Nothing But Deception Page 5

  Philippe, endeavoring to be gracious, nodded. “I assure you, my actions that night were not merely for effect.”

  “Then you are pursuing Lady Pullington? That is,” he coughed, “as a subject?”

  He smiled. “Absolument. My rose of England. She is…très belle.”

  How odd. The Wilbournes’ footman had now been lurking in the corner for some time—and was it Philippe’s imagination, or had the man’s eyes flared at the mention of Lady Pullington?

  The corner was not an obtrusive position by any means, but most servants had mastered the art of appearing only when needed. Philippe had built his career upon observing people, then capturing those observations on canvas. Something about this particular footman struck him as unusual, though he couldn’t pinpoint anything beyond the man’s lingering presence.

  He forced his attention back to the men at the table.

  “Lord and Lady Bainbridge have offered the use of a site on the grounds of Montgrave as the setting. I believe the result will be captivating.”

  “Ah, yes. Lovely estate.” Wilbourne nodded. “The duke’s sister is a close friend of my wife. As is Lady Pullington, for that matter.”

  Philippe smiled. “It was Lady Pullington who identified the site, in fact. I have never before worked on English soil, but the lady seemed to know just what would suit. Her delicate features set amongst the first green of spring—I am thinking a tender palette will suit her shy nature, though the dark of her hair, the shadows…it will still have impact.”

  “Her shy nature?” Lord Garrett repeated. “Lady Pullington?”

  “No? Am I wrong?” Philippe asked, unaccountably eager to learn more about Bea from men who had known her longer.

  Garrett shrugged. “Just never thought of her as shy. She attends most of Society’s events, and she always seems a companionable sort.”

  “Intriguing.” Philippe pondered the Englishman’s words. He could easily see Bea as a “companionable sort”—and yet, one could maintain appearances in Society without ever revealing one’s deeper thoughts or true nature. And it was Bea’s nature that held his attention. The last time he’d seen her, the lovely widow had intuitively led him to the perfect setting in which to paint her, then quoted poetry as she stood there.

  He’d called her a muse upon first sighting her at the salon, but he hadn’t known the word contained as much truth as flattery. If only she didn’t shy away every time he got close—mentally or physically.

  Philippe chuckled as he laid down his latest set of losing cards. “Getting me talking about art is one of the surest ways of distracting me. I believe you mean to empty my coffers while we hold this conversation,” he joked.

  Lord Wilbourne laughed. “Consider it a more civil method of waging war on France.”

  Philippe chuckled in return. Having met the Wilbournes in his home country during their extended stay, he knew they bore France no ill will.

  The first round ended, Philippe having surrendered a fair sum to Lord Stockton. The older lord dealt next, and Philippe tried to focus on the game rather than remember the sweet taste of the lips of his muse. He shouldn’t have kissed her. But it was difficult—no, impossible—to summon even a hint of regret for his actions.

  The footman passed by again, and Philippe frowned, frustrated with his inability to ignore the man—or at least discern why he could ignore a high-stakes card game but not an inconsequential servant.

  “You lose again, monsieur,” Lord Wilbourne pointed out, drawing the cards in to prepare for a new round.

  Philippe shook himself and grinned ruefully. “Pardon. I was distracted.”

  “The first rule of cards,” Lord Garrett remarked in a lighthearted tone, “is never to become distracted.”

  “A terrible fault of mine, to be sure. I have never had much skill at card games,” Philippe averred. “It is only that I find it difficult to focus on small marked pieces of paper when I have the opportunity to observe the people playing with them.”

  The incredulity on Lords Stockton and Garrett’s faces made it clear they did not share the same problem.

  “Take care not to let that fault be too widely known, or Englishmen will be lining up for the opportunity to fleece a wealthy Frenchman,” Wilbourne advised.

  “Duly noted. Though if I must compete, I prefer to do so in a fencing ring, where my penchant for observing people is a boon to me, rather than to my opponent.”

