The Orphan Pearl Page 9

  He stood a safe distance away, not intruding, with his hands clasped behind his back and his heels tight together. A penitent posture, though Ware’s stubborn-as-ever expression blunted the effect.

  “I owe you an apology,” he said. “If the flowers aren’t enough, tell me what I can do to win back your regard.”

  Lily widened her eyes, all innocence. “What am I to forgive? Any decent person would feel as you do—such a revelation you’ve had! Why, there’s no sense in returning at all, hat in hand, unless you have some ulterior motive.”

  “Stop that.” He slapped one hand down on the table so hard that the gigantic vase full of flowers wobbled, and Lily flinched. “Nobody who’s spoken to you for more than five minutes would listen to this nonsense and think you sincere. You’re not silly. Even the idea is absurd.”

  “My sins multiply by the minute,” said Lily, in a tone of mock dismay. “What next? I confess, I’m afraid to find out.”

  “Do you want me to tell you I approve?” His eyes flashed, all semblance of contrition gone. “Well, I don’t. That you were hurt, and ill-used, I understand—”

  “I was not,” Lily protested, though he spoke nothing but the truth.

  “But clearly you are not only reckless but unrepentant, and your personal history is littered with acts that a grown man would blush to hear described.”

  “Quite an apology,” Lily murmured.

  “But what’s past is past. We all make mistakes. And whatever your faults, there’s no doubting your bravery.” He barreled on, his passion gradually dwindling into something different. Equally raw, but tender now. “You’ve survived hardship with your sense of adventure intact. You can still laugh. That’s a grace, Lady Lily. Blessing and strength. So let me apologize. I was shocked, and my reaction was hasty. Inadequate.”

  Lily twisted the ball of her foot on the floor, trying to tamp down the warm rush of feeling his outburst had provoked. Adventurous, was she? Brave and funny. Ware did not strike her as flatterer.

  But perhaps she just craved praise.

  “I could be persuaded to forgive you.” Lily looked up at Ware through her lashes. “But only on the condition that you beat me at a game.”

  “A game?” He checked his retreat, his palm still flat on the table—a tether holding him in place, now, rather than a threat. Strong, thick fingers splayed wide. A square, meaty palm. “What are the rules?”

  Lily carefully disentangled an armload of flowers from the bouquet. The stems of the roses had been stripped of thorns, so she didn’t have to worry about pricking herself or getting her clothes caught on the points. The leaves were as smooth and clean as if they’d been washed individually, and perhaps they had.

  She took all she could carry but hardly diminished the original store. Laughing again, she called for her outdoor things and let Ware take the flowers while she donned hat and gloves.

  “The objective is to give away all the flowers.” She squinted against the bright sunlight as she stepped outside. “But unlike your game in the caves, this will be a competition. The winner will be the one of us who collects the most valuable items in trade for the flowers. The only rule is that we can’t ask or even imply that we’d like anything in return for the gift.”

  “Interesting.” Ware tugged a long-stemmed white rose from the bouquet and presented it to a passing matron, rosy-cheeked and dressed simply in printed chintz. “For you, my lady,” he said grandly, with a florid bow.

  “Oh,” said the woman, who glanced nervously past Ware to Lily. “Why, thank you.”

  The matron took the rose but seemed uncertain about what to do next. Lily waved cheerfully, and tugged Ware along the pavement.

  The matron buried her nose in the flower. When she lifted her head, a small, private smile curved her lips.

  “Like that?” Ware asked.

  “That was wonderful,” said Lily. “But you didn’t get anything in exchange.”

  “That woman’s beautiful smile,” he returned. “Priceless.”

  “And impossible to tally.” Lily plucked a calla lily from the bouquet and swerved close to a young woman who carried a basket half-full of unshelled walnuts at her elbow.

  “Nuts!” shouted the girl. “Good whole nuts!”

  “I hope you don’t mind.” Lily tucked the lily into the girl’s bodice. “This lily is just the same color as your skin. I want you to have it.”

