What Would Jane Austen Do? (13 page)

   He turned her toward the table and held the chair.

"Half is enough," she said as she sat down.

   He picked up the book she'd dropped and laid it on the table. Then he took the chair opposite her. After looking at him and receiving a nod of encouragement, she picked up half the sandwich and took a healthy bite.

   "I noticed you prefer your food without sauces. There's mustard on that."

   "Mmm-mmm."

   She closed her eyes in pleasure, revealing a sensuality he'd guessed was there but hadn't seen so blatantly displayed. His body responded and he rose, fetching his nearly empty brandy snifter as an excuse to put some distance between them.

   "It's wonderful," she said.

   He dawdled as long as he could. By the time he returned to his seat, she'd finished a quarter of the large sandwich.

   "Is that beer?" she asked with a gesture toward the tall glass on the tray.

   "Ale. Help yourself. I have my brandy."

   She took a tentative sip and made a face. "It's a bit stronger and warmer than I'm used to." But she took another drink. A few bites later, she stopped and licked a dab of mustard off her lip. "Are you going to eat that pickle?"

   He shook his head.

   She picked up the large whole pickle and put the end in her mouth, her lips forming a pink O. She closed her eyes and sucked.

   Reminding him of… he shifted in his chair. Then winced when she took a sharp bite.

   "Not a fan of dill?" she asked with an innocent expression. And amusement in her eyes.

   Shermont, endurance tested to his limit, looked around for a distraction and spotted the chessboard on the other end of the table. He occupied his mind envisioning moves and countermoves.

   "Thank you. That was perfect." She wiped her fingers on the napkin, pushed the tray aside, and folded her hands on the narrow table within easy reach of his.

   He slid the chessboard between them. "Do you play?"

   "Not very well," she answered. She stared at him for a long moment before moving her pawn in a classic opening.

   He'd suggested the distraction to keep his hands occupied, but quickly realized the game revealed much about his opponent. He played conser vatively to judge her style. She was aggressive, but her defenses were weak. They concentrated on the game and soon half the pieces had been removed from the board. Surprising him, she'd held her own.

   "I don't believe I've ever played with a lady," he said.

   "From what I hear, you've played with a great number of ladies," she said, moving her knight to threaten his queen. "Oh, were you speaking of chess?" She grinned. "I'm honored to be your first and, I'm sure, not your last. Now you know we can play as well as men."

   "That's debatable. I fear men will always have the advantage."

   She bristled. "Why would you say that? Are you inferring our brains are inferior?"

   Her challenge struck a familiar chord. Someone in the past he couldn't remember, a sister, a mother, maybe an aunt, had also believed women were equal to men—different, but equal. He rubbed his forehead out of habit, but the expected stabbing pain did not appear.

   "Not at all," he said. "I acknowledge females have fine brains, and I know a number who are intelligent, literate, and clever. I also know several men who have not a thought in their heads beyond what coat to wear to the next social affair or which style to use in tying their cravat."

   She nodded her grudging acceptance of his defense.

   "My assertion that men will always have an advan tage is based on the fact that chess is basically a war game, probably first played in ancient Mesopotamia to teach combat strategy. Great battles and tactics of distinguished generals are part of the normal curriculum of every boy's education." He shrugged. "Girls study needlework and how to manage a household."

   She glared at him.

   "Chess is supposed to be a contemplative activity," he said.

   "Does that mean you don't want to talk anymore?"

   "Only that it is a distraction."

   "The entire education system will change when we get the vote," she muttered.

   He dropped the castle he'd been in the process of moving.

   "Did I shock you?" She seemed pleased to have disrupted his game.

   "I cannot deny you have." He grabbed the piece and then stared at the board, unsure as to where he'd meant to put it.

   "It will happen, you know. Woman's suffrage."

   "One part of me is aghast and horror-struck at the possibility, and yet somehow there is an inevitable logic to the concept. A small part of me believes the world will not end. England will not fall, and females will not start wearing pantaloons just because they can vote."

   Eleanor held her tongue.

   He finished his move and then turned away to think about what he'd just said. Where had that belief come from? He didn't remember ever having formed an opinion on females voting.

   Carl waving at him from the other side of the French doors interrupted his reverie. How long had he been out there? Shermont realized he'd allowed Eleanor to distract him from his duty again. He concentrated on ending the game quickly, lured her into a foolish attack, and swooped in for checkmate.

   "I suggest you try to get some sleep," he said as he returned the chessboard to its former position and reset the pieces for the next players. "Tomorrow will be a busy day and will start early."

   "Will you be attending the picnic?"

   He ignored the question. "Shall I ring for a maid to escort you back to your room?"

   She picked up her book, turned on her heel, and rushed out of the room. But not before he saw the look on her face. Her confused and wounded expression caused feelings he couldn't name and didn't want to examine. Instead he opened the French doors and let Carl into the room. The man was soaked and shivering.

   "It's about bloody time," he said through chattering teeth as he rushed to hold his hands to the small fire.

   Shermont apologized as he ascertained the footman was still asleep. "Let's go upstairs. You need dry clothes."

   While the valet changed, Shermont built a fire in the sitting room grate and poured two fresh brandies. Carl returned and took the seat nearest the hearth.

   "Anything?" Shermont asked, handing him one snifter.

   "I hid in the bushes for hours, and no one came to the tree for any reason."

   "Weather may have been a factor. We'll have to try again."

   Carl groaned. "This might change your mind." He pulled a scrap of paper from his dressing gown pocket and handed it over. "I found that at dusk before it started to rain."

