The Pursuit of Pleasure (34 page)

Wroxham took it with milk and sugar and stood by the mantelpiece to drink, his gaze roaming the room.

“Do you play?” he asked when his look came to rest on the pianoforte.

“Yes, but I haven’t in a long time. I’m only just starting back.” Something in his gaze prompted her. It was a beautiful instrument. “And you?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.”

“And would you, please? I’ve only heard it answer to my own poor efforts.”

He put down the teacup and complied, playing a lyrical sonata. He played it beautifully, his long fingers moving smoothly and powerfully along the keys.

It was as pleasant and lovely a time as she had ever spent with any man who had come to call, let alone Wroxham. And when he had finished the piece, she rose and came to him and said simply, “Thank you,” and meant it.

He smiled, a little ruefully, she thought, before he spoke. “Why is it, do you think, we’ve never gotten along?”

Because I always fancied your cousin.

But she said instead, “I daresay it’s because we’re too much alike.”

“How candid. You surprise me. I had not expected such generosity.”

Lizzie smiled but did not respond. She still wanted to know what all this flattery was in service of.

“But this not the first time recently you’ve surprised me, either.”

Lizzie couldn’t imagine; there was too much to choose from—her marriage, her husband’s death, her recent incarceration.

“I was talking to a friend in town, in London, not Dartmouth, a friend who happens to be a fellow member of the London Corresponding Society, and he mentioned your name.”

It was Lizzie’s turn to be surprised. More than surprised. Astonished into wariness. Jamie had warned her against the London Corresponding Society. Quite specifically. This could not be coincidental. “Are you a member of the London Corresponding Society?”

“Yes, I am. And my mother as well. How improbable is that? That we should have such a thing in common.”

“Very improbable, but true.” She searched for polite conversation while the greater part of her brain blared out alarm bells. “I feel more inclined now to show you my library and my collection of books. I have as well a great many pamphlets and tracts from the society.”

“Do you really? Well done. I should like to see them someday.” He paused, and then shook his head. “No.”

“No?”

“Just another improbable thought. I couldn’t… It’s impossible, really.”

Lizzie gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile and waited.

“Its just that we’re meant to have a meeting of the society, here in Dartmouth. Some of the principal, important members are traveling, trying to build up support for the cause. But Mother’s house is so small, and …” He let the thought trail out there, waiting for her to take the bait.

So this was why he had come all this way and lavished so many compliments upon her. It ought to have been farcical. But here it was suddenly before her: the key to everything that had gone on, and was going on, around Glass Cottage.

If the Society, as Jamie had so strongly warned her, was involved with treason, and they wanted to come here, to the Devon Coast, to a house with smuggling caves and a deepwater cove beneath it, then Jamie had been right. All along. Right from the beginning.

He had warned her, hadn’t he?

And now, it seemed she held that key: the ability to bring the Society and the smugglers together here, where Jamie and his Royal Navy could see what they did and could find out once and for all what was really going on.

“I should be happy to have the honor of hosting the Society, if that is what you wish.”

“Would you really?” He looked so relieved. So hopeful. “But it’s so soon. Could you really do it, do you think? In three days’ time?”

Lizzie smiled ruefully. “At Glass Cottage, you’ll find, Mr. Wroxham, almost anything is possible.”

She abandoned all her other plans. The caves could wait. And as she was the only one who knew of them, and with the expected commotion focusing attention solely on the house, her secret seemed safe enough for the time being. Nothingelse mattered but proving to Jamie that she
had listened.
And she knew now he was right.

She threw herself into preparations. There was so much to do. So many furnishings to still be delivered, the drapers and upholsterers to chivvy along and the butcher to seduce into his best joints. Extra staff to be hired, rooms to be finished, beds to be made and freshly aired. The list was endless. It was hard work, but she had the satisfaction of seeing Glass Cottage shine the way it was always meant.

The only dissatisfaction was Jamie. He didn’t bother to hide now, but still he wouldn’t speak to her, wouldn’t come near her. She was reduced to sending oblique messages through the Tuppers.

