HAVING TAKEN DOWN AN ORDER, IN SPITE OF THE heavy accent of his customer, for twelve dozen Bath buns to be delivered daily to the exhibition pen of Monsieur Malempré, an elated baker escorted Monsieur and Madame into the street. He took leave of them with a surfeit of bowing and repeated pledges that his buns would most assuredly contain a generous measure of white currants. Having bespoke the buns, at a price so outrageous that it would have embarrassed His Majesty's pastry chef, Trev took Callie's arm and turned her toward the High Town.
He kept his hat brim low and gave the veiled lady on his arm the benefit of his full attention and gallantry. He was not overly concerned that Hubert would be recognized in the city of Hereford, but he was not so sanguine about himself. Here in the marches of the West Country, close by to Bristol-that first-rate source of burly butchers' boys anxious to enter the prize ring-the very soil seemed to produce prime pugilists. Trev had always limited his own scouting to the south and east, deliberately avoiding Hereford and Shelford and Callie, but he would be a fool to count himself perfectly safe here. He was too well-known among the Fancy.
Jock and Barton had been busy chasing up old acquaintance for the past several days, calling in all favors on Trev's behalf. And he had a wealth of credit to call upon, he found, for the thing he'd done for Jem Fowler's wife and baby boy. The hefty green-coated footman who now walked behind the Malemprés had only recently been pummeling a challenger in some set-to in a Bristol training yard. Across the way lounged a pair of regular brutes in the science, who owed their success and early opportunities largely to Trev's patronage. The men assigned to handle Hubert were experienced both in cattle yards and prizefights. There was a marvelous inf lux of boxing men to Hereford at the moment.
For his own part, Trev had discarded his Belcher necktie and adopted a sword cane and several other sartorial details to camouf lage himself as a continental beau rather than a sporting buck. Walking beside Callie now, he regretted having chosen the name Malempré for their masquerade-he'd been in a hurry, arranging for the van and commanding the painting of the canvas to swathe Hubert's pen, and the first name he'd summoned to mind was a town in Belgium where he'd spent a few weeks of his imprisonment just after Napoleon's first abdication.
It had been an easy enough situation there. On his gentleman's honor to attempt no escape, he'd had the freedom of the pretty village and even waltzed at the assemblée. The sole inconvenience had been the wife of the local chevalier, who had conceived a most ardent fondness for Lieutenant LeBlanc on the basis of a single trif ling kiss, which no amount of diplomacy-or indeed, discourtesy-had seemed to cool. She had been so relentless in her pursuit that he'd become the butt of the captive officers' mess until he was moved to Brussels to await a prisoner exchange that had never materialized-the defeated French apparently having no pressing need for one more LeBlanc littering their countryside.
He'd forgot about her until this morning, and that her name was also Malempré-a silly oversight that annoyed him. It seemed almost an insult to Callie. But it was too late to change now. He carried in his inner pocket several copies of a broadside imprinted with the handsome image of a dark bull and the breathless details of the Malempré Challenge:
The CERTIFIED Measurements of the Celebrated
BELGIAN BULL of Malempré! Freshly Arrived
in England, to Tour the Entire Country! The
PRIZE offered to Any BULL of Any Breed that
can be Proven GREATER in All Dimensions! 500
GUINEAS and a Silver Salver with the NAME of
the Winner ENGRAVED beneath its Likeness!
He had made sure that Colonel Davenport would be absent for the formal announcement by the simple expedient of putting a man to spy on him and discov ering his schedule. The good colonel was engaged this morning to determine which farm laborer had the honor of Supporting the Largest Number of Legitimate Offspring without Recourse to the Parish, for a prize of two pounds, and thereafter to judge turnips. Presumably he would be fully occupied in the counting of children and adjudicating of root vegetables, and unable to attend the public proclamation that Trev had arranged to give under the auspices of the president of the Agricultural Society. The colonel would not remain long in the dark, however, as Trev had caused a copy of the Challenge to be delivered to him by hand, courtesy of Monsieur Malempré, along with a bottle of excellent French wine to rub salt in the wound.
