Chapter 16

Sixteen

CADIEUX HOUSE, LONDON - JUNE 13, 1816

William

Six and thirty and I'd never called on a woman, not with courting in mind anyway. And I was starting with her .

Kit returned from retrieving Lady Davina at the docks dirty and exhausted and more than a little irritated to work on my behalf this afternoon. His mood was much improved after I sent him to clean up. He yelled something about flowers in my direction as I was leaving.

I purchased a few blooms at a stall on the way, making an effort not to crush the stems in my fit of nerves. The walk was pleasant and the breeze offset the sun's potential to overheat.

Grosvenor's Street. Was it possible to more clearly illustrate the futile nature of this endeavor? Half a mile. Half a mile and a few thousand pounds separated me from Celine.

Her home was not part of the Rosehill portfolio, I knew that for certain. She had money of her own, independent from her marriage to Rycliffe.

It explained some of her difficulty blending into the background in her maid's outfit. Her manners were innate, born of decades of practice. It was a part of her now, her frame, the way she moved.

She hadn't looked in askance at my little one-bedroom apartment above the office. But how much of that had been shock, how much good breeding, and how much was a genuine lack of concern?

I found her house by the columns and the fence, just as she had directed last night. She had a well-manicured little lawn behind the fence that I hadn't noticed.

Her little off-white house was more modest than the homes surrounding it. Only four stories whereas the surrounding homes had six. Hers had a delicate balcony that wrapped across the second story.

Balconies and multiple stories, I never learned…

Still, I promised to call. And I'd never been able to think with my head when beautiful women were concerned. Why start now?

After a deep breath, I knocked on the black double doors. The butler I hadn't caught a good look at last night answered. "Mr. Hart, do come in. She is expecting you."

"Thank you..."

"Bouvier. She is awaiting you in the drawing room. At present, she is free of blood and soot. Please see that she is returned in the same state."

"I… I will. I—is it customary for staff to scold guests?"

"Lady Rycliffe is a well-loved employer. There are more than a few of us who would be willing to do far worse than scold." Of course she would be a good employer. It was not as though she could be wretched to her staff or anything else that would make her even somewhat dislikable. There was nothing about her that I could cling to as a balm when this foolhardy endeavor ended spectacularly at my feet.

"Noted…"

"I trust you will have her home at a reasonable hour."

"She is widowed and in her thirties. Also, I don't know that we are intending to leave."

"I fail to see what that has to do with the matter."

"Have you met her? I doubt God himself could take or keep her anywhere she did not wish to be." That earned me a laugh that was poorly covered by a cough.

"She is in the drawing room. This way." Light poured from the windows behind me, casting long beams down the hall. The entry space was open and airy with golds, soft greens, and creams.

I followed the butler to the drawing room. He'd returned to his solemn professional countenance.

He announced my arrival to the occupant with more than due ceremony. Even from the hall, I could hear the smile in her answer.

"Bouvier, I told you I was expecting him and you could just direct him here. Did you use the time to lecture him as well?"

"I would never, madame. That would be impertinent."

"Oh, of course. Send him in, will you? And tea, I think. When you have a moment." He turned back to me with a warning eyebrow, then gestured to the opened doorway.

And there she was, bathed in the afternoon light pouring through the windows. Impossibly, she was more beautiful than the night at Wayland's. With her face unencumbered by a mask, there was nothing to distract from her expressive eyes and button nose. Today, she wore her own gown instead of a borrowed maid's uniform. She was herself for the first time since we'd met. And she was breathtaking.

"Hello, William," she said, forcing my frozen feet into action. Her lips curved into a delicate, pleased smile. At least she appreciated the effect she had on me. If she found it off-putting this would be a very unpleasant afternoon.

"Good afternoon, Celine. I brought you these." I thrust the flowers, clasped too tightly in my hand, toward her in the least gentlemanly manner possible. Gone was the easy familiarity brought by danger and darkness. In its place, an awkward solicitor with ink still smearing his wrist.

She stopped a few feet from me and tugged the flowers gently from my grasp.

"Irises… Thank you." Her voice was thick as her eyes widened and welled slightly with tears.

A poor choice indeed. I hadn't studied the language of flowers—what on earth had I given her? I made to pull them back, but she refused to release them.

