His At Night

Chapter Seven

Elissande had inherited a few things from her parents: a set of her mother’s silver combs, a bottle of perfume blended especially for Charlotte Edgerton by Parfumerie Guerlain, her father’s shaving brush, a bundle of letters tied in lilac ribbon, and a small oil painting of a female nude.

She was sure Lord Frederick would appreciate seeing the painting. She hadn’t shown it to him for one very significant reason: She was afraid that the subject might be her mother, and one simply did not go around letting gentlemen look at one’s mother in such a state of exposure.

But now she was throwing all scruples to the wind.

“My goodness, but it’s a Delacroix!” exclaimed Lord Frederick.

She was unfamiliar with the name; the books on art that the library had once housed had concentrated on the art of classical antiquity and that of the Renaissance. But judging by Lord Frederick’s expression of delight and reverence, a Delacroix was nothing to sneer at.

“Do you really think so, Lord Frederick, that it is a Delacroix?”

“I am almost one hundred percent sure.” He brought the small painting even closer to his eyes. “The signature, the style, the use of color—I would be shocked if it weren’t a Delacroix.”

His enthusiasm quite infected her. It must be a sign from above. How else could her treasure chest, which contained nothing of value—except the sentimental kind—prove so startlingly helpful on this very day?

“It is exquisite,” Lord Frederick murmured, enraptured.

She stared at him, similarly enraptured by her sudden stroke of good fortune.

“How did you come to have a Delacroix?” Lord Frederick asked.

“I haven’t the remotest idea. I suppose my father must have purchased it. He lived in Paris during the early seventies.”

“I don’t think so,” scoffed Lord Vere.

Lady Kingsley had letters to write. Lady Avery and the young ladies had gone to Ellesmere. Most of the gentlemen had departed to shoot what grouse there was to be had at Woodley Manor. Lord Frederick had declined, citing a lack of interest in badgering the poor birds. Lord Vere, who had originally declared his intention to go, had, to Elissande’s simmering exasperation, subsequently changed his mind to keep his brother company.

As a result, he sat at the other end of the morning parlor, playing solitaire. Elissande had done her best to ignore his presence, but now she had no choice but to turn her head his way. He did not look up from the cards he’d laid out—and they were not for a game of solitaire, but simply one long line from which he was now turning random cards faceup.

“I beg your pardon, sir? You don’t think my father lived in Paris?”

“Oh, I’m sure he did, but I’m not so sure he came by his Delacroix honestly,” said Lord Vere nonchalantly. “Lady Avery was chewing on my ears at dinner last night. She told me that your grandfather was a great lover of art and that your father stole some pieces from him before he ran away with your mother.”

Elissande was overcome for a moment. Her uncle had said plenty of unpleasant things about her parents, but at least he had never accused her father of thievery.

“Please do not speak ill of the dead, my lord,” she said, her voice tight with fury.

“Telling what happened in truth isn’t speaking ill of someone. Besides, it’s a fascinating story, what with your mother having been a kept woman and all. Did you know she was your great-uncle’s mistress before she married your father?”

Of course she knew that. Her uncle had made sure she understood well the ignominy of her parentage. But it was the worst breach of manners for Lord Vere to speak of it publicly, with such carelessness for the ramifications.

For the very first time Lord Frederick, red at the ears, spoke in censure of his brother. “Penny, that’s enough.”

Lord Vere shrugged and gathered his cards to reshuffle them.

There was a long, awkward silence. Lord Frederick broke it—lovely, lovely Lord Frederick. “I do apologize,” he said softly. “Sometimes my brother gets his stories confused. I’m sure he’s quite mistaken about your family.”

“Thank you,” she murmured gratefully.

“No, it is I who should thank you, for the chance to admire a Delacroix when I least expected it.” He handed the painting back to her. “What joy such beauty brings.”

“I found this among my father’s things last night. We have trunks and trunks of my father’s possessions. Perhaps I can unearth some more.”

“I would dearly love to see what else you can find, Miss Edgerton.”

“She’s not wearing anything,” said Lord Vere, suddenly next to her. She had not heard him get up from his chair at all.

“It’s a nude, Penny,” Lord Frederick explained.

“Well, yes, I can see that: She’s not wearing anything.” Lord Vere leaned in farther. “Except a pair of white stockings, that is.”

His arm practically brushed her hair. She would have expected his clothes to reek of tomato sauce—he’d had quite an incident with the sweetbread at luncheon. But he only smelled brisk and clean.

“It’s a study of the female form. It’s not prurient,” said Lord Frederick. “It’s not supposed to be prurient.”

Oddly enough, Lord Frederick flushed. But he quickly gathered himself. “And thank you again, Miss Edgerton, for the privilege. I hope you find more hidden treasures. I cannot wait to see them.”

