Surrender the Stars (18 page)

"If they have anything to do with women, spare me!" Lindsay heard herself exclaim, then blushed in reaction.

"I can assure you that women were the farthest thing from my mind. I was pondering my new wardrobe. Weston, the tailor, is coming here tomorrow, you know. Your mother has told him that I am ill and cannot come to Old Bond Street to be fitted. She and Mouette think, quite rightly, that I shouldn't be seen in public until my new persona is perfected."

"I wasn't aware that you were a true fop at heart!" Lindsay taunted. "To think that you couldn't sleep because you were brooding about the cut of your new clothes...."

He reached for her glass. "I think you've had enough of that. It's making you antagonistic."

"I'm an adult, Captain Coleraine! Leave me alone and I'll return the favor!"

He reared back, smiling. "My apologies, Miss Raveneau! Won't you call me Nathan?"

Lindsay was furious with herself for being so affected by his appealing smile and potent nearness. Each time his hand reached toward her, her heart constricted while her mind chastised her for her weakness. "I don't appreciate your humor, sir. Either cease teasing me or I shall leave."

His eyes were warm now as he gazed at her. "Don't do that. Believe it or not, I've missed your company during these past few days of travel. You've been far too well behaved."

When Ryan's fingers reached out to graze her wrist, Lindsay's heart skipped madly. "I'll stay," she managed to say, "if you'll be serious. What is it about your wardrobe that kept you awake?"

"It's not a topic that lends itself to serious conversation," he murmured lightly. "I was pondering the ways of the dandy and how best to carve out a place among them as quickly as possible."

"And?"

"And I decided that it would be best to break a rule or two without going too far out of bounds. Have you heard of Henry Cope, who must have everything green, from his cravat to his furniture?"

"No," Lindsay replied frankly.

"Well, Cope has his place in society, proving that there is still room for individuality in spite of Beau Brummell's code of dress and behavior. In fact, I think that a
bit
of individuality may work to my advantage. I don't propose to defame the name of Raveneau by being utterly outrageous, but I do think it would speed my access into society if there was something about me that was unique."

"I take it, then, that you don't propose to make your first appearance at White's in a blue frock coat with brass buttons, biscuit-colored pantaloons, top boots shined with champagne, and a deep white cravat tied in the Mathematical?"

Ryan grinned appreciatively. "You're quite perceptive, my dear! And you're right. Brummell's rules put me off. I could opt for a new mix of snuff or a different breed of horses, but clothing seems to offer the quickest route to being noticed. I don't mean to dress all in violet or wear feathers, but I like the notion of defying Brummell's gospel for color."

"Pink, perhaps?" Lindsay giggled, a dimple winking in her right cheek. "Chartreuse?"

"Now those are thoughts you might keep in mind for
yourself.
I, on the other hand, lean toward pastels. It's summer. Why shouldn't I wear light-colored coats? Dove gray, tan, sage green, or even pale yellow? I could contrast them with brocade waistcoats of a darker shade. What do you think?"

Lindsay's eyes ran involuntarily over his wide shoulders and tapering chest as she thought that he would look spectacular in anything he chose to wear. "It might work," she allowed.

"Thank God you approve!" Ryan sipped his brandy and gave her a sidelong smile. "Now I can sleep."

* * *

The next afternoon, Devon and Lindsay arrived back from a shopping expedition to Bond Street and handed their parcels to Roderick just in time to witness a scene in Ryan's rooms. Loud voices drew them to the doorway where they observed a group of people moving around agitatedly in front of the fireplace. One was Mouette, who stood slightly apart. Ryan leaned casually against the chimney piece while a tiny man with a red face and a French accent hopped on one foot, shouting at another man whose arms were filled with men's coats.

"I have told monsieur that it zimply will not do!" cried the Frenchman. "He will not listen!
Mere de Dieu,
zey beg me to help, zey ask my advice, and zen zis—
barbarian
brushes me azide as if I am
un insecte!"'

