Julie Tetel Andresen Read online

  “I am that and worse, I am sure. But there will be leisure enough in my chaise to read me a list of my shortcomings.”

  “I am not coming,” she said, deploying a feminine tactic, “unless you tell me your plan for me to speak French and Italian.”

  “If I told you,” he said, quizzing her with his eyes, “you would certainly not come with me.”

  She laughed and riposted, “How do I know that you have the right to the portmanteau and Vincenzo does not?”

  “You don’t,” Mr. Darcy replied. “You can only gamble that I am in the right.”

  “You mean, put my chips on red or black—you or Vincenzo—and spin the wheel?”

  “Exactly,” Mr. Darcy said.

  She considered all that she knew of Mr. Darcy, which was admittedly only slightly more than she knew of Vincenzo. There was nothing to indicate that Mr. Darcy was in the right beyond his distinguished manners and dress. She suspected that the adventure could not be as ordinary as Mr. Darcy portrayed it, yet her instincts advised her that he was telling the truth. Moreover, she was not worried for her reputation at her age and in her reduced circumstances; and whatever Mr. Darcy’s purpose was with her, it was surely not amorous.

  She shrugged off her doubts, decided to take a gamble, and put her chips on Mr. Darcy. She was comforted by the knowledge that her employment did not start for another two weeks and that she had no need to contact her own former governess in Calvert Green, for the visit had been intended as a surprise.

  “What is it you wish me to do?” she said at last.

  “Now you speak like the sensible lady that I know you are,” Mr. Darcy said. “Your role is extremely simple. I merely want Vincenzo to see you.”

  “That is easy,” she said, surprised into laughter. “And here I was thinking you had a grand plan! But being seen … I am sure that I can contrive it.”

  “I did not think I had underestimated you,” he said with a slightly mocking bow. “By the way, is it possible that the side of the portmanteau with the seal was facing towards your stagecoach after you had descended from it? You said that you did not notice the seal before entering this room.”

  Helen considered this and deemed that such must have been the case.

  “I thought so,” he said with a nod. “That explains why Vincenzo is now haunting the premises. He must have caught sight of the portmanteau by chance as you stood there in the yard. Perhaps the stagecoach was already pulling away when he saw the disastrous mistake. What a rare dust he must have kicked up!”

  “What is the meaning of that seal?” Helen asked, mightily curious.

  “It is the mark of a secret society in Venice,” Mr. Darcy said briefly, disinclined to elaborate. “It is small, though very distinctive, and hardly to be missed if one is looking for it.”

  “But now that you have the portmanteau, and you know that Vincenzo is here, can you not simply apprehend him and demand what you want from him?”

  “You confuse me with Keithley.”

  “But to make all this mystery! It seems so unnecessary!”

  “It might appear so,” he conceded, “but I am not particularly interested in Vincenzo himself. He is on his way to someone else, and that is the person I want. I don’t wish to scare Vincenzo out of his wits with brute tactics, only to force him to lead me to my man, and so the game of cat-and-mouse must continue.”

  “Do you know to whom Vincenzo is travelling?”

  “I have an excellent idea who he is.”

  The relish in Mr. Darcy’s tone did not escape her. “I think you rather enjoy this.”

  “I do. It is something like gambling.”

  “How so? How can you compare gambling to this game of cat-and-mouse?”

  Mr. Darcy explained himself. “There is your own entrance into the game, for instance—the purest chance, and most fortunate for me, I believe. However, I am not depending entirely on luck. I am delighted to pit my wits against Vincenzo… and the man he will lead me to. Similarly, there is more skill than luck involved in gaming, and each game holds the measure of wit to luck in its own proportions. Although there is scarcely a game I do not enjoy, it happens that Hazard, though singularly poorly named, is the one that holds the most current fascination for me.”

  “Oh!” she said. “And you enjoy gambling?”

  He seemed to consider the question as if it were for the first time. “Yes, I do.”

