Chapter Three
F rom across the room, Samuel Gage watched the young woman almost greedily, drinking in the sight of her. He was sure it was her, the young woman who had helped him the other night when the drums had disturbed him so.
Samuel had never felt himself to be a man of poetry—he had no love of the arts and had little cause or concern for the finer tastes of the elite. Not that he belonged among their sort, anyway. He'd much rather hunt, ride, go shooting, or play sport than waste away the hours playing cards and exchanging whimsical niceties over games of whist.
But as the third son of a wealthy landowner, and with his eldest brother, Bartholomew, now happily married, and his second-eldest brother Geoffrey in the clergy, his parents and close relatives had turned their matchmaking eyes on him. But as he reflected sourly and took a glass of red from a passing servant, not even the war had been enough to stop their little schemes and intrigues.
He wanted a simple life, especially now. For who in their right mind would want a man with a hideous scar?
No wonder the other servants, especially that older man, had defended her honor when he had come upon the lot of them loitering in the stairwell. Samuel didn't care that the servants had been there listening to the music; he'd only wanted to see the girl again and perhaps ask her to dance.
Samuel smiled at the thought. He'd surprised himself. He'd seen enough fair and plain ladies' faces at the camp, and he'd never given one girl a second glance over any other. He'd been too busy. But this girl was different.
She was pretty, that was unremarkable. There were many pretty women at the Lyon's Den. But she had a certain elegance in her movements, a lightness that suggested she enjoyed life and had a warm spirit, and her eyes sparkled like stars. At her first smile at him, he'd been done, although he'd refused to admit such a thing. For the first time in a long time, he'd felt like dancing. Something about her face and fair skin that looked blessed by the sun. Her eyes had danced and she had smiled in pleasure at the sounds of the music, which had lifted his heart. They had first met in the stairwell, and it was there he had sought her out again, hoping to meet her by chance.
But never mind. He'd come across that bumbling oaf of a Frenchman and had been promptly rebuffed. He drank a mouthful of wine and swallowed, not bothering to savor the slightly fruity taste. He was a soldier. He was used to a soldier's life, and that meant eating and drinking on the hoof, when there was food and drink to be had. It was a nomadic life, but he'd gotten used to it. Anything was better than spending the days at his family's home, devising ways to escape whilst his mother and sister tried to marry him off to friends of theirs. And it was all thanks to that blasted hill.
He'd been stationed in Portugal. He was one of a battalion of men who'd been sent to take over a hill, and they'd done a night raid. But the French were crafty, and the men had been ready for the English soldiers. There'd been the battle and the hill. He remembered the hard land beneath his boots that crumbled and pebbles sliding loose as he and dozens of other men had stridden and climbed uphill in the darkness, when artillery fire had gone off near him. A blast had come out of nowhere. There'd been the blast, the smoke and fire that had stung his eyes and choked his throat, the thunder and explosion of gunfire and the shower of hard earth that had pelted and blinded him. He'd gasped for breath and coughed, tried to get the grit out of his eyes, only to see the rushing form of a French solder in uniform, wielding a saber and his mouth open wide in a battle cry, slicing at him. Then darkness and pain.
He'd woken up a day later in the sick ward of the military camp's hospital, his left eye heavily bandaged. Once he could walk and had gained some of his sight, he'd been given an eyepatch and sent on leave back to his family's manor in Hertfordshire. But he'd quickly grown tired of the large house and found it stifling, and told his family he'd had enough of convalescing at home. He'd taken a carriage to London and rented a room in a boarding house, when he'd heard about a little gambling den on Cleveland Row.
He didn't like London. Too many people, and the streets were dirty and smelled. He was used to the mass of humanity, the men, but a military camp was structured and orderly—it had to be. Boys dressed in little more than rags, mere street urchins, walked the streets, weaving in and around the steady stream of carts, carriages, horses' hooves, and foot traffic, picking up piles of horse shit and selling it. The smells were what bothered him the most. Weave too close on the wrong street, the wrong alley and the stink of the butchers' from Smithfield market would assail his nose, or from the tanners nearby. He was sick of blood on the streets, although it didn't bother him as much as it should have.
There were women aplenty. He'd never had any trouble talking to women. But since he'd returned from the battlefield, men stared at him for slightly too long than was proper, and women studiously avoided his eye. They dared not look at him and those who did were usually selling something.
The girl who'd spoken to him in the stairwell had been the first kind soul he'd met, the first who hadn't stared at his eye or avoided his gaze. But she was confusing. He was sure he'd first seen her in a maid's shapeless uniform, right down to her pulled-back hair and stiff, white apron. And she'd been in the stairwell with servants enjoying the music. But his eye was playing tricks on him, for he now saw her as clear as day, chatting to a fine lady on the main floor as if she belonged there. Who was she?
