 CHAPTER ONE
"Single ladies should not discuss eligible gentlemen so . . . intimately," Sibyl Smiles told her sister Meg.
Seated on the very shabby rose-colored chaise in the parlor at 7B Mayfair Square, Meg rearranged the black lace mantilla with which she'd draped her head and face and said, "Who should discuss them intimately, then? Married ladies?"
"Oh, fiddlesticks," Sibyl said. "I think you want to shock me and it's really too bad of you."
"I want to say whatever I'm thinking--when I'm thinking about it. That is whenever I'm forced to abandon my meditation for matters of the mundane world. And it isn't as if I were discussing an actual man, for goodness sake. Simply men in general and why one might or might not find one man in particular more attractive than another man in particular. "These are things I must be clear about, and very soon."
"Why?" Blonde and ethereal, lovely Sibyl fluttered over Meg.
This was where caution became imperative. "Don't worry so, Sibyl. There is no absolutely clear direction for all this. I'm gathering, simply gathering to broaden my understanding." Slight understatements, or even fabrications could occasionally be justified. "I should think a man's hands would be most important, shouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"But why do you think, so, Sibyl?"
"I . . . Well, if you must know, I do not at all care for men with soft hands. There, now you know. They are not manly to me. And I do not like small hands. That is more difficult to explain except to say that I should prefer a man's hands--if I were interested in him at all--that is, if I noticed him at all--I should prefer a man's hands to be larger than mine. Much larger. There is something inside me that insists this is important, yet I don't know why. Yes, large, strong, well-shaped, long-fingered--perhaps blunt at the nail--yes, yes, that is what I prefer."
Meg watched her sister's deep concentration and smiled. "Hm. I agree." And all this from dear Sibyl who didn't think they should as much as have an opinion on a gentleman's person.
"I also dislike those small, neat feet some gentlemen seem to take pride in. But again, the reason is beyond my reach. It's just that I know it could be important."
"Hm. Yes."
"Height is not of such great importance. But a good carriage is essential, and fine, strong-looking shoulders--legs that look well without padding, particularly when the gentleman is on horseback and the muscle is flexed. Yes, very pleasant. One doesn't, of course, tend to see a gentleman's chest other than when he adjusts his waistcoat, but there are those moments. A solid-looking chest. Firm with good muscles again. Oh, yes, that is quite the thing. And I do warm to a charming smile. I shouldn't care for a man who smiled all the time since I prefer a serious side in all acquaintances, but a charming smile so becomes a handsome gentleman's face, don't you think? And dimples here?" She touched her own face just below each cheekbone.
Meg scarcely dared move one of her own muscles, or take the smallest breath for fear of diverting Sibyl from this absolutely wonderful revelation. Sibyl was human. Sibyl had longings. Sibyl was no different from Meg in reacting to certain qualities in the male.
"Meg?" Sibyl said. "Do you agree?"
"Oh, I do, I most definitely do. Oh, very much so, I assure you. But do go on."
"Go on? What do you mean?"
Fiddledeedee, the spell was broken. "Nothing. I didn't want to interrupt if you you had more to say. I thought you might have an opinion on, um, well, a gentleman's . . . derrière?"
Aghast came close to describing Sibyl's expression.
"No," Meg said rapidly, "I see you don't. But I do. Muscle is important there, too--only to ensure the fit of the trouser, of course. But, moving on to another subject, I'm going to make certain our affairs turn out well. It's just that I have things to learn, and quickly. Because I do have a plan."
Sibyl's blue eyes sharpened with worry. "Oh, no, no, Meggie. I don't know what you intend, but already you frighten me. This is all part of this, this"--she waved a hand at Meg--"this new preoccupation with strange, foreign notions. Oh, do take that thing off your head, Meggie. I can't think what's come over you of late. You are quite changed."
"A grateful parishioner brought the mantilla back for Papa," she said, still hoping to deflect any alarm. "From a long sea journey. It never had any purpose before. But it does now. It calms my inner self and helps me achieve a serene state. Familiar objects can do that, Sibyl. And if I am changed it's because the world has changed me--for the better, I prefer to think. I am a woman of spirit, a woman with a backbone. I am a woman who will not sit with her hands crossed, waiting for disaster--waiting to become destitute. I am." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
"You are what?" Sibyl whispered.
Meg breathed in again, long and deep through her nose and repeated, "I am, that's all. One day, when you are ready and no longer frightened of anything you don't understand, one day I shall begin your instruction in abstraction."