"No blue coats, he tells me," replied the clothing-laden man in a dazed tone. "I have come all the way from Old Bond Street as a favor to old friends to fit a man I've never met, and what does he tell me? No blue coats! It's unheard of! Every man has blue coats!"

Overcome, Mouette put her hands over her ears and backed toward the windows. Ryan, meanwhile, smiled apologetically. "I assure you, I didn't say it to insult you, sir. If it means so much to you, I'll have a blue coat." Seeing the Raveneau women in the doorway, he lifted both brows just enough to indicate his bemusement "Ah, here's Mother and my dear sister, Lindsay."

Mouette spun around. "Mother! Come in! Perhaps you can talk sense to—to Nathan! He's being horribly contrary."

"So I gathered," Devon murmured dryly. "It's so good to see you again, Mr. Weston!" Gracefully, she crossed the room and extended her gloved hand. "We can't thank you enough for coming over to fit Nathan. He hasn't been feeling very well, you know."

"My pleasure, Mrs. Raveneau," replied Weston, London's most fashionable tailor. "Has this illness affected his brain?"

She managed a rather sickly smile while darting a glance at Ryan. "I certainly hope not! Nathan, darling, I do hope you have listened to Mr. Weston's excellent advice."

"Absolutely, Mother. However, I was under the impression that these clothes were being made to be worn by me, not Mr. Weston."

The little Frenchman began to make choking noises, his bright blue eyes bugging out. Devon turned to look at him rather frostily. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure, sir."

Mouette rushed between them. "Mama, this is Monsieur Marcel Dinde, the wonderful valet I told you about. He's come especially to instruct Nathan, but I'm afraid that... they've gotten off to rather a bad start."

"Your son is an
idiot!"
Dinde screamed.

Devon arched an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon? I don't mean to make rash judgments, sir, but if you intend to instruct Nathan in the niceties of
your
behavior, I cannot approve. Now, if you would be so kind as to take a chair, I will deal with Mr. Weston before continuing this discussion with you."

Clenching his fists and muttering in French, the little man obeyed. Devon then turned to her son and the tailor.

"Now, what's all this about blue coats?"

"Madame, as you must be aware, every well-dressed gentleman these days wears a blue coat with brass buttons and biscuit-colored pantaloons. It is almost a uniform! Your son, however, insists that he wants..." Weston paused to swallow audibly. "He wants...
pastel
coats."

Devon looked at Ryan, who gave her a barely perceptible smile. "Am I not allowed to choose?"

Deciding that her intervention might be helpful, Lindsay came up behind her mother and whispered, "Trust him. We've discussed this and I think he's right."

"Kindly follow my son's instructions, Mr. Weston, and you will be paid accordingly."

The tailor heaved a sigh. "As you wish, madame." He turned back to Ryan, wincing. "Pale yellow, did you say? And sage green?"

"That's correct. Dove gray and tan as well. And cream? What do you think, Lindsay?"

A bubble of happiness rose inside her. "Absolutely! And what about a very pale blue, perhaps with a hint of gray in it? That would go splendidly with your eyes, Nathan."

He gave her a dazzling grin. "You're showing signs of genius, dear sister."

"It's a family trait, I believe." She beamed.

On the settee, Mouette and her mother exchanged surprised glances over the head of the sulking French valet.

"I'd better ring for tea," Devon remarked. "This promises to be a very
long
afternoon!"

Chapter 13

June 4-6, 1814

Over the next three days, the Raveneau home in Grosvenor Square was a hive of activity. Hoby, the bootmaker, who was also a Methodist preacher, came to fit Ryan for Hessians, top boots, and shoes for evening wear. That same afternoon, Rowland, the French coiffeur, came to cut his hair in the currently popular windswept style. Ryan rebelled against more than a trim, however, and when Rowland produced a bottle of Macassar Oil, a hair preparation of his own invention, he forbade him to remove the stopper. His crisp, slightly curly hair would have to do in its natural state, he said in a voice that brooked no argument.

