The Scandalous Life of a True Lady (3 page)

“For the schoolroom. I do have one silk gown for dinner, but it is grey.” And shapeless and adorned with a single frayed ribbon.

“We wish to impress Harry, not depress him. Come on now. There is much to be done.”

Like making a silk purse out of a cow’s ear, Simone would have thought it impossible, until she saw the results. Lydia Burton was not simply a businesswoman or a matchmaker; she was a fairy godmother. She waved her wand—her glittering hand, at any rate—and miracles happened.

Watching herself being transformed, Simone worried if they were all wasting their time and efforts. “What if he doesn’t come?”

“Oh, he will. Harry knows I would not bother him without good reason. Besides, he is not half as busy now that the war is over.”

“He works with the army, then? The government? Or does he deal with supplies or shipping?”

Mrs. Burton bit her lip as she supervised Simone’s new hair style. “He’ll tell you what he wishes you to know. Gentlemen cherish their secrets and their privacy. You must remember that, Miss Ryland, above all in this business. What is spoken in private must stay private. Do you understand?”

“Of course.” And not at all. Weren’t the girls rushing to do the madam’s bidding gossiping about their latest patrons? Simone assumed there were different rules for becoming a mistress.

Someone produced a gown that Mrs. Burton deemed acceptable, but it was too long for Simone, too wide around, too gaping at the collar. An older woman quickly fetched pins and needles and thread.

“I cannot pay you,” Simone told her. “Or any of you, for the loan of the gown, the alterations, the help with my hair.”

“Oh, we’d do anything for our Harry,” one of them answered, and they all agreed.

He was a favorite of the house, it seemed. Simone was not sure if that was good or bad either. Obviously he was a womanizer, not likely to keep a steady mistress. Just as certain, he was a friendly fellow, polite to all classes, and considerate. He’d brought this woman ribbons for her new bonnet, sent a message to that one’s brother, sent a homesick girl back to the country, and delivered medicine when anyone fell ill. He always brought sweets when he came, and often read novels to the girls when they were not busy. Why, the man sounded like a veritable paragon—except that this was a brothel, not a charity home.

When Simone started to ask more about him, his age, his looks, his likes and dislikes, Lydia clapped her hands. “Privacy, ladies, privacy.” She meant Harry’s, not Simone’s, who was poked and prodded and perfumed. “Let us leave Miss Ryland to form her own opinions. It is the impression she will make on Harry that we are concerned about, not the other way about.”

Soon the lovely gown was raised over her head again, and over her plain mended shift.

Mrs. Burton frowned but did not insist Simone disrobe completely. “No one will be seeing that today, thank goodness.”

The gown was a dark vibrant blue watered silk. The color matched Harry’s eyes, Molly swore. Harry’s eyes were more like sapphires, Susie said, although she’d only seen paste copies of the gems. Nell declared Harry’s eyes were prettier than any jewel, because of the dark rims around the blue, and because they sparkled so when he laughed.

Simone relaxed a bit. The man sounded charming. She might even like him, which was far more than she’d expected.

The gown’s neckline was far lower than she’d expected. The borrowed corset forced her breasts higher than she was used to, but now the gown looked as if it were made for her, and she was made for a man’s admiration. She did not object. No one would have listened, for one thing, and she wanted to win Harry’s approval, for another.

Her hair was loosely gathered instead of in its tight braids, twirled into fashion with a curling iron, and held up with a bouquet of silk violets Meg volunteered.

“Lord Maynes couldn’t keep his regular appointment. His wife was in town, so he sent these instead.”

Everyone laughed except for the madam, who chided them again. “Privacy, girls.”

Then Jenny brought out a tray of cosmetics.

Face paints? “Oh, I could not use—”

The job was done before Simone finished the sentence. A blush of color on her almond skin highlighted her prominent cheekbones and made her coloring seem sun-kissed instead of swarthy; a dark line around her eyes made them look wider and mysterious, instead of just somber; an ashy substance seemed to make her lashes longer; polish disguised the rough treatment her fingernails had recently undergone. Lydia fixed a strand of pearls around Simone’s neck and declared them just the proper touch for a well-bred miss. “Nothing garish, mind. Harry would not want that.” Then she bade Simone stand and walk across the room.