"I cannot bear it," Sibyl said pacing the drab floral carpet. "If Papa were alive he would put a stop to it. This is what comes of women attending lectures by foreigners. They get foreign ideas. I'm not at all certain all this abstracted thinking, and muttering of mantram, or whatever you call these meaningless words you chant, isn't, well . . . I'm just not sure, that's all. I thought you only chanted when you assumed you were alone, but now you are perfectly content to worry me with your muttering and humming, and with assuming such completely unladylike poses at any moment at all. They just--"
"Are," Meg finished for her sister.
"There, you see?" Sibyl planted her feet and pointed at Meg. "You do it all the time. Dear, dear. I'm just not sure what to do about you. We won't discuss the subject further at this time."
"Good for you," Meg said. "Now do sit, Sibyl. I have something wonderful to tell you. I was going to wait, but perhaps it will cheer you, and since I am expecting a message on the subject, we might as well get the explanation out of the way."
Sibyl shook her head. Her serviceable gray morning gown became her, but then, anything became Sibyl "You are afraid," she said. "No, don't interrupt me please. You were experimenting with this strangeness before, but now--since the, you know what--you've only become so, so obvious since that."
Since she had been pushed into the path of coach near the Burlington Arcade. "I will not lie to you," she said. "There are moments when I want to make my mind so busy there is no room in there for being frightened."
"If we only think good thoughts," Sibyl said, "then we cannot possibly be frightened."
With a great deal of effort, Meg held back a retort that would upset dear, good, Sibyl.
"There, you see now?" Sibyl sounded triumphant. "You can't argue with the truth. Papa--God rest his soul--would be so pleased and proud of you that you are willing to examine your motives in this."
"I wish Papa were here now," Meg said.
"Oh, so do I."
"If he were," Meg continued, "I should give him a piece of my mind and he would not be at all pleased with that."
"Meggie, you are disrespectful."
"I am practical. If Papa had been sensible enough to find a way around leaving our home to a wretched male relation, we should not be in our current dilemma. My current dilemma. We should be safe in dear little Puckly Hinton, not in rented rooms in London, trying to support ourselves while someone tries to . . . kill me." The time had passed for mincing words.
Sibyl halted her agitated pacing. Sun through the window shimmered on her hair. Her soft mouth trembled. "You cannot be certain someone pushed you. It's perfectly possible that in such a crush, you tripped, or imagined you were pushed. After all, you do have an active mind, Meggie."
"We won't pursue the subject farther at this time" Meg said. "My plan is the result of a letter I received from Finch in Scotland."
"You heard from Finch?" Sibyl was instantly distracted. She plopped down beside Meg on the chaise. "You didn't say she'd written. How is she, and His Lordship? How is Hayden faring--and dear little Oswin?"
Finch had been Finch More when they'd all met. Her brother, Latimer More, still lived in the rooms beneath Meg and Sibyl's. Latimer was at 7A Mayfair Square whereas the Smiles lived at 7B. Above them were Lady Hester Bingham, owner of the house, and her nephew Hunter Lloyd, Barrister at Law. Adam Chillworth, artist and Meg's friend, lived in the attic. That was 7C. Lady Hester might be on the third floor but her address was 7, since it was her house. Finch had married Ross, Viscount Kilrood, who owned Number 8 and they were currently at their Scottish estates.
"Meggie? Do tell."
"Sorry. I've rather a lot on my mind. They are all well. Finch mentions Hayden often and is glad His Lordship took him in." Hayden had come to Viscount Kilrood as a street urchin paid to carry a message. And he'd stayed, together with his dog Oswin. "I miss them all. But I've no doubt they'll be back in London sometime during the Season." The Season which was all but upon them, and which Meg intended to exploit in order to provide the Smiles sisters with the opportunity they urgently needed.
"It will be lovely to see them," Sibyl said. "Meggie, forgive me if I am sometimes sharp. You know, the mantilla becomes you. Your eyes sparkle most mysteriously through the lace."
Meg said, "Thank you," and reached to embrace her sister.
"Your hair!" Sibyl's mouth opened and remained so.
This had been inevitable. "Let me tell you what is about to happen," Meg said.
"What have you done to your hair?" Sibyl was not to be diverted. She peered through the mantilla. "Why didn't I notice it before. Meggie, it's turned red."
"Don't be silly, it's brown." Meg swallowed. "Finch's letter arrived yesterday. She knows of the people who have moved into Number 17--across the square. They are from a small country on the border between, er, France and Italy, I think. Mont Nuages."
"Your hair is red," Sibyl announced. "The sun is shining on it and it glows red."
