Shana Galen (19 page)

L
ucia rolled onto her back, stretching her legs languorously. Vaguely she registered that the linens were scratchy, but it felt so good to be in a bed, she didn’t care. And she had it all to herself. Jerking awake, she bolted up and scanned the room for Alex. He was gone.

She frowned. But his clothes weren’t. They were in a heap on the chaise, and she wondered if he was strolling about the house naked. Beside the pile of Alex’s things, she saw a red gown draped over the arm of the chaise. Obviously, at some time during the night or early this morning, Sophie had sent a change of clothes. Lucia hadn’t even stirred from sleep.

Indeed, she was still tired, and she lay back, tempted to close her eyes again, but then her stomach growled, and she heard the murmur of voices downstairs and smelled something delicious cooking. She wondered if it was safe to leave the room
and was still debating it when she heard a light knock on the door, startling her. She sat up, pulling the rough sheet to her chin. She scooted back against the headboard, then relaxed as Sophie opened the door and peeked inside.

“
Bonjour
,
ma petite
,” she said sunnily. “Are you awake?”

“Yes. Come in.” Lucia released her death grip on the sheets.

Sophie closed the door and immediately went to the window Lucia hadn’t even noticed and pulled wide the scarlet curtains. Lucia blinked.

Outside the sun was shining brightly, the sky a cloudless blue. Lord, it must be nearly noon.

“You look much improved,
ma chère
,” Sophie said. “How are you feeling this morning?”

“Thank you. I’m embarrassed to have slept so late.”

Sophie waved an arm and sat beside her on the bed. “No matter. We all sleep late here.” She gave Lucia’s arm a little pat, and Lucia had to smile at the maternal gesture.

In the light of day, Sophie looked less like the keeper of a brothel. Her hair was still a suspect shade of red, but without the rouge and painted lips, she appeared more respectable. And she was actually quite pretty. She was probably old enough to be Lucia’s mother, but Sophie had an air of youth that radiated from her. She could probably pass for twenty years younger than her true age, and with her curvaceous body, obvious even in her high-necked blue morning gown, Lucia had no trouble seeing why Sophie was so successful in her trade.

“My girls keep late hours,” Sophie continued, “and need the rest. I imagine you did, too. It looks
like you spent a
very
good evening.” She gestured to Alex’s discarded clothing.

Lucia erupted into flame, feeling even the roots of her hair heat. Not that she had reason for embarrassment. Alex had slept on the couch all night. He hadn’t shown the least bit of interest in her. In fact, he’d made it more than clear last night that things were over between them. He didn’t want her anymore. Unfortunately she still wanted him. Lord, she should have been thankful he respected her enough to sleep on the couch. Instead she felt hurt and confused.
Why
didn’t he want her anymore?

“At least he gave you a chance to eat the food I sent,” Sophie said, indicating the empty tray and wine bottle on the floor.

“Oh, yes. It was very good. Do you employ a cook?” Lucia asked, eager to change the subject.

Sophie laughed. “My, but you are innocent, aren’t you? I’m not at all sure I shouldn’t have some words with Alex about his intentions toward you. We have been friends for a long time.”

Lucia narrowed her eyes, and Sophie laughed again. “No need to look at me like that
ma chère
. That part of our friendship is over.”

Lucia shook her head. “But I didn’t—”

“Shh.” Sophie put a finger to her lips. “I am not offended. I like a girl who says what is on her mind. Alex does, too.”

Lucia decided that perhaps Sophie didn’t know Alex as well as she claimed. “He always tells me I talk too much.”

“Don’t let him fool you. He likes what you have to say or you wouldn’t be here.”

Lucia didn’t see how he’d had much choice. “Where is Alex?” She’d held off asking as long as
possible, unwilling to admit she didn’t know, but her patience was exhausted.

“I do not know.” She shrugged. “My footman told me he left with Freddie early this morning.” She grasped Lucia’s hand. “But I am certain he will return.”

Lucia nodded. “I know. He’d never leave me.” Would he?

“Of course not. They probably went to meet with the woman who was here looking for your brother yesterday.”

Lucia frowned. “Woman? What woman?”

“Oh, a petite dark-haired wisp of a girl. French.”