Trev had at first felt a twinge of guilt over leading Davenport a dance, but then he'd thought of how the fellow had taken Callie's bull and refused to sell it back for an honest price. When he remembered her tearstained cheeks hidden under the bonnet, his brief qualm vanished, replaced by a chilly desire to carve a liberal piece out of anyone who made her unhappy. Knowing that he himself was not entirely blameless in that regard did nothing to diminish his ire, but rather made him more inclined to exact revenge on whatever culprit he could reach.
"Something is amiss, Monsieur?" Callie asked in a worried tone, gamely keeping to French as she looked up sideways at him through the netting.
Trev realized that he was scowling, and softened his expression. "I beg your pardon," he replied, smiling down at her. "I was meditating on the shocking cost of pastries in this town."
"I understand you," she said with feeling. "Mrs. Farr would take to her smelling salts if she knew."
"We must pray that my bank will stand against the strain. But we have an hour or two before we issue our announcement-what would you like to do? Take in the shops?"
"I would rather look at the animals," she said. She spoke very pretty French, he thought, when she would venture to do so. It made him want to kiss her, to brush his mouth against her lips while she formed the words. "Would it be possible?"
"Certainly. Whatever would please you the best, ma chérie." He f lourished his cane and pointed as they turned the corner to the wide street that was filling rapidly with all manner of livestock for the show. Under the shadow of the cathedral spire, the scent of a barnyard permeated the air. "Where shall we begin? Let us critique the pigs!"
"Do you make a study of pigs, Monsieur?" she asked, with a muff led note of amusement.
"Of course. I've observed them frequently on my breakfast plate." They had neared the first of the pens, where a stockman was lovingly bathing the ears of an enormously fat spotted sow. Five piglets squealed and gurgled about her panting bulk. "Note the marvelous coil of the tail." He gestured with his cane. "Absolute perfection!"
"And those ears," Callie said, nodding sagely. "She appears to have two!"
"Four legs," Trev added, cataloging all her points.
"Are you certain she has legs?" Callie asked dubi ously. "I don't see any."
"They are hidden under her porcine vastness," he informed her. He tilted his head speculatively as they reached the pen. "Unless she has wheels. Perhaps she rolls from place to place?"
The handler glanced up, startled to hear a language not his own. Seeing a fashionable lady and gentleman observing him, he straightened up and pulled his forelock, red-faced.
"An animal par excellence," Trev said in thickly accented English as he indicated the pig with an approving nod. He reached inside his coat and drew forth one of the printed broadsides. "Myself, I have a bull."
The stockman took the bill and perused it with a serious air. He seemed to read it, though Trev had made sure there were numerals in addition to words, for the edification of the illiterate. A working man might not have book learning, but the number of guineas was something that anyone would compre hend. "Looks to be a dead gun, sir," the stockman said politely.
Trev was well aware of the local vernacular, but he affected surprise. "Dead? No, he is alive, very much, I assure you!"
"Aw, no sir, I mean to say, he looks a dead good 'un, sir. Them's his length and breadth, in'net?"
"And five hundred gold, you see there," Trev pointed out, "to say there is none to match him."
The stockman grinned, showing spaces in his teeth. He shook his head. "Naw, sir, I fear you'll be losing it. Him's a good big 'un you got there, but we've the biggest old bull ever you seen, right here, comin' up today from Shelford."
"Indeed!" Trev said. "But I must see this animal. Who belongs to him?"
"Colonel Davenport has him now, but 'tis his late lordship's bull. The Earl of Shelford, sir. They call him Hubert."
"Ah yes." Trev nodded wisely. "Of this bull I have had a great description. With red and black-how do you say this-the spots-ah, mottles, eh? Hubert." He gave it the French pronunciation, "Oo-bear". "I long to see him!"
"You'll see him, sir. Can't miss him, can you? He's the size of a house."
Trev turned to Callie and said in rapid French, "Good. Better to raise the challenge first, before they all learn he's gone missing." He patted her arm and reverted to English again. "And what do you think of this lovely pig, Madame?"
"A peeg of the first merit," she said obligingly, with such an earnest copy of his overwrought enunciation that Trev found it difficult to keep a straight countenance.
"Indeed," he agreed. "Great good luck to you with this peeg, mon ami."
