The Companion (35 page)

The music ended. “I wish you the best,” she murmured as he led her from the floor.

“And I, you.” He returned her to her chair. “May . . . may I have leave to call upon you?”

Beth blinked at him in astonishment. “Uh . . . yes. Yes, certainly.”

Major Ware returned with Miss Fairfield. Beth woke to her responsibility. “Mr. Rufford—may I present Miss Fairfield and Major Ware?” She saw at a glance that Rufford and Ware knew each other and that there existed some constraint between them.

“Rufford.” Major Ware frowned, holding himself in check. “We meet again.”

“Major.”

Beth looked from one to the other. Rufford was deprecating. The Major showed a kind of reserve bordering on fear. Of course! Ware had been in North Africa. He knew about Asharti, Rufford’s nemesis. It was clear. The Major knew about Mr. Rufford. She was sure of it.

Rufford cleared his throat. “I am indebted to your kindness, sir.”

“A fellow Briton . . . it was nothing.” Ware made a dismissive motion with his hand.

Rufford looked down at Beth. “Major Ware took me in when I was ill in El Golea.”

“Bit under the weather. Soon put to rights.” Major Ware cleared his throat. Beth noticed that Miss Fairfield blushed as she thought about Major Ware’s kindness. And Major Ware did not believe that Rufford had been “put to rights.” “Are we on for Wednesday?”

“By all means. I assume you mean to make a party of it?”

“A few Whitehall acquaintances. Shall we say tennish, at Brooks’? You are a member, I believe.”

Rufford growled assent. Behind him the magnetic Countess of Lente glided up.

“Rufford, you desert me. I am disconsolate. Look, the musicians strike up again.”

Rufford bowed to the party. “I am called. Pray excuse me.”

Beth watched him lead his equal into the dance. The light of the candles in the chandeliers blinded her. Realization washed over her like cold water. When had she fallen in love with him? Poring over scrolls that spoke of mysteries? Touching his naked, wounded body? Playing chess? Or was it the first time she had seen the pain and self-awareness in his eyes?

“Well, your credit is raised,” Miss Fairfield remarked. “See all the jealous looks? The very eligible Mr. Rufford ignores everyone to the point of rudeness to ask you to dance. . . .”

Beth could not concentrate on her friend’s words. She loved him and he was lost to her. She was not like him or
Lady Lente. Not that she had ever had a chance to win his favor. She watched the Countess throw back her head and laugh, beautiful and intensely alive. Who could love someone like plain Beth Rochewell when creatures such as Beatrix Lisse, Countess of Lente, existed? “Excuse me,” she said, her voice thick. “I believe I have the headache.”

“Shall I call your carriage?” Major Ware asked, solicitous.

“I shall just find my aunt, thank you.” Blinded by her filling eyes, she stumbled away.

Sixteen

Ian absently lifted Beatrix’s evening cloak from her shoulders in the foyer of the house at number 46 Berkeley Square. He pushed down the currents swirling in his breast.

Tomorrow he would propose the unthinkable. But just seeing Miss Rochewell tonight shook him. Her knowledge of his secrets had been disconcerting. What he had accepted on a ship in midocean seemed absurd in the middle of Lady Jersey’s great hall. Did it seem that way to her as well? Was she sorry she knew so much about so vile a monster? Still, she had danced with him. The feel of her waist beneath the horrid lavender muslin she was wearing still seemed to burn his palm. He could still feel her small fingers in his other hand. Why could he think of nothing else? Was he afraid of her? She could further his plans or refuse to fall in with them. That was it. She would not reveal him. On the contrary, it was the fact that she would keep his secret to her grave that made her dangerous.

“Lord, Rufford,” Beatrix was saying as she undid the buttons of her long white gloves. “You are the catch of the town. You could have your pick of any female in the room tonight.” She looked sideways at him, under her lashes, as they strolled into the drawing room. “I was surprised you favored that little brown girl with your notice.” She lounged
over to the decanters on the sideboard, left for them by the servants, long retired. “Do you know her?”

