Whatever criticisms may have been levelled at Lisette Strand, that of disinterest in the problems of her friends had never been among them. Despite her own anxieties, she had become extremely fond of Amanda, and walking with her towards the front door, she murmured, “I simply do not see why you must feel so unworthy. Surely, everyone knows that Winfield is only your half-brother. From what St. Clair told me, you were never close, and nobody holds his crimes over your head. To break poor Bolster’s heart for such a reason seems—”
Amanda halted and turned to face her. “He is a peer,” she said miserably. “His family goes back—oh, farther than the Conqueror and people might sympathize now Lisette but what if Winfield should—hang and they say he will what then?”
Her own rigid standards rearing their heads, Lisette ignored them and said stoutly, “If Jeremy cares not, that should be enough. Indeed, Amanda, the poor soul looks so disheartened. I wish you will reconsider.”
“I cannot,” Amanda sighed. “Only I cannot really hope that while he is across the sea he will find someone else and—and forget me. Oh do you think he will?”
“No, of course not, you silly goose. But is he leaving again, so soon? He has said nothing of it.”
Amanda gave a gasp. “Has—said? He—is back? Jeremy is in England?”
“Good gracious! Did you not know?” Lisette cast a rather vexed glance at the front door. The afternoon was drawing to a close, the rainy skies having already darkened to the point that candles and lamps had been lighted. From outside came the sounds of revelry; one gathered that some gentlemen were considerably inebriated, probably as a result of a prolonged and convivial luncheon. She was about to instruct the lackey not to open the door until the drunkards had passed by when, to her annoyance, the man sprang to life and flung the door wide.
Singing uproariously, but not felicitously, since each warbled a different ballad, Strand and Bolster reeled into the hall.
Lisette’s relief was mingled with irritation. Amanda dropped her reticule and, with a little yelp of fright, stood motionless.
Swaying uncertainly, Strand peered at his wife. He drew himself up, bowed low, almost fell, but recovered. “Hail, madam wife,” he enunciated thickly. “I am … quite ’toxicated. When sober I—shall bid you farewell.” He reached out gropingly, and the butler sprang to support him. Strand gestured to the stairs.
“Wait!” cried Lisette. “What do you mean? Where are you going?”
“Africa. Jerry ’n me. T’be eaten. C’mon, old f’la.” And he reeled off, singing heartily into the amused butler’s ear.
Lisette glared after him. All her worrying! All her fears and anxieties! A perfectly horrid afternoon, and he had come home in this revolting condition!
At the foot of the stairs, Strand flung up a peremptory hand, and Morse assisted him to turn around. “’Minds me,” he said. “I shall have some caps t’pull with you, ma’am.” He started off, paused once more and flung over his shoulder, “Whole … damn hat shop, ’n fact!” This reduced him to imbecility, apparently, and he negotiated the stairs giggling hilariously.
Throughout this brief interlude, Amanda had trembled before Bolster, and his lordship, much less inebriated than his host, had stood in mute shock before her. At last, his voice returning, he croaked, “Mandy … Mandy…”
“Jeremy,” she replied yearningly, then rushed on, “I did not know you was here else I’d not have come I hope you are well I must go.”
He leapt to snatch up her reticule and, clutching it to his breast, gulped, “No. I’m not. I’m drunk. But when I’m drunk I can speak, so I’m going to beg—to implore you to wed me, my dearest girl. You know how I adore you. Please, Mandy. Without you—” he shrugged eloquently—“there ain’t nothing, ’t’all.”
Amanda pressed one hand to her lips, but shook her head.
He glanced around. Lisette was nowhere in sight; they were quite alone. Dropping rather weavingly to one knee, he stretched forth a hand beseechingly. “Mandy, you must. I cannot live like this. And you, my sweet love, you are not happy.”
“Happy! Oh Jeremy I cannot I will not ruin your life, if I must I will run away and hide do not ask goodbye.” And staying for neither hat, umbrella, nor cloak, she ran out into the rain and to her barouche which was just pulling up on the flagway.
Bolster knelt there in the hall, Amanda’s dainty reticule still clutched to his bosom. Then he sprang up and reeled after her.