He walked toward her, seeing her in a luscious pink dress that accentuated her curves nicely.
Her hair looked soft and silken, and she stood with a self-conscious naivety that made him know she was an innocent. Here was a sweet young woman who had been untouched by men, and she had not been battered by the world yet. He longed to see her smile again, and perhaps even see her bestow a smile on him. It would keep him warm in a thousand cold nights.
He took a step forward, then stopped. He did not know her, and they were not introduced. He looked around for the master of ceremonies but did not see him. Instead, he approached Mrs. Dove-Lyon, who was walking by.
"Mrs. Dove-Lyon," he said.
The woman herself was a striking sight, all in black, with a thin veil over her face. "Ah, Lieutenant Gage. I hope you are enjoying yourself."
"I… Yes. Tell me, where is the master of ceremonies?"
She peered past his shoulder. "Over there. But if there is a young lady to whom you wish to be introduced, I would be glad to help."
"Yes. That woman, there." He nodded toward the girl.
Her face clouded. "That woman is married. That is the wife of Colonel Martin, of His Majesty's Third Battalion."
"No, not her. The young woman with her, her companion."
Mrs. Dove-Lyon's eyes widened. "Oh. That girl."
"Yes. "
Her mouth quirked and her eyebrows furrowed in thought.
"What is it? Is she engaged?" he asked.
"No, she is not. Quite free. But…"
"Tell me. She already has an understanding with another man?"
"So forward, Lieutenant Gage. I did not think you so ready to fall in love." Mrs. Dove-Lyon tapped her chin.
He ran a hand through his hair, then remembered it was in a queue, so managed to dislodge some strands of hair to fall across his face. "I'm not in love. I just… I should like to make her acquaintance." He swallowed and tried to ignore the warm feeling in his chest.
Mrs. Dove-Lyon raised an eyebrow.
"My intentions are honorable, I assure you," he said.
She smiled. "I have no doubt."
"Who is she?"
She looked at him. "She is here as a guest of mine. I do not believe she is looking for a husband."
"Please, Mrs. Dove-Lyon, make the introduction. I would know her name."
His hostess tilted her head, and her mouth quirked again in a smile. "All right. But I warn you, it is not my fault if you do not care for the company."
"What do you mean?" he asked, but she was gone, walking over to the pair of women directly. She spoke in a low, hushed tone that was drowned out by the subtle strains of a harp and pipe that played.
He spied the three ladies conversing and then Mrs. Martin and the young lady glanced in his direction. Her eyes widened and took in the sight of him, her gaze alighting on his uniform and resting on his face, and the angry red scar over his eye. She spoke in Mrs. Martin's ear, and the lady gave an imperceptible nod. It was so slight, he might've missed it if he hadn't been paying close attention. Then Mrs. Dove-Lyon approached him once more. "They will allow it. Come with me. "
She took his left arm in hers and led him over to the pair. He got a closer look. Mrs. Martin looked older, in her early forties perhaps, but she held herself with an air of self-assured confidence. From the flick of her eyes that assessed him from head to toe, she held herself aloof; she'd done this before. She'd clearly navigated her share of assembly rooms, parlors, dances, and fine dinners. She gave him a polite smile and murmured something to her companion.
He barely heard his hostess as she said, "Ladies, allow me to make a little introduction. Lieutenant Gage wishes to make your acquaintance. Mrs. Martin, Miss Cadough, I am pleased to introduce you to Lieutenant Gage, of His Majesty's regiment. Lieutenant, this is my good friend Mrs. Martin, and Miss Cadough."
He looked at her, barely aware that Mrs. Dove-Lyon drifted away without a word. He watched the young woman closely, as her eyes were on the ground. "Pleased to meet you," he said.
"The pleasure is ours, monsieur ," Mrs. Martin murmured.
"You're French," he said.
The young woman's head shot up. Her brown eyes stared at him.
"Yes, I am. Why?" the colonel's wife asked. "You are English. We are together here. Do not tell me you dislike French people on principle? And here I thought you looked more intelligent than that. What a shame." She turned her back on him.
He straightened, sniffed, and tried to keep his mouth from trembling. It had an unfortunate tendency to curl into a sneer when he grew agitated. "I… Excuse me." He turned and walked away, feeling shame, anger, and embarrassment warm his cheeks. The bloody attitude of the woman. And a Frenchwoman, at that. So cold and mocking at the same time.
His hands curled into fists, and he took a fresh glass of wine from a passing servant, drinking fast.
