remaining guests stared at her with surprise or disapproval. She smiled at them. “Yet a little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to sleep: so shall thy poverty come as one that travelleth, and thy want as an armed man.” She quoted from the sixth chapter of Proverbs. After all, who could argue with Scripture?
“You would know about poverty,” a plump matron with a plain daughter at her side murmured just loud enough for Lydia to hear.
Ah, the cat claws of the Upper Ten Thousand.
Lydia smiled. “My husband served his country. Perhaps his country should have served him better.”
Just as she realized how treasonous those words could be taken in the right—or wrong—circumstances, Lemster entered the parlor bearing a silver tray. A sheet of sealed vellum lay on that tray. Lydia stared at it. It was nothing—an invitation, a letter from Papa or one of Mama’s many friends. Just because it looked exactly like the letter of introduction from the mysterious Mr. Lang didn’t mean it was anything sinister. Perhaps Lemster would carry it directly to Mama.
He carried it directly to her. “The gentleman asked me to bring this to you before I present him to you.”
“Indeed.” The hairs on the back of Lydia’s neck rose with a shiver down her spine.
Not again. Not another gentleman with a letter of introduction. Not . . . not . . .
She picked up the letter with her thumb and forefinger. She’d already done Mr. Lang’s dirty work, or at the least she’d begun it for him. Perhaps this was the man himself, showing himself to her in daylight instead of sneaking about in the dark or just out of her sight. Perhaps it was merely an acquaintance of her husband’s.
She slit the seal with her thumbnail and unfolded the letter. The honorable Elias Lang wishes for his dear friend Lady Gale . . .
She was going to cast up her accounts. Right there in the middle of the drawing room and half a dozen ladies and gentlemen of the ton, she was going to be sick.
She took a deep, steadying breath and finished reading the missive. Please welcome my associate, Monsieur le comte Christien de Meuse.
Monsieur —a French affix. Christien de Meuse —a French name.
No. Her lips formed the word without a sound.
But the answer was yes. Movement in the doorway caught her eye. She glanced up in time to see him saunter into the drawing room—the man she knew as the chevalier Christophe Arnaud, now calling himself Christien de Meuse.
5
Christien’s lips stiffened the instant he saw the horror on Lydia Gale’s face. His morning bread and chocolate, which had been all the nourishment he’d consumed that day, roiled in his gut, and each breath made his chest feel as though he’d broken a rib or two on the way from Upper Brook Street to Cavendish Square.
This wasn’t his first covert operation, but it surely had to be his worst. Face-to-face with the lady he had every reason to believe had given him her last valuable possession to provide him with food and shelter, he preferred betraying all those who trusted him to carry out his mission to betraying the lovely widow.
But he had a family too. His sisters needed marriage portions in the upcoming years. His mother deserved security, and his brother wanted an education so he could go into the church.
He fixed the faces of his loved ones in the back of his mind and made an elegant leg to Lady Lydia Gale. “Good afternoon, madame. I trust I do not intrude overmuch on your guests?”
Those guests continued their conversations while peering at him from around fans and teacups.
“You.” Her straight, white teeth snapped together behind a smile that was more of a grimace. She dropped a slight curtsy. When she rose, she met his gaze, and her dark eyes glowed with an inner fire that sent a radiance of heat swirling through him. “This is our afternoon for receiving callers, so you are not intruding, monsieur. But pray tell, what brings a Frenchman into our
“You would know about poverty,” a plump matron with a plain daughter at her side murmured just loud enough for Lydia to hear.
Ah, the cat claws of the Upper Ten Thousand.
Lydia smiled. “My husband served his country. Perhaps his country should have served him better.”
Just as she realized how treasonous those words could be taken in the right—or wrong—circumstances, Lemster entered the parlor bearing a silver tray. A sheet of sealed vellum lay on that tray. Lydia stared at it. It was nothing—an invitation, a letter from Papa or one of Mama’s many friends. Just because it looked exactly like the letter of introduction from the mysterious Mr. Lang didn’t mean it was anything sinister. Perhaps Lemster would carry it directly to Mama.
He carried it directly to her. “The gentleman asked me to bring this to you before I present him to you.”
“Indeed.” The hairs on the back of Lydia’s neck rose with a shiver down her spine.
Not again. Not another gentleman with a letter of introduction. Not . . . not . . .
She picked up the letter with her thumb and forefinger. She’d already done Mr. Lang’s dirty work, or at the least she’d begun it for him. Perhaps this was the man himself, showing himself to her in daylight instead of sneaking about in the dark or just out of her sight. Perhaps it was merely an acquaintance of her husband’s.
She slit the seal with her thumbnail and unfolded the letter. The honorable Elias Lang wishes for his dear friend Lady Gale . . .
She was going to cast up her accounts. Right there in the middle of the drawing room and half a dozen ladies and gentlemen of the ton, she was going to be sick.
She took a deep, steadying breath and finished reading the missive. Please welcome my associate, Monsieur le comte Christien de Meuse.
Monsieur —a French affix. Christien de Meuse —a French name.
No. Her lips formed the word without a sound.
But the answer was yes. Movement in the doorway caught her eye. She glanced up in time to see him saunter into the drawing room—the man she knew as the chevalier Christophe Arnaud, now calling himself Christien de Meuse.
5
Christien’s lips stiffened the instant he saw the horror on Lydia Gale’s face. His morning bread and chocolate, which had been all the nourishment he’d consumed that day, roiled in his gut, and each breath made his chest feel as though he’d broken a rib or two on the way from Upper Brook Street to Cavendish Square.
This wasn’t his first covert operation, but it surely had to be his worst. Face-to-face with the lady he had every reason to believe had given him her last valuable possession to provide him with food and shelter, he preferred betraying all those who trusted him to carry out his mission to betraying the lovely widow.
But he had a family too. His sisters needed marriage portions in the upcoming years. His mother deserved security, and his brother wanted an education so he could go into the church.
He fixed the faces of his loved ones in the back of his mind and made an elegant leg to Lady Lydia Gale. “Good afternoon, madame. I trust I do not intrude overmuch on your guests?”
Those guests continued their conversations while peering at him from around fans and teacups.
“You.” Her straight, white teeth snapped together behind a smile that was more of a grimace. She dropped a slight curtsy. When she rose, she met his gaze, and her dark eyes glowed with an inner fire that sent a radiance of heat swirling through him. “This is our afternoon for receiving callers, so you are not intruding, monsieur. But pray tell, what brings a Frenchman into our
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