Friends and Foes (2 page)

“You will smooth it over for me, then?”

“Not a chance, man. You and I are not supposed to be acquainted. Or have you forgotten already?”

Garner let out a long-suffering sigh. “I shall have to impose?”

“Like any relative worth his salt.”

“I shall return to London, then, to make our report.” A healthy dose of resignation tinged Garner’s words. “I will make my way to Kinnley shortly thereafter.”

“Remarkable plan, Garner. How do you come by such ingenious stratagems?”

“You know very well that you laid out that strategy at least ten missions ago.”

“Ah, so I am the source of your genius.” Philip offered a succession of exaggerated nods. “Very good. Very good.”

“No. Not very good. I shall have to return to Town on horseback while you proceed to your destination in the best-sprung coach I have ever had the opportunity to ride in.”

Garner grumbled something about drunkenness and carriage sickness. Philip sauntered to an armchair near the fire and sat back lazily, absentmindedly playing with his ivory-tipped walking stick.

“When do you expect to arrive at Kinnley?” Garner asked, leaning against the mantelpiece after another glass of amber-colored numbness.

“Thursday. Perhaps Friday.”

Garner’s gaze froze abruptly on the doorway.

“Forgive me,” a voice said. “I did not realize the room was occupied.”

Philip looked up from the crackling fire across the room to the doorway and into the face of a stunningly pretty young lady, dressed well if not in the first waters of fashion. The pale green shawl wrapped around her thin shoulders looked Parisian. She was
Quality,
then, as the servants were wont to say.

Her nearly black eyes took in the entire room quickly but, no doubt, accurately. She had an air of observation about her that made Philip uneasy. How long had she been standing there? How much of their conversation had she overheard?

“Might we be of assistance?” Philip asked as he rose, tugging at his deep green waistcoat and leaning quite dapperly on his walking stick.

“I dined in this parlor earlier this evening and left behind a personal item. I have come to retrieve it.”

She was direct, Philip would give her that: no blushes nor demure posturing. Her frankness in the current situation, however, did not appeal. If she had arrived in the parlor in time to overhear their conversation, this black-eyed beauty would not have missed nor misunderstood a word of what they’d said.

“We would, of course, be happy to help you search out whatever you have misplaced.” Garner offered a bow along with his services.

Now
the man wished to play detective? He had practically begged to be tossed off the list of national agents not five minutes earlier.

“No need to search, sir,” the young lady replied. “Your friend, there, seems to have located the very thing for which I am looking.”

Both Garner’s and the mysterious stranger’s eyes focused on Philip. She hadn’t taken a single step inside the room but stood leaning against the doorframe, her calculating gaze uncomfortably unflinching.

“And what precisely are you looking for?” Philip smiled a little, the selfsame smile that more than one impressionable miss had all but swooned over.

She appeared entirely unimpressed—annoyed, almost. “My walking stick,” she said sans emotion, flicking her hand toward the stick in Philip’s hand.

Philip laughed. A walking stick?
His
walking stick? “I do not believe I know a single lady who carries a walking stick.”

“Congratulations,” she said dryly. “You now know one. Will you return my property to me or not?”

She had backbone. But duty called. She might have overheard too much—dampening any suspicions was quite necessary. “My dear woman”—he minced his way across the room to where she stood in the doorway—“I realize Lord Byron has made limps quite couture, but I do believe you would be carrying the affectation a bit far with a walking stick.”

“You are an expert on fashion, then?” She raised an eyebrow in disapproval.
Disapproval.
How often had he received just such a look from society ladies for his simpering ways? It shouldn’t still rankle after so many years.

“Beau Brummel has been known to consult me.” True enough, though hardly the sort of thing Philip felt gratified by. He gave no outward indication that he felt anything but pride at Brummel’s singling him out. Pretending to be a mindless dandy had protected him on more than once occasion.

“He consults you on how to insult and contradict a lady?”

“I understood we were speaking of fashion.” Philip stepped closer to the open door and his inquisitor.

“Fashion being the all-important focus of your mental faculties?”

“You disregard fashion?” He cloaked himself in an air of shock as he stepped closer still, the ivory-tipped stick still in his hand. “That is rather single-minded.”

“As is your view of a lady who possesses a walking stick.”

“And now our conversation has come full circle.” Philip bowed his head in acknowledgment of her wit.