“I met her aboard ship on my way to England.”

“Brandy?”

“Yes.”

“So. She is the ‘friend’ who read the ancient scrolls and helped you draw the darkness.”

“Yes.” He took the cut glass filled with a double dose of brandy and met her eyes, defiant. He saw a small smile play across her fulsome mouth.

“Interesting. She knows about you, yet she showed no distaste. On the contrary.” She raised her glass to her lips, waiting for him to speak, but he turned and gazed out into the night through her tall drawing room windows. “Well, we have covered your traces with the doctor,” she continued. “I can take care of the Major. Whitehall is a different matter. You may well be arrested as a traitor if you refuse to go in league with them against Asharti. Of course, no prison can hold you, but it will make England impossible. Not that you care, of course. When will you start for America?”

He did not answer her question. “What will you do?” he asked, without turning. She had not named Miss Rochewell as one of his “traces,” but he knew one as old and wily as Beatrix would not have forgotten.

She seemed not to notice that he had not answered her question. “Harder to say. I would like nothing better than to return to Amsterdam.” She sounded wistful. “But I must do what I can about Asharti first. I will to Rome. Ulberno is there. Perhaps Dumesnev will meet us, in case.”

“In case of what?”

She studied him. “In case we are called on to clean up Asharti’s leavings. In other words, in case you decide to help us and are successful.”

“Doubtful you should be needed, but by all means proceed there.” He bowed and turned to leave. At the door he paused. “I would not tamper with Miss Rochewell’s memory,” he threw over his shoulder. “Her memory may be your only chance to get you what you want.”

“I think I have located just the situation for you, dear Lizzy.” Beth felt her stomach tighten for two reasons. Her aunt would never give up that hated name, though by now Beth had asked her not to use it. Beth looked up from her book. A cozy fire burned in the grate. Lady Rangle was flipping idly through the
Ladies Journal
, looking at the fashion plates. She was dressed in pale gray gauze. They had spent one of their rare dinners at home and now only waited so they could be fashionably late to the Fairfields’ ball. “You hardly seem excited at my news. Of course, if you are expecting a marriage proposal from Mr. Rufford after he danced with you last night, my work will have been unnecessary.”

That was gratuitous, even for her aunt. Lady Rangle had been wondering aloud what on earth Rufford had been at dancing with “Lizzy” all evening. “I met him on the ship, Aunt. He was only being civil.” She had said those words or close enough to her aunt a dozen times today.

“Then you might show a little interest in your future. I must have spoken to a score of people. I really quite extended myself.” Languidness stretched into petulance.

“I apologize, Aunt. I am most grateful, and agog to hear the results of your labor.” Beth knew her features were at odds with her words. But what could her aunt expect? Beth thought her spirits could not sink further than they had as she watched Ian Rufford dance with the dashing Countess. She loved him and he would never know that. But she was wrong.

“Well, Chively has a great-aunt or something who lives in the Yorkshire West Riding—quite remote. He says she takes a deal of entertaining, likes to have all the papers and magazines read to her several times over, and requires help with her needlework, sorting yarns and such. Nothing you cannot do. You read a great deal anyway.”

Beth glanced to her book,
The Language of the Gods, a Discourse on the Writing of the Ancients
. Hardly the same kind of reading. “I expect I can fill the requirements.”

“Now, she is often quite cross. She has the gout, you know. But you will not care for that. And you will not have to look after much of a household, even though the house is large, since there are only three or four old servants left, plus the cook of course.”

“I am to be the housekeeper as well?”

“Well, it isn’t a fashionable establishment, so you should be able to manage it. You must earn your keep, and they are offering twenty-five pounds the year—remarkable, since the old lady is quite the economist. Never has a fire, even in the main rooms, until Christmas. Handsome rates, since you will not have to put out for your board unless you want to eat your own food. The old lady is on a bland diet, of course.”

