Lessons in French (33 page)

"I hope to enter into your interests with enthusiasm," he replied, doffing his plumed hat.

If he heard any similarity between her voice and Madame Malempré's, he gave no

indication of it. "Morning, Davenport!" He nodded to the colonel. "I missed sharing that

glass with you last night, but I was a little indisposed. We'll make it up this evening, eh?

I'll join you at the Black Lion—I find the Gerard doesn't suit me."

Callie gave him a sidelong glance, recalling that the proprietor of the Gerard had

approached Monsieur Malempré as they were leaving the hotel, murmuring that the

unfortunate matter had been taken care of and Madame would not be troubled further.

She wondered if Trev had had the major turfed out of his room, or if the officer had

merely grown tired of waiting for Madame to appear. Whichever it was, it did not appear

to have dampened Major Sturgeon's opinion of himself. He seemed to be in an expansive

mood, perfectly certain that Callie must be pleased to see him. But of course, he didn't

know that she was Madame Malempré herself, or that in the time since he had made his

proposal, she had made love to another man.

She ought to be ashamed, Callie supposed, but there was too much irony in it all.

Clearly he would have done the same if Madame Malempré had given him the chance,

and she didn't doubt that Miss Ladd had been his lover too while he was betrothed to

Callie. So they were even now. She had sunk to his level. It was not a particularly

consoling thought.

The little crowd of herdsmen and farmers had begun to drift away now that the mince

pies had run out, though the muff led drover lingered, leaning against a wagon with his

arms crossed. Callie avoided looking toward him. She sent Lilly back into the Green

Dragon for more pies. Colonel Davenport excused himself, clapping his friend on the

shoulder and advising him to take good care of Lady Callista, as if somehow the major

had already taken possession of her, and left them standing alone together.

"May I bring you a hot cider, my lady?" Major Sturgeon turned to Callie again. When

she demurred, he looked about him at the rows and pens of her cattle neatly lined up

along her assigned portion of the street. Callie had not bothered with tarps to conceal the

Shelford stock, as there were no surprises there. She could pride herself at least that it

was Shelford's usual excellent showing, except for the lack of Hubert. "This is an exciting

moment, to see you here among your entries," he said expansively. "What do you feed to

bring your calves up to this great size? I'm not an expert on livestock, but I fancy myself

a quick study, if you'll honor me with a tour of the various points of interest."

His attention might have been manufactured, but he made a good show of it. And she

had an aim—she meant to convince Trev that she was content with him as a potential

husband. More than ever now, after last night. After this morning. After hearing Trev's

stony silence as she listed her obvious shortcomings as a wife. She could feel the shabby

drover in his muffler watching her.

"Yes, if you like," she said, taking a deep breath of icy air to fortify herself. She

allowed the major to take her arm and tuck it under his.

He patted her fingers. "Are you warm enough, my lady?" He bent his head near hers,

the way he had when he'd thought she was Madame Malempré, and took it upon himself

to tweak her hood back into place. "I've missed your company in Shelford," he

murmured.

As she had only been gone one day from Shelford, it hardly required any wit to realize

this was nonsense, but she forced herself to smile. "Have you, sir? But it's only been a

few hours since I saw you last."

"Long enough that I couldn't help myself—I found after I started out yesterday that I

was on the road to Hereford, when I'd certainly meant to go up to London for a fortnight.

But I had the greatest urge to see this agricultural fair of yours."

Callie wished he'd fought off the urge. If he hadn't come, if he hadn't thought she was

his long-lost paramour, she might still have had her three days of adventure with Trev.

Now it was all a shambles. She had lost her best friend with one splendid, delirious

mistake. Trev had parted with her at the dressmaker's without giving her any instructions

to return. And indeed—how could she go back to the Gerard as Madame Malempré now?

She kept smiling, but there was a stinging blur in her eyes. She blinked, hoping that it

would only seem to be the cold, and looked up at Major Sturgeon. "I haven't had much

time to consider your offer," she said softly.

"Of course not!" He affected a great dismay. "I beg you not to suppose that I mean to

worry you on that head. Tell me, what premium class do you most hope to win?"

She answered at random, finding that she wished to move away from her own stock and

the man who still loitered there, rubbing his hands in the fingerless mitts over her

herdsman's fire. She turned her back on him, directing the major toward the pavement,

stopping to speak vaguely of a fine draft pony that stood harnessed to a farm cart in the

next row, its mane braided, its hoof feathers lovingly brushed out to perfect unstained

white. Major Sturgeon made gallant attempts to compliment her expertise. He had to

make do with that, she supposed, since he couldn't compliment her looks or charm.

Sixteen

TREV HAD THOUGHT HE COULD TAKE IT. HE'D THOUGHT he could endure the

idea that she would marry another man. For near a decade he'd assumed she already had,

reckoned she was a happy wife with all her children about her, an image which had been

sufficient to keep him on the other side of the Channel, if not the other side of the world,

for a good part of the last ten years. He'd wandered back to England finally, having failed

to recover Monceaux and botched pretty much everything else he'd set his hand to before

he discovered in himself a particular talent for arranging boxing spectacles of both fixed

and fair varieties. By then she had faded to a soft-edged memory, blunted in the golden

autumn mist of his past, the mere image of a copper-haired, kissable waif in an outmoded

gown. He'd hardly been eating his heart out for her. In truth, he'd remembered her father

with stronger feeling.

The knowledge that she was even tolerating Sturgeon's company, allowing him to call

on her—at first Trev had not taken it in seriousness, supposing she'd merely been unable

to summon sufficient daring to refuse to admit the man. He'd been perfectly ready to

undertake a visit to Sturgeon on her behalf if she required assistance in the matter, and

finish up what he'd started by giving the major a matching pair of black eyes to go with

his swollen jaw.

