"Sturgeon!" he uttered, forgetting himself far enough to lapse into English. "God curse the man."
Callie went stiff beside him. She gripped his arm and craned her neck to see past the crowd.
"Don't look," he said, quickly turning her away and reverting to French. "He's down beside the Green Dragon. The devil seize him, what's he doing here?" They were walking now away from the danger, Trev restricting himself with an effort to a more casual pace. He had thought Sturgeon had departed for London yesterday, when Colonel Davenport came up to Hereford. That had been the word from Jock. He paused for a moment, catching the eye of the "footman" who had been dogging them at a respectful distance.
The burly boxer came forward, bending his bewigged head to listen as Trev murmured to him. Charles gave a brief nod as he took his instructions and stood back again, folding his hands behind him.
"It seems I'm forced to be suddenly unwell, chérie," Trev said to Callie, pulling the sheaf of broadsides from his coat. "I'm afraid you'll have to make the announcement. Noon, at the prize platform."
"Me!" She gasped. "Oh no, I-"
"You must, love," he said. "I'm sorry. I can't let myself be recognized, or we'll all be in the soup. You won't have to speak to the crowd. Just hand one of these to the secretary and ask him to read it aloud on my behalf. Tell them I've been taken ill with a headache but will be better presently. You needn't say much-remember that you don't speak English well. Charles here will fetch the salver and the coins to display just before you take to the stage."
"But-"
"No, attend to me." He touched her shoulder, cutting her off. "Go back to the dressmakers' afterward to change. Lilly will be looking for you. Make some sort of appearance as yourself this afternoon-see to your animals, walk out with Lilly. I'm going back to Dove House for the night, to Maman, but I'll send word to you early tomorrow." He pressed the papers into her unwilling hand. Without lingering to answer her stammer of objections, he tipped his hat and kissed her fingers, and left her alone with Charles in the street. Callie stood on the wooden platform with several of the officers of the society, feeling as if everyone in the crowd could see right through her veil. She hoped that Trev had made certain that her hair didn't show where the net was gathered at her nape. There were familiar faces in the audience-Farmer Lewis and Mr. Downie and any number of men who knew her perfectly well, waiting with looks of interest and speculation as the secretary of the Agricultural Society stepped to the fore. The colonel was not there-Trev had assured her he wouldn't be, but she was distressed to find that Major Sturgeon seemed to have some unaccountable interest in an event which should have held no impor tance to him whatsoever. She had told him during one of his visits that she would be attending the show, and he had nodded with polite but hardly urgent atten tion. She could not conceive of why he had come to Hereford at all, far less why he should linger about the platform as the early cattle classes were announced. She very much feared that he suspected something.
She did not dare to look directly toward him, but it seemed as if he were watching her while Mr. Price droned out the list of classes and the prizes that would be awarded for each. When he'd finished with the list of events, the club secretary turned and bowed deeply to Callie, and then took up Trev's broadside and read it through his glasses in a loud, official voice.
A murmur went through the crowd as the chal lenge was described. Charles lifted the heavy silver tray above his head. The trophy glinted in the sun as he turned left and right to show it off. Men in the audience elbowed one another, exchanging looks. There were a number of cattle breeders who had brought bulls to the show, but Callie was sure that not one of them approached Hubert's size. Still, with a such a grand prize, there was an eager push forward to sign animals onto the list of hopeful contestants for measure.
Mr. Price turned to her, beaming. It was a fine boost to the show, to have such an unusual and valuable challenge, he informed her with enthusiasm. Nothing could be better to generate excitement and bring attention. All the society officials were eager to attend to her, inquiring after her husband's health with some anxiety. Callie tried to assure them with a good many nods and a few broken English phrases that he was only feeling the effects of their recent journey.
Her stif led utterances were smothered entirely by the realization that Major Sturgeon had made his way onto the platform. As she stood frozen in dismay, he spoke to the president. That gentleman turned to her with a smile.
"Madame," he said gaily, "here's someone who tells me that he's visited your beautiful country and wishes an introduction. May I have the honor?"
Callie stared through her veil, not finding any way to avoid it without throwing herself bodily from the platform into the crowd. She gave a slight nod, turning her face downward so that the brim of her hat obscured her face even further.
"I give you Major Sturgeon, Madame," the presi dent said. "Major, this is our honored guest, Madame Malempré, who adds such a mark of nobility to our humble agricultural affair!"
Callie allowed the major to take her hand, giving a faint curtsy as he bent over it.
"I am enchanted!" he said. He leaned close to her and said in a confiding voice, "But I have been to Malempré myself, Madame, and found it to be a charming place."
For an instant she felt as if she would simply dissolve, sinking to the f loor in a puddle of terror. He had been to Malempré. She had no idea where Malempré was, except that it was presumably somewhere in Belgium. Never having been to Belgium, she could not even summon a speculation as to what sort of place it might be, if it was large or small, f lat or mountainous, busy or rural. It might be dotted with pagodas and Chinamen for all she knew. Far worse, she didn't know if a visitor to Malempré would be likely to have met a Madame and Monsieur Malempré there.
"I do not… well speak," she said hesitantly, keeping her face lowered and her voice pitched low to disguise it.
He retained her hand in spite of her attempt to withdraw it. "Ah, I must beg your pardon," he replied in f luent French, lifting her fingers to his lips. "My command of your delightful language is poor, but let us converse in it."
His command of French appeared to be all too excellent. The veil seemed to become suffocating. "I must sit down!" she said faintly, drawing her hand away. She turned to the steps, but she could not avoid him. He caught her elbow and supported her as she went down the wooden steps.
"Come this way," he said, his grip firm as he directed her toward the door of the nearest inn. "Stand aside!" he barked in English. "Let the lady pass!"
The crowd parted at his sharp command. Callie found herself helpless, propelled by his supporting arm about her waist in spite of attempts to draw back. She dreaded to enter the inn with him, where there would doubtless be a great fuss made over a lady feeling faint. They might even encourage her to remove her veil.
She allowed him to escort her as far as the walkway and then set her feet. "Monsieur, do not trouble your self." She disengaged herself firmly. "If you please!" She put a little acid into her voice and made a point of removing his hand from her arm.
He stiffened for an instant and then bowed his head. "I beg you will consider me your humble servant, Madame! Are you feeling better?"
Callie took a deep breath. Seeing no other recourse open to her, she plunged with a whole heart into a masquerade of a haughty lady, bridling up and giving him a sideways glance of disdain. "I am well," she said coolly. "I do not believe I know you, Monsieur."