For the Love of Lila Page 10

  “Nueve de Berry?” Tristan asked. “You are sure this woman is named Felicity Childers?”

  He smiled. “Quite sure. Now go upstairs and tell your lady friend. Perhaps she will show her appreciation, eh?”

  For a moment, Tristan stood stunned as the comte walked away. He composed himself, however, and hurried after the man, following him out to the street. “My lord! About my friend—please don’t mention anything about her being here to Madame Childers, either. ‘Tis of the utmost importance.”

  The comte stopped in front of a waiting carriage. As a liveried footman stepped around to open the door for him, he said, “What is it you English say? ‘Mum is the word.’ But, Monsieur Wyndam, compared to what you are accustomed to, I think you will find Parisian society more broad-minded. And I include the circle Madame Childers frequents.”

  With a bow, he climbed into the carriage and leaned out the window. “I shall see you soon—the day after next perhaps?”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, and Tristan watched with uneasiness as the equipage pulled away. The comte’s parting comments had done nothing to reassure him about the safety of Lila’s reputation. On the contrary, they had only made him wonder what sort of people Felicity called her friends.

  CHAPTER NINE

  “Here we are: Number six.” Tristan pulled up in front of the address he had pinpointed after a few inquiries that morning. He took in the brownstone townhouse with a more lucid mind than he’d had on his first attempt to deliver Lila to her cousin. This time around, he would usher her inside so he could meet Felicity and try to learn what had caused the rift between her and her landlady. If she indeed owed money, he didn’t want to leave Lila with her. And if Lila insisted on staying, he planned to visit her again before quitting Paris. Maybe within a week’s time, she would change her mind about going with him.

  She leaned forward to look around him at the residence. “I hope this isn’t a boarding house as well. The street front is quite narrow. There cannot be much interior space.”

  In light of his suspicions, Tristan doubted her cousin had the finances to live in a single home. He kept his thoughts to himself, however, climbing down from the box and circling the barouche to offer her assistance.

  “I am glad you had me send a note over before we came,” she said, grasping his hand and jumping to the ground. “Felicity’s reply was so warm—and so prompt. I feel much better coming to her with an outright invitation.”

  He bit his tongue again and let her lead him up the walk as she hastened toward the door. When she lifted the knocker, she smiled at him. “Thank you for coming in with me.”

  Before he could respond, the door flew open, revealing a tall, slim redhead, likely in her early thirties. With one look at Lila, she squealed a greeting, extending her arms. “Lila, love! I would recognize those coal-nugget eyes anywhere. But, Good Lord, you have grown into a proper diamond.”

  Lila rushed into her arms. “Felicity, you are a sight for sore eyes. Oh, I have missed you all these years!”

  After a lingering hug, they stood back, complimenting one another on the changes—and lack of changes—in their appearances. Lila marveled over the elegance of Felicity’s gold-shot gown, while, privately, Tristan wondered at its expense. He also thought the decolletage cut rather low for day wear.

  Perhaps sensing his scrutiny, their hostess glanced at him and back to Lila. “This must be the friend you mentioned in your note.”

  “Yes, this is Mr. Wyndam.” She cleared her throat. “We were acquainted in England and, er, happened to be staying at the same hotel here in Paris.”

  Felicity scanned the length of his body and refocused on his face, one thin eyebrow cocked. “How fortunate.”

  “When I told him my problem,” Lila added, “he helped me discover your new direction and even offered to escort me here. He has been of great service to me.”

  “Indeed.” The brow rose higher, accompanied by a sloping smile. She bobbed him a curtsy. “Well, I am delighted to meet you, sir. Thank you for bringing me my cousin.”

  He bowed. “My pleasure.”

  She swept her arm in an indication for them to continue in through the foyer. “Do come into the parlor with me. My dear friend and constant companion, Mrs. Stark, is already seated there. Tess! My cousin is here—and her friend, Mr. Wyndam.”