"I am sorry. Are you not fond of them? I do not know flower meanings. Are they offensive?"

"Not at all. I love them. It's difficult to explain. But they're good. Trust me."

"But you're crying. I've made a right mess of this."

"No, no. I talk to Gabriel sometimes. The way you talk to Adriane?" She flicked the tears away, drawing an elegant finger beneath her lashes to collect the last of them. "He used to bring me irises, and I had them planted near him. It feels a bit like permission. But I'm always assigning meaning where there is none. At least when it concerns him. It is surely a lovely coincidence, nothing more."

I was not quite certain how to feel about that. It seemed a bit doltish, bringing her the same flowers as her late husband. And being compared to Gabriel in anything was sure to find me wanting. But… permission. Permission for what? That was certainly an inappropriate question.

"Truly, William," she assured me. "They are my favorites. Well, anything purple."

Purple, that made sense. She wore purple that night, and she wore it now. And the room around us was draped in purples, mixed with the same soft green from the hall. I could remember purple.

She returned to her place on the settee near the window, leaving me with the awkward choice of chairs placed slightly too far and the space at her side, far too close. Coward that I was, I chose the chair.

"I'm glad you like them. How are you feeling? Are you well?"

"Quite. Only a few bumps and bruises from our adventure. Nothing too serious."

"Bruises? Where? How bad are they?"

"Well, the worst of them is right here," she said. She pointed to the slope where her neck met her shoulder.

There, faint and small, was a red mark. What had happened in the fight to cause that? Was that truly the most serious of her injuries? I glanced up and caught green eyes full of mirth I couldn't explain.

"I suppose it's lucky that is the worst of it."

My comment was met with a feminine giggle. Clearly I was missing something.

"William, that one is from you."

"What?" I could not recall hitting her accidentally last night. When did that happen?

"When you were kissing me…"

"Oh! Oh no. I am so sorry, Celine. Believe me, I had no intention of marking you…"

"Do not apologize, it made me laugh. Though I did have to wear a fichu to visit Mama, and I despise those. I suppose you may apologize for that."

Asking what a fichu was seemed to be the wrong course of action in this situation. "I am truly sorry."

"It is no matter. Speaking of my mother… She wishes to meet you."

She wished… But that meant… "You told your mother about me?"

"It was more that she looked at me and knew. But I would have gotten around to mentioning you before I left. It just would have taken longer."

"What did she say?"

"That she wants to have you over for supper. Or that I could host if I preferred. Is there a day that would be best for you? Or, I suppose, would you be interested in dining with us?"

Did I wish to dine with her mother? Not particularly. It sounded like an unusual form of torture. "I am available at her convenience. But was she not… concerned about my situation?"

"Oh, not at all."

Every time I thought I understood this woman... Certainly she misunderstood. "Celine, surely she was not pleased. She understands I am not titled, and I have no lands or property?"

"I told her you were a solicitor. That you worked with Kate's brother. She was pleased that you know the value of hard work. The implication being that courting me might be difficult work. I found the notion somewhat insulting, though not entirely inaccurate."

"She knows that I am a solicitor? Does she think I am an earl like Kit?"

"Not at all. She merely wishes me to be happy. It is not so complicated as all that."

Such a stance went against everything I had ever known about the beau monde. Oh, there was the occasional member of the ton who was pleasant enough. But that certainly did not extend to courting a member of their family. Adriane's family had been landed gentry, not even titled. It hadn't stopped her father from slamming the door in my face at the mere mention of a courtship. Celine's mother could not be encouraging this.

"There are no distant uncles to leave me their fortune. No titles to be found anywhere."

"I promise I've not misunderstood this. Please, would you join us for dinner? It would mean a great deal to us both."

Her lower lip dipped out in the slightest pout and I was finished. "Of course, if it would make you happy." Though, perhaps I could take up drinking before the evening arrived.

"It would, very much. Thank you. How are you feeling? You received a hit or two."

"My ribs are a bit sore, nothing terribly painful."

"I am glad of it."

The butler arrived with a tea tray in hand and placed it on the mahogany table in front of us.

"Thank you. Please have these brought to my rooms?" She handed him the flowers from beside her. He bowed, overly formal, and tossed a warning glare in my direction before sweeping out the door. "Oh, Bouvier. Would you be a dear and close the door, please?"

