The first game went well, the other players being challenging enough that Olivia needed to concentrate on the play of the cards. This was complicated, for after the first hand, Ewald slid the score sheet to her and requested she keep score. Then he proceeded to ask after her brother and sister, and when that subject was quickly exhausted went on to inquire into her schedule for the next day. She murmured and shifted in her seat, and tried to think of an answer that admitted nothing that would reveal where and when he might find her, even as she tried to keep from throwing the cards at him and telling him to let her be so that she might think.
It was then she caught the gleam in his eye, and she knew by the smile that floated around his mouth that he was quite aware he was disturbing her composure--and suddenly it seemed quite absurd she’d allowed herself to become so flustered.
She found herself smiling at him, albeit reluctantly, and then, as her wits returned to her, nearly laughing in a wave of released aggravation. Just because they were in the same room (even though she’d never intended to come here tonight), and just because he’d made sure she was his partner (it was only a game of whist), it didn’t mean she had to lock herself away in a dungeon. If she didn’t desire a private moment with him, then she would simply see one never occurred. Simple. She’d managed with Lord Quinn so far tonight, hadn’t she? Now she’d laugh at herself and go on with the evening as a rational person would.
She looked up at him again, now disappointed to find Lord Ewald’s attention had left her.
Among other things, I am a perverse little creature, rejecting his attention only to turn about and crave it.
He was gazing about the room, his brow knitting briefly, until one of his eyebrows shot up. Olivia couldn’t help but look over her shoulder to see that Lisette had just reentered the room. The woman hesitated in the doorway, one hand springing to her throat as she found two sets of eyes on her, but a toss of her head apparently restored her equilibrium.
She crossed at once to Ian’s side, lounging in the settee sitting off his elbow, in a fashion that made Olivia store the vision of the sheer elegance of how Miss Lyons reclined for some later use in her own life.
Across the room, Alexander scowled at the demonstration and Miss Lyons’s nearness to Lord Ewald.
The lady looked up from under her lashes, and murmured to the latter. “How goes the play, my lord?”
“How do you find my home,
Mademoiselle
?” Ewald countered in a level tone, but the stare he directed at her was stony.
The woman didn’t blink or even blush. She didn’t answer either, but Olivia saw communication ricochet between her and Ewald, hard-edged, reminding her of the haughty face she’d seen when Miss Lyons was offering her prayer to the Earth Mother.
Ewald looked away first, to pull out his pocketwatch. “’Tis nearly eleven--”
Lisette stood up, clapping her hands to gain everyone’s attention. “Lord Ewald’s chef has kindly offered to serve us all a late-night repast. Please finish your play so zat we may dine!”
This was met with a round of cheers.
She turned back to Ian, a smile on her lips. “I know I have presumed, but ze chef, he assures me it will be no trouble. Some cold meat. Some bread. He says he only needs a few minutes to begin service.”
Ian regarded her steadily, and finally said, “How can I disappoint my guests? Of course we must dine.” Again their eyes met and held, and Olivia could feel the tension between them like a washing line stretched taut.
The mood was disrupted when Lord Quinn stood, announcing his table was done, and coins were exchanged to pay off losses. The other tables soon followed the pattern.
“Let us retire to the dining room,” Lord Ewald said, extending his arm to Olivia.
The servants hurried in and out, caught in the unanticipated act of having to set a late-night supper. The bustle was contagious as china and crystal and silver were placed around them, so that conversation bubbled. Olivia was placed on Ewald’s right, he at the head of his long table, and on her right was Captain Russell, whose rather unfashionably short hair nearly matched the color of his red military coat. He went on for some time about the defeat of the French at Vittoria, which Olivia found quite interesting, even if it was a completely improper discourse at table and in mixed company.
When she turned to Lord Ewald, she couldn’t help but recall the other night when he’d stayed to be sure she wasn’t in over her head. How different this gathering from that, she sighed with relief. She could no longer deny she’d learned the reckless life was no life for her. Freedom was not the way to happiness; happiness was the way to freedom.
“You smile, my lady,” Ian said.