  As they entered, a short-haired brunette, apparently close to Felicity in age, looked up from a basket of needlepoint. She had classic features, flawed only by a smirk-like smile and a modish canary-yellow gown that, like her friend’s, seemed somewhat excessive for an afternoon of netting. Tristan supposed Parisian fashions might be more flamboyant than those in London. Even so, he could not persuade himself that the manners of both Parisian residents did not betray a good deal of self-satisfaction.

  “Tess and I are fairly joined at the hip.” Felicity swapped a smug glance with Mrs. Stark and looked back to her guests. “Please, have a seat.”

  Lila followed her cousin across the room and joined her on a settee upholstered in red velvet. “What an enchanting parlor you have here. You have chosen such rich colors for the decor.”

  “I am afraid we cannot take all the credit for decorating. The carpet and the drapes came with the house.” Felicity leaned over a silver tea service and lifted the pot. “But the furniture is all our own, is it not, Tess?”

  “Mmm,” Mrs. Stark agreed, her lips clamped down on a netting needle.

  Felicity filled two cups and passed one to her cousin. She held the other out toward Tristan. “Tea, Mr. Wyndam?”

  “Please.” He accepted the cup and saucer, noting the china appeared to be a fine bone. Felicity and her friend did not seem to want for domestic items or clothing. Did they perhaps exceed their means in that respect and neglect to pay their rent? He sat down in an armchair facing the others and tried to sound conversational. “How long have you been living here, Miss Childers?”

  “Mrs. Childers, if you please. I have been calling myself Mrs.—or Madame—for some time now. ‘Tis a useful little ruse. You would be surprised how much more respect a widow incurs than an unmarried woman.” She gave a dismissing wave of her hand. “But to answer your question, I should think we have been here, oh, all of two months, maybe three.”

  “It is unfortunate that Miss Covington did not know of your move before she arrived in Paris.”

  “Yes, a pity she had to suffer all that worry for nothing.” She patted her cousin’s hand. “I apologize for the confusion, love. I never received your letter announcing you planned to come to me. That biddy of a landlady at the boarding house refuses to redirect the post for us.”

  Lila smiled. “Please don’t apologize. I am only grateful to be welcome here.”

  “When we stopped at your last residence,” Tristan said, “the landlady claimed she had no forwarding address for you.”

  “Oh, were you with my cousin then, as well?” Felicity sipped her tea, watching him through her lashes. “I had the impression the two of you had not met up until after Lila had found I’d moved and was obliged to stay at the hotel.”

  “No, he...” Lila cast her gaze downward. “That is, I checked into the hotel the night before last. I had arrived in the city too late to call on you. Mr. Wyndam and I met then, and he accompanied me yesterday.”

  “Well, he does seem to be a good friend to you, love. I daresay he is asking about my landlady because he suspects I owe her money.” She stole another glance, a smug one, at Tristan.

  Open-mouthed, Lila took up her cousin’s hand. “Indeed, he is protective of me, Felicity, but your affairs are your concern. You need not tell us a thing about your finances.”

  “No, no, I don’t mind. I owe that harridan nothing, anyway. We simply did not get along well. She is a madwoman.”

  Mrs. Stark nodded, extracting the needle from her mouth. “A meddling old cow.”

  Felicity turned a grin on Tristan. “Truly, I commend you for asking, Mr. Wyndam. Your concern for my cousin
is admirable, especially since you are of no relation to us. Women, after all, cannot always count on their own family to stand up for them. How do you know my cousin, anyway?”

  Evidently, she meant to take a turn questioning him—but he could not fault her for that, whatever shortcomings she might otherwise have. “Sir Francis acted as an academic mentor to me while I was at university. He came to my aid on more than one occasion and, afterwards, we continued a correspondence.”

  “Ah, my dear uncle. I considered him a mentor, as well.” She put her arm around her cousin and squeezed. Looking into Lila’s eyes, she said, “Do you know that your father wrote me every Christmas, despite my own parents’ washing their hands of me years ago? And I have kept every book he gave me while I was growing up. I always envied you for the education he provided you.”

  Lila hugged her back, a sparkle in her eyes.

