Sattler, Veronica (20 page)

"Oh..."
Ashleigh had said, bemused. Then, picking up on one phrase, she'd hastened to
protest, "But Megan, His Grace is not one of
my men,
as you seem to
put it! Why, he's merely my employer, and—"

"Hush
now, Ashleigh, darlin', 'twas merely an expression... a way o' puttin' things,
ye might say." Their discussion ended with this last pronouncement, but as
Megan finished, Ashleigh wondered at the flicker of craftiness she could have
sworn she'd glimpsed in those green Irish eyes.

"Well,
we're here." Brett's voice swept aside the curtain Ashleigh had drawn
about herself with her ruminations, and she looked at him with a start, thrown
back into the present.

"Madame
Gautier is the foremost dressmaker in London at the moment, or so I am
told." He eyed the plain black cotton pelisse Ashleigh wore over an even
plainer gray dress. Then his gaze traveled to the emerald-green silk evening
cloak that covered most of Megan's statuesque form, and he bit back a grimace
of distaste. He hadn't been able to get them here fast enough to suit his
liking this morning, his new charge with her elfin beauty all but marred by the
drab attire she'd been forced to wear as a menial, and her companion,
outrageously accoutered in overdone finery that fairly shouted what her
profession had been.

Seeing
their wardrobes suitably altered had, in fact, been a primary motive in his
making it to Almack's last night— something he'd hardly have done under
ordinary circumstances so soon after his grandfather's death. But he'd gone
under the pretext of accepting condolences from friends who'd not been able to
extend them personally, owing to the fact that his grandfather's had been a
small, private funeral. At least, this is the story he'd offered Lady Jersey
when she'd approached him with raised eyebrows and questioned the propriety of
his appearing there at such a time. Of course, she'd looked at first as if she
weren't about to believe him, but when he managed to go the entire evening
without a single dance, not to mention spending most of it in conversation with
her,
she'd finally relented with a twinkle in her eye. Brett after all,
along with his friend Lord Byron, was one of her favorites, and although her
standards were strict, she was ready to forgive him much.

It
was during his talk with the formidable patroness of Almack's that he'd been
able to ferret out that Madame Gautier was still the only
modiste
used
by the fashionable ladies of the
ton;
Pamela, his recent mistress, had
left by the time he'd arrived, a close five minutes before eleven, and, he now
decided, he'd actually been relieved at not having to ply such information from
her; she might have taken it into her head that he was suggesting he buy her
some new additions to her wardrobe, and this was the last thing he intended to
do. Pamela Marlowe was quickly growing tiresome to him, and if anything, he intended
to deluge her with hints that their association was drawing to an end. Perhaps
this had even already been accomplished; if what Lady Jersey had hinted at were
true, Lady Marlowe had spent most of the evening searching him out and finally
left in a huff of annoyance a quarter hour before he'd arrived. "Tell His
Grace when you see him," she told the patroness, "that I find my
patience at last at an end this evening."

Brett
smiled with this thought as he helped Ashleigh and Megan down from the coach,
but the smile was short-lived, for whom did he spy exiting Madame Gautier's
exalted establishment but Lady Jersey, followed close at hand by Lady
Bess-borough and Lady Castlereagh! Groaning inwardly, he quickly pasted a
facsimile of a smile in place of the vanished genuine article and strode
forward to greet the three.

"Ravensford!
Fancy meeting you here, Your Grace!" Lady Jersey's look was artful, and
Brett saw her glance dart immediately to the pair of women beside him.

"M'lady,"
Brett murmured as he bowed over her extended hand. Repeating the gesture with
Lady Bessborough and Lady Castlereagh, he turned toward the two beside him.
"Ladies, allow me to introduce my—ah—my new ward, Miss Sinclair, and her
companion, Miss O'Brien."

"Indeed?"
intoned Lady Castlereagh. She was easily known as the grande dame among the
patronesses at Almack's, and her "indeed" implied much as she peered
down her haughty nose at Ashleigh.