* * *
Lord Bolster, having summoned up a passing hackney in order to pursue his beloved, did not return that evening. Strand failed to put in an appearance at the dinner table, but Lisette was joined by Norman and Judith. They obviously had not yet heard of the incident at The Madrigal and, postponing a discussion of that unhappy development, Lisette told them her husband was engaged with friends but that she hoped he would return before it was time for them to leave. Norman was eager to discuss their visit to Lord Wetherby, which was to take place on the following morning, and Judith was anxious to secure Strand’s approval of a swatch of fabric she had obtained while shopping that day. Lisette’s opinion was sought, and her endorsement noted but without much enthusiasm, it being very apparent that Strand had become Judith’s oracle in matters pertaining to fashion, failing the presence of Miss Wallace, who, having contracted a heavy cold, had been left in Sussex. The evening slipped away, Norman and Judith said their farewells and were driven back to Portland Place, and still there was no sign of Strand. Lisette resigned herself to waiting until the following day to hear what had transpired at The Madrigal. It was, she decided, as well, since it was unlikely that he would recover to the point of being able to converse coherently with anyone.
She accepted her candle from Morse, bade him good night, and went slowly upstairs, pondering the events of this unpleasant day. It was beyond belief that a man as well bred as James Garvey should have been so vulgar as to bandy her name about in a gentleman’s club, especially in so crude a fashion. How she would ever again be able to walk out in public, she could not think. The shock had obviously been sufficient to drive Strand into a bout of heavy drinking—a typical male reaction! One might suppose he would instead have had the kindness to come home and warn her of the rumours that had been spread about them. With her hand on the doorknob, she knew a pang of guilt. Poor Strand. Here she was feeling hardly done by, when he must have suffered the greater blow of hearing it in so public a way. No wonder he had challenged Garvey. Yet how strange that Garvey had apologized in such craven fashion, and why on earth should Claude Sanguinet have intervened? From all she’d heard one would think he would joyfully have encouraged a duel that must certainly have seen Justin slain. She shivered at the thought and hurried into her parlour. There was no sign of Denise, who usually sat before the fire in the evening, reading or sewing, and Lisette walked across to open her bedchamber door, calling, “Denise? Are you—”
Strand rose from the armchair beside the fire. “She is gone to bed, madam,” he said coldly. “You shall have to do without her tonight, I fear.”
He had changed into a smoking jacket of dark blue velvet and had discarded his cravat, his shirt lying open at the throat and very white against his bronzed skin. He appeared quite recovered from his earlier disgusting condition; he must, of course, have enjoyed at least five hours of sound sleep since he had returned home, but anger radiated from him, the brilliant eyes seemed to hurl fury, the lips were thin and tight, the jaw a fierce jut. Suddenly apprehensive, Lisette wished he had slept until morning.
“That is of no importance, Strand,” she said, coming quickly into the room and closing the door behind her. “What a dreadful day you have had. I have heard a little of it, and am so thankful you are not to go out with Garvey, for I—”
“How touching,” he rasped, his eyes glinting ever more unpleasantly. “Were you so concerned for my welfare, ma’am, you’d have done well to keep your tongue between your teeth.”
Lisette’s jaw sagged momentarily. “Wh-what? Do you dare to imply—”
“No, madam. I imply nothing. I state that your vulgar and irresponsible gabbling has caused one man to be ridiculed throughout London, and the honour of another to be hopelessly fouled! I trust you are well pleased.”
For an instant she was quite powerless to reply and simply stood there, all but gaping at him. Then, she said in strangled voice, “You dare … you dare to believe I would have spread such—such crudities?”
“If report errs,” he sneered, “if you did not in fact vaunt abroad your cleverness in having kept me at arm’s length through most of our so-called honeymoon, perhaps you will tell me who else might have done so. And why!”
“I need tell you nothing!” Lisette raged. “But had I spread such revolting gossip, can you suppose I would have been so noble as to have omitted all mention of your—your bird of paradise, or whatever it is you call such?”
Strand’s eyes widened. “Bird of— The devil! So that’s it! The incalculably superior Lisette Van Lindsay Strand guessed her unworthy husband had left her for another woman! Oho! How that insufferable pride of yours must have been hurt! And thus you thought to teach me a lesson, did you, ma’am?”
“After the disgusting boasts you made before we were wed,” she retaliated furiously, “I doubt there is anything I could teach you! In vulgarity, at least!”