  “Oh, my lady.” The girl blushed and beamed and touched the velvety flesh of the flower. “Aren’t you too good? Here, would you like—take some walnuts. It’s not much, but I’d be pleased if you did.”

  “You’re as kind as you are beautiful,” Lily gushed, scooping up a handful of nuts. “Thank you!”

  She returned to Ware’s side and walked sedately at his side until they’d turned the corner. “You got a smile,” she said smugly. “I have a handful of good walnuts.”

  “Interesting game,” said Ware.

  “Shall we divide the flowers?” Lily asked.

  Ware extended his arms so that Lily could separate out her share. But she was so aware of the courtesy, of not touching, that she blushed redder than she had at the British Museum or inside the darkened carriage.

  “Does that look even?” she asked.

  “Perfect,” Ware agreed.

  They turned north and soon reached Bond Street, where Ware approached a young costermonger.

  “I have a question for you. Forgive the intrusion, but it’s very important. Do you have a sweetheart?” Ware asked.

  “Yes, sir, I do,” answered the costermonger.

  “She’ll appreciate this, then,” said Ware, offering him a rose.

  “That she will, sir!” The young man beamed and filled Ware’s cupped hands with cherries. “And a fine day to your sweetheart, if I may say so!”

  Ware returned to her side. “Are we even?”

  “Not for long.”

  Lily spotted an older man, neat and gray-haired, selling pineapple by the slice.

  “You’re a dapper fellow, aren’t you?” She offered him a coy smile and a white lily, star-shaped, its frilled petals as thin and delicate as silk netting. “Turned heads in your day, I imagine.”

  The pineapple was too wet to hold, so she split it with Ware as they ambled along.

  “It’s a game of manipulation,” said Ware.

  “You could call it that.”

  “You said the winner would be the one of us to profit the most. In fact, it will be the one of us who’s lost the least. These tokens are easy to come by because their value pales in comparison to the flowers.”

  “That’s why it’s a game, instead of a swindle.”

  “So you acknowledge the similarity?”

  “Of course.”

  Lily caught sight of a pretty young woman who wore a beautifully constructed dress of plain brown cotton. She’d given her outfit some character with a well-dressed hat and a dried rosebud pinned to her lapel.

  “Would you like to freshen that up a bit?” Lily asked, offering the girl a white rose. “Here, it’ll only wilt if I keep it and you look like you’re dressed for an occasion.”

  “I am,” the girl said, shyly, glancing nervously at Ware. She plucked the rosebud loose and pinned the fresh flower in its place. “I just got a new job sewing for Mrs. Purse. I start tomorrow!”

  “Congratulations! She’s a very fine modiste.” Lily offered her another rose. “For your hat. You’ll be marvelous.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t…” The girl bit her lip. “But it’s too beautiful to resist. Here.” She fastened the dried rosebud among the foliage decorating the brim of Lily’s bonnet. “That suits you quite well.”

  “Two fresh for one dry?” Ware asked, as they continued along.

  “Did you hear? Sewing for Mrs. Purse! I have an appointment with her next week—it was the earliest she could fit me in.”

  “So we can give more than one at once?”

  “There’s only one rule,” Lily reminded him.
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  Ware next stopped a smiling, curly-haired matron strolling along the pavement with her young son, a boy of ten or eleven. They spoke too quietly for Lily to overhear.

  The woman signaled her agreement to whatever Ware had proposed. Permission granted, Ware handed a flower to the boy, whispering his instructions.

  The boy approached Lily with big solemn eyes and handed her the rose. “I’m to tell you that you’re very beautiful, m’lady,” he said in a careful, piping voice.

  Lily took the rose. “Thank you, my little gentleman.”

  She shook her head chidingly at Ware as she added the new rose to her supply. Had he given up? He didn’t seem at all chagrined. He’d perked up, rather, watching with a maddeningly ambiguous smile.

  “That was foolish,” she said, once the mother and son were out of earshot. “Now I have an extra flower, and no reason to give you anything at all.”

  “And every reason not to,” Ware agreed cheerfully.

  “You’re going to lose this game,” Lily warned. “And then, as a woman of my word, I’ll have to hold my grudge forever.”

