by Jenna Jaxon
“Where are you going?” Lady Chalgrove’s shrill voice pierced her ears, snapping her out of her trance.
Dear Lord, she actually had her hand on the latch. Turning back, she straightened her shoulders, hoping to play this off as she would a game of whist. “I am sorry, madame. I thought to go soak this small stain before it sets.” She pointed to a fortunate grease stain, about the size of a farthing, on the bodice. Thank God for providing such a wonderful excuse.
“Idiot. I tell you I need to change this instant and you set off to wash a spot?” Lady Chalgrove’s face had turned an unbecoming shade of red. “Come back here and help me on with this dress.”
“Oui, madame.” Gabriella laid the one gown on the bed and caught up the blue sarsnet, fresh from being pressed this morning. “Raise your arms.” She carefully slid the gown over her mistress’s head.
Lady Chalgrove’s hair emerged unscathed, save for a few dark black wisps that had stubbornly broken free. She must remember to attend to them before the whole coiffure collapsed.
“Hurry. I must not keep His Grace waiting. How fortunate the weather is fine. I suggested he show me his horses, and he offered a curricle ride instead. Quick, bring the Pear’s. I must be in looks, today of all days.”
Gabrielle finished buttoning the blue gown then hurried back to the dressing room, scrambling to find madame’s cosmetics case. How could she turn this encounter to her advantage? At last she spied the tortoiseshell box under a large crate that held la comtesse’s shoes.
“Hurry up, Gabriella!” The strident voice would have shattered crystal had there been any about.
Gabriella winced, grabbed the case, and backed out of the crammed room.
“Stupid girl. Were you going to let me go downstairs with my hair looking like birds had roosted in it?” The countess dabbed on more perfume, dribbling it down her neck. The room reeked of the cloying musk she always used. Her eyes flashed jet black and her brows dipped so low they seemed to sit upon her nose. She had pursed her mouth, displeasure written over her white lips and scowling brows.
“Of course not, madame.” The woman reminded Gabriella of the hideous gorgon she’d seen in a picture in the Louvre when she was small. The sight had given her nightmares for a week. Now the nightmare had come to life. “I intended to apply the Pear’s then attend to your coiffure. However did it manage to come loose?” Gabriella soothed the wretched woman, sitting her down at the table, brushing and coaxing her hair to behave, speaking to her in the tone she reserved for petulant children and barking dogs.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” the countess snapped, jerking her head to and fro to get a better look in the mirror in her hand. “It didn’t look that way when I left this room. Your pins must have fallen out.” She turned an accusatory eye on Gabriella. “This hair had best not move no matter how fast the duke drives.”
“Fear not, madame. I shall secure it so that even the briskest breeze will not ruffle a hair,” Gabriella said, opening the pot of hair pomade. With practiced fingers, she dabbed here and there, ignoring the unpleasant greasy sensation, smoothing and fastening the hairs with the sticky pomatum that smelled of roses. Then, to make sure the strands wouldn’t move even if a whirlwind overtook the curricle, she stuck in a half-dozen hairpins as well. She would have the devil’s own time combing out the gummy mess tonight, but such was her lot. At least it was not yet time to wash the hair—an ordeal akin to preparations for a sea battle.
She worked quickly, sculpting the hair into waves and curls, then stepped back. “Voila, madame.”
Lady Chalgrove eyed the coiffure critically then nodded. “Very well. Where is the Pear’s?”
Gabriella dug through the pots of creams, lotions, and cosmetics searching for the rouge and lip salve. A generous application, and Lady Chalgrove looked like a blooming rose, at least on her cheeks and lips. “Is madame pleased?” She held the mirror up for her mistress’s inspection. Once done, could she perhaps race below and steal a moment of the duke’s time?
The countess glanced into the mirror. “It will do.” She nodded as she pulled on her gloves. “See that you clean up this mess,” she swept a hand over the pots and jars strewn over the toilette table, “then make sure my gold muslin is ready for tonight’s dinner. I’m not certain the duke will be there, but I need to look my best just in case.” She motioned for her gray silk spencer, and Gabrielle tugged the garment into place and fastened the four large buttons in front. “Don’t forget to add the rosettes to the overlay on the rose lutestring for tomorrow. Oh, and my pink and green slippers are in sad shape from last night. See to them as well.”
