Natalya (33 page)

"I am frightfully restless," she said, crossing the long parlor to gaze out at the courtyard garden. A few tulips were blooming, but they had begun to wilt.

"Dearest, why not sit down beside me and allow me to rub your beautiful feet?" The man seated on the ivory silk-upholstered settee put down his newspaper and gazed at her expectantly. Although not yet thirty-five years of age, he looked much older. His thinning hair had gone prematurely gray, and he had lost considerable weight since his affair with Francesca had commenced two years ago. At social gatherings, he replaced his gold-rimmed spectacles with a quizzing-glass and styled his hair with Macassar Oil, a la Byron. It was enough to fascinate the American women, but he could rarely elicit such interest from Francesca anymore.

She wandered over and sat down beside him but did not remove her kid slipper and offer him her slim foot. "I can't think why I am so restless," she complained again.

"Why don't we ring for some of those raisin cakes you adore?" When Francesca shook her head, pouting slightly, he sighed. Dear God, but she was beautiful! Each time he saw her he experienced the same thrill he'd felt the first time, when he'd returned to London after she'd become Grey's wife. Her slanting green eyes, porcelain skin, shining auburn hair, and full mouth had driven him insane then, and continued to do so. His passion for Francesca had overpowered all else, including duty to family and country.

Not that he'd
wanted
to continue on in that terrifying war, but now, as fear began to creep over him that he might lose his love, he told himself that he'd thrown everything away for her. He'd deserted Wellington's army during the battle of Salamanca, risking capture, disgrace, and death to return and take her away from England and her marriage to the absent Viscount Altburne. He'd even given up his own name to go into hiding with her! At first it had all been a wild, reckless adventure; they'd thrived on their own misbehavior and reveled in the illicit passion of their love affair. However, after nearly two years...

"I find that something very odd has been happening to me," Francesca said suddenly. "I've been dreaming about Grey."

For a moment his heart caught, but then he saw that her expression reflected uneasiness and fear rather than longing. "Do you know, it's curious that you should say that. He's been in my mind, too. Yesterday afternoon, when I was walking toward the bootmaker's shop, I saw a man turn the corner a distance ahead of me who bore a chilling resemblance to Grey. I knew that I was being ridiculous, but I quickened my pace and followed him. However, when I rounded the corner myself, he had disappeared. You'll doubtless laugh at me for imagining that such a thing was even remotely possible, but—"

"Which corner was it?" she broke in.

"I beg your pardon?" He turned to find Francesca holding one hand over the low bodice of her cream sarcenet gown, pressing her fingers against her heart. Her catlike eyes were wide open and brilliantly green against the pallor of her face. "Do you mean you want to know which street corner the man turned?" he asked as a sense of foreboding stole over his own body. "I haven't the foggiest notion, dearest. Philadelphia is still a maze to me."

She gripped his hands, her own damp with panic. "What if he's here?"

"In Philadelphia?" He laughed hollowly. "Impossible! Dearest, you are getting yourself in a taking over a
dream
and a man who simply happened to resemble Grey. It's all coincidence, I assure you!"

"Perhaps." She calmed herself, staring thoughtfully into space. After a time she said in an even voice, "It's all well and good to reassure ourselves that Grey could not be anywhere else but in France, but we mustn't underestimate him. He's extremely shrewd and determined when the situation demands. I want to take extra precautions." Her voice turned colder. "You'll have to take rooms of your own, David. If Grey is in Philadelphia, he'll find me, and it wouldn't do for him to discover his late brother in my bed...."

* * *

"It was good of you to see me so late at night, Mr. Stringfellow," Grey said to the engaging white-haired Englishman as they seated themselves in front of the hearth in the coffeehouse's keeping room. "I know that you must be tired."

"Call me Stringfellow. Everyone does." The older man crossed his nimble legs and grinned. "And I don't mind the hour. It always takes me a while to slow down after the coffeehouse empties at night. I run about from dawn to midnight, and when I get into bed I feel like a clock that's been overwound." Pausing, Stringfellow drank thirstily from his mug of ale. "I understand that you've seen our dear Lisette."

