Sattler, Veronica (21 page)

"Saints
preserve us!" breathed Megan.

"My
daughter, Suzanne Gautier O'Sullivan," Madame Gautier said proudly. She
gave a small apologetic smile in their direction. "I use my maiden name
because eet ees much better beesness to be a
French modiste
wiz a
French
surname. But my poor dead 'usband was as Irish as you are, Mademoiselle
O'Brien," she added.

"Yes,
well, Miss O'Brien will be needing a new wardrobe as well," said Brett
with a brief glance at his pocket watch. "I was—"

"Say
no more about eet,
monsieur le duc,"
Madame Gautier told him with
Gallic assuredness. "Suzanne ees my ablest assistant. I myself 'ave been
training 'er for years. And oo better to understand ze needs of zis tall beauty
wiz ze exotic coloring, eh?
Alors!
Take Mademoiselle O'Brien to your
fitting room, Suzanne. You can begin showing 'er some fashion sketches while I
attend to ze little one 'ere."

As
a bemused Suzanne showed an equally bemused Megan to the rear chambers of the
shop, her mother turned toward Ashleigh. "Now, Mademoiselle Sinclair, tell
me, what ees eet you are in need of, eh? A couple of new ball gowns? A walking
dress or two? Some morning gowns, per'aps?"

"Oh,"
murmured Ashleigh, at a loss. She was hardly accustomed to ordering anything in
the way of elaborate, specifically designated attire. In all the years at
Hampton House, she'd had only two frocks at any one time—the one she was
wearing and a spare when that was being laundered—and these she had always
stitched herself, with Dorcas's help. She could vaguely recall some fittings
she'd had as a child, upstairs in the sewing chamber as Mother had watched
while a local seamstress had draped and pinned fabric about her, but these
recollections were clouded by time. Moreover, she had no idea what gowns and
the like cost these days, and inasmuch as Brett would be paying for whatever
was ordered today, she felt awkward over making any decisions in that regard.

But
as the silence grew and Madame Gautier continued to look at her questioningly,
she forced a response.

"I...
that is..." She glanced apprehensively up at Brett who appeared absorbed
in the myriad bolts of cloth and pieces of ribbon and lace that were scattered
haphazardly about. No help there. "W-would one of each be too much to
expect?" she asked timidly.

"One
of each? One of each what,
ch
é
rie?"
Madame Gautier asked as
she gestured about her. "One of each color? One of each fabric? One of
each—"

"I—I
meant one of each kind," murmured Ashleigh. "You know, one morning
gown, one—"

"She'll
need at least a dozen of each sort, Madame Gautier," Brett interrupted.
"I plan to do quite a bit of entertaining, and Miss Sinclair will be
acting as my hostess."

Ashleigh's
head swung around as he spoke, her mouth forming an O of surprise.
A dozen
of each! She'd had no idea...

"But
of course you are right,
monsieur le duc."
Madame Gautier was
beaming as she began to move toward the rear of the shop. "Excuse me for
just one moment, please. I must collect my sketchbooks.... Hmm... a dozen ball
gowns... a dozen day gowns... a dozen carriage dresses... a dozen walking
dresses..." They heard her murmuring to herself as she disappeared through
the door through which Megan and Suzanne had gone earlier.

When
the door had shut behind her, Ashleigh turned and glanced at Brett. This was
the first they had been alone together since he had charged back into her
life—was it only last evening? And she wasn't exactly comfortable with this
sudden realization. Standing beside her, looking ever so tall and
broad-shouldered and spectacularly handsome, was the man who had arrogantly
invaded the privacy of her body not so long ago, who had forced intimacies she
had not even guessed could exist between male and female; and now, all at once,
she was expected to appear beside him as if none of this had happened, to be
escorted about like a lady and introduced as his ward! This last thought
brought with it a sharp gust of anger at the story he'd concocted. His ward,
indeed!

At
the small but unmistakable frown of annoyance she exhibited, Brett arched one
eyebrow speculatively. "Something concerns you, Ashleigh?"