  Garrett waved a hand, relaxing visibly at this confirmation that the Frenchman did have something in common with them after all. “Very good. Enjoy the sport myself. Don’t let Wilbourne scare you. We’re all friends here. No bad blood.”

  “Of course, of course,” Lord Wilbourne said. “Never would have invited you otherwise. All in good fun, right? A fencer, you say—have you had the opportunity for a match at Angelo’s yet?”

  “I’m afraid not, though now that I am extending my stay in your country, the possibility holds appeal.”

  One of the other tables broke up, two ladies making their way toward the refreshment board, while a third headed to the table where the men played, clearly looking for a new game to join.

  Philippe stood. “By all means,” he said, indicating his chair. “Gentlemen, I hope you’ll forgive me.” He smiled. “I admit defeat—and I confess to the desire to end tonight with a portion of my holdings still intact.”

  Lord Wilbourne held up two hands in a gesture of peace. “Certainly. I respect a man who knows when to leave the game far more than a man who stays when he shouldn’t.”

  Lord Garrett nodded, his expression more solemn than usual for the normally gregarious young lord. Interesting. Philippe wondered what experience had prompted the conviction.

  He excused himself and selected a glass of alcohol-laden punch from a nearby buffet, content to lean casually against the wall and observe. The lurking footman seemed finally to have disappeared. Lord Garrett traded places with another lady, evening the distribution of genders at each table. As the new players took their seats and the next round of cards began, Philippe’s thoughts drifted inevitably back to Beatrice Pullington.

  He’d felt inspiration before—he always chose subjects that inspired him. But never before had he felt this strange connection, that she was somehow sensing him, leading him down a path—both literal and figurative—he wanted to travel but might never have discovered otherwise. It was disconcerting.

  He’d had his fair share of women—though perhaps not quite the number the gossips liked to attribute to him. And he did intend to have Beatrice Pullington. She might not yet realize it, but he sensed the inevitable—this connection of theirs would flame into a passion strong enough they both would surrender. A matter not of choice, but of fate.

  Philippe grimaced, disgusted with his line of thought. Making love to a woman was one thing, but fate? Was he somehow under a spell, and his sense of control, the decisions he made, only an illusion? No. He was master of his own destiny.

  But then, what did one do when a muse such as Beatrice Pullington walked into one’s life?

  Chapter 6

  After considerable internal debate, Bea’s curiosity won out on Saturday night. There was a chance she’d misinterpreted everything, but if she didn’t at least test her theory about the mysterious note, she would die wondering.

  If the note had been meant for someone’s lover, she just had to help. Her own chances at finding true love had been knocked awry by an arranged marriage and early widowhood. The loneliness she’d felt in those years made Bea loathe to thwart someone else’s budding romance.

  There would be the inevitable awkward explanation of how she’d come by the note, but that was better than simply allowing some poor man to wonder, perhaps for years, why his lover had abandoned him.

  Bea couldn’t say exactly when she’d developed this inability to leave well enough alone. Perhaps the excitement with Philippe Durand had given her courage, or the fact that she’d spent the last year watching her best friend
step outside all the normal bounds of propriety, and, as a result, Elizabeth was now happier than ever.

  But Elizabeth had good reason to be more cautious these days, so Bea had asked Charity to accompany her tonight. Her friend’s sister, always up for an adventure, had readily accepted.

  As the two young women strolled through the entry to Vauxhall Gardens, strains of music could be heard from the pavilions, and the scents of the vendors’ baked confections wafted through the air. Dusk had already fallen, and thousands of glass lamps lit the main walks, lending an air of magic to the scene.

  “You’re the best chaperone ever.” Charity turned to Bea, her grin full of mischief. “With Mother and Elizabeth, all I ever do is attend balls and teas where I meet the same gentlemen I’ve known my entire life—only now their mamas are pressuring them to ask for my hand in marriage.”

  “Oh my. What a very dreadful existence,” Bea teased.