“Hardly. You still have my stick, and I am still without it.”

“But I profess this is
my
stick, and I have no intention of handing it over to you.” Especially considering the very sensitive documents hidden in its hollowed-out center.

“You believe I am a liar, then? And a thief besides?”

“I believe you are mistaken.”

“You believe I meant to come searching for my sewing but found myself overcome by the splendor of your walking stick, rendering my poor addled brain unable to focus on anything other than your appearance?” The baffling young woman fixed him with a look of utter disdain. “On the contrary. There is nothing in this room so devastatingly overpowering as to leave me unable to think clearly. I find the entire scene quite unimpressive, as a matter of fact.”

Philip pulled his quizzing glass to his eye and inspected the daring young lady. She found nothing devastating about him? She was unimpressed? Odd, that. A man couldn’t wear such dangerously high shirt points as his and not make an impression of some kind.

“That, sirrah”—her disconcertingly pointed gaze narrowed on his quizzing glass—“is taking an affectation too far. One wonders if you are simply in need of spectacles but your vanity will not permit you to wear them.”

“There is nothing wrong with my eyesight.” Philip let the glass drop on its string as he closed the distance between them. He stood directly across from the maddening woman still leaning against the doorframe but glaring at him as if she were royalty.

“Then it is your hearing that is wanting. I have requested the return of my walking stick.”

“But this is not
your
walking stick.” Philip twirled it with the familiarity of a longtime owner.

“Because I am a female?” The militant glint in her eye caught Philip completely off guard.

“Because it is
mine
.” He gave her a winning smile.

She let out a sigh of condescension. “If you will kindly glimpse at the wood directly beneath the ivory-tipped handle, I believe you will stumble upon a set of initials.”

“There have never been—”

“Indulge me,” she drawled.

Philip bowed absurdly deep to hide his smug expression. Returning to his full height once more, he made quite a show of lifting the cane handle to his line of sight. “As I suspected, there are no—” He stopped short. Initials.
SK.
Those had never been there before. He also spied a swirl in the grain he’d never noticed in his walking stick. “Oh.”

“If you would be so kind as to return it to me.” The woman sounded and looked thoroughly disgusted with him.

“My apologies,” Philip replied with a slight bow. “
Your
stick.” He couldn’t help the doubtful sound of his words. Ladies simply did not carry walking sticks. “It is quite nearly identical to my own.”

“Then surely Beau Brummel owns a matching one, as well.” She smiled insincerely and held out her hand for her cane.

“Um, Philip.” Garner’s voice came from behind. He had all but forgotten about the man.

Needing a respite from the shrew’s piercing look, Philip glanced over his shoulder at his cowardly partner, who, at that moment, held a walking stick that was the very copy of the one he had only just handed over to their visitor. “I found it beside the chair you were sitting in.”

“Thank you,” Philip answered dryly. “I suppose you could not possibly have mentioned your find sooner?”

“The two of you never paused long enough for me to get a word in edgewise,” Garner said. “Besides, the way you were going at one another, daggers drawn and what, I didn’t dare jump in.”

“You really are a coward.”

“As I have told you hundreds of times.”

He owed the blasted fishwife an apology for unknowingly claiming her walking stick as his own, for being fashionable when she so obviously disapproved—most likely she’d expect him to apologize for breathing. He turned back toward the doorway—the
empty
doorway.

“She leaves without a word. Fitting.” He turned back to Garner and claimed his walking stick. “I don’t suppose you saw her go?”

“Perhaps she disappeared. A witch, or something.”

“Witch? Probably, old man. Probably.”

“Black eyes.” Garner shook his head. “I tell you, I found the young lady unsettling. Skin so pale she must never venture out into the sun, hair and eyes both black as tar.”

Obsidian,
Philip silently corrected. Her hair reminded him of obsidian. Hues ranging from green to violet infused the black, though Philip couldn’t say how that was even possible. Garner had described her eyes correctly, however. They were very much like tar, so black the pupils simply disappeared, and bubbling with fire. Despite himself, Philip found the anonymous young lady unnerving and intriguing. Warning bells rang in Philip’s brain. This Miss SK was trouble.

“This is where we part ways, then?” Garner held a hand out to Philip.

“Send along any instructions you receive from the Office,” Philip instructed, shaking Garner’s hand. “To Kinnley.”

