Chapter 7 - An Explanation of Mary

An Earl and an Orphan -

A serial novel by Sue Jamieson

Wednesday, May 10, 1769,10:00 a.m., Antoine’s Study, Beaufort Mansion, London

The only sounds in the room were rustling skirts and a scraping of chairs. No one spoke as they all settled in. Mary, Morgan, Damaunt, her mother, her father, and Quinn sat in her father’s study at the Beaufort’s mansion in London. The doors were closed and servants told they were not to be disturbed. An air of expectation vibrated in the room.

Mary liked this room. The scents of beeswax candles and the walnut oil that made her father’s massive desk glisten, the leather-bound books that lined the walls, and the mural on one wall of a pastoral scene, a landscape of soothing, pale greens and blues. The room soothed her frayed nerves.

“Antoine, let’s begin. I’ve much to do."

“Of course, my dear Elizabeth. Welcome all of you. Thank you for coming, Quinn. I welcomed you into this family two years ago. You’re as familiar with Mary’s situation,”— he waved a hand toward all of them —“our situation, as our immediate family is. We're going to keep as close to the unfortunate facts as possible leaving out sordid details. Elizabeth was heavily sedated with laudanum during the birth and for a period of time afterward. I wasn’t present during the birth.”

Her mother nodded. “Of course you weren’t.”

Mary couldn’t tell if Mother meant to be snide or in agreement. Her father ignored the remark.

“Mary’s abrupt arrival in our family after an eighteen-year absence has created a need for subterfuge and obfuscation.

“The scandal this could cause? Unspeakable.”

Mary winced at her mother’s words. There it was, said out loud. To the family, to Mother in particular, she was a situation, a scandal, something that had to be hidden. Her mother fanned herself with one hand. Mary bit her lip and held back tears. She would not cry about something that was not her fault.

“It’s a complicated secret. For a secret to remain so, it has to be kept simple and as close to the truth as possible. We’ve claimed Elizabeth always had a niggling feeling”—he tapped his finger on his temple—“that she'd had triplets, not twins. She believed she'd seen an infant picked up and placed in a basket, but with the laudanum ...?" He shrugged. "With the exception that we're claiming triplets, not twins, the story is the truth."

Quinn spoke. "Laudanum can cause hallucinations. That can leave one with a sense of uncertainty, wondering what is true and what isn’t. It would have been reasonable that Lady Beaufort would want a private investigation."

“You’ve studied the effects of certain anesthetics. Laudanum for reducing pain and causes hallucinations. The soporific sponge, an anesthetic that renders a person unconscious. I remember.” Damaunt had spoken in a muted, choked voice and reached for Morgan’s hand.

“I needed to know what was being used on the women and girls I found. What to expect when … or if, they revived. The sponge soaked in opium, mandragora, and hemlock juice among other substances was the most common. And deadly.”

“At least, all I experienced was confusion and a miserable headache.”

“My dear Morgan, I can’t bear to think about what that insufferable blackguard, Randall, tried to do to you. I thank the stars Damaunt and Quinn saved you from that … monster. We digress. Back to Elizabeth’s ordeal and Mary’s abduction. We need a story.”

Damaunt spoke. "There aren’t any staff left at Billingsley who were at the birth who could contradict the story."

"Correct. Our story is, Delilith, the healer midwife, was thought to be a little odd.”

Mary’s chest squeezed at the mention of that woman, her nemesis, the reason behind all of this family drama.

“She was a despicable, evil, dangerous woman.”

“That’s an understatement, Mary.”

Father raised his hand, a gesture to stop before she and Morgan got started about how much they despised the woman.

“Agreed. Delilith was all that and more. But for our story, we’re going to say she was odd. Our story will be she was alone in the room for the delivery of the third infant, Mary. She had a superstitious belief that triplets were a bad omen. Thinking she was saving the family from misfortune, she took her away and left her at the Foundling."

Mary shivered. She’d heard the story of her birth and abduction before, but hearing it again triggered feelings of sadness, for herself, for her parents, for Morgan, for Sarah. Poor Sarah, she’d lived an unknown lie, too. Life could have been, should have been, so much better for the family.

Her father continued, “I have a reputation for hiring investigators. I’ll suggest I believed Elizabeth's memory of a missing babe was compelling and had been investigating for years.”

Her mother’s eyes blazed. She choked out a laugh. “As we know, you had been investigating the disappearance of a certain young woman for years. For an entirely different, very personal, motive.”

Her father’s face drained of color. Through tight lips, he said, “Elizabeth. Enough. That has nothing to do with what we’re discussing now.”

Mary and Morgan glanced at each other. Morgan shook her head and rolled her eyes. An awkward silence prevailed for a few moments.

“As I was saying, fastidious work by private investigators uncovered where Mary had been placed. I’m sure I don’t need to remind anyone here to leave out Lady Morgan's part in the search for her sister. There is to be no mention of visions and communication between twins. People can be so cruel. Suggestions of madness and such."

Morgan snapped, “Those mad visions are what led me to Mary.”

Her mother huffed, “Visions that led to your own abduction by those miscreants. Your behavior could have ruined your reputation. Our family’s reputation. The scandal you ….”

She stopped and looked at Mary. She smoothed her skirt and straightened the lace cuff on her sleeve.

“Of course, without Morgan’s visions, you wouldn’t be here with us, Mary. We’re grateful. And we must never speak of how it came about. Ever. I will not tolerate nonsense about visions.”