"The man's name is Count Etranger and he has brought his young sister to make a London Season. Anyway, he is not well equipped to guide her in preparing for the whirl to come and is in need of assistance. A companion for the girl, someone who can instruct her in matters of fashion and deportment. She is also--although I cannot imagine why--but she is not accomplished at the pianoforte, nor does she sing appealingly although she has a pleasant enough voice."
"You sew brilliantly," Sibyl said, distracted. "And no one has better sense of style or is more informed of current styles." Meg's girlhood skills as a seamstress had provided them with some meager wages since they came to Town. However, she was not well known (did not wish to be), and the ladies she sewed for took advantage by paying her very meager compensation for excellent work.
"And you play brilliantly," she told Sibyl, "and sing brilliantly. What could be more perfect?"
"Please tell me what has happened to your hair."
"Ooh, you are not to be silenced on the matter, are you?" Meg said. "Very well. I shall tell you and then I wish to hear not another word on the subject. There is a certain small shop behind a milliner's establishment on Bond Street. It is known to young ladies--and certain others--as a discreet place from which to obtain advice on matters of personal delicacy. At Mme. Suzanne's one need never fear saying, or asking anything. So, when I went to seek that lady's assistance she was most helpful. As you have said, my hair is brown, the dull brown of a dull brown mouse. Not good enough. I need excitement, Sibyl. I need that mystery you mentioned. Red hair is mysterious."
Sibyl fell back on a cushion. "But--but ladies do not do whatever you have done to achieve such a thing. And why do you need it, Meggie, why?"
"I have told you what I've done to my hair. Now I must move on to more important things. Before someone comes with a message."
"Before who comes with a message?" Sibyl moaned. "What are you talking about? What is wrong with you? What is to become of us?"
She would remain calm, Meg told herself. "Early this morning I had a letter delivered to Count Etranger at Number 17 Mayfair Square. I informed him that I had heard through a mutual friend, Viscountess Kilrood, that he was in need of a companion for his sister. I offered my services in that capacity and assured him that with my help he need have no further concern about the Princess's wardrobe, deportment, or her understanding of the social intricacies she will meet while she is in London."
"You didn't." Sibyl's voice was faint.
"Buck up, Sibyl. I most certainly did. We are all but penniless and I will not remain in this house for one moment longer than we can afford to pay rent."
"Lady Hester would never make us leave."
"No, she would not. And I know it pleases her to insist to her friends that all of her lodgers are her protogées, but it isn't true. She must need the money, and we understand such situations, don't we? Of course we do. So, I have decided to find employment."
"You will also teach . . . Princess? Did you mention a princess?"
Meg composed herself and sat absolutely still. "Princess Désirée of Mont Nuages. The Crown Prince's daughter."
"And you have put yourself forward to be her companion?"
"They will find none better."
Sibyl covered her face. "You applied for work. Oh, what have we come to? What will become of us? Perhaps we should go to Cousin William and ask for--"
"We will ask William Godly-Smythe for nothing. We are going to become advisers to Count Etranger, for which he will compensate us out of gratitude."
"We?" Sibyl squeaked.
"Well, you are the pianoforte and voice teacher, not I. So the Count will be doubly fortunate. Between the two of us, we will turn his drab, graceless, bad-tempered sister into a charming creature."
Sibyl stared, but then she smiled, smiled more widely, chuckled, laughed more loudly that Meg ever recalled her laughing before. When Sibyl was at last in control of herself again, she dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief and said, "You are incorrigible. You frighten me with your wild words. Undoubtedly your abstracted thinking is responsible, it causes you to imagine your dreamings to be true. How foolish of me to believe you even for a moment."
"Believe me."
"Yes, yes, of course. You wrote to someone you do not know, a count from Mont Nuages, and offered to become his sister's--his sister, the princess, that is--you offered to become her companion, her ultimate adviser in making a successful Season. Certainly, you did. And I suppose your decision to do whatever you did to make your hair red has something to do with this plan."
"It does now."
"I see." Sibyl giggled afresh.
"No, you don't." Meg had not meant to sound so cross. "I intend to use this wonderful opportunity to our own ends. In order to do that, I must make the best of my less plain attributes. I have been told I have good skin--so I shall take special care of it. And, so I understand, I have fine eyes. I am deciding how to use them well. I'm pleased to hear my mantilla may be useful on occasion. My hair is thick and shiny, but it is brown. As I have already told you, I've done something about that. And then"--she looked at the floor and felt her face grow hot--"then I have, well I might as well get it said. After all, we're both women, and sisters, we should be able to say anything to each other. I have a passable figure. Rather a lot of bosom, I always thought, but, since I'm told many gentlemen are extremely attracted to such things, well then, I intend to flatter that aspect of my person."
