A View To Kiss, page 1
A View to a Kiss
Caroline Linden
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For Stephanie Kip Rostan, who has been hearing about this story for four years now and has never once wavered in her enthusiasm for it (or in her belief that I would ever finish writing it); And for Eric, who indulges my passion for James Bond and Jason Bourne
Prologue
S he called herself Madame de la Tource and claimed to be related to French aristocracy. She was handsome, in a bold way, and she liked to entertain, although most respectable people would never dream of attending her salon. Like most Frenchwomen, she had expensive taste and an imperious attitude, and she treated her servants with disdain.
Which meant that when the household next door acquired a striking new footman, none of Madame’s maids thought twice about making eyes at him. Working for Madame didn’t offer many benefits, and if a bit of fun with the neighboring servants were the only one a girl could discover, so be it.
Tom, the second footman of the Greaves household, was tall and handsome, with sharp hazel eyes and the finest calves in London. He was dark and charming and gave an air of being meant for so much more than a footman. Before long there was nearly open strife belowstairs for his attentions, and within a fortnight Tom could have had any of Madame’s maids for a wink and a crook of his finger.
And the evening of Madame’s spring soiree, he winked at Polly, Madame’s ladies’ maid, slipping through the open kitchen door behind her.
“Good eve to you, Miss Polly,” he whispered as she hastily arranged a tray of tarts for the guests. Polly gasped, almost upsetting her tray, but recovered quickly.
“And to you.” She turned around and set down the tray on a table. Tom’s shoulders looked even broader up close, and Polly felt a thrill of excitement that she might explore them, personally, tonight. “No work tonight at Greaves’s?”
He shrugged, lounging against the door but staying in the shadows. “Not much. The master’s away, so I’ve a night out. Got a bit of a to-do here, aye?”
Any fool could see that, with people coming and going and various guests playing on the pianoforte at intervals. Madame’s guests weren’t the most dignified sort. Polly wiped her hands on the edge of her apron. She was supposed to be serving those guests, having been pressed into extra duties tonight like all the servants. But Tom was here, with a wicked twinkle in his eye…
“Not much.” Tom’s mouth curved knowingly. “Not too much for me to take a minute, that is,” she amended coyly. “If you had a minute to spend with me…”
“Tonight, Poll,” he said, “I’ve got more than a minute to spend with you.”
Polly abandoned her tray of tarts without a backward glance.
She spirited him up the back stairs into the only room she knew would remain undisturbed during the evening, the mistress’s dressing room.
All was proceeding very much according to Polly’s fondest wishes when Tom lifted his head in an air of listening. “Hush,” he whispered, catching her hands. “Hush.”
She paused, listening intently. From the next room came the sound of voices, a man and a woman. Madame had come back upstairs, with a companion. “Bugger all,” she gasped. “I’ll be sack—” Tom cut her off with a hand over her mouth, and she remained silent, hardly daring to breathe. It was one thing to sneak away from her duties, and another to be caught by the mistress doing it.
“You ’ave been ignoring me,” Madame was whining in her thick French accent. “You ’ave hardly been to see me this fortnight, and I miss you…”
“Yes, yes,” said a man over her complaints. His voice was distinctive, sharp and hasty. “Don’t fret. Look what I’ve brought you.”
There was a moment of silence, then a rapturous gasp. “Oh, Gerald, you darling man—”
“Yes, look,” he interrupted her. He didn’t sound like a man eager to bask in her gratitude. “Look.” Another moment’s silence. “I can’t give you more.”
“Oh, Gerry.” Her tone had turned wheedling. “You say that every time. It is not so much, is it? And I do depend on you so, Gerry…”
“Yes.” He sounded nervous now. “But be wary what you do with it. It’s an awful risk I took…”
She laughed, a confident trill of amusement. “Oui, but for me, Gerry, you would risk anything, non?”
