After the Kiss (6 page)

“It will not do, my dear boy. This ball is one of the premier events of the season.”

“If we could only entertain at Setton. It is so much larger than
their
country house,” Charlotte said.

“Whose house?” he asked, frowning.

“The Kittridges, Michael,” Elizabeth supplied. She smiled at him and then looked away when their mother frowned at her.

The animosity that existed between his mother and Helen Kittridge dated from their first season. The other woman had been a reigning beauty at the same time his mother had been presented. The two had considered each other rivals from the first. Nor had the antipathy eased over the years. Sally Kittridge, Helen’s daughter, was the same age as Charlotte, a case of history repeating itself. Perhaps that was the reason his mother was desperate to get them all married advantageously—to outdo Helen Kittridge in this one matter.

“The Kittridges have entertained twice as often as we have, Michael. Your sisters are so much more attractive than that Sally girl.”

“Their house is much larger than ours, Mother,” he said patiently. “Is it your plan to buy another?”

“Could we?” She looked hopeful.

He restrained his comment by a hair’s breadth and merely shook his head.

His mother had already hosted two large events this season, and he had paid for both of them without a comment. Plus, his sisters had spent enough to outfit the whole of England, and he’d not said a word. But this last extravagance seemed excessive. Especially in view of their last quarter’s expenditure. His temper was nudged up a notch.

“Instead of increasing the guest list, would it not be better to shorten it?” A sensible notion, one his mother did not seem to understand.

“Do not be boorish, Michael. It is doubtful all who are invited will attend. Even if they did so, people ebb and flow through these events all the time. One guest leaves, another arrives.”

“So you would have us provide food and refreshments for how many?” The ball in question was taking on the look and feel of a military campaign.

“I would stop below a thousand, surely,” she said.

“How much before a thousand?”

“Eight hundred,” she said, and frowned down at him.

“Make it three hundred,” he said, irritated, “and I will not cavil on the cost. More than that, and the money must come from somewhere. Either from your annual allowances, or by avoiding next season altogether.”

Ada gasped. “You would not think to oppress us by keeping us at Setton, Michael.”

“The choice is yours to make, Ada,” he said with equanimity.

“I doubt that Sally Kittridge’s brother is as mean as you!” This from Charlotte. He simply sent her a look that stifled any further complaints.

“Very well,” his mother said, evidently recognizing just how far he could be pushed. “Three hundred.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “But I do hope, Michael, that these economies will not continue for long. You are taking steps to ensure that fact?”

“In due course,” he said, realizing that time was against him.

As annoying as they were, they were his family. He was bound by his honor and his duty to protect them, even if it meant sacrificing himself upon a matrimonial altar.

The irrefutable fact was that he was going to have to marry an heiress. And soon.

P
enelope occasionally remained in the cottage during the girls’ lessons. They had come to look upon her as another teacher. While her experience in the classroom might be lacking, she made up for it with uncommon common sense. Today, however, she was intent upon attacking the lean-to in the back of the cottage, clearing it of debris and making room for the chickens that Margaret planned to purchase soon.

Margaret collected the slates from Dorothy, smiled her thanks for the help, and stored them in the bottom drawer of the cupboard.

A moment later, she stood at the door of the cottage and said farewell to the girls.

“I want you to practice your m’s and n’s, Hortense,” she admonished. “There are two hills in an m.”

The girl nodded and smiled shyly.

“And Dorothy, you’re not to read more than an hour with only one candle. The strain will hurt your eyes.”

There were no books in their small, improvised school, but Margaret had devised a system to address that problem. Each girl must pen one story per week, but instead of Margaret grading it, she was to hand it to her reading partner to judge. That way, not only was a spirit of cooperation developed among the girls, but reading, writing, and composition practice were encouraged.

“Yes, Miss Margaret.”

She smiled at the title. They had adopted it quite easily after having heard Penelope address her as such.

The smallest of her charges, little Mary, smiled a gap-toothed grin at her. “Can we go to the Standing Stones tomorrow, Miss Margaret?”

The Stones were huge gray monoliths so old that they appeared to be part of the earth itself. The circle of stones had obviously been made by man, however. The granite blocks had been chiseled into rectangular shapes and erected on the hill behind the cottage. Sometimes Margaret and the girls climbed there in order to view the scenery below, or for a change of locale in which to have their lessons.

“I will be away tomorrow, I’m afraid, Mary,” she said, cupping her hand gently around the little girl’s face. “I must go to London again.”

Five faces stared up at her in disappointment.

“When you return, then?” Nan asked.

“If everyone does well on their sums, yes.”

“Barbara cheats. I’ve seen her. She writes the answers on her sleeve.” Margaret glanced at the speaker.

Of course. Abigail. The girl stared narrow-eyed at Barbara, who only stared back at her open mouthed.

“She’s telling a fib, Miss Margaret,” Barbara protested, turning away from Abigail.