Father cleared his throat. “Yes, indeed. We have an explanation for this sad situation. But … for the sake of this family’s reputation, I insist that we not talk about it. Never bring up Mary’s background. If the topic comes up, deflect. It’s to be as if it never happened that Mary suffered through the unfortunate experience of living as an orphan at the Foundling Hospital.”

Her mother added, “That’s only sensible. We must avoid a scandal. At all costs. We’ve had more than our fair share of scandals in this house.”

Her father frowned and shook his head in warning to her. “Yes, Elizabeth. Point taken.”

Glaring at him, her mother’s lips pinched together. She twisted her wedding ring, a habit when annoyed, which seemed endless. If a mood of being annoyed were a law, hers was an endless flame of perpetuity.

“Mary, the circumstances of your sudden arrival in our family require my search for a suitable husband for you outside of England. Our dear Sarah was fortunate to have wed Count Esposito in Italy.”

Her mother sniffed. “Italians are so … Italian. He’s pompous and has a reputation. Italy is far enough away it doesn’t reach us here. Thank heavens.”

Her father shook his head, looked at the ceiling, closed his eyes for a moment, then spoke.

“I made inquiries while in France and have heard from someone who might prove suitable for Mary. Lord Pierre Fontaine will arrive within a fortnight.”

Her heart dropped into her stomach like a stone. Father had already found someone? In France? Damaunt and Quinn exchanged looks of surprise. Morgan gasped, “Papa, how could you? You’re going to send Mary away?”

Before Mary could ask her father to tell her more, her mother stood.

“If that is all, Antoine, I must begin preparing Mary for Lord Fontaine’s arrival.”

Mother must have known. She hadn’t said a word to her.

Her mother turned to her with a scowl on her face. Of despair? Frustration? Both? Mary couldn’t tell, but it didn’t bode well for her.

“Mary come to the music room at once. We’ll begin with the pianoforte lessons. Every young lady should know how to play and sing. I do hope you have a pleasant singing voice.”

“Now?”

She’d seen a look pass between Quinn and Damaunt when her father mentioned Lord Pierre Fontaine. Did they know him? Who was he? She wanted to ask her father. This was her life they were planning. Didn’t she have a choice, a say in the matter?

“We haven’t a minute to waste.” Her mother took her arm and marched her toward the door.

Chapter 8 - Quinn Worried

Wednesday, May 10, 1769,11:30 a.m., the grounds behind Beaufort Mansion, London

Quinn fought the urge to press Onyx into a headlong gallop across the field behind Beaufort’s stables. Onyx sensed Quinn’s agitated angst, the wild energy surging through him after the meeting in Antoine’s study. The big horse snorted and pranced, ready to run, not walk. Quinn wanted to pound something, someone, anything. A face, a stomach, a tree, it didn’t matter as long as he could beat it to a pulp.

Damaunt, silent with his own thoughts, rode beside him on his horse, Viking. Quinn sucked in a deep breath and blew it out of his mouth. He tugged the reins and stopped under a large maple tree. A startled crow flapped out of the leaves, soared above the tree, then flew back and perched on a low-hanging branch next to him.

Quinn liked crows, one of the many things he had in common with Mary. The crow tilted its head sideways and focused its black eye on him, studied him, ruffled its feathers, and stalked a few inches further away. Damaunt had stopped, and waited next to him. He dismounted and pointed to a large, flat rock under the tree.

“Let’s sit.”

Quinn stared at the ground in front of him for a minute, then swung off Onyx and sat down next to Damaunt. Hunched forward, he yanked up a blade of grass, and with an elbow on each knee, he spun it between his thumb and fingers.

“Poor Mary. We have to help her, Damaunt.”

“You flinched when Antoine mentioned Fontaine. You know him or of him?”

Quinn nodded, leaned back against the tree, pulled one knee up, and dangled his hand on it while he twisted the grass.

“Early forties. He’s old enough to be her father. What is Beaufort thinking? It’s none of my business, I know, Damaunt, but …. Lord Pierre Fontaine is not right for Mary.”

“Tell me what you know.”

“I met Pierre Fontaine in Paris a few years ago. Cormac Byrne was on my heels in England. I had to hide in France. I was in disguise as Lord Quentin, a nobleman from France with properties in Scotland. It was one of my more complicated ruses. For it to work, Pierre Fontaine needed to know who I really was and who I was hiding from.”

“I envy your chameleon capabilities, but not the reason for them.”

“I’d prefer to be myself and not have to worry about stepping out of character in a careless moment, find myself with a pistol against the back of my head. Fontaine is pleasant enough. Widowed and says he’s content to remain so. No children. He’s the second son of Lord Jules Fontaine and his third wife, Lady Camille Escoffier Fontaine.”

“Sounds as if you got to know him pretty well.”

“Not really. He’s a braggart and a bore. Loves to talk about his vast wealth and his roots in southwestern France with ties to wine vineyards on both the paternal and maternal sides. He also talks about the love of his life, his longtime mistress, the reason he moved to Paris after his wife died. He’s an enigma. A bit of a recluse, yet a non-stop talker when in a social situation.”

“Doesn’t sound like a match for Mary.”

“For the life of me, I can’t see why he’s expressed an interest in traveling here for a bride. Maybe he’s broken it off with his mistress, or she died, or whatever.”

“My father-in-law generally investigates people before he makes a decision. He investigated me. Unless he’s changed, he won’t force Mary to wed someone she doesn’t want to. We have to trust her. He allowed Morgan to choose.” Damaunt smacked Quinn’s arm. “Look at the fine decision she made in me.”

“Insufferable, arrogant, dull-witted boor.” The crow cawed, a raucous sound. Quinn laughed. “The crow agrees. Good sense of character.”