  “Of course, neither you nor I had the benefit of a university education, as Mr. Wyndam did.” Felicity looked back to him. “You must have been a serious student for my uncle to take you under his wing.”

  “I was preparing for a career in law, a field I take seriously.”

  “He means to serve in House of Commons one day,” Lila said, her obvious pleasure in the whole scene making her sound like a boastful child. “When he is elected, England is in for a great deal of reform.”

  Her cousin laughed. “Oh, dear. Then all of we expatriates shall want to return home again.”

  Lila gave Tristan a grin. “I told you she is progressive, Tristan. I shall lead such a different sort of life here.”

  He flinched inwardly at the use of his given name. She did not seem to notice her slip, but a glance that passed between their hostesses convinced him that they had.

  For the first time, Mrs. Stark set down her netting and leaned forward in her chair. “What is it that brings you abroad, Mr. Wyndam?”

  “Shipping interests of my father’s.” Stomach suddenly unsettled, he took a sip of tea. “I will be here another week.”

  “You are welcome to stay with us,” Felicity said, again reaching for the teapot. “We have several guestrooms and are always happy to have a friend of the family with us. And, if you are anything like me, you find hotel rooms intolerable.”

  He frowned, looking to Mrs. Stark and then back to her housemate. Neither of their expressions revealed more than cordiality. “Exactly how many comprise your household?”

  She refilled her cup and added two lumps of sugar. “Only those you see here, with the addition of two maids and a cook. I presume Lila has not brought a maid with her. If you have a valet, we have room for him, as well.”

  As he had surmised, there was no Mr. Stark and likely never had been. He had been invited for a week’s stay in an all-female household. Shocked, he looked to Lila.

  She stared at her cousin, her jaw hanging.

  Picking up her teacup, Felicity laughed. “Plainly, you two are straight off the boat. You will soon learn that in Paris we have far more license than in England, especially being foreigners. Our neighbors here don’t know the least about us, nor care to. I realize the arrangement I am proposing is unusual, but here among the French, we English must stick together, mustn’t we?”

  Tristan shook his head. “Not quite so close together, I think.”

  “He has his career to consider,” Lila added. She sat back in her seat, apparently recovering from her jolt. “Personally, I am all for ignoring any convention that has no grounds in sense, but with a political future in mind, Mr. Wyndam has to take great care about his reputation.”

  Her cousin shrugged. “Suit yourselves. But should you decide you have been over-cautious, the offer will still stand.”

  Tristan set down his cup and rose. “I had best be going.”

  “So soon?” Felicity asked. Her surprise appeared genuine. “You must at least stay for dinner.”

  “I am afraid I have business to attend,” he said. “Lila, will you be coming back to the hotel?”

  Her cousin shot out an arm in front of her, as though to stop her from leaving. “No, no. That I will not allow.”

  Lila smiled. “Of course not. I am staying here.”

  He tried not to let his displeasure show, turning for the hall. “I will bring your belongings in from the barouche.”

  Felicity got up and crossed the room after him. “You don’t have a coachman to help you?”

  “I had to let him go,” he mumbled, not pleased he had to lie. “I found he was stealing from me.”

  “How dreadful,” she said at his heels. “You never can trust strangers, which is another good reason for you to stay here rather than at the hotel.”

  “I cannot.” He stopped at the archway leading to the hall and turned to face her. “Besides, I am a stranger to you. How do you know you can trust me in your home? Aside from the harm my staying here could do to all of our reputations—despite what you say about Parisian society—you could be opening your home to a thief or even a murderer. I hope you are not always quite so hospitable, Mrs. Childers.”

  She looked him in the eye for a long moment. “Mr. Wyndam, my cousin has told me what a great service you have been to her. You have told me something of your relationship with my uncle. I have an idea how close you and Lila are. A few minutes ago, I even heard her call you by your given name. Is all this not enough evidence in your favor?”

  He studied her face, for once cleared of the self-satisfied smile. Her steady gaze convinced him of her candor, in this case, at any rate. And perhaps her reasoning had a certain form of logic, even if his own led him to different conclusions.