“Am not,” Abigail sneered.

“You are. I’m not a cheat,” Barbara said fiercely.

Margaret stepped between them before Abigail could reach out and pull the other girl’s hair. She patted Barbara on the shoulder, frowned at Abigail, and sent them both on their way.

Once the rest of the girls were gone, Margaret moved the table to a spot below the rafters, and standing atop it, touched the edge of the strongbox and pulled it to her inch by inch. Slowly she lowered it, then set it on the table before jumping down.

The money from the sale of the first
Journal
would be enough to last her for some time if she was careful, but there was not, regrettably, enough for luxuries.

Penelope had left London without hesitation, accompanying her to Silbury Village even though her future was uncertain. The past two years had been difficult ones, but through it all they’d shared their friendship. She could not let the occasion of Penelope’s marriage pass without marking it with a gift. There was, however, only one way she could afford it—to sell the second book earlier than she’d originally planned.

A week ago she had written to the Earl of Babidge again and asked if he would be interested in buying the second volume. His enthusiastic assent had been forwarded to her from Samuel a few days ago.

Margaret wrapped the book and set it on the cupboard.

The anticipation she felt was unwarranted. Of course the Earl of Babidge knew the man called Mon
traine. He had been a guest at his ball, while she had been an interloper. But there was no reason for her to ask about him or ever see him again. They had shared an enchanted moment upon a dark terrace, but it was never to be repeated.

She should not think of that night. It had been an improvident act, one of recklessness. Margaret admonished herself even as honesty surfaced. She wished they had kissed.

The gear slipped, but failed to engage. Michael softly swore and adjusted it again. This time it slipped into the grooves properly. The softly whirring sound as he turned the crank was proof that it was properly aligned.

Michael stood over the table in his library, his mathematical engine in pieces before him.

He considered himself fortunate to have been of service in his life. Not only to his family, but to his country. He was proud of his accomplishments and especially of the machine he had devised. The engine was an invention intrinsically his. The creation of it had started with a thought, a theory. Could the more mundane duties of code breaking be performed by rote?

He had begun by duplicating a clock’s mechanism, using the interconnecting gears as both a means of movement, and with a metal key, a method of propulsion. At first, the engine was little more than a rudimentary abacus. He’d punched out the numbers one through ten on a series of individual cards of heavy vellum. When two of these cards were inserted into a slot, small slate blocks on which numbers had been incised were turned over until the proper sum was displayed.

His plans for developing the engine further changed the day he began adjusting the alignment of the inner and outer gears. He’d taken the engine apart, held the gears in his hands, rotating them slowly while an idea occurred to him. The teeth of the smaller gear was half the size of the larger, which meant that it would have to turn twice as fast. What if he numbered the smaller gear and added letters to the outer? A certain series of rotations would have to occur before each number and letter would be used again. That number of rotations could serve as a cipher key. The result was not a code solving machine, nor an abacus, but an engine that wrote ciphers.

He’d tested the codes by asking his other Black Chamber associates, through Robert, to attempt to solve them. So far they had not been able to do so.

The knock on the door of Michael’s library was followed almost instantly by the sight, not of Smytheton’s somber face, but the rather agreeable one of his closest friend.

“If you’re working, I will return at another time,” Robert Adams said.

Michael smiled invitingly. “I’ve put that blasted code of yours away for the moment,” he said.

“Instead, you’re working on something much less abstract,” Robert said, coming to his side.

Their friendship had begun as boys. Setton was not far from Robert’s boyhood home. They’d cut across fields and woods to meet each other, played Knight and Saracen, Roundhead and Cavalier on the old ramparts of Robert’s home, raced through the labyrinth of Setton’s corridors and hallways.

They had known each other too long and too well to be impressed with each other’s consequence, even if Michael was now earl and his friend a force to be
reckoned with in the government. The fact that Robert was unknown for the most part did not dilute his power. It might, in fact, have enhanced it. His title was innocuous and subservient, Junior Secretary of Foreign Affairs—designed, Michael suspected, to mask the degree of influence Robert actually wielded. One of his duties was acting as head of the Black Chamber.

Another knock interrupted them. Smytheton appeared carrying a silver salver. “There’s word for you, sir. This came by messenger.”

From the disdain in Smytheton’s voice, Michael could well imagine the messenger’s appearance. No doubt one of the small boys often pressed into service. Not clean but quick.

Michael took the envelope from the tray.

“I vow that man could peel the paint off a wall with his frown,” Robert said, grinning when the door shut behind Smytheton.

“Smytheton doesn’t suffer fools gladly. I think I’m the only person he likes, and even that is conditional.”

“At least he’s younger than Peterson. Does the old man still work for your mother, or have you pensioned him off?”

“He’s determined not to retire until Smytheton does,” Michael said.