“I seem to have a predilection for poor choices in friends. You being a case in point.”

“My charm, wit, and superior intelligence are too much for you?”

“I can tolerate you in small doses. We’ll just have to wait and see what happens with Fontaine. Antoine will listen to you if you have qualms about him or anyone.”

“He’ll listen to reason, I’m sure.” He flipped the mangled blade of grass onto the ground and snorted. “ Lady Elizabeth, on the other hand? She’d marry her off to anyone with a pulse. Ship her off to the colonies, if she could. Or Africa or China. Talk about insufferable.”

Damaunt nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“That was rude. I have no right to make remarks about your mother-in-law.”

“Unless you made her your mother-in-law. We could share notes. It could be endless amusement.”

Quinn shook his head.

“Can’t happen. Back to the question of who might be appropriate for Mary. Any suggestions?”

“Lord Fredrick Bentley?”

“Gambler.”

“Lord Michael Spencer?”

“Womanizer.”

“Lord Gabriel Talbot?”

“Too old.”

“Lord Benedict Rumford?”

“Very funny. He’s twelve.”

“He’s not a gambler, a womanizer, or too old.”

“Give him time and he’ll be all three if he’s anything like his grandfather. This is serious, Damaunt. Mary’s happiness is at stake.”

“And yours, it seems.”

There was truth to that. He felt it in his gut. It hurt.

“My happiness plays no part in this, thanks to Cormac Flannery Byrne, the sod. Damn his rotten soul. How much longer until the bounty is off my head? Will it ever be? I’ve eluded him and his henchmen for over five years. How much longer will my skill and luck hold out?”

“Rue the night you killed his brother.”

“I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Only this time, it wouldn’t be an accident. He wouldn’t fall over the banister in the middle of a fight and break his sorry neck. I’d snap it for him. A young, innocent girl died in my arms because of them. Because of the sleep sponge they’d used on her.”

“You saved others. It’s not consolation, but….” Damaunt shrugged.

“I’m glad I’ve saved some lives. Will I ever be able to live my own?”

Chapter 9 - Music Lessons

Wednesday, May 10, 1769,11:30 a.m., the music room, Beaufort Mansion, London

Mary sat at the harpsichord with hands clenched in her lap to stop the shaking. Her mother sat beside her, straight and stiff as a fence post. Treble clefs and music notes on the opened Well-Tempered Clavier, Book One, in front of her swam before her staring eyes like roiling minnows in a pond. Ticking from a longcase clock in the corner sounded loud and demanding in the strained silence.

“Tell me about Lord Pierre Fontaine.” Her words, wheezed through a dry throat and mouth, hung in the air. She eased a shallow breath into her tight chest and waited.

Her mother sighed, a long sigh, as if resigned, and then spoke.

“I can’t say, really.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

Mary raised a hand to her lips, an involuntary move to stop a spew of questions she felt forming in her spinning mind. She hadn’t meant to blurt that. Her mother’s intake of breath at her impertinent question alarmed her.

An image that surfaced in her mind alarmed her more. On the music sheet, a blurry image appeared of two men, identical, who stood beside each other. One man faded, as if a ghost, and merged into the other. The image lasted an instant, no more, an instant that made her heart pound in her ears.

Who were the men? The blurred image made their faces unrecognizable. Were they twins? Had one of them died? As the pounding eased, her mother’s voice filtered in.

“That’s what little I know about Lord Fontaine, Mary. You’ll have to be patient. I’m sure it will be fine. Now, let’s see how you do with Bach’s preludes and fugues, an excellent way to practice and hone your skills.”

What skills? She had none. At the Foundling Hospital, she sang with the choir. In a moment of reverence, she’d once floated her fingertips along the keyboard of the organ and felt the cool, slick surface of the ivory keys. She hadn’t pressed hard enough to make a sound for fear she’d have her fingers smacked by the choir director or, worse, end up in the attic for a time of reflection on misbehavior. The attic was a place she’d never wanted to be locked up in again. Once was enough.

Her mother poised her arched fingers over the keys and waited. What had she missed that her mother had said? She dared not ask.

The clock ticked. Time to change the subject, ease the tension, and focus.

“At the Foundling—“

Her mother gasped.

“We agreed not to speak of your past.”

“Even with family?”

“It’s best to instill good habits at home.”

“I have a rudimentary knowledge of music theory, no experience with a harpsichord, and have been told my singing voice is passable if in accompaniment with others.” At her mother’s perplexed frown, she said, “I sang in a choir occasionally.”

“We’ll work on your singing voice this afternoon. Hands above the keyboard like this.”

After an hour, Mary improved her touch from plunking fingers to dancing fingers. To her surprise and delight, playing the harpsichord soothed her. Focusing on the music concentrated her mind so that no other thoughts intruded. She enjoyed the lesson and looked forward to more. Her mother heaved a sigh, her disappointment obvious, snapped the music book closed, and stood.

“Enough for now. My head is pounding. I fear you have much work to do, but you’ve demonstrated the ability to improve. That’s reassuring.”

At the tepid praise of her performance, Mary nodded. She looked forward to coming in and practicing on her own.

“Thank you for the lesson, Mother. I quite enjoy playing the harpsichord. I’ve always wanted to play an instrument. I look forward to more lessons.”

“That’s nice, dear. I’m afraid that our time will be better served focusing on things that can be accomplished in a fortnight. I don’t mean to be unkind, but you would be the only one in the room who enjoyed listening to you play the harpsichord.”

If that transparent insult wasn’t unkind, what was?

“Of course. I’m being foolish.”