“I shouldn’t,” he said. Almost pleaded. “I can’t do it again, please don’t ask me…”
In the dressing room, Polly’s brow wrinkled. In response, Tom slipped his finger under the shoulder of her neckline and gave a tiny tug. She jumped and grabbed his hand, setting off a small tussle, during which neither clearly heard what was said next in the other room.
“We should go back downstairs now. Your guests will miss you, pet.” Gerry still sounded nervous, but there was an undercurrent of relief in his words. Madame laughed again, and a moment later the door opened and closed. Polly exhaled loudly.
“Thought we’d be treated to a real show for a moment there,” said her companion, his fingers still running along the edge of her undone bodice.
“Hush!” she scolded him. “Madame would flay me alive.”
“Can’t have that, can we?” He squeezed her bottom in one hand. Polly gulped back a sigh and tried not to melt; he had such lovely hands. “I suppose you’ll be tossing me out, then.”
She pulled a face even as she slid from his lap and began tugging her dress back into place. “Not because I want to.”
“Who’s the bloke? Not the master, I gather.”
“Not the master, just the money. Sir Gerald somebody.” Polly squinted in thought as she put her dress to rights. “Walton? No, Wollaston. Some fancy gent in the government. The Treasury, that’s it. Madame’s quite pleased to have such an important one, for all he’s a fool. He’s the one what pays for all her jewels and whatnot. Thinks he’s God, and wants to be treated like it.”
“All gents feel that way.” Tom leaned back and put his hands behind his head as he watched her with hot, dark eyes. Polly frowned in pique despite that look. He hadn’t removed more than his gloves and queue wig. She’d not had so much as a glimpse of his finer assets.
“I’ve got to get back,” she told him. He just continued to look at her bosom. “Do you hear me? I’ve got to get back to my post.”
“All right.” He sat up with a sigh and plopped his powdered wig back on his head. He pulled on one glove, then looked around. “Where’s my glove?”
“I don’t know,” she said. The clock on Madame’s mantel in the other room chimed the hour and she jumped. How long had she been up here with him—a quarter hour? Half?
“I can’t find it,” he said, searching around. Polly hadn’t yet tidied the room from Madame’s whirlwind dressing, and female clothing littered every surface.
“Haven’t you got another?” Now that it was clear she wouldn’t have any fun, Polly began to feel anxious about being discovered missing. Cook would complain to Madame if she were missed, and the other girls would be sure to tattle on her if they knew she had Tom up here. No matter how clever his hands, she didn’t want to lose her employment over Tom. She tossed aside some gowns as he looked behind the chaise.
“No, I haven’t.”
Polly sighed in distraction. “I don’t see it. And I’ve got to get back.”
“Go on, then, if you aren’t of a mind to help.” He got down on his knees and looked under the chaise where Polly had been sure she would be tumbled good and proper. She eyed his finely shaped arse for a moment, but the danger of getting the sack weighed too heavily.
“Well, don’t be too long about it. If the mistress finds you here, I’ll be turned out without a reference, I will.”
“I heard you. Go on, then.”
Polly didn’t like his tone, but now was not the time to argue. She hurried to the door. “Don’t take on, Tommy. I’ll make it up to you, I vow.” She winked at him. “Not before tomorrow, though.” One corner of Tom’s mouth curled lasciviously, and she slipped away, feeling like a queen among maids.
The left-behind footman from next door rummaged under the chaise until her footsteps died away completely. Then he got to his feet and crossed to the door she had exited, listening for a moment before rushing to the other door, the one to Madame de la Tource’s bedchamber. With only a swift glance inside to assure himself that the room was empty, he slipped through the door, closing it softly behind him.
It was an expensive room, done up in the costliest of materials if not the finest of taste. A room meant to impress, no doubt, although Tom spared it barely a moment’s inspection. Without hesitation he went to Madame’s dressing table and slid open each drawer in succession, sifting quickly and quietly through the contents. He examined some items for a few moments, but returned everything to its place. Next he went to the writing desk by the window and repeated his search, but still took nothing. Wheeling about, he scanned the room, his gaze catching on the clock ticking on the mantel.