  “I don’t mean to impose on you, Mrs. Childers,” he said, softening his tone, “but may I call again tomorrow?”

  “You may call here anytime you like. Later again today, if you please.”

  “Tomorrow would be better, I think.”

  “Very well.” Her smile reappeared. “Actually, we have a party to attend tomorrow evening, where I plan to introduce Lila to some friends. We would be pleased to have your escort. I believe you will enjoy yourself, too. Some of our more intellectual acquaintances will be present.”

  Somehow, he doubted he would enjoy himself, but he did want a chance to see what sort of people Lila would meet through her cousin. “I would be honored. When shall I call?”

  “Hmm. I forget when we are to be there.” She looked back to Mrs. Stark. “Tess, do you know what time the Danbys’ rout begins?”

  Her friend did not recall, either, and while they both wandered off to search for the invitation, Lila got up and came to his side.

  “Is all of this not wonderful, Tristan? You may not realize it, but Felicity and I were not well acquainted before this. The difference in our ages always seemed great while we were growing up, and when she left home, I was still quite young. I always knew that she was self-reliant but never imagined quite how much so. She is entirely her own woman. I know of no one else like her.”

  “I agree that she does exactly as she pleases,” he said. “But I know someone quite like her in that respect.”

  She laughed. “If you mean to insult me with that remark, I am sorry to disappoint you. I refuse to be offended. By the way, thank you for agreeing to take us to the party tomorrow evening. I cannot tell you how excited I am—my first Parisian outing. It sounds wonderful.”

  He shrugged. “To me, one party is much like another.”

  “Really? Well, I myself have been to very few. Father’s idea of socializing consisted chiefly of university seminars, and of course women were not welcome there. I am very interested in meeting Felicity’s friends. ‘Intellectuals,’ she called them. I daresay this party may even prove different from the ones you are used to attending.”

  “The same thought occurred to me.” Indeed, he had little doubt this would differ from the routs his mother and sisters threw.

  She grinned. “Not so mundane perhaps?”

  “Perhaps not,” he said, though the differences he imagined wo
uld not make his enjoyment more likely.

  If, by some chance, it did prove a dull affair, he vowed he would not complain.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Lila savored her champagne, letting the bubbles play on her tongue. Hugged by a silver gauze gown lent to her by Mrs. Stark —or Tess, rather—she felt as effervescent as her drink. She’d been fortunate her cousin’s friend had come to her aid, since her own post-mourning wardrobe lacked any festive gowns. Indeed, she had never owned a gown quite this festive. And only now, on her second glass of champagne, had she begun to feel comfortable with the low decolletage that seemed to prevail in Paris.

  “Have you met Mr. Douglas?” Tristan whispered, leaning close to her ear. The warmth of his breath made her skin tingle. “Felicity introduced him to me while you were speaking to General Lafayette.”

  Only too aware of how handsome he looked in formal black, she resisted the urge to skim a glance down the length of his body. “Yes, I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him, as well. In fact, we had an interesting chat about the business of writing.”

  He took a sip of claret, staring across the drawing room from over the rim of his glass. “There’s something odd about the man.”

  “Singular, I would say.” She followed his gaze to where a squat, pale-complected man stood among a circle of women. “He has published several articles in Blackwood’s magazine and is exceedingly well connected. He mentioned that he’s a friend of Mary Shelley’s.”

  “Or perhaps a convincing name-dropper.” One eyebrow arched, Tristan leaned back against a Greek-style column, still studying the man in question.

  “Why must you view everyone so cynically?” She waited for a response, but he appeared too rapt in scrutiny to hear her. Exasperated, she said, “I suppose it’s the lawman in you that compels you to search for deceit in people. In any case, we’ll know the truth soon enough. Mr. Douglas told me that Mrs. Shelley will be attending tonight.”

  His focus flew to her face. “Will she?”

  “I hope so.” The possibility stirred up a flutter in her midsection. “I can think of no one I’d rather meet. Her mother, Mary Wollstonecraft, is an idol of mine. Are you familiar with her book, The Wrongs of Woman?”