Silk and Shadows (7 page)

Sara eyed him admiringly. "I see why you are such a successful merchant. You could sell sand to a Bedouin." Before she could say more, the door opened and a line of three maids entered, each one carrying a huge vase of white roses.

As she stared at the parade of flowers, Peregrine said, "Roses are an acceptable token of gratitude for a hostess?"

She nodded, rather dazed. "Yes, though usually the quantity would be smaller. Much, much smaller."

He smiled, the tanned skin crinkling around his eyes. "But I had an exceedingly good time, many roses worth." The maids having set the flowers on various tables and withdrawn, he moved to the nearest vase and pulled out a
single
blossom. His gaze holding hers, the prince inhaled the flower's fragrance, then offered it to Sara. "White roses, for sweetness and purity. There are not enough in
London
to do you justice."

Bemused, she accepted the flower. It was at the perfect moment of expectant bloom, just beginning to open, a faint blush of pink at the heart of the ivory petals. Impressive how he managed to make every gesture extravagant and romantic. She really must convince him to restrain himself, or every female he met would think she was being courted.

Sara inhaled the delicate scent of the rose and sighed. It would be a crime to constrain such charm. Perhaps she should be training Englishmen to emulate the Kafir rather than vice versa.

Before she could decide where to start her lecture on propriety, her father entered the drawing room. In his early sixties, the Duke of Haddonfield was only average height, but he carried his spare frame with such dignity that he commanded attention anywhere.

Sara made the introductions as the two men regarded each other speculatively. Peregrine's manners blended ease with deference to the other man's greater age, and after a few minutes of conversation her father's reserved expression thawed to affability. From there, it was a short step to the duke encouraging Sara to take advantage of the fine weather to go driving with the prince in
Hyde Park
.

As Peregrine assisted Sara into his curricle, she remarked, "I am beginning to believe that you are a fraud, Your Highness."

Surprised by his sudden sharp glance, she explained, "You may be a stranger to London, but you must have moved in European circles in India and the cities of the Middle East. Obviously you know perfectly well how to behave yourself when you choose to. You did an excellent job of turning my father up sweet."

He grinned. "Turn up sweet? I do not recognize that expression."

"It means to charm someone into viewing you favorably, a practice at which you excel," she explained. "It is all right to do it—in fact, it's the essence of social success—but don't use the phrase in polite society. It's a little vulgar."

"Noted," he said agreeably. "You are right, I am not without experience of Western customs, but still, London can be rather overpowering to a first-time visitor."

Sara doubted that the prince found anything overpowering, but didn't pursue the point. They traveled in amiable silence as the prince deftly threaded through the heavy commercial traffic. Eventually she said, "You drive very well. Is that a skill you learned in your mountains?"

"No, there are neither roads nor carriages in Kafiristan. In fact, the average trail would make a goat think twice about attempting it. That is why the tribes have kept their independence—the land is very nearly impossible to invade." Without changing his tone, Peregrine continued, "When I met you, I thought your countenance had been shaped by pain. Did you suffer some serious accident, or a long illness?"

Lady Sara gasped. "One of the things you must learn is that personal questions are considered rude," she said in a suffocated voice. "If people wish you to know more about their lives, they will volunteer the information."

"Also noted." A quick glance sideways showed that her face was pale. He pulled the horses to a stop to allow cross traffic to go through an intersection. "Is that slight hesitation in your step a result of whatever happened to you?"

"You're incorrigible," Sara snapped. Then she exhaled with a faint sigh. "Very well, if you must know. There's no great mystery about it. I had a riding accident when I was eighteen, just after my first London Season. I had made that jump before, but this time I wasn't paying proper attention. My horse hit the wall, then fell on top of me. She had to be destroyed. It would have made sense to do the same to me, but of course they couldn't. At first the doctors thought I'd die, then they said I would never walk again."

"It was a long recovery?''