"I have indeed. She and her family took me in after I escaped from one of Napoleon's prisons. I was half-starved and running from two of Boney's thugs, so their hospitality was keenly appreciated." Feeling increasingly at ease, Grey stretched out his booted legs and propped them on a low stool. "Mrs. Beauvisage is delightful, and I cannot imagine that she ever looked more beautiful. She reminded me of a yellow rose in full bloom." He paused, searching his memory. "Our meal was delicious, completed by an apple tart that she said was from a recipe she used to make here."

Stringfellow inquired after the rest of the Beauvisage family, and Grey obliged by giving detailed reports. "In truth, Adrienne is a little spitfire," he said in closing. "The man who falls in love with her will have his hands full."

"Ah, just like her lovely mother! How I long to see them all. As soon as this bloody war is over, I'm going to take Nancy, my wife, abroad. We've never gone because of the children, or because we couldn't leave the coffeehouse, but life's short, hmm? Can't afford to put it off forever...." Stringfellow stared into the dying fire for a long minute, lost in thought, then turned back to Grey with bright, dark eyes. "Now then, how can I help you?"

"You already have, my good fellow. You gave my manservant, Jasper Speed, a great deal of important information regarding the woman you know as Frances Wellbeloved. I have merely come to ask a few more questions. You're the only one who can tell me anything at all, and I feel that I can trust you."

"Alexandre Beauvisage stopped here yesterday and encouraged me to assist you in any way I could. He said that you brought his daughter Natalya safely home all the way from France." Stringfellow appeared to drift again, remarking, "I should like very much to see her again. Has anyone told you how perfectly gorgeous she was as a child? Hair like silken honey and those huge eyes. Never seen eyes that color before or since. Like the sea.... Her mother's another beauty. Used to pop in here with Natalya years ago, after Lisette went to France. Little Natalya would take center stage and have everyone in the keeping room looking at her. She'd flash her dimples at us, say charming things—get us all laughing—and insist on helping Hyla with the cooking, standing on a stool and waving a wooden spoon about like the conductor of an orchestra. I used to say that she'd be on the stage one day, but I understand that she's become an authoress. Is she still a feast for the eyes?"

Grey realized that he'd been leaning forward in the bow-back chair, listening in fascination. "What? Oh—yes. Yes, she is. And she still loves drama. Natalya is... a most unusual woman."

"Ah, how I appreciate a beautiful woman with an agile mind," Stringfellow declared. "This Frances you are looking for is a beauty as well, so it's no wonder I heard about her almost immediately after she came to Philadelphia. Are you going to tell me what the connection is between you, and what she's done to bring you all this way in search of her?"

Grey met Stringfellow's frank gaze, his own eyes momentarily uncertain. "I must ask for your word that—"

"No one will even suspect that I've met you, sir," he interjected, looking a trifle offended. "Anyone in this city will tell you that I am a man of impeccable honor."

"I did not mean to suggest otherwise, I assure you." Grey sighed. Setting down his empty tankard, he began to tell his story. "Frances Wellbeloved is, in reality, Francesca St. James—my wife. We married two years ago, shortly after we met during one of my leaves from the Royal Navy. My father is an earl, and as the elder son, I am a viscount. It was an advantageous match for Francesca, and I—I wasn't quite sane. I thought I'd probably die in the war, and it seemed like the thing to do; try for an heir and all that." He arched an eyebrow and shrugged slightly. "And, as you said, she's beautiful—in a way that creates another sort of insanity in susceptible men. Francesca is also selfish, spoiled, sly, and dishonest. After I escaped from prison last month and returned to London, I discovered that she'd run away not long after our wedding. There were rumors that she'd fled to America with another man, which I was inclined to believe, and the latest gossip indicated that she'd written her father that she was leaving New York to take up residence in Philadelphia. Natalya needed to come here in any case, so I brought her myself. I want to find Francesca and confront her. I don't think I can get on with my life until the book is closed on our marriage."

Stringfellow's brows, like tufts of white fur, bobbed up and down as he pondered this information. "I say, that
is
quite a tale! But there's more, isn't there?"

Grey gave him a grudging smile. "Your wits are no match for mine, Stringfellow. Yes, there's more. I discovered that Francesca took my mother's jewels when she left London. My father loaned them to her when we were married, but they wouldn't have rightfully passed to us until I assumed the earldom. Quite honestly, I consider titles a bore, but I do place some value on family possessions. Aside from the fact that these pieces are priceless, they are to remain in trust, passed down through the generations from one Countess of Hartford to the next. What Francesca did, stealing them, was unconscionable." His eyes flashed with suppressed anger. "I mean to return my mother's jewels to Hartford House."

