Petteril's Wife, page 5
In fact. Piers had dressed her hair, threading the also-modest pearl necklace through it for greater effect. She had sat rigidly under his ministrations and then, her accent slipping only slightly, she had demanded, “Where’d you learn about women’s hair?”
“One learns lots of things at Oxford,” he had replied vaguely. “Admire yourself. Others will.”
She hadn’t believed him, of course. She was far too tense to judge.
No one understood social awkwardness better than Piers. In recent months he had learned to deal with it by playacting the haughty viscount, which he could not do here. But poor April was all at sea. She could never have seen such a glittering gathering of silks and jewels, except, perhaps, glimpsed through a window or, more recently, through doors. She knew there were incomprehensible differences between a viscountess and the wife of a Foreign Office clerk, but to her they were all nobs. And in this situation, he was not the top nob.
“Smile a lot and look impressed,” he murmured. “And tell me if I’ve met anyone before...”
Her hand on his arm still shook, but at least she forced her shoulders to relax and she managed a fleeting smile which she hastily dragged back to her lips as a very elegant lady bore down upon them.
Although no longer in the first flush of youth, she possessed the kind of graceful beauty that never vanished. It merely grew with maturity and confidence. Understated and refined, she nevertheless drew the attention immediately and held it. There was something in the warmth of her smile, a conspiracy of the eyes that made one immediately her friend.
He had to remind himself that she was not necessarily his.
“Mr. Whittey,” she greeted him in English, extending her elegantly gloved hand. “I am Furtunata de Almeida. How delightful that you come. And this must be your beautiful wife.”
I ain’t beautiful, was April’s normal, scornful reply to such admiration. Fortunately, she didn’t say it now, although she looked somewhat surprised as she remembered to curtsey to her hostess.
“You are too kind, Senhora,” she murmured, her diction remaining perfect. “So kind of you to invite us.”
“My husband and I love to meet as many of our British allies as we can. You are always welcome in our home. And here is my husband... Mr. and Mrs. Whittey, newly arrived from England,” she told a darkly handsome man with a magnificent moustache.
Duarte de Almeida was not tall but made up for it by thrusting his chin upward. His greeting was that of a most hospitable host and yet he gave off a vast sense of superiority that would surely have daunted a lowly clerk. Piers decided to look meek and gratified.
“We must chat later on,” the senhora said to April before gliding away to greet more guests. Piers could easily imagine Bertie pursuing her.
“Let me find you a glass of port,” Almeida said, ushering Piers further into the room.
Piers patted April’s hand to keep it on his arm, and obediently allowed himself to be guided. With an aimable bow, Almeida presented them both with a glass of sherry. April was obliged to let go of Piers to hold her glass.
“So how do you find our city?” Almeida asked her.
April, who had just taken a sizable mouthful of port, swallowed smoothly before replying with a smile. “It’s the most beautiful place I have ever been.”
“We had to rebuild it after the terrible earthquake of 1755.”
“Most successfully,” she said.
“You are too kind, senhora. So, Mr. Whittey.” The niceties dealt with, he turned to Piers. “What precisely is your position with the British Envoy, sir?”
Since the cat was rather out of the bag there, Piers did not trouble to dissemble. “A rather nominal and temporary one with the express purpose of discovering what happened to a British officer who never reached his regiment at Cuidad Rodrigo.”
“Ah, poor Major Withan.” Almeida shook his head regretfully.
“You are acquainted with the major?”
“Of course. Charming fellow. Though I almost took against him for his interest in my wife!” He smiled to show that it was a joke and that he well understood such respectful interest.
“One could not fail to admire Senhora de Almeida’s beauty,” Piers said with perfect truth. “I do hope Major Withan did not overstep the line of propriety and offend her.”
“No, no,” Almeida said tolerantly. “My wife is a virtuous lady and I a jealous husband, but even I must admit that the major behaved like a perfect gentleman. He merely sighed after her like a lovesick puppy.”
That sounded so unlike Bertie that Piers wondered if they were talking about the same man. Perhaps Almeida suffered from the same face-blindness as Piers.
“And how have you got on, sir?” Almeida enquired. “Have you discovered anything our own authorities have not?”
Piers’s eyebrows flew up. “I had not realized the authorities, Portuguese or British, had discovered anything at all.”
“And are very unlikely to,” mourned Almeida. “Brigands, you know.”
“You believe he is dead?”
“Sadly, yes,” Almeida said with a sigh. “It is lamentably frequent outside the safety of Lisbon.”
“And inside,” Piers said mildly. “I hear one of your own noblemen was murdered in a back street.”
It got little reaction, save an even sadder facial expression. The man’s moustache might have drooped. “A terrible tragedy. What is the world coming to? I suppose we must expect more violence in a country at war.”
“Then you do not subscribe to the theory I have heard hinted at, namely that Withan was responsible for the conde’s death and fled punishment?”
“Oh, no, my dear fellow!” Almeida looked and sounded shocked. It might even have been genuine. “Major Withan was a gentleman, like us.”
Flatterer, thought Piers, amused. Whittey might be a gentleman but he was most certainly not a nobleman of rank and political importance like Almeida.
