Waving her hand dismissively, she climbed into the high-canopied bed. A housemaid had slipped in with a copper bed-warming pan while Lady Pomfret was having her heavy white-lead makeup removed; the servants of the house had learned well the lesson of being unobtrusive.
Christa turned out the lights and banked the fire so it would burn through the night. Leaving the bedchamber, she was assailed by the gloomy feeling that it was going to be very difficult to like Lady Pomfret.
Christa was bone tired by the time she reached her bleak room. She was lucky to have any kind of private chamber, but as she looked at her cheerless surroundings by the light of the one candle stub allowed, it was much harder to be enthusiastic about her new adventure than when she had contemplated it at Radcliffe Hall.
Swallowing hard, she whispered fiercely, “I willnotfeel sorry for myself! This is not for always, and I can survive it very well.” But when Christa slipped into the lumpy, narrow bed, it was a long time before sleep claimed her.
* * *
Mrs. Haywood was interviewing a cook—self-described asplain,very good—when her assistant hurried in with a card. “His lordship would like to speak with you.”
Glancing at the card, Mrs. Haywood raised an eyebrow at the elegantly engraved words, “Lewis Radleigh, Earl of Radcliffe.” Unusual, most unusual.
The cook was happy to step outside while the Quality conducted its business; it confirmed her belief that Mrs. Haywood’s Select Domestic Establishment was the best place to improve her own situation.
Mrs. Haywood stood as the tall, fair-haired nobleman entered, noting the remote eyes and tense lips; the man was not here on ordinary business. “This is an honor, Lord Radcliffe. Pray be seated. How may I serve you?”
The earl did not avail himself of the invitation until she was seated. “I am looking for a French girl, a little below medium height, short, curly dark hair, gray eyes, very pretty.”
“This is not that sort of agency, your lordship,” Mrs. Haywood said dryly. “I believe there are houses near Covent Garden that can better fulfill your desires.”
Flushing, he said stiffly, “You misunderstand me. I am looking for a particular young woman who may have come here seeking a teaching situation.”
Mrs. Haywood frowned slightly and said, “All our work is done with the utmost discretion. Even had I seen such a young woman, it would be inappropriate for me to discuss her.”
“Even if she is wanted by the law for theft?” Lord Radcliffe’s voice was wooden.
Mrs. Haywood studied him thoughtfully. She did not know what Mademoiselle Christine Bohnet was about, but she would go long odds the girl was no thief and that this nobleman’s interest was one the chit had no desire to encourage. In a hard world, women must stand together.
The proprietress clasped her hands together in front of her on the desk. “Should you wish servants for your household, Lord Radcliffe, I would be happy to be of assistance, but I fear I cannot help you in this.”
The earl seemed to swell before her eyes and he said threateningly, “If you are withholding information from me, I am sure you realize I have the power to destroy you and your agency!”
Mrs. Haywood held his eyes, unabashed. “I know your reputation, Lord Radcliffe. You are said to be a man of fairness and good sense. Would you really beggar a widow with three children for no reason at all?”
He seemed to diminish and age right in front of her eyes. “No. No, I would not,” he said in a voice scarcely above a whisper.
She felt a trace of pity for him. “Come, my lord, if your mistress has left you after a lovers’ quarrel, give her time to recover her senses and she may return on her own.”
The earl stood, his eyes hooded and unfathomable. “It is not what you think.” Then he turned and left the room, his dark blue redingote swirling wide. Mrs. Haywood watched him, regretful that she might never know the story’s ending.
* * *
Lewis Radleigh sat up late that night in his library, lowering the level of a brandy decanter with workmanlike efficiency. He and his secretary had been separately seeking Marie-Christine throughout the metropolis for the last week. The earl had visited all her friends and relatives himself, but none would admit to having seen her. Watchers set at three of the most likely households found no trace of the girl. Either she had visited none of them or she had a gift for inspiring loyalty that sealed the émigrés’ lips even in the face of substantial bribes.
Lord Radcliffe knew exactly how dangerous London could be for an innocent young girl, and every passing day increased his fears. He no longer knew where to look; between them, he and his secretary must have visited every registry office in the city. Several people thought Marie-Christine had been there; one office gave what appeared to be a good lead. It was a crushing disappointment when it proved to be the wrong woman, another émigré. Other establishments seemed to be blatant procurers, and the earl could only pray she had not fallen into such hands. By this time, the girl might be in a brothel where he would never find her.
Or she could be dead.
The earl swirled the brandy in his balloon glass, watching the candlelight refract through it. Excellent brandy, doubtless smuggled from France. He took a deep draft, no longer feeling it burn as it went down his throat. Lewis suspected that Mrs. Haywood might have seen her, but the infernal woman had judged rightly—the earl could no more injure her than he could have ruined his maid’s family in Berkshire. With Annie, the threat had gotten him the information he needed, but threats hadn’t worked with the more worldly Mrs. Haywood.
Lord Radcliffe was unable to blot out pictures of Marie-Christine—her warmth and good nature, the gray eyes so much like those of Charles and Marie-Claire, her lively intelligence. He would see that laughing face, and then, with gut-wrenching clarity, he would imagine her body violated in some back-street stew.
Burying his face in his hands, he sought to obliterate his inner vision. Alone in his great London mansion, the Earl of Radcliffe wept for what he had done.
* * *
“Get out, you slut! Don’t come back till you’ve delivered those notes. And mind you wait for answers!”