“I cannot be responsible for the gabblemongering of a set of women! I will admit you have surprised me, however. And what could be more vulgar than that revolting little flirtation you engaged in with Garvey this—”
“Vile!” Trembling with wrath, Lisette snarled, “Despicable creature!”
“A poor defence, ma’am! I said you had surprised me. It was because I fancied you had eyes for a worthier man, but I should have known when I saw you hanging breathless on Garvey’s lips this morning, that—”
Crouching, livid, she hissed, “That … what…?”
“That right under my nose you have been conducting a sordid affaire! And that—no matter how intimate—every incident that transpired between us, was at once whispered into his eager ear! For shame, madam! If this is a sample of the famous Van Lindsay breeding—”
“Peasant!” she screeched, in a voice that would have stunned her grandmother. “Foul—loathsome—money-grubbing nabob!”
Strand was livid with rage. His eyes narrowed, their expression so threatening as to have daunted a lesser girl as he stepped towards her.
Lisette was far too infuriated to be daunted. She sprang at him, one hand flashing upward to be seized in a grip of iron, but the other eluding his grasp. He jerked his face away, but her sharp nails raked across his ear and down his throat.
Strand grabbed her flying wrist and rasped out a pithy sentence in Tamil which it was as well she did not understand. The sight of the crimson streaks she had inflicted sobered her, and the glare in his eyes was frightening.
Fear came too late. Strand had lived a nightmare this day. He had been publicly shamed, derided and, immeasurably worse, betrayed by the very lady he idolized. Lisette’s attack was the last straw. Scourged by disillusion and with his head throbbing brutally by reason of the afternoon’s excesses, he thoroughly lost his temper. For the first time, Lisette felt the full strength of him as she was swept up in arms that were more like steel bands. She uttered a shriek as he sat on the end of the bed, swung her face down across his knees, and reached across to seize the hairbrush from her dressing table.
“By God!” he snarled through set teeth. “It is past time someone taught you a lesson, you spoiled, prideful little snob!”
Kicking and struggling, beating her fists wildly against his leg, Lisette squealed, “Do not dare!”
For answer, he held her with crushing force and brought her hairbrush whizzing down. Lisette heard the whack more than she felt the pain. Her eyes grew as big as saucers; her mouth fell open. Never in her life had she encountered uncontrolled fury. Never in her life had she been really spanked. She experienced both now. Six times that hairbrush rose and fell, and at the finish she was sobbing with rage and humiliation and pain.
White as death, past caring, Strand stood up so that she collapsed in a heap at his feet. Glaring down at her, he said breathlessly, “Do you ever claw me again, madam tabby, you will get twice that treatment! And do you ever breathe one word of our personal relationship to anyone save your immediate family, you will really feel my wrath!”
“Beast…” she sobbed. “Savage! You s-speak of Garvey with—with contempt, but he would never treat me … s-so.”
“Then it is as well you’re wed to me and not to him. And wed you are!”
“Bought is—is what you mean. Bought and p-paid for!”
She crouched on hands and knees, tears streaking her cheeks, her great eyes filled with hurt and shock; and the enormity of what he had done penetrated his anger at last. He still held the hairbrush and now flung it from him with such violence that it sent a vase of flowers toppling.
Instinctively, Lisette shrank.
“Get up!” he growled, and when she only drew farther from him, he picked her up and tossed her onto the bed.
“Do not—touch me!” she gasped out, cringing back, her lips twitching pitifully. “Do not dare to—to strike me again!”
“I’ll not touch you, never fear. I’ve not the stomach for it! But one thing I demand, ma’am. Your vicious little intrigues have spread over all London Town. As a result, we must face them down. Together. I’ll own my pride inferior to yours, but I’ll not be mocked on this suit. Now or ever! Good night, Mrs. Strand.” He stalked from the room, but closed the door quietly.
Lisette turned and, burying her face in the pillows, wept until she fell asleep from pure exhaustion.
