“I’m afraid not, though now that I am extending my stay in your country, the possibility holds appeal.”
One of the other tables broke up, two ladies making their way toward the refreshment board, while a third headed to the table where the men played, clearly looking for a new game to join.
Philippe stood. “By all means,” he said, indicating his chair. “Gentlemen, I hope you’ll forgive me.” He smiled. “I admit defeat—and I confess to the desire to end tonight with a portion of my holdings still intact.”
Lord Wilbourne held up two hands in a gesture of peace. “Certainly. I respect a man who knows when to leave the game far more than a man who stays when he shouldn’t.”
Lord Garrett nodded, his expression more solemn than usual for the normally gregarious young lord. Interesting. Philippe wondered what experience had prompted the conviction.
He excused himself and selected a glass of alcohol-laden punch from a nearby buffet, content to lean casually against the wall and observe. The lurking footman seemed finally to have disappeared. Lord Garrett traded places with another lady, evening the distribution of genders at each table. As the new players took their seats and the next round of cards began, Philippe’s thoughts drifted inevitably back to Beatrice Pullington.
He’d felt inspiration before—he always chose subjects that inspired him. But never before had he felt this strange connection, that she was somehow sensing him, leading him down a path—both literal and figurative—he wanted to travel but might never have discovered otherwise. It was disconcerting.
He’d had his fair share of women—though perhaps not quite the number the gossips liked to attribute to him. And he did intend to have Beatrice Pullington. She might not yet realize it, but he sensed the inevitable—this connection of theirs would flame into a passion strong enough they both would surrender. A matter not of choice, but of fate.
Philippe grimaced, disgusted with his line of thought. Making love to a woman was one thing, but fate? Was he somehow under a spell, and his sense of control, the decisions he made, only an illusion? No. He was master of his own destiny.
But then, what did one do when a muse such as Beatrice Pullington walked into one’s life?
Chapter 6
After considerable internal debate, Bea’s curiosity won out on Saturday night. There was a chance she’d misinterpreted everything, but if she didn’t at least test her theory about the mysterious note, she would die wondering.
If the note had been meant for someone’s lover, she just had to help. Her own chances at finding true love had been knocked awry by an arranged marriage and early widowhood. The loneliness she’d felt in those years made Bea loathe to thwart someone else’s budding romance.
There would be the inevitable awkward explanation of how she’d come by the note, but that was better than simply allowing some poor man to wonder, perhaps for years, why his lover had abandoned him.
Bea couldn’t say exactly when she’d developed this inability to leave well enough alone. Perhaps the excitement with Philippe Durand had given her courage, or the fact that she’d spent the last year watching her best friend step outside all the normal bounds of propriety, and, as a result, Elizabeth was now happier than ever.
But Elizabeth had good reason to be more cautious these days, so Bea had asked Charity to accompany her tonight. Her friend’s sister, always up for an adventure, had readily accepted.
As the two young women strolled through the entry to Vauxhall Gardens, strains of music could be heard from the pavilions, and the scents of the vendors’ baked confections wafted through the air. Dusk had already fallen, and thousands of glass lamps lit the main walks, lending an air of magic to the scene.
“You’re the best chaperone ever.” Charity turned to Bea, her grin full of mischief. “With Mother and Elizabeth, all I ever do is attend balls and teas where I meet the same gentlemen I’ve known my entire life—only now their mamas are pressuring them to ask for my hand in marriage.”
“Oh my. What a very dreadful existence,” Bea teased.
“You’ve no idea,” Charity declared, raising a hand to her forehead dramatically.
Bea laughed. “Of course, if your mother or sister find out the real purpose of our outing this evening, I am likely to lose my chaperoning privileges.”
“My lips are sealed.” Charity pinched them together for effect, then dropped her hand. “What is the real purpose of our outing tonight? More than Vauxhall’s normal entertainment, I presume, since we have already missed the supper?” Her eyes lit up. “Ooh, have you planned a romantic assignation? If you wish to sneak off, I could stand watch.”
“I do love you, Charity.” Bea laughed again. Her friend’s little sister was the perfect companion for such an evening. “Actually, there is a liaison planned tonight. But I don’t know with whom, or whether there is romance involved. And we aren’t exactly invited.”
“An intrigue,” Charity breathed. “Even better. Tell me everything.”
Bea explained about the note, and the message she’d gleaned from it.
“What? That happened at the salon, and you didn’t tell me?”
“It occurred at the very end, and I didn’t know what it was until even later. Besides, I’m telling you now.”
“True. And making me your accomplice.” Charity was appeased. “Who do you think it is? And where is this assignation to take place?”
“I have no idea who…though whoever it is must have attended the salon. As to where, I would guess the Druids’ Walk, though again, it may be that my imagination has gotten the better of me in conjecturing this entire scenario.”
Charity waved that idea away. “The Druids’ Walk,” she mused. “A favorite of lovers for decades.” She giggled. “Though tonight, at least one lover is likely to be lonesome, for if you hold the note intended for his sweetheart, she will not know to show up.”
Bea led Charity down the main walk, toward the more secluded paths, slowing as they drew near. The lamps were placed sparingly here, and a few yards ahead, they disappeared entirely. It was still a few minutes before ten o’clock. Bea and Charity slipped behind a row of tall shrubs, wary of revealing themselves to a party who might not be pleased to see them.
Another minute passed. A few revelers wandered within sight, but gave no indication of stopping. A middle-aged woman paused at the edge of the light. “Sarah?” she called. “Where have you gotten off to?” When there was no response, she continued on her way.
Bea winked. “Bet Sarah’s having some fun,” she whispered.
Charity grinned, then suddenly her expression changed—her eyes widened and she grabbed Bea’s arm with one hand and pointed with the other.
Two men converged, one coming from the area of the pavilions, the other from the direction of the music room. They fell into step, then paused just beyond the entrance to the unlit portion of the paths.
Two men? Bea eyed Charity in their hiding spot in the bushes. This was some matter of business, then, rather than a lovers’ rendezvous.
She returned her gaze to the duo, neither of whom she recognized. Their hats were pulled low, their clothing dark. Indistinguishable, which in itself was unusual, for Vauxhall was often hailed as a place where people indulged their tastes in exotic and outrageous fashions.
One of the men pulled out a pocket watch, glanced at it, then nodded to his companion. In accord, they moved deeper into the dark.
Bea frowned.
“There is a path that runs parallel to the one they are on,” Charity whispered.