"Years. I'd still be in a wheelchair if Ross hadn't come back to England and said he would not allow me to loll about and pretend to be an invalid. With his teasing and encouragement, I regained the knack of walking." Her voice caught before she added almost inaudibly, "Then my mother began to die."

"And you, honorable daughter, would have nursed her to the end. Now I understand why you did not have the time to marry before now." Some quality in her silence caused him to glance over and see how rigid her mouth was, and he guessed that there was more to her story. "Was there a man before the accident?"

Her brown eyes raw and vulnerable in her stark face, Lady Sara turned to glare at him. "Do you read thoughts, or have you been asking about me?" Then her gaze faltered and dropped. "Though almost no one knew about that part of it."

Guessing how much it must hurt her to reveal so much of her inner emotions, he looked away and concentrated on guiding the curricle around a dray filled with kegs. "I did not read your mind or spy on you. I am merely good at conjecture. If you had had a Season in London, you would have had many suitors, and at seventeen or eighteen it is natural to fall in love."

"Natural, and foolish." She shrugged her slim shoulders. "Since we were both young, there was no formal betrothal, just an understanding between us. After I was injured…" She stopped, then said after a moment, "Of course he did not want to be tied to a cripple."

"You are hardly a cripple," Peregrine remarked. "What a fool the boy was. To cast a jewel away for a slight flaw, when it is flaws that give character to beauty."

"You must not say such things," Sara said in a choked voice. "They are too personal. It sounds… it sounds too much like flattery or courtship."

"I but speak the truth, my lady," he said meekly, "but if I am distressing you, I will find some unarguable boring topic. How about horses? These hired job horses do not please me. Where might I purchase better ones?"

Her voice easier, Lady Sara said, "The best place is Tattersall's Repository, just south of Hyde Park Corner. Most of the best horses are sent there for auction. Besides having a reputation for honest dealing, it is very fashionable. Perhaps Ross can take you this afternoon. During the summer, Monday is the only sale day, so if you don't go today you will have to wait another week for the next one."

"We are almost at Hyde Park Corner now. Which direction should I turn?"

Sara pointed. "Tattersall's is down to the left, off Upper Grosvenor Place, but you can't go there now. Or rather, you can, but I can't."

When they reached the corner, Peregrine turned the curricle in the direction she indicated. "Why can't you go there?"

"Tattersall's is almost a gentlemen's club," she explained. "Everyone important in racing belongs to the Subscription Room. Men go there to settle gambling debts, see friends, and tell boring hunting stories. It's definitely no place for females."

Peregrine pulled the curricle over to the side of the road so he could give her his full attention. "What would happen if you went with me? Would you be stoned?"

"Of course not!"

"Is there a law against it, and you would be arrested?" he asked with interest. "Sent to Newgate, or put into
purdah
and never allowed out again?"

"Neither."

"Then what is the problem?"

"It is just not done," she said, exasperated at his obtuseness. "Everyone would stare and be scandalized."

Just how deep did Lady Sara's conventionality run? Unable to resist finding out, Peregrine said, "If you do not wish to come, I will not force you. But do you truly care what others think?"

She opened her mouth to reply, then closed it without speaking. After a long moment, she said, "The only opinions I really care about are those of my friends and family. But obeying the rules makes life simpler."

"Simpler, perhaps, but so much less interesting. Have you never wondered what men do in their cherished male sanctums?"

Lady Sara began to laugh. "You're impossible," she gasped. "I will never succeed in educating you in the ways of London society. Instead, you are going to corrupt me."

Peregrine smiled down at her. Today she wore a daffodil-colored morning gown that brought out gold flecks in her wide brown eyes. A most charming and original woman; she must not be allowed to fall into Weldon's clutches. "Sweet Sara," he said softly, "will you let me corrupt you?"

Her laughter died away and for a moment she looked startled, as if wondering whether his comment covered more than just the present situation. Then she smiled back. Peregrine's greatest advantage was that apparently it had not occurred to the lady that her cousin's friend could have improper designs on her.