The rain stopped shortly after midnight, and an hour later the clouds had dispersed, allowing the full moon to paint all London with its glory, silvering alike shabby houses and luxurious mansions, shops and squares, slums and church spires and palaces; turning the wet streets to rivers of light, and dimming the feebler glow of flambeaux and street lamps. Slanting through a certain upper window of the now silent house in Sackville Street, it shone benevolently on the man who sat slumped forward across a table, his fair head cradled on one arm, while the other hand, clenched into a fist, beat and beat at the inoffensive tabletop.
* * *
Strand was not called upon to waken his bride the next morning. Coming heavy-eyed down the steps, he found Lisette and the horses waiting. She was exquisite in a habit of dark red merino cloth and a high-crowned pink hat with a red ribbon around it that fluttered out behind her. “Good morning, Mr. Strand,” she said in a voice of ice. “I am here to receive my orders.”
Flushing, he swung into the saddle, and when they were out of earshot of the grooms, he said, “I’d not intended to start this early, but it is as well.”
“Perhaps you would be so kind as to inform me what I must expect.”
His flush deepened before that contempt, but he said steadily, “We shall attend every possible event for which we receive invitations. We will be inseparable; we will ride in the mornings, drive in the afternoons, visit the galleries and museums and, in short, be seen everywhere. And everywhere we are seen, we will bill and coo like a pair of damned lovebirds.”
“Sickening!” she judged with a curl of the lip.
“But necessary. You must appear to dote on me, madam. And I—” he looked away and finished harshly—“will worship you with my every breath.”
Lisette gave a brittle laugh. “’Twould require a consummate performance. Do you feel capable of maintaining such a fraud, sir?”
He did not immediately answer, looking straight ahead, his posture unusually rigid. Then he turned fully to her, a sternness in his eyes she had never before witnessed. “We either convince London of our devotion, Mrs. Strand, or become its laughingstocks. You may take your pick.”
Her lashes drooped. She felt suddenly wretched and said defiantly, “Oh, very well. When do we begin this foolish charade?”
“Now. Scene One commences this very moment and will continue for as long as we are in the public eye.”
True to his word, he maintained an air of devotion whenever they encountered other riders. He also held to a moderate pace, for which Lisette was thankful, since she was finding riding to be a somewhat uncomfortable diversion this morning.
When they returned to the house, they breakfasted together, Strand apparently engrossed in The Gazette, and Lisette going through her letters. While the servants were in the room, they engaged in light conversation, but the moment they were alone, silence settled over them like a blanket. Rising to pull back his bride’s chair, Strand told her that he was leaving to take up Norman. “We visit Lord Wetherby this morning. This afternoon, you and I are invited to a musicale at Hilby House, and this evening we go to a small dinner party at the Moultons. I trust these engagements will not inconvenience you.”
“Your trust is misplaced!” Lisette snapped. “I plan to shop with Judith this afternoon, and am in no humour for dining—even with John and Salia.”
“Adjust your humour,” he ordered dryly. “I have already accepted. You may shop with Judith tomorrow. For an hour.”
Lisette glared at him and went upstairs. Denise greeted her with awed timidity, and several times Lisette found herself being watched with such sympathy that she was sure the servants were aware of what had transpired the previous evening. She made a great effort to appear calm and, having changed her dress, went into the parlour to write letters. Alone, she sharpened a quill, but instead of writing her letter, drew small circles in involved designs all over a sheet of paper. Whatever, she wondered miserably, was to become of her? Although she had entered a mariage de convenance, an odd rapport had sprung up between her and Strand. She had begun to enjoy his cheery way of bustling them all about, his humourous grin coaxing them into whatever he wished. She had begun to feel comfortable with him, sure that whatever she attempted would win his encouragement, and that behind his teasing was kindness and an unfailing generosity. She had not dreamt he ever would visit so ferocious a temper upon her. Never in her wildest fantasies had she imagined that she—one of the most nobly born debutantes in all England—would be brutally beaten! And so unjustly, for she had not been the one to spread those wicked rumours. Common sense said, “You should have told him the truth.” Pride said, “Why? If he was so base as to suspect me—let him suspect! At all events, the damage is done! Whatever understanding may have existed between us is gone forever, and besides, much I care what he thinks!”