The next day, Weston sent an assistant in his place to deal with the recalcitrant Nathan Raveneau. The young man brought a selection of the wardrobe Ryan had ordered, including four coats of superfine cloth, one of which was the dark blue he had finally agreed to. There were pantaloons for morning wear; buckskins, brocade, and plain buff waistcoats; embroidered cambric shirts; muslin neckcloths; and high stiff collars. Dinde nodded approvingly after helping Ryan into one of the coats, for it fit like a second skin. The young tailor's assistant assured them that the rest of the garments, including a selection of evening wear, would be delivered within three days.

Harry Brandreth accompanied his wife to Grosvenor Square the next afternoon. Bursting in on the family as they shared luncheon in the sunny morning room, he announced that he didn't have to be at the House and was prepared to take his brother-in-law round to the clubs to apply for membership. London was in a state of festive anticipation over the pending visit of Europe's royalty, and Harry suspected that even the bucks who ruled the world of fashion from the bow window in White's were likely to be expansive about admitting Ryan to their privileged circle.

Devon listened to these plans with a certain amount of trepidation. After sending Harry to the kitchen to sample Mrs. Butter's Bakewell pudding, she paced before Andre, Ryan, and her daughters. "I don't think Ryan is ready yet. Why, we haven't even taught him to use a snuffbox or quizzing glass! And then there's his accent and manner....!" She shook her head. "I'd counted on several more days to work with him. Ryan, we need to rid your voice of all traces of Ireland and teach you to behave like a fop. I'm afraid that there's a good deal more to this persona you mean to adopt than modish clothes!"

Reclining in his chair, Ryan regarded her languidly from under veiled lids and drawled, "You wound me, dear Mother. This will not answer!" His accent was upper-crust American, with a cultivated British undercurrent. All traces of his Irish heritage had vanished. "Let me assure you that your son is prime and bang-up-to-the-mark in every respect. How could it be otherwise?"

Four pairs of eyes stared at Ryan in stunned amazement. "How did you do that?" Mouette exclaimed between bites of turbot.

He looked at Lindsay, his blue eyes sparkling, and smiled. "I've told you all before that I lived in England for several years, long enough for the accent to rub off on me. The same is true of my time in America. I can combine the two speech patterns easily enough, and I've certainly observed enough fops in my day to imitate their behavior."

Lindsay smiled back at him, unaccountably pleased and proud, while her mother scolded, "You should have told me, Ryan, instead of letting me prattle on all this time about the lessons I meant to give you! Sometimes I think that you're having a joke at our expense."

"On the contrary, Devon, I'm sure there's a great deal you can teach me. The finer points of a snuffbox, for example. I've never used one, and I will need to practice. For today I shall simply have to do without."

Devon eyed him suspiciously. "Are you teasing me?
I
don't know how to take snuff! I'm not an eccentric old dowager, after all!"

Andre drew her down onto his lap and chuckled. "Not yet, at any rate. We'll solve the snuff problem tomorrow, Ryan. For now you probably ought to get rigged out for our foray into St. James's."

This first outing was viewed, especially by the dubious Dinde, as a test of the infamous pastel coats. Ryan invited Lindsay to make the choice, and she daringly picked one of pale yellow, which they paired with a new, cambric shirt and a starched white high cravat. To placate Dinde, Ryan let him tie it in the Waterfall style but was alert to the movements of his fingers. A slate-gray brocade waistcoat, complete with fob and gold seal, snug white pantaloons, and gleaming Hessians rounded out the ensemble. When Ryan reappeared in the morning room for inspection, Lindsay thought that he had never looked more handsome. His black hair shone in the sunlight and his eyes were as blue and bright as the ocean on a cloudless day. Weston's superlative skill as a tailor was evident in the smooth, snug fit of the coat and trousers that showed Ryan's wide shoulders, narrow hips, and long, lean-muscled thighs to advantage. When he turned a smile on the three ladies, Mouette pretended to swoon.