Her mother stopped at the door and said, “Go freshen up, then come straight to luncheon. I’ll tweak your table manners.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“Afterward, we’ll have a brief rest, then proceed to the music room again for voice lessons.”

The insufferable tedium of voice lessons held no interest for her. Watching paint dry would be more interesting.

“I promised Morgan I would meet her. We plan to ride. She hasn’t had—“

“I’ll have a note sent over telling her you’re occupied. You and I have a lot of work ahead of us to make you acceptable in society. You have a lot to learn. I shudder to think how I’ll accomplish this miracle in such a short period of time.”

“Yes, Mother.”

She did want to see Morgan and ride Aine, but she’d seen the look on Quinn’s face when her father mentioned Lord Pierre Fontaine. She wanted to talk to him. What did he know about Fontaine?

Her mother whirled around and peered at her.

“What about watercolors? Have you ever used them? Watercolors are essential for a lady’s repertoire of skills.”

“At the Foundling, I ….” An instant frown on her mother’s face reminded her not to speak about the orphanage. “My study of art is limited, but I did use watercolors a few times. I rather enjoyed painting, but cannot say I have a talent for it. My blue skies looked muddy green. Perhaps with practice?”

“Needlework? Embroidery or tatting?”

Mary shook her head and bit her tongue to keep from blurting she’d spent most of her time peeling potatoes and scrubbing floors until her hands bled.

“You said you sing?”

Her mother looked as if her whole body was pinched: eyebrows pinched together, mouth pinched, clasped hands pressed against her stomach as she stared at Mary. Her pleading eyes were an odd mixture of despair and hope.

“Yes, Mother.”

Her mother nodded and left. At the Foundling, Mary had heard a clique of girls say she sounded like a moaning cow when she sang. She didn’t know if they were just being unkind, as they often were, but hadn’t liked to sing in front of anyone since she’d heard it.

She sighed. This was hopeless.

Chapter 10 - Lord Fontaine Arrives

Friday, May 26, 1769, 11:00 a.m., Beaufort Mansion, London

Lord Pierre Fontaine’s coach had been sighted by a Beaufort footman. The news of his lordship’s imminent arrival caused a flurry of activity to prepare a grand welcome. Lord Antoine Beaufort and Lady Elizabeth Beaufort hustled and harassed everyone on the staff into a welcome line on the front steps of the Beaufort Mansion. Mary stood between her two parents.

Her father, dressed in elegant finery befitting his aristocratic heritage, patted her arm and said, “Soon, my dear girl, we’ll meet Lord Fontaine and test his mettle.”

“You haven’t met him?”

Her voice had sounded like a squeak; she was shocked. He shook his head, smiled, and patted her arm again.

“It will be fine. You’ll see. Reports about him have been … reassuring.”

Meanwhile, her mother, oblivious, fluffed and tugged Mary’s skirt into an arrangement that suited her.

Mary lifted her face to the sky and basked in the warmth. It was a lovely day, clear, and sunny. Birds sang and splashed in the birdbaths and fountains. The area was redolent with new roses and freshly mowed grass. She inhaled a deep, slow breath to quiet her chattering mind and quaking knees.

Her parents had not met the man for whom she’d spent her every waking moment the past two weeks enduring relentless lessons in etiquette, endless dress fittings, and practicing how to walk with a book balanced on her head. New gowns, shoes, fripperies, and jewelry stuffed her armoires, chests, dressers, and jewel caskets. Her head ached from thinking about her every word and gesture.

Her mother had kept a tight leash on her, monitoring and criticizing her every move. The most unsettling, cruelest command was that she was forbidden to ride Aine. Her mother didn’t ride, so didn’t understand the joy and freedom of riding a horse. She forbade Mary to ride Aine as 'not fitting for a lady of quality.’

At the approach of Lord Fontaine’s coach, she, her father, her mother, and all the main house servants lined up to greet him, stood hushed and still. Two men sat on the bench seat in the front of the coach, a sleek rental painted maroon. A hulk of a man sat next to the driver. Both were dressed in livery made of a dark brown fabric. The driver wore a white wig. His companion’s dark hair was pulled back and tied. The big man jumped off the seat with the grace of a cat to open the coach door.

Lord Pierre Fontaine stepped out of the coach and scanned the mansion and grounds before shifting his gaze to the waiting Beauforts and servants. Shocked, Mary laughed, then clapped a hand over her mouth. The man wore a blond bouffant wig with long curls that draped over his shoulders, a pale blue silk jacket and trousers, white silk stockings, and three-inch high black leather shoes with gold buckles.

Without looking at the big man, Lord Fontaine said, “Flint, get the bags. Don’t let them out of your sight.”

Flint stepped onto the back of the coach and began untying the bags and setting them on the ground.

Her mother whispered, “Very French. He makes a statement. The cut of his jacket is exquisite.”

Mary choked back a laugh. “He won’t get lost in a crowd.”

Her father coughed, a warning to both of them to shush. In an undertone, he said, “The valet looks like a dockworker and moves like a fencer.” He stepped onto the driveway and walked toward Lord Fontaine to greet him and bring him to her and her mother.

Except for his attire, his appearance was ordinary, average height, average build. She’d once heard a woman describe a person’s face as forgettable. Lord Fontaine fit that description. There was nothing unusual about his features. His face would go unnoticed in a crowd. Perhaps that’s why he outfitted himself in such an outlandish fashion.

Unsmiling, he held his head slightly elevated as he walked toward them. Dizziness washed over Mary when she looked into his pale brown eyes. For an instant, he disappeared before her eyes, then reappeared. She blinked and shifted her gaze to the safe spot at the top of his nose to steady herself. At her father’s introduction, she reluctantly presented her hand, as she’d been drilled to do by her mother. He air-kissed her glove and immediately turned to her father, dismissing her, for which she was grateful.