The stockman thanked Trev with a gruff acknowl edgment. They left him turning to his curious neighbor with the broadside stretched out in his hand. From there, Trev was quite certain, the word would spread. He had planted news of a bout often enough to know how quickly intelligence could travel.
"But deplorably fat," Callie murmured as they walked away. "I cannot approve of it. She will overheat."
Trev nodded gravely. "I thought I smelled bacon burning."
She gave a gurgle of laughter under her veil but then added in a troubled tone, "It's not really a funning matter, though. It's become all the rage amongst the cottagers to show a poor pig so fat that it cannot even get up without help. I fear they suffer for it. I mean to write a letter to the society. I place full blame upon the judges for encouraging it."
He smiled. Only his Callie would champion the cause of leaner pigs for the greater good of pigdom. "I daresay they will be eager to know your view of the matter." He escorted her round a table where a woman was laying out molds of cheese in an artistic fashion.
"Of course they won't," she said wryly. "They will say that they are only pigs, and I am only a female- but pigs are most intelligent and feeling, I assure you. I taught one to play a wooden f lute once."
"A f lute!"
She nodded. "I secured it between a pair of fire dogs, and he soon learned that he could procure a bit of molasses if he made a note upon it. I stopped the holes for him, and he would play 'Baa Baa Black Sheep.'"
"Mon dieu." He shook his head. "And I was not there to see it." He slid his fingers between hers, so that their hands were clasped where they rested on his arm. She tilted her head aslant, glancing up at him, but he could not detect her expression through the veil. He wasn't sure if she knew just how difficult it had been for him to break off from their lovemaking. He was in a state of exquisite torment even to walk beside her, with her shoulder brushing his at every step. It was he who had conceived this grand plan of a manufactured marriage, but he found now that what had seemed as if it would be a diverting amusement was in fact a bittersweet ordeal.
If they had been married in truth, he would not have been strolling through a street full of straw and bawling calves, that was a certainty. He would have had her on the sofa-no, not the sofa, in the bed, stretched out on the sheets in very daylight, a long and slow and leisurely discovery of her white skin and golden red curls.
"I shall write to the officers of the Agricultural Society, in any event," she continued. "I would even-" She paused. "Well, they would never invite me to speak at the monthly meeting, so I needn't fear that, but I would."
He really very badly wanted to pull her up against him right there in the midst of the street and kiss her ruthlessly. "You are a heroine," he said, lifting her fingers brief ly to his lips. "A heroine of overstout pigs everywhere!"
"I doubt even the pigs would thank me," she admitted with a rueful chuckle. "I'm sure they like their liberal dinners."
"Then you are my heroine," he said warmly.
Her fingertips moved slightly under his as she peeked up at him. He found that their slow stroll had stopped somehow; he was distantly aware of geese honking from inside their crates to his left, and a woman carrying a red hen on his right, but he stood looking down at Callie like a callow boy gazing helplessly at the adored object of his affections, unable to see more than a hazy shadow of her face but knowing just what her shy sparkling smile was beneath the veil.
He was not a man who thought much of the future. He'd had enough of the expectations and demands of his grandfather's extravagant fantasies as a boy. In the early days of his boxing promotions, he'd had dreams of backing Jem Fowler to the Championship of England, until that ended in the bout that killed Jem and left his wife and baby on Trev's hands. It was a lesson. There were no more friends of his heart in the ring.
He maintained no ambitions for himself beyond arranging the next prize bout or making good on the betting books he held. His very detachment was his strength. With no particular desires or emotions to burden his judgment of the outcome, he was very good at what he did. It did not ruin him to pay out on a losing stake, because he never made odds that would break him.
It made no odds for him to think of the future now, but he couldn't seem to help himself. It wasn't a real future; it was this moment of smiling down at her, extended somehow into tomorrow, and the next day and the next, and he would never have to say that he must go, or put her hand away from his, or hide what he felt, or lie. He was profoundly weary of lies. He wished to be himself-if he could have settled on any notion of who he might be.
Both of them seemed to realize at the same instant that they were stopping the way. Callie gave a slight "oh!" and Trev stepped aside, escorting her up onto the pavement to avoid a goat cart that desired to pass. As he raised his eyes from the curb and looked ahead down the crowded street, he saw the certain end of any wishful reveries.