He moved to the chest opposite the bed and pulled open each drawer, his hands skimming through the unmentionables they contained, disturbing each item just enough to ascertain its ordinary nature. When he had rifled the entire chest, he slid the last drawer quietly home, his brow drawn into a slight frown. He swung around, scanning the room again. Not in the dressing table, not in the desk, not in the bureau. He didn’t have time to search the entire room, and so had to choose. Where, then?
And then he saw the jewel case, left on the table. It was too obvio
It took only a moment to restore the silk and jewels to the same attitude they’d had before he disturbed them. He left the jewel case on the table, exactly as he had found it; the entire room was exactly as he had found it, he assured himself before he slipped back into the dressing room, with only the paper from the jewel case missing. To look at it, no one would ever suspect he had been in the room.
Now, though, haste was more important than stealth. He stripped off his long footman’s frockcoat, then the more elegant evening coat concealed beneath it, the tails pinned up at the shoulders. Keeping one eye on the door, he pulled off his powdered queue wig and swiftly unbuttoned the old-fashioned waistcoat and tossed it aside, revealing another, far more fashionable short waistcoat. He pulled the buckles, which were only pinned on, from his shoes, and retied his footman’s stock into a simple but fashionable cravat before redonning the evening coat, tails unpinned. From one pocket he pulled a small piece of oilcloth, which held a bit of pomade darkened with boot blacking. He rubbed the pomade between his fingers, then ran his hands through his hair, twisting the hair at his brow into a wild mass of waves and smoothing down the back.
Tom paused just a moment to study his work in Madame’s looking glass. Now he was no longer a footman, but a modern young gentlemen of the ton. He flicked one of his new curls to the side, smirking at his reflection; in less than a few minutes he’d achieved nearly the same appearance most gentleman took hours to perfect.
Then he turned away, bundling up the discarded footman’s livery, including the supposedly missing gloves. Nothing must remain to indicate that he’d been here. He opened the window, taking a cautious glance out into the darkness below. It was deserted. He dropped the footman’s clothing to the ground and had closed the window again almost before it landed.
Checking once more to make certain the folded paper from the jewel box was safe in his waistcoat pocket, he crossed the room and cracked open the door. A maid was hurrying down the hall away from him. He watched her disappear around the corner before he slipped into the hallway himself. Tugging on a pair of evening gloves, he strolled leisurely toward the stairs and down to join the party.
The parlor was a truly impressive crush, and guests spilled out into the hall and down into the dining room. He wound his way through the crowd, nodding politely to anyone who looked his way.
“Ponsonby!” A drunken fellow stumbled into him, seizing his arm. “By Jove, good man, I thought you’d made for Devonshire!”
“Devonshire? No, no, you mean Somerset, of course,” Tom replied without blinking an eye.
The other man blinked, his eyes small and puzzled in his flushed round face. “Somerset? No, Devonshire.”
“No, Somerset,” Tom repeated in frosty indignation. “I went to Somerset. Nothing of value in Devonshire, I’m sure. What made you think that?”
“Er…” The man looked befuddled. “Don’t fairly know.”
“Then let’s not speak of it again,” said Tom, unhooking the man’s fingers from his sleeve. “I’m looking for Carstairs. Have you seen him?”
“Carstairs?” His companion blinked again. “No, can’t say I have. I say, are you sure it wasn’t Devonshire?”
“Quite,” Tom assured him. “I must be off. Carstairs, you see.”
“Yes, yes,” murmured the man in confusion, wandering off. “Thought for sure it was Devonshire…”
Tom continued on his way, lifting a glass of wine from a passing servant’s tray. He took a healthy sip as he strolled through the parlor before depositing his half-full glass on a table under a flower arrangement and stepping into the hall. There, he walked up to one of the waiting footmen. “Fetch my things,” he said with careless arrogance.