“Lord Beaufort, it is with pleasure to meet you. We have much to discuss. My time is valuable. I will be here for two days, three at the most. Let us take care of this business.”

Her father looked stunned.

“Quite so. Follow me. We can speak in my study.”

This business? As if she were a commodity? Mary knew in her bones, she didn’t like him. There was no way on this green earth that she would consent to marrying that arrogant buffoon.

“Well. That was most unusual. But we mustn’t make judgments. We’ve just met the man.”

Not make judgments? Her mother’s lack of self-awareness and hypocrisy knew no limits. Far be it from Mary to mention how judgmental her mother could be.

“Now, upstairs with you to rest. Don’t come down until teatime. You don’t want to appear overly eager.”

“Eager would hardly describe what I’m feeling, Mother.”

“Before you come for tea, change your gown. I think the aquamarine would be most suitable. And have the maid do something with your hair. Something with a bit of flair, but not overdone. We must save the elegance for this evening’s dinner.”

Mary bit back a complaint about having to change so often. The practice seemed a foolish waste of time. She knew it would be futile to tell her mother she had no intention of wasting a moment on Lord Fontaine.

She would tell Father as soon as she could. He would listen to her. Wouldn’t he?

Chapter 11 - Fraud or Not?

Friday, May 26, 1769, 8:00 p.m., Beaufort Mansion, London

Quinn arrived at the Beaufort’s city mansion with Morgan and Damaunt for the informal dinner. They were to meet Lord Pierre Fontaine this evening. The foyer blazed with candles and wall sconces, lighting the way into the equally ablaze parlor. Quinn liked the decor in the foyer. The pastel gold silk wallpaper above the dark walnut wainscoting was an elegant combination. He liked everything about it except one of the huge paintings hanging on the wall. Lady Elizabeth had once noticed Quinn looking at it and explained it had been painted when the family lived in France.

As always, his gaze was drawn toward the stilted, life-sized family portrait. Lord Antoine Beaufort was posed, standing behind Lady Elizabeth. His hand was on the back of her chair, near her shoulder, but not touching her. His gaze was focused away from the painter, outside of the frame, as if wishing he were somewhere else. Lady Elizabeth gazed unsmiling at her lap, where she held a closed Bible. Lady Morgan and her sister, Lady Sarah, were eight years old when it was painted. They each sat perched on low stools that looked uncomfortable and both looked toward the painter with frozen smiles on their faces.

The painting lacked joy, spontaneity, and life. It also lacked Lady Mary, the unknown sister, the unknown daughter, stuck in an orphanage in England. He heard the rustle of a gown and footsteps. Her laughter brushed up the back of his neck, light as a butterfly’s wing, and danced across his heart — Mary.

He turned and watched her descend the stairs. Thunderstruck by how beautiful she looked, his chest squeezed. She was stunning. At the bottom of the stairs, she glided toward them with a grace he’s never seen before. A rose-pink gown highlighted her porcelain skin, full pink lips, and rosy cheeks. Her raven-black hair was swept up into curls held in place with combs studded with garnets. The red gems reflected the light and created a radiant halo over her head.

With a laughing smile and with her eyes focused on Quinn, she floated toward him, curtsied with a grace that would have pleased the queen, and extended her gloved hand to him. Under the watchful eyes of an amused Damaunt, he brushed a kiss on her knuckles. Damaunt no doubt knew he’d like nothing more than to pick her up, carry her upstairs, and kiss every inch of her.

“Lady Mary, don’t dawdle in the foyer. You have a guest.”

At her mother’s command, Mary rolled her eyes at Quinn, and turned to follow Morgan into the parlor. Damaunt slapped Quinn on the shoulder.

“Buck up, soldier. Get ready to fight for that one.”

Mary and Morgan swept across the floor, side-by-side, giggling. Mary glanced over her shoulder at Quinn, then back at Morgan. They both laughed. Ever vigilant, Lady Elizabeth swept in between them, took each of them by the arm, and marched them across the room to a loveseat.

“Fear not, my Irish friend. Morgan is skilled at getting around her mother and eager to teach Mary how to navigate the maternal storms.”

Quinn snorted. “Infernal, maternal storms, I’d say. Speaking of storms, let’s see what Lord Antoine has conjured in with Lord Pierre Fontaine.”

As soon as Quinn and Damaunt stepped into the parlor, Quinn saw the Frenchman standing near the fireplace talking with Antoine. Damaunt nodded toward the fireplace.

“I assume that’s him. You should ask him where he gets his wigs. That style would look good on you. I can picture you as a blond.”

Quinn laughed.

“That’s him. I’ll get the wig maker’s name so you can shoot him. I’m going to watch Fontaine for a few minutes before I approach him. He looks the same as he did a few years ago when I last saw him. His voice sounds deeper.”

“Maybe hoarse from the sea voyage.”

“Maybe. Or too much wine and other spirits.”

Quinn walked toward Mary, who had gotten up and stood gazing out a window into the dark night. At his reflection in the glass, she turned toward him with a blazing smile. He stopped midway across the room, quelled his urge to go to her. As much as he wanted her, he had no right to her. He needn’t have worried. Lady Elizabeth, ever astute, had seen him walking toward Mary and intervened. It was uncanny how that woman could interfere. She took Mary’s arm and moved her away from the window.