   Shermont examined the scrap about an inch square. "Rough edges, obviously torn." He rubbed it between his fingers. "Good quality paper. The ink is a bit smudged, but the writer is educated." The word "midnight" was clearly visible as was a partial word below it. "Damn cocksure. Didn't even bother to use a code."

   "The delicate writing and curly endings to the letters indicate a lady's hand. I told you it was a trysting place. Probably said 'Meet me at midnight.' "

   "This second partial word 'oordina' probably was 'coordinate.' Not a word I would expect used in a lover's note."

   "Coordinate meeting times. Coordinate stories. Maybe coordinate elopement plans."

   Shermont sniffed the paper. "This smells like your soap."

   "I had it tucked in my shirt. What? I was trying to keep it dry."

   "Did you check it for perfume residue before you stashed it against your heart?"

   "No," Carl admitted sheepishly.

   "Too bad. An identifiable scent might have pointed us directly to the female writer."

   "Then you agree it was a lady?"

   "Yes, but that doesn't change anything. I'm more certain than ever the oak is being used as a drop point." Shermont sat back in his chair and tapped his chin with two fingers. His recent chess game had reminded him of the value of an oblique offense. He rose and went to the desk to write a note. "I want you to get this message to our contact at Court. Planting a news article in the
Times
should scare up activity among our quarries." He handed over the note.

   Carl read it. "The
Times
is going to want confirma tion before they run an unbelievable story like this."

   "Who says it's not true? Don't worry. They'll run it in the morning edition."

   "You want me to go now?" Carl asked with an unbe lieving expression. "It's four o'clock in the morning."

   "Well, I can't go. I'd never get back in time for the picnic."

   Carl narrowed his eyes. "Too bad you don't have a sample of that female's handwriting."

   They both knew to whom he referred.

   "If there is nothing else, I will prepare for my journey," Carl said.

   He wished Carl Godspeed, and the valet left him alone with his unsettled thoughts. Other than social obligations, Shermont had spent little time alone with a female that had not been a prelude to bedding her. And yet he had enjoyed the hour he'd spent with Eleanor—not that he didn't want to bed her—but that had not been his main goal. He wanted to get to know her. He tried, unsuc cessfully, to convince himself that he found her fascinating due to the possibility she was involved in the selling of secrets to the French. Foreign agent or not, she was not like any other female he could remember.

"Hurry up," Deirdre called from inside the open landau. "Everyone's waiting for you."

   Eleanor took one last look at the picturesque scene. Two carriages, women in their colorful summer dresses and bonnets, men of the party on horseback, all lined up for the parade to the picnic site. Down the drive, a wagon with supplies and servants went ahead to set up for their arrival. She ran down the front stairs, and a footman offered an arm to steady her climb up the steps into the second conveyance. The carriage lurched forward as soon as she'd settled next to Mina on the seat facing backward. Deirdre and Beatrix sat across from them.

   The other ladies of the party were in the larger, more comfortable closed carriage, much to Fiona and Hazel's disappointment. Mrs. Holcum had allowed her daughter to ride without a chaperone, but warned she would keep a sharp eye. She'd threatened the coachman. If anything untoward happened, runaway horses or any such nonsense, she'd have his job. She also promised him a half-crown bonus if he maintained a close distance from the leading carriage and all arrived safely.

   The gentlemen, including spry Uncle Huxley, were mounted and rode alongside the carriages when the road width permitted.

   "You girls resemble a lovely summer garden," Huxley said, referring to the various hues of their dresses.

   Eleanor wore her sunny yellow muslin with a sprig of green leaves embroidered on the length of the skirt, ending in a border of tangled vines and tiny purple flowers. She'd debated whether to wear the yellow. Back in L.A., the color had accented her marginal tan beautifully, but when paler was considered better, the dress did nothing for her. She finally opted to wear it because she had a limited number of dresses, and it seemed absolutely necessary to change clothes several times a day. She covered her arms with long gloves and a white muslin shawl with embroidered tambour work that she borrowed from Mina.

   Mina was in pink with rose accents, Deirdre in blue with orange accents, and Beatrix in white with red embroidery and ribbons. Each carried a parasol for shade, Eleanor having borrowed an old one from Deirdre. Small talk passed the time as the lead coach kept the pace to a crawl.

   The horses, kept to the same pace by their riders, appeared to resent the slow walk.

   Shermont pulled his mount, a beautiful black Arabian thoroughbred, next to Teddy's horse. "Dabir is restless. I'm going to give him a run to settle him down."

   "Dabir seems a strange name for a horse," Deirdre said before Teddy had a chance to speak.

   "It's Arabic for teacher." The horse danced a few steps sideways, and Shermont reined him in. "So named because he does his best to teach me patience." He smiled at Deirdre before turning back to Teddy. "We're racing out to that promontory. I call it a mile and a half. Five quid each to the winner. Are you in?"

   "No, thank you. Messenger seems content to keep gentler company, as am I."

   The lieutenants maneuvered their horses forward and begged the women for a favor to carry for luck. Mina giggled and gave Parker a small pink feather from the decoration on her straw bonnet. He tucked it in his hatband.

   "I like your gray," Deirdre said as she tied a blue ribbon around Whitby's wrist.

   They all looked to Beatrix who shook her head. Obviously, she didn't want to give her red ribbons to anyone other than Teddy, and he wasn't racing.

   "Come on. It's just for fun. It doesn't mean anything."

   Beatrix shook her head again. Mina and Deirdre frowned at her unsporting attitude.