Guessing
from the looks on the faces of the three women, Brett knew he would need to
move quickly if the appearance of the other two in his life were to be
accepted. "Miss Sinclair is the daughter of an old family friend who died
years ago. My grandfather, just before he died, learned she'd been raised in an
orphanage all these years and took steps to bring her to live with us. We were
just about to see Madame Gautier about exchanging her—ah—institutional garb for
something more... suitable." He stared boldly back at Lady Castlereagh's
questioning gaze, as if daring her to doubt him, inwardly cursing the
constraints society sometimes forced him into. An image of the unfurled sails
of his ship, the
Ravens-crest,
flashed into his mind, and he sincerely
wished he were on it, the salt breeze blowing through his hair and society be
damned!

"Sinclair...
hmm..." murmured Lady Castlereagh. "And just how do you spell your
surname, Miss Sinclair? Is it S-I-N-C-L-A-I-R or S-T.-C-L-A-I-R or
S-T.-C-L-A-R-E? One never knows with spellings of common names, you know. Dr.
Johnson did a great deal to fix the spellings of the common nouns with his
Dictionary
of the English Language
but with proper nouns one can never be sure. And
occasionally the variations can even lead to the most execrable
mispronunciations. Why, in America, I'm told, they've actually begun to call
the latter two spellings I've cited by the atrocious pronunciation of
Saint
Clare!
As a matter of fact," she added with a pointed look in Lady
Jersey's direction, "there is a young lord who has just recently been
admitted to Almack's who uses such an abomination. Had it been up to me, the
upstart would never have been allowed access!"

The
censure in her gaze as it fell upon Lady Jersey left no doubt as to
who
had
admitted the "upstart," but a second later her attention was focused
once more on Ashleigh. "And which spelling is yours, my dear?"

Ashleigh
licked her lips nervously before replying in a small voice, "The first,
m'lady."

"Ah,"
nodded the grande dame, "then in your case there can be no corruption....
Hmm... I knew a Sinclair family once. Tell me, did your parents—"

"Ah,
I don't believe I've expressed my appreciation over the kind letter of
condolence you sent at my grandfather's passing, Lady Castlereagh," Brett
hastily interrupted.
Anything to get her off the scent of Ashleigh's
background!
"Allow me to do so now."

"How
pretty you are, my dear," Lady Jersey was saying to Ashleigh, and Brett
was grateful for the change of subject. "I agree it is high time you were
attired to show off such beauty. You will find Madame Gautier up to snuff in
that arena, I daresay."

Ashleigh
blushed under the compliment and felt more than a little relieved when the
scrutiny of all three ladies passed from her to Megan.

"Miss
O'Brien, is it?" Lady Bessborough was asking Brett.

"Ah,
yes. Miss Sinclair's companion is also in need of a new wardrobe," Brett
said quickly, at the same time throwing Megan a look of warning. "It seems
hers was lost in a fire at the inn where she was staying, and the only clothes
the poor woman was left with were the evening attire she was wearing while dining
with some friends."

"How
perfectly awful for you, Miss O'Brien," Lady Bess-borough murmured
sympathetically.

"Yes,"
added Lady Jersey with an appraising glance at the tall redhead, "but on
the other hand, how perfectly fortunate that you were not
with
your
wardrobe when the fire broke out." She turned toward Brett. "Don't
you agree, Your Grace? I mean, life does have a way of balancing ill fortune
with good, does it not? Take the situation of your new ward, here." She
inclined her head briefly in Ashleigh's direction but kept her shrewd gaze
focused on him. "Finding oneself an orphan at a tender age must indeed be
a terrible blow, but being—ah—
rescued
by none other than the duke of
Ravensford himself! Well, that, I should say, is an inestimable stroke of good
fortune!"

Just
then a second grand coach pulled up behind Brett's, and Lady Jersey noted it
with a scowl. "Ah, well, it seems my coach has arrived." She turned
to Ashleigh. "So good to have met you, my dear. You must come to call
someday soon for tea. We shall find a great deal to chat about, I'm sure."

With
briefly murmured farewells the three were soon ensconced within the handsome
blue and gold coach and off down St. James's. The silence that fell in the wake
of their departure was broken by an audible sigh of relief from Megan.

