” he called in a anxious quaver. “I must speak to you at once!”

“On what subject, monsieur?” She hesitated, unwilling to be drawn so far from the bustle of the inn’s front door, even on this sunny day. “Why do you wish to speak to me?”

“The picture, my lady!” His claw of a hand beckoned again. “The angel! Do you have it still?”

She took one reluctant step closer, and no more. She glanced swiftly over her shoulder, wishing now that Lord John had returned. “Of course I’ve kept the picture. I only bought it from you yesterday.”

“Has anyone asked you for it, my lady?” he asked urgently. “Does anyone know it’s in your possession?”

“Only those in my traveling party,” she said, her heart racing with fear of what she didn’t understand. “Monsieur, I do not believe that any of this is your—”

“You must tell no one, my lady,” Dumont interrupted, his voice shaking with emotion. “Tell no one that the picture is your property now, or that you bought it from me, or even that you have seen it!”

“You can’t threaten me like that!” she exclaimed, trying to be brave. “I paid you dearly for that painting, and if it’s your game to try to intimidate me into selling it back to you, why, I’ve no intention of doing so!”

The old man shook his head. “I would not take it back, my lady,” he said vehemently. “It is yours now, and the peril with it, and I—”

“Lady Mary!”

That voice Mary recognized at once.

“Miss Wood!” Quickly she turned to her governess, glad for an excuse to leave Dumont and his unsettling questions. “Oh, Miss Wood, how glad I am to see you feeling better!”

“What I am feeling, my lady, is inestimable relief at finding you unharmed.” She bustled forward and took Mary firmly by the upper arm. “But look at you, my lady! Out in the street by yourself, without a hat or parasol or gloves to keep you safe from the sun! Now come inside and gather yourself, my lady, so that we can go.”

“Go?” Mary asked, confused. Her governess was dressed not for walking, but for traveling, in her quilted skirt and jacket. “Where are we going, Miss Wood? Do you wish to visit the Calais gate?”

“We’re leaving Calais directly, my lady,” Miss Wood said. “I have had enough of this wretched inn and the insufferable people that own it. I’m told our coach is ready, and now that we don’t have to wait for Monsieur Leclair to join us, we’ll depart as soon as you are dressed properly. Hurry now, please, we need to make as much progress as we can before dark.”

“Now?” Mary said faintly, looking past Miss Wood to scan the street for Lord John. The diligence was empty, with only a few people still gathered around it. But where was the farmer’s wife with the basket of strawberries, and where was Lord John?

“What is it, Lady Mary?” asked the governess, concern in her voice. “Are you unwell? You look as if you’ve taken too much of the sun, out here without your hat. Your cheeks are pink.”

“I was expecting a—a friend, Miss Wood,” she said. Perhaps he’d had to follow the woman for the strawberries. Perhaps she wouldn’t sell them to him at all, and he’d gone elsewhere. He wouldn’t abandon her the first time she turned away, not after offering to take her clear to Paris. “A friend.”

“A friend, my lady?” Miss Wood frowned. “Forgive me, my lady, but what friend could you possibly have here in Calais?”

What friend, indeed? Mary shook her head, unwilling to believe the empty proof of her own eyes. Perhaps it was for the best that Lord John had disappeared like this. She could hardly have introduced him to Miss Wood, or worse, to her sister. This way she’d still had an adventure, only just a smaller one than he’d proposed. She would dutifully leave Calais now with the rest of her party, and disappear, and treat him the same as he’d treated her. Her reputation was spared a journey with him in a crowded diligence. There’d be no farewell, no regrets for what had never happened. Only the slight sting of disappointment, and she already knew how to cope with that.

Her smile was wistful, her feelings bittersweet. No more laughter, and no promised strawberries, sweet and juicy on the tongue. No more adventures today.

She glanced back to the end of the wall, where Monsieur Dumont had warned her about her painting. Now he, too, had vanished. She couldn’t have imagined all of it, could she?

“Come, Lady Mary,” said Miss Wood, leading her back into the inn. “Deborah will have your trunk packed by now, and Lady Diana should be ready, too.”

But as she began up the stairs with Miss Wood, Madame Gris hurried toward her, the beautiful ruffled bouquet of roses and pinks in her arms.

“My lady, a moment, please!” she called. “You forgot these in the parlor, my lady. The flowers the gentleman brought for you, my lady, and such pretty ones they are, too.”

Miss Wood looked sharply at Mary, her expression full of silent questions.

“I am sorry, Madame,” Mary said slowly, “but I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Those flowers weren’t for me.”

Madame Gris’s brows rose with surprise. “But my lady, I am sure that—”

“No, Madame,” Mary said. “The bouquet was not meant for me, and neither was the gentleman.”