Page 54 of Souvenir of Love

“Did you invent these fascinating details yourself?” Marcus’s question was directed at Andre, but he cast a curious look at James.

James wondered if Marcus knew how often he’d found himself wishing the tale were true.

“Dinsmore helped me with a few bits here and there,” Andre acknowledged, spreading his winning hand upon the table. “I told them Moreham’s said he’ll think upon it and Dinsmore here has sworn to remain until he has got word from His Lordship.”

“Well done.” Marcus folded his cards. “That should neatly explain the presence of the earl’s messenger when he arrives.”

“Ifhe arrives,” David interjected, bringing the conversation full circle, back to its beginning.

James shot him a look of mock disapproval. “Oh, ye of little faith. The earl’s messenger will bring word of the rejection of my suit. I will, of course, be distraught. And while you, my faithful servants, pack, I shall be forced to drown my sorrows in countless bottles of this establishment’s fine stock of wines.”

“And shall you be needing any help with these bottles, a bit of shared comfort in your time of need?” Andre asked hopefully.

“Unfortunately for you, my suffering will be a private affair. Though expressed loudly enough to whet the eager appetite of your new friends below.” He pushed the pile of winnings in Andre’s direction. “By the time we set out tomorrow, everyone hereabouts should know that I am a desperate, bitter man. That life holds nothing for me here in stubborn, stifling, hopelessly outmoded Olde England. And, like every truly mindless romantic in this day and age, I’m off to a land where I can breathe free, a land ofliberté,egalité, andfraternité. France.” James nodded at David. “With Andre’s assistance, I expect news of my lovelorn state will travel faster than your carefully modified coach.”

David grinned at the mention of his favorite project.

“If everything goes as planned, my passage through the country will be followed with amusement, with pity, with scorn. With every range of emotion.” James smiled his twisted smile at the men gathered around the table. “Except suspicion.”

The messengerfrom the earl arrived just before tea, bearing a thickly wrapped package of names, addresses, and letters of introduction. Marcus immediately sat at the desk in the corner and began transcribing the names and addresses with vanishing ink on sheets of stiff, ivory wallpaper decorated with a delicate gold pattern. As soon as he finished a sheet and the ink was dry and no longer visible, he would motion to David, who was sittingat the table where the men had been playing cards. David would take the sheet, brush it with paste from a pot, and then carefully press it into the inside of a small wooden trunk.

The trunk belonged to James. Having examined James’s luggage earlier in the day, David had seized upon it as being the perfect size and shape for his project. Without asking, he’d unceremoniously dumped the contents on the larger of the two rope beds.

“I do hope you intend to repack those when you’ve finished,” James had remarked, eyeing the untidy heap that had been several neatly folded shirts, stocks, a nightshirt, and several pairs of stockings.

David had grinned. “Not to worry, everything will be as good as new when I’ve finished with it. Maybe even better.” He patted the trunk confidently.

Watching him working now, James had to admit the handiwork was that of a master craftsman.

“It does look handsome.” David nodded, as if acknowledging the unspoken compliment. “Marcus picked out the paper, and he’s got tastes nearly as fancy as yours.”

James stepped closer to the table and picked up one of the sheets David hadn’t yet brushed with paste. “The writing disappears quite neatly. How will you retrieve it?”

“I’ve mixed up a special solution. Swab the writing with it, and so long as it stays wet, you can read it. Soon as it dries, poof, it’s gone again.” His smile broadened. “But here’s the best part…”

“I can only imagine.”

David waved a brush full of paste as if to wave away James’s concerns. “I’ve mixed the solution with your cologne. Those Frenchies will never suspect.”

“I don’t wear cologne.”

From the desk, he heard a dry chuckle, followed by a slosh. “You do now.” James turned and saw Marcus holding an elegant glass bottle with a cork stopper.

“At least tell me you picked the cologne with as much care as the paper.”

“Alas, no, though I did suggest he mix in sandalwood rather than musk. If it will make you feel less violated,” Marcus said, taking out the stopper, “later I’ll show you how that philistine has desecrated my writing desk.” A pungent and not entirely pleasant odor wafted across the room. “You’ll be grateful when the gendarmes are looking for those incriminating letters of introduction…”

“Gad, that’s vile.” James fanned a hand beneath his nose. “I believe now would be a good time for me to begin calling for drink. Andre?”

Andre, who’d been silent through this exchange, leaning against the single window tapping his foot restlessly, turned immediately. In another moment, he was across the room, flinging the door open, and calling loudly down the stairs, “Wine, my master needs BOTTLES OF WINE, DAMN YOUR EYES, not tepid pots of tea!”

He’d always pridedhimself on being a quiet, well-bred drinker, never noisy in his cups. However, while much of the wine was poured out the window, a good portion made it down James’s throat. At first, he felt distinctly uncomfortable striding about the room, loudly bemoaning the perfidy of women. But soon he discovered it felt rather satisfying to voice some of the injustice he felt at being manipulated by his sister, caught up in Elizabeth’s wiles, and rejected by Rafe Moreham.

And the wines of the Hart and Hounds weren’t half bad.

The more he drank, the less troubled he was by the voice in his head defending both Anne and Elizabeth. Anne, the voice argued, had been injured. She’d struck out the only way she had known how and turned to the only person she believed could defend her. Elizabeth was headstrong and young; she couldn’t begin to understand the temptation she posed.

“Gentlemen,” he said, loudly enough to drown out his inner voice and carry through the thin layers of plaster and horsehair that made up the walls of the Hart and Hounds, “I was raised to believe that women are weaker vessels in need of man’s protection.Vessels…The first time I heard that expression, I didn’t think of glassware or porcelain. Oh no, I thought of ships. And then someone, a woman most like, corrected me.” He took a swallow from the glass he held in his hand. “But now that I think on it, I believe my first impression was correct. Women are like those sleek little barks that coastal smugglers use, slipping about men, gone before you know it. And we poor sods are like warships lumbering after ’em, but weighted down with all those masts, and cannons, and whatnot.”