An Unsuitable Occupation for a Lady by Jackie Walton
Summoning Blakeley, her own equivalent to Hyde, she outlined what was going to happen and what she needed him to handle in her absence. She also gave him her list of supplies. She grimaced at the thought of putting the walnut stain on her hair and skin, but knew her coloring was too unusual for her not to stand out, even in northern Italy where there was a goodly population of Germanic blonds. Oh the sacrifices I make for my country, she thought as she fingered a golden curl. I’ll just have to cut it again when I get back.
Her personal affairs set in order, she drew a fresh sheet of paper out and began noting down everything she knew about Pope Pius VII, General Radet, the Bishop’s Palace in Savona, and those people she knew who could assist her, them, in any way.
At the Tillman’s ball after the symphony, Chiara finally had a chance to draw Lindsey aside for a few private words. “Lindsey, what was the meaning of that little contretemps last night?”
Lindsey studied the landscape painted on her fan. “I saw Mr. Simmons the other day in the millinery with Jane Hall.”
Chiara already suspected the worst: tact wasn’t Miss Hall’s strongest suit. Usually that was her kind disposition.
“She looked at me and said, ‘Miss Alder, with your unfortunate hair, it’s a wonder you can wear anything but homespun.’ I replied, ‘Beauty is as beauty does, Miss Hall.’ Then I turned to Mr. Simmons and said, ‘I had though you more percipient in your choice of associates. I guess I was mistaken. My apologies.’”
Chiara snickered. “As far as set-downs go, that was masterful. I suspect he’s angry because it was true.”
“Maybe.” She played with the fan sticks.
Time for a change of subject, Chiara decided. “You look magnificent tonight.” It was the simple truth. The pumpkin underskirt and off-white lacy over-dress set the copper curls off to perfection. “I shudder to think what it would look like on me, but on you it is ideal.” Chiara’s pale violet dress with its dark painted border would have been hideous on her friend.
Chiara lowered her voice. “I have to leave town for a while. It could be several months. Can you quietly spread the story that I had a major fire at my estate and have to go back to tend to things?”
Lindsey stuck out her lower lip thoughtfully. “Another ‘I can’t say what I’m doing’ trip?”
Chiara nodded and smiled vaguely at a passing couple before turning back to her friend. “Uh huh. Can you start, say, at the end of the week? I’m going…oh no!”
Lindsey followed her friend’s gaze. “Indeed.” Mr. Simmons and Lord FitzHenry bore down on them like charging cavalry. “Too late to escape.”
Salvation came from an unexpected quarter. An imposing woman dressed in an unfortunate shade of puce blocked the gentlemen’s advance. She had an appealing, brown-haired, young lady in tow, a young lady who obviously didn’t really want to be there. The woman directed her remarks and her daughter to FitzHenry’s attention.
Chiara turned and pulled Lindsey along with her. “Let’s get some air.” She bent to Lindsay’s ear. “By the way, who is our guardian gorgon, ah angel?”
Lindsey flipped open her fan to shield her mouth. “That’s Mrs. Lowell and her daughter Felicity. Mrs. Lowell thinks Felicity would be an ideal Countess FitzHenry. All her efforts are bent towards that end. She may well succeed if determination is any bell-weather.”
Chiara snorted most indelicately. “If it wasn’t so amusing,” she thought of the disturbingly dark man, “I’d feel sorry for FitzHenry.” Not exactly handsome, he had a strange magnetism.
A glance in the direction of the hapless groom-to-be showed him and his friend once more advancing ruthlessly on them.
“Oh well,” Lindsey sighed. “Might as well get it over with. Maybe then we can enjoy the rest of the evening.”
Chiara spoke under the shadow of her fan. “Mr. Simmons looks like he’s been eating lemons.” Lindsey giggled for the younger man had a distinctly sour look on his face. Good, Chiara thought, the banter worked on her friend.