If she told Mama and Papa what he had done, they would insist that she leave him. It was a comforting thought, but brief. She dare not leave him; to do so would be a sure acknowledgement that the rumours sweeping the Town were absolute truth. They would all be disgraced, and Strand—Strand would be livid! He would come after her, beyond doubting! She shivered, but at once decided that if ever he again attempted to brutalize her, she would shoot him. Had she a pistol handy. She had never fired a pistol, but Timothy would teach her. He had returned to his Regiment after the wedding, but he certainly would come home on leave, sooner or later. She could not tell him why she wanted to learn how to shoot, of course. It might be rather awkward to ask for instruction so that she could murder her husband, but she’d be able to come up with some plausible reason, when the time came. Meanwhile, she could always use a knife if the need arose. But Strand, she thought broodingly, was so terribly strong: he would probably wrench the weapon from her before she’d had the chance to plunge it into him. Her circle went sadly awry, the contemplation of so dastardly a deed causing her hand to shake. Perhaps, if she did it at night, and did not look, she could manage it. But that seemed unsporting. And to wake one’s sleeping husband purely to inform him that he was about to be stabbed seemed to rather diminish the chances for success. She tried to wish that James had handled the business for her, but found it impossible to whip up much enthusiasm for a duel between the two men. She finally came to the conclusion that she would humour her husband—until the scandal had died down—and then get a Bill of Divorcement.
It did not occur to her that this would create an even larger scandal and, satisfied with her decision, she wrote her letter and went downstairs. She was reading in the book room when Norman rushed in, highly elated, and proclaimed Strand to be a prince of brothers-in-law. “Such a splendid time we had!” he exclaimed excitedly, straddling a chair and beaming upon his sister. “Lord Wetherby—he was used to be Admiral Hawkhurst, you know—is the very best of men. I thought him rather gruff at first, but Strand explained my interest in shipping and we got to chatting, and we both agree upon so many things, including the great possibilities of steam, Lisette! And the end of it was, Strand and I are to refurbish an old yacht now in dry-dock at Silverings, before the weather turns, we hope! Is that not famous?”
For Norman’s benefit, Lisette slanted a warm smile at Strand, who had wandered into the room and was half sitting against the reference table, swinging one booted foot and watching the youth’s enthusiasm with faint amusement. “Lovely,” she agreed. “But I was not aware the weather had ever settled into a summer style, and you certainly cannot work on a boat in the rain.”
Undampened, Norman said, “Just like a woman to throw a rub in the way before we’ve even begun. The yacht’s shored up in the barn at present, Lisette, and we can do some of the work inside, before we have to—”
He was interrupted as Judith rushed in, her eyes enormous and her bonnet still on her head. “Lisette!” she gasped, having entered the room at such speed she did not even see her brother-in-law. “I just heard! Oh, how monstrous it is! What Mama will say, I dare not think! And Grandmama! But how splendid of Strand to call out Mr. Garvey!”
Norman sprang up, and exclaimed, “What? Justin—you never did?”
“Oh, it’s all right, Norman,” Judith intervened, eyes sparkling. “Strand flung a tankard of ale in his face, but Garvey turned craven, and—”
Strand, who had come to his feet when the girl arrived, said bleakly, “And that will be about enough, if you please, miss!”
“What a bag of moonshine!” snorted Norman, his uneasy glance lingering on his brother-in-law. “As if a famous Buck like James Garvey would back down—even for Strand.” Strand said nothing, and Norman wailed, “Never say it is truth?”
“No.” Strand gave a faintly apologetic smile. “I believe my glass contained wine, not ale.”
“Oh … my God!” Norman groaned, clutching his dark locks.
Strand’s smile faded. The topic heightened Lisette’s nervousness, and she interjected hurriedly, “Were I you, Norman, I would not offend Strand. He is quite capable of beating you.”
Norman sat down, but he still looked troubled. Strand’s eyes fell. His scowl vanished, and he changed the subject.
* * *
The musicale at Hilby House was an ordeal Lisette would long remember. She had chosen to wear a new blue silk round dress with six rows of tiny frills at the hem, and despite the inclement weather, carried only a gossamer scarf looped across her elbows. Denise was admiring her beautiful mistress when Strand came in carrying a small, flat leather box. Slipping it onto the dressing table, he bent to kiss his wife’s temple and murmur lovingly, “I am glad you chose the blue today, my sweet.”
The abigail sighed romantically, and left them. Lisette glanced to the closing door. “Bravo. A good touch, sir.”
