Nothing But Deception Page 3

  The author, perhaps, was a poor student of French.

  Or, Bea mused, perhaps not. She tapped a fingernail as she scanned the remaining few lines.

  One phrase kept coming back to her…“Ten clusters of night-blooming plants.” Romance often bloomed at night. Could the mysterious note have another, hidden meaning? A lovers’ code of some sort?

  Bea grew warm at the thought—either she had interrupted the secret communications of an amorous duo, or she herself had an admirer who deemed her capable of interpreting such a message without any prior knowledge. The former scenario was more likely by far, which meant the polite thing was probably to burn the note and forget it ever existed.

  But the temptation to uncover its meaning was simply too strong.

  Years of reading and writing poetry had taught her to look for the meaning of a phrase beneath its surface. The “planting of seeds” in poems was often a euphemism for impregnating one’s wife or lover.

  Heavens. Bea suppressed the bubble of mirth rising in her. Was that what she’d intercepted? Evidence of an illicit pregnancy within London’s elite?

  Although—she returned to tapping her nail—the words of the note seemed to suggest the seeds in question were just now being planted. It was already April. If they were to flourish in May or June, that held more with an actual garden than a woman’s time of expectancy, which lasted much longer. Unless by “flourish,” the author meant only that the pregnancy would become evident—at least to the bearer, if not to everyone. But illicit lovers generally wished to avoid such consequences—yet the note referred to careful, intentional planning and monitoring.

  Drat. It was impossible to discern the true meaning—let alone the author’s intent in putting it to paper.

  If the note was not meant for her, who had been the intended recipient? A woman, clearly. Bea’s rose-colored pelisse was distinctive, but the salon had been well-attended, particularly by the fairer sex. She searched her memory. The women present that evening had displayed a veritable rainbow of gowns and accessories, but she could not recall with certainty any particular lady whose pelisse or cloak might be mistaken with hers. Without an addressee, the note offered up no further clue as to whom it had been meant for.

  She yawned. The hour was late, her mind reeling from the evening’s excitement—only a small part of which involved this note. Perhaps being asked to sit for the French painter wasn’t quite what she’d had in mind when she’d pondered the dull routine her life had become, but fate had handed her an opportunity. And for once, she planned to take it without question.

  Bea tucked the note into her desk drawer and turned down the lamp. She yawned again. Tonight she would dream of charming French artists and night-blooming jasmine. After a good night’s sleep, she hoped, her mind would clear and the mystery of the note would reveal itself.

  What was he to do without a studio?

  Philippe paced the length of his hotel room. Ordinary furnishings, poor lighting—there was nothing here that could do the lady justice. And, of course, she was a lady. He could hardly expect her to visit the room of a strange man. After his very public request of her at last night’s salon, the gossips had, understandably, been abuzz. He’d gleaned enough to know Lady Beatrice Pullington was a widow, and a respectable one.

  He laughed. Had anyone in Paris told him he’d be fascinated, driven to use his artistic talent to portray a respectable English widow, he’d have laughed them out of his well-lit studio. But something about this particular widow spoke of life, of burgeoning but hidden passion.

  So many of the English mademoiselles seemed to have inherited their looks directly from their country’s landscape—pale and watery. Not Beatrice Pullington. She was a study in contrasts, her dark hair rich like French coffee, her complexion of the finest cream, tinted by delicate roses. He couldn’t wait to study her further.

  Unless—could he have been wrong? The excitement of the salon, a few glasses of wine. Had his mind played a trick on him, making the lady something more than she was?

  He could simply finish his business in London, inquire as to Lord Owen’s whereabouts, request a perfunctory meeting with the man, and return to France. Until twelve hours ago, that had been his plan.

  But as he’d told Lady Pullington, his instincts were almost never wrong. And he never made an offer if he didn’t intend to follow through.

  Philippe realized that while his mind had wandered, his gaze had fixated on the brocade covering the chaise opposite him. An unremarkable piece, except that the fabric featured roses, entwined with gold thread. He’d compared her to a rose. An idea began to take form.

