“Aren’t you supposed to be writing a letter?” Lettice asked, rather like one of their old schoolmistresses who had forced them to write home every week.

  “He has wasted three sheets of paper already,” Jane said. “Perhaps he needs time to ponder precisely what he wants to say.”

  “Perhaps,” Lettice said dryly. “Come, you can share my desk.”

  It would have been a perfect afternoon if not for the strange mood of everyone else in the room. At first, Jane wondered if Lettice and Hadrian were already regretting their hasty marriage—but no, judging by the occasional shared glances, they were as enamored of one another as before. Mr. Pilgrim worked steadily through the contents of one of the boxes, occasionally questioning Lettice about some find or other. Jane copied recipes for medicinal remedies from one of the cookery books. Lady Staves drifted in, smiled at them all working so diligently, and soon sent a footman with tea and macaroons.

  Maybe it was the silence that made the atmosphere so strange. No chatter, no jesting… Well, silence amongst friends was far better than worrying about this man or that or the other being her intruder.

  In the back of the cookbook, she found a slim sheet of paper with a recipe she didn’t understand. It had an odd list of ingredients. Lanolin or butterfat, it said, along with rose water and some fragrant herbs. There was a sketch in the bottom corner that looked something like a finger with a string tied around it… That usually meant something important to remember.

  “Lettice, do—” Ah, she’d left the room, probably to use the necessary. Lord Hadrian also was elsewhere. “I wish I knew what this was used for.”

  Mr. Pilgrim regarded her, clear hazel eyes through the spectacles. They didn’t do much to disguise his intent gaze.

  “I wonder if she wants me to copy this. The ingredients don’t sound appetizing, but not all remedies are.”

  He stood and came over. She liked his male aroma best of all so far, but she mustn’t dwell on that. “See? It says, ‘For use with French letter,’ whatever that means, and it’s mostly lanolin, with a bit of rose water and a few other ingredients, but that finger with the string around it seems to imply that it’s worth remembering.”

  “Yes, if one intends to engage in immoral pursuits.”

  She dropped the slip of paper. “Oh.” Heat rushed into her face. His proximity made it worse.

  “Not immoral if one is married, though. You’ll have to ask Lady Hadrian.” How could he sound so matter-of-fact while she squirmed with embarrassment?

  “Ask me what?” Thank heavens Lettice had returned. With Hadrian, unfortunately. Jane was already mortified enough, without another man in the room.

  Mr. Pilgrim slipped quietly back to his worktable.

  Jane gave the paper to Lettice. “Whether you want this one copied.”

  Lettice made a face at the recipe. With a hint of a blush, she said, “Yes. I mean no, I don’t want it, but Hadrian does.”

  Hadrian eyed the paper in turn and chuckled. “Not if I have a choice in the matter.”

  Lettice laughed and made him take it. Jane began to feel not only embarrassed, but lost and left out. She glanced at Mr. Pilgrim, but he responded with a shrug so faint she might have imagined it.

  She’d had enough. Something odd was going on, but not one of them had volunteered an explanation. As if that wasn’t bad enough, now they were keeping her ignorant about an immoral recipe because she was unmarried. She might tolerate that from Auntie G or Lady Staves, but from her own contemporaries, it was hurtfully unfair.

  She stood. She could at least retain her dignity. “I think I’ve done all I can, Lettice. My fingers are beginning to cramp.”

  She left in a hurry, trying her best not to show her feelings. At the scrape of a chair being pushed back, she turned at the door. Mr. Pilgrim was on his feet again, coming around his worktable.

  “No,” Lettice said, “you mustn’t. You promised.”

  “I did not promise anything,” Mr. Pilgrim said.

  “As good as,” hissed Lettice.

  “Not so,” Mr. Pilgrim said in a hard voice unlike anything she’d heard before. “She’s a grown woman, Lettice. She should be told what a French letter is.”

  “Not by you,” Lettice snapped.

  Jane wondered if he would follow her, but he didn’t. That hurt, too. She hadn’t the slightest intention of asking Lettice for any explanations at all. She gave up on dignity and stormed away.