He felt a tap at his shoulder. "What do you—" He whirled around to see the young beauty standing at his elbow. "Oh. Hello. "
"You're being rude," the young woman said.
"What? I…" His face turned red.
"I don't know who you are, but you have no right to behave that way. Mrs. Martin is a lady, and she deserves your respect." Her brown eyes blazed, and he felt an urge to do something scandalous. He wondered what it would be like to kiss her.
She said, "You are a soldier, and I would think a man in the army would know better than to treat women with so little respect."
He uttered, "I'm a lieutenant. What's your name again?" In an instant, he was holding her hand. He paused. He was being rude. She should have offered her hand first and yet here he was, taking her palm as if it belonged to him.
She blinked and looked down at his hand. She gently tugged hers free and said, "Marie Cadough. But everyone calls me ‘Mary.'"
"I'm sorry if I offended you."
"You should apologize to Mrs. Martin."
He glanced at the elder woman, who crossed her arms over her chest. He swallowed. The woman was French. How could he? He took a deep breath and said, "I am sorry."
It was curt, blunt, uncaring. Almost rude. Perhaps it was. But this girl had asked him, and even though he felt nothing toward Mrs. Martin, he did care about what this young woman thought of him. He didn't understand it. He felt drawn to her somehow. He'd apologize for the sky being blue if he thought she'd appreciate it. How strange. And yet he knew that he'd do anything just to see her look at him again.
The woman in question, Mrs. Martin, glanced at him with knowing brown eyes. "I accept your apology. You are a soldier?"
"Yes." He looked down at his red army uniform. It was a dead giveaway. "I am."
"You are a lieutenant?" she asked.
"With His Majesty's Second Battalion, 95th Foot, ma'am. "
"Why are you not overseas?"
"I was stationed in Portugal when I got injured in battle." He tapped his eyepatch.
"I see. So now you are here," Mrs. Martin said.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm on leave."
"And are you local to London?"
"No. Born and bred in Hertfordshire. But I wanted a bit of entertainment and came to London." He turned to the object of his interest. "What about yourself, Miss Cadough? Are you from London?"
She shrugged. "I've lived here all my life."
Mrs. Martin looked at her askance. "But that is not true. Surely, you remember—"
Miss Cadough and Lieutenant Gage looked at the elder woman. Mrs. Martin fanned herself and said, "I'm sorry. For some reason, I thought you had grown up in France. You speak French so well, my dear."
Lieutenant Gage sniffed, then brightened. The girl was educated, which was promising. "I speak a little French, as well as a few words of Portuguese. Was your governess French, Miss Cadough?"
She shook her head. "I never had a governess. My uncle taught me everything I know."
"And where is he? You are not alone?" he asked.
"No, he is around." She took a drink and looked away.
He was boring her, he realized. No doubt she had come here for cards, dancing, and entertainment, like him. Instead, he was interrogating her about her upbringing. They'd only been acquainted for five minutes and he was already making a fool of himself. He ran a hand through his light-brown hair.
"Would you like to dance?" he asked.
Her gaze turned back to him. She blushed and glanced at her shoes. "I did not plan to dance this evening."
"Oh, but you must," Mrs. Martin said. "You are wearing such a pretty dress. I would like to see you dance. Go on." She made a little shooing motion with her hands.
Miss Cadough fidgeted and bit her lip. "All right."
A thrill ran through Lieutenant Gage as he extended his hand and Miss Cadough lightly took it. He led her onto the dance floor nearby and as the strings of the violin and pipe began to play a light, playful tune, he felt an excitement, as this was one he knew well. But to his surprise, she didn't.
He watched her most carefully and realized this was not a dance she knew, which was surprising, considering it was a common tune. She watched him and the other dancers, and he saw her move with an approximation of the right dance steps, but always a beat or two behind.
Her pink dress fluttered like silk against her legs and she moved, and in no time at all, more couples joined them, recognizing the tune. Soon they danced in a line, and the number of dancers grew. Suddenly, a simple dance of two became ten, then twelve. It was fun, it was light, and it was magical. He'd never had so much fun dancing before. But he spotted a mixture of concern and concentration etched on her face, her forehead wrinkled in thought. Perhaps her initial plan not to dance had been due to a lack of confidence, rather than a potential dislike of him as a partner. Hope soared in his chest.
He hadn't danced for a long time. Not since before he'd left England and his mother had been forcing him to attend assemblies with his brothers and his young female cousin. He'd always made sure to escort his cousin and stand up with her whenever she wished to dance, but all too often, her golden, shining hair and sparkling, blue eyes had not been enough to offset the considered unattractiveness of her firm opinions and blunt way of speaking. A family trait, he supposed, and yet he knew she found it hard to find young men with whom to socialize.