"Sure
and 'twas the color o' me shift they'd have been after knowin' next," she
declared. "Faith, Yer Grace, are they always that pryin'? I've seen hounds
on the scent give up more easily!"

Brett
chuckled as he led the two women to the door of the dressmaker's. "Never
underestimate the investigative capabilities of those women or the
power
they
wield, especially Jersey and Castlereagh! As patronesses of Almack's, their
social influence is unlimited. For some years now, vouchers of admission to
Almack's have been the yardstick of social acceptance in this country. Without
it—and by that I mean without the nod of those half-dozen or so dear ladies who
function as Almack's patronesses—no one who aspires to be included among the
ton
can really say he has arrived."

Brett
was holding open the handsome green and gilt door of the shop for them, and as
they passed through, Ashleigh commented, "But surely such social assets as
birth and position have more to do with this selectivity than—"

An
explosive chuckle met her ears as Brett closed the door behind them.
"Don't you believe it!" he told her. "As of this year's
standing, for example, I'm told that out of some three hundred officers of the
Guards, only a half dozen have been honored with vouchers of admission."

"No!"
exclaimed Megan. "But the Guards are considered the cream—"

"Exactly,"
countered Brett. "And not only are the standards for admission high; once
admitted, there are still the very strict and somewhat arbitrary rules that can
exclude. Take the sacrosanct edict that forbids anyone entry after eleven in
the evening. Guess what happened to none other than the duke of Wellington
himself when the poor man had the misfortune to arrive at seven minutes
past
that prescribed hour."

"But
of course, 'e was excluded!" said a French-accented female voice from
across the room.

Ashleigh
turned and saw a small, birdlike woman of about forty advancing toward them.
She was modishly, but not elegantly, attired in a simple day frock of gauzy black
cotton. It matched the black hair she wore severely pulled back from her
angular face in a chignon and the black eyes that darted over the two younger
women in quick, assessing fashion.

"Bonjour,
monsieur le duc."
She nodded at Brett with a smile.

"News
travels fast in London," Brett returned.

"And
nowhere faster than in ze places where ze favored go to decorate
zemselves," said the Frenchwoman. "And while we are about eet, allow
me to convey my deepest sympathy to you on your
grand-p
ère's
passing.
All of London ees shocked by ze news."

Brett
nodded his appreciation and watched the woman's attention shift to the somberly
clad figure of Ashleigh beside him. "Madame Gautier, allow me to present
my new ward, Miss Sinclair."

As
Ashleigh smiled shyly in greeting, Madame Gautier's glance shifted briefly back
to Brett. There was a knowing, contemplative look in the dark eyes before they
returned to Ashleigh. "Hmm," she murmured. "Eet would seem not
all
ze news 'as made eet zrough my doors. I congratulate you on your... ward,
monsieur
le duc.
She ees exquisite." She looked back at Brett. "But of
course, what ees needed ees to transform
exquisite
into
superbe,
by
way of ze appropriate costume, eh? And for zat, you 'ave come to me,
n'est-ce
pas?"

Assuring
her they would have used no one else, Brett launched into a brief
recapitulation of the story he'd given Lady Jersey, thus assuring its rapid
installation into the channels of gossip that London thrived on. As he
finished, he watched Madame Gautier's eyes dart to the figure of Megan who,
until now, had been standing behind him, taking everything in.

The
Frenchwoman took only a moment to assess the appearance of the tall redhead,
then exclaimed, "Mon
Dieu!
I can 'ardly
believe
eet!
Suzanne! Suzanne, come 'ere at once!" She turned toward the rear of the
shop as she called, and as all four of them looked in that direction, a tall
figure emerged from a doorway there.

Ashleigh
gasped as they all beheld the source of Madame Gautier's excitement. Walking
toward them was a tall, redheaded young woman who resembled Megan so closely,
they might have been sisters. Lovely, slanted green eyes lit up the young
woman's strikingly beautiful features as she too saw the reason she had been so
enthusiastically summoned.