“I’m a man,” he pointed out. “Fully functioning, not too obnoxious, and living in your house.”
“So we do not need a footman,” she answered triumphantly.
“I spend only the nights there. My days are spent at Change Alley, and I find myself distracted by fears for Bronwyn’s life.” Hand outstretched in appeal, he said, “I can’t concentrate, madame.”
“And I did promise to grant a boon.” She mulled it over. “But there are few men who wish to work for a single woman.”
“Ah.” He fished a letter out of his pocket. “I have here a letter from an excellent young man, an immigrant like yourself, who seeks employment. Amazingly enough, he worked in a salon in Italy, performing just the functions I require.”
Madame laughed aloud. “You amaze me. First you want me to have a footman, then you conjure one out of thin air.”
“Actually, it was this letter, listing his qualifications and experiences, that made me consider the dangers of London for my Bronwyn.” Adam opened the letter and scanned it. “He sends references from the salonière, as well as references from several titled employers. I’m unable to verify immediately, of course, but I interviewed the young man, and he would blend into any circumstances with impunity.”
“A chameleon?”
“Surely that is an asset to a salon.” She lifted a brow of inquiry, and he shrugged. “Also, the young man is in need at the moment. English noble houses hesitate to employ foreigners, and the man has to eat. I thought that if you hired him, it would solve two problems, both mine and his.”
“You are a hard man, Adam Keane.”
“A hard man?” Startled, then disgusted, he protested, “I think I’m becoming positively philanthropic.”
“Yes, and there is the other. Fidélité est de Dieu.”
“Fidelity is of God,” Adam translated. “Why do you say that?”
“I admire your fidelity. For the last week, you have been the sweetest of suitors for the hand of your lady, and I admire you for your restraint. Most men would have performed less nobly than you. Very well,” she decided. “I will do as you ask. I will hire this man. Did you say his name?”
“Gianni,” Adam answered. “His name is Gianni.”
The tap came on the door early in the morning, but Adam was awake. How could he help it? This bed was of generous size for one, most unsuited for two. The week he’d spent sleeping in it hadn’t hardened him to the discomforts, nor the joys, of sharing it with Bronwyn.
“Lord Rawson?” Rachelle spoke quietly through the panel. “There is a man here who is most insistent he see you.”
Ever wary, Adam asked, “Who?”
“He says his name is Northrup.”
Adam rolled out of bed. “Thank you. I’ll be down at once.”
Pushing her hair out of her eyes, Bronwyn struggled up onto her elbow. “What is it?”
Adam grinned at his darling, yawning and rosy from the night’s lovemaking. “Nothing. Go back to sleep. Bronwyn Edana has translations to do today, and Cherie has a salon to entertain tonight.”
“I leave the entertaining to Daphne.” Bronwyn sank back on the pillow. “Will you go right to Change Alley?”
“Always.” He dressed rapidly, now used to doing without a valet.
“You spend too much time down there,” Bronwyn complained. “Every day.”
“Not every day, although I should be there every day. You must remember, my dear, I have no ancestral lands to wring money from. My father sold all those. I have no court appointments to collect bribes from. I’m not corrupt. I must make my money in Change Alley.” He leaned close to her. “You’re marrying a man with an unstable income.”
She lifted her head and put her nose against his. “I’m not marrying anyone, but if I were marrying you, I’d never worry about money.”
Half-pleased with her answer, he said, “Besides, you’ve managed to lure me from my duty more than once.”
She smiled at the reminder. “It’s dreadfully early for anyone to be astir at the Alley.”
He paused, his hand thrust halfway into his shirt. “Is there a reason for me to return here?”
She stretched, and a nipple peeked from beneath the sheet. “Perhaps.”
“Then perhaps I will return.” He chuckled at her pout and knew the perhaps would be a certainty. He descended the stairs, entered Rachelle’s study, and caught Northrup pacing back and forth in agitated, jerky movements. Seeing Adam, Northrup flew to him and grasped his coat panels. Adam gently put Northrup’s hands aside as he said, “Calm yourself. Nothing is so bad one may lose his composure over it.”