"Sturgeon!" he uttered, forgetting himself far enough to lapse into English. "God curse the man."
Callie went stiff beside him. She gripped his arm and craned her neck to see past the crowd.
"Don't look," he said, quickly turning her away and reverting to French. "He's down beside the Green Dragon. The devil seize him, what's he doing here?" They were walking now away from the danger, Trev restricting himself with an effort to a more casual pace. He had thought Sturgeon had departed for London yesterday, when Colonel Davenport came up to Hereford. That had been the word from Jock. He paused for a moment, catching the eye of the "footman" who had been dogging them at a respectful distance.
The burly boxer came forward, bending his bewigged head to listen as Trev murmured to him. Charles gave a brief nod as he took his instructions and stood back again, folding his hands behind him.
"It seems I'm forced to be suddenly unwell, chérie," Trev said to Callie, pulling the sheaf of broadsides from his coat. "I'm afraid you'll have to make the announcement. Noon, at the prize platform."
"Me!" She gasped. "Oh no, I-"
"You must, love," he said. "I'm sorry. I can't let myself be recognized, or we'll all be in the soup. You won't have to speak to the crowd. Just hand one of these to the secretary and ask him to read it aloud on my behalf. Tell them I've been taken ill with a headache but will be better presently. You needn't say much-remember that you don't speak English well. Charles here will fetch the salver and the coins to display just before you take to the stage."
"But-"
"No, attend to me." He touched her shoulder, cutting her off. "Go back to the dressmakers' afterward to change. Lilly will be looking for you. Make some sort of appearance as yourself this afternoon-see to your animals, walk out with Lilly. I'm going back to Dove House for the night, to Maman, but I'll send word to you early tomorrow." He pressed the papers into her unwilling hand. Without lingering to answer her stammer of objections, he tipped his hat and kissed her fingers, and left her alone with Charles in the street. Callie stood on the wooden platform with several of the officers of the society, feeling as if everyone in the crowd could see right through her veil. She hoped that Trev had made certain that her hair didn't show where the net was gathered at her nape. There were familiar faces in the audience-Farmer Lewis and Mr. Downie and any number of men who knew her perfectly well, waiting with looks of interest and speculation as the secretary of the Agricultural Society stepped to the fore. The colonel was not there-Trev had assured her he wouldn't be, but she was distressed to find that Major Sturgeon seemed to have some unaccountable interest in an event which should have held no impor tance to him whatsoever. She had told him during one of his visits that she would be attending the show, and he had nodded with polite but hardly urgent atten tion. She could not conceive of why he had come to Hereford at all, far less why he should linger about the platform as the early cattle classes were announced. She very much feared that he suspected something.
She did not dare to look directly toward him, but it seemed as if he were watching her while Mr. Price droned out the list of classes and the prizes that would be awarded for each. When he'd finished with the list of events, the club secretary turned and bowed deeply to Callie, and then took up Trev's broadside and read it through his glasses in a loud, official voice.
A murmur went through the crowd as the chal lenge was described. Charles lifted the heavy silver tray above his head. The trophy glinted in the sun as he turned left and right to show it off. Men in the audience elbowed one another, exchanging looks. There were a number of cattle breeders who had brought bulls to the show, but Callie was sure that not one of them approached Hubert's size. Still, with a such a grand prize, there was an eager push forward to sign animals onto the list of hopeful contestants for measure.
Mr. Price turned to her, beaming. It was a fine boost to the show, to have such an unusual and valuable challenge, he informed her with enthusiasm. Nothing could be better to generate excitement and bring attention. All the society officials were eager to attend to her, inquiring after her husband's health with some anxiety. Callie tried to assure them with a good many nods and a few broken English phrases that he was only feeling the effects of their recent journey.
Her stif led utterances were smothered entirely by the realization that Major Sturgeon had made his way onto the platform. As she stood frozen in dismay, he spoke to the president. That gentleman turned to her with a smile.
"Madame," he said gaily, "here's someone who tells me that he's visited your beautiful country and wishes an introduction. May I have the honor?"
Callie stared through her veil, not finding any way to avoid it without throwing herself bodily from the platform into the crowd. She gave a slight nod, turning her face downward so that the brim of her hat obscured her face even further.