“So I thought.” He shrugged. “Wear this, if you please.”
“As you command, my lord and master.”
He opened the box savagely and took out a bracelet of gold filigree. Finely cut sapphires were set amongst dainty golden leaves and flowerets of tiny pearls, the workmanship so exquisite that Lisette’s breath was taken away. “Oh!” she gasped. “How very pretty it is.”
“I brought it back from India,” he imparted grudgingly, “but thought it too large, so Rundell and Bridge have sized it for me.”
So he had not bought it purely for effect. Or perhaps he had intended it for his bird of paradise, and changed his mind so as to make a gesture in view of their present situation. Frowning, she watched him fasten it about her wrist and was struck by the thought that his thin fingers were so gentle now, whereas last night … She trembled involuntarily. Strand looked down at her in brooding silence, bowed, and went out.
They were quiet in the carriage, but from the moment they walked into the magnificence of Hilby House he was every inch the adoring lover, the bewitched slave. Struggling to appear as infatuated, Lisette more than once caught a glint of amused appreciation in his blue eyes, and when she sighed audibly as he provided her with a chair, he bent above her and murmured with a doting smile, “Not too much syrup, m’dear—lest they suspect.”
Patting his cheek, she cooed, “I strive only to be as cloying as you, dearest love.”
He nodded, took up her hand, and kissed it.
Each was aware of the many eyes that followed their every movement. Quite a number of those eyes surveyed Lisette with disapprobation. It was a new experience, and she apprehended with a distinct shock that Strand’s belief that she had been engaging in an affaire with Garvey was not an isolated one. She had refused to believe that others would accept the tale and for the first time appreciated her husband’s present strategy.
The Duke of Vaille came over to remark on Lisette’s beauty and engage Strand in low-voiced conversation. His lovely fiancée, Charlotte Hilby, bending to Lisette’s ear, said softly, “Don’t be frightened, dear. Most of them do not really believe it. They will soon forget.” Lisette was so moved by this kindness that a lump rose in her throat and she could not speak. She squeezed Miss Hilby’s hand and blinked her thanks. The musicale began, and for a terrible few seconds she felt quite unable to face down all these critical, shallow people who’d not had the decency to know her above such despicable behaviour. She was shaking and, in her already overwrought condition, knew she would burst into sobs at any moment. Strand leaned to her and murmured with a tender smile, “Keep your chin high, best beloved. Concentrate on Leith—that should bring you safely through!” She was at first flabbergasted, then so infuriated that she did indeed come “safely through” the ordeal. But she did not concentrate on Leith. Instead, she dwelt with wicked delight on the scene in court when she should plead for divorce. And all the delicious things she would tell the judge.
Intermission came, and everyone adjourned to the large dining room where long tables held a tempting array of delicacies, and many small tables and chairs were set about. Strand seated Lisette at a corner table and went off to fill a plate for her. Returning, he made his way through the knot of dashing young gentlemen that had formed about her, and sat down. Her admirers scattered. Lisette breathed, “What a vicious thing to have said to me! And you’ve no reason for jealousy—there has never been a romance between Leith and me.”
“Perhaps.” He took up a macaroon and held it to her lips. “But you were, like Wellington’s rope, about to break. So I tied a knot. You shall not disgrace me again, madam wife.”
Raging, she opened her mouth to retaliate, but he popped the entire macaroon into her mouth, then watched with revolting admiration as she struggled to cope gracefully, her indignation effectively silenced.
The musicale ended, but for Lisette and Strand the masquerade had barely begun. Day after day their deception was enacted at dinner parties, routs, ridottos, and balls. They wined and dined and danced until the early morning, went home to snatch a few hours of sleep, then were up again and off to ride in the park. The days were a whirl of morning calls and callers, shopping or walks, luncheons, afternoon card parties, soirées, or concerts, and then home to put on their evening finery once more.
Strand seemed tireless, turning his mocking grin on Lisette if she dared commence a yawn, so that she would open her sleepy eyes very wide and fight to conceal her exhaustion. After ten days of this, she was so tired that when he ushered her into her bedchamber one night, she murmured a numbed, “Thank you, my dear one,” and was mortified when he chuckled, “Oho, what a faux pas! We are quite alone, ma’am!”
