Chapter 24
Harriet clamped her hands together, chin up, resolute. She’d never been the sort to sit about waiting. It was beyond her usual sense of reason that she’d allowed herself to do it for as long as she recently had. Goodness, what time she had wasted in these last weeks since her marriage. . . waiting. Waiting accomplished little. No. Action was the thing. Or so she tried to convince herself as the coach rolled down Fleet Street and stopped before a narrow close.
She eyed the path between the towering old buildings and wondered if she was being either very brave or very foolish. Perhaps both. But one thing she did know, she wasn’t about to allow her marriage to devolve into the vague niceties of most marriages she knew. The sort of marriage her mother had warned her about.
Not with Rob. Not when they’d been such friends. She wasn’t about to let marriage separate them. Still, given the lateness of the hour, she was exceedingly glad she’d brought Henry, a particularly brawny footman, to escort her on her journey.
Poor Stevenson had fairly twitched as he’d given her an exclusive address on a small scrap of parchment. The writing had been quite shaky as if he couldn’t believe he was doing it. He’d all but wrung his hands as she’d ordered the coach but, even so, she’d seen the admiration in his eyes as she refused to give up on his master.
Giving up was something she’d never do either. It simply wasn’t in her nature. And she was glad of it.
The lacquered coach door swung open and Henry extended his gloved hand.
With a fortifying sigh, she took it, stepped down onto the folding coach step then onto the rain slicked, black cobbles. She glanced about the old street, one of the only streets in London to survive the Great Fire and started down the narrow way Stevenson had described.
Henry led the way by just a step, his blond hair gleaming by the light of the lantern he carried. That single lantern beat back the darkness of a London city night. There was not a lamp in sight.
She swung her gaze left to right, taking in the tall, shadowed, ancient buildings as she looked for her destination. With every step, her heart leapt in her throat, a most distressing feeling. For she felt as if her decision were forcing something to a head. But really, sometimes, things needed to be forced lest they simply molder away.
Her step faltered as she spotted it. Number 79. The numbers were carved above the door, deep into the stone.
What would she find here? A love nest? A mistress’ house? A den of iniquity? She doubted it. Rob would never descend to such a thing. No doubt, it was but a place for him to hide away from the world. Surely, that was it.
Giving a nod, if only to herself, she stepped forward, clasped the brass knocker and gave it a solid bang.
She waited, the soft mist of rain falling upon her cloak.
The soft clatter of footsteps echoed on the other side and the panel swung open.
Harry’s stomach plummeted to her toes.
The most beautiful woman she’d ever seen stood in the rectangle of candle glow.
Said beautiful woman looked her up and down, her pale brow furrowing, before she said in a delightful French accent, “Hallo, Madame. You have the wrong place.”
Harriet scowled, shaken by that comment but determined not to be intimidated by such a beautiful person. “I do not.”
“Oui,” she said with the matter of factness that French people seemed to have. “Unless, you have an invitation?”
Harriet lifted her chin. “I am here for the Duke of Blackstone.”
The other lady narrowed her stunning eyes for the merest hint of a moment before declaring lightly, “Non.”
“Non?” Harriet shook her head. “What do you mean, non?”
“Non,” the lady said with a twirl of her delicate fingers. “I do not know of such a person. Now, go.”
The lady started to close the door.
Harriet darted forward, exclaiming with less dignity than she liked, “Please don’t lie to me. Are you his mistress?”
That seemed to take the lady aback before she grinned then threw her head back. “Moi?” she laughed, a deep, lush sound. “I am not a courtesan, Madame. I am a woman of independent means. Can you say the same? Allors, this is my establishment, and I think it best you return to whence you came.”
Harriet wanted to throttle the rather fascinating and extremely confident woman before her, except she could not, for Harry was the intruder. “I’m not going anywhere until I see him and I know he is here.”
“Know?” the lady echoed. “What can you know?”
Harry stuck out the small parchment. “His butler gave me this address.”
“Stevenson?” the lady queried, astonished as she took the scrap. “Why would the old fellow do that?”