"Meggie."
"Oh, don't swoon, dear. Not now when there is so much to consider."
"You are not yourself. You can't be. So much worry has turned your mind. Where shall I go for help?"
"Help will be here at any moment," Meg said, matter-of fact. "I expect a prompt response to my letter. After all, I wrote to the Count that I am a friend of Finch who is the wife of his long acquaintance, Viscount Kilrood. It was the Viscount who helped the Count's father locate a suitable establishment from which to launch his sister, you know."
"You mean Finch suggested you approach the Count?"
"Well, no, not exactly."
"So you fabricated in your letter? You implied that had been the case?"
Sibyl was too intelligent to be deceived by any effort of Meg's to cover the truth. "I did. Just a little. But only out of desperation."
"Nothing will come of it." There was more hope than certainty in Sibyl's voice. She got up and took a poker to the small fire that burned in the grate. March, always an uncertain month, was proving pretty but cold. "I am hopeful of finding new students, soon. Lady Chattam is so pleased with her Teddy's progress. She has said she will recommend me to others of her friends who are having difficulty with their children's music lessons."
Poor Sibyl. So talented, yet reduced to spending tiresome hours with the untalented and spoiled offspring of the wealthy.
"It will not be necessary for you to take on more nasty Teddy Chattams. I will make sure of that."
Sibyl dropped the poker. It clanged on the green stone hearth. "Meg." She spun about. "Oh, no, you cannot possibly be planning such a thing. Say it isn't true."
Meg frowned at her sister through the mantilla. "What isn't true?"
"You haven't spun some fantasy in which you will . . ." She tottered back to sit by Meg. "You haven't--aren't--won't pursue any notion of getting this Count to, to, to marry you?"
Now it was Meg who laughed loud and long. When she could speak again, she said, "You silly goose. We both know a man like that would never consider marrying the daughter of an English country clergyman. No, nothing of the kind."
Sibyl let out a breath. "That's good then. But . . . Meg, you wouldn't. You couldn't. Could you?"
"Speak plain, Sibyl. I am tired by my abstractions, and more tired by the matters of this world that interfere with my inner improvement. Do not speak in riddles."
"Very well." When pushed, Sibyl could become quite the rigid little tyrant. She sat straight and drew her lips in tight and pale. "Do you seek to become Count Etranger's ladybird."
There had been few occasions when Sibyl had shocked Meg, but this was one of them. She pulled up her slippered feet and crossed her legs beneath the loose, scarlet robe she had sewn to wear during abstraction sessions. "Mystery," she said, "that is the answer." And she rested her upturned hands on her knees, in the manner illustrated in the book she has secretly obtained and which she kept hidden.
"So, you do not deny it?"
A rap on the door preceded the slow entry of Old Coot, Lady Hester's aged butler. He fixed his bulbous eyes on Meg and shook his head. "Unsuitable behavior," he said, as certain as always of his place in the world and his right to say whatever came to mind. "Can't imagine what things are coming to. A person to see you, Miss Meg. Are you receivin'?"
"Of course," Meg said promptly.
"Then I'll send M. Verbeux up."Old Coot withdrew to be quickly replaced by a slender, dark-haired man with a black mustache that curved downward at either side of his mouth. He wore spectacles with small, round frames that barely revealed all of his brooding dark eyes. M. Verbeux was . . . compelling.
"Oh, Meggie," Sibyl muttered.
M. Verbeux did not as much as glance at Sibyl. "Miss Meg Smiles," the man said to Meg, with only the faintest trace of a French accent.
Meg managed to stop herself from shooting her feet back to the floor. "I am Miss Meg Smiles, If that is who you seek."
M. Verbeux studied a thick piece of paper in his hand and grunted. "He'll see you. Now. Accompany me, please."
"The Count?" Meg said, scarcely able to breath at all.
"Answers only. No questions. He tolerates nothing more." M. Verbeux turned his handsome back and retreated.
"Help me change," Meg said the instant the door closed again. She worked to unhook the satin frogs on her robe. "I must be quick."
"Quick to run to a rude man, with a rude man who does not know you but who orders you about as if you were a servant?"
"I am prepared to be a servant," Meg said, tossing aside the robe as she entered the bedroom she and Sibyl shared. "I am prepared to become the Count's most pleasing servant for which I shall be well compensated."
  
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