What could be more bland than English food after the rich diet of the Mediterranean? The prospect of a cold house on the bleak Riding with five sour people in it who ate bland food was almost too much for Beth. But she was in no position to refuse. “Thank you, Aunt. I am most grateful. When may I begin?”

“I took the liberty of telling Chively you could take the stage to York day after tomorrow,” Lady Rangle said airily, “since I am promised to post to Bath to see to dear Rangle’s cousin’s funeral. She had quite a fine collection of jewelry, or it would be if it were reset in the modern style.” She was obviously relieved to be rid of Beth.

“Well. That gives me tomorrow to pack.” Beth could not help that her voice was flat.

The knocker sounded in the hall.

“How inconvenient. A caller so late? Who could it be?” Lady Rangle frowned.

Beth fluttered, knowing one who could visit only at night. He had only meant to achieve a civil escape from a social dilemma when he promised to call, and yet . . .

“The Honorable Mr. Ian Rufford, my lady,” Edwards intoned behind her.

Beth saw her aunt’s amazed expression change to one of avarice as she glanced to Beth, speculating. “Do show him in, Edwards.”

He entered and immediately the room seemed smaller. He was dressed for some event, perhaps Miss Fairfield’s ball. His coat was black, his neck cloth white perfection. She was so glad he refused to cut his hair into that awful style brushed up from the nape. He bowed. “Lady Rangle, Miss Rochewell.” But his eyes were only for Beth. The wonderful puckered lips pressed themselves together resolutely.

“Mr. Rufford,” Lady Rangle cooed, holding out one languid hand that dripped a pearl gray bit of gauze masquerading as a handkerchief. “How very nice to see you.”

Rufford stepped forward and kissed the knuckles offered as required, but he looked exceedingly uncomfortable. “A pleasure,” he mumbled, glancing at Beth, who flushed.

Lady Rangle’s sharp eyes missed nothing. “If only I was feeling more the thing,” she mourned. “My indifferent health—I am afraid I worry my many friends exceedingly.”

Disappointment and chagrin chased each other over Rufford’s face before he schooled it to blank civility again. “I see my visit was untimely. I should not like to tax your strength.”

“Alas, I shall have to leave Lizzy with the burden of carrying my part of the conversation.” In astonishment Beth watched her rise. She could feel Rufford’s relief and embarrassment, though she could not bring herself to look at him. Lady Rangle tottered toward the door. “Do ring for tea, my dear . . .” she murmured. “Or perhaps Mr. Rufford would like brandy?” She did not wait for an answer but drifted out the door, leaving Beth to stare after her. Rufford stood in the center of the drawing room as though rooted to the spot.

“Shall I procure . . . ?” She trailed off.

“I do not care for anything.”

Beth noted with alarm that he began pacing in distraction up and down. Electric energy spun off him and flung itself about the room. Suddenly Beth had never longed more for her aunt’s company.

“I hardly know how to begin,” he growled, whirling on her.

She chanced a glance up at his face. He was very flushed.
Even as she watched, the color drained away and he went quite pale.
Dear me
, she thought,
he looks as though he were about to faint
. “I have always believed in being straightforward. You could try that.”

To her surprise, he smiled, and she saw his color come back even as his shoulders relaxed a bit. “Yes. How very practical.”

She smiled wryly in return, remembering how he once had disparaged practicality, and gestured to the chaise vacated by her aunt next to the fire.

He sat, ramrod-straight, and cleared his throat. “Very well. I have a proposition for you. You want to get back to Africa. You are obviously a fish out of water among all these insipid, ignorant, parochial people. You cannot live in Africa without being . . . married.”

Beth stared at him in amazement. At the mention of Africa, her heart had given a familiar skip of longing, but now she could not believe what she suddenly thought might happen here.
Silly girl
, she told herself.
How dare you imagine such things?

Rufford met her eyes briefly, then cleared his throat again and got to his feet. “I, on the other hand, require arcane knowledge which I know you possess.”