The gentlemen stopped in front of them and bowed, FitzHenry in black, Simmons in dark blue. Simmons began rather haltingly, “Miss Alder…I spoke most thoughtlessly the other night.” He tugged gently on the intricate Trône d’Amour folds of his cravat. “I can only say that my mind was absorbed by other matters, and I unintentionally took it out on you. I ask your forgiveness.”
Lindsey stared for a moment, as if not quite understanding what he was saying then she nodded gravely.
Chiara saw FitzHenry give his friend an almost imperceptible nudge in the back. Simmons continued, “Will you do me the great honor, then, of allowing me this dance?”
Lindsey hesitated, but Chiara was impressed with Simmons’s willingness to admit fault. She leaned toward Lindsey but grinned directly at Simmons. “Go ahead, Lindsey. Think of the consequence it will give him, to be seen dancing with you.”
James Simmons blinked and then caught on to the gentle ribbing. “’S faith, Miss Alder, if you cut me, I vow I’ll not be able to dance another step this evening.”
He looked enough like a hurt puppy that Lindsey giggled. “Very well, sir, but if you trod on my toes, I shall give you the direct cut.”
“Best be nimble, then, lad,” FitzHenry observed dryly.
Chiara watched the pair go off, an odd hopefulness in her heart. They had such a rocky beginning, but they seemed…
“May I have this dance?”
Chiara looked up, startled. “What?”
“This dance. It would look very strange if I simply left you here alone.”
“Oh, no, don’t think on it. It’s…it’s not necessary.”
“Are you, by any chance, afraid to dance with me?”
Damn him, she thought. He’s known me less than twenty-four hours, and he already knows how to get what he wants. She snapped her fan shut and placed her hand on his outstretched arm. For a moment, she thought he must be one of the new electricity machines that generated a static charge and made your hair stand on end. Even through her glove, the jolt of awareness shot through her and she looked up at him. He stared at the superfine of his coat sleeve where her hand lay. Then he looked up.
Without a word, he led her out onto the floor. The musicians began a waltz, and he reached for her hand and her waist. Chiara’s head whirled for a moment, and then she realized that her body whirled along with it. She glanced up at Lord FitzHenry. His eyes were hooded, but they never left her face. Her feet glided over the floor, but she couldn’t say what piece the musicians played. The world outside the circle of his arms took on a blurry, unreal cast. Nothing was real except the hard muscles of his arm and the banked heat of his gaze.
The music ended; he stopped at the edge of the dance floor and let go of her.
She almost tripped.
“Until tomorrow at 10 o’clock.” He bowed and left.
Chiara wanted to cry. In a flash, the impulse was gone. What an idiot I am! I don’t even like him.
That night, her nightmares started again.
Chapter 3
“The beige.” Chiara paced over to the window and whirled. “No, the blue-gray.” She examined her nails. “No, the lavender.” She strode the length of the room.
Betsy pulled each dress up off the bed as her mistress spoke and then gently laid the garment back. The gowns were lovely, exquisitely crafted, and all of them made her mistress look like a vision. She knew Lady Chiara thought all of them sackcloth at the moment. The barest hint of a smile played on her lips. She’d never seen her self-possessed lady in such a dither over a gentleman’s visit in, well, she couldn’t remember. However, it lacked fifteen minutes of the hour. “Milady, the blue-striped silk is definitely the most becoming.”
Chiara stopped her pacing. “Very well.” She looked at the clock, “Oh, we must hurry. He’ll be here shortly.”
Lord FitzHenry only had to wait a couple of minutes. He didn’t bother to sit down. The vision in blue silk that swept into the parlor showed no signs of a
Her manner betrayed nothing of last night’s encounter. He wasn’t sure what to make of it, or her, himself. The society princess or professional intrigante, what was she? He felt himself reasonably safe from her feminine wiles. Blue-eyed blondes never attracted him. What surprised him was the…awareness he felt when he’d asked her to dance. That was the least inflammatory word to describe the feeling. He’d intended to apprise her of her up-coming role in the mission. Instead, he’d spent the dance staring into those clear, blue eyes.
He planned to remedy last night’s omission at the earliest opportunity.