  It was the beginning of the Season, with warmer weather just around the corner. He didn’t need a studio. The lady didn’t belong cooped up in an artificial, indoor setting. She belonged somewhere natural, somewhere primitive and just beginning to grow, to bloom. He would paint her as an enchantress, bestowing life and magic on an otherwise gray countryside.

  The creative rush filled him, as it always did at the onset of a new project. It was what drove him, and was the reason he never accepted commissioned projects. He’d done so once, and the work had been bland and boring, so much that he’d hesitated to sign his name to the completed work. Never again.

  Thankfully, he had no need of that now. The only thing he needed now was a plan to convince the respectable Lady Pullington to venture off into the wilderness with nothing but him and his paints.

  Bea was having second thoughts. Elizabeth, her closest friend since their schoolroom days at Miss Fletcher’s Academy for the Refinement of Ladies, did not seem to notice.

  “I cannot believe I bowed out of attending the salon and missed the Season’s most exciting moment!” Elizabeth lamented.

  “The Season has hardly begun,” Bea argued.

  “A mere triviality.”

  Elizabeth had arrived as soon as the hour was decent, just before noon, forcing Bea to once more set aside her mysterious letter. It was a code, she was certain now, though she’d yet to puzzle out the full message.

  The ladies were seated, as usual, in the family salon, sharing a light repast. Although, Bea noticed, she was the only one actually eating. Elizabeth sipped plain tea, and had selected a bland biscuit over the delicate and creamy finger sandwiches on the tray.

  “Are you still feeling unwell?” Bea asked.

  “Not too badly.” Elizabeth smiled. “It’s to be expected, I believe.”

  The reminder of her friend’s delicate condition brought Bea’s thoughts back to her own dilemma. If she wanted to achieve the same state of marital and familial bliss as Elizabeth, she ought to be looking for eligible gentlemen—not playboy artists.

  “How did you hear everything so quickly, anyway?” Bea asked.

  “Charity, of course. I do believe she sent that poor messenger out before daylight in her determination to be the first to share the news.”

  “She wasn’t put off by the turn of events?” Bea worried. “She said nothing last night while we were there, but after all, it was her interest in Monsieur Durand and his work that brought us there.”

  “Not at all,” Elizabeth laughed. “Charity enjoys being the center of attention, to be sure, but I’ve never known her to be jealous. Besides, I doubt she could associate long with a man whose popularity might rival her own.” The warmth in Elizabeth’s voice made it clear she spoke with love and amusement over her sister’s antics.

  “Well, I shan’t get too carried away. It may yet come to nothing.” But the hair on Bea’s neck prickled as she made that declaration. She stood, uneasy, and rifled through the day’s correspondence—neatly arranged on a silver plate on her writing desk.

  Bea sifted through the usual assortment of calling cards and notices, when one envelope drew her attention from the rest. The bold flourish of the handwriting was unfamiliar, but the moment she slid it open, she knew.

  Lady Pullington,

  As you can see by this missive, I am sincere in my hop
e that you will allow me to paint your likeness. After considering the matter, I believe an outdoor setting will best allow me to achieve the effect I envision. I am unfamiliar with England, and therefore beg of you to accompany me on an outing to the countryside so that we may discover an appropriate location. If you are amenable, I shall send a driver Wednesday afternoon at one o’clock.

  Veuillez agréer, Madame, l’assurance de mes sentiments distingués,

  Jean Philippe Durand

  “What’s caught your attention?” Elizabeth leaned over her shoulder.

  Bea handed her the note.

  “Oh. My, he is bold. A bit improper, but then, he is French.” She fluttered a hand over her heart and giggled. “‘It may yet come to nothing?’” she teased, mocking Bea’s words of moments before. “I think not. You, darling, are about to become the subject of Monsieur Durand’s considerable talent.”

  Bea retrieved the card, reread it.

  “You’re going, aren’t you?”