Harry drew herself up and announced with as much gravitas as she possibly could in such a circumstance, “Because I’m the duke’s wife.”
“Merde.”
Harriet stifled a frustrated noise. She knew the word. It wasn’t a nice one, but perhaps it was apt.
The lady sighed. “Wives. They are such trouble.”
“Now look here,” she began, ready to defend the position of women who had married, even if, at present, it felt indefensible in the face of such a forceful person.
“Entree sil vous plait.” And the stunning woman stepped back. “We will not haggle in the door like fish women.”
Hmphing, Harriet stepped into the dark, sumptuous corridor and looked about. She swallowed, hating the feeling of intense jealousy that washed over her. She never would have expected this. Not a place which looked meant for comfort. She had a feeling that the rooms were as sumptuous as the corridor and meant for lounging, drinking, and. . . pleasure. “Is he upstairs then?”
“First,” the lady put her hands together. “We share our names.”
Harriet crooked a wry smile. “Civility is it?”
“If no civility, we are no better than barbarians.”
Nodding her agreement she said, “Duchess Blackstone.”
“How do you do?” The lady inclined her beautifully coifed head. “I am Madame de Coqueville.”
That stopped Harriet, and she blinked. “The female playwright?”
The lady’s face changed, a wave of pleasure softening it. But then her lips twitched. “Mais oui, but I prefer just playwright. What does my gender have to do with it?”
Harry couldn’t help her laugh. The comment was made with such bemused irritation. “I have read your work, Madame.”
The playwright cocked her head to the side, her coiled hair brushing the silk of her collared, purple silk gown. “And?”
“I think it astonishing and marvelous.”
“Ah.” The lady smiled. “You are not a total English philistine then.”
“I am not a philistine at all, but I am in search of my husband.” Harriet paused, for once at a loss as to how to proceed. “And you are not—”
“His mistress?” Madame de Coqueville did not laugh, though she was still clearly amused. Instead, she shook her head, her amethyst bobs dancing against her neck. “I am the chatelaine of this abode.”
Harriet took that in, struggling to hide her confusion. “You keep his house?”
“Not his. Theirs.” Madame de Coqueville sighed. “This is most awkward. Come and have a drink.”
Theirs. What the devil did that mean?
Harry bit her lip, suddenly feeling the mundanity of her upbringing and she admitted, “I do not usually drink with strangers in strange houses.”
“So sad,” Madame de Coqueville tsked. “I find that is the best time. Besides, I can help you.”
Harry blinked, feeling completely at sea. She did not know what she had expected of this evening’s foray, but this was not it. “You can?”
“Oui. Come.” And with that, Madame de Coqueville turned with a dramatic flourish of lush silk skirts.
Harriet had no choice but to do so or return home and she wasn’t about to go back without information of some kind.
They entered a small sitting room decorated in striped ivory walls embroidered with red roses. Several soft lounging chairs interspersed the space. Places perfect for entwining. Candles danced, their light playing along the gilded mirrors.
The playwright went to a silver tray, moving with infinite grace. Delicately, she poured two small glasses of brandy. Angling back, her eyes sparkled like emeralds as she handed Harriet a glass.
“You do not know where you are, do you?” Madame de Coqueville asked.
“London. Just off Fleet Street,” Harriet replied dryly as she took the glass. “Beyond that? No. And I am feeling at a loss.”
“But of course.” The French woman’s beautiful lips curved in a wicked bow. “Wives often do.”
Harriet scowled. “That is very demoralizing.”
“Wives often feel so.” With a shrug of her slender shoulders, she added, “It is why I am not married myself. I hate the idea of being property. Do you not?”
Harriet shifted uncomfortably. She’d married to increase her independence, but Madame did have a point. “I do, but marriage is functional.”
“Ah.” Madame de Coqueville’s eyes gleamed with hidden depths. “And that is why you are demoralized. You are functional.”
Harriet suddenly felt like she was but a mere divan whereas Madame de Coqueville was a four-poster, chenille curtained affair meant for romping. “I feel as if I am being insulted.”
