The Songbird's Seduction (22 page)

Archie had gratefully accepted the offer and was now in possession of a pristine set of collar and cuffs, and a clean, well-fitted shirt. He hoped Lucy approved. And, of course, her great-aunts, too.

“Monsieur?” he asked, approaching the front desk.

“Oui?” The Frenchman didn’t raise his gaze from the paper.

“I am looking for a girl.”

The man turned the page. “Are not all young men?”

“No. You misunderstand.”

The man gave up trying to read his newspaper and sighed. “I doubt that, monsieur. But this is not the sort of place in which to find one.”

“Not that type of girl. I am looking for Miss Lucy Eastlake. She was supposed to meet me here. I was hoping to find her and her aunts.”

This abruptly triggered the man’s interest. He straightened, eyeing Archie closely. “You are a friend?”

“I am escorting her—them.”

“You are?” The interest became more pointed.

“Yes. Well, I expect to be. I was planning to join them here.”

“Well, you will have to wait longer. They are gone.”

“What?” Why would she leave without him? Panic drilled through him. She mustn’t. “Where did she go?”

“She?” The hotel manager regarded him in puzzlement before his expression cleared. “Non. I am speaking of the Misses Littons and their friend, Mrs. Martin.
Those
ladies have gone, having left a letter for Miss Eastlake. And a bill. A large bill. Of which, despite assurances, I have yet to see a
sou
.”

“You’ll get paid,” Archie said impatiently. “Where is Miss Eastlake?”

The manager ignored his question. “But by
whom
?”

“Miss Eastlake, I suppose. Could you please tell me where—”

The manager’s lips turned down. “I am not sanguine.”

“Look. You’ll get paid what is owed you. I personally will vouch for it.”

The manager brightened perceptibly, his gaze raking over Archie’s expensive if mud-spattered coat and shoes. “
You
will pay?”

“Yes. Certainly. As soon as the bank opens tomorrow. Now, please. Where can I find Miss Eastlake?”

“She is in her room. But, before you ask, since you are not interested in
that
type of girl and because I have three daughters who are not
that
type of girl, and I know what men who accept the responsibility for young lady’s bills expect in return—no, do not bother looking indignant. I am a man; you are a man. We both know the truth of what I say—I will not tell you her room number,” he said in grim paternal tones but then spoiled the effect by adding, “That is the lady’s prerogative.”

“I was not going to ask.”

“Then you are either a fool or saint.”

Archie suspected he knew which category he fell under, but didn’t feel the need to share.

“Now, about a room.”

“I am sorry. There is nothing available. See?” The manager reached across the counter and with an adroit flick of his wrist spun the open register so that it faced Archie. “Miss Eastlake was fortunate that the delightful Mrs. Martin reserved one for her. I could have rented her room for twice what I charge her.”

Archie had his doubts. “Fortunate indeed. Where is the nearest hotel?”

“La Maison is a short distance, but it will be fully occupied, too, as, I am much afraid, will all the hotels in town.”

“How about some place near the docks?” he asked, though he didn’t like the idea of being so far away from Lucy. She might
require him for some reason. Like asking anyone
anything
in French, he thought drily.

“Perhaps. But I should recommend you have a penchant for bed bugs if you stay down there.”

“Could you let me bed down in a storeroom for the night?”

Navarre
tutted.
“This is not a home for itinerants. What would my staff think? They see you there and the next thing I know the cook will insist I let his drunken brother-in-law sleep off his debauch or the accountant will expect to have a bed there the next time his wife kicks him out. No.”

“Would an additional twenty francs help you to explain my presence?”

“Ah, that is different. Then I am not providing charity. You may avail yourself of my office. Very cozy. I will add it to what is owed. And of course, you are welcome to dine at our very fine restaurant. Feel free to charge it to the room. Miss Eastlake’s room.”