“Do I?” she answered, extending the smile for his benefit. “I was remembering another midnight meal we shared.”
He leaned forward. “I was remembering that, also.”
She looked down at her plate of carved ham and egg tart, then up again, at the length of the table. “I beg your pardon for my being part of this troop of invaders.”
“You’re the only reason I tolerated the others’ presence.”
“My lord,” she said, the words a tiny scold, but with little effect since she smiled.
“I only speak the truth.” He spoke again, very softly, “
‘L’amour vient de I’aveuglement, L’amitid, de la connaissance’.”
She recognized the century-old quote:
Love comes from blindness, friendship from knowledge.
Her lips parted and she stared at him in wonder, for there was a glow in his eyes that spoke only to her. As she fought to find a response, he might have said more, except a servant approached and whispered in his ear.
He murmured an apology to her alone, rose, and slipped quietly from the room.
In but a few minutes, during which time Lord Ewald didn’t return to table, Olivia saw the revelers put down their utensils and rise, forming into mixed groups, the gentlemen and ladies for once not breaking off into separate factions. For a few minutes, Olivia joined a group admiring a pastoral painting over the mantelpiece, but just when she thought to move on, a hand touched her shoulder.
“Lady Stratton,” Lord Quinn said down to her.
She turned to him, a bit chagrined she’d let down her guard. “My lord.”
He took up her hand, settling it on his arm. He drew her a little aside, and she let him because it was not so far as to unduly alarm her.
“I know this is a most inauspicious time, but I find I can no longer wait to speak my mind,” he said softly. “You must know I am all that is anxious to hear you say you will be mine.” He overrode any comment she might have made. “You cannot pretend you didn’t know I felt this way.”
She shook her head, admitting as much.
He went on again. “You understand a little of how important my position is here in England. I feel you are one of the few women who would be willing to support my efforts, one of the few to understand what very important work I do. You know the Druidic rites I practice have been a part of England for eons. I tell you now, a very necessary part. There are such things as ley lines, magic, karma, these terms we mortals use for the supernatural. I believe it has been given unto me to keep the faith and practice and power of the Druids alive. It’s by keeping their magic active that I keep England alive. I am convinced that Rome became so unmindful of its roots and its need to have its religious leaders practice the arts, that she allowed her magic and power and majesty to crumble and wither, and therefore that mighty nation was made small. This must not happen to our England. Indeed, Goddess willing, it will not so long as I live.”
He was so very sincere, so very full of faith, she could only take him seriously. “How did you come to receive this charge?” she asked, her words kind if not convinced.
He blinked once, then twice. “Why, I was simply born with the talent. As I grew and read and learned, I recognized my destiny.”
“I see.”
“But that’s just it! You do see. You are charming, and delightful, and everything a man could want. Especially a man such as myself, who could not abide condemnation, or stupidity, or mulishness. I need someone who will not only allow, but perhaps even one day encourage my work. I know you are such a one. I sensed the magic happening that night at the masquerade. I know it now by every utterance you make. Your honesty is essential, your hypocrisy nonexistent, your--”
“My lord, you’re mistaken,” she interrupted him with a gentle sigh. “I’m afraid I’m thoroughly dishonest, if that this is how you see me.”
“I can’t believe it! You judge yourself too harshly, I think--”
“Not at all. I stand here, letting you propose to me, and all the while my affections lie in another direction.” Her heart suddenly raced.
I said it aloud.
She watched Quinn’s face fall.
“I cannot promise you anything, not when I care for another,” she said.
Lord Quinn shook his head at her words, crestfallen before her.
She recovered herself and smiled sympathetically at him. “I have come to know you a little, my lord, and hope to cherish a friendship with you. But it is because of that friendship I tell you now, I do not love you.”
“Love,” he tried to smile in return, “is not necessary, not at first. We have attraction, I dare to believe. If we married, love would come, given time.”
“No,” she shook her head softly. “It cannot come when it has been given elsewhere.”
“You speak of Ewald,” he said sadly. He watched as she gave a tiny nod. “I should have known by the way he held you, by the way you let him hold you.”