He had it easier, for all he needed was to become acquainted with a young woman and ask her to dance. The decision did lay with her as to whether or not she would deign to dance with him, but he knew that he was not considered unattractive by women. And so unless she pleaded a headache or was abominably rude, he had every hope of dancing with whomever he pleased. But maybe his appearance disturbed her. Perhaps this ugly, red gash across his eye would heal soon and leave nothing more than a faint scar.
He got a thrill out of the barest touch of her gloved hand and could feel the slight tremble as she danced. She missed a step and was out of time for the next two beats. He held her hand firmly and gave her a reassuring squeeze. She looked at him with a mixture of embarrassment and gratefulness. Was she nervous? He didn't know. Perhaps she was unsure of the dance steps, or she had a beau watching from elsewhere in the room. Maybe she dancing with him out of pity. All he knew was that he didn't want the dance to end.
But the strings did stop, the pipe player lowered his hands, and the dancing ended. She gave a small sigh of relief, but he spied her smiling, her cheeks flushed bright pink from the exertion. It was a pretty sight, and one he dearly wished to see again. He blinked as if in a dream. He'd never fallen for a girl so hard before. What made her different from any other pretty face?
Marie stood by to catch her breath. After working all day and now wearing a dress that wasn't hers, and which likely cost more than she would make in a year, she already felt anxious. And now this. The dance had been simple enough, but she didn't know any of the steps—and was afraid it had shown. Some of the other dancers' surprised looks and small grins and smirks at her missteps had made her uncomfortable with each passing beat of the music, until she'd been ready to cry and run away. But then the man, the soldier, who had taken an instant dislike to the kind Mrs. Martin, and had been so rude, had squeezed her hand, and she'd looked into his unscarred eye and had known it would be all right. His gaze had been warm and gentle, and she'd known instantly that he didn't care whether she knew the dance or not—he didn't give a fig as to whether or not she knew the right steps. He'd just enjoyed being with her, there in that moment. Her heart gave a little flutter at the thought, and her worries drifted away.
He did cut a dashing figure in his red uniform. He wore his hair long and a bit messy, hanging over his eye. He clearly wished to hide it and the bright-red scar that puckered the skin, no doubt stitched up by a field surgeon in a hurry. But she rather thought it gave him a roguish air. Were all soldiers that way?
But his touch and handling of her had been polite and courteous, and downright civil. He had made no untoward passes at her or asked anything impolite. To her, he'd been more than civil. Did he like her?
She looked at him pensively. Why had he reacted so when he had learned that Mrs. Martin was French? Yes, they were at war, but what was the cause of such animosity? Mrs. Martin was an ordinary Frenchwoman married to an English military man. Clearly, her husband bore her no ill will for her nationality, so why should this man?
She looked up at him, admiring his tall, confident air. He stood of an average height for a man, not too short or too tall. Just right. She could look up into his exposed eye without craning her neck. But what did he want with her?
He asked her for another dance. She agreed, and they danced, but then her eyes caught the solitary figure of Mrs. Martin standing alone on the sidelines, watching. Her smile was polite, but Marie suspected it was just a mask to hide her true feelings .
She felt his gaze on her as she stumbled through another dance, doing her best to mimic the steps of the other ladies, but she was always a beat behind—and distracted. She was not here to dally with handsome soldiers. She had been asked by Mrs. Dove-Lyon to keep a lady company, and she wasn't doing that. The moment the dance ended, she nodded to the lieutenant and walked past, when he said at her shoulder, "Why do you leave? Do you not wish to dance another?"
She shook her head. "I wish to keep Mrs. Martin company. Excuse me."
"But Miss Cadough…" he started.
She turned back to him, her eyes questioning.
"I…" He seemed tongue-tied. "I would not keep you from your friend."
"She's not my friend. She's—" Marie paused. "Excuse me."
She left him to return to Mrs. Martin, who smiled at her arrival. "And here I thought he might steal you away for the evening."
Marie grinned.
"He's watching you, you know."
Marie gave a little Gallic shrug. Mrs. Martin laughed. "That, more than anything, reminds me of home."
"What do you mean?"
"The women I know back home, they shrug off the attentions of handsome men as you do. There will always be another handsome man wanting to take them to dance or pay them attention like the lieutenant. They may seem careless with their affection, even when they care very much." She raised a knowing eyebrow.
"You determined all that from a shrug?" Marie asked.
"It was a very good shrug, my dear." Mrs. Martin's eyes sparkled with amusement and she took Marie's arm. "So, you have stolen the heart of the young soldier. Who next?"