The little swindler. He wouldn’t offer him a cot in a back room gratis but he was pleased to let him spend his money in his restaurant. He’d be damned if he’d spend another penny here. “Thanks, but I’ll—”

“Miss Eastlake has reserved a table for seven o’clock.” The Frenchman tipped his head in the direction of an elaborately carved set of doors. “Should I have the table set for two?” he asked innocently.

Dinner for two. With Lucy.

“Thanks. Do that.”

“. . . so I spent the night beneath the dugout and walked back to the town in the morning,” Archie finished, realizing he’d been rather going on for a while. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I tend to become overenthusiastic when I’m talking about my work.”

“No. Please. It’s fascinating,” Lucy said.

He studied her, assuming she was simply being polite but finding no evidence of it in her rapt expression. She looked beautiful sitting across the dining table from him, her elbow next to an empty sherbet glass, her small, pointed chin nestled in her palm. Her hair had been pulled up in rippling brown waves secured by a black velvet ribbon, a few curls released to tease the long line of her neck and tickle her cheek.

She wore a subtle blue-green gown made from a softly lustrous, draping material that brought out the sea colors in her eyes. Shimmery, copper-colored lace, embroidered and beaded, covered a low-cut bodice that closely followed the natural curves of her body and exposed the soft, sweet swell of her breast, in any other woman a
modest display, but with Lucy one he had to forcibly keep his eyes from straying toward. What the hell was wrong with him?

“I would love to see water the color you describe. And birds flying above the jungle canopy with tails like party streamers,” she said wistfully.

An image of Lucy appeared in his mind, Lucy dressed in a chemise and a skirt, her feet bare on the warm sand, the sun glinting off her hair, her face tipped to the brilliant sky. Her expressive face would be alight with pleasure and interest. He’d never known anyone who took such joy in things, who found humor in the oddest places, pleasure in the most unusual things. But then, maybe he was imagining things. Maybe she wasn’t as unique as she appeared to be. How could she be?

“Most people would find the experience more enjoyable viewed in a photograph than firsthand.”

“I can’t see how. A photograph might capture the look of a thing, but it can’t re-create the feel of warm sand beneath your toes, the sound of birdcall in your ears, the scent of . . .” She trailed off with a laugh. “What does it smell like in Fiji?”

“On the beach? Salt air and brine, but as you move into the forests, there’s a humid, earthy scent of growing things, a subtle sweetness, more spice than floral.”

Her eyes drifted shut. “Mmm.”

He couldn’t look away from her. Her skin glowed in the romantic candlelight. A smile played about her lips as she imagined the scene he described. Who cared what Fiji smelled like; what did
she
smell like? His body tensed at the idea. He forced his gaze elsewhere.

He had to put an end to this purposeless speculation. In a few days they would be in Saint-Girons and, a few days after that, he would say good-bye to her in Weymouth. There was no reason they would ever meet again. She would return to the theatre and he would go back to St. Phillip’s. Maybe someday he would get a ticket to one
of her shows. She might recognize him if he stayed afterward to congratulate her. She would smile and perhaps he would remind her of . . . of what? That she had thrown up all over him? That he had hauled her over his shoulder like, what was it she’d said? A sack of potatoes? That he’d almost kissed her and spent the months in between wishing he had . . .

And what would she say to that? Would she be shocked? Amused? Would she touch his hand and say, “Well, you’re hardly the first?”

He
hated
the idea.

“Yes. It smells good enough on the beaches. But the towns and villages aren’t on the beach,” he said, his tone reflecting his anger with himself. “The places I’ve stayed have all had hard beds, if there are any beds at all, a plague of biting insects, and as for hygiene, it’s more a theory than a practice and ofttimes not even that. I guarantee you, the smells in the villages generally are not convivial.”

But rather than look put off by this attempt to insert some much-needed realism into the fantasy her words had conjured, she laughed. “Oh, I’ve slept rough my share of times. I daresay I could tolerate a few jiggers and the smell of rotting fish.”

