Amabelle threw down her embroidery and hastened to Darton when he carried in a floral arrangement in an ornate gold vase. She plucked the white envelope nestled amid the pink roses. Then she stalked to Sarah, seated beside the fire, and thrust the envelope under her nose.
“It is for you,” she said. Her voice dripped with pique.
Sarah took the note, her eyes on the gold vase of lush pink buds. Hadleigh knows I love pink roses.
“Oh,” she said and handed it to her stepdaughter.
“Michael.” Amabelle plopped down on the settee. “Perhaps he does regret his horrid behaviour, Stepmama.”
Elminda entered the salon. She beamed at the roses. “I just knew you would be a triumph, Amabelle. Are they from Mr. Tarr? He was very attentive last eve.”
“They are for Stepmama. From Uncle Michael.”
Disapproval dimmed Elminda’s pleasure. “Why?” she demanded. “Have you taken care of his debts yet again?”
Sarah was displeased but unsurprised her sister-in-law knew how matters stood with Michael. “That is my concern. But, no, I have not.”
“I should hope not. Rufus would—”
“Aunt Elminda,” Amabelle distracted her. “I have a knot in my thread and you are so good at undoing them. Could you?” she asked with an entreating smile and held out her embroidery.
Sarah mouthed, “Thank you,” then looked back at the roses. What was Michael’s purpose?
A draft drew all eyes to the salon door. Michael stood on the threshold, his posture abject.
Sarah strove not to frown at a look she had seen far too many times.
A petulant gleam flickered and then was gone. He gave a placating smiled as he approached Sarah.
Elminda loudly hrumped at his poor manners when he did not greet everyone, but interested, held her tongue.
“Come, sister, say you forgive me?” Michael went to the roses. Touching one, he complained, “Von Willmar said they would be the thing to win you around. Come, Sarah. You know what I am when I lose my temper.”
The puffiness and redness of his eyes bespoke a late eve and, in all probability, gaming losses. She frowned.
“Then I must earn my way back into your good graces. Shall I begin by escorting all of you to the theatre? I have a box for Friday’s performance at Covent Garden.”
Amabelle’s disapproval metamorphosed into excitement. “Oh, Stepmama, say we may go.”
Sarah looked at Michael and wondered how he could suddenly afford such a luxury. She saw her stepdaughter’s happy anticipation and Elminda’s disapprobation. “Give your word there will never be a repetition of your behaviour.”
“The easiest thing,” Michael assured her.
Because Sarah saw their father in him, she accepted his reassurance. Her misgivings remained.
“Then we should make a party of it,” Leonard said with a grand gesture. “Von Willmar will accompany us.”
Sarah frowned at this presumption, but seeing Elminda’s sudden delight, demurred an objection.
Darton appeared at the salon door. “Mr. Crandall.”
Gilmar Crandall strode in, his eyes twinkled with unusual glee at their surprise. “Is no one happy to see me?”
“Of course,” Sarah said with a warm smile. “Would you, by chance, be free Friday eve?”
“I have not been in London long enough to do aught but secure a room at the Pultney,” the doctor assured her.
“Michael?” Sarah hinted.
Her brother concealed a frown. “Of course.”
“Then Gil, you shall go to Covent Garden with us.
“Michael, what time would you suggest?” she asked.
Recalling the recent problems with the protests of the new higher prices, Michael said, “We should leave around five. “But, really,” he objected, “I hardly think there will be room for all of us.”
“I shall hire a carriage for the evening,” Crandall told him. “It sounds like great fun.”
“Yes,” Sarah agreed. “Like the Covent Garden stories you have told me of your youth before you became serious.”
Taken aback by this aberration to her notion of his life, Amabelle asked, “You once lived in London?”
“I was not breeched a doctor in Sussex,” he chided.
“I will leave you to your discussion,” Leonard said. “Until tomorrow, Sarah. Amabelle.” He turned to Elminda.
“Miss Edgerton, von Willmar was particularly interested that you attend.”
Elminda blushed and wished him a pleasant day.
With Michael gone, Crandall asked, “Von Willmar?”
“A new acquaintance,” Amabelle told him with a too-bright smile. “We met him in Hyde Park where Mr. Tarrant, I mean Mr. Tarr—” Seeing the doctor’s gaze go to Sarah, she hurried on. “We met Baron de la Croix and Mr. von Willmar there.”