Quinn glanced toward Fontaine, who was watching the drama unfold. Did he see the eager look on Mary’s face when she saw Quinn? The flinty look in his eyes and his tight lips showed he had. Fontaine turned his head toward Quinn and scanned him from head to toe. His face was inscrutable, showing no sign of recognition, not a twitch in his cheek, not a hint of a smile, nothing.

Antoine motioned Quinn over. Before Quinn could say anything, Antoine said, “Lord Quinn Dylan O’Dubhghaill, Earl of Dubgharran.” He gestured toward Fontaine. “Lord Pierre Fontaine here from Paris. I believe you’ve met before. I’ll let you get reacquainted.”

With that brief introduction, Antoine walked away. Quinn saw the wary look that flashed in Fontaine’s eyes, eyes he would wager had never seen him before tonight. He waited for Fontaine to speak first. Fontaine’s brown eyes narrowed into a squint as he scrutinized Quinn.

“We meet again?”

Fontaine’s words and his suspicious eyes sought information. Quinn had no intention of providing any.

“Indeed. Our encounter in Paris was memorable. Perhaps we’ll have time to talk about the things we did, people we saw?”

The Frenchman shrugged, as if bored.

“You’ve had the knowledge with the Beauforts for some time?”

The change of subject wasn’t lost on Quinn. The poor English caught his attention. ‘Had the knowledge with’ the Beauforts? English wasn’t Fontaine’s native language, but the Lord Pierre Fontaine he knew was fluent in English.

“I’ve known Lord Damaunt for years and was introduced to the Beauforts by him when he was courting Lady Morgan.”

“The lovely lady who is Lady Mary’s twin sister, I’ve been told. Beautiful women, wouldn’t you say?

“Any man with a pulse would say so?”

“Antoine and I discussed terms of courtship with Lady Mary.”

Quinn’s hands balled into fists at his side. Fontaine pointedly looked at his fists, raised an eyebrow, and smirked. The temptation to rearrange Fontaine’s face tightened Quinn’s jaw. He loosened his hands, stretched his fingers, and crossed his arms on his broad chest. Six-foot-one, flat-footed, he stood a head taller than the Frenchman in his three-inch heels and out-weighed him by three stone. Quinn had more hardened muscle in one forearm than Fontaine had in his entire body. Fontaine looked away and tugged at the lace cuff poking out of his jacket sleeve. Quinn let the uncomfortable silence hang between them before he spoke.

“It seems sudden. Paris … amenities no longer hold your interest?”

“What can one say? Paris is Paris. Rude, boring.”

It was equivocation, not an answer. Pierre Fontaine had referred to his mistress as a ‘Paris amenity’ at a dinner party Quinn attended. Fontaine’s mistress, seated at the table, found it amusing, as did the others who were present. The comment had generated a bawdy, memorable conversation about the delights and vagaries of amenities in Paris. Barroom banter by drunken dockworkers was less distasteful than what he’d heard out of the mouths of Fontaine’s dinner guests.

“I suppose you could say the same about Scotland.”

“I disagree. I admire the Scots.”

Quinn narrowed his eyes. Who was this man? The reference to Scotland was a deliberate attempt as a segue for Fontaine to follow-up on. Pierre Fontaine loathed the Scots, expressing nothing but disdain for them as uncouth barbarians who deserved to be subjugated to the English. He and Fontaine had had lengthy debates about the Scots at the Frenchman’s mansion.

“Do you? I’d forgotten. When I was in Paris, you mentioned you’d been to Edinburgh a time or two.”

Fontaine’s eyes flicked to the side. He’d picked up on Quinn’s bald-faced lie about Edinburgh. Quinn, as a master of disguise, had once experienced having his own cover blown. It had been visceral, felt in the jaw, heart, gut, and knees when it happened. Were the flick of the Frenchman’s eyes and a tic in his jaw signs of a blown cover?

Who was this man? Why was he after Lady Mary?

Chapter 12 - Dinner Ruined

Friday, May 26, 1769, 8:30 p.m., Beaufort Mansion, London

Mary had successfully avoided Lord Pierre Fontaine the entire afternoon. Or he’d avoided her. She wasn’t sure, didn’t care. To Mother’s disappointment and irritation, and to Mary’s transparent delight, the Frenchman had not shown up for afternoon tea. Perhaps he didn’t enjoy the custom. The first time she’d seen him since his arrival was his appearance in the parlor prior to dinner.

“Morgan, I cannot abide that man. Something is off about him. I feel it. If I have to sit next to him at the table, I’ll stick a fork in him.”

“Sneak in and see where Mother has placed him. I’ll distract her while you’re gone.”

No one was in the dining room when Mary peered through the door. She skirted around the table, looking at the name cards. As she feared, her mother had seated her next to Lord Fontaine. She was having none of it. She switched cards. Morgan would find it amusing to be seated next to the Frenchman.

She scooted back to the parlor and sidled in while her mother’s back was turned. Morgan laughed when she told her what she’d done.

“Mother will be incensed, but she won’t make a fuss in front of Lord Fontaine. I don’t know what Papa will think, but he won’t say anything until afterward. Need I ask who you seated yourself next to?”

Mary couldn’t hold back a smile. She glanced at the handsome man in conversation with Lord Fontaine, who looked like he’d just chewed on a lemon. She wondered what that was about. For a moment, she feasted her eyes on the enigmatic Lord Quinn O’Dubhghaill. She scanned him from head to toe. Everything about him, his bearing, his voice exuded power and confidence. He was ruggedly handsome, a wild creature with the grace of a wolf. She’d thought about him all night, had feverish dreams about his dark eyes and low voice.

“Quinn, of course. He’ll be entertaining.”