“I will be sure to show you anything I find that very instant,” she said, smiling and rising. There was still much, much to do.

Lord Vere called after her, “I’d like to see them too if they look like this, wearing only stockings!”

She did not throw a vase at his head. Her canonization was now assured.

Miss Edgerton’s movements and gestures intrigued Vere. The way she sometimes played with the ruches on her sleeves. The way she touched her hair, as if deliberately drawing attention to the soft, shining mass of it. The way she listened to Freddie, with one index finger along her jaw, her torso slanted at a slight angle, so that it gave a clear but still discreet impression that she wished to be closer.

But nothing incited Vere—and repelled him—quite as much as her smiles. When she smiled, despite everything, his heart skittered.

There was a science and an art to manufactured smiles. He, too, was fairly accomplished at smiling, no matter what he truly felt. But she…she was the ceiling at the Sistine Chapel, the glorious, eternal, unsurpassable standard.

Where had she come by the ingénue charm and the virtuoso radiance? How did she manage to retain the honest naïveté in her eyes and the relaxed set to her jaw? Her smiles dazzled so much that sometimes he could not remember what she looked like otherwise.

But she had not smiled when she’d discovered that she’d sat on his lap. She had not smiled at any point during the ninety minutes his drunken antics had kept her away from her aunt’s room. She had not smiled at him just now, as he reveled in her less-than-desirable parentage. And for her, not smiling was akin to another woman leaving the house without her petticoats.

It was what he wanted, wasn’t it, to grate on her nerves enough to send her screaming to bedlam? Then why did it incense him so? He was even irked by Freddie, the object of her obvious affection, because Freddie didn’t care about it one way or the other—and Freddie almost never rankled him.

“I’m going upstairs for a minute, Penny,” said Freddie, rising from the desk where he’d been writing a letter since Miss Edgerton left. “I need my card case.”

“I’ll come with you,” Vere answered. “I’ve nothing better to do.”

He’d been working for hours on deciphering the code used in Douglas’s dossier, with letters marked at the corners of the cards he’d been arranging and rearranging, sifting for patterns. Or at least such had been his aim. He’d accomplished nothing on that front, his concentration flaccid the entire day.

Besides, Miss Edgerton still lurked somewhere in the house.

“Why do you want your card case? Are we calling on somebody?” he asked as they made their way up the stairs.

“No,” said Freddie. “I’m writing a letter to Leo Marsden. He’s on his way back from India.”

“Who?”

“You remember him—we were all in the same house at Eton. I have his address in my card case.”

Inside Freddie’s room, Freddie opened the drawer of his nightstand and scratched his chin. “That’s strange. My card case is not here.”

“When was the last time you saw it?”

“This morning.” Freddie frowned. “Perhaps I’m not remembering correctly.”

Freddie was highly charitable: Most gentlemen would suspect the servants. Vere helped Freddie search around the room to no avail.

“You should tell Miss Edgerton that it’s missing.”

“I suppose I should.”

They did not see Miss Edgerton again, however, until everyone had returned to the house for tea and chitchat on the day’s events. Miss Edgerton expressed the appropriate mix of shock and dismay that such a thing should have occurred in her house and promised to do everything in her power to locate the card case and return it to Lord Frederick.

But as she gave her concerned reassurances, new lamb–pure and kitten-sweet, Vere suddenly suspected her. What she could possibly want with Freddie’s card case he did not know. He knew only that when she didn’t smile, there was a hardness to her eyes—a grimness, almost.

And that his instincts were almost always correct.

Lady Avery’s demeanor at dinner elevated Vere’s unease from mere disquiet to active alarm. He knew Lady Avery very well: A man of his profession would be foolish not to embrace such a fount of information. And he recognized her bloodhound look: eyes squinted, nostrils almost quivering, ready to pounce upon a meaty scandal if only she could follow its scent to the source of the delectable transgression.

Something was afoot. That in itself was not strange, but this something was suddenly afoot. For at tea Lady Avery had shown no sign of the hunt, content merely to tantalize Miss Melbourne and Miss Duvall with gossip too improper for their maidenly ears.

What could possibly have put Lady Avery on such alert? The girls, notwithstanding their youth and love of fun, were not a particularly scandal-prone group. Miss Melbourne’s main interest lay in her figure; Miss Duvall’s in music. Miss Beauchamp nursed a strong tendresse for her second cousin, who was not present. And Miss Kingsley, despite her flirtation with Conrad, was keener on education than on marriage—she was due back at Girton in October.

Which left their hostess.