  “You’ve no idea,” Charity declared, raising a hand to her forehead dramatically.

  Bea laughed. “Of course, if your mother or sister find out the real purpose of our outing this evening, I am likely to lose my chaperoning privileges.”

  “My lips are sealed.” Charity pinched them together for effect, then dropped her hand. “What is the real purpose of our outing tonight? More than Vauxhall’s normal entertainment, I presume, since we have already missed the supper?” Her eyes lit up. “Ooh, have you planned a romantic assignation? If you wish to sneak off, I could stand watch.”

  “I do love you, Charity.” Bea laughed again. Her friend’s little sister was the perfect companion for such an evening. “Actually, there is a liaison planned tonight. But I don’t know with whom, or whether there is romance involved. And we aren’t exactly invited.”

  “An intrigue,” Charity breathed. “Even better. Tell me everything.”

  Bea explained about the note, and the message she’d gleaned from it.

  “What? That happened at the salon, and you didn’t tell me?”

  “It occurred at the very end, and I didn’t know what it was until even later. Besides, I’m telling you now.”

  “True. And making me your accomplice.” Charity was appeased. “Who do you think it is? And where is this assignation to take place?”

  “I have no idea who…though whoever it is must have attended the salon. As to where, I would guess the Druids’ Walk, though again, it may be that my imagination has gotten the better of me in conjecturing this entire scenario.”

  Charity waved that idea away. “The Druids’ Walk,” she mused. “A favorite of lovers for decades.” She giggled. “Though tonight, at least one lover is likely to be lonesome, for if you hold the note intended for his sweetheart, she will not know to show up.”

  Bea led Charity down the main walk, toward the more secluded paths, slowing as they drew near. The lamps were placed sparingly here, and a few yards ahead, they disappeared entirely. It was still a few minutes before ten o’clock. Bea and Charity slipped behind a row of tall shrubs, wary of revealing themselves to a party who might not be pleased to see them.

  Another minute passed. A few revelers wandered within sight, but gave no indication of stopping. A middle-aged woman paused at the edge of the light. “Sarah?” she called. “Where have you gotten off to?” When there was no response, she continued on her way.

  Bea winked. “Bet Sarah’s having some fun,” she whispered.

  Charity grinned, then suddenly her expression changed—her eyes widened and she grabbed Bea’s arm with one hand and pointed with the other.

  Two men converged, one coming from the area of the pavilions, the other from the direction of the music room. They fell into step, then paused just beyond the entrance to the unlit portion of the paths.

  Two men? Bea eyed Charity in their hiding spot in the bushes. This was some matter of business, then, rather than a lovers’ rendezvous.

  She returned her gaze to the duo, neither of whom she recognized. Their hats were pulled low, their clothing dark. Indistinguishable, which in itself was unusual, for Vauxhall was often hailed as a place where people indulged their tastes in exotic and outrageous fashions.

  One of the men pulled out a pocket watch, glanced at it, then nodded to his companion. In accord, they moved deeper into the dark.

  Bea frowned.

  “There is a path that runs parallel to the one they are on,” Charity whispered. “Shall we follow?”

  Bea nodded, deciding this was not the time to question why Charity, who had only just made her bow before Society, knew Vauxhall’s dark paths so well.

  The two ladies rose as quietly as possible, glancing around first to ensure no one saw them extracting themselves from the bushes. Their slippers made little noise as they hurried down the path Charity indicated.

  “There,” Bea whispered. Though greenery obscured the view, she could hear the low voices of men, speaking in French. Excitement rushed to her head. Their choice of language, their studied movements—just shy of furtive—all but confirmed she’d interpreted the note correctly. Or mostly so. It had been setting up a rendezvous. Just not a romantic one. She pulled Charity into a small enclave to wait once more.

  “My French is abominable,” Charity whispered. “I can’t make out anything they’re saying.”

  Bea held a finger to her lips, straining to hear. Her French was fine, but the men’s low voices made it difficult. Clearly they’d no desire to be overheard—or recognized—which made Bea more determined than ever.