  Everyone had returned from the outdoor excursion, the men laughing and jesting, the ladies rosy-cheeked, the younger ones giggling. Tomorrow, servants would be sent to gather the mistletoe and other Christmas greenery. Everyone would participate in decorating the house. On Christmas Eve, there would be dancing, in which she would participate, and kissing, in which she wouldn’t.

  At dinner, she found herself next to Lord Gentry, which was something of a relief. She was far from Lettice and Hadrian, who sat at the opposite end of the table, near Lady Staves, and Mr. Pilgrim was quite a way down, too. This meant she needn’t pretend a cordiality she definitely didn’t feel. Lord Gentry was an easy, unassuming dinner companion. If one spoke, he replied. If one didn’t, he didn’t make a nuisance of himself. On his other side sat Miss Tripp, who exerted herself to draw him out and to include Jane in their discussion. The more Jane saw of Miss Tripp, the more she liked her.

  She’d felt a growing liking for Mr. Pilgrim too, until today. She wasn’t precisely angry at him. Disappointed was more the word for it. Why hadn’t he insisted on explaining to her about the French letter? Who was Lettice to order him about?

  That led to other disconcerting thoughts. What had he promised Lettice, and why? Come to think of it, he had called her by her given name. Were they well-known to one another? Granted, he was a forward sort of man, but…

  She watched as he finished his syllabub, picked up his napkin, and dabbed his moustache. As if he felt her gaze on him, he turned.

  All at once she knew what had struck her about him last night. It wasn’t the lack of spectacles, for there was nothing inherently odd in that. It was the length of his moustache. Usually it covered the edge of his upper lip, partially obscuring it—as it did now.

  Last night it had not.

  Last night, the edge of his upper lip had been completely visible. Which was impossible. If the moustache had been shorter now, because he’d clipped it, fine. Not the other way around. It didn’t grow that much overnight.

  In other words, his beard was false.

  He raised his brows at her. She stared at him, aghast. He nodded, his mouth twisting into something not much like a smile, and looked away.

  Chapter Six

  She knew. Colwyn had slipped up somehow. It wasn’t wartime, it wasn’t a matter of life and death, and consequently, he hadn’t been careful enough. If he asked her how she’d worked it out, would she deign to answer?

  Probably not now, but maybe later, when she’d calmed down and he’d abased himself enough. But he wasn’t much good at abasing himself—so, maybe never.

  Meanwhile, he had an inkling of what Amabel Tripp’s mission might be, but not how he could help her. Still, something useful might occur to him, and it gave him a reason to stay. Just because the hopes of the past five years were disintegrating fast, it didn’t mean he should drink himself into a stupor—a tedious notion—or slink back to London and mope.

  He wanted to marry the girl, damn it.

  There had to be a way.

  ~ * ~

  If she’d been angry before, now she was furious. Absolutely livid. Stupid secrets about French letters were nothing compared to what Mr. Pilgrim had done. He had lied to her, made game of her, pretended he was safe and protective when actually he was a vile seducer, a ravisher in disguise.

  Granted, he hadn’t actually ravished her, but close enough.

  One true love indeed. She’d known that was nonsense, but to see it with her very eyes, to have every hope dashed…

  What an idiot she was. She’d actually wished that the intruder really was her one true love. Deep in her heart, she’d wanted to believe.

  She set down her spoon, then picked it up again. She would not wear her disappointed (definitely not broken) heart on her sleeve. She ate the syllabub, spoonful by spoonful, and made polite responses when required. At last the ladies retired to the drawing room.

  Here another problem presented itself. Where would she sit? If she sat next to Lettice, she might lose her temper. Clearly, Lettice knew Mr. Pilgrim was her intruder, and Jane was almost sure she also knew who he really was. So in a way, judging by that little quarrel she’d witnessed, Lettice was trying to protect her from him.

  For some obscure reason, this made her even more enraged.

  Back to the choice of chair. If she purposely distanced herself from Lettice, people would think she was shunning her, which she would never do, no matter how furious or hurt… She found her embroidery, which she’d left in a corner, and sat next to her friend.

  “You’re upset at me,” Lettice whispered. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sure it doesn’t matter,” Jane hissed back. “You mean well. Everyone does, or at least they think they do. I’m so tired of being treated like a child.” She licked the silk thread and poked it at the eye of the needle. It didn’t go through. Why was her hand trembling? She took a deep breath and tried again.