“I’ve done it.” Pale beneath the carmine he used to highlight his cheeks, Northrup gasped as if he’d run for miles. “I’ve found a way to pay you back.”
Adam studied the young man. “Pay me back for what?”
“For your help, for the training, for—”
“I told you there was no debt.”
“To me there was, and I’ve got information you will kill for.”
“Tell me, then.”
“After your first visit to Change Alley, and every other time you’ve come, there has been a problem.”
Northrup was serious, deadly serious. Adam sobered and leaned closer. “What kind of problem?”
“Stock.” Northrup jerked off his wig and threw it to the floor. “Counterfeit stock is released every time you’re in Change Alley, and everyone says Adam Keane, Lord Rawson, is selling it.”
Chapter 13
Dressed in her black silk, Rachelle waited in the doorway of her study. “Cherie, it is evening. Will you be dressing soon? Just because Adam did not send word all day, you should not bury yourself in your manuscript.”
Bronwyn erased the hopeful expression Rachelle’s arrival had brought to her face. “Of course, I’ll come.” The lettering of a long dead monk blurred before her eyes. She was tired, true, but more than that she was disturbed.
Adam hadn’t returned that morning. Confident he would, she’d risen to wash and prepare herself, but he hadn’t come. She’d dropped into a doze, and when she woke the sun shone with the fervor of midmorning.
After dressing, she’d sought breakfast and information. He was gone, she was told. Had left early with Northrup.
Bronwyn rubbed the hollow place in her stomach. How odd it felt to be abandoned by Adam.
Not abandoned, she assured herself swiftly. But left behind. Left out.
Rachelle came to her side and touched her shoulder. “You worry too much. Monsieur le Vicomte demonstrates empressement about your every movement. He will be here tonight.”
“Empressement?” Bronwyn asked, stacking up her papers.
“It is hard to translate. It means ardor. Eagerness.”
“He has the right to leave me for the day. I’m not offended, “Bronwyn assured her. “I’m just spoiled. I’ve grown used to having him confide his destination and his intentions, as if I have the right to know.”
She laughed a little, but the laugh stuck in her throat when Rachelle said, “As if you were his wife.”
All Bronwyn’s sophistication collapsed with Rachelle’s observation. Elbows on the table, she dropped her head onto her palms. “I’m so dreadfully confused.”
Rachelle sounded amused as she agreed, “I had suspected that.”
“First I was resigned to marrying Adam, then I cared about him and wanted to marry him. Then I found him to be a traitor to me, and running away seemed a reasonable idea. I did, he arrived here, he was still attractive, I thought, Why not seduce him? He’ll never know who I am. That seemed a reasonable idea. Now, I’m back to thinking marriage is a reasonable idea.”
“Perhaps reason is not the building block on which to build your life.”
Rachelle’s irony struck an answering chord in Bronwyn, and she gave Rachelle a speaking look as she corked the ink bottle. She stood, stretching. “Suffice it to say I can’t concentrate. My confidence is still too new to withstand a whole,
long day of being ignored by my lover.”
“Bronwyn.”
Rachelle so seldom called her by her real name, and her tone was so intense, Bronwyn stopped and stared. “Rachelle?”
For the first time since Bronwyn had known her, Rachelle looked drained of energy. “I just want you to know how much I have enjoyed having you with me.”
“As I have enjoyed being here.” Troubled, Bronwyn observed Rachelle as she moved away from her. “Am I leaving?”
“All things come to an end. I think perhaps this episode of your life is fading.”
“You mean because of Adam?”
“For that reason, also.” Rachelle folded her hands before her. By her very stillness, she gave evidence of an inner turmoil. “I am not a woman of intuition, but I predict tonight will be difficult.”
Bronwyn grasped Rachelle’s wrist. “Adam has returned to Boudasea, hasn’t he? He’s left me.”
“Not at all. I think I can safely reassure you.” Rachelle’s cool lips brushed Bronwyn’s forehead. “He would never abandon you.”