"Here, here!" Stringfellow set down his tankard and applauded. "A noble cause indeed! I'll do whatever I can to help, but I must confess that I don't have much information to offer. I've seen the lady, and I've heard her name, which I told your man Speed. She's taken a house on Pine Street and hired servants. I know one or two of them, if that will help you. I believe that she's passing herself off as a widow, but I have heard rumors about a man. My wife mentioned seeing her in a bookshop with some fellow, but Nancy thought he looked a trifle drab. Gray hair and spectacles, she said, and they appeared to be having a tiff in the manner of people who know each other well."

"Interesting," Grey remarked, sifting Stringfellow's revelations.

"We could doubtless gather information from her staff, and it would be easy enough for you to appear at her door and confront her."

"No, I'd prefer to be more creative." When he smiled, his teeth flashed in the shadowy firelight. "I'm not a vindictive man, but I do believe that she ought to suffer a bit. I wouldn't mind giving her a scare; turn up next to her in a crowd and see the horror in her eyes."

"Wouldn't it be jolly if she fainted!" Stringfellow laughed, joining into the spirit of Grey's plans.

"Indeed," he agreed dryly. "I'd enjoy it immensely. I would like to toy with her a bit before I close in. Perhaps I won't even mention the jewels at first. I might play the role of heartbroken husband...."

"How can we arrange such a scene?" asked the older man.

"I wonder if there isn't a way to organize a party—"

"A party for
Natalya Beauvisage?"
Stringfellow broke in. "Wouldn't that be a brilliant stroke? She's only just returned, and everyone is reading her book and longing to see her, but she's scarcely set foot in the city. It's the perfect solution." In his excitement, he jumped up and paced back and forth in the darkened keeping room. "Who would host such a party? It must be a great hostess, whose invitation your wife would be certain to accept, and it must also be someone who knows the Beauvisage family well. And, someone I know well enough to approach. I'll have to persuade her to have the party, and also make her understand that she must invite both you and Frances Wellbeloved—"

"And the man with the gray hair and spectacles, if possible," Grey chimed in, laughing.

"I have it!" Stringfellow shouted triumphantly. "I'll ask Meagan Hampshire."

"Who's that?"

"She's the wife of Senator Lion Hampshire and an old friend of Caro and Alec Beauvisage's. The Hampshires just happen to be staying at their country house these past few weeks, and I believe they intend to remain until June. Mrs. Hampshire is a treasure. I know I can depend upon her." Stringfellow stopped in front of Grey and announced, beaming, "By jove, I'm brilliant—if I do say so myself!"

* * *

Hyla Flowers DuBois peeled potatoes so fast that it made Natalya feel vaguely dizzy to watch her. The old woman was a marvel. She was fat now—there was no other word to describe her enormous bulk—but continued to paint her mouth and cheeks, and she liked to pin some decoration in her coarse gray hair. Today she wore a bunch of small, waxen cherries next to the coil of hair atop her head. Years ago, during the Revolutionary War, Hyla had earned her way in the world as a prostitute, but hard living had put an end to that career. Instead she'd come to work at the coffeehouse, overseeing the chaos in the public room. Fifteen years later, when Lisette left, Hyla and Pierre married and Hyla took over the kitchen chores: by that time her feet hurt too much to labor in the keeping room from dawn to dark. In contrast with the rigors of the coffeehouse, cooking for the Beauvisage family at Belle Maison was child's play.

"I've a chore for you, sweetheart," Hyla said to Natalya. "It's unlucky to peel potatoes while someone's watching, so here's something to keep your eyes and hands busy." She handed Natalya several bunches of rhubarb, a knife, and a bowl. "Just cut the tender parts into little pieces."

"Are you going to make a pie?" Natalya asked hopefully.

"Shall I? I'd thought about a cobbler...." Hyla feigned indecision.

"Oh, no, please, a pie!"

"All right, then, a pie." She pinched the girl's soft, rosy cheek. "For you, sweetheart."