“Nothing,” she repeated dully. “He did not contact you, then?”
“Did you expect him to?”
“He was abroad. He would need allies. He was—is—attempting to keep the Assembly from seizing our property as traitors.” Her arms hung at her sides, as useless as the rest of her. “We have heard nothing of him in months.”
She didn’t care about the property. She was desperate for news her brother had not got caught up with Girondins or revolutionaries. That he was still alive.
“I have not heard of him,” Garrick said, but his eyelids flickered shut on the words, and Madelina knew he was lying. He never had been able to speak an untruth directly into someone’s face; he briefly shut his eyes while he did.
He knew something about Constantin—perhaps what Barty knew, perhaps more—and he did not intend to tell her.
She fell back a step of her own. “I’ve the boxes to see to. Go on up,” she said, lifting her hand to point the way up the stairs.
“You’re not—er. You don’t mean…”
His brows rose, forehead furrowing as he glanced upward, and Madelina became suddenly and horrifying conscious of the item in her hand. And that, in her current pose, it appeared she was holding the kissing bough above her head.
“Ooh, is that a kiss for Miss Lina, is it?” Mrs. Bird appeared in the doorway to the kitchen, a smile creasing her lean face. On an instant, a crowd of kitchen maids, a footman, and the hall boy appeared behind her, jostling and joking.
“No,” Madelina said, face burning as she shoved the kissing bough behind her back. “Of course not. Besides, it isn’t finished.”
“You can’t break tradition, Miss Lina!” scolded Tofty, the butler, emerging from his pantry with a polishing cloth and a silver plate. “You’ll bring bad luck on all of us.”
“It’s to be hung proper from the chandelier in the parlor,” Madelina argued. “I’ll make you another for the servants’ hall, Tofty. Don’t go expecting one can claim a kiss by waving a half-made bough about.”
“I see,” Garrick said, his eyes resting on her face as if he were studying her. Noting all that had changed in his time away, and all that had not. “I must exert myself to win a kiss from your Miss Lina. They aren’t simply given out to all.”
“I shan’t be asking for one.” She flushed. “I don’t want one.”Liar, liar. “Besides, I expect rakes give their kisses out quite freely, so claiming one fromyouis hardly a prize.”
Oh, well done, Lina, she congratulated herself. Transformation from a goat to a prudish spinster. Commendable choice.
His face shuttered into formal lines, all the warmth of confusion and the brief flash of—not, not interest—was gone, tucked away. “Escort you upstairs, shall I? Exerting myself to the utmost to behave.”
Oh, so he didn’t like her bringing up his reputation. Touchy about it, was he? Well, if he’d earned his stripes, he ought to wear them before all. She raised her chin.
“I’ve one or two things to see to. Please do go up. Maman will be delighted to see you, and you mustn’t hold dinner for me. I might be a moment.”
He watched her face again, his gaze touching her every feature, as if she were a puzzle he still had not solved. Damn anddrathim for having that power over her still.
“Happy Christmas, Mad,” he said softly, starting up the stair toward her.
She moved aside swiftly so he didn’t brush her when he passed. He must not,must nottouch her.
“Happy Christmas, Lord Warin,” she said and went in the other direction, head held stiff and high, her heart breaking all over again.
Chapter Two
He left her no other choice. If he were going to lie about the matter, then she simply must break into his house.
Fortunately, it was an easy business to enter Number Four Grafton Street from Number Three. When the 3d Duke of Grafton made his London land available for building, a prime location between New Bond and Dover Streets in Westminster, the 1stBaron Warin had rushed to claim a spot. His neighbor and good friend Reverend Millford, wealthy from his own family connections, had been persuaded to loan the new baron funds and purchase his own lot next door. So it was that the amicable relations between the families continued from Buckinghamshire into London and back again.
One of the agreements, since Number Four included more house, backing more or less onto South Bruton street, was that residents of Number Four were allowed the liberty of Number Three’s garden. So it was that Madelina was not, in her subterfuge, forced to the embarrassment of climbing through windows or finding secret passageways. She simply borrowed a heavy wool cape hanging on a peg by the door and stepped out into the shared garden where the trees had been pruned for the season and the more delicate plants huddled under their winter covers for the winter. The evergreens stood a bit sparse, plundered for the greenery decorating their respective houses, but several holly boughs burst with color, their berries bright drops of blood against the dark leaves.
Madelina knocked on the kitchen door of Number Four, which was opened in due time by the scullery maid, mob cap tight around her ears, squinting into the dusk.
“Oh, hullo, Miss Lina.” The girl pulled the door wide.
“Good evening, Sally.Bon soir,Monsieur François. Happy Christmas, Mrs. Chislett.” She presented the housekeeper with the package she’d nipped from her own kitchen. “Mrs. Bird sent you a fruitcake.”