"I give you Major Sturgeon, Madame," the presi dent said. "Major, this is our honored guest, Madame Malempré, who adds such a mark of nobility to our humble agricultural affair!"
Callie allowed the major to take her hand, giving a faint curtsy as he bent over it.
"I am enchanted!" he said. He leaned close to her and said in a confiding voice, "But I have been to Malempré myself, Madame, and found it to be a charming place."
For an instant she felt as if she would simply dissolve, sinking to the f loor in a puddle of terror. He had been to Malempré. She had no idea where Malempré was, except that it was presumably somewhere in Belgium. Never having been to Belgium, she could not even summon a speculation as to what sort of place it might be, if it was large or small, f lat or mountainous, busy or rural. It might be dotted with pagodas and Chinamen for all she knew. Far worse, she didn't know if a visitor to Malempré would be likely to have met a Madame and Monsieur Malempré there.
"I do not… well speak," she said hesitantly, keeping her face lowered and her voice pitched low to disguise it.
He retained her hand in spite of her attempt to withdraw it. "Ah, I must beg your pardon," he replied in f luent French, lifting her fingers to his lips. "My command of your delightful language is poor, but let us converse in it."
His command of French appeared to be all too excellent. The veil seemed to become suffocating. "I must sit down!" she said faintly, drawing her hand away. She turned to the steps, but she could not avoid him. He caught her elbow and supported her as she went down the wooden steps.
"Come this way," he said, his grip firm as he directed her toward the door of the nearest inn. "Stand aside!" he barked in English. "Let the lady pass!"
The crowd parted at his sharp command. Callie found herself helpless, propelled by his supporting arm about her waist in spite of attempts to draw back. She dreaded to enter the inn with him, where there would doubtless be a great fuss made over a lady feeling faint. They might even encourage her to remove her veil.
She allowed him to escort her as far as the walkway and then set her feet. "Monsieur, do not trouble your self." She disengaged herself firmly. "If you please!" She put a little acid into her voice and made a point of removing his hand from her arm.
He stiffened for an instant and then bowed his head. "I beg you will consider me your humble servant, Madame! Are you feeling better?"
Callie took a deep breath. Seeing no other recourse open to her, she plunged with a whole heart into a masquerade of a haughty lady, bridling up and giving him a sideways glance of disdain. "I am well," she said coolly. "I do not believe I know you, Monsieur."
He stood quite still for a moment, looking at her with such intensity that she was sure he was trying to see through the veil. She turned her face away abruptly, fearing he would suddenly shout out her real name to the street.
"Of course," he said in an oddly light tone, doffing his plumed hat in the face of this direct cut. "But how could I be so foolish as to suppose you would remember me by name? I was among the liaison officers after the abdication. You were so kind as to open your home to us and give a luncheon al fresco, to celebrate the liberation of your country."
"Ah," Callie said, silently cursing Trev and his choice of towns and names. She put up her chin. "Yes, the picnic. You were there? I have a poor head for faces, Monsieur. A strange chance, to encounter you here, is it not? But you must pardon me, I will attend my husband now."
To her despair, he turned with her, persisting in walking alongside. "And where do you stay in Hereford, Madame? I would be pleased to return your hospitality, if you and your husband would do me the honor of joining me for dinner."
"I must regret," she said. "Monsieur Malempré is resting."
"I am devastated." He sounded truly sorry. "I would wish to make some return of your kindness. I have never forgot that sunny day in your gardens."
"Have you not, Monsieur?" Callie walked quickly, but he kept pace.
"Madame." He put his hand on her elbow as she turned the corner. He seemed to have no qualms about touching her. "Never," he said intensely. "My God, how could I?"
She cast a look aside at him, startled by the fierce note in his voice. He stopped, holding her, and then let her go as if he realized what he was doing. Callie took advantage of that to turn away in the direction of the dressmaker's shop. She thought that surely he would not follow her that far. But he came with her, keeping up easily with his longer stride. She began to feel hunted, frightened that he had recognized her and was playing some sly game. For the whole distance of the street he walked alongside her, saying nothing.
As they approached the shop, she debated with herself furiously. He appeared determined to keep company with her in spite of any rudeness she could summon. She had intended to go into the shop to change and emerge as herself, but she was afraid now that he would even try to accompany her in, or linger outside. She did not dare to go in as Madame Malempré and come out as Lady Callista Taillefaire.