“Be seated, my lord. I will outline how we are to proceed.”
FitzHenry tucked his beaver hat under his arm and looked over his shoulder at her as she moved opposite him to sit down. One of his eyebrows rose. “The mission’s plan has already been set. I will explain it to you.” Her willingness to create a scene at the Burlington’s demonstrated an impetuous tendency that he needed to bridle immediately.
Chiara hesitated in smoothing the pencil-straight skirt of the Empire line dress as she sat in the bergère. He thought the spiral reeding on the back must be biting into her back. Her eyes narrowed. He flipped the tails of his coat prior to sitting on the classically-styled sofa. The tails, the color of fine, aged walnut, stood out against the soft grays and beiges of the sofa. He watched her face as he settled his hat on his lap.
“My lord, you seem to be under the misapprehension that you will be planning this mission.”
“Misapprehension, Lady Chiara? I don’t think so. I am the senior field officer on this mission, and I will be organizing the planning and implementation of the operation.”
“Lord FitzHenry, while I am sure that you have ample experience in the boudoirs of Paris, I’m afraid Rome, Milan, and Savona are terra incognita for you. I’m sure that it’s quite impossible for you to plan any mission in those areas, let alone command it.” She obviously knew that her words were deliberately insulting. She was right.
He didn’t move. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even blink. When he finally roused, his words fell like chips of ice on a tile floor. “If you think for a single moment that I will place the success of this mission into the hands of a green chit, you are sadly mistaken. I am of the opinion that Wentworth was in the throws of a brain fever when he asked me to work with you. I shall correct that error immediately.”
He stood and bowed. “Your servant, my lady.” He didn’t look back.
Late that afternoon, one of Wentworth’s footmen stood respectfully in front of her. The message he presented to Chiara was short. “Here. Now.” She knew there would be a price for standing up to FitzHenry that way. She’d needed to establish her authority in this matter, or he would tromp all over her.
This was the price.
He was furious. Absolutely furious. Chiara knew this as well as she knew her name. And he hadn’t said a word. He just sat behind that big, oak desk and glared at each of them in turn. The silence grew and billowed until she thought it would escape out of the room like steam from a kettle.
“You are my two best agents.” His voice sounded almost conversational. “You each have your strengths…and your weaknesses. You are also both as hard-headed as walnuts. Having said that, I expect, no, order, you to cooperate on this mission. If your bickering results in the failure of this mission, my wrath will make the cannonades at the Battle of Trafalgar look like a fireworks display! Do I make myself clear?”
Chiara and FitzHenry both nodded.
“Given that, I expect that I will have to set some boundaries, although it seems beneath both of you to have to do it. FitzHenry, you will have ultimate responsibility for the mission.” Chiara’s breath hissed. He ignored it. “You will be responsible for getting the two of you in and the three of you out, safely. Chiara will be responsible for the actual rescue.” FitzHenry’s “What?” sounded low and threatening, but Wentworth ignored it, too. “Chiara has contacts in high and low places that you can’t imagine. She can find the people most likely to assist you and can coordinate their actions in a way that you could never do. I expect you both to pool your ideas and come up with the best possible plan. Now,” he rose deliberately, “I will leave you two here to finish the meeting you started this morning.”
Neither said a word for quite a while. The walls in Wentworth’s library reverberated with his words, even after he left. Chiara contemplated the embroidery on her reticule while she tried to come to grips with the situation. She was obviously not going to see “The Magic Flute” this season.
After clearing his throat, FitzHenry spoke. “Well, I haven’t been dressed down so…thoroughly or so …elegantly in quite a while. In fact, the last time was when my grandfather caught my cousin and me stealing peaches from one of the tenant’s trees. He also had…a way about him.”
Her laugh was almost involuntary. “Indeed! I can remember a similar quiet, restrained…ah, discussion after I put a frog in the old butler’s bed. He was a starchy, old sot without the slightest trace of a sense of humor. I felt it served him right for some reason or other that I can’t seem to remember right now, but my uncle wasn’t of the same opinion.”