“Whatever the words, sir,” she said loftily, “my feelings remain the same. As do yours for me.”
She stole a glance at him from under her lashes and saw a sadness come into his eyes. “What a pity it is,” he said slowly, “that we cannot deal together better than this.”
Lisette shrugged and strolled over to remove her earrings. When she looked up, he had gone, and she sat there, her shoulders slumping, tired and dispirited. She no longer carried Garvey’s poem in her bosom, for she found of late that it was difficult to meet Strand’s eyes when she did so. Now, she went to the drawer where her handkerchiefs were kept, and unearthed it from beneath the pile. Once again, the words brought a deep sigh, a yearning for the might-have-been. Replacing it slowly, she wondered if James still cared for her, if he sat somewhere in the great city at this very moment, breaking his heart for her.…
Her gaze drifted down the little column of handkerchiefs, all neatly ironed, their lace edges so daintily feminine. She did not at once discern the handkerchief Grandmama had fashioned for her—the last one she had crocheted before gout made it too difficult for her poor hands. Dear Grandmama had been used to make such exquisite lace. Because of her love for the old lady, that handkerchief was particularly dear to Lisette’s heart. She began to search, but without success. Surely she had not lost it? Upset, she started for the bell pull, but it was almost three o’clock, she could not disturb Denise at this hour. She would ask her about it in the morning.
The next morning, however, all thought of the missing handkerchief was banished when Lisette awoke to a subdued murmur of activity. For a moment she lay drowsing, then it came to her that others were already stirring. She sat up with a start and snatched up the little porcelain clock from the table beside her bed. Half-past nine! With a gasp, she tugged on the bell pull and flung back the curtains of the bed. She was halfway to the window when the door opened and Strand strode in, booted and spurred. He marched past her, threw open the heavy curtains to admit a flood of sunlight, and turning to her said briskly, “So you’re awake at last, ma’am!”
She drew herself up. She prided herself on not once having been late since her first initiation into his heathen custom of rising with the dawn. “I wonder you did not come and haul me out of my bed,” she said regally.
His eyes flickered over the revealing nightgown she wore. “It would have been worth it, at that,” he nodded. “But I judged you needed your sleep since we return to Sussex today.”
Scurrying for a wrapper, Lisette pulled it closer about her. “You might have had the common courtesy to tell me!” she expostulated. “There were things I wished to purchase before we returned to the Hall!”
He frowned. “My apologies. I’d not decided until the day dawned fine. Can you send your maid for what you want? We can delay until eleven, but I would prefer to leave as soon as possible.” The door again opened, and Denise started in, then paused uncertainly. Strand added a gentle, “Will that suit, my love?”
Lisette motioned to Denise to enter. “Of course,” she purred. “I can scarce wait to get back to the country again. I’ll be as quick as I can, dear.”
He stared down at her, then suddenly bent, and pulling her to him, kissed her full on the mouth. For an odd moment, surprise had the effect of making Lisette feel giddy, so that she instinctively flung her arms about his neck, to keep from losing her balance. He released her, but his head remained down-bent, his lips very close as he gazed into her eyes with an ineffable tenderness. Then, the quirk touching his mouth for the first time since his confrontation with Garvey, he murmured, “How’s that for acting, ma’am?”
Breathless, she answered, “Not … markedly amateurish, sir.”
He nodded. “Probably out of practice.”
* * *
A few subsequent discussions with Lord Wetherby had caused Strand to entertain second thoughts regarding the scope of their nautical undertaking. As a result, he’d sent an urgent letter round to Ryder Street, inviting the unsuspecting Bolster to accompany them back into Sussex. His lordship joined them shortly before they were to depart, and although Strand felt obliged to divulge the trap into which he had walked, Bolster was far from being dismayed and, in fact, welcomed the prospect of some hard work.