Oh,
so now it was
Ashleigh,
was it? She gritted her teeth in an effort to
control her mounting anger, which, she vaguely realized, was really prompted by
a subtle undercurrent of fear at being alone in his presence and without the
protective benefits of Megan's chaperonage. Swallowing twice and then taking a
deep breath, she managed to answer him in a voice she could only hope did not
betray her fears. "That tale you gave out about my being your ward, Your
Grace: it does not sit well with me, I must tell you."

"Really,
my dear?" Brett replied, a hint of a sneer implicit in his tone. The
turquoise eyes bored into her. "And why is that?"

Ashleigh
fidgeted with the plain black piping on her pelisse and attempted to draw the
garment more tightly about her, as if to use it to block his gaze. "It—it
is simply that—that I am quite unaccustomed to... dissembling, Your Grace. Even
as a small child, my—"

"Disabuse
yourself of the notion that you are being asked to do anything immoral,
miss!" Brett's eyes flashed with the statement, then shuttered, and she
was left with the well-remembered lazy, mocking grin. "All immoral
acts," he softly added, leaning down toward her to be sure they would not
be overheard, "that you might have been induced to participate in, are
well behind you. You and your companion had, I'd believed, my assurances last
night. You have my word on it now."

Later,
Ashleigh was to ask herself where she came by the boldness to say it, but
whatever the cause or impulse, she suddenly found herself remarking flippantly,
"You are contrite, then."

Again
there was a flash of turquoise as his eyes locked with hers. Ashleigh forced
her gaze downward, damning her impudent tongue, and she chanced to see his hand
made into a fist, clenching and unclenching while he sought to control himself.

At
last he spoke, his voice ominously low. "My dear Ashleigh, not only am I
contrite, as you put it, I am doing
penance!
Damn my soul for the code
of honor I must live by! Why else do you think I would invite two such..
.
females
into my life? For the sheer pleasure of it?"

Ashleigh
felt the blood drain from her face at the onslaught, for, though his words were
softly uttered, there was no mistaking the anger that fed them. Taking a
backward step, she swallowed past the lump of fear that had lodged in her
throat and answered him with eyes gone huge with fright. "N-no, Your
Grace. I—I only meant—"

"Well,
you can put such concerns out of your head—at once!" he snapped.
"From now on, you are my ward. A letter went out to Adams, my solicitor,
early this morning, instructing him to take the necessary steps to make that
situation a reality. As for the tale I gave out regarding your past, I suggest
you begin to memorize it until you know it as well as your own name—and begin
believing
it as well! Our only hope in having you received by those who matter lies
in its total acceptance, and there's an end to it." He took a step toward
her, and the turquoise eyes held hers. "Is that understood?"

Speechless,
Ashleigh nodded, her own eyes wide and unblinking.

Brett
nodded, but his gaze continued to bore into hers. "See that it is. As for
your other concerns, know this: I deeply rue the day I mistook your innocent
protests for manifestations of other motives, for it has begun to cost me in
all kinds of ways. Suffice it to say, therefore, that I have no further designs
on your person—" his eyes travelled briefly down the length of her, then
back to her face "—lovely as it may be. Having once been burned by its
temptations, I'd be a fool to be lured in that direction a second time."
He paused and withdrew the gold pocket watch Ashleigh had seen him consult
earlier, then turned his eyes back to hers. "And I," he added with a
snap of the timepiece's hunter-case cover, "am not a fool!" He turned
and headed for the door.

"Wh-where
are you going, Your Grace?"

Brett
turned at the half-opened door and regarded her. "My dear Ashleigh,"
he said in a tone that was better suited for speaking to a child, "the
fitting session you are about to embark upon should take a good two, perhaps
three, hours. I assure you, I have better things to do with my time than stand
about and wait until you are through. My carriage driver has instructions to
wait and collect you and your companion when you are ready. I shall find my own
way home and see you this evening at dinner. Good day." With the briefest
of nods he passed through the door and was gone.