  “Is it never tiresome?” she asked, then pondered her own question with a thoughtful frown. “Though I dare say, were I of a gambling nature, I could understand the thrill of pitting one’s skill and luck against Chance. But I should also think that, like anything else, the thrill could pall. Do you think you will ever give it up?”

  “Someday I shall. Definitely. But not while I have Vincenzo to play with.”

  “And that is why I must be seen by him?”

  “Exactly! He does not know it yet, but I have just been dealt the trump.”

  Helen wisely recognized herself as that most valuable card. “Why is it,” she mused, “that I am, in your eyes, either the worm with which you shall catch your big fish or a playing card, without character or identity? Not that I am in the least sensitive about it, you understand!”

  Mr. Darcy’s eyes were warm with silent laughter. “I beg your pardon, Miss Denville,” he said solemnly. “Such are the disadvantages of being in the company of a hardened gamester. I shall do my best to shield you from any other disadvantages that must attend this adventure, but I do not think you stand in any danger from Vincenzo.”

  “Surely, if he only sees me—!”

  “That is just the beginning of it, I hope. To bait him onto my hook—if you’ll pardon the image. You see, in order to lure him into pursuit of us, which I desire, I want him to recognize you with the portmanteau, and since he does not know what I look like—”

  “He has never seen you?” she exclaimed.

  “I am not so clumsy, Miss Denville.”

  “But this is very odd! Have you never seen Vincenzo? How do you know whom you are following?”

  “I have seen him only from afar. Keithley has had a closer view of him. We have been after him since Venice, when I fell upon an interesting bit of news, and have just two days ago caught up with him in England. I had a strong intuition that he was coming here all along.”

  “Just two days ago?” she asked, somewhat puzzled.

  He affirmed this.

  “And already you have had the opportunity to purchase a travelling chaise?”

  “I won it,” he said indifferently.

  She choked.

  “Quite fairly, ma’am! From a very fatuous peer of the realm who could not have deserved to lose it more!”

  “I suppose,” she said, eyeing him angrily, “that we shall now be bowling through the countryside in a chaise with crests emblazoned on its panels.”

  “Oh, no,” he assured her, “I had them removed.”

  Her bosom swelled with indignation. “You are—”

  “Unscrupulous?” he queried. “I am anything you please, Miss Denville, and my memory being quite good, it is unnecessary for you to remind me of your opinions. And if you continue to interrupt me, we shall never get on our way.”

  Helen subsided.

  “Now, ma’am, I shall enjoy turning the tables on Vincenzo. My pursuit of him is at an end, and he may commence following me, until I have him where I want him. He had long enough, I fancy, to get a good look at you during your journey together and should have no difficulty recognizing you. He will wonder whether I had you planted there all along, which will not improve his self-confidence.

  “I shall go out presently to find Keithley and have the trunk and portmanteau put in the boot of the chaise. Then you shall come out to the yard and get in the chaise with me, making a great display of your pleasure. You have only to be sure that Vincenzo notices you.”

  “I see,” she said when he had finished. “Then he will pursue us, I suppose?”

&nb
sp; “Undoubtedly. We shall go only as far as the next decent inn, however, for Vincenzo is without transportation. That is, of course, a matter to be left to his ingenuity. But there remains one last problem for you and me.”

  She lifted her brow in enquiry.

  “It is the nature of our relationship, as we are to be travelling together,” he pointed out.

  “Well,” she said thoughtfully, “we might pose as brother and sister.”

  “There is little family resemblance,” he said, adding dryly, “and that arrangement is, I believe, usually reserved for eloping couples.”

  She reluctantly acknowledged the ineligibility of her suggestion. “Pray, sir, what do you suggest?”

  “If it is not too distasteful to you,” he said, “I think it best if we were to pose as husband and wife.”

  A tinge of colour stole into her cheeks. That was, of course, the only answer to the problem. She bit her lip. “Vincenzo will not believe it,” she pointed out.

  “I am not interested in Vincenzo’s beliefs. It is enough that I protect you from any unpleasant assumptions on the part of landlords and ostlers.”