Brow furrowed, Bronwyn watched as Rachelle left her. How cryptic she had been! She hurried above to her room, where her maid waited. As a present to her, Adam had rented two rooms in an inn nearby and sent for his valet and the maid. Now she no longer struggled with buttons and corsets or begged for assistance from the other women.
The transformation from Bronwyn to Cherie took only a little color on the lips, a thorough brushing of the hair, and an elaborate gown. Since Adam’s advent into her bed, she’d grown so beautiful that she scarcely needed the paint pot and powder puff.
When the preparations were complete, the charming, fascinating, exotic Cherie entered the salon. Ribbons and tiny flowers threaded her silver hair, her vivid turquoise taffeta dress hugged her tiny waist and billowed around her feet, she carried her signature ivory fan—and no one even noticed her! She was the toast of Madame Rachelle’s, and no one even noticed her.
Bronwyn swept a puzzled glance around. What was wrong? No music, no polite laughter, no intellectual arguments, hummed in the air. Rachelle stood alone, her hands clasped in front of her like a diva about to render an aria. Her dignity was palpable, her demeanor sorrowful.
Stationed about the large room, little clusters of people buzzed like swarming bees. Like bees, also, they displayed their stingers in their hostile posture. They glanced over their shoulders, they whispered and hummed behind cupped hands.
And there stood Adam, leaning negligently against the fireplace. An inner leap of joy brought her stepping toward him. Then caution slowed her. Why hadn’t he come upstairs? Since he’d moved into her room, they’d come down together every evening. They’d made it clear they were devoted, and none had dared comment.
So she slowed, and he watched her with a cynical smile.
She felt almost timid when she said, “Monsieur le Vicomte, how good to see you.”
“Is it?” He lifted his chin from his palm. “I would have never suspected.”
His gray eyes no longer adored her, they skimmed her. He mocked her with indifference, but something about him suggested pain. Compassion drove her to put her hand on his shoulder. “What is it? Have you hurt your leg?”
Adam shook her off. “I have not.”
“You walked for too long.”
He sighed. “I warned you that Change Alley made a fickle mistress.”
She considered him. Financial reverses would explain his preoccupation. He’d already expressed anxiety that he had no ancestral lands on which to fall back; perhaps he believed she’d be fickle if not well supported. She seized that rationalization with the eagerness of the insecure. “Are the South Sea stocks falling?”
In a lightning move, he snagged a handful of her hair. “Have you been listening to the gossip?”
He tightened his grip as she tried to step back, and she complained, “Ouch! That hurts.”
His teeth gleamed in his savage smile. “Perhaps you should return to wearing a wig. Accidents such as this would not happen.”
He opened his hand, and she whirled away. At a loss to justify his odd behavior, angry at his ruthless dismissal, she stalked to Mr. Webster’s side. “Sir!”
Her young admirer tugged at his cravat as if it were tied too securely. “Mademoiselle?”
“You come here with your scientific experiments, your vacuum balls, and your flameless candles.” She glared in Adam’s direction. “Have you given any credence to the theory of moon madness?”
“Why, I…I’ve never considered such a thing.” He coughed.
Bronwyn tapped his chest with her fan. “Perhaps you should. I believe there’s a return of the midsummer madness right now.” She smiled at him brilliantly, determined to demonstrate her carefree attitude to anyone who might care. To Adam, who might be watching.
But her young admirer seemed horrified at being singled out. He sidled away, and she realized belatedly that all gossip had died on her approach. She had become not the center of attention, but the center of condemnation. But why?
What had Rachelle been trying to tell her earlier? That her time here dwindled, that…her true identity had been discovered? She glanced at Adam, at Webster, at the whole buzzing salon. Now she recognized the stares, the false sympathy, the drawing away.
So they knew. She nodded. It distressed her less than she’d thought. Had she been impatient to be revealed?
Her initial dismay baffled her, followed as it was by her determination to brazen it out. With a breezy smile she called, “Mr. Webster, have you brought me another experiment to view?”
He gulped. “Not tonight.”
“Then tomorrow night.” She turned to the others. “Lady Mary Montagu has sent word she will visit. Have you come to listen to our brightest wit?”