"Madame?"

"The door, if you please."

The glare turned from disapproving to murderous. It was in the eyebrows, it had to be… But he bowed in acknowledgment and shut the door behind him with a decisive, judgmental click.

"You didn't have to do that."

"I know," she said. "Sometimes I just like to make his eye twitch." Her laugh joined mine, bright and easy. "How do you take your tea?"

"However you take it is fine. I'm not particular."

She studied me, her eyes narrowing slightly. "It's just tea, William."

With a heavy sigh I answered, "Three sugars and a splash."

"Was that so difficult?" She plopped the sugars into the delicate cup one at a time before tipping the perfect amount of milk, and then making her own. Two sugars and a healthy pour. We would go through far too much sugar if we?—

Too fast, much too fast.

"It's good, thank you." I spoke before taking a sip and she raised a brow. Rather than commenting, she turned to the plate of tarts.

"Which do you prefer?"

"Hudson's?"

"Of course. Which tart would you like?"

"It's no matter."

"There are plenty of all the flavors. Pick one."

"Blackberry, please." She settled it on the plate before taking a lemon one. That was the one she chose in the office that day as well. Lemon, remember lemon.

"I know what you're doing. You should know, it won't work on me."

I was doing something? "I don't know what you mean?"

"You think if you have no opinions or preferences that inconvenience me in the slightest that I will keep you around longer. I am an expert on the subject."

"Who would wish you away?"

She smiled, catching her lower lip between her teeth to stifle it. The effort was ineffective, it still warmed me all over.

"You did, yesterday if you'll recall. And you're not alone. When Mama and I came from France, we had only what we could carry and sewn into our clothes. We relied on charity for years before her mother passed and left us an inheritance. I became very good at being exactly what everyone else wished. Retaining the favor of whoever took us in for as long as possible was how we survived."

"I didn't think… I am sorry for mocking your accent, when we met that first time."

"I did not realize you recalled that much."

"I remember the breeches. Quite clearly."

"Do you know? I still wear them quite often." She timed the comment perfectly with my sip of tea.

I nearly choked trying to keep from spitting the sweet brew out with my laugh. "Where? When? How?"

"Here, usually. I prefer to practice my fencing in them."

Would it be worth selling my soul to watch that? Probably, but best not to ask. "That explains why you were so good with the umbrella, and so annoyed by the skirts." She took a dainty bite of the lemon tart in agreement. "Rycliffe taught you to fence?"

"He did."

The question was there. Waiting. The one that hadn't been explained away last night. "Why… why did you think I killed him?"

She sighed heavily. "With Gabriel, I tend to react first and think later. Much later on occasion. I did not remember that I saw you the day before he passed. At the races, you caught my gaze across the field. Seeing you again at the masquerade sparked the memory. In a fit of pique, I went digging through some of his papers. I found a note that I thought was from you, calling him out. And I… that was all I needed."

"He died the next day? I didn't know. We were to meet later in the week."

"About Adriane?"

"Yes. I was hoping he could put the title to some use. Get her a proper burial. Was right furious when he never came. Until I heard..."

"He would have. I think he would have. He— I know you hated him. And I know that what he did to her was unforgivable. But he really did regret it."

"Think this might have to be a thing we agree to disagree on, love. You said there was a note?"

"Yes, in his things. He was involved in some… less than ethical dealings. I took the secondary ledgers and anything else he would not have wanted his father or Xander to see."

"You… you have a secondary set of books?" And now I recalled why I found her so infuriating. "With information in them that may have gotten your husband killed. Does anyone know you have them?"

"Well, Xander as of earlier this week. And now you. You think they had something to do with Gabriel's death?"

"It's possible. And this note?"

"It just said ‘Hyde Park 6:30, W .' But it looked as though the writer might have been left handed."

"May I see it? And the ledgers? I… If there is something in there that was worth killing over, it is perhaps worth consideration."

She hesitated, and for a moment I thought she was not entirely certain that I hadn't killed her husband. But then she said, "Yes. You won't tell Xander about what you find? Gabriel would not have wanted his brother to know this side of him."

"I won't."

"All right, they're in the study. Bring the tarts?" I grabbed the tray at her direction and followed her down the hall to the last room on the left.