“He is a considerate gentleman. He replaced Amabelle’s ruined feather,” Elminda added.
“Feather?” puzzled Crandall.
Not recognizing the challenge in his eyes, Amabelle laughed. “Yes, a boy threw a ball and broke one of the feathers on my favourite bonnet.”
To her chagrin, Crandall said, “As you say, quite silly.”
Hurt by this rebuff, Amabelle added, “The Countess of Tretain and her niece called. I danced every dance at the Marquess of Mandel’s fête.”
Ignoring her, the doctor went to Sarah. “I am surprised you can endure the city.”
Hard put not to chuckle over her stepdaughter’s thunderous look, Sarah said, “But we have gardens.” She rose and took his arm. “We shall be in the White Salon if you need us.”
Out in the hall Sarah chuckled. “I hardly thought it possible for you to stand against her. Well done.”
Crandall grimaced. “I doubt that.” He looked down with mock severity. “Or I would if I had any idea what you meant.”
When Sarah led him to the formal salon’s balcony’s doors he opened them and followed her onto it. Gazing down at the walled garden and then across towards Montague House, Crandall smiled. “This would be delightful in the spring.” He turned back to Sarah.
“But you do not fare well,” he said. “I had thought even before you left that you were not. Will you not confide in me?”
“I trust we always shall be friends.”
“Which means you do not mean to tell me a thing.”
“There is nothing to tell,” Sarah protested.
Crandall released her hand and faced the garden. “Why did Amabelle call Tarr ‘Tarrant?’”
Sarah hugged herself. “I misunderstood his name the first time he said it and he did not—”
“You need not explain, Sarah. I always suspected there was more to his story than what he told us—me,” he corrected with a glance at her. “The ordinary fellow does not get tortured. No,” he assured her, “I shall keep it to myself.”
Sarah put a hand on Crandall’s arm. “Thank you.”
“Some day I hope to be more than a friend, Sarah.” Crandall flicked her chin. “I think you know that.”
A cough turned the doctor to the door. Sarah knew before she looked who was there. But she was surprised to see Hadleigh’s eyes hooded, his stance rigid. She greeted her new guest with a forced smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Tarrant. Gil just asked how you fared.”
“Perfectly well,” clipped Hadleigh, his grip knuckle-white on his cane.
“I am glad to hear it.” The doctor ignored his ill-mannered tone. He walked forward, his hand extended.
After the briefest pause, Tarrant accepted it. “I did not mean to interrupt you.”
“Nonsense, it is too cold out here for Sarah without a shawl,” Crandall said, and closed the balcony’s doors. “I was just about to tell her I have had word from Rupert Hale.”
Sarah took his hand, unaware of Hadleigh’s stark gaze. “Is he well?”
“He claims the French treat him tolerably well.” Crandall patted her hand and explained. “Our friend Hale was taken prisoner when he tried to return to England three months ago. He thinks he will soon be part of a prisoner exchange.”
“I will be so relieved to see him safe.”
Hadleigh could not gather his wits. He heard Amabelle and turned to her with profound relief and a false smile.
Amabelle grinned with satisfaction. “I thought I heard you, Mr. Tarrant.” She glanced about. “You came alone?”
“Yes,” Hadleigh raised her hand to his lips. “I had no wish for de la Croix to get the step on me.”
“His sister Leora is very beautiful. Perhaps there is an understanding between the two of you?” Amabelle asked.
“Amabelle,” objected Sarah and Crandall.
“But we are almost as family,” Hadleigh said. “There is an understanding between Mademoiselle Ribeymon and me.” At Sarah’s sudden pallor, he added, “We both understand that we would never, under any circumstances, suit to be other than friends.”
Amabelle scowled. “That was very droll, Mr. Tarrant.” She went to a cabinet at one side and removed a deck of cards. “Let us see if this skill is as sharp as your wit.”
“By all means,” he said with a small bow. Hadleigh drew out a chair for her at the small round table to the right of the balcony doors.
“Shall we play for a pence a point. That is not too high, dear Stepmama,” she assured Sarah. “I asked Leora and she says I would be laughed at to suggest such a paltry wager.”
Not looking at Hadleigh, Sarah demurred.