She slowed her steps as she neared the door. She saw Lilly lingering across the street. Trev's footman trailed at a respectful distance. Lilly stared a moment toward them with an uncertain look, then turned quickly away, giving a coy smile to a pair of large young fellows lounging in a tailor's door.
Callie paused. The dressmaker's shop was impos sible. He could see inside it. She nodded shortly and said, "I will leave you here, Monsieur. I must go to our hotel."
"Sofie!" he said under his breath. "Don't do this to me, I beg you!"
She stared at him through the veil. An astonishing suspicion came to her. He could not mean-surely he did not mean-it was shocking enough that there seemed to be a real Madame Malempré who he had met, but he appeared to believe that he had far more than a passing acquaintance with her.
He took her hand. "Don't tell me you have truly forgotten me," he murmured. "The garden. The summerhouse. I know you might not recall my name, but-" He broke off, looking down. "It was not so much to you as to me, perhaps."
As the full import of his words sank in, Callie began to feel an upwelling of outrage. He not only knew this Madame Malempré, but it was becoming quite clear that he'd had some romantic encounter with her in a summerhouse. And it appeared that he would be quite willing to renew the acquaintance, in spite of the fact that he had been diligently courting Callie for the past week.
As the realization sank in, a new recklessness possessed her, the sort of feeling that she had not experienced in a very long time. Not since her last adventure with Trev, in fact, in which she had been obliged to steal a melon from a canvas bag and replace it with a large hedgehog. Instead of marching away, she allowed the major to take her gloved fingers to his lips.
He smiled over her hand. "You have not forgot," he whispered. "Tell me it is so."
From the corner of her eye, Callie could see that Charles had drawn closer. His bulk towered over the major's height. At a word, she thought, she could have Major Sturgeon deposited in a watering trough. The picture of it made her give a low laugh as she let him kiss her hand. "Forget?" she asked noncommittally. "What do you mean, Monsieur?"
He turned away from Charles, drawing her arm through his, leaning very close to her ear. "Is it your husband?" he murmured. "I didn't think he was a jealous man."
Callie's heart beat faster. She found it difficult to believe that he did not recognize her from so close. But if he did, he was playing a very deep game. She should repulse him immediately, she was sure, but the desire to take some small revenge was growing.
"You must have a better knowledge of him than I, if you suppose that," she said.
"But it's not very handsome of him to leave you alone at a dirty cattle fair, Madame."
Callie instantly wanted to protest that the Hereford show maintained exceptionally high standards of cleanliness, but she suppressed her annoyance. "He has the headache," she said, allowing her fingers to play over his arm the way she had once seen Dolly do as she f lirted discreetly with a gentleman houseguest. "Refresh my poor memory, Monsieur, if you please. I met you at the Waterloo picnic?"
His hand tightened on her a little. "I see that I made scant impression on you. I'm humbled. But a lady of your loveliness must have many admirers."
"You f latter me," she said, putting a sultry note into her voice. She was pleased to encourage him to suppose himself forgettable. "But there aren't so many. I'm very sorry-I cannot understand how I have not recalled you. The summerhouse…?" She let her words trail off suggestively.
"Perhaps you recall more than you wish to confess," he said. There was a hint of bitterness in his words.
"La, if only you would give me some hint. Some detail that might prod my memory."
"Are you angry with me, Sofie?" he asked huskily. Apparently it didn't suit him to believe any woman might not remember an encounter with him. "You know I could make you no promises, nor return again."
"Oh?" she asked with a dawning interest. "Why not?"
"You do remember!" he exclaimed instantly. "But then you know why, my love. How could I promise to come back, when I was to wed the moment I returned to England?"
"I see," Callie said. She stopped. She could feel her cheeks growing hot under the veil. "You were engaged to an English lady?"
He shrugged, walking on with her. "Yes. I told you then, Sofie. I didn't hide it. I thought you understood."
"So of course, you were in love."
He gave a brusque snort. "Nothing of the sort. In fact I didn't care for her-she's a chilly woman, with a dull wit and no beauty. What little time I had with you was precious, when I knew what I must go back to."