Garner nodded his understanding and stepped from the parlor. Philip tossed an extra coin to the servant girl who entered to clear the table, thus assuring himself of his privacy. The moment she left, Philip ran his hand through his perfectly coiffed hair and slumped over the empty table. The only person in whose company he did not automatically revert to the role of care-for-nothing fop was himself.

Le Fontaine, or “The Fountain,” as the elusive French spy had fashioned himself, had provided a ceaseless flow of information for the wrong side of the Continental dispute. For more than a year, Philip had tracked and trailed the man. Hot on the heels of such a prized catch, Philip ought to have been shaking with anticipation, anxiously planning the hunt. He’d certainly found vast satisfaction in his assignments before. Instead, he felt restless, discontented. To own the truth, he’d felt rather dissatisfied with his life for nearly a year. Playing the idiot to the
ton
had lost what little amusement it had once held. His dissatisfaction, however, stemmed from more than his social mask. Philip simply couldn’t pinpoint what precisely was eating at him.

His uneasy thoughts settled on the odd young lady who had invaded the parlor only moments earlier. She was not a witch—Philip certainly didn’t believe in such superstitious nonsense. Something about her, though, weighed on him.

Years of evaluating people had developed into an almost sixth sense. Philip knew he wouldn’t likely run into the unsettling female again. Only chance had crossed their paths, after all. Chance seldom proved so unkind twice.

He rose to his feet and strode purposefully to the door before adopting his trademark mincing stroll to climb the stairs to his rented chamber. The next morning would see him in his carriage once more: warm brick at his feet, accommodating lap blanket offering respite from the cold mid-December air, the smooth carriage ride protecting him from the wear and tear of road travel.

And he would hate every minute of it.

Sorrel Kendrick spent yet another morning enduring the all-too-familiar histrionics of her mother. “If I cannot wear the green dress, I shall simply refuse to continue!”

“Wonderful,” Sorrel replied. “I will tell George Coachman to return home.” If she had even remotely believed her mother’s declaration, she’d have driven the coach personally. She had come to realize as a child that her mother lived in a constant state of hysterics, especially in matters pertaining to her wardrobe.

“How can you be so cruel? To your own mother, even!” Tears began trickling precisely on cue.

Mother could have made a career as an actress. Sorrel, of course, would never have uttered that conclusion out loud. Mother would swoon or, worse yet, seriously consider the idea.

“I am not attempting to be cruel, Mother.” Sorrel leaned back in the straight-backed chair beside the sparse chamber’s fireplace, head propped up by her hand. “If you want to wear a dress hardly warm enough for springtime, let alone winter, by all means, do so. Only please do so quickly. And do not expect to appropriate all the lap robes when the chill becomes too much for you.”

“But an earl, Sorrel! An earl will be there! And a baron. And—”

“And you couldn’t possibly be seen by a Peer in anything but your green dress.”

Mother smiled. “I knew you would understand.”

Sorrel resisted the urge to roll her eyes heavenward and bit back a long-suffering sigh. Marjie, Sorrel’s fair-haired, fair-skinned, blue-eyed china doll of a sister, entered the bedchamber with her customary sunny smile. Sorrel brushed back her own straight-as-a-pin, absolutely black hair and reminded herself that she was not jealous of her sister.

“Of course you should wear the green gown, Mother,” Marjie said. She always guided and persuaded and steered their mother with the capability of a woman twice her seventeen years.

“Sorrel seems to think I should arrive at Kinnley in a hideously serviceable shawl and equally ugly dress.”

The sniffles are a bit much,
Sorrel thought.

“I am certain Sorrel will not begrudge you your wardrobe,” Marjie reassured their overly emotional mother. “She is simply anxious to be leaving. This journey has not been easy on her, you know. Her leg must pain her so badly, what with—”

“And I refuse to wear short boots.” Mother began dressing in earnest. “The matching slippers will be perfect.”

Marjie gave Sorrel a conspiratorial glance. Talking of Sorrel’s nearly crippled physical state always brought out Mother’s more efficient side. She would avoid by all means possible discussing the event that had changed Sorrel’s entire life two years earlier, even if sidestepping that conversational topic meant not arguing over clothing and beginning the final leg of their already delayed journey.