At that moment, her father announced to the group that dinner was ready to be served. Quinn and Damaunt crossed the room toward her and Morgan. Her father, mother, and Lord Fontaine walked toward them. Damaunt took Morgan’s arm. Lord Fontaine stepped toward Mary, who side-stepped and touched Quinn’s arm. A subtle smile tugged his lips. He lifted his arm to escort her to the dining room. She hadn’t looked at the Frenchman when she did it, but she heard her mother’s gasp. She would hear about this faux pas for the rest of her life. Feeling Quinn’s forearm under her fingertips made it worthwhile. As they walked through the doorway, she glanced up at him. His brown eyes twinkling, he winked at her.

She gave her mother a smile and a little shrug as she stood in front of her name card, as if she had no idea why she was seated where she was. Her father sat at the head of the table. She sat near him. Damaunt was across the table from her, and Quinn sat beside her, across the table from Morgan. She had placed Lord Fontaine’s name card next to Morgan at the end of the table near her mother. Perfect. Mary was surrounded by three men she liked and as far from the buffoon from France as possible.

She glanced at Lord Fontaine after they’d all been seated. His pinched face and narrowed eyes mirrored her mother’s face. Clearly, they were both annoyed. So be it. She was content.

Throughout dinner, the conversations had been between Damaunt and her father, while Morgan had engaged with her mother and Lord Fontaine. Quinn appeared to be listening to Lord Fontaine, but he didn’t join in the conversation. Mary listened to everyone, but said little. She was content to be next to Quinn. She could feel the warmth of his arm and thigh near hers.

Quinn whispered, “I detect a wee bit of ire at the end of the table.”

“I’ve described myself as a toad in the punchbowl in the past. I won’t ever call myself that again. A true toad is seated next to Morgan.”

“I won’t tell Damaunt you think he’s a toad. He’d be offended.”

Mary snorted a laugh. “That’s not who I meant and you know it.”

“Oh, you mean the wee beastie at the end? I think he looks more like an Old English Sheepdog. You can hardly see his weasel eyes under that monstrosity seated on his head. I fear it’s alive.”

“So, he’s a toad, a dog, and a weasel all in one.”

“You’re being kind, Lady Mary. I can think of some unflattering —“

Mary had just taken a sip of wine. She laughed and sputtered wine onto the table. When she grabbed her napkin to dab at the wine on her gown, she knocked over the half-filled glass of claret. At the collective gasp from Morgan and her Mother, she reached for the glass and knocked her plate into the middle of her lap.

No one spoke. Quinn handed Mary his napkin. Her father dabbed his own napkin into the puddle of wine on the table. Mary’s face felt hot. Her hands shook. Laugh or cry? She was on the verge of both. She did neither.

She stood, curtsied to the wall and said, “Please excuse me. I need to change my gown.”

Morgan said, “I’ll go with you.”

“Morgan, sit, please.”

At her mother’s command, Morgan sat. Mary fled.

Chapter 13 - Katydids Sing

Friday, May 26, 1769, 11:30 p.m., Beaufort Mansion Veranda, London

Quinn had been watching for Mary, hoping she would come back. He wanted to talk to her about his concerns about Lord Fontaine. An opportunity to talk with Damaunt or Antoine hadn’t been possible yet. Lady Beaufort had conscripted Morgan to play the harpsichord and sing. Lord Fontaine had planted himself next to Antoine and Damaunt. Quinn stood in the doorway behind everyone and leaned against the doorjamb.

Her footsteps crept up behind him. He knew it was her before she reached out and touched his arm. The scent of her, the lavender and rose and essence of her filled his senses. She stepped in beside him and touched her forefinger to her lips. He nodded and stepped out of the doorway into the hall with her.

She reached for his hand and pulled him down the hall toward the French doors leading onto the veranda. Quinn stopped her at the door and shook his head.

“Stay where we can be seen.”

She shook her head and yanked him out the door. The night air felt refreshing after being in the music room. The distant sounds of the harpsichord and Morgan’s sweet voice were joined by the sound of katydids singing to each other.

“The last thing I want is to be seen.”

“Talk to me, Mary.”

“About what? The mess I’ve made of everything? How I’ve embarrassed my family and myself?”

She sounded close to tears. He wanted to wrap her in his arms.

“Talk about something else. Tell me about your trip home from Ireland.”

She backed up against the railing, crossed her arms, and looked up at him. He stood with his back toward the house. Half of her face shone in the pale light from the windows. The other half was in his shadow. A hint of a smile turned into a snorted laugh.

“Ah. The coach rides from White Haven to London. The noise was deafening. Wheels creaked. Hinges squeaked and groaned. Hooves pounded. The coaches swayed and swerved and rattled. It was exhausting, but not boring.

On the last coach of the journey, when we reached the cobblestone streets of London, no one spoke. The outside noise of the horses’ hooves and the vendors hawking on the streets inhibited conversation. A bored, slouching young man breathed through an open mouth across from me and brushed his bony knees against mine as if by accident — repeatedly.”

“I’d like to see him and smack him for you.”

“I thought about smacking him. The woman next to him feigned benevolence with a demure smile on her face while she clacked her knitting needles and fumed in a fit of constrained fury. Her husband sat next to her and chewed on an unlit pipe, in deference to the “no smoking” sign in the coach. He worried about what awaited him at the next stop, unaware he should be more worried about being stabbed with a knitting needle by his furious wife.”

“Pleasant passengers. And you knew all of their motivations how?”

Mary looked away, unwilling to look into his eyes.

“You know very well how. Passengers packed like pickles in a crock, with their own private thoughts and inner visions. Or so five of them believed. Their thoughts and images filled my mind to the point I could hardly think myself.”

