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Chapter Thirteen
Love is hard to hide. Once Josie and Ace knew the depth of their feelings for each other, it was like a dam bursting open. They had each hidden their love, from each other and from the world for so long. Now they found it hard to bear being in the same room without touching or letting their secret glances meet.
The days that followed were agonizing. They wanted to be alone together, and it seemed like the world was conspiring to keep them apart. For three nights in a row, Lady Josephine had balls and parties to attend. Ace had to play the dutiful bodyguard, then watch as Ducky or one of the lady’s maids accompanied Lady Josephine to her chambers for the night.
How were they going to manage going forward? And the wedding was only ten weeks away.
He found her one morning in the sitting room adjoining her bedchamber. Mercifully, she was by herself—there would be no witnesses to their love play. Ace scooped her up in his arms, showering kisses on her lips and her face. He kissed her neck and her sweet white bosom, which peeked so pertly from the neckline of her dress.
“Oh Josie, I love you so much.”
Lady Josephine responded to his ardor with equal passion. As he kissed her, her hands stroked his back and shoulders, appreciating his manly physique. She let his tongue explore her mouth, before kissing him deeply in return.
“Josie, I can’t stand this. I have to have you—right here, right now.”
It seemed, at the rate they were going, they might soon disrobe. But they were interrupted by a discreet cough from the door of the antechamber. It was Madame Vallencourt, the milliner. Suddenly Lady Josephine remembered that she had had an appointment that morning to view the new spring and summer hats Madame had especially designed for her upcoming trip to Worthington Hall.
Looking at the pair, Madame gave a Gallic shrug, as if to say she was quite familiar with the ways of the world and seldom shocked by them.
“And so. Was this the unchivalrous gentleman who made my lady’s eyes so red from weeping, back when she was pretending to be a milliner? The gentleman who then waited day after day on my street corner, hoping for a glimpse of her? You think I did not see, but I saw a great deal!” Her voice was teasing but friendly.
“You are correct in all that, Madame. And I thank you for the good care you took of our Josie when she worked in your shop. But you are wrong in one particular, I am no gentleman.”
“Indeed,” Madame agreed. “In fact, from your accent, I’d say you were raised in the Rookeries. Around St. Giles’ Field, I think?”
“Correct. Madame has a good ear for accents.”
“Blimey, I’d need to ‘ave,” Madame said, suddenly slipping into Cockney, “seein’ as I grew up on the Thames dockside myself. My real name is Sadie Brown. But for a while there, bein’ French was awful good for business. I’ll keep your secret, if you’ll keep mine.”
“Your identity is safe enough with me,” Ace said with a laugh. He liked the phony French milliner. She had all the spunk that low-class but ambitious Londoners were famous for, and he admired that. “But as to myself, Ashton Smith is my real name, and I make no secret of my deprived childhood.”
“No, my friend,” said Madame, slipping back into her French persona with ease. “You have a different secret, and I believe I just walked in and discovered it. L’amour—c’est magnifique, ne c’est pas? Do you love this girl, m’sieur?”
“We love each other,” said Lady Josephine defiantly.
“Then my dear, I rejoice for your future joy. But I fear that before you find happiness, you two will have a long, difficult road ahead. Society does not look kindly on rebels. Are you not to be married before the Season ends, my lady? And to a famous Earl, a powerful man who holds the friendship of the Prince?”
“There can be no wedding. We will find some way to be together. I don’t know how, but we will make it work,” Ace said.
“Well there is one thing perhaps I can offer you, as a friend to you both. If you ever need to escape, to hide from Society, it happens I have a small cottage in Cornwall, right on the sea.” Madame then gave them the name of the little town, and instructions on how to find the cottage.
“People there know me by my real name, not as Madame Vallencourt. The woman in the yellow cottage to the east of mine is a Mrs. Trevallian, a kindly soul. I will write to her that someday she may meet a Mr. and Mrs. Smith, friends of mine from London, who may choose to stay in my cottage for a while. She will let you in and keep your whereabouts unknown.
“Perhaps you’ll never need this. But if you find you have to disappear, at least you’ll have a place to go.”
Madame began to bustle about with her millinery models. “Now absent yourself, m’sieur. Lady Josephine and I must make some decisions about hats.”
* * *
The Earl also began to notice something odd in the exchanges between his fiancée and her bodyguard. They were exceedingly proper with each other—but it had a contrived air, like an overplayed stage performance.
He saw their glances meet several times. The Earl was not particularly sensitive to nuances, but even he could perceive that there was chemistry at work between the girl and her manservant. And the way this Mr. Smith had attacked him when he had taken the liberty of physically chastising his young fiancée—well, it was positively Neanderthal. Anyone would think the man had a personal stake in the outcome.
The Earl well knew that marriages among the aristocracy were not always faithful. He was particularly at risk of being cuckolded, given that he was away at sea most months of the year. That was one reason he had chosen a young girl he believed to be quite innocent. Still, after years had passed, a discreet liaison—handled in a dignified manner by all parties concerned—could be an option for either husband or wife.
But it would have to be with someone of similar social standing, someone who understood the aristocratic code of behavior. Not with this man who was little better than a street tough, a lowborn ruffian! The thought that Lady Josephine was even attracted to such a lowlife horrified him.
Something would have to be done to get the odious Mr. Smith out of the picture. The Earl had a few good ideas. It was actually fortunate that the Duke of Clover wanted to bring the man along to Worthington Hall for the weekend. There, on the Earl’s own turf, there was a lot he could do to get rid of the man.