Brett
relaxed in his chair at White's and regarded the man across the table from him.
There was an amused sparkle in the turquoise eyes as he appraised his
companion.

"And
what in hell is it you find so damned amusing?" demanded the huge man who
was the object of his crinkled gaze. "Is it my cravat that's askew,
perhaps? I'll admit, I certainly didn't spend the entire morning with my valet,
like that fellow there obviously has," he added with an inclination of his
head in the direction of the man sitting stiffly in the bay window a few tables
away, "but then, I've better things to do with my life than emulate
Brummell."

The
upturned corners of Brett's mouth widened into a grin with the remark.
"And I thank God you do, Patrick! I've had enough of dandies lately, to
choke on! And, no, my friend, your cravat appears to be disgustingly
perfect."

Patrick
St. Clare grinned, displaying a set of white, even teeth in his deeply tanned
face. It was an intelligent face; big, handsome and square-jawed—well suited to
the gigantic proportions of the man. Bright blue eyes shone keenly from beneath
heavy black brows that matched the inky curls covering his huge, well-shaped
head. His nose, proportionately large but straight and even, bore a small scar
on its bridge, but this in no way marred his rugged good looks. Completing the
picture was a wide, pleasant-looking mouth that seemed easily disposed toward
laughter, and as if to bear this out, Patrick now began to chuckle merrily as
he looked at his friend.

"It's
through no fault of my own, if it is, Brett! But, see, you haven't yet told me
what it was that amused you so a moment ago. Out with it! Have I sprouted horns
or the like?"

It
was Brett's turn to chuckle. "The only horns you'd be associated with, you
rogue, are the ones on the husbands cuckolded through your indiscretions!"

"Ha!"
came the retort. "There's an example of the pot calling the kettle black,
if I ever heard one! But, come to think on it, we might both be accused of
sprouting the devil's horns, were the fair ladies of this land asked for an
opinion."

"True
enough." Brett grinned. "But lucky for us, just now they're too busy
pinning that label on George Gordon. Thanks to Caro Lamb, it's he who has the
public's eye and ear at the moment."

"Poor
Byron—lionized and bait for scandal, all in a season! But come, back to the
source of your merriment a few moments ago, sir! And I warn you, no further
digressions!"

"Ah,
yes," nodded Brett. "Well, it had to do with an encounter I had with
Jersey and Castlereagh this morning...."

"Egad!"
Patrick shrank back in mock horror. "Two from Olympus itself!"

Grinning,
Brett continued. "Castlereagh, it seems, takes exception to Jersey's
giving you a voucher for, ah, Olympus."

"Does
she now? And what seems to be the problem? No, don't tell me. Let me guess....
Ah! I have it! My hair's too black... or perhaps it's my height. They've
decided to exclude those over six-and-a-quarter feet! Poor Jersey must be
red-faced, for she'll be having to carry her yardstick from now on."
Patrick finished by making an exaggerated mime of a haughty patroness measuring
a would-be applicant for admission to Almack's.

"You've
missed your calling, Patrick," Brett chuckled. "You'd have made a
fortune on the stage. Edmond Kean is no match for you!"

Patrick
nodded with mock regret. "Ah, yes, and here I've wasted all those years
being shipwrecked and carving out my fortune from scratch in America." He
shook his head in mock solemnity. "Sad... so sad."

"Especially
the American business," Brett told him with a wagging finger that matched
his mocking tone. "For it was your years there that account for your pronunciation
of your surname,
Saint Clare,
and it just won't do for Castlereagh. For
the grande dame it's
Sin Clare
or nothing!"

"Ah!
So that's the way of it, is it? She'd have me publicly voice the
sin
in
my life! There may be hope for the old girl yet."

"She's
certainly having nothing of the
saint
you're parading about!" Brett
quipped, and they both joined in a merry chuckle at their wit.

But
then Brett's expression changed, and he regarded his friend with a serious
look. "But, speaking of your family name, tell me—any news on your
search?"