“Oui, all has been accomplished already, madame.” Gabriella at last pinned the countess’s best black velvet carriage hat in place, tied the wide ribbons under her left ear, and breathed a sigh of relief. “I believe you are complete, madame. Vous etes très ravissante.”
The countess grunted, grabbed her reticule, and flounced out the door.
Gabriella sank down on the bench before the toilette table, head on hand. So much for catching even a glimpse of the duke, much less speaking with him. Horses snorted from the driveway outside. She jumped up and flew to the window.
A shiny black curricle with the ducal crest emblazoned on the side gleamed in the sunlight. Yellow wheels and the tiger on the back in blue and gold livery completed the glittering picture. The townhouse door opened, and Lady Chalgrove strutted forth on the arm of a tall man in blue and buff. The countess laughed and squeezed his arm as he handed her up into the curricle. He jumped into the seat beside her and took the ribbons then, with a touch of the whip, started the horses at a trot, and the carriage sped off down the street.
Gabriella waited until they were out of sight then turned back into the room, determined to speak with Monsieur Carpenter as soon as possible. The last thing she’d expected was the duke actually wooing her employer. Whether this development would impede her plans she couldn’t tell; men were so unpredictable. However, she doubted it would help her in any way. She must therefore press Monsieur Carpenter to meet with the duke before he became enamored of Lady Chalgrove. There was too much at stake to leave anything to chance now.
* * * *
Hal stood in front of his father’s gaudy black lacquer Chinese desk—decorated with gold figures, pagodas, and landscapes—as he’d done countless times in his life, thinking that his first act as Duke of Brixham would be to resign this monstrosity to the uppermost floor of the house, family heirloom or not, and bespeak a solid mahogany desk from Gillows. This one dredged up too many unpleasant memories every time he saw it.
Today’s visit had no sinister implication, however. He’d come to Eden Place this afternoon of his own accord, rather than being summoned, to spy out the lay of the land, so to speak, concerning his father’s thoughts about his future bride. After tossing and turning most of the night, haunted by the memory of Gabriella’s body pressed close to his, her warm lips, and charming manner, he’d risen at dawn and gone riding. His hope that fresh air and the dew-speckled grass in Hyde Park would dispel the madness that had befallen him melted as the sun climbed the sky. He’d garnered a reputation for rash acts in the past, but the one he contemplated now bordered on lunacy. Still, it rose every time he thought about the delightful lady’s maid.
He gazed longingly at the decanter in his father’s hand. The man never stinted on the quality of his liquor.
“What brings you here this time of day, Halford? Or here at all, I should say. You’ve not darkened my door since the Season began.” The Duke of Brixham, a tall, distinguished man, poured a measured splash of French brandy into a tumbler and handed it to his son. “I hope this means you are acceding to my request that you marry and set up your nursery in the next year.” His father poured a rather more sizeable portion of the spirit into his own glass. “I wouldn’t think it too arduous a task for a young man in your circumstances.” He motioned for Hal to sit.
“Actually, I have done that very thing, F
ather.” Hal sipped the brandy, savoring the rich flavor as much as the surprised expression on his sire’s face.
“Splendid.” The duke had raised his eyebrows, but nodded. “I appreciate your willingness to indulge me on this matter. Eight-and-twenty may seem young to some to find a wife, but mark me, Halford, if the fates align against you, you will be happy you secured the succession in a timely manner.”
Hal understood that quite well. His mother had died giving birth to him. His father’s second wife had remained barren for many years and when she had conceived, had miscarried. The doctors told them another pregnancy would likely be the end of her. He’d loved his stepmother, Frances, for she’d been kind to him all during his boyhood and had remained fond of him during his years away at school. In recent years, however, she’d become more aloof, remaining in the country year-round. In one of her rare letters, she’d confided to him that she believed the ton whispered about her shortcomings as a wife. Her solution, therefore, was to remove the topic from view and hopefully lessen the fodder for the gossips. Hal doubted the situation was so dire, but didn’t press the issue. Her presence at the London house might have created a whole new set of tensions. As he’d never been able to fathom how his father felt about her, he let the subject strictly alone.