Sorrel gripped the top of her walking stick, her mind flashing momentarily to a pair of laughing blue eyes and a ridiculously colorful waistcoat in an inn’s private parlor. She shook her head at her own wayward thoughts. She did not wish to think of the encounter only two nights earlier. That arrogant popinjay had been bother enough when present without invading her thoughts now that he was, with any luck, many, many miles away.

With the grace of an arthritic octogenarian, she raised herself to her feet. After a moment’s painful rebalancing with a white-knuckle grip on her walking stick, Sorrel began her less-than-dainty walk across the chamber.

“Ten minutes, Sorrel.” Marjie smiled at her as she limped past.

Sorrel nodded. “I will be waiting in the carriage.”

Fifteen minutes later, Mother and Marjie joined her. Mother inquired twice after the state of her luggage before they pulled away from yet another inn of questionable sanitation. They had been traveling for four days. Four days of jarring and jerking on uneven roads. Four days of rented lodgings. Four days of pain. Pain in her back. Pain in her hip. Pain in her leg. And that arrogant fop who’d been a pain in the—

No. She would not finish that thought. Despite what
he
might think of a female with a walking stick, she was a lady—a lady who already felt uncomfortable only one-half hour into their resumed journey.

Why have I agreed to this madcap scheme?
Sorrel demanded of herself for the hundredth time since the invitation to Kinnley had arrived. The answer came easily. Because of Lizzie.

Lizzie Handle. Had it really been nearly three years since that Season in London? It felt more like thirty. Balls. Gowns. Rides in Hyde Park. Bowing to the Queen. And Lizzie. They had both enjoyed, endured at times, their first Season. They had become fast friends despite their remarkably disparate personalities. Lizzie oozed drama, cheer, and optimism. Sorrel tended to err on the side of caution, quiet observation, and realism. They had been opposites and complements.

Lizzie brought out Sorrel’s smile. Sorrel kept Lizzie in check, much to the relief of Lizzie’s older brother and guardian. Lord Cavratt’s dissatisfaction with society had been obvious, and his frustration with his sister had, at times, been almost humorous. Lizzie had despaired of her brother ever marrying. Lord Cavratt had despaired of his sister ever behaving. Sorrel’s sobering influence on Lizzie had met with Lord Cavratt’s instant approval.

Since those short few months three years earlier, Lizzie had married a baron. Based on her cheery correspondence, Lizzie was happy. Sorrel had to admit she envied her friend. She did not covet the title Lizzie had acquired, for Sorrel cared little for such distinctions. Nor did she envy Lizzie’s wealth, for Sorrel’s needs were met through her late father’s estate, thanks to the youth of her brother, the heir, and the fair-minded nature of the family’s man of business. No. She envied the happiness. Sorrel had never had Lizzie’s disposition and therefore doubted she would ever have Lizzie’s full measure of joy. But she would have settled for contentment.

The carriage hit another rut in the road that Sorrel felt through every inch of her aching leg. She bit back a grimace and closed her eyes to the all-too-familiar pain. There were moments, like that one, when she wondered how she would ever endure a lifetime of such agony.

“Do we need to stop at the next inn?” Marjie asked.

Sorrel opened her eyes. Marjie watched her with almost maternal concern despite Sorrel’s being the
older
sister.

“No,” Sorrel replied. The sooner they reached Suffolk, the better. Stopping to stretch her travel-battered limb would only lengthen the journey.

“You appear to be in pain,” Marjie pressed.

“I am always in pain. And no tears over this, Marjie,” she hastily added, seeing the well-known look on her sister’s face. “If I can endure this journey without crying, you can certainly do so.”

“But it is so unfair!” Marjie’s eyes sparkled with moisture. “If it weren’t for your unfortunate incident—”

“We shall never know what life would have held if not for that ‘incident,’ so there is little point hypothesizing.”

“But you could have married. Had a family of your own.”

“With my argumentative nature?” Sorrel managed a smile for her chin-quivering sister. “I doubt I had much of a chance for matrimony even before
this
.” Sorrel waved her hand over her twisted, painful leg and tapped the tip of her walking stick.

“Nonsense,” Marjie retorted with conviction. “You are wonderful. Intelligent. Kind. Beautiful.”

“Bless your lying tongue, Marjie.” Sorrel laughed. Her unchecked volume woke their sleeping mother and ended all discussion of Sorrel’s assets and, especially, her liabilities. Mother never wanted to hear about either.

