Marissa Day (12 page)

“A
message for Lady Jane.” The footman held out the silver tray bearing a neatly sealed letter and a visiting card.

Jane glanced at the duchess for permission and received a nod and a languorous wave. She was, Jane suspected, grateful for the interruption. They had been in the parlor for over an hour, laboring with conversational English and the results of Jane’s latest shopping tour. The weather outside had turned foul with a cold, heavy rain and the drapes had been drawn shut. Despite the fire roaring in the wide hearth, the room remained chill. The windows, which Jane had so admired upon their arrival, were proving dishearteningly drafty. Frau Seibold had piled the duchess with so many quilts and blankets she was near invisible beneath the heap of fabric.

“Thank you,” said Jane to the footman as she picked up the letter and the card. The letter was addressed in a thin, crooked hand she did not immediately recognize. But the card . . . Jane’s throat closed around her breath. The plain card with its flowing black script read:

“Did . . . did the gentleman say if he expected a reply?” The words emerged as little more than a hoarse croak. Yearning filled her, intense and immediate. He had not called her last night, and she’d tossed and turned, desperately afraid she’d done something to drive him away. As she read his name now, Jane wanted nothing so much in the world than to have him beside her, to see his smile and touch his hand.

“A gentleman?” The duchess straightened up, dislodging some quilts and shawls. Frau Seibold swooped down on her, and the duchess waved her off impatiently. “For you, Jane?”

With an extreme effort of will, Jane assumed a casual air. “An acquaintance, ma’am. The godson of my mother’s friend, Mrs. Beauchamp. I met her the other day while running my errands, and she said she would be sending me an invitation to visit one afternoon.” Jane held up the letter.

“But it is not an encounter with your mother’s friend that makes you blush so.” Jane’s hand flew to her cheek, and the duchess chuckled. “I see Captain Conroy was right.”

Conroy?
“Ma’am?”

“He told me that you had been speaking with a man.” The duchess beamed and switched to her labored English. “Does the gentleman wait?” she asked the footman. “You tell him come in, Simmons, and for more coffee send.”

The footman bowed and departed.

Thomas. Jane’s heart pounded against her ribs. Thomas was in the house and in a moment he would be in the room. Her heart constricted with a joyful pain for a moment before reason reasserted itself. This could not be. She could not let the duchess see how she looked at this man. Her countenance already betrayed enough. Her mind was an absolute riot, but even so, one question rose up clear of the storm.

How in Heaven’s name did Conroy know who she’d met in the street?

“Your grace, really, this is not necessary. I can . . .”

But the duchess simply continued to smile. “Probably it is not. But I am dull this morning,” she said, once more lapsing into German. “And make no progress with lessons. I would meet this man with his invitation for you.”

The words were mild, but Jane recognized the undertone of assumption and command. She subsided, and concentrated on keeping her hands still so she didn’t crumple the unopened letter. The duchess snapped and fussed at Frau Seibold to remove all the quilts and Frau Seibold murmured about the vile English weather and drafts and the imperative of minding Her Grace’s health, and compromised on one quilt and two shawls.

I can do this,
Jane told herself.
I have a lifetime’s experience in this exact thing.

No, not this exact thing. She was an expert at hiding true feeling, and discreetly judging the niceties of any gathering so she could comport herself with the dignity and discretion demanded by her rank and place. But never before had this discretion included meeting her secret lover.

Especially after a sleepless night of waiting for a call to her heart and mind that had not come.

“Sir Thomas Lynne.”

Simmons stood aside to let Thomas enter. He was dressed plainly in dove gray and cream, with his hair tied neatly into its customary queue. He flicked the barest glance at Jane before making his formal bow to the Duchess of Kent.

“Do please come in, Sir Thomas,” said the duchess. “It is good to meet you. You will sit?”

“Thank you, your grace.” Thomas settled into the embroidered chair the duchess indicated.

Jane cast around frantically for a safe topic from which to launch conversation. “Sir Thomas is lately returned from the Jamaicas, ma’am.”