“Might I ask when you last saw Major Withan?” Piers asked tentatively. “I am trying to trace his movements from the evening before he was due to leave the city.”
“Of course. He called on us in the early evening to say farewell and to thank us for our hospitality to a stranger. It was perhaps seven of the clock.”
“Did he seem well? Happy to be leaving for Spain?”
“Well, yes, and looking forward to his posting. He was very excited by our joint taking of Salamanca and the retreat of the French. He talked much of the storming of Badajoz in the spring, though it was at such terrible cost. He was eager to be part of the next battle.”
Piers nodded. “That is what I have heard.”
“I don’t believe there is any truth, let alone evidence for any accusations you might hear about desertion. I believe he was an honourable man who fell foul of distinctly dishonourable bandits. I have to say—ah!” He broke off as a young lady drifted over to them. “Here is my daughter, Eliana. Eliana, Mr. and Mrs. Whittey from England, have just arrived in Portugal.”
The girl was small like her father and lacked her mother’s poise and beauty. In fact, she looked plain through sheer listlessness. What April would call a drip. On the other hand, upon introduction, a brief spark of interest did light her dull, mud-coloured eyes.
Ignoring April, she said to Piers, “Oh, you are Senhor Whittey.” And then she blushed in a mottled kind of way and hastily excused herself.
Almeida muttered something below his breath, no doubt on the misfortune of two such graceful parents producing so awkward and dull an offspring. Then the smile was back. “Let me introduce you to some of my other guests...”
There followed something of a nightmare of introductions, fortunately not all at once, most to Portuguese people of great importance whom Piers had no chance of recognizing again, and not all of whom spoke much—or indeed any—English. With a few, however, he was able to discuss the war and appreciate the increased chances of allied victory in Spain this year, the French troops being so limited in numbers now by Bonaparte’s ambitious invasion of Russia.
All the gentlemen of whatever age, ogled April, some flirting with their snapping dark eyes. Which was how Piers came to realize that Almeida alone had more or less ignored her.
Perhaps he really was furiously in love with his beautiful wife. Or perhaps he was only interested in what Piers knew or would believe about Bertie.
April said, “Kelvin is by the fireplace.”
“I suppose it would be polite to say good evening. Point me at him, will you?”
Arm in arm once more, they approached the fireplace and the group of clearly British gentlemen all grasping their glasses of port. April rather cleverly caught Kelvin’s irritable gaze and bobbed a curtsey.
“Mr. Kelvin, good evening. A pleasure to see you here.”
Piers focused on the object of her attention and remembered the balding head, and the rather resentful voice that replied, “Good evening, Mrs. Whittey. Whittey. Sir Charles, I believe you are not yet acquainted with Whittey, who joined us yesterday?”
“Ah,” said a tall, vaguely dissipated gentleman with the shrewd eyes. “Very glad to have you, Whittey. Mrs. Whittey, charmed.” He bowed over her hand, his eyes twinkling with lazy interest.
Piers, warned by the man’s charm, was not entirely surprised to be introduced to Sir Charles Stuart, British Envoy Extraordinaire to Portugal. April, to whom all nobs were equal, merely twinkled back at him.
“Come and see me next time you’re in the office,” Sir Charles said to Piers. “Better still, come to dinner one night and bring your delightful wife.”
“The Envoy likes me,” April crowed when the British huddle broke up.
“Everyone likes you. You’re a likeable lady.”
April laughed, a joyous enough sound to attract several long glances. “Then may I have another glass of port?”
“So long as I don’t have to carry you home.”
“I’ve been drinking spirits since I was ten years old,” April said scornfully, and probably quite truthfully considering the places she had sought shelter. “It doesn’t affect me.”
“Yes, it does,” Piers murmured after a quick glance at her glowing face. Although her radiance was as likely to be due to the success of the evening which she had not truly expected to carry off.
Unfortunately, they had not really learned anything new about Bertie, except that Piers did not trust Almeida.
“I bring you port wine,” said a diffident female voice.
Piers bowed to the rather unmemorable girl before them and accepted the glass with a bow.
“Thank you, Senhorita de Almeida,” April said helpfully. “This is just what I wanted.”
If only I could take her to every party, Piers thought gratefully, bestowing a rather warmer smile on Eliana de Almeida.
Her eyes widened fractionally, a spark of surprise and pleasure. Then she glanced quickly around her.
“I listen to my father a little. You look for Major Withan.”
“I do,” Piers said in surprise. “Do you know him?”
She dropped her eyes. “A little, of course. He call here several times.”
“But not after about seven o’clock on the night before he left?” April said. “Though he was certainly seen elsewhere in the city after that.”
“He come at seven and say goodbye,” Eliana agreed, her eyes darting again. Her voice lowered even further as embarrassment coloured her face. “He come again just after eleven, to say a more special goodbye.”
“Ouch,” Piers said as April pinched his arm to silence whatever else he had been about to ask.
Eliana did not appear to notice. “They all talk as if he is dead...” She glanced around her once more and let out a sound alarmingly like a sob. “We cannot talk here. I try to get away tomorrow morning, though it will be difficult. Where do you stay?”