  Lettice put out a hand to help and wisely withdrew it. “I wish I could explain, love, but I can’t. Truly, I can’t.”

  By a great effort of will, Jane managed not to roll her eyes at this ridiculous excuse. Why shouldn’t she explain what a French letter was? Jane was sorely tempted to blurt the question out right now, except that those who knew would either laugh at her ignorance or gasp at her bad manners, and those who didn’t know (like her, and perhaps the other unmarried ladies) would be either mortified or protected to death. “Then let’s not discuss it.” At last she got the needle threaded.

  The gentlemen arrived, and the tea tray followed. She refused to even glance at Mr. Pilgrim, and he didn’t attempt to speak with her. Her head began to ache, and the tea didn’t help much. Lord Gentry yawned and left the drawing room. What a good idea, thought Jane, although she doubted Gentry was off to bed; his father wouldn’t permit him to desert the company so early. Lord Staves would probably complain if she attempted to leave, too.

  Two footmen set up the card tables, and Lord Staves went off to find some fresh packs of cards. Mr. Pilgrim volunteered to make a fourth at whist. Jane loathed whist. Perfect. She wouldn’t have to speak to him or even see his face—as much of it as was visible—for the rest of the evening.

  Once they were all immersed in card-playing, she finished her row of stitches, drank the rest of her tea, and excused herself to Lady Staves. “I’m tired, and my head aches, so I’m off to bed.”

  “Very well, dearest,” Lady Staves said, her mind on the cards. “Ring for a tisane if you need one.”

  “I’ll do that. Good night, everyone.” She left in a hurry, expecting Lord Staves to try to order her back. He wouldn’t succeed. He didn’t say a word, so engrossed was he in the game. She almost wished he had tried, just for the pleasure of refusing him.

  She didn’t want a tisane, but a good book to take her mind off everything would be just the thing. She took a candle from the cluster at the foot of the stairs, then crossed to the library.

  She went straight to the bookshelf by the sofa. The novel she’d taken the day she arrived had proven a poor choice. Tonight, without the distraction of Lord Staves yelling at her, she would take her time…

  “Caught you!” Lord Staves came in, carrying a branch of candles.

  “Wha…?” That voice came from behind her. Jane turned, to see Viscount Gentry rise from the sofa, his cravat half-untied and askew, and his hair mussed. He must have been taking a nap there.

  “I knew there was something going on between you two,” Lord Staves said.

  “For God’s sake, not again!” Jane cried. “There is nothing going on. He was asleep. I was looking for a book!”

  Lord Staves snorted. “Doesn’t look to me as if he was sleeping. It’s plain as a pikestaff what he was up to.”

  Gentry paled in the bright light of the candles. He certainly looked guilty, or more accurately, hunted.

  “What in heaven’s name is going on?” Lady Staves appeared in the doorway. “Staves, we can’t continue the game without you.” Miss Tripp came up behind her, followed by Mr. Pilgrim.

  “Gentry has compromised Lady Jane,” Lord Staves pronounced. “They must marry.”

  “He has not compromised me,” Jane retorted. “I didn’t even know he was in here. I just came to get a book.”

  “Oh, dear me,” Lady Staves said. “I’m sure that’s true, Jane, but it does look odd, and we’d be delighted to have you as a daughter.”

  Et tu, Brute? But her godmother meant well. “That’s most kind of you, Godmama, but I don’t care how it looks. Despite the hints Lord Staves has dropped left and right, there is no understanding between myself and Lord Gentry.”

  Now several other guests were milling about behind the rest.

  “If you have no care for your own honor, have one for my son’s,” Lord Staves said. “Admit it, Gentry. Your honor and that of the House of Staves has been compromised.”

  “Er...” He sent a glare at the onlookers, as if hoping for an answer there.

  “You see? He admits the truth.”

  “He said nothing at all,” Jane retorted. “He hasn’t even asked me to marry him, because he doesn’t want to.”

  “He has compromised you. That amounts to an offer of marriage.”

  Jane ground her teeth. “Hear me, and hear me well. We are not betrothed.”