“So? A most difficult climate for the Englishman, I think.”

“One becomes used to it, in time, ma’am, but few of us come to truly enjoy it.”

“It is different for those who are born there.”

“Very,” he replied, with an undertone that Jane suspected hid a wealth of opinion on a subject best not broached.

Fortunately at that moment Simmons and a small army of under-footmen appeared with coffee, cups and a selection of buns and fruits Jane was fairly certain Frau Seibold had added, lest the duchess begin to feel faint.

“You will pour, Jane,” said Her Grace. “What do you in London, Sir Thomas?” she asked.

“I’m afraid I am resolved to pursue a life of leisure and enjoyment, ma’am.”

“And the pretty women as well, yes?”

“I had not thought to pursue the general population, ma’am, but perhaps one or two.”

Jane blushed and passed the duchess her coffee, which she had mixed with a generous portion of milk, having previously been scolded by Frau Seibold, who did not consider undiluted coffee healthy for a breeding woman.

Thomas was very carefully not looking at her. She could feel him not looking at her. She must not look at him, not for more than a heartbeat. A single heartbeat to try to see beneath his facade and discover if anything was wrong. If he was angry with her, or had already tired of her.

“So.” The duchess beamed proudly. She turned to Jane and spoke in rapid German. “You ask him should I lock up my Jane? I cannot permit any man to steal you from me just yet.”

Before Jane could open her mouth to attempt to lie about the duchess’s little speech, Sir Thomas smiled.
“Nein, nein, Ihre Hoheit, ich würde überhaupt nicht bitten, daß Sie ohne Frau Jane zurechtkommen.” No, no, madame, I would not dream of asking you to do without Lady Jane.

Jane froze, with the cup and saucer she was passing exactly halfway between the two of them. He reached for it, his laughter shining in his eyes.
“Danke schön, Frau Jane
.
”

The duchess cocked her head in approval.
“Sie sprechen wunderschönes Deutsch, Herr Thomas. Wo haben Sie studiert?” You speak wonderful German, Sir Thomas. Where did you study?

“I lived a long time near Munich,” he continued in the same language, the words flowing from him as naturally as English.

“You are a well-traveled man.”

“My business has taken me many places.”

“And what is that business?” inquired the duchess.

This time Thomas considered his words. “It has been many things at many times. Some I chose, some were chosen for me.”

“Jane!” cried Her Grace merrily. “You have found a man of mystery.”

“I hope, ma’am, you don’t find me rude . . .”

“No, no. You are discreet. A trait to be valued. Perhaps you do work for the crown, so? It is best in these cases you do not say.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Thomas bowed his head. Jane found herself lost in a sea of emotion. She was absurdly piqued that she had not known Thomas spoke German, or that he had lived near Munich. That was the sort of thing one ought to know about a man who aroused so much emotion with a glance and a smile. Jane longed to be alone with him, to ask about last night and to find out when they might be together again. But she had to find a way to bear this longing with disinterest, because what had become very clear as she lay in the dark in her narrow bed, waiting and worrying, was that her passion for Thomas was not at all safe. It already drove her to distraction. What would it do if she indulged in it for much longer?

At the same time, she was relieved beyond measure to see how well Thomas conducted himself in front of the royal duchess. His manners were polished without being stiff, and if he partook of the general curiosity in her condition, he was not indulging in it here.

The duchess moved to set her coffee cup aside. “Well, now, you will excuse me, for I am tired.” She smiled archly at Jane. “Lady Jane will show you your way, Sir Thomas. Jane, you will then come back. I need you to read to me while I rest.”

“Certainly, ma’am.” Jane got to her feet and made her curtsey. “This way, Sir Thomas.” Sir Thomas bowed to the duchess and followed Jane out. She could feel him behind her as she walked down the corridor. This was torture. The corridor was too narrow for them to walk abreast. She could not even see him, only sense his presence behind her, so close and yet infinitely distant. Without her even thinking of it, her footsteps lagged, to try to bring him a little closer.