To discover that she was entertaining an actual proposal had set Trev well off his stride.

Perhaps a little more than that. Perhaps he had finally admitted the truth to himself—that

he was utterly distracted and still crazy in love with her mischievous smile and that way

she had of looking up at him sidelong while she discussed the various merits of an

overweight peeg. He was worse off than even his mother suspected, and she suspected a

good deal.

He was, in fact, dying by inches. He stood near the fire, glowering at an innocent cow

and rhythmically opening and closing his fists while Sturgeon made up to her in the open

street. She knew Trev was there too. After she'd turned him down, with all that bosh

about how unworthy she was of Monceaux; turned him down, and he couldn't argue with

her, couldn't tell her what he felt or prove it was the other way round—
C'est à chier,
his

exalted
grand-père
had always said of him,
not worth a shit,
and God knew it was true at

that moment.

He watched sullenly as Sturgeon pulled her hood round her face in a mawkish little

gesture of caring. The fellow was a damned hum. How she could allow him to touch her,

knowing what she did, that he'd dangle after some Belgian slut at the very moment he

was supposed to be courting her—Trev set his jaw and narrowed his eyes. He slapped his

hands against his arms, more out of frustrated violence than cold.

It seemed like a nightmare that he stood here wrapped up to his eyebrows to hide

himself, doing nothing while his lover walked away with another man. He ought to have

cut off all her silly objections and dragged her down to the cathedral, found a priest, or a

bishop, or whoever did these things quietly and fast—he'd convert to the Church of

England while he was at it and let his grandfather turn over in his grave. He didn't think,

if he'd insisted, that she would have refused him very long. He rather thought she'd been

hoping for it.

But then he'd have to tell her the truth.

C'est à chier,
he thought,
eh, grand-père?
Thrusting his cold hands in his coat, he strode

away from the fire. Callie and her beau were strolling along the opposite pavement,

pausing now and then to observe some exhibitor's cheese or pies. Trev shadowed them,

jerking his chin to one of his boys. The big boxer stood up and fell in with him casually,

passing the signal on. In a moment, there were a dozen of them, spread across the street

and among the exhibits, ready for trouble.

Trev was in the mood for it. He wished it were all done with, over now, this juvenile

adventure, so he could get on with the vast sum of nothing that was his life stretching

before him.
Italy
, he thought, but no, that wasn't far enough. He needed an ocean between

them if she was going to marry Sturgeon. Boston, perhaps, where he could get himself a

tomahawk and live with the rest of the savages, busting up tea crates for entertainment.

Across the way, the happy couple stopped at the pen with the obese pig. Trev halted.

He felt his reason slipping. Sturgeon made some remark and pointed at the animal, and

Callie laughed and shook her head.

Something cracked, some final thin sliver of sanity. Absurdly, all he could think was

that it was
his
pig, his and Callie's, and Sturgeon had made her laugh. He stood still for a

moment, suffused with rage. She looked up then and saw him. Across the width of the

street full of geese and chicken crates, he stared at her, breathing through the woolen

scarf concealing his face.

She gazed back as if she were transfixed. Trev narrowed his eyes, expressing his

opinion of this betrayal. She lost all her color, leaving only two bright spots burning on

her cheeks in the cold. Her hand went out and found Sturgeon's arm for support.

Trev realized then that he must be a figure of more than ordinary menace in his mask.

He turned abruptly away, prowling along the street. She liked adventure. He would give

it to her. The fair had begun to attract more people now, as the shadows of early morning

retreated and the sun took off the worst of the frost. He moved near the tarps that

concealed Hubert's pen.

"Untie the bull," he muttered. "Get him on his feet."

Charles poked his head from inside the canvas. "Aye, sir." He pulled back and

vanished.

Trev moved away as the tarps began to sway and tremble. He gave a low instruction to

one of his boys.

"Eh?" Bristol's finest hope for the next Champion of the Noble Art rolled a startled eye

toward him.

"Do it," Trev said. "And man the fires—keep 'em clear when it starts."

"Oh, there's the dandy," his cohort said with under stated violence. "Mind we don't burn

down the town."

"Aye, mind it," Trev said, giving him a clap on the shoulder to send him off.

While the word spread, he loitered by a stack of crated turkey hens, listening to their

soft gobbles. After a moment he reached down surreptitiously and f lipped the wooden

latches open, holding the doors closed with his knee. He kept his eyes down the street on

Callie and Sturgeon as they sampled bread and honey at a vendor's stall. Sturgeon

sampled it, at any rate. Callie just stood holding hers, looking nervous, the way she

always looked just before he gave her the office to act on whatever outrageous part he

had assigned her in their schemes.

A tight smile curled his mouth. Only that one look between them, and she knew. And in

spite of the desperate expression, she would perform her role to perfection, even if she

didn't yet know what it was. She always managed to carry it off, as clever and cool as a

schoolmistress once the sport commenced.

Ah God, he would miss her. No good-byes, no farewells, which was better. Last night

was his good bye.
Remember me,
he thought.

Off by the sheep, one of his boys leaned over the pen as if to observe a ram more

closely. Then he stood back, his hand nonchalantly resting on the gate, and made the high

sign with a swipe of his arm across his forehead. Trev looked from one end of the wide

street to the other. They all waited on him, an odd sprinkling of Samsons and Goliaths

amid the fairgoers, rubbing their chins or whistling and gazing artlessly up at the sky.

He nodded and stepped away from the turkey coops, turning his back as the doors

swung open. With

a sharp kick of his heel, he cried havoc and let slip the hens of war.