Vere stuck close to Freddie. Nothing happened. Dinner came and went. The evening’s entertainment was staid and appropriate. The ladies retired at a decent hour. As the clock struck half past eleven, he was beginning to believe that perhaps, for once, he’d overreacted; that what he’d considered his own instinctual sensitivity to the undercurrents of the gathering had been but a raging case of paranoia.

And then, two minutes later, a sleepy-looking footman entered the drawing room bearing a silver salver upon which lay Freddie’s card case and a sealed note.

Vere sprang to his feet and raced across the breadth of drawing room, stopping just in time to avoid knocking the footman backward, but not so soon that he didn’t knock the silver salver to the ground.

“Sorry!” he cried, and crouched down to retrieve the things meant for Freddie. Then he straightened and patted the footman on the shoulder. “My apologies, my good man. I was too excited: We’ve been looking for the card case all day. Tell you what: You go on to bed, I’ll take the case to my brother. That’s who it was for, right?”

He pointed at Freddie.

“Yes, my lord. But I’ve orders to deliver everything into Lord Frederick’s hands.”

“Not a problem.” Vere sauntered to Freddie and handed over the card case. “See, delivered into Lord Frederick’s hands.”

“Thank you, sir,” said the footman, and left.

Freddie checked the contents of the case. “I wonder where she found it.”

“Ask her tomorrow,” said Vere. “At least now you can address your letter to Marsden.”

He waited a few minutes before he left the room to read the sealed note that he’d pocketed with a sleight of hand.

Dear Lord Frederick,

Here is your card case, which one of the maids found on the service stairs.

And if I may please borrow a minute of your time, just now I have discovered, among my father’s things, a sketch of such beauty and skill, signed by a name so majestic that I dare not set it down in writing for fear of making a fool of myself.

May I trouble you for a look? My excitement refuses to let me wait. If you would please meet me in fifteen minutes in the green parlor, I would be much obliged.

Elissande Edgerton

Elissande. A beautiful name. Almost cutting, like a mouthful of sharply faceted gems. And lovely, clever Elissande wished to meet Freddie at close to midnight, well after the ladies had retired, far away from the drawing room and the billiard room, where the gentlemen still lingered.

A rendezvous alone, in a remote part of the house—with Lady Avery in an overexcited state of anticipation.

He had entirely underestimated Miss Edgerton’s interest in Freddie, it would seem.

Elissande trembled. This made her nervous. Her aunt was the trembler, not she. She had steady hands and eyes that remained unblinkingly limpid no matter how terrified she was.

Perhaps she could use the trembling to her advantage. A lady meeting a gentleman at an unorthodox hour ought to tremble a little, ought she not? It would give her suddenly unleashing passion a touch of authenticity, and that, in turn, might inspire Lord Frederick to a more heartfelt response.

She touched her shoulders. She’d unraveled the stitches that held the top of her nightdress together. Underneath her robe, it literally hung on by a thread. A tug with any force would split it in two and send the anchorless halves sliding toward the floor.

And what have you found this time, Miss Edgerton? Lord Frederick would ask.

And she would gaze upon him as if he were the Second Coming itself. Oh, forgive me, sir. I know I shouldn’t have, but ever since we met, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you.

At least that last part was mostly true.

She breathed deeply, out, in, out, in. It was time. She pulled her robe tight, prayed that she wouldn’t rend her nightdress before its time, and left her bedchamber to head to the green parlor.

The light was on in the parlor. Japanese prints depicting the four seasons took up the walls. Vases and incense holders of jade echoed the lotus leaf hue of the silk wallpaper. Large, clear bottles, raised to chest level on custom-made stands, contained intricately crafted model ships—prisoners, just like her.

And she was alone in the room.

She blinked. She’d meant to arrive a few minutes after Lord Frederick. He should be here already, a little startled at her informal state of attire, perhaps, but eager and impatient to see exactly what too-good-to-believe treasure she’d uncovered.

No fire had been laid in the grate. After two minutes or so pacing madly about the room, she realized she was trembling far worse, as much from the chill in the air as from a sudden onset of panic—her plan was worth nothing without Lord Frederick.

Her hands inched near the flame of her hand-candle, hungry for its meager heat. She breathed fast and shallow. The air smelled of turpentine, from the furniture paste the maids had applied.

The mantel clock striking the hour made her jump. It was the time she’d stated in the unsigned note, with its wax seal already broken, that she’d left outside Lady Avery’s door. Midnight. The green parlor. My heart sighs for you. And she knew Lady Avery had discovered the seemingly accidentally dropped note, because throughout the evening, she had scrutinized the gathering incessantly, trying to discover which love-demented pair dared set an assignation right beneath her nose.

And now it was all for naught.

