Violet v-5

by Jane Feather

  “Get some rest first. We'll try this evening. They might be so insensible by then they'll come quietly.” He turned back to Tamsyn. “Wellington wishes to talk to you, Violette. If you'd come with me now.”

  It didn't sound much like a request to Tamsyn, but she merely smiled and said mischievously, “I'd be delighted to come with you, milord colonel. As I've made clear on many occasions.”

  Julian's lips almost disappeared and the bright-blue eyes shot sparks as the other men suppressed their grins.

  “Allow me to assist you to mount, ma'am?” Frank offered before Julian's temper could find voice. He cupped his palms for her foot, and she sprang up into the saddle with a word of thanks.

  Gathering the reins together, she raised an eyebrow at the still-fulminating colonel and said, “I'm ready to accompany you, sir.”

  Julian turned his horse without a word and moved off down the narrow aisle between the rows of tents. Tamsyn waved a cheery hand in farewell to her companions and followed.

  They rode in single file over the pontoon bridge into Elvas and into the stable yard at headquarters. Still in silence, Julian strode ahead of her up the stairs and into the building. “Is his lordship alone, Sanderson?”

  “Yes, sir. Lord March left a few minutes ago.” “Good.” He knocked and opened the door, gesturing brusquely to Tamsyn that she should precede him into the sanctum.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she greeted the commander in chief politely. “May I congratulate you on such a splendid victory.” There was no mistaking the note of bitter irony beneath the apparent courtesy, and Wellington looked at her sharply, frowning.

  “My men fought like tigers,” he stated. “And they died like heroes.”

  “I'm sure,” she returned in much the same tone.

  “Colonel St. Simon says you wish to speak to me.” She perched on the deep windowsill and regarded him with her shining head to one side, her eyes alert, like a cheeky robin, Julian thought, amused despite his irritation.

  “We have a proposal to put to you. It's the colonel's suggestion, so perhaps he should explain it.”

  Tamsyn turned her look of bright inquiry on the colonel. “I'm all ears, milord colonel.”

  Julian explained his proposal, his voice expressionless, his face impassive, and Tamsyn listened with the same air of alert interest.

  When he'd finished, she said simply, “Oh, no, that won't do at all.”

  The cool negative fell into a stunned silence. Both men stared at her; then St. Simon said, “And just why won't it?”

  “Well, you must see that a mere governess couldn't give me what I need,” she said reasonably. “Since I'm certain my mother's family are aristocrats, I need to know how to go on in the highest circles of Society. Governesses don't know that kind of thing. I'll need to know all sorts of things about the top families as well as all the little mannerisms and quirks and tricks of dress that only an intimate of those circles would know. And how could a governess perform the introductions when I'm ready to be presented to the family? Someone unimpeachable has to vouch for me… explain about the Duke of Wellington's kind protection.” Another winning smile in the duke's direction.

  “She has a point, Julian.”

  Julian met his commander's steady gaze, reading the immutable message. He swung round toward the figure on the windowsill. Tamsyn was examining her fingernails with an air of absorption.

  “Damn you, Violette!” he hissed. “Damn you for a tricky, conniving witch!”

  Clearly this was not a good moment to ask for a small loan. Tamsyn raised her eyes and offered a tentative

  smile. “I won't be a nuisance, milord colonel, I promise you. I'll be a most obedient pupil and a credit to your tutoring. “

  Julian's expression registered total disbelief, and Wellington gave vent to his neighing laugh.

  “She has you there, Julian. Sewn up tight as a Christmas goose.”

  Julian walked over to Tamsyn. He leaned over her, his hands braced on the window on either side of her head, and said softly so that only she could hear, “You just might have bitten off more than you can chew, Violette. I'm going to have you jumping through hoops until you don't know whether you're in this week or the next. So be warned.”

  Tamsyn touched her tongue to her lips and her eyes narrowed. “I think I can handle anything you throw at me, milord colonel.”

  Their eyes locked. There was antagonism and challenge, but there was a perverse excitement too at the war game they were about to play.

  Then Julian straightened and spoke at an ordinary pitch, but his voice was completely devoid of expression. “So we've agreed to your price, Violette. It's time to fulfil your side of the bargain.”

  “Certainly,” she said.

  Wellington called for Sanderson to take notes, and they began. St. Simon sat in a chair by the hearth, listening intently to the brigand's answers, listening for any evasion, any hint that she might be fooling them. They had only her word for the truth of the information she was providing, but he found that he trusted her to be good to that word. She was as slippery as an eel, but he thought that if she said she was playing fair, then she was.