“Yes, sir, immediately.” The footman bowed and hurried away, returning a moment later with a high-crowned hat, walking stick, and evening cloak. Tom tossed the cloak around his shoulders.
“Have a good time up there?” breathed the footman as he handed over the hat.
“Not too bad,” Tom murmured in reply, his lips barely moving. He set the hat on his head at a jaunty angle and took the stick. “Back of the house, under the dressing room window.”
The footman bowed. “Yes, sir,” he said again in a normal voice. “Good evening, sir.” Tom ignored him and strode out the door, down the steps, and into the London night.
He walked for some time, through the quiet, well-swept avenues lit with gas into darker, dirtier streets that echoed with the invitations of whores and the racket of pubs, almost to Covent Garden, where he turned into a public house. He paused inside the door, letting his eyes adjust to the smoky, tallow-and-ale-scented air before taking a seat on a bench at the end of one table. A serving girl with a tightly laced bodice was upon him in a moment. He sent her for some ale, then leaned back and let his gaze wander about the room.
Within a few minutes another man, paunchy and colorless, slid onto the bench beside him. “Fine night, eh?” said the new fellow.
“The finest,” Tom replied in languid tones.
His companion gave a sharp, satisfied nod. “Good work, Sinclair.”
Tom the footman, who was neither named Tom nor a footman, tilted his head to look at the other man. “Did you think I wouldn’t get it?”
“Never know,” muttered Mr. Phipps. “Any trouble?”
“None.”
Phipps just grunted as the girl brought the ale, leaning forward to display her overflowing bosom. Sinclair gave her a slow smile and a golden coin. She sashayed away, casting him an inviting look over one shoulder.
“Mighty free with his lordship’s coin,” Phipps said over his tankard.
Sinclair lifted one shoulder. “What are his lordship’s coins for, if not to spend?”
Phipps took a long drink, then wiped the back of his hand over his mouth. Under the table he opened his hand between them. With no apparent attention, Sinclair dropped the paper from Madame’s jewel case into it. “Take this,” Phipps said, pushing a tightly folded note no larger than a shilling back into Sinclair’s hand.
“What is it?” Sinclair palmed the note without looking at it, then lifted his ale again.
“An opportunity.” Phipps slipped the paper Sinclair had given him into his own pocket. “You’ll be wanting to read that soon.”
“Indeed.” Sinclair seemed utterly uninterested. “Why?”
“Word is you’ve got ambition.”
Sinclair was watching the barmaid, who was smiling and winking at him as she wiped down a nearby table. “Every man has ambition—even you, I daresay.”
Phipps’s lips twisted. “Not like yours.”
One corner of Sinclair’s mouth quirked, but he said nothing.
“You should take it as a commendation,” Phipps went on. “Not everyone gets a chance like that.”
Sinclair just looked at him from under lowered eyelids. “Indeed.”
Phipps gulped down the rest of his ale before shoving to his feet. With only a brief nod, he slapped a cap on his head and started to turn toward the door.
“One question,” said Sinclair behind him, although without much curiosity. “Why Wollaston?”
Phipps braced his hands on the table and leaned over him, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper. “Why is not your concern. You do what you’re told, Sinclair.”
“But I notice no one’s taking much notice of what the Frenchwoman does with the information he gives her.” Sinclair’s eyes glittered before sliding away, back to the buxom barmaid. “And it’s not your neck in the noose, is it, Mr. Phipps? It’s mine, if I get caught.”
“You knew that at the beginning.”
“Aye,” agreed Sinclair in the same emotionless voice. “I did.”
Phipps hesitated, then swung around and stomped out the door.
Sinclair stayed where he was and drank his ale. After a while the serving wench came back, running her fingers along the collar of his evening jacket and whispering an invitation in his ear. He gave her a halfhearted smile and his last coin, then gathered his hat and walking stick and left.