Marie gave a little laugh. "I have no wish to steal men's hearts, Mrs. Martin. "
"Why not? Is that not what young ladies do to pass the time?"
"French ladies, you mean."
"Yes. But you are French, so it is the same thing."
Marie's smile faltered. She was gazing at her shoes, when she looked back up at Mrs. Martin. "I think here in London it is not so good to be French. I'm sorry that man was so rude. I don't know what made him act that way."
Mrs. Martin gave her an easy smile. "It is easily done. These English, they are so quick to take offense. No one can take a little joke. It is all so serious. But I find the men are very honorable and loyal. And oh-so-handsome. I love a soldier in uniform, don't you?"
Marie blushed. "I don't know many soldiers."
"Well, you know one now. And he seems quite taken with you." She glanced over Marie's shoulder.
"Is he watching?"
"Yes. Although now he pretends not to. I do not think he has stopped gazing at you since you left his side on the dance floor. The poor man. He's besotted, I'd say."
Marie shook her head at Mrs. Martin's teasing. "Nonsense, he can't be. We've only just met." Then she realized, of course, she had met him before.
"What? Your face says something different. You know him?"
"Yes, I met him briefly the other night. The noise from the drums troubled him."
"Ah. That is not uncommon amongst soldiers, especially those who have been in battle. Now tell me… I am new to this country. I have a modiste and a charming husband, but at these little dinner parties, all the Englishwomen stare at my dress and jewels and turn up their noses at me."
"And the men?"
"The men are worse. They all think I am some English rose when they meet me, then when they hear my accent, they think I am a French whore my husband picked up whilst in camp. They speak of me like a prize thoroughbred, and over cards one night, more than one man lost his head to wine and made improper advances." She tossed her head, her dark curls whipping around her shoulders. "As if any drunkard would have a chance with me. I love my husband."
Marie smiled. "I wish I had someone like that."
"I have no doubt you will. But you interest me, my petite friend. If not toying with men's hearts and minds, what do you like to do?"
"Cook."
"I beg your pardon?"
"I love to cook. To make dishes and try new flavor combinations. I think there is beauty in a rich, red wine sauce that shines in the light and tastes like velvet."
" Mon dieu , you are a chef. Who knew?" Mrs. Martin smiled in delight. "Well, in that case, you must make some French dishes for me. I miss our food from home, but now that I have met you, I will not worry."
Marie grinned. "I would be happy to cook for you, Mrs. Martin, but I…" She looked down. How to tell her new acquaintance that she was nothing but a maid?
"What is it? Something troubles you, I can tell."
"I…" She did not want to hurt Mrs. Martin's feelings, or ruin her evening by revealing her occupation. What would the woman think if she were to learn of Marie's background? She could see telling her, only for the woman to grow cold and walk away. It would crush Marie, to be rejected so.
She'd never really had a real friend. Growing up, she'd played once or twice with Miss Hortense, the daughter of her employers, but as soon as Mrs. Campbell had found out, she'd separated them and told Marie's uncle to keep her in the kitchens, or they could find another employer. The mistress had also employed a governess to take care of Miss Hortense's education, so the two girls had rarely seen each other since.
Now Marie felt the beginning of something when she reflected on her new relationship with Mrs. Martin. It was like the hard kernel of a chestnut before it warmed and was roasted by the fire at night. She did not want to crush something so delicate, so new.
She turned to Mrs. Martin. "Nothing. It is no matter at all. Now, tell me of France. What are your favorite dishes? I'm sure the cook below would let me cook some for you."
"Below? With those servants? Non. It is simple. You will come to my townhouse or I to yours, and we will cook together. I have not gotten flour on my hands in a while, but I am no stranger to the kitchen." She held out her gloved hands and laughed, a rich sound.
Marie smiled and instantly felt grateful for her gloves. The moment Mrs. Martin saw her hands, reddened and tough from years of work, she would know Marie was no delicate French ingenue.
They spent the rest of the evening chatting, until Mrs. Martin's husband came to collect her. Mrs. Martin said, "Ah, Richard. You simply must meet my new friend, Miss Marie Cadeaux."
The colonel, a stout, round man with an impressive, grey, curled mustache, bowed and raised Marie's offered hand to his lips. "A pleasure. Enchanted."
" Enchantée ." The French word came unbidden to Marie's lips, and the colonel's eyes widened as he smiled. "Another Frenchwoman. How wonderful. I have no doubt you and my wife will be great friends."
Marie bobbed a quick curtsey as he released her hand. She stood by and wished to give a little wave as they left arm in arm, when a firm hand took her arm and a stern voice said in her ear, "What do you think you are doing?"