“I should have known, too.” She put her hand on Lord Quinn’s arm. “But there are obstacles there, too, my lord. Pray speak to no one of my affection toward him. I…I am far from sure of him.” She stopped to swallow down further words that mingled anxiety and hope. “It seems to me these matters of the heart are too oft beyond our control, and almost always completely illogical. Let me say only this: I would not have been much of a helpmeet to you, for I find all this Druidism rather shocking.”
“You wouldn’t, not in time,” he said, one corner of his mouth raising half hopefully that she’d reconsider.
She just looked at him, eyes brushed with an apologetic empathy for the disappointment in his face.
He sighed heavily. “I do appreciate your honesty. It means much to me, for it means you are my friend, despite it all. I do not make friends lightly,” he said, taking up her hand to press it between his two.
“Then I count myself fortunate to be called such.”
“Ah, Olivia, will you not just think about it for a while?”
“I am so sorry, but no.”
His shoulders drooped. “I hope you’ll understand if I choose to leave…” he looked around at the other partygoers, “this gathering early?”
“Of course. My lord, just so you know, I was very flattered by your offer. As will another lady will be, when you find her.”
He straightened his shoulders and spoke in his more usual fashion. “Now, that was meant to remind me there are other fish in the sea, so I stand reminded.”
“May I ask you something then?”
“Of course. My friends may ask me anything.”
She went up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “I find I must know. Do you, as a group ever…that is to say…disrobe together?”
He gave her a bittersweet smile, then perhaps almost laughed. “I’m afraid now you’ll never know. You had your chance, and it is gone.”
She sighed, and his assumed smile widened, and then he bowed himself out of her presence.
Chapter 18
Ian waited in his unlighted library. There was a shuttered lantern hidden under his desk, but the thin cracks where a tiny bit of light showed were turned from the door, and otherwise did nothing to relieve the gloom. If any of his guests came in, they would hopefully flee the dark and the chill, the latter of which was beginning to make Ian wish he’d thought to bring his cloak. Nor could he check his pocketwatch to see the exact time, but it must surely be half past eleven or better by now. He looked, again, to the library door, where only Kellogg knew to find him, but it remained stubbornly unopened.
Where in Hades is Douzain?
Or, for that matter, the agents Sir Terrence had this morning assured Ian would find the stupid, fleeing man to drag him back here.
Indeed,
had
the French informer fled? Or had he been carried away by someone working for the French? Ian frowned, unconvinced some person or persons had slipped unnoted in and out of his home to seize Douzain, but hating the idea he might have failed in his task. Douzain’s would-be identity papers, now out of the locked drawer, though few, weighed heavily in Ian’s coat pocket.
There was a scratching sound at the window, so that Ian stood up straight, listening, peering. A man pressed behind the shrub outside and close to the glass, eyes darting to see into the dark room. Ian’s shoulders relaxed even as he watched the man jerk with shock at seeing Ian step forward.
He worked quickly to unlock and push the window open. Georges Douzain thrust in his head, looked around again, and finally slipped a leg over the casing. A moment later the entire man had tumbled, bag, cloak, and all, not very quietly, through the window. The man lay on the floor for a moment, and Ian caught a small sound of caustic speech, decidedly French.
“It’s me,” Ian whispered to the man, identifying himself in the dark, “Viscount Ewald.” He fetched the lantern and raised the sliding panel, letting a small pool of light include them both.
The Frenchman scuttled to his feet, and combed back his hair with both hands, his bag resettling against his back by its strap over his shoulder. “I ’ope you understand zat I am trusting you, my lord
vicomte
,” the Frenchman said in a breathy whisper back.
Ian lifted an eyebrow. “And that’s why you ran from my home?”
Douzain drew himself up, looking a brave man before a firing squad. “Tell me true, is Mademoiselle Lyons ‘ere, or now being called to your ‘ouse? ’Ave I put my neck back in ze noose?”
“Lisette Lyons?” Ian asked, confused for a moment, but then his eyes widened. “She’s an agent? Would she report your presence here to someone?”