  “I think you are right, Mr. Darcy,” she said at length and with finality.

  “Then I give you leave to call me by name. It is Richard.”

  “And mine is Helen.”

  “Should you dislike it if I called you Nell?”

  “A very good idea! I have not been called Nell since my girlhood!”

  “It will also bring an appearance of naturalness to our dealings.”

  A thought inevitably occurred to her. “But we shall use our Christian names only in public, I should think, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Naturally, Miss Denville,” he replied, at his blandest. “I believe that I have given Keithley and the postillion enough time to bring the chaise around. Excuse me while I go and check on them.”

  “A postillion?”

  “It is customary. But lay your fears to rest. I had his livery changed, too. Now, wait here!”

  With this, he left the room, and Helen had no opportunity to respond.

  The plan, such as it was, could not have come off more smoothly. Mr. Darcy soon returned to the parlour with Keithley, whereupon the latter had no difficulty in whisking off the trunk and portmanteau. Mr. Darcy instructed Miss Denville to wait another five minutes in the parlour before emerging into the yard. She estimated the time very well and then conspicuously made her way through the inn until she reached the yard. She was sure that the man she had previously thought of as the Fugitive Frenchman—and now thought of as Vincenzo—caught sight of her and began to shadow her, but she concealed any sign that she was aware of his presence.

  If Helen had expected to win a compliment from Mr. Darcy for her fine performance, she was doomed to disappointment. He paused only to exchange a word with Keithley, now the coachman, and then sprang up and took his place beside her on the comfortably cushioned seat. The doors were shut on them. The postillion swung himself into the saddle, and the equipage moved forward.

  Mr. Darcy spread a soft rug over Helen’s legs, saying merely, “Above all, don’t look back to see whether Vincenzo is watching us!”

  “Oh, no,” she replied, “for I am sure to have caught him in my net. I could not quite make out the expression on his face, but I think he is now extremely agitated.”

  “I should think he would be.”

  When Mr. Darcy did not expand on the topic, Helen asked, “Where are we bound?”

  “I made several enquiries into the hostelries in the vicinity, and the landlord here was of the opinion that the George would be to my liking. It is just on the other side of Thrapston, on the road to Queen’s Porsley. I do not think it necessary to push as far as Macclesfield.”

  “Is this your country?” she asked, surprised by his easy knowledge of the surroundings.

  Mr. Darcy glanced away from her and out the window. “I have been here before,” was his noncommittal response.

  “Do we have a plan, sir?” she asked, not wishing to pry into his personal life.

  Mr. Darcy glanced back at her and smiled. He shook his head slightly. “Not really, since you do not speak Italian. We shall have to improvise as we go along, depending on what moves Vincenzo decides to make and what guises he presents us. The one thing I am certain of, however, is that he will follow you, and since he cannot be sure of your complicity in this scheme, we are at an advantage.”

  Helen nodded and tucked the rug more closely around her legs. The wind had picked up with the slow sinking of the sun. She was grateful for the well-built chaise and the thick sheepskin mat upon the floor that kept the draughts off her feet. She snuggled them into the mat and sank back against the squabs, finding the scent of expensive leather infinitely preferable to the odour of garlic. There were obvious advantages to wealth that could not be denied, and she had never been one to moralize on the hollowness of worldly possessions. She could almost fancy herself once again Miss Helen Denville, the slightly plump debutante, on her way to a dress ball. She gave herself up completely to the agreeable sensation of travelling in style and indulging in reverie.

  After several minutes of companionable silence Helen said, without a trace of embarrassment, “You know, I was thinking about my clothes. They will not do for someone who is supposed to be your wife. My pelisse is worn and my bonnet does not even have a feather. Will it not look odd?”

  Mr. Darcy turned and smiled at her. “I have the ambition to make a gamester of you yet, Miss Denville,” he replied. “A gamester must live by the motto Style is All. If you carry off the part, then you are the part. If you make no notice of the state of your clothes, depend upon it that no one will dare bring it to your attention.”