  “What if I don’t believe you’re capable?”

  “I am.” Lily frowned at the way Ware’s lips tightened with humor. “I really am. I can be cruel and petty and—”

  Ware left her to go whisper to a newsboy. After a brief, inaudible conversation, the newsboy put down his papers and took a gorgeous, full-throated calla lily from Ware. He approached Lily with a deep bow, presenting the flower while bent nearly double.

  “My friend here says that he admires you unconditionally,” said the newsboy, straightening. He winked before returning to his papers.

  Lily blushed as she added the lily to her bouquet.

  “I wish that you would take this more seriously.” But she couldn’t muster even the slightest bit of irritation, not even to pretend.

  “On the contrary,” he returned, as they rounded a corner and headed back in the direction of Grosvenor Square. “I couldn’t be more earnest.”

  Lily exchanged a rose for a sachet of dried lavender from another hawker, replaced almost instantly when Ware convinced a young gentleman, slim, clean-shaven and clear-eyed, to drop down on one knee, place his hand over his heart, and recite a bit of Shakespeare:

  “Doubt thou the stars are fire;

  Doubt that the sun doth move;

  Doubt truth to be a liar;

  But never doubt I love.”

  Then hand her a pair of roses.

  They reached Grosvenor Square and turned toward Hastings House.

  “I’m afraid that I’ve won,” said Lily, her arms as full as they’d been when they set out. “I thought I’d need that pineapple to tip the balance, but all you’ve got is a handful of cherries. I have an armful of London’s finest hothouse flowers. It’s a shame our acquaintance must come to an end.”

  “But I disagree.” Ware halted her with a hand on her elbow. “I believe that I won, and earned your forgiveness.”

  Lily laughed. “By what measure?”

  “You made a game of convincing other people to do what you want through a series of bargains, each of which you lost,” answered Ware. “But I made the game do what I wanted, and I had the pleasure of giving you the flowers not just once, but several times, without having to make any additional purchases.”

  “You’re right,” said Lily, surprised. “I concede. Well played, Mr. Ware.”

  He handed her the rest of his flowers and bowed deeply. “Anything to impress a lady.”

  Lily hefted them in her arms. Jostling released their scents, the cool mild lily and the thick heady rose. They rose up around her, rich and drugging. She smiled. “I’m glad you called.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Lord Wilsey paced back and forth in front of the bay window in John’s front salon. The room hadn’t changed since John’s father last redecorated: high ceilings, large picture windows, furniture with a better pedigree than anyone who’d ever lived in the house.

  “You’ve deserted me.” Wilsey walked with his hands clasped at the small of his back, throwing him into a slight forward lean. “You’re too ashamed to say so.”

  “Not at all.” John sat with his elbows propped on spread knees, his hands dangling loosely between. “Kingston isn’t an easy target.”

  Wilsey’s lip curled. “Evading escape must be a way of life for him.”

  “And frankly, Wilsey, if it takes a little time—you’ll forgive me for being selfish, but I’m worried about getting caught. Half of London may want the man dead, but that doesn’t mean I won’t hang for it.”

  Wilsey stopped his pacing. Stared out the window. Noon sunshine streamed in through the glass; beyond lay Belgrave Square, the clustered trees of the park islanded by a wide, bustling avenue. “Amelia hates me,” he said. “I’ve done all I can for her. Absolutely everything in my power. She’s my little girl. But she has been so twisted by this man, so wounded, that she lashes out at anyone who offers her a little kindness.”

  “She doesn’t hate you.”

  “No matter what I do, she takes it badly. She curses me if I try to make her eat.”

  “Give her time.”

  “She’ll marry in a week, and it’s a good match. But she has nothing but unkind words about her fiancé, and it’s been hard to—to keep him from realizing it. I’ve had to be firm with her.” Wilsey spoke urgently, his composure threadbare enough to reveal the desperation beneath. “She thinks we ought to have consulted her about the arrangements, but her judgment can’t be trusted, can it? It’s time for someone more sensible to step in.”