No one answered. They shuffled their feet and poked each other with their elbows, then looked beyond her. She turned to see Carroll Judson, dapper, well made-up, with sparkling eyes that boded ill for someone.
She almost welcomed the challenge. “Have you come to listen to our brightest wit, Mr. Judson?”
“Not at all. I came to view the wreckage.” He bowed, his hand on his snowy, showy cravat.
She didn’t want him to be the one to tell the world. She didn’t want him here at all. But if this devious little man had unmasked her, she couldn’t deny him the pleasure of her public revelation. “Wreckage?” she asked.
“The wreckage of Madame Rachelle’s facade.” Gesturing about him, he asked, “Can’t you see it?”
Confused, she snapped, “I see nothing.”
“But it’s all around you. Her friends have disappeared. Her salon has dissolved. Her masquerade is over.” He lifted a pomander to his nose and sniffed in delicate appreciation. “Her crime is revealed.”
His delighted horror scarcely fit her opinion of her own escapade. “I would hardly call this a crime.”
He drew himself up, gathering dignity like a cloak. “Perhaps, as her disciple, you approve of parricide.”
A tendril of ice touched the back of her neck, trickled down her spine. She didn’t answer him, just stared and waited, held in terrorized suspense.
“Haven’t you heard, or are you still in ignorance?”
She shut her fan with verve. “What are you suggesting?”
“Rachelle had no reason to seek her daughter’s murderer.” He raised his voice so all could hear. He leaned toward her to drive the shock deep. “She is her daughter’s murderer.”
A red mist covered her vision. Her nails, newly grown, cut into her palms. From the depths of her memory, she heard her father warning her not to give in to her temper. She recalled how her governess had punished her childish tantrums. She knew she had mastered her wrath on every occasion, but—this seemed to justify an exception.
She drew back and slapped his face. The sound echoed like a gunshot through the salon. All eyes turned their way. In the throes of an Irish rage, she gritted, “You spiteful little worm. How dar
e you come here, partake of Madame’s food, of her wine, of her hospitality, and spread such rumors?”
He stepped back, pushed by the gust of her fury.
“You worthless toad. Get out, and don’t ever come back.” Her voice lifted like a singer’s in an operatic frenzy. She pointed to the door. “Get out.”
Bits of his powder flaked off in the imprint of her hand, and the skin beneath was choleric. His face distorted, he leapt at her.
He found his way blocked by Adam, his lifted arm caught in a steel grasp. Soft and low, Adam warned, “You don’t want to hit her. I’d take it ill.”
Held in Adam’s grip, Judson gained control of himself with frightening alacrity. He squealed, “I’ll go.”
Bronwyn stepped close. “An excellent plan.”
Adam gave him a push, and he stumbled backward. He looked at the two of them, one so furious, one so adamant, and clearly he wanted to speak. He shook his finger at Adam; he opened his mouth more than once. At last he snarled, “I’ll go, but Cherie—perhaps you should ask your beloved Madame why she left France. Ask her why she left, ask her how she acquired so much money, and be sure you ask her why she can never go back to France. Ask her, if you dare.” With that, he stomped away, leaving behind a widening pool of silence.
Feeling like one of the Greek Furies, Bronwyn flexed her stinging palm. She cast her gaze upon the avid faces gathered close to observe the scene, but only Adam dared meet her eye. He moved to her side: amused, pleased, the same man she’d loved this past week.
Bronwyn looked to Rachelle, and Rachelle smiled at her. Like the sun, her smile warmed Bronwyn, yet at the same time she felt as if Rachelle were as distant as Helios himself.
Determined to bring a semblance of normalcy to the salon, Bronwyn suggested, “Shall we have some music? Perhaps one of Handel’s harpsichord fantasies.”
“You’re a ferocious little thing in defense of your friends. I believe you’ve cowed these mere mortals,” Adam murmured in her ear.
She didn’t know what she’d done to bring him back, but she answered, “Your humor is ill timed.” Pointing at one of Handel’s disciples, she pressed the young man into service, knowing full well the harpsichord would muffle the disdain hanging heavy in the air.