  Helen absorbed this wisdom and then fell silent again. The relatively short ride to the George passed without incident. Soon the pace of the carriage slackened perceptibly, and looking out the window, Helen saw that an early sunset was seeping across the sky. Next she felt the carriage wheels crunch over the gravel of the inn’s yard. The coach drew to a standstill, and Keithley jumped down from the box.

  As Mr. Darcy handed her down the carriage steps, Helen caught her first glimpse of the George, a small inn that quietly bespoke a certain calibre of custom. It stood at the end of a broad village street, with two great oaks behind it, still barren, and with naked rose vines rambling over its charming old red-brick frontage. Helen thought it would be the most pleasant of places in the spring and summer. It promised warmth and comfort on a crisp late-winter afternoon.

  A young man in a leather jack rushed out into the yard to help with the luggage. Mr. Darcy held out his arm to Helen.

  “How long have we been married?” she asked, taking his arm.

  He turned to her without registering the significance of her query.

  “How long have we been married, sir?” she repeated.

  “I see!” he said, comprehension dawning. He gave the matter his full consideration. “Shall we say six months, my dear?”

  Helen nodded in agreement. Not precisely the newest of newlyweds, and not yet a comfortable, established couple. She slanted him a glance and leaned against him, ever so slightly, as one might expect from a bride of six months, and he escorted her under the corniced portal.

  They were greeted at the threshold by Mr. Coats, the host, a burly, rubicund man with a smiling countenance, and of a size at some variance with the delicate furniture and ruffled curtains of his establishment. Summoned to attend to a nobby-looking couple who travelled by private chaise, Mr. Coats looked gratified, and nothing could have exceeded his affability in receiving them. When it was made known to him that his guests planned to say for an unspecified length of time and surely more than just one night, he was all assurances that Mr. Darcy and his wife would want for no comfort at the George.

  Without boasting, Mr. Coats conveyed the excellence of his well-stocked cellars and was satisfied that his wife, presiding in the kitchens, knew how to dress a meal for the m
ost particular of appetites. Mr. Darcy would find the stables well attended. There was no need to tell him to reserve a private parlor for them. It was as good as done. And did Mr. Darcy think the double suite on the first floor would be to his taste? It had just been redecorated and boasted a sitting-room and clean chimneys—the fires at the George were not known to smoke, Mr. Darcy should know. Most important, the windows gave onto a small courtyard in the back, so that Mr. Darcy and his missus would not be bothered by early-morning street noises.

  Miss Denville listened with some awe to the way Mr. Darcy handled the exchange. Mr. Coats was treated without an ounce of condescension but was never allowed to forget that he was speaking to a distinguished member of Society. Mr. Darcy was able to convey, with exquisite delicacy of manner, that he and his wife would need time to retire to their chambers to refresh themselves before dinner. Above all, it was made clear that they jealously guarded their privacy.

  “Shall I set dinner back for you until six-thirty, then?” Mr. Coats asked, correctly interpreting the gist of Mr. Darcy’s eloquence.

  This was agreed to, whereupon a buxom dame in a neat mobcap, which was tied under her plump chin and barely contained a riot of iron-grey curls, appeared at the door across the paneled entry hall.

  “Mary, come forward,” Mr. Coats coaxed. “Allow me to present my wife to you, Mrs. Darcy!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MRS. COATS CURTSIED and bestowed a warm welcome on Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. Mary Coats was a comely, good- natured matron, and as affable as her husband. She took Mrs. Darcy into her large heart at a glance. Folding her hands over her ample stomach, Mrs. Coats led her guest up the narrow stairs, maintaining a steady flow of conversation.

  Helen was shown proudly into her bedchamber. It was a charming apartment, newly hung in chintz. Under a sateen quilt the mattress and pillows of the four-poster bed promised luxurious softness. The chambermaid was still bent over the hearth when Mrs. Coats and Helen entered the room. The maid quickly brought the fire to a crackling blaze, bobbed once and withdrew, just as the trunk and portmanteau were brought up and deposited atop a low folding table.