Numbly, Elissande extinguished the light in the parlor and headed out toward her uncle’s study—to avoid running into Lady Avery, who would most likely be coming from the direction of the front hall. Beyond the study were the service stairs. She would return to her room that way.

She came to a dead stop outside the study. She’d specifically informed her guests that the study was off-limits. But the study door was ajar and the light was on.

She pushed the door open the rest of the way. Lord Vere stood before the cabinets, opening them one after another, humming to himself.

“Lord Vere, what are you doing here?”

“Oh, hullo, Miss Edgerton,” he replied cheerfully. “I’m looking for a book. I like to read before I go to sleep, you see. It’s better than laudanum by far. Two pages—sometimes two paragraphs—and I sleep like a baby. Nothing like it, especially Latin verse. A bit of Latin verse and I won’t get out of bed before ten o’clock in the morning.”

She was surprised he could read at all, let alone read in Latin. “I’m sorry, sir, but you are in the wrong place. The books are in the library, not here.”

“Ah, no wonder. I thought this was the library—was just telling myself what a bizarre sort of library it was.” He stepped out into the passage. “I say, Miss Edgerton, what are you doing here? Haven’t the ladies gone to bed already?”

“I forgot something.”

“What is it? Can I help you find it?”

She was about to say she’d already found it when she realized that she had nothing on her except her hand-candle.

“I can find it myself, thank you, sir.”

“Please do let me help.”

This was the last thing she needed—to be possibly caught with him by Lady Avery. But Lady Avery had not yet arrived. Judging by the lack of footsteps anywhere near, she would not arrive for another minute or two, plenty enough time for Elissande to march back to the green parlor next door, pick up any old bric-a-brac, pronounce it found, and get rid of Lord Vere.

So that was what she did, Lord Vere in tow. Once in the green parlor, with only her hand-candle for illumination, she headed directly for the mantel, grabbed the nearest object, and said, “There. I have it.”

“Oh, what a nice snow globe,” said Lord Vere.

She could have picked up something else, anything else. The malachite candlestick, for example. The plain Chinese urn that held the spills for starting a fire in the grate. But she hadn’t picked up anything else; she’d picked up the snow globe with a miniature village inside: church, high street, snow-covered cottages—the last Christmas present Aunt Rachel had given her, eight years ago.

It had snowed that Christmas Day. Her uncle, in one of his moods, had disappeared somewhere by himself. Elissande had persuaded Aunt Rachel, whose health had improved steadily under Elissande’s care, to come outside for a walk in the snow. They’d made a topsy-turvy snowman. And then, somehow, they’d begun a snowball fight.

It had been a spirited battle. Aunt Rachel had good aim—who would have guessed? Elissande’s overcoat had been full of the splattered remains of snowballs that had hit her straight and true. But she hadn’t been so bad herself either. How Aunt Rachel had run screaming from her, and then laughed hysterically as she was hit squarely in the bottom.

She could see her aunt, her not-yet-graying hair escaping her bun, her face pink from exertion, bending down to form another snowball. Only to suddenly freeze, still crouched low, as she realized that her husband had returned.

Elissande never forgot her uncle’s expression: anger, followed by a frightful flash of pleasure, of anticipation. By her laughter, her rosy cheeks, by the mere fact that she was at play, Aunt Rachel had betrayed herself. She had not been completely broken. There was still youth and vitality left in her. Her uncle, of course, could not allow this grave offense to pass unpunished.

Aunt Rachel had not left the house since.

Elissande glanced at Lord Vere, who seemed fascinated by the snow globe, which she herself could not bear to look at. He stood very close to her. She took in his broad shoulders, his strong neck, and the rather unbelievably perfect sweep of his brows. He did not smell of cigar smoke tonight, but only of foliage—belatedly she noticed his boutonniere, a sprig of hard green berries pinned to a leaf of fir.

Could she bring herself to marry him, knowing there was nothing else to him, a pure void behind those already vacant eyes? Could she tolerate a lifetime of his prattling and bosom staring? Could she smile at him for the rest of her days?

Her grip tightened on the snow globe. I thought it would be a little grander, her aunt had said as Elissande shook the globe for the first time. I wanted something beautiful for you.

Desperation. She thought she’d known it all her life. She’d never truly known it until this moment.

Distant footsteps. Lady Avery was coming.

She set down both her hand-candle and the snow globe, and smiled at Lord Vere. She was trembling again. Good. Trembling went well with the words that tumbled from her lips.

“Oh, dear sir, forgive me. I shouldn’t. But ever since we met, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you,” she said, undoing the sash at her waist and casting the dressing gown behind her.

Lord Vere’s eyes widened. She wasted no time in stepping hard on the hem of her nightdress. The threads at her shoulder snapped. The nightdress whispered as it slid down her naked body.