Peterson had his nose out of joint because Smytheton hadn’t acquired his post in the same fashion he had, coming up through the ranks. Smytheton was not disposed to like many people at all and simply ignored Peterson’s petulance, which only made the antipathy worse.

Michael had long since decided that it was a blessing his house was not designed to house many servants. The constant bickering as to position and duties
was enough to give a saint a headache. As it was, his valet appeared every two days to ensure himself of the state of Michael’s wardrobe, then complained the entire time that there was not sufficient storage space for the clothing he’d sent for, or for a room for himself.

“I’ve offered to pension Peterson off,” Michael said. “But he has his pride. Besides, his father did not retire until he was eighty, and I think Peterson believes he would be a failure if he didn’t equal that achievement.”

“How old is he?”

“Seventy-two,” Michael said, smiling. He tore open the envelope Smytheton had handed him.

His breath caught. Odd, to feel that much anticipation to see a stranger again.

“That look could only be caused by a woman,” Robert said. “A bridal candidate?” Robert smiled, an amused expression that indicated he saw too much.

“Nothing,” Michael admitted, “so honorable as that.”

He returned to his desk, sat behind it. Robert occupied the chair opposite him. “I have the most damnable curiosity about a woman. I met her once and yet she’s been constantly in my thoughts of late.”

“It’s lust,” Robert offered, sitting back. “It alone binds men and women together. Women would have it otherwise, I think. Did you realize that it’s one of the seven deadly sins?”

“Are you going to quiz me on them?” Michael asked, smiling.

“There are those who say you never forget anything once you’ve read it. Let’s just say I’m testing a theory,” Robert said, a twinkle in his eye.

Michael laughed and closed his eyes for a moment, saw the image of the page in his mind. One of his tutors had held secret thoughts of becoming a Jesuit. Michael’s religious training, therefore, had been thorough. In fact, his entire education had been both diverse and uncommon. His father had dismissed a string of tutors, not because any had failed in his duty, but because he’d wished Michael continually challenged.

“Pride, covetousness, lust, anger, gluttony, envy, sloth,” Michael recited, then opened his eyes.

“I’m impressed,” Robert said. He stood and investigated the cabinet against the wall with some familiarity. A few moments later he dropped into the chair, a glass of brandy in his hand. He pushed the one he’d poured for Michael across the desk.

“Who is she?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” Michael said. He didn’t have to close his eyes to remember her. There was a tiny mole high up on her left cheek as if to call attention to her eyes, wide and brimming with some emotion he had not been able to discern. Her face was oval, the shape of cameos and rare beauties. Her mouth, tinted pink, was curved in a tremulous smile.

A lovely woman, but then, there were women of great beauty in London. Not only English women, but from any country in the known world. London seemed to be the hub of the universe at times, and the women glittering stars that occupied the heavens.

Then what was the fascination he felt for this
woman? In his top desk drawer was a faded glove. How many times had he removed it from its place of honor, studied the shape of it? A bit of nonsense unlike him.

It was not at all rational.

Why this one woman of all those created? He did not understand why he could not be as fascinated with one of his bridal candidates.

He had enjoyed his relationships with women, considered them pleasurable. But they had never been counted as necessary to his well-being as was air or food. Lust was a secondary emotion, one that he had aligned, in his mind, next to the need for companionship. Desirable, but not wholly required in order to live.

Lust—that was all this feeling was. Or curiosity. But the intensity of it surprised him.

“She is selling a collection of books,” he said. “A rather arcane set of volumes entitled the
Journals of Augustin X
.”

Robert remained silent for a moment, considered the brandy in his glass. “I’ve heard of those before. I wonder where?” He shook his head as if to jar loose a memory, then smiled ruefully. “It has slipped from me, I’m afraid.”

“No doubt crowded out by all those other secrets of yours.”

“I am but a Junior Secretary,” he said, grinning. “I exist only to serve.”

Michael eyed him dubiously. “And I suppose it’s a rumor that you employ all those shadowy creatures of yours?”

“Are you any closer to solving the Cyrillic cipher?” Robert asked with a smile. Evidently, the question had been too pointed.

“No,” Michael said, making no effort to hide his irritation. “But I will.”

Robert sighed. “I’d hoped you, at least, would have come to some conclusion. No one else has had any success, either.”

The more difficult and important the cipher, the more individuals in the Black Chamber were assigned to it. Michael no more knew their names than they did his. Only that the Cyrillic cipher must be important indeed to warrant the attention it was receiving.

But Michael had vowed to solve it first. He thrived on competition and suspected that was the very reason Robert had told him the cipher was being shared.

Robert’s machinations made Michael smile. His old friend was not unlike a snake, so entwined in his own schemes that one day he would find himself feasting on his own tail.

But for now, something even more fascinating than Robert’s stratagems intrigued him. Another type of mystery. That of the unforgettable Mrs. Esterly.