  “Oh…” She set the card carefully back on the plate. “I, well, perhaps this isn’t the best idea. As you said, it’s improper.”

  Elizabeth cocked her head. “The most coveted invitation in London, yet you are considering turning it down? Have you lost your mind?”

  Bea searched for an excuse as her friend’s eyes narrowed. “Ah. It’s the attention,” Elizabeth pronounced, as though she were a physician diagnosing an ailment. “It makes you uncomfortable. No. That’s not quite it. He makes you uncomfortable.”

  Sometimes, best friends saw things too clearly.

  How could she explain that she’d had the sense it hadn’t been her polished self, her fashionable gown, that Philippe Durand had been looking at, but something else? Something internally, uniquely her. And Bea was afraid of whatever it was he might have seen.

  Elizabeth had no such qualms. “You’re going,” she declared. “And I’m coming with you.”

  “I won’t hear of it. You can’t possibly traipse through the countryside in your condition.”

  “I most certainly can,” Elizabeth argued. “I am nowhere near confinement yet, and I feel much better now that I’ve rested. A bit of fresh air will do me good.”

  Bea hesitated. A flutter, reminiscent of the excitement she’d felt at the salon, filled her. This was her chance to delve into the mind of the artist, to watch him at work, find out what drove him. For if she could figure out how he did it, she might understand whether she had it in herself to take those same risks with her poems—or whether she would dabble in secret forever.

  Elizabeth sensed her capitulation. “It’s settled, then. Write him back.”

  After Elizabeth left, Bea pulled out her mystery note once more, determined to decipher its code. The more she’d pondered it, the more she’d decided it unlikely the note was actually addressing the indelicate topic of pregnancy—poetic conventions about “seed planting” aside.

  The author of the note advocated a planting and watering schedule based on days of the week. Presumably this made keeping track easier, but Bea found it oddly meticulous. Didn’t most gardeners tend to their plants based on the plants’ needs, and changes in the weather, rather than a preset timeline?

  But if the author’s insistence on establishing a timeline served another purpose…

  The most likely reason—not that any reason was particularly likely—a woman might find a note tucked into her sleeve, Bea presumed, was to arrange a meeting she might not want others to know about. A lovers’ rendezvous, perhaps, or payment of a private debt…even a bribe? Everyone had their secrets.

  She returned to the note.

  …the pleasure of a garden need not be limited to daylight. Last to be planted—on Saturday, for Sunday is a day of rest—are ten clusters of night-blooming plants.

  Saturday. Night. Perhaps ten o’clock? Where, where? Bea tapped a fingernail on her desk, and then it came to her. A pleasure garden. Vauxhall.

  The salon had been Monday evening. Today was Tuesday. If Bea’s interpretation was correct, then the secret meeting had not yet come to pass.

  Bea was fairly certain she wasn’t the one who’d been invited.

  What if she were to attend anyway? She had nearly four days to decide.

  Philippe strummed anxious fingers against his thigh as the unmarked carriage waited outside Lady Pullington’s home. Her missive accepting this outing had come as a relief, even a bit of a surprise.

  The door of the townhome opened and Lady Beatrice Pullington, dressed in a pale green gown with a light wrapper, descended the steps.

  Philippe leaned forward.

  Another figure, a woman with striking red hair and an emerald gown, followed behind her.

  He sat back. A chaperone. Disappointing, but to be expected. The carriage door opened and the footman assisted both ladies up.

  Philippe smiled broadly, falling back on the natural charm that had always come so easy to him. “Ladies. Welcome.”

  “Monsieur Durand. Permit me to introduce my companion this afternoon, the Duchess of Beaufort.” Bea settled herself across from him, the redhead at her side.

  Philippe gave a makeshift bow, as much as the tight space allowed. “Your Grace. It is truly an honor for a simple craftsman such as myself to spend the afternoon with not one, but two of Society’s loveliest ladies.”

  The two women laughed and exchanged a glance. What was that about?