Simone took one step before her fairy godmother cursed and clutched her heart. “By Satan’s short hairs, she is wearing blasted boots!”

Five girls ran to find slippers to fit.

Then Simone walked the way her mother had taught her: back straight, chin high, in smooth, graceful steps.

“Ooh, don’t she look like a lady for true?”

Lydia poured them each a glass of wine in celebration. “Let us hope so, for Harry’s sake.”

Chapter Three

“To Harry!” someone cheered.

“And to Miss Ryland, for luck,” another woman added, so Simone raised her glass to them all. “To new friends and good fortunes.”

“Especially the good fortunes,” Mrs. Burton added.

George the butler cleared his throat at the door to the proprietor’s private parlor, then entered and whispered in her ear.

“Major Harrison is coming? Drat the man. I was hoping for—” Lydia caught herself from saying more and clapped her hands to get the girls’ attention. “Privacy, my dears. You know how Major Harrison feels about his personal life. I am sure you have chores to do to ready yourselves for this evening. Meg, your singing voice needs practice. Sally, your hair appeals dull. Some lemon juice, perhaps?”

In minutes they were all gone, with the jars and sewing baskets and extra slippers.

Simone set her glass down. “Someone else is coming? I was quite getting used to the idea of Harry. He sounded a pleasant sort.”

“Oh, he is, and that’s our Harry. Major Harrison. I wish he could cease—” She stopped herself again. “Oh, well, he is coming within the hour.”

Simone wished the madam had completed the sentence. At least now she knew that Harry was a military man, an officer and a gentleman. He was well off if he’d purchased the rank, courageous if he’d earned it on the field of battle. Like many other officers, he would most likely resign his commission now that Napoleon was finally defeated, unless he was old enough to have fought long ago or had a desk job in London. Or he might have been injured during the war and retired on half-pay, which would not serve Simone’s purposes at all. What if he were scarred or maimed and that was why he could not find a willing woman for himself? Oh, dear. Then there were commanding officers who were martinets, used to having their every order obeyed. Oh, dear, oh dear.

She must have moaned aloud for Lydia refilled her wine glass. “Don’t worry,” she said, mistaking the source of Simone’s distress. “Harry will be pleased. I am certain of that, especially if you remember one important thing.”

“I know, to respect his privacy.”

“Two things, then. His privacy and his demand for honesty. Harry is the most accommodating fellow in England, but he cannot abide lies. Just tell him the truth, and you’ll do fine.”

Tell him the truth, that she was terrified, mortified, and unqualified? Simone groaned.

“You are not going to swoon, are you?”

“I never have before,” Simone answered. Of course she’d never been a member of the frail sisterhood before, nor been on display in borrowed finery for a gentleman’s approval, like a horse at Tattersall’s. She swallowed the contents of her glass for courage. Her French grandmother had fled to England with her Gypsy horse-trader; her mother had eloped with a Latin scholar whose family disapproved. Simone swore to be brave like them, a woman making her own way in the world.

…A woman whose knees were knocking together loudly under her borrowed silk skirts.

No, that wasn’t the sound of her bones rattling; it was the sound of a cane tapping down the hallway. Good grief, he was blind! No again, for Mrs. Burton would not have insisted on the face paints if Harry couldn’t see.

Either a century or a second later, Simone was too addled to notice which, George opened the door, bowed, and announced “Major Harrison, ma’am.”

“Very impressive, George,” came from behind him, the guest being hidden from view by George’s bulk. “No one would know you were a prizefighter in an earlier life.”

“Yes, sir. I mean no, sir.” George tucked the proffered coin into an inner pocket and actually smiled at the bent old man who hobbled around him into the room. Lydia rushed forward and kissed his whiskered cheek. “You devil. Why have you—”

“Aren’t you going to introduce me to the young lady you invited me to meet, Lyddie?” the ancient asked, turning to Simone.

She regretted not seeing his eyes through the thick tinted spectacles he wore, for the reputedly stunning blue would have been the only attractive thing about the elderly officer’s appearance. His voice was pleasant, and his manners were polished as he bowed in her direction. Otherwise, he could have passed for any of her father’s fellow classics scholars, half asleep at their favorite club. He smelled like one, too, of old leather, pipe smoke, and spirits. His clothing, not a uniform, was not in fashion either, although it was well tailored to fit his hunched shoulders and bowed legs. His brown wig belonged to the previous century, as did his silver-streaked beard and moustache. Simone grasped her chair—and her courage—with both hands, as she stood to make her curtsy.