They set forth, the men riding, Lisette and Judith occupying the chaise, and the servants and the luggage following in a large travelling carriage. The little cavalcade enjoyed good weather for as far as Croydon, where they stopped to take luncheon at the Red Griffin. Before they left the famous old posting house, a few dark clouds had managed to spread over the entire sky and it began to rain. The gentlemen therefore decided to complete the journey inside the chaise. Always the best of companions, Bolster started a round tale in an effort to entertain the younger occupants of the vehicle. He had become comparatively at ease with them, so that he stuttered less, and having quite a flair for comedy had them all chuckling at his first chapter. Looking around at their amused faces, he said, “Chapter Two!” and pointed at Judith. Delighted, that damsel indulged her flair for the dramatic so that from a light love story it became full of gloom, dungeons, and sinister figures slinking about, wrapped in dark cloaks. Norman was selected as the next story-teller, and he launched with gusto into Chapter Three, whereupon the principal Evil Tyrant, Baron Klug, became very evil indeed, pursuing a fair and innocent clergyman’s daughter, causing Sir Roderick, the gallant young hero, a great deal of misery, and bringing him at length into the very shadow of the guillotine.
“Lisette!” ordered Bolster.
“Oooh! Do hurry!” cried Judith eagerly. “I can scarce wait to hear what happens next!”
Lisette decreed that the innocent clergyman’s daughter had not been standing idly by whilst all this was going on. She had, in fact, by means of an alluring disguise, gained admission to the dungeons where languished the hero’s brave friends, and had so captivated the gaolers that she was allowed to take water to the miserable captives.
“An enterprising lass,” murmured Strand. “Perhaps she’s not quite as innocent as we thought!”
This brought a laugh from Norman and, from Judith, a scold not to interrupt.
Continuing with her chapter, Lisette said, “One by one, Isabelle lured the guards into the cell where they were swiftly and silently overcome by the prisoners. Seizing the weapons of their former captors, Roderick’s friends also exchanged their poor rags for the fine uniforms the guards wore. Then, marching boldly into the square, they forced their way through the ululating mob to—”
“The—what mob?” Strand interrupted curiously.
“Ululating,” said Lisette with a defiant stare.
“What does that mean?”
“You know perfectly well what it means! And if you spoil my—”
“Oh, never mind,” Norman put in impatiently. “It means howling, Justin.”
“Thank you,” said Strand. “I likely forgot the expression whilst I was in India. Cannot recall it was widely used over there.”
“From what I had heard,” said Lisette, trying to restrain a smile, “you should have heard lots of ululating. You must have been in a very dull part.”
“Then cheer him up with the rest of this exciting story!” wailed Judith.
“The—er—ululating mob…” prompted Strand.
“Oh, yes. Isabelle made her way to the guillotine just as poor Roderick’s head was forced onto the block. Baron Klug’s hand was upraised in the signal. The great blade glittered in the torchlight, and then Isabelle’s knife sliced Roderick’s bonds, and he sprang to his feet even as the blade of the guillotine came crashing down. ‘Hold!’ cried the Evil Tyrant, and—”
The cry of the Evil Tyrant woke Bolster, who had dozed off in the warm carriage. Feeling very remiss in his duties, he yelped, “Chapter Five—Strand!”
“Good heavens!” cried Strand. “Shoddy Rick flung—”
“Roderick!” Lisette corrected sternly, over Bolster’s hilarity.
“My apologies, m’dear. Roderick flung up his knife. The Evil Tyrant’s sword flashed to meet it. And there on the gallows with the crowd hushed and silent about them, they fought; the blades hissing and ringing as they engaged, the two men striving in a desperate fight to the death, the crowd—a sea of upturned faces—lit by the torches’ glare. And then gallant Roderick slipped on the uneven flooring of the scaffold. With a great sweep of his sword, the Evil Tyrant sent the dagger spinning from Roderick’s hand. The hilt of Klug’s sword flashed upwards and caught brave Roderick beneath the chin. Down he went, like a sack of meal upon the boards. A mighty roar went up from the breathless crowd, and—”
“Hey, wait up!” cried Bolster, who had become interested. “You’ve got th-things all wrong, old fella.”
“I have not,” said Strand, affronted. “It’s my part of the story. I can do as I please, can’t I, Norman?”
“Well, yes, but—”
“But what became of poor Isabelle?” asked Judith anxiously.
Strand took up Lisette’s hand and kissed it. “Oh,” he said, “she married the Evil Tyrant. It is the way of real life, you know, Judith.” He turned to his wife and, remarking the dimple that swiftly vanished, asked with his teasing grin, “Ain’t that right, beloved?”
With perfect justification, Lisette refused an answer.