The corridor was empty. She could have spoken to him in relative safety, but she had so many things she wanted to say the words felt piled up inside her skull.

Thankfully, Thomas spoke first. “I’m sorry, Jane,” he murmured. “I promise, I only came to deliver my godmother’s invitation. I certainly didn’t expect to be invited in.”

“No, I suppose not . . .”

“Will you come then?”

“What?” She had to get her thoughts under control. But control was impossible when all her body wanted was to melt into his arms, and beg him to caress her.

This man she knew nothing about.
Nothing
. She repeated the word firmly to herself. It made no difference. Because underlying the passion was the memory of his sadness, his loneliness that she had seen while they walked together. To add to that, she now had the sight of him as a gentleman, polite, dignified and proper. These small glimpses of the man were, combining with the passion, settling into emotion and memory, and, most treacherously, into her heart. She had never known real passion before, let alone been in love with a man. She did not know how to fight against it.

They had reached the broad stairs and Jane started down. Now there was room enough for Thomas to come beside her, and he did. She could see his profile. He looked worried, perhaps even anxious.

“So will you come to visit with my godmother?” said Sir Thomas.

“Given how you impressed Her Grace, I think she will allow it.”

“Jane . . .”

He was going to say something about last night, about his absence, Jane was certain, but it was too late. The page waited by the door and a shadow approached across the marble floor of the foyer. That shadow was followed swiftly by Captain Conroy.

Jane swallowed hard as she stepped off the last stair. Conroy nodded as he passed, leafing through papers as he walked. He was clearly on business. This might be a coincidence. Jane did not believe that for more than a single, hopeful heartbeat.

But Thomas’s eyes flickered sideways, and Jane was sure he made good notice of Captain Conroy.

Jane kept her own gaze steady. She could not afford to betray anything where others might see. “Sir Thomas’s hat and gloves, please, Foster. It was good of you to come, Sir Thomas. You may tell Mrs. Beauchamp she’ll have my reply shortly.”

“She’s very much looking forward to seeing you again. And now, I’ll bid you good morning, Lady Jane. Please thank Her Grace for her courtesy.” Thomas took Jane’s hand and bowed over it. Very, very softly she heard him say. “Tonight.”

The footman opened the door, the page brought gloves, hat and cane. Jane stood still as a statue while Thomas took his leave. The only part of her that seemed capable of movement was her heart dancing in her breast.

It could not be as easy as this. Was this how all women conducted their affairs? They simply called on their years of training in the detailed art of maintaining appearances and passed their lovers without batting an eye where others could see.

It could not be so simple. There was nothing simple about the emotions swelling her heart. The urges and longings and needs filling her body and blood were certainly not simple. Neither was the man who roused so much conflict and desire within her.

She turned, and from the corner of her eye, she saw Captain Conroy, standing in the shadows. He meant her to see him, of course. She did not permit herself to pause, but climbed the stairs without looking back and turned her steps once more to the duchess’s rooms. But all the while, she felt eyes at her back, right between her shoulder blades. It hurt that she could not tell whether those eyes belonged to Conroy or Thomas.

She retreated into the duchess’s parlor, but there was no relief to be found there.

“He is a very handsome man,” her grace said as soon as Jane had closed the door. Frau Seibold was still layering the covers back over her mistress and she glanced at Jane sourly as the duchess pushed herself up and dislodged her careful work.

“I assure you, ma’am . . .” began Jane.

“Now, now, Jane, no need for blushes.” The duchess waved her back to her chair. “We are both grown women. We know a pair of fine eyes when we see them. Now, what is that invitation?”

The letter still lay on the table beside Thomas’s card, right where Jane had left it. “It is to supper one afternoon with Mrs. Beauchamp.”

“Very good. You should go.” Again the tone of quiet command, and the assumption of assent that belonged to members of the royalty.

“Thank you, ma’am.” This was good. It was what she wanted, wasn’t it? But there had been something under Thomas’s manner when he’d asked her. Something strained. Had he thought she might refuse? Or was there something else? What else could there be? “If you’re sure it won’t be an inconvenience . . .”