Camille? But surely she was still in England. Surely someone had warned her that Décharné knew her identity.

“She mentioned Alex’s name, called him Christophe, and then described your brother to me. It was the reason I thought of him when I saw you yesterday. He’d been on my mind. Naturally, I did not tell the woman anything. One cannot be too careful.”

Lucia nodded. “Did she give her name?”

“Nathalie Tissier. Do you know her?”

“I don’t know,” Lucia answered. The description sounded like Camille, and she might be using a false name.

“Oh, I almost forgot. You must try on the dress I have found for you.” Sophie held up a swath of scarlet from the chaise. “It was Claudette’s, and you and she are about the same size.”

Lucia took the dress but only because it would have been rude not to. Sophie had sent a chemise and shoes with the gown, but Lucia did not know how she would ever wear any of it.

The chemise was transparent and the bodice cut
too low. It would just cover her nipples and then only because it was fringed with lace. The dress itself was a garish vermilion, the bosom scandalously revealing, almost as low as the chemise. The material was light and silky against her skin, but it was far too thin and flimsy, obviously designed to mold to the wearer’s body.

“Oh, dear.” Lucia looked down at the dress. There was no mirror in the room, and that was probably for the best.

“You look wonderful,” Sophie said, but when Lucia frowned she added, “Perhaps I can find you a shawl.”

Lucia nodded vigorously.

“But truly, you look lovely. Such a figure! If only you did not have these scratches.”

Lucia looked down. The scratches on her chest were still prominent, but only because of the paleness of her skin. They would fade in a day or so. Even worse than the scratches was the red of the dress, contrasting starkly with her porcelain coloring. Virtuous ladies did not wear red gowns, and Lucia felt wicked wearing it, even in private. She really couldn’t go out in it. But then she caught Sophie’s expression, saw the eagerness to please, and gave in.

“It’s wonderful, Sophie.” Lucia hugged her, then bent to slip on the plain black shoes next to the couch. Those at least were appropriate, though a little too big. “I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you for your help.” She glanced up. “You must be in a great deal of danger helping us like this.”

“Nonsense. There is nothing I would not do for Richard.”

“Richard?”

“Richard Wentworth. He is an old friend and now a high-ranking official in your English war council.”

“The Foreign Office, you mean?”

“Yes. We were lovers once. Before the turmoil.” Sophie sank onto the chaise. Lucia saw a nostalgic look in her eyes. She would never have imagined a brothel owner to be so romantic. Lucia sat next to her.

“Tell me about him.”

Sophie smiled. “I lived in Paris then and worked as an actress on the stage. When the Revolution came, at first I was as caught up in its fever as everyone else. Richard was excited as well. Though English, he was a—how do you say it—a proponent of reform. We all wanted
liberté, égalité, fraternité
. But the lust for blood is greater than the lust for justice, I am afraid. It sickened me, all the senseless killing, and it was worse in Paris. That was when I came to Calais. There was poverty everywhere, and I did what I could to survive. We all did. I worked my way up and made myself into Madame Loinger, and now I own this establishment.” She looked proudly at the room.

Lucia nodded. She’d never thought about why women became prostitutes. She only knew she’d been taught they were bad. But maybe they were just thrown into bad circumstances.

“I had not seen Richard for years,” Sophie continued. “We lost each other in all the madness of Revolution, and it was not safe for him in France. But he found me years later here, in Calais, and asked me to help him. He was smuggling aristos out of France with Ethan then. I agreed because I still loved Richard, but also because I felt I had to help. I could not stop the murders, but I wanted to do something.”

Lucia lowered her head, shame digging its claws into her heart. What had she ever done to help? Not that she could have saved aristocrats during the Revolution, she was too young, but what about all the injustices in England? What about all the needy there?

This woman, whom she had scorned as a trollop, risked her life for others, and Lucia, the respectable woman, did nothing but attend balls and soirees.

Sophie’s light voice penetrated her humiliation. “I try not to ask many questions now. I know Alex, Freddie, and your brother are English agents, but I do not want to know what they do. I do not tell my girls who they are. They think Alex is a distant cousin and Freddie a nephew. When your brother was here I told them he was another nephew. They must know this is not true—either that or they think I have an enormous family—but they will not say anything.” Sophie reached for Lucia’s hands, grasping them warmly. Lucia met her eyes, clear and honest in the bright light of the room.