“Latour’s hotel. There is a little bakery just around the corner if you’d like to come upon us by accident.”
“Eight o’clock, I come,” Eliana said, and went.
“Bertie and Senhora de Almeida?” Piers said thoughtfully.
“I doubt it.” April murmured. “She’d eat him for breakfast.”
Piers blinked. “What a surprising little creature you are, Mrs. Whittey.”
“Not at all, Mr. Whittey. Not at all.”
FOR THE FIRST TIME in weeks, Eliana de Almeida glimpsed hope. Not for her happiness, but for Major Withan’s life.
When her parents’ reception ended and she was finally released from her obligations, she bolted to her own chamber and gazed out of the window. The summer evening was growing dark. The knot that twisted her stomach had not eased but for once she could look forward to doing something.
The English couple were odd, like many of the English she had encountered, and very odd to be important functionaries of the British government. She didn’t believe for a moment that they were important. He was much too diffident and she too lively and probably air-headed, but then, she was only a wife.
That didn’t matter. She could still direct them. They would be her eyes, her arms and legs in the city and beyond, to investigate and discover the truth of an investigation that no one else seemed very interested in. She herself, as an unmarried girl, was too closely chaperoned and guarded, and her parents, convinced without any evidence that the major had met his end at the hands of bandits, would do nothing to upset Portugal’s Regency government or its British allies.
No one but Eliana saw anything odd about the disappearance of the British officer. Her mother had gone further.
“Why should you care? He is no one to you, and if you ever intend to be something to anyone else, you should make more effort with your appearance. Smile occasionally. Be interested in something other than the poor—you will find no husband there.”
“I want no husband,” Eliana had mumbled.
“How fortunate, since no husband is exactly what you will have! If your father and I do not continue to do everything for you.”
Doing everything for her seemed to be entering betrothal negotiations with an ancient barão whom she could not recall ever meeting. And so she would move from one prison to another while nothing was done for Major Withan until he really was dead.
Her belief in his survival was not rational to anyone else. She knew that. She even knew she was willing it to be so more strongly than anyone else was imagining his death. And if he really was dead, now, she needed to know. But she refused to believe that bright, vital, impudent life had been extinguished. She would know, she would feel it like the darkening of the world which, without him, was universally grey and meaningless. Like the British weather he described.
She thought back to their first meeting, when, the guest of her parents, he had discovered her in the garden, hiding between the old orange tree and a nameless green bush. She had heard her parents and the servants looking for her. So had he, but instead of giving her away, he had dropped down beside her on the grass, asked what she was reading, and looked so genuinely impressed when she told him, that she had told him more. He had laughed and teased her, told her he was not remotely bookish, though he liked to read about military campaigns and strategies. And it was all said in such a way that she didn’t feel inferior or ugly or mocked.
And at the reception in the evening, he had sought her out—only because of his kindness for them, her parents had told her. Eliana herself had no doubt that it was kindness. Major Withan was the most handsome man she had ever seen—dashing and reckless with those laughing eyes that refused to look seriously on the world.
He knew he was not perfect. He told her about his idle, wasted life in England, gambling and drinking and womanizing, taking advantage of his dying uncle and his absent, unworldly cousin. With the unworldly cousin’s help, he had transferred to a fighting regiment under Lord Wellington and had no doubts he was doing the right thing.
Eliana was enchanted. For the first time in her life—and she was all of eighteen years old—she fell in love. Not that she had dreams. She was a realist. It was enough for her to love him. And she would not allow him to be dead.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow, she would tell the odd English couple all she knew. Branca, her maid, would give her away, of course, so she would only have this one chance.
Chapter Six
April woke with the sharp awareness of danger. Someone was moving in the almost total darkness, and that always meant trouble. She shot into a sitting position, heart pounding with fear, one arm raised over her face to ward off the worst of blows, the other searching frantically for a weapon that was not there.
The stealthy movement halted.
“April?”
Lord Petteril! Oh, thank Christ.
The bed curtain twitched, revealing pale dawn light. And no doubt allowing his lordship a glimpse of her pathetic cringe. Hastily, she dropped her arm. No wonder she could find no knife in the depths of her fine, lawn night rail.
She swallowed, licking her dry lips, recovering her orientation. “What?” she demanded aggressively. “You startled me.”
“Sorry, I was trying not to wake you.”
He didn’t mention that her sudden, frantic movement had startled him too. She liked his concern and feared it at the same time. But she knew he would not embarrass her by mentioning her reaction.
“Where are you going?” As long as she had known him, he had risen at dawn. Even before they had been thrown so much together, she had guessed he did not sleep well. Now she knew it. He must miss his early morning rides here.
“Just for a walk. I thought I might pass by the condessa’s and the Almeidas’ houses.”
“Great idea. I’ll come with you.”
“Five minutes,” he said sternly. “I’ll wait downstairs.”
In her hurry, she splashed as much water on the floor as on her body and flung on the green walking dress she had worn to disembark from the ship, with a shawl around her shoulders to hide the erratic fastening. Ruthlessly she pinned up her hair and crammed on the straw hat, grabbed her reticule with the notebook and pencil and bolted downstairs.
