A Necessary Deception by Laurie Alice Eakes

but not enough to need the laudanum or to reason or speculate over what Lydia had decided not to tell him.
    She’d told him enough for him to make some guesses. Her sister had been alone with the young man, the friend of Barnaby, because of the accident. No one had caused Lydia to fall from her horse. The rest, however, could appear contrived to a lady with reason to be suspicious.
    She suspected he and Barnaby had cooked up the idea of him planning a delay so that the young couple would be alone. He would nip that notion in the bud as soon as he found the opportunity.
    Which came far sooner than he thought. Within the hour, Lydia reappeared in his chamber, a book tucked under her arm. “I thought perhaps you could do some beneficial reading while you’re stranded here.” She set a Bible on the table beside him. “It’s the smallest one I could find so you can hold it with one hand. If you cannot manage, I’ll send Barbara in to read to you. She has a lovely reading manner.”
    “Thank you, I’ll manage.” He smiled at Lydia, trying to convey some of his feelings for her in his look. “Your thoughtfulness knows no bounds.”
    “I . . . well . . .” She glanced past him to the window, her face the same becoming pink as the rosebuds on the gown she’d changed into. “It’s the least I can do, and you did claim to be a Christian.”
    “ Oui , through my American maman.” His heart ached with longing for his family, for his soft-spoken mother. “ Mon père was with Lafayette fighting in the American war for independence and met her.”
    “Lafayette?” Her gaze snapped to his. “And the French revolutionaries wanted to kill him, all of you, anyway?”
    He flinched, realizing his error, realizing how his family history enforced her suspicions. “Not everyone in the mob understood that nobility did not mean that we wanted France to remain as it was.”
    “And perhaps now you think England should change?” Her tone held as much curiosity as accusation.
    “England is not France. We are all much better off here.”
    He didn’t add that some things needed to change. She would brand him a revolutionary for certain if he mentioned one word of the machines putting men out of work—whole families out of work—or laws that kept food prices so high the poor went hungry.
    “Not everyone thinks so.” She backed toward the door. “I mustn’t stay. Even as a widow, I must mind my reputation.”
    “But of course.” He held up his hand. “But one matter very small . . .”
    She paused, her hand on the door handle of the portal she hadn’t quite closed, her eyebrows raised.
    “I did not plot to have myself injured,” he said, “in order to allow Monsieur Frobisher to press his attentions on your sister. Trust me in this, madame. I would have been more creative.”
    Her face remained expressionless for a moment, then she smiled. “I do believe you would, which is why I said nothing earlier. Still . . . it’s all odd. Mr. Barnaby appeared to be a far better horseman than his loss of control demonstrated.”
    “ Biensur. An excellent horseman is Mr. Barnaby, one who can make his horse do whatever he likes.”
    “I don’t know about that. I didn’t see him ride long enough—” She gasped. Her face paled. “Monsieur, are you implying—no.”
    “We can hope not.” Christien bowed his head. “But the notion came to me that his horse was nowhere near where you fell. We were a dozen feet behind. But suddenly it reared up so much it kicked me? If I had not turned to take the fall instead of you, that hoof would have struck my head.”
    “And now you’re all but accusing Mr. Barnaby of trying to kill you.”

8
    Loyal to the English Crown, or French revolutionary?
    Meeting and holding Christien’s gaze from across the bedchamber, Lydia no longer believed she knew the answer with the certainty she’d felt since he sauntered into her mother’s drawing room. Or perhaps earlier. More likely since