“Non and oui.” Madame de Coqueville took a sip of brandy then licked an errant drop from her ruby lips. “It is more fact than commentary.”
Harriet looked aside, wondering at the woman’s freedom and all that she’d seen. “You do know my husband?”
“I know Rob, yes.”
The use of her husband’s intimate name rankled. “You are. . .”
“Friends. I do not know him as well as I know the others.”
“The others?” Harriet queried, confused again.
Madame de Coqueville tsked then gestured for her to sit.
“I’d rather stand, if you don’t mind. I’m feeling rather restless.”
“I do not.” A kind expression softened the woman’s face. “But you may not like what I say.”
“I don’t like any of this, truthfully, though I am honored to meet you oddly enough.”
That won a smile from the French woman before she began grandly, “This is Monsieur le duc’s private escape. . . and that of his friends.”
“A club?” Harriet surmised.
Madame de Coqueville shrugged, something which seemed a habit. “I do not think club is apropos. Brotherhood, perhaps?”
“I don’t follow.”
Madame de Coqueville cocked her head to the side, assessing. “You are innocent, non?”
“Yes, despite my myriad of protestations, it would seem so.” Harriet stared down at her brandy thinking of Rob’s earlier comments about her. “Unfortunately.”
Madame de Coqueville waved Harriet’s self-criticism aside. “So many men of power grow weary and they need the friendship of people who understand them.”
“People like you?” she asked, trying not to sound jealous. For she had read Madame de Coqueville’s writing, and the woman was a genius and a survivor of the Reign of Terror. What had Harriet done? Not a great deal when in comparison. And in the playwright’s presence, she did feel the yawning difference in their experiences.
“But of course, cher duchess, but I do not meet with them. Or I do not meet with Rob much. I merely keep the place for them to gather. They trust me.”
But Rob clearly did not trust her. “I see.”
“I do not think so.” Madame de Coqueville took another sip of brandy then, in quite an unladylike way, leaned against the fireplace mantel. “In your brain, I see it. Anger and jealously are dancing about. You are a kind person. You have not burst in here with insults but curiosity.”
“You are perceptive,” Harriet agreed.
“I am a woman of certain years and experience.” Madame de Coqueville looked at her with remarkable kindness but also with a degree of pity. “I think you are here because you are worried.”
“I am,” she admitted for all she disliked seeing that pity.
“Good, otherwise I would escort you back to the pavement.”
Harriet couldn’t help her smile. “What is this place then?”
“It is Number 79.”
“I know—”
“No, you don’t know,” Madame countered. “No one knows but me and the five men who took the house. I operate it as a salon and place of pleasure, but it is meant to hide its real purpose.”
“Which is?” Harriet asked.
“A refuge.”
The words falling upon her slipped into place and suddenly she understood. “My husband comes here to be understood and given respite.”
“Oui.” Then Madame de Coqueville gestured to her brandy. “Drink, cher duchess. Drink. You need it.”
She blinked then took an obligatory sip and nearly coughed at the taste of the spicy and strong liquor. “Does my brother come here?”
“Your brother is Harley, non? The one who threatened to murder dear Rob?”
She laughed as a vision of that danced before eyes. She groaned. “Yes, that sounds like him.”
“Yes. He comes here. Wonderful man.” Madame de Coqueville leaned forward, exposing a great deal of cream bosom. “Now, this is a secret. And I will know if you share it. You will not like what I do if I learn of such a thing.”
“I shan’t.” Harriet took another drink, suddenly feeling the slightly swimming effect of it. “Only. . . I thought I would find my husband here.”
“Why were you seeking him?” Madame de Coqueville asked bluntly.
“He is never home.”
“He is unhappy?”
Harriet was silent, her stomach tightening with dread.
Madame pursed her lips. “Perhaps, you are unhappy?”
Harriet looked away then whispered, “We are unhappy.”
“Ah. How sad.”
“It is rather,” Harriet concurred before giving a dry smile and lifting her glass. “Not at all what I expected, if you must know.”
“What did you expect?”