She told Mr. Tupper he was to have free rein in hiring the additional staff needed, knowing Jamie would fill the house with navy men. She told both Tuppers each and every rooming assignment of every guest, made a chart, and gave it to Mrs. Tupper, knowing she would give it to Jamie. She asked the Tuppers for their suggestions and changes to the planned entertainments, knowing they had come from Jamie. She would give him every opportunity to prove that he was right.

But still he kept his distance, only now and again looking at her, shading his eyes. Letting her get on with life without him.

The festivities began with a supper and soiree, an evening gathering for conversation. The first of the guests to arrive were Wroxham and his mother, Lady Mary Wroxham.

“I always felt we should become fast friends,” Lady Mary told her in greeting, before she was forced by the press of other arrivals to give herself over to Mrs. Tupper’s care.

Lizzie had dressed with great care to look her part, wearing one of her new high-waisted gowns in the French revolutionary style. It was a dark peacock blue silk, low cut and showing what was for her an inordinate amount of bosom. To counter the expanse of skin, she dressed her hair flowing loose in a bandeau style. And of course, she wore her jeweled shoes. The ones she’d been wearing when Jamie proposed. Just for luck. She was going to need it.

The evening was a parody of what she had always dreamed her independent life would be. She was the hostess, moving amongst her intellectual and artistic company, greeting and being greeted, enjoying the witty repartee and intelligent conversation. She moved from room to room, seeing to the comfort of her guests, conferring with Mrs. Tupper, directing the new servants and keeping things running smoothly.

Lizzie was aware behind her brittle smile, she was tense as a bow. Almost frightened, even. So much was riding on this house party. Everything. When she stepped back into the drawing room, she suddenly realized all of the men, all of the players in her little personal farce, were arrayed around the edges, most of them in full footman’s livery.

She had suggested the idea of the rented livery to the Tuppers with the thought that the Navy men were bound to look too rough for footmen, and would give themselves away were they not sufficiently camouflaged behind gold braid and powdered bag wigs. And here they were. The real footman Stephen, as well as Tupper, McAlden, Maguire, and Jamie, stood with their backs to the wall, silent and as unseeing as statues as they held out trays of drinks.

At least they were
supposed
to be unseeing and unhearing, but McAlden and Jamie looked as sharp as razors. How anyone was supposed to believe they were footmen was beyond belief. It was incredibly risky.

Lizzie cast her eyes across the room to find Lady Wroxham, seated on a chaise near the fire conversing with another woman from Bath or somewhere. Her back was to her nephew, but all she had to do was turn around to be able to see his face.

Lord, Jamie was playing out his game with very, very long odds. Wroxham was about, too, mostly in the music room, where he had stationed himself by the pianoforte, making himself entertaining and agreeable to any guests of a musical bent. She’d have to warn Jamie to stay out of there.

Maguire sidled up with a tray of champagne. “Best have a drink, miss, before you crack yourself in two smiling away like that.”

She kept her face glued to its happy smile as she and Maguire slipped into the doorway of the butler’s pantry. “How goes it?”

“Right enough, miss, with such a gang of rum-gaggers. Plenty of men for the job, though. And none of the swells have made a move, yet.”

“They are all Admiralty, still in the Navy, under orders? Captain Marlowe and the rest?” She wanted to be very sure.

Maguire nodded. “Near as I can tell, ma’am. Only thing that makes sense.”

“Do the free traders know who they are?”

“Not like. They’ve only dealt with the lower-downs, not the higher-ups. Trips back and forth to Jersey and Guernsey to establish their bona fides. They’ve been very canny. If you h’ant told me, I’d a never knowed.”

“And what’s your opinion of the other one, not his compatriot, but this one, who only comes calling when he seems to want something?” She indicated Wroxham, who waved back with a genial smile on his handsome face.

Maguire made a sound of sneering dismissal. “That one? I shouldn’t trust his arse with a fart.”

Well! Lizzie fought to suppress her laugh. Who would have thought Maguire and Mr. Tupper would ever have such a thing in common?

By one o’clock in the morning, many of the guests were leaving, and a few that were staying were beginning to make their way upstairs to their beds. And the “footmen” were disappearing just as fast, presumably to keep watch on the guests from the Society, which was everyone except her.