  “Elle est en retard,” one of them murmured. She is late. Bea closed her eyes, focused only on translating.

  “Do you think she’ll come? She hasn’t been discovered, has she?”

  “It matters not. We cannot wait. The ship leaves tomorrow. Any reports must be on board.”

  The first man murmured something Bea couldn’t make out, and the second dropped his voice as well. She continued to strain her ears, making out a phrase or two whenever the intensity of the discussion rose. What she heard did nothing to settle her unease.

  As the conversation wore on, Bea could sense Charity’s frustration. Finally, the men dispersed, one disappearing into the overgrown paths while the other headed back toward the pavilions.

  Bea placed a hand on Charity’s sleeve, signaling she wanted to wait until both were out of sight before emerging themselves.

  “Bea,” Charity said hesitantly, once they were back on the main path, “I could be wrong here, and I hope I am, but did those men strike you as, well, sinister?”

  Charity’s French may have been terrible, but her intuition worked just fine. “In what way?” Bea asked, wanting to hear her friend’s thoughts before solidifying her own.

  “Here are two men, missing their third, a woman perhaps, who meet in secret, communicate in code when writing, and are, presumably, French. I could not follow their conversation, but I know it was not about pastries, or the superiority of French wines. I caught the term ‘Congress,’ and ‘Emperor,’ and I have read, and heard, enough of the news to know war is looming once more.”

  “Yes.” Bea pressed her lips together and gave a slow nod. The “Congress” the men had referred to was the Congress of Vienna—the group of ambassadors whose countries were dedicated to ending the second reign of Napoleon Bonaparte.

  “I share your concern,” Bea told her in a hushed voice, suddenly uncomfortable in her surroundings, “but let us wait until we return to my carriage to discuss it any further.” She had the feeling she and Charity had just wandered into an intrigue far more grave than she’d anticipated. She only hoped their presence in the gardens had gone unnoticed.

  Once they were safely enclosed in the carriage, Charity said, “I know you understood more of that than I did. Be honest with me. Were they spies?”

  Bea hesitated. “It is possible.”

  “One of them seemed familiar.” Charity frowned and shook her head. “The shorter one. But I can’t place where I’ve seen him.”

  “Do try a
nd remember,” Bea urged.

  The younger woman thought, then shook her head again. “I can’t. What do you think we should do?” Charity tugged at a carefully arranged curl, worry evident in her tone.

  Bea closed her eyes, her thoughts muddled. In matters like this, she was as inexperienced as her companion. “I suppose we could approach the authorities. The Foreign Office, maybe? Or the War Office? But what would we tell them? Oh, Charity, I’m so very sorry to have dragged you into this.”

  “Don’t fret so,” Charity reassured her. “We’re both unharmed. We simply need to decide what action to take. Do you still have that note?”

  “Yes. At my house. I can show you.” She tapped on the window, then redirected the driver not to drop off Charity first.

  When they reached Bea’s house, she went once more to the desk, pulled the note from its drawer, and handed it to Charity, who stared at it, the tip of her tongue visible between her lips as she struggled with the translation.

  “I cannot believe you not only read this, but discovered a whole second meaning.”

  Bea took back the paper. It seemed heavier in her hand now than it had when she’d thought it merely a lovers’ clever game. But this was no ordinary missive…some mischief was afoot.

  Somehow, she had been the accidental recipient of a note written in French, and in code. And tonight had provided ample evidence that while French was often considered the language of romance, in this case, it was the language of war.

  News of Napoleon Bonaparte’s escape from exile, followed by his march to Paris, had flooded the papers for the past weeks. If there was even the remotest relationship between those events and the slip of paper she held, or the conversation she’d witnessed tonight, the implications were more than she could comprehend.

  Bea could pretend it had never happened, pretend she hadn’t been intelligent enough to discern anything beyond a discussion of gardening in the note. But that would make her both dishonest and disloyal.