  “If you think she’ll be happy in the long run…”

  “The Earl of Kingston destroyed my family,” said Wilsey, his voice hoarse.

  John nodded. “I hear you, Wilsey. Your wait’s almost over. I promise.”

  Wilsey rubbed his forehead. “I’m sorry. I’m not myself. I won’t be until this is all over.”

  John saw his friend out. No sooner had he resettled himself in his library than his butler announced a new visitor: the Duke of Clive.

  “Send him to the front salon.”

  He found Clive staring moodily out the window. He fit the room, too—as though all the gilt and sumptuous fabrics had been gathered to enhance his native authority, rather than diminish it. Though given Clive’s habitual elegance, no doubt he disdained the effect.

  “Your Grace,” said John, smothering his irritation. “I would have sworn I’d seen the last of you.”

  “Premature, apparently.” Clive spun on his heel. “You seem to have a problem with jumping to conclusions. You also told me that you’d burned all your bridges with Lady Lily Spark. Clearly at least one of them remains in good working order.”

  John grimaced. “Whose time have you wasted following me around?”

  “No need to spy. You paraded her along Mayfair’s busiest street for an hour.”

  “And you keep abreast of town gossip when you’re not busy with world affairs?”

  Clive shrugged, unashamed. “So. You’ve mended things.”

  “With Lady Lily.” John refrained from adding: Not you.

  “I’ve been thinking about your concerns.” Clive pointed to a low, cushioned couch. “May I?”

  John sighed. “Please.”

  Clive sat. John followed suit, out of courtesy, and faced the man on a level, in a friendly pose—just as Clive wanted him.

  John scowled.

  “After you told me the orphan wasn’t a human being, I carried the information to Lord Palmerston,” said Clive. “We stepped up our efforts to intercept French communications—if the information had trickled down to Lady Lily, a little bit of digging ought to have turned up the whole story.”

  “Sounds reasonable,” said John. “So what is ‘orphan girl’ a code for?”

  “I don’t know.” Clive paused for effect, spreading his hands with palms up. “Nobody else in England is talking about it.”

  John frowned. “Nobody?�
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  “Not her father, not Guizot, not Holland.”

  Guizot, the French plenipotentiary. And Lord Holland, a Whig in Melbourne’s Cabinet very sympathetic to France. Both experienced politicians, neither at all likely to confide in Clive.

  “You can’t be sure of that.”

  “Not completely. Our efforts to monitor their communications are matched by their efforts to prevent interception. But this brings me back to my original point: if the information is sensitive enough to merit such precaution, why does Lady Lily know?”

  John scratched his jaw. “Start at the beginning. Who told you about the orphan girl?”

  “Ponsonby wrote about her. From Constantinople.”

  Ponsonby, the British ambassador. John knew the man: able, not at all prone to dramatics. “What did he tell you?”

  “Not much. They’d noticed some unusual activity at the French embassy. New arrivals who didn’t linger for long. And then they intercepted a letter—just one—about the hunt for this ‘orphan girl.’”

  John scratched at his neck. “That doesn’t tell us anything about her—or it—whatever they were searching for.”

  “No,” Clive admitted. “But it tells us something else. I’m starting to think it’s no coincidence that Lady Lily’s just come from Constantinople. I was able to verify that, by the way, though it wasn’t easy. She traveled under a false name. Cheaply—and I mean she slept on a pallet in the hold the whole way.”

  “Lady Lily?” John couldn’t imagine it. She wore diamonds as though she’d been born with rings on.

  Clive nodded. “The more I think about it, the less I understand. She and our ambassador in Constantinople were exposed to the same sensitive information. How? She’s been back in London for a month, but—if I’m following the chain properly—has kept it from her father. Why?”

  “And even more to the point,” John added, “what does this have to do with Mehmet Ali or the treaty?”

  “Consider the timing,” said Clive. “If the French dither here in London, while scurrying about busily abroad…”

  “Then, coincidence or no, it’s prudent to investigate.”

  “So our interest in Lady Lily is stronger than ever. To give credit where it’s due, you did try to tell me that she’s more than a weak link—”