Callie blinked. She bit her lip. With a sense of turning a knife in her own breast, she said, "How sad for you, Monsieur. A man like you, to marry a plain woman."
"Not a pleasant prospect, I admit. But fate inter vened, and I didn't marry her after all," he said.
"Fate?" she inquired with an effort. "Did you discover some prettier heiress?"
He took her hand, kissing it. "Of course not. Do you think me a fortune hunter? She died before the wedding."
Callie hid her gasp in a choked laugh. "What a fortunate escape for you, then! And still you didn't return to me?"
"I could not, my love. I was posted to the West Indies."
She stood frozen in sick amazement at his gall. After breaking off with her, he had wed Miss Ladd and gone to Norwich to have three children; he had not been posted to the West Indies. For a moment she could think of nothing to say. They had been strolling slowly, and the door of the Gerard lay only a few steps ahead. It seemed to her to be a portal of escape now, a place she could run away and hide. A furious part of her wanted to tear off her veil and reveal herself, but she could not be so rash in spite of the ugly lump in her throat. She had to be rid of him.
"It's a very affecting story, Monsieur," she said, assuming a cold hauteur. "I thank you for telling me, but still I don't recall anything of our meeting. I think perhaps you have confused me with another lady. Now I must leave you. Adieu."
She detached her arm forcibly from his clasp, in spite of his quick objection, and glanced back toward Charles. The footman came forward with a determined look on his face. Callie felt a wave of relief as the big servant imposed himself between her and Major Sturgeon. Charles escorted her up the steps. She dared to glance back once and was alarmed to see that the major followed them right into the hotel. She hurried her pace, going directly to the staircase. Only when she reached the upper f loor did she pause, catching her breath. He hadn't the effrontery to pursue her that far, at least.
She looked at Charles. "Merci," she said in grateful French. "I did not know how to escape him."
"Ma'am, I don't speak that Froggie talk, I'm sorry." The footman bobbed his head apologetically.
"Oh." It was a relief to slip back into her own language. She'd thought he must be one of Trev's French retinue. "I'll be pleased to thank you in English, in that case! I'm very glad to be rid of him."
"Was that officer swell taking liberties, then, ma'am? I weren't certain. I'd 'a made a dice box of his swallow, if ma'am just give me the office."
His thick slang was almost as foreign to her as the French, but she understood his meaning. "Yes, I'm sure you would have, but I didn't wish to make a scene." She paused, not sure if she should speak openly of Trev's plans. "Do you know my maid, Lilly?"
"Aye, ma'am." He nodded toward the street. "The little chick-a-biddy what's giving Monsieur's bruisers the chaffin' gammon up the tailor shop."
She was entirely mystified by this description of Lilly's activities but decided not to inquire into it too deeply. "Go down and tell her to wait for me at the dressmaker's," she said, "but she mustn't let the major see her. I'll stay here until he goes away, and then I'll be obliged to you if you'll take me to join her."
"Now you just leave that officer nob to old Charlie, ma'am. We'll give him some proper pepper, me and Monsieur's lads. He'll bolt off right handy, or we'll dislodge some of his ivories for 'im."
"Oh no. No, you must not start a fight-is that what you mean?"
He shrugged. "Won't be much of a fight, ma'am," he said with some regret. "Not unless he's got a screw loose."
"I don't want any sort of fight at all," she said hastily.
"We'll just carry him out, then," Charles offered.
"No no, nothing of that sort. We mustn't draw undue attention."
The footman submitted to this, though he seemed disappointed. "S'pec so, ma'am. It might blow the gaff, aye."
Callie realized that under his powdered wig and formal coat, the muscular Charles was quite a "bruiser" himself. Trev seemed in the habit of hiring very large menservants, for which she was rather grateful at the moment.
"I think it's best to wait quietly until he leaves," she said. "I'm sure he won't linger." She only wanted be out of this disguise, to retreat into the safety of her own rooms to lick her wounds, but the chambers at the Gerard were at least a refuge for the moment. She was glad now that Trev was gone for the night, so that she wouldn't have to tell him of her encounter with the philandering major. Not, at least, until she had composed herself. "Send word up to me when you're certain that he's gone away entirely. Make sure of it first. I don't dare to let him see me again."