“I should have called a carte blanche,” Hadleigh told Amabelle after he lost the first game. He shuffled the cards. “At least that would have prevented your capot.”
Crandall sauntered over to watch the play. His brow furrowed as Amabelle took Point, Sequence, and then displayed two Quatorzes. “I fear,” he looked at Sarah, “that your stepdaughter lacks the humane weaknesses.”
Hadleigh saw that they shared some secret jest. It reinforced the aura of their intimacy on the balcony. The pips on his cards faded but Amabelle’s taunting saved him.
“Do you hesitate to try to win this game?” he challenged.
“Never,” said both Amabelle and Crandall.
The young woman glanced over her shoulder. At the doctor’s deprecating bow, she turned back to the game.
Tarrant watched Crandall saunter to Sarah and kiss her hand. He overheard something about Friday and Covent Garden before Amabelle recalled his attention. To lure Crandall from Sarah he asked, “What is this talk of humane weaknesses?”
The doctor sat beside Sarah. “When I was a young man in London, I came upon a game of faro being played for devilish high stakes. The Marquess of Halstrom, better known then as Hellfire Merristorm, played cards with the young Earl of Lester. When Lester hesitated, the man commented that ‘games magnify the most commonplace parts of life. Friendship, generosity, compassion, and sportsmanship are all humane weaknesses one should overcome through cruelty and deceit. For only in perfecting these two qualities does one succeed—in the game and in life.’”
Sarah shuddered. “I hope never to meet such a man.”
A tremor ran through Hadleigh. He had met such a man.
“You told that tale to be spiteful,” Amabelle exclaimed.
“I wish it were a tale,” Crandall answered.
The young woman read the truth and a deep sadness in the doctor’s eyes and warmth rose to her cheeks. She stood. “Excuse me, Mr. Tarrant, I must attend to a matter. Stepmama.”
Hadleigh leaned back in his chair. “What happened then?”
“The Earl of Lester lost everything. He died the next day in a fall from his high perch phaeton while he drove in Hyde Park. Halstrom lost Lester’s fortune the next night. “My apologies, Sarah, I should not have brought it up.”
Tarrant tossed down the piquet cards and stood. “Tell Miss Edgerton I shall settle my debt whenever she wishes.”
“Let me take you up in my carriage,” Crandall invited. He smiled at Sarah. “Until Friday.” He headed toward the doors.
Hadleigh declined Crandall’s offer of a ride but acquiesced to his request to let him examine his feet at a later time. Bidding the doctor farewell, he walked up Charlotte Street heading for Great Russell Street and the British Museum where he was to meet André.
When he neared a halted hackney Hadleigh felt a chill and increased his pace. Sarah and Crandall occupied his thoughts. When he reached Great Russell Street he turned right instead of left, unaware he had turned away from the Museum.
Inside the hackney a fury not unlike that inspired by the Duc d’Veryl filled Donatien. Confident his features were hidden he stared at Hadleigh as the young man passed the hackney. Tarrant’s apparent despondency gave a glimmer of pleasure. It increased his wrath that the Englishman had not only survived, but appeared untouched by what had happened to him.
Donatien released a string of low curses. At their every meeting Tarrant had appeared relaxed, at ease, except that first time with the Edgerton woman. There was nary a ruffle in the life he had taken up after Lewes. The Frenchman could neither understand nor forgive that.
A light rap on the hackney door pulled Donatien from his dark ruminations. He threw it open and glared at the slight figure that grinned uneasily at him with hand held outstretched.
“The ‘eavier fellow be Crandall. ‘E asked the other gent about lookin’ at ‘is feet, or some such.” The lad wrinkled his nose. “They said they’d meet at Jermyn Street Fr’day morn.”
Tossing two coins at the lad, Donatien shut the door and tapped on the roof. Gervase had passed word of the meeting. “Great Russell Street, the Museum,” he ordered. Delayed by traffic, he did not see Tarrant when his carriage halted behind a crested coach.
Three people approached it. The man in the uniform Donatien did not recognize, but the other two curled his lip. His gaze lingered on the young woman.
One hand to his groin, Donatien fisted the other and slammed into the seat. He overheard that they would return to Broyal’s residence. “Follow that coach,” he ordered. He thought of Limes Point four months past. “I promised the lady a reward.”