“We are not disloyal. I do not think of myself in this way.”

Lucia shook her head. “Of course not.”

“But I have seen enough death for one lifetime, and I do not want another war, which will only bring more. Bonaparte lusts for power, and too much power brings misery to the people. I have seen it before.”

Lucia took a deep breath, too moved to speak. How could she have failed to consider her own obligations to her country and people? Her father was in Parliament, but when he mentioned such things, it was always in a vague, abstract sense. He talked about the rights of man and an end to poverty, but he did not really want anything to change. He did not want to give up the privileges membership in the aristocracy provided him. Her father, and most of the other lords, practiced politics for the position and the power. Reginald was the same, if not worse. They talked about ideals, about a better world, but never acted on them. She’d put her father on a pedestal all these years,
but perhaps that respect was misplaced. Perhaps she owed it to rakes and dandies.

Ethan, Alex, Dewhurst, and now John risked their lives for their country and its people. They acted on their ideals, yet they would never receive any acknowledgment. Reginald and her father and most of the men sitting in the House of Lords and the House of Commons would receive the accolades.

How could Alex stand it?

She shook her head. Alex didn’t care. He avoided the beau monde because he saw through them, knew their hypocrisy. Here in Europe and on the open sea men were fighting a war and dying. And the
ton
pretended none of it was happening.

Lucia felt fierce pride in all of them swell her heart. No wonder Alex thought her a child. She was. Before she’d cared only for herself, her interests confined to fashion and social mores. But now she realized how futile, how silly, it all was. Gossip. Hats and gloves. Husband hunting. She would never find happiness or worth in these pursuits.

She felt as though she’d been asleep for years, only to be wakened now by Sophie’s words and Alex’s passion.

She choked back a sob, and Sophie gripped her hand. “What is it,
chérie
?”

Lucia sniffed. “I admire you so much, Sophie. You’ve made me realize my whole life has been a waste. I’ve done nothing.”

“Nonsense,” Sophie said, wiping her tears away. “You can’t be more than twenty, and your whole life is ahead of you. We all do what we can.”

Yes, Lucia thought. Her whole life
was
ahead of her, and she wanted to do something good, make it mean something.

Sophie smiled at her. “Stop crying,
ma petite
. It
makes your eyes red. Should I send a tray up? Are you hungry?”

Lucia smiled back at her, but she did not feel any warmth or happiness. A black cloud settled on her. She
did
have her whole life ahead of her, and she was afraid, desperately afraid, it would not include Alex.

A pretty, ebony-haired girl brought her tray, and Lucia was relieved it wasn’t Brigitte. The girl set the tray on the table and gave her a shy smile, and Lucia balked. Lord, the girl was just a child.

“
Merci
,” she told the girl.

“I teach the English,” the girl whispered conspiratorially. Lucia wondered if this was an attempt to trick her into revealing she was one of the enemy but decided the girl with the black ringlets was probably no threat.

“You speak English?” Lucia asked.

“I teach it,” the girl said and sat down on the chaise. She looked as if she was in no hurry to leave.

“You mean you’re learning.” She gave a small curtsy, which made the girl giggle, and said, “I’m Lucia.”

The girl’s face lit up. She gave a clumsy curtsy in response and said, “I am Marie.”

Lucia took a plate of crepes and sat on the chaise next to Marie.

Marie gazed at her, dark eyes adoring. “You are beautiful.”

Lucia could tell they were going to be friends. She handed Marie half the crepe. “So are you.”

After Marie left, Lucia had little to do except fret about Décharné finding them, worry about her brother, and agonize over Alex. It didn’t take long for worry to turn into impatience and then to anger. She paced the room.

Why hadn’t he told her where he was going or
when he would be back? Couldn’t he even be bothered to take one minute, wake her, and give her some explanation? She stopped and spun on her heel.

But perhaps she hadn’t even crossed his mind. She was back to being an annoyance in his life. He probably thought if he ignored her she’d disappear. Did the night they spent together mean anything to him? Was she a complete fool?