“Lovely, Lyddie,” he said. “As promised. You have done well.”

“So I thought. Shall we let Miss Ryland visit the downstairs parlor while we discuss particulars?”

He laughed. It was a very nice laugh, Simone decided, looking for something to like. And he was intelligent enough not to buy a pig in a poke, suggesting he and Miss Ryland ought to converse a bit first, to see if they could be comfortable together.

Lydia’s eyes narrowed. “You suit. She is young and attractive, speaks several languages, and has good manners, as I told you.”

“Ah, but there is more to this, ah, affair, than reading a résumé.”

“And I wish to be privy to whatever agreement is made,” Simone put in. He wanted honesty? She would not pretend this was anything but a financial arrangement.

He laughed again. “And she’s bright, Lyddie, and refreshingly straightforward. Run along, do. You know you can trust me to deal squarely with both of you.”

None too pleased with either of them, Mrs. Burton left in a huff of tight red satin. Harry, Major Harrison, took a seat across from Simone. She pushed a footstool closer, the way she would have done for her papa. She thought he smiled, but it was hard to tell, under all the facial hair.

“Now that Lyddie is gone,” he said, “we may speak freely. And honestly.”

She had been warned. “I understand, sir. I was raised to speak truthfully.”

“Good. I would know a bit more about you, if I may?”

She nodded, thinking he might ask about her health or her sick room experience, for the gentleman looked more in need of a nursemaid than a mistress.

“I understand you came to Lydia because you have fallen on hard times, my dear,” he began.

He wanted honesty? She wanted to flee. Instead she answered: “I would not say I have fallen, more like I’ve been pitchforked into poverty by the death of my parents. I could not keep a position because of fear of molestation, so I am becoming a Jezebel rather than starve.”

He coughed. “Perhaps that is a bit more information than I asked for. But thank you. You have no other relations?”

“No.”

His mouth twisted, as if he’d swallowed something sour, or was bilious. Old men suffered from wind, she knew.

“I thought we agreed on the truth. Lies leave a bitter taste in my mouth.” He started to rise. “Lyddie was wrong. We cannot suit.
Ciao
.”

Simone hadn’t realized they were speaking French until he switched to Italian. So he was testing her, her skills and her readiness to obey orders. That nonsense about truth was an old man’s idiosyncracy—he could not have known about Auguste—but she thought she ought to humor him, to keep Mrs. Burton’s favor. “My apologies. I thought you meant other relatives who might assist me. I have a young brother whose education depends on my income.”

“And you would not have pursued this line of work otherwise?”

“I could have made do, I suppose.” Her savings could have bought her more time to find a respectable position, if she had not spent the last few coins on Auggie’s books and board.

Major Harrison seemed satisfied with her answer, for he sat back and accepted the glass of wine Simone poured from Mrs. Burton’s sideboard. After taking a swallow, he asked, “What if I offered to finance your brother’s schooling?”

She almost choked on the sip she took. “Why would you do such a thing as that?”

“Because I can afford to, and because people were good to me when I was young. And because I would not see any woman forced into this kind of life against her will. Lyddie chose her profession, when she had no need to.”

“But then I would be in your debt. I would still feel that I needed to repay you, in services if not in money. I could not accept an outright gift, not even on my brother’s behalf. I would rather work, at whatever I need to do, than be beholden to charity.”

“What if I did not wish a martyr in my bed?”

“I would pretend I was pleased to be there, not out of gratitude.”

He grimaced at the thought. “That would be worse.”

“No, for I might enjoy a house party, charming company, the chance to see a famous home where I would never be invited otherwise, a visit to the countryside, perhaps an opportunity to ride again.”

“Let us begin afresh. Tell me of your family.”

“Why? I swear no one is going to challenge you over my honor.”

He chuckled. “Tell me, in truth. More depends on your answer than I can tell you now. And I’ll have investigators checking, before I trust you with explanations.”