Hal raised his glass, unsure how to broach the issue of Gabriella.
“Who is she?”
He stopped, brandy untasted. “I beg your pardon?”
“The girl. Who is this girl you’ve come to ask my blessing for?” The duke chuckled and poured another round into his glass. “That has to be the reason for this visit. I know you better than to believe this a purely social call.”
Damn, but the old man was sharp. Best go slowly. “Well, I did wonder if you would object to a woman who was not quite…” How the devil could he put this? “Of our social station.”
An immediate frown darkened the duke’s face. “What exactly do you mean by that, Halford? You haven’t gone and proposed to some ballet dancer, have you?”
“Oh, no.” Hal shook his head. Surely his father would agree that a lady’s maid was more respectable than a dancer.
“Good.” His father’s stern face relaxed.
“The only woman I’ve proposed to is Lady Celinda Graham.” Damn. The words were out before he thought.
“Lady Celinda?” The duke sat up, face abeam with smiles. “Old Ivor’s daughter? Oh, well done, Halford.” The old man’s eyes held a predatory gleam. “She’ll come with at least thirty thousand.” The pleased expression looked odd on the usually stern visage. “Why would you think her not of our station?”
Hal peered at the floor, wanting to look at anything other than his father’s face. He should have known better than to speak without thinking. Now he’d gotten his father’s hopes up, it would be twice as hard to give him the truth. Never disappoint a duke.
“The thing is, Father…” He stalled, rubbing the back of his neck. “The thing is she turned me down.”
“Turned you down?” The duke rose, his glass clinking on the polished surface of the desk. “She turned you down? You’re the Marquess of Halford. You will one day be Duke of Brixham. And she refused your suit?”
“Afraid so.” Hal set his empty glass down, wishing it would fill itself magically. “She’d just met a chap, a Lord Finley, who’s lately returned from America. She’s got a tendre for him at the moment, it seems.” He shrugged. Perhaps he could play this off to his advantage. “That’s what you hear these days. Love reigns with all the ladies. With the fellows as well. Both Jamison and Pettigrew told me not a week ago that they’d married for love.”
The duke sat back in his chair, his eyes narrowed.
Hal forged on. “Now, the young lady I met, who truly suits me down to the earth, hasn’t got notions about love, as far as I can tell. At least, she’s not looking all doe-eyed. Very straightforward and sensible, I’d say.” That was the truth about Gabriella as he saw it.
The duke leaned forward. “But you haven’t proposed to her?”
“No. We only met last night, at Lady Hamilton’s ball. But I thought it would be prudent to inform you, Your Grace. Because, as I said earlier, there is the possibility of a small impediment.”
“Spit it out, Halford. Stop this infernal shilly-shallying.” He banged his fist on the desk like a gavel.
“She’s…French.” Hal blew out the breath he’d been holding.
“French! God in heaven.” The duke sank back in his chair and reached for his glass, only to find it empty. “All the best English ladies to choose from and you take a fancy to a French girl? Who is her family?”
“D’Aventure.” Hal closed his eyes and prayed. His father’s interest in anything French, other than spirits, wouldn’t fill a thimble. If luck was with him, the name would mean nothing.
Fingers laced together, the duke ruminated, his brows wiggling up and down, his lips pursed. Finally, he shook his head. “D’Aventure? I cannot place it. Was her father a soldier promoted by Boney? That was all the rage ten years ago.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “Of course, there could always be land involved with the settlements. Who is her father?’
“I don’t exactly know, Your Grace. I scarcely had time to talk to her. We spoke of other things than families.” Speaking had been the least of it.
“I take that to mean you spent the time you should have been gathering her particulars making love to her instead.” His father poured them another libation. “First things first, my boy.”
