Camille placed the invitation in her skirt pocket. “I’ll leave tomorrow morning.”
Madam nodded. “Good. Come here, to the club, before you go. I’ll arrange transportation and proper attire.”
The mention of attire made Camille wince at her current worn ensemble. She’d never gotten a chance to peruse the ready-made shop. Not that a mass-produced dress wouldn’t stick out like a weed in the rosebush.
Camille cringed. At the mercy of proper ladies. Even in the less formal setting of the country, she’d never fit in. Three dayswould be an eternity without a single woman to talk to who’d understand her circumstances.
Camille brightened. “I have a favor to ask.”
Madam startled. “A favor?” She recovered with a knowing smile. “An official one?”
Camille rolled her eyes. “You may subtract one of the favors you owe me if you can arrange the letter arrives to its destination today.”
Madam couldn’t hide her interest. “A letter? To whom?”
Camille hesitated. No matter what would happen between her and Renard, she had no real right to interfere with his life or family. But the desire, the need to reach out, wouldn’t abate, and it hadn’t since the first time Renard had mentioned his sister.
Camille reasoned, it wasn’t reallyshewho would reach out anyway.Dianawas a warrior’s name, a strong name of a woman who didn’t back down, and Camille needed all the strength she could muster to spit in etiquette’s face and force an introduction.
She pressed a fresh sheet of parchment to the desktop. “I need you to send a letter to a lady.”
Dipping the quill in the ink blot, she marked the return address care of the bakery off Fleet Street, though the place had been out of business for some time. Boarded up except for a neat trap door only a handful knew about, the storefront was one of the Merry Men’s safehouses and any mail addressed to Camille would go straight to the Cock ’n Hen tavern.
She penned the intended recipient’s name, a sense of rightness settling over her.
To The Lady Charlotte Louis:
Camille tried out the name before she wrote. “My name is Diana...”
She bit her lip and wracked her brain for a surname. Smith? Wilkenson? Every name sounded like a governess with a hooked nose, and Camille knew how much the lady loved those.
Camille glanced around the room, her gaze falling on the chair by the fire, a pillow embroidered with a fat, striped bee across the front. She smiled at the harmless image and wrote her opening greeting.
My name is Diana Yamsbee, and I hear you are a woman in great need of an adventure...
Chapter Eighteen
Camille had riddenin a proper carriage twice in her life. The first at the age of ten, on a day of many firsts and with uncommon joy. The second had not been so joyous, nor as long in duration. Despite her impeccable memory, the devastation of that night had been over in an instant, the carriage ride being the highlight of the evening.
She settled into her third and, hopefully, second-to-last ride upon her exit from London. Madam’s personal victoria was too fashionable and ridiculous to take the entire twelve miles into the country. But a representative of the Pony must arrive in style, and Madam’s usual closed carriage was needed in case of emergency, and discretion.
The passing of industrial buildings into dust-covered road and green grass was disconcerting. She’d spent her entire life surrounded by the grey smog and cold stone of the city. The open horizon with its blue skies and untouched beading of morning dew over the road left her exposed in a manner she rarely allowed. No wonder highwaymen were so successful. Without the continuous oppressive presence of smoke and people, one could quite easily fall into peaceful complacency.
At least the incessant bumps from the cobblestone streets had lessened to an occasional terror of a dip in the road. Camille was grateful for the driver’s calm demeanor and seeming expert hand, but at this slow trot, they’d make the Quickners’ countryseat well after dinner. If Camille were a more suspicious person, she’d say Madam had deliberately slowed her pace to keep her away.
But shewassuspicious, and the older woman had been hiding something.
One of the wheels bounced over a divot in the road, which Camille felt from tailbone to jaw.Stupid, worthless,cleanroads.Too much more jostling and she may be sick.
“You all right back there, miss?” the driver asked.
Camille smoothed her skirts, the ridiculously starched monstrosity Madam had forced her into, and called up her affirmation.
“With the fine weather, we’ll be there in no time,” he said. “Not to worry.”
Camille wouldn’t pout. Even if the driver’s good-natured optimism grated. Especially as her only view of the man revealed fair curls escaping his hat. Not interested in any reminders of Renard and how they’d parted ways, she forced her attention back to the picturesque scenery and went over Madam’s instructions for her meeting with Lord and Lady Quickner.
“Upon arrival, you will introduce yourself as an ambassador of the club. No word or discussion of business will be allowed until the following evening. You are to take your meals in your room until that time. When Lord Quickner invites you to discuss business, you will decline. When he invites you to the nightly festivities, you will decline. Wait until Lady Quickner approaches you. You will exchange one envelope for another and make your departure.” At which time, Madam had handed Camille a crisp envelope.