Including her.
With the way Jamie had been keeping a constant watch on her, she knew she was still a suspect, no matter what information she had given to the Tuppers, and through the Tuppers, to Jamie. No matter she had arranged this whole extravagant house party for him, so he could finally do … whatever it was he was going to do. Arrest somebody. Prove treason.

And then, when he was done, they could finally figure out what they were going to do about them and their marriage. She didn’t have very high hopes for that. Depressing, exasperating thought.

Lizzie stepped out of the drawing room and into the service corridor outside the kitchens looking for Mrs. Tupper, and he was there, pulling her back against his chest and covering her hand with his mouth before she could do or say anything.

Lizzie knew not to struggle. She waited calmly until his arms relaxed and then turned to face him. He looked awful. Tired. There were purplish hollows under his eyes. The Admiralty was working him too hard. Not that she cared.

“You look awful. It suits you.”

He ran a hand through his tousled, cropped hair. He was still dressed in livery, but his white footman’s wig had disappeared. He carried the damp but clean smell of the ocean, all salt and cold air, on his body. The scent that had surrounded her four nights ago. Bother. Damn him even. She was determined not to let her weakness for him distract her. Or goad her into anger.

“Lizzie, what do you think you’re doing?”

She tried for witty. “I’m glad you asked. I’m meant to be having a salon, but there are still scads of people, all chatting away and drinking champagne and having far too good a time for a mere salon. Do you think I’ve got it wrong?”

Jamie let out an expletive so foul, she wasn’t sure she understood it.

“You’ll have to explain that bit about the goat. I’m afraid I can’t quite comprehend your meaning.”

He grabbed her and shook her once before dragging her up close. “My God, Lizzie, what am I to do with you? Every time I try to help you, to keep you safe, you end up doing something else twice as foolish.”

“I can’t see what is so especially foolish about hosting a salon. All the best people do it.”

“Lizzie, this is intolerably dangerous. I’ve told you, it’s treason.”

“I know.”

“Do you? Do you really?” His voice was low and harsh. “Do you understand that someone here, in this house—and perhaps many more than one someone—some members of the London Correspondence Society are smuggling weapons into France and French spies out? Do you understand that at least one of them and possibly more killed Lieutenant Francis Palmer, and if you don’t bloody well watch your scrawny little arse, they may, if they find it convenient or necessary, kill you? If the government doesn’t stretch your pretty little neck first.”

He stepped back and moved towards the east door.

Lizzie put a hand to his sleeve to stay him. “Where are you going?”

“Go back to your guests, Lizzie. But keep Mrs. Tupper with you at all times. I have to leave. There are too many men to watch, too many potential avenues of escape. Be careful, damn it.”

He kissed her, hard and stern, pressing his will, his warning upon her. But when his hand came up to tangle in her hair, his lips, his soft beautiful lips, turned tender and tentative.

He drew back and rested his head for a quiet moment against her forehead. Then he made a sad, incredulous sound. “What have you done?”

Lizzie had trouble placing his tone. He was talking about treason, and she hadn’t done anything treasonous. She had done all this to help him. She shook her head. “I don’t take your mean—”

“Your ears.” He stretched his fingers out and turned her chin aside. “They’re …”

“Pierced.” She had done it earlier that night as an attempt to play her part, to make herself appear more sophisticated and worldly. But now, with Jamie looking at her with sad, weary eyes, she felt foolish and childish, as if she’d dressed up in her mother’s clothes.

“Who did this for you?”

She shrugged away any importance. “I did it myself.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” He fingered the swollen, tender lobes, and she couldn’t keep from scrunching up her eyes at the hot lick of pain sliding over the dull ache. “Oh, Lizzie,” he chided. “Does it hurt?”

“Stop it, Jamie. I’m well aware you think I’m a child playing dangerous games. But I know what I’m doing. So it’s no matter if it was painful. It’s done. You once encouraged me to be fashionable, and to care about my dress, so that’s what I’ve done. I look the way the hostess of such an assemblage should look. I look fashionable and gay. No one should have any reason to be suspicious about the real reasons for this house party. And I will keep this fashionable appearance up for as long as is necessary to convince the Society I am fully committed to the cause. In fact, I’m thinking of cutting off my hair. Several gentlemen here have told me the fashion now is all for cropped—”