  Gentry gave a stiff nod of agreement. “That is correct.”

  Save for a contemptuous glance, the marquis ignored his heir. In silken tones, he said, “My dear Jane, surely you don’t wish to be branded a jilt, or worse.”

  Her temper rose. This time, she didn’t attempt to tamp it down. “I don’t care what rumors you spread about me. In fact, let’s deal with one of them right here, right now. There are plenty of witnesses. Yes, it’s true—several years ago, Lord Staves saw me at a brothel.”

  From outside the room came a collective gasp.

  Staves made a dismissive noise. “Yes, yes, peering in a window. Innocent curiosity, that’s all it was. Not a stain on your honor, not at all.”

  “Next you’ll be saying you nobly abandoned the immoral purposes for which you were there, and that you came out to rescue me from a fate worse than death,” Jane countered, “when actually it was one of the women there who hustled me to safety.”

  It was at this awkward moment that Jane remembered where she had met Miss Tripp before. She turned, eyes narrowed, and the vicar’s daughter gave her the tiniest hint of a nod.

  She shouldn’t have turned, for that meant seeing Mr. Pilgrim, too. A smile hovered about his lips.

  Amused, was he?

  She whirled again and glared at the marquis. “I have a solution—the very best defense for your stupid honor. Put it about, if you will, that I am unworthy of the House of Staves. Tell the world…that the pure and proper Lady Jane Dew is a fallen woman.” She waited for that to sink in. “In other words, I cannot marry Viscount Gentry because I have given myself to another man.”

  A hushed silence didn’t begin to describe it. A spark hissed in the grate.

  “Jane, dear…” The marchioness put out a hand. “Surely not…”

  Jane fended her off. “You’re very kind, Godmama, but don’t try to mend matters. Let me be a ruined woman. It’s by far the easiest way.” Head high, she marched toward the door. Miss Tripp stepped aside, but Mr. Pilgrim didn’t. His eyes were warm and kind…and utterly false.

  “Oh, and by the way,” Jane said, “this man is an imposter.”

  She took hold of the beard and ripped it off his face.

  ~ * ~

  “Ouch!” Colwyn put a hand to his chin. It felt as if she’d torn off half the skin.

  Jane stared up at him, wide-eyed, as recognition took hold. He essayed a charming, devil-may-care grin. Damn, it hurt to smile.

  Jane’s eyes filled with horror. She put her hands to her cheeks and shuddered, then turned and ran for the door. “Oh God, what have I done?” she cried softly. The crowd parted for her, and she was gone.

  “Tsk,” murmured Amabel Tripp. “Now, that was unexpected.”

  Colwyn broke out laughing. Maybe it was because Amabel was so rarely surprised, or maybe it was the appalled expression on the marquis’ face, not to mention its rapidly purpling hue. Or maybe he was just hysterical, if that word could be used of a male.

  Jane had just ruined herself.

  She might have to marry him now. He smiled at this beatific thought. On the other hand, she’d looked awfully sick just now. The smile faded.

  “Colwyn North?” Lord Staves roared.

  Colwyn bowed. “In the scandalous flesh.” A drop of blood landed on his hand. Damn, she really had torn his skin. Amabel offered him a flimsy square of linen. He waved it away, pulled out his handkerchief, and dabbed at his chin.

  “Out!” shouted Lord Staves. “Leave my house this instant, you cur.” His fists clenched and unclenched. If his library had been the sort with guns and whips on the walls, he would surely have grabbed one or the other and chased Colwyn out. “Where are my servants when I need them? Throw him out!”

  “He can’t leave, dear,” said Lady Staves. “There’s a snowstorm. The roads are impassable.” A curious footman hovered at the rear of the crowd, but he didn’t move.

  “All the better. He’ll freeze to death. Throw him out!”

  The footman ducked behind a pedestal, the better to avoid obeying.

  Colwyn snorted. “A fate worthy of a romantic villain.” He began to laugh again.

  Lettice came up. “Colwyn, stop it. Come with Hadrian and me.”

  There was another collective gasp, as people recalled that Lettice and Colwyn had once been lovers—or so gossip said. A convenient untruth in the past. He hoped it wouldn’t upset Jane now.

 

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