“If you mean courting her, Father, then yes. I thought making a good impression with her the best way to begin. I could hardly blurt out, ‘Who is your father and what is his rank?’” Hal tossed down his drink. It was a decent enough question, however. Perhaps Gabriella had sufficient lineage that the leap from maid to marchioness wouldn’t be a strenuous one. “However, if you have no objection…?” He let the question linger in the air. Let his father take the bait.
“Oh, I’m positive I will have objections of some sort. But if the lady is gently born, we may see our way clear to an agreement.” The duke held the decanter out to Hal.
“No, thank you, Father.” He rose and donned his hat. “I must find Miss d’Aventure, or, more specifically, I must find her father. I will keep you apprised of my progress.” With a bow, he turned and walked sedately from the interview, although jumping with wild glee on the inside.
Tomorrow night’s appointment with Gabriella would be even more crucial now. Not only must he arrange her meeting with the duke, he must ferret out her father while making her none the wiser. A tall order for a man not particularly given to intrigues. He hoped for his sake he was up to the challenge.
Chapter 5
The clock in Lady Atherton’s servants’ hall ticked at an annoyingly loud, steady rate. Gabriella had been staring at it for the past hour while the Atherton servants ran to and fro in a frenzy of activity. Platters of savories, and trays crowded with champagne glasses, pots of tea, and coffee were whisked up and down the stairs by more footmen than she could count. After she’d inadvertently almost tripped one carrying a towering bowl of sherry trifle, she’d been relegated—by a very angry housekeeper—to the cramped chamber where the shoes were shined and the silver polished.
When the pungent smells of lampblack and Bath brick became intolerable, she crept to the doorway seeking fresher air. The kitchen was steamy, the stove blazing as Cook turned out batch after batch of gooseberry tarts and meringues destined for the supper room. Gabriella’s stomach growled. There’d been no time for dinner after working for three hours on Lady Chalgrove’s toilette—her coiffure hadn’t wanted to cooperate, taking twice as long as usual. She’d even needed to start over once. Gabriella looked longingly at the parade of dishes headed upstairs and prayed there would be something left over.
Stephen, the young footman she’d almost tripped, appeared from upstairs, a plate of crumbs and two tarts with broken crusts in his hands. Gabriella eyed the flaky pastry, her
mouth watering, then sent him a soulful look. The gawky boy must’ve caught it, for he turned his back to her, deftly juggling the plate until it came to rest behind him, right in front of her and shielded from the remaining staff. She grabbed the tarts, thankful she’d learned to flirt at a very early age, whispered, “Merci, mon ami,” and sprinted out the rear door.
The cool night breeze refreshed her after the close atmosphere of the kitchen, and she settled onto a stone bench in what appeared to be a small kitchen garden. The first bite exploded in her mouth, the tart gooseberries tempered by the sweetness of the sugar and cinnamon. Cook certainly had a light hand with pastry. She’d not tasted anything this good since she left Paris. The first tart disappeared with alarming speed. Best savor the other one. She broke it in two and nibbled the flaky crust, licked some of the sweet filling, and sighed. A good sauterne would complement it nicely. She missed Papa’s wine shop so much. Bien sûr, in England, she could at least continue her quest for the duke. She licked one sticky finger after another, determined not to waste a drop.
“Mademoiselle d’Aventure.”
She spun around, almost dropping the other half of the tart.
Monsieur Carpenter, once more in shirtsleeves, beckoned to her from behind the bush enclosing the garden. His face lay in shadows, the faint light of the half-moon doing nothing to dispel them.
Excitement coiled within her.
“What are you doing here?” She wiped her fingers on the hem of her petticoat and got to her feet.
“I told you I’d meet you here.” He grinned, showing very white teeth in the dark, as he stalked toward her like a lynx. “I am a man of my word.”
“I see you are.” She could not hold back a smile. Why was she so pleased to see him? Much as she wanted to believe it was merely for the introduction she hoped he’d arranged, the rush of her heart said differently. That didn’t bear thinking about. She needed no distractions to deter her from her quest. And Monsieur Carpenter might prove a dangerous one.