“Did I tell you the
entire
Jonquil family will be there?” Mother asked eagerly.

“Yes, Mother. Several times.”

“The Earl. The Countess. The heir to a barony.”

If Mother rattled off one more rank in the Peerage, Sorrel would throw herself from the carriage. Perhaps she should have stayed home, after all.

“The young captain has been invited, as well.”

So the army would be accounted for.

“Also the brother who is a barrister.”

And the law. Just how large was this family?

“And is theirs the only family attending?” Marjie asked like a dutiful daughter.

Sorrel, however, let her mind wander again. They would pass their holiday with an earl and his countess, a future baron, a captain, and a barrister. Of course, she couldn’t leave herself off the guest list: the cripple.

“Do look, girls!” Mother cried out some eight hours later—Mother’s continued need for a few moments before a warm fire, combined with Sorrel’s growing discomfort, had lengthened their journey. “We have reached Kinnley, I am sure of it!”

Despite her usual determination not to appear like a green girl, Sorrel pressed her face to the carriage window to get her first glimpse of Lizzie’s childhood home. The house glowed. Light spilled from every ground-level window. Obviously the Cavratt estate remained as prosperous as ever.

The columned portico offered respite from the frigid rain, which had fallen for nearly an hour. No sooner had their rather ancient vehicle passed beneath the stone abutment than a veritable army of footmen descended upon their carriage, handing each of the Kendrick women out in turn and unloading their trunks with unfathomable speed.

Mother rushed up the stone steps quite at her ease in the entirely unfamiliar home. Sorrel, despite being the sole family member with connections to Kinnley, felt less confident. She held back, knowing from experience that Lord Cavratt had very set ideas about propriety and a firm dislike for the overly forward in society. And, of course, steps were difficult to maneuver when one possessed only one fully functional leg.

“Sorrel, you never told me Kinnley was so grand,” Marjie said almost reverentially as she helped Sorrel up the steps.

“I never saw Kinnley,” she said. “I only ever saw Lizzie in London. Permount House, the Cavratt home in Town, is spectacular in its own right. It is quite arguably the finest home in Grosvenor Square.”

“I am happy, then, that Mother insisted I bring my very best gowns.” Marjie stared in obvious awe at the enormous entryway of Kinnley.

Sorrel refused to gawk despite the splendor. Marble floors. A grand staircase. Exquisitely carved statues flanking either side of the windowed entry hall. No wonder Lizzie had so sorely missed Suffolk while in Town.

“If you will follow me, please.” A silver-haired woman in a serviceable gown and frilled cap led the way up the oaken staircase. “Lady Cavratt has placed you in rooms adjoining one another, if that will be pleasing to you.”

“I am certain it will be positively perfect!” Mother exclaimed, her voice unnaturally high as though she were a schoolgirl barely suppressing a fit of giggles. “My son, I am certain you were told, will be joining us shortly. He is at Eton currently.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the housekeeper replied. “There is a room in the same wing as yours if you would like to house him there. He can also be placed in the nursery wing or in the wing where the Jonquil gentlemen will be staying. You may decide prior to the young Mister Kendrick’s arrival.”

“Positively perfect!” Mother actually did giggle at that.

Sorrel, with Marjie’s help, managed to keep up, though she had to sit the moment she reached her room. She almost instantly resorted to lying on the plush bed while her entire right leg throbbed and pulsated with pain.

She let her eyes lose focus enough for the pale blue bed curtains to grow fuzzy, making it almost seem possible that she were gazing up at a late summer sky. The warmth of the low burning fire made the room nearly warm enough. If not for the lingering chill deep in her joints, Sorrel might have actually believed she’d left winter behind. She might have convinced herself that she remained ensconced in the familiarity of home.

As she lay there, a face flashed through her memory, one with amused blue eyes. She could yet see the flamboyant gentleman’s features twist in distaste as she’d suggested that a lady of refinement might use a walking stick. His opinion ought not to have mattered—she would likely never see him again. Yet it more than mattered. It hurt. She knew the mangled mess she had become, all the result of a pointless and devastating accident. To see that deformity reflected in his obviously unflattering opinion had wounded her.

Sorrel swore to herself, as she had countless times since her accident, that no one would ever hurt her again. She wrapped her pride around her like chain mail and prepared to face the other guests, determined that none of them would pierce her defenses as that dandy in Kent had managed so easily to do.