  “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Monsieur Durand,” the redhead said. “I was very sorry to have missed the salon, so accompanying my dear friend Bea is a welcome opportunity. May I ask our destination?”

  Every inch of the young duchess bespoke polish and, Philippe sensed, a protectiveness of Lady Pullington. He paused and rubbed his thigh, weighing his answer. “Je regrette…I am unable to offer you a specific destination. As you may know, I am unfamiliar with England’s countryside. I simply instructed our driver to take us a bit outside the city, and planned to explore until I found something that caught my eye.”

  The duchess arched a brow. “Am I to understand you intend to drag us into the wilderness without purpose or destination?”

  Definitely protective. He gave her a smile designed to disarm. “Never without purpose. And your safety is my utmost priority, vraiment. It is only that I seek the very best setting to complement your friend’s luxuriant beauty.”

  Beatrice Pullington was being remarkably silent, but he thought he detected a blush at his last statement.

  “I see. What sort of scenery is it you envision?” the duchess asked.

  He tilted his head. “Something natural, yet alive. To be honest, I hoped to observe Lady Pullington as she freely wanders. When it is right, I will know.”

  “Oh.” Lady Pullington’s eyes widened, and the spark of awareness that passed between them was nearly tangible.

  He shifted back and cleared his throat. “Your Grace, you are a native here. Perhaps you know of somewhere that will suit?”

  The redhead smiled at his flattery, and Philippe silently praised Beatrice Pullington for her choice of companion. Had she shown up with an ancient harridan immune to charm, the outing would have been infinitely less pleasant.

  “The gardens at Montgrave.”

  “An estate?” he asked.

  “Yes, my husband’s and my country seat. It is not terribly far—perhaps two hours, a little more.”

  “I see. The journey is manageable, though the return trip will limit our exploration. Are these formal gardens, then?” Philippe frowned.

  “Not in the way of the sculpted gardens in France,” Lady Bainbridge answered. “Montgrave does have some English gardens that are lovely, but if those do not suit, the grounds themselves are extensive and offer a great variety of natural scenery. If you find it to your liking, you might have access to it as long as you need.”

  It was a generous offer. Using the duke’s grounds might make his subject more comfortable, as she would be under the implied protection of her powerful friends. H
e needed her relaxed. However Beatrice Pullington might fascinate him, and whatever his reputation with women, Philippe had always acted the part of a gentleman.

  He smiled. “Montgrave it shall be.”

  Philippe watched as the duchess flicked another of those assessing glances first at Lady Pullington, then him. What was she planning?

  More importantly, how did he get Beatrice Pullington to relax? She’d spoken barely two sentences the entire journey. Oh, she’d nodded, smiled, and murmured agreement as he and Lady Bainbridge tried valiantly to draw her into the conversation, but eventually they’d all lapsed into a desultory silence, lulled by the motion of the carriage.

  The vehicle rolled through a set of stone and iron gates, signaling their arrival to the duke’s estate.

  Philippe turned his gaze from the perplexing women across from him to the small window. Outside, the grounds were manicured, with swans floating serenely on a pond. Too formal. A sprawling manor came into sight, and behind it on the left, a sun-dappled meadow framed by woods. He smiled. There was promise in those fields.

  Their vehicle drew to a stop, and the three climbed out. The young duchess, moving slowly, was the last to emerge.

  “We are not expected, but there is always a small staff in residence here if you would care for refreshments before starting,” she offered.

  “Merci. A kind offer, but if Lady Pullington is amenable, I prefer to take advantage of this fine afternoon and begin immediately.” He shrugged a shoulder, indicating the satchel he carried. “As I did not know when we set out where we would end up, I did pack a light repast.”

  Lady Pullington opened her mouth to respond, but her companion cut her off. “Oh dear, I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “Pardon?”

  The duchess passed a hand across her forehead in an expression of weariness. “I’m so very sorry, but I believe the carriage ride has left my stomach unsettled. I think I shall go inside and have a lie-down while the two of you explore. Bea is familiar with the grounds, and you may, of course, wander freely.”