Nothing But Deception. Allegra Gray
the art of fitting in, mostly because she had rarely been singled out—at least never in such an overt manner. And yet the temptation to accept this sudden request…an offer most in the room would have paid dearly for, were payment an option…
“I know not if you are sincere, but if your request is made in earnest, then how could I refuse?” Bea murmured in response.
Triumph lit his features. “I am greatly relieved, yet hurt to think you question my sincerity. I assure you, I never issue such a request if I do not mean to follow through.”
“He rarely issues such a request, period,” Charity whispered. “Oh, do it, Bea. You simply must.”
“I just said I would,” she whispered back, loudly enough that Monsieur Durand laughed.
Heat suffused her face further.
“Oh, come now, chérie,” the Frenchman pled. “I’ve no wish to embarrass you—only to have the honor of attempting to capture your spirit on canvas.” He leaned in. “I shall leave you to the salon, for I see you are unused to such scrutiny, but I shall contact you through our hosts for the evening.”
Bea could only nod.
“J’espère que nous aurons bientôt l’occasion de nous revoir,” he said with another lavish bow. I look forward to our next meeting. Smiling, he swept off to uncover the next of his still-draped works.
Bea was still in shock as Charity, face alight with excitement, whirled to face her. “Do you realize you have suddenly become the most envied woman in London?”
A familiar cane appeared. “The most envied, and, I predict, the most speculated about,” Lady Tanner proclaimed. “You’ve always been a good girl, though. I’m sure your portrait will turn out lovely. Just keep your head about you.”
Bea forced a smile at the unsolicited advice. Her head had deserted her the moment Jean Philippe Durand had entered the room. Lady Tanner had a point. She would do well to gather her scattered wits before spending any more time with the charismatic artist.
In spite of overhearing a few jealous comments to the effect of “I don’t see why he found her so special,” Bea was nearly floating by the time the salon ended. She and Charity bid their good-byes, then waited as footmen retrieved the outerwear they’d shed upon arrival.
A servant held out the rose-colored pelisse that matched Bea’s gown. As she slipped her arm into the sleeve, she brushed against something stiff.
She paused, felt in the sleeve with her other hand. Yes, there it was. A small rectangle of paper, pinned to the lining of the garment.
Curiosity set her heart beating faster, but she gave the footman a bland smile as though nothing was out of the ordinary, and he moved off to assist the next departing guest. She glanced around her, but everyone seemed preoccupied with their own matters—no one was, at least that she could observe, paying her any special attention.
It was a note, she felt certain. And whoever put it there clearly hadn’t wanted to make a public announcement of it. Who would wish to contact her in such a manner? She had no lover to slip her discreet little messages.
Monsieur Durand had said he would contact her through their hosts. This couldn’t be what he had meant.
Belatedly, Bea realized Charity was a half dozen paces ahead, nearly out the door.
Bea hurriedly adjusted her gloves and followed, heaving a sigh as she resisted the urge to extract the missive and read it until she could do so as its sender clearly intended: in private.
Chapter 4
As soon as Charity exited the carriage, having been deposited safely at home, Bea tugged up the sleeve of her pelisse and unpinned the scrap of paper. She smoothed out the folds, then held it close to the vehicle’s window.
The uneven light of the streetlamps afforded her limited visibility, though determination—and a good deal of squinting—allowed Bea to ascertain two things rather quickly: first, the note was written in French. Second, it was not addressed to her.
For that matter, it was not addressed to anyone.
How very vexing. She tapped her foot impatiently as the carriage traveled the remaining blocks to her home. Upon arrival, Bea hurriedly shrugged out of her pelisse and thrust it toward the butler, whose stoic, “Good evening, my lady,” gave no indication that he noticed her unusual preoccupation.
She sped toward the little writing desk in the family salon and lit the lamp. There. She smoothed out the note, translating as she read.
It is time for the planting of seeds. If properly tended, they should flourish by May, perhaps June. One cannot predict exactly, as the winds are subject to change. The best a gardener can do is plan well, then monitor closely. To that effect…
Huh?
The note merely described someone’s intention for planting their flower garden. How utterly odd. Why would someone go to the trouble to pin such a thing inside her sleeve? Perhaps it hadn’t been intended for her after all, though that didn’t answer the question of why a gardening plan necessitated such secrecy. There had to be something more.
She read a few sentences further, as the author of the note went into detail regarding the proper layout of a garden, factoring growth patterns, which plants best complemented one another, and such.
Wait. Bea frowned. Was her French that rusty?
She reread the sentence she’d stopped at. No, that verb was conjugated improperly. And something about the author’s choice of words struck her as…off.
The author, perhaps, was a poor student of French.
Or, Bea mused, perhaps not. She tapped a fingernail as she scanned the remaining few lines.
One phrase kept coming back to her…“Ten clusters of night-blooming plants.” Romance often bloomed at night. Could the mysterious note have another, hidden meaning? A lovers’ code of some sort?
Bea grew warm at the thought—either she had interrupted the secret communications of an amorous duo, or she herself had an admirer who deemed her capable of interpreting such a message without any prior knowledge. The former scenario was more likely by far, which meant the polite thing was probably to burn the note and forget it ever existed.
But the temptation to uncover its meaning was simply too strong.
Years of reading and writing poetry had taught her to look for the meaning of a phrase beneath its surface. The “planting of seeds” in poems was often a euphemism for impregnating one’s wife or lover.
Heavens. Bea suppressed the bubble of mirth rising in her. Was that what she’d intercepted? Evidence of an illicit pregnancy within London’s elite?
Although—she returned to tapping her nail—the words of the note seemed to suggest the seeds in question were just now being planted. It was already April. If they were to flourish in May or June, that held more with an actual garden than a woman’s time of expectancy, which lasted much longer. Unless by “flourish,” the author meant only that the pregnancy would become evident—at least to the bearer, if not to everyone. But illicit lovers generally wished to avoid such consequences—yet the note referred to careful, intentional planning and monitoring.
Drat. It was impossible to discern the true meaning—let alone the author’s intent in putting it to paper.
If the note was not meant for her, who had been the intended recipient? A woman, clearly. Bea’s rose-colored pelisse was distinctive, but the salon had been well-attended, particularly by the fairer sex. She searched her memory. The women present that evening had displayed a veritable rainbow of gowns and accessories, but she could not recall with certainty any particular lady whose pelisse or cloak might be mistaken with hers. Without an addressee, the note offered up no further clue as to whom it had been meant for.
She yawned. The hour was late, her mind reeling