“And that is happening to you more often.”

“It’s incessant and getting worse. I don’t know how to stop it. I close my eyes and it doesn’t help. I know Gretna said I should use these gifts. It doesn’t feel like a gift. If feels like a curse. Even my dreams are no respite from the noise and images.”

“Do you feel anything about Lord Fontaine?”

She looked up at him, searched his face. As she looked at him, he realized she couldn’t see his expressions on his shadowed face. Maybe that was a good thing. He for sure didn’t want her to read his mind.

“The last thing I want to talk about is that man. Maybe sometime. But not now.”

Fair enough. He wanted to talk with Damaunt again for certain. Soon.

“Did you sabotage this evening?”

“Did I purposely ruin my exquisite gown and set myself up for Mother’s censure for the remainder of my life?”

“Point taken.”

Neither spoke for a moment. A slight breeze rustled the leaves of nearby trees, wafted the scent of roses into the night air. The scent of her drifted in waves toward him. She walked away from him toward the end of the veranda where there were no lighted windows. Annoyance and excitement sparred within him. Like a magnet, here presence drew him to her.

“Lady Mary, this is not appropriate. You … we should not be out here in the dark.”

Quinn, kiss me. Now.”

Rendered speechless, he stared at her.

“I’ve never been kissed properly.”

He stopped himself before he made an ill-advised query about being kissed improperly. She hadn’t. Viscerally, he knew that about her.

“My lady….”

“Don’t ‘my lady’ me. It’s me. Mary. I’m twenty and have never been properly kissed.”

He couldn’t breathe. A spear of jealousy pierced him. Maybe he was mistaken about her.

“Have you been improperly kissed?”

He knew the answer to that before he asked. He needed to ratchet down his emotions.

“I grew up in an orphanage, worked … slaved for the Grigstons, then spent almost two years at your estate with armed guards everywhere to protect us. I want you to kiss me.”

“Why me?”

“I assume you’ve had lots of practice, so you know what you’re doing. And you’re safe. I’m safe with you.”

“Mary, safety aside, it’s not proper. It’s not right. One of these days, you’ll find the right man for you who will kiss you and ….”

“I don’t want ‘one of these days.’ I want to now. Kiss me. Please.”

She stepped toward him, pressed herself against him, chest to chest, thighs to thighs, and pulled his head toward her. He hesitated a breathless moment, then brushed his lips gently against hers and pulled away.

“That’s it? I’ve been waiting for months, years, to be kissed, and that’s it? What’s all the fuss and smirking about with the ladies twittering around the ballroom?”

His eyes had accustomed to the dark. He saw the glitter in her eyes. Mirth or excitement, he couldn’t tell. He wrapped his arms around her, cupped her bottom, lifted her up and kissed her as his toes curled in his boots. He pulled his head back and rocked her side-to-side.

“What are you thinking, wild Irishman?”

Her voice was soft. She’d never called him that. He liked it. It was how he felt. Wild.

“The chatoyant shimmer in your blue eyes lights my soul. You are the song in the rivers, the dance in the flames, the sigh in the winds.”

He kissed her again and set her down. She kept her arms wrapped around him and pressed her cheek against his chest. His chin rested on her head. He could scarcely breathe. His heart pounded. He hugged her tighter and breathed in the scent of her, lavender, rose, woman. He’d never felt so happy. He’d never felt so miserable.

If only.

“Lady Mary, you have my deepest apologies and profound regret for my behavior. I will never speak of it. Your reputation is safe. You, however, are most assuredly not safe in my arms.”

He took her arm and turned to lead her toward the door. He flinched. She gasped. Lord Pierre Fontaine and a Beaufort footman stood in the doorway. How long had they been there? What had they heard and seen?

Antoine Beaufort was going to have his hide, and Damaunt was going to fillet it. Rightfully so. Lady Mary had undoubtedly been seen, and her reputation was now compromised.

Fontaine stepped onto the veranda and gave Quinn a cool look, but said nothing. The footman stepped around him and, with a bow, handed a note to Quinn. He recognized the Bow Street wax stamp, flipped it open and scanned it. Quinn had met with Constable Higgins that afternoon and told him where he would be.

The note was an urgent request for Quinn to come at once. The runners had cornered Lord Cormac Byrne and three of his men. During the fight, one man was killed. It’s unclear if it was Byrne. Quinn is needed to identify the body.

Higgins knew what Byrne looked like. Why did he need Quinn to identify him? Was Cormac Flannery Byrne truly dead? Was Quinn now a free man?

“Lady Mary, I must leave at once. I have to find Damaunt first.”

Lord Fontaine stepped forward, presented his arm to Mary, and gave Quinn a flinty look.

“Lady Mary, perhaps you would join with me a few moments in the gazebo. The evening is young.”

Join with me?

Quinn tightened his grip on Mary’s arm, a warning. He didn’t know if Fontaine had spoken an innuendo. He’d heard far worse from the Frenchman in Paris. Or was it an example of poor grammar? In either instance, he didn’t trust the man.

“That’s kind of you, Lord Fontaine. It’s been a long day. I’m going to retire early this evening. Shall we, Quinn?”

Fontaine bowed. “As you wish, my dear lady. I do insist you call me Pierre. I look forward to seeing you tomorrow. We’ve had so little time to get acquainted.”

Quinn steered her into the house. He would have to wait until tomorrow to talk to Damaunt and Antoine and make sure Fontaine didn’t have the chance to get acquainted. Right now, he needed to find out if Byrne was dead. If so, he was free.