Harriet frowned, searching her feelings “That Rob and I would be close. We’ve always been friends. I worshipped him when I was a little girl. And I think he thought quite a lot of me, too.”
“Men are idiots,” Madame de Coqueville declared as if it were the most obvious thing in the world and tres amusant.
“I beg your pardon?” she immediately queried for she found none of this tres amusant.
“They do not know their hearts or their heads. They refuse to feel their feelings and then they are stuck in a mire of misery. Does this sound like Rob?”
“It does,” she whispered as she mulled over the series of revelations. “And he seems to be sinking. He won’t let me help him.”
Madame de Coqueville took a large swallow of brandy. “Fools, the lot. They think they are so strong. Pffft. They are weak, afraid of a little pain to the heart. So they hide. It is what they do.”
“If that is the case, what is to be done?” she asked, hating the hint of desperation in her voice.
“Call me Yvette.”
Harriet blinked, surprised by the familiarity but welcoming it given the state of her life. “If you say so.”
“I do. For we must be allies.” Yvette smiled. “I have no wish for rancor.”
“Nor I.” Her eyes stung with tears and relief at being able to voice her fears to someone. “I just wish Rob to see he needn’t be so distant.”
“Why do you think he is?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“You do,” Yvette countered quickly. “We can usually know. Women have exquisite intuition. What has transpired?”
Harriet laughed at the absurdity of it. “We married. It has all gone terribly awry since then.”
Yvette nodded. “He is a man with a dark heart.”
“He is not.”
Yvette’s brows rose. “You do not think so?”
“I have known him since I was a child and he was always so free.”
“Ah. But now?”
Harriet’s heart sank and she looked about the darkened room, as if the answer lay somewhere, anywhere but in her heart. “Now, he seems to be a prisoner of something painful.”
“We are all prisoners of something,” Yvette said softly. “You must discover what his is.”
“But even if I do, how do I free him?” she questioned, hoping beyond hope that she could still find a way to end the strange pass her marriage had come to.
“You cannot.”
Harriet’s spirits sank and she gaped. “You advise me to give up?”
“I advise you to wake him,” Yvette said, her eyes now sharp. “He does not see that his current path will end only in more pain.”
“I see,” she breathed. “I must confront him?”
“Non. You must think about what you can accept and not, then kindly let him know. Only he can choose. But he must know what that choice is.”
Suddenly, she felt more powerful than she had in weeks. She could decide what needed to be done and invite him to join her. It was revelatory. She needn’t sit passively and wait for him to come to his senses. She could ask him to.
A smile tilted her lips. “Thank you.”
“It is nothing.” Yvette adjusted the skirts of her gown as if uncomfortable with Harriet’s gratitude. “This life is too short and can end at any time. We must not live in fear.”
“Indeed. I think I must go.”
“Good.” Yvette reached out and slipped the brandy snifter from Harry’s hand. “And when you find him. . . be kind.”
Kindness had always been bestowed upon her and she agreed it was the best way forward. Love was kind, was it not? She stilled. Dear God, did she love him?
Yes. Yes she did. Perhaps she always had. For he had always been her hero in one way or another. Now, it was her turn to be the one coming to the rescue and she relished the chance.
Nodding, she left without further discourse, a quiet understanding between her and Yvette. In that moment, she knew she had gained a friend and perhaps a mentor. An older woman who had seen the troubles of this life and had not broken.
As she slipped out of the house, Yvette looked on from the threshold and gave her a small curtsey, an acknowledgement of her worth. The door shut quietly then.
Harriet’s heart warmed and she spotted Henry standing down the path, waiting for her.
With a light heart, she hurried towards her brawny footman. “It’s time to go.”
“Aye. It is.” The rough voice that emanated from the man wearing Henry’s livery was not that of her footman. The man turned, and the cloak which had been turned up to hide most of his face revealed someone else entirely.
There was no time to scream, for he grabbed her quickly, and with an object she could not see, struck her upon the temple. The world dimmed and her last thought was that she wouldn’t be a hero at all. She’d be nothing, if she did not survive this. Nothing at all.