  Why he should have this faith in her, he didn't know. It was a long and exhaustive session. At the end Tamsyn drew an elaborate map indicating the passes through the Guadarrama heights, then stretched, arching her back against her hands. “I think that's everything I agreed to.”

  “Yes,” Wellington said with a pleased nod. “Most satisfactory. Thank you.”

  “I won't say it was a pleasure,” Tamsyn said frankly. “Oh, don't give me that!” Julian scoffed. “You've got precisely what you wanted for your information.”

  “True.” And the means now to be revenged upon the Penhallans. “Do we begin our journey as soon as Gabriel arrives?”

  “The sooner the better,” he said harshly. “And I want this in writing, too.” He gestured to Sanderson, still sitting at the table. “The contract is for six months, beginning this day, April seventh, 1812. It will conclude on October seventh. Whether you've achieved what you wish or no. Is that understood?”

  “Perfectly.”

  Sanderson wrote busily, sanded the sheet, and pushed it across the table for Tamsyn's signature.

  “How very formal,” she murmured, affixing her signature to the document. “Anyone would think you didn't trust me, milord colonel.”

  “Anyone would think I had reason to trust you,” he retorted, striding to the door.

  “Oh,” Tamsyn ran after him as he marched down the stairs. “Since our contract is to begin today, even though we haven't started our journey, I feel sure I can ask you a favor. Could you make me a small loan? Just until Gabriel returns.”

  He stopped at the street door and stared at her in-credulously. “You want me to lend you money on top of everything?”

  “Just to buy some clothes. These I have on are falling apart. I'll repay you as soon as Gabriel returns.”

  He regarded her in frowning silence for a moment; then slowly he nodded. “Very well. Since, as you say, our contract is to begin today, then I agree, you certainly stand in sore need of different clothes. I know just the place. Colonel Delacourt's wife was telling me all about it.” Briskly, he set off up the street without looking to see if she was accompanying him.

  Tamsyn hesitated. There'd been a look in his eye that made her a little uneasy, a glint of amusement that didn't strike her as particularly friendly. Then, with a shrug, she set off after him, running to catch up.

  “There's no need for you to accompany me, milord colonel.”

  “Don't call me that.”

  “Why not?” she asked with an innocent smile.

  “I don't care for the tone.”

  “Ahh. Then what should I call you?”

  “Colonel will do fine. Lord St. Simon, if you prefer.”

  Tamsyn pulled a wry face. “That seems very formal for a six-months liaison.”

  “We are not having a liaison.” He k
ept his voice even.

  “Oh.” Tamsyn followed as he turned down a narrow side street. “Why don't I call you Julian?”

  “My friends call me that, and I see no reason for you to do so.” He pushed open a door into the cool, dim interior of a milliner's shop, setting a bell jangling. “In here.”

  Tamsyn paused on the threshold. “I suppose I can buy underclothes here. There really isn't any need for you to come in with me, my lord colonel.”

  The colonel didn't reply, merely planted a hand in the small of her back and pushed her ahead of him into the shop.

  A woman came out from the back. She wore a gown of dark bombazine with a crisp white muslin apron and a black lace mantilla draped over her shoulders. One quick glance took in her visitor's rank, and she smiled with a hint of obsequiousness, greeting him in Spanish. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I be of service?” She cast a cursory look at the colonel's companion, seeing a somewhat undersize lad in the dimness.

  “My companion here needs to be reclothed from the skin out,” St. Simon said briskly, pushing Tamsyn into the ray of light falling through the window. “I think it would be simplest if she removes all her clothes and we start from there.”

  “Hey, just a minute,” Tamsyn said. “I need a new pair of drawers, a new shirt, of lawn or silk, and a pair of stockings. Since I'm sure the senhora doesn't sell britches, I'll find them elsewhere.”

  The colonel ignored her, saying calmly to the astonished senhora, “She needs drawers, a chemise, petticoats, silk stockings, and a gown… something simple, I think. Muslin or cambric.”

  “What are you talking about?” Tamsyn protested, switching to English. “I cannot possibly wear women's clothes here.”

  “And why not? Countess other women appear to,” the colonel demanded dryly.

  “Because it's different… I'm different,” she said.

  “I can't imagine what you're thinking of.”

  “When did you last wear petticoats?” he inquired, untroubled by her rising annoyance.

  “I never have,” she said dismissively. “Neither did Cecile… or at least she did occasionally,” she added. “But I think that was all part of their love play. Skirts were quite impractical for the way we lived.”

  “Well, they're not impractical for the game you've chosen to play,” Julian stated