"I should love to see Tattersall's. Turn right there, just beyond St. George's Hospital. And for heaven's sake," she added with a touch of asperity, "remember to call me Lady Sara."

It was still early by the standards of the fashionable world so Tattersall's was quieter than it would be later in the day. However, every man in the establishment turned to stare when Sara and the prince entered the main courtyard.

"You were quite right." Peregrine's low voice brimmed with amusement. "Such shock at the sight of a female. One would think these gentlemen had never seen one before. And I thought British society was supposed to be liberal. I am reminded of rural parts of the Ottoman Empire, where modest Turkish farm women wear veils when they feed roosters, to protect themselves from the danger of a male gaze. Do you suppose the gentlemen would be happier if they wore veils to protect themselves from your fatal glance?"

"What would make them happier was if they blinked and I was gone. Perhaps they fear that I am Medusa and the sight of me will turn them to stone," Sara said, unable to repress a smile at her companion's irreverence. "Or, since at least half of the men here are relatives or acquaintances of mine, their shock might be that Lady Sara St. James is doing something so improper. It would be more understandable if I were an opera dancer."

She glanced around with interest, determined to take advantage of this opportunity to see a masculine holy of holies. The famous yard had enough space for dozens of horses and carriages, and was surrounded by a covered arcade where horses could be shown in bad weather. Nodding toward the arcade, she added, "It looks rather like an equine cloister, doesn't it?"

"Justly so," he agreed. "There are some splendid beasts here. You said it was an auction house. If I wish to buy, can I do so immediately, without waiting for the auction?"

"I think so," she said uncertainly. "At least, if you are willing to pay a top price."

"Which I am. What better way to establish myself as a fabulously wealthy foreigner, with great style and little sense?" He glanced down at her, a wicked gleam in his green eyes. "Besides, while you are carrying this off with great aplomb, I shouldn't think that you wish to stay too long."

What a perceptive prince he was, Sara reflected. While she was capable of pretending the same confidence she had in her own drawing room, she didn't really enjoy being the target of so many scandalized eyes.

As they crossed the yard to where a number of carriage horses were tethered, Sara saw a middle-aged man with a proprietorial air emerge from inside the building. Mr. Tattersall, she presumed. His eyes widened at the sight of her, but before he could react, another man whispered something in his ear, probably explaining that she was a duke's daughter.

After that, the proprietor ignored her. Wise man. While Sara's relatives and acquaintances might not approve of her presence, it was likely that some of them would object to her being thrown out. After all, as Peregrine had said, there was no law forbidding her presence. Poor Mr. Tattersall. Caught on the horns of a dilemma, he prudently chose to do nothing.

"Do you see anything you like?" Sara asked.

After an encompassing survey, Peregrine said, "There," and led her over to a pair of perfectly matched bays.

For the next several minutes, the prince communed with the beasts in a rippling foreign language while he ran his hands over them in a comprehensive check. Sara stayed in the shadows a discreet distance away. An old groom, who had watched her entrance with great appreciation, sidled over and murmured, "Your friend's got a good eye for 'orseflesh, milady. That's the best pair we've 'ad in weeks. Wouldn't be 'ere still 'cept the owner's been 'oldin' out for a long price."

Mr. Tattersall came over to Peregrine and introduced himself, then commenced a discussion. Talking horseflesh eased the man's expression, though periodically he gave Sara a hunted look, clearly wishing her somewhere—anywhere—else.

Within ten minutes, the pair of bays had demonstrated their paces and a deal was struck that cheered Mr. Tattersall greatly. "I think I can warrant that Lord Hatfield will be most pleased with your offer, Your Highness," he murmured. Then, his business instincts prevailing over his desire to get the female out of his establishment, he continued, "Might you be interested in acquiring any other horses today? A team, perhaps? You'll find none better matched anywhere. Perhaps a hunter or riding hack?"