“And that, I wager, is an understatement.”
“Indubitably.” Chiara saw his mouth quirk, but he steadfastly refused to crack a smile.
“Yes, well, let us turn to matters at hand. Your uncle seems to think that we should…discuss the options. I assume you have some sort of a plan, given your willingness to create a scene.” FitzHenry asserted.
“Of course I do, as, I assume, you do. We both started plotting the moment this assignment was handed to us. It just remains to decide which has the better chance of success.”
She went over to the large oak bookcase covering the entire wall and opened a drawer in the cupboard which formed the lower stage of the bookcase. She immediately found what she wanted: two wooden-framed wax tablets with styluses seated in cunning holes masquerading as part of the frame. She handed him one.
“I haven’t used one of these since I was in short pants, and I have no wish to renew the acquaintance.” He attempted to hand it back to her. Failing that, he put it on the seat next to him.
“True,” she smiled, enjoying his discomfort, “but they make excellent aids to plotting and revising and destroying the evidence.” Chiara had a fleeting memory of plotting and replotting her mission to Naples, just before the fall of that small kingdom. Nothing had gone according to plan, but one of the stratagems that had been outlined in wax and discarded had actually proved useful in the final event.
“My plan is relatively straight-forward. I don’t need a great deal of…plotting.”
Chiara thought the word had a putrid taste from the look on his face. “Nevertheless, it is a good idea to…”
A knock sounded at the door.
“Enter,” she said.
Hyde appeared in the doorway. “My lady, my lord, I have taken the liberty of bringing your dinner here, al fresco, so to speak.” He waved in several footmen who brought in a table, set it, and then returned with a number of covered silver servers.
Chiara and FitzHenry sat opposite each other and waited for the first course to be served. “Thank you, Hyde. We’ll finish serving ourselves. I’ll ring if we need anything. Otherwise, we’d like not to be disturbed.” She smiled to erase any possible sting from the dismissal. After all, behind his formal exterior, Hyde was a capital fellow.
That estimable individual bowed and sheparded his minions out the door.
The soup was a delicate cream of mushroom. She allowed herself to enjoy it in silence.
However, during the supreme de vollaille aux truffles with asparagus, she set to work again. Retrieving her wax tablet, she drew a rough map of central and northern Italy. “His Holiness is here, in Savona,” she jabbed the spot on the map. “Genoa is here,” she jabbed again, slightly east of Savona. “Now, I don?
“We don’t need to know anyone. What we need is a troop of marines.”
“Marines, um? Ah, that’s right. You’re a former naval man. You fought at Trafalgar, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
Chiara sat back and toyed with the stylus. The single word could have been carved out of granite and thrown at her. He definitely did not want to talk about the subject, she concluded. But then she knew a little about his service at Trafalgar. He served with distinction and actually captured a Spanish vessel. Shortly thereafter, he’d been recalled home to take up his family title. Seemingly, his duty now lay in establishing his nursery. This necessitated a wife, but he seemed in no hurry to do his duty on that front.
“Lady Chiara, given that I do have military experience, perhaps you should be guided by me in the military aspects of this mission.”
She opened her mouth to retort, but Uncle Geoffrey’s admonition rang in her ears. It didn’t cost anything to listen to his plan. “Why don’t you lay out what you’re planning?”
He leaned back with the air of a man who had just won a battle. “Most wise, my lady. I propose to sail in under cover of darkness, take a troop of marines into the city, break into the palace, snatch the Pope, and get out. Simple and elegant.”
“Humm,” she worried at her lip, “while Savona is a sea coast town, it is only 20 or 25 miles from Genoa. That is a major port with a good-sized French fleet stationed in and around it. In fact, it is responsible for the entire Ligurian Sea. Just getting in and out of the area will be difficult. Second, the Bishop’s Palace is not going to look like Buckingham Palace. It will more closely resemble a small version of Windsor Castle or the Tower of London. General Radet may be a hot head and a…cur, but he’s not a fool. He will have a very significant military presence in and around the Palace.”