She’d surprised him again but then he recalled her propensity for storytelling. “You? Where? Don’t tell me your aunts kept you in the attic because I won’t believe it.”

She laughed again. She had a lovely laugh, one she used often. When was the last time he’d heard Cornelia laugh? Had he
ever
heard Cornelia laugh?

“Of course not. They spoiled me rotten.”

“Aha!”

“But I didn’t always live with them.”

“Your parents were poor?” he asked sympathetically.

“No,” she replied promptly. “Well. Perhaps. But if they were I didn’t notice it. Of course, I don’t know that I would have; I was only seven when they died.”

“Accident?”

She nodded.

“I’m sorry.”

She tipped her head, her smile unexpectedly poignant. “Thank you.”

“It must have been difficult for your great-aunts, as well.”

She gave an odd smile. “I don’t think they even knew she’d died until I showed up. Mention of her name was strictly forbidden at Robin’s Hall. You see, my great-grandmother disowned my mother when she was sixteen.”

“What for?” He shook his head. “I’m sorry. That was unconscionably ill-mannered of me. Believe it or not, I really was raised properly. Not that you’ve had much evidence of that.”

She didn’t look offended; she looked amused. “Oh, I think I’ve seen a hint or two. And I don’t mind, anyway. Secrets breed sorrows, as my dad used to say.

“As to what Mum did to earn being vanquished, she fell in love with a conductor.” She leaned forward, her eyes sparking with mischief. “A foreign conductor. Hungarian. She met him at a party her grandparents were hosting in his honor. By all reports, it was love at first sight and, according to those same reports, my great-grandparents were apoplectic. It wasn’t just that my future father was foreign, you understand; it was that he was foreign and with no aristocratic antecedents.”

“What about your mother’s parents? Did they object, too?” His mouth tightened in chagrin. “Again, I shouldn’t have asked that.”

“And again, I don’t mind. My grandmother was the oldest of the Litton sisters. She died shortly after giving birth to my mum, whereupon my grandfather turned his newborn baby girl over to his in-laws to be raised. He remarried years later but his new wife did not want children, either her own or anyone else’s, so my mother stayed with her grandparents.

“At any rate, thereafter the conductor was refused at the door. In response, my mother climbed out the window, an act for which her name was struck from the family Bible. They eloped, I was the result, and disowned in turn through association.” Her brow furrowed. “Gads. I just realized how few children my immediate ancestors produced. Hm. Maybe they weren’t as happily married as I assumed.”

He supposed he should be shocked, but he wasn’t. He was charmed. She simply said whatever popped into her head. At least when she wasn’t spinning yarns, a process during which you could practically see the possible storylines unfurling. It wasn’t politic, it probably wasn’t polite, but it was certainly novel.

“You were an only child, too?”

“Yes. So perhaps the fault lies there. Maybe musicians just aren’t fertile.” Her eyes lightened. “That would explain the dearth of good composers, wouldn’t it?”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it.

She joined him. “Actually, Dad came from a line of not very successful but very creative types and there were scads of them. You know, musicians and actors and poets and playwrights. The only one of the lot who ever made a penny was my dad’s cousin Eloisa and she wrote penny dreadfuls.” Her gaze turned musing. “I always thought I’d pen a jolly good gothic romance . . .”

He nodded as things fell into place. “That’s how you ended up sleeping rough. You were sent to live with your father’s people.”

“I was rather hoping you’d forgotten that. Rough may be doing it a bit brown.
Simple
is more like it. I never actually slept on the ground.”

“Who had custody of you before the Littons?” The more he found out about her, the more he wanted to know.

She laughed again. “Who didn’t? I spent time with seven different relatives in four years. It was hard right . . . right after. I was
used to being the center of my parents’ world and suddenly I wasn’t the center of anyone’s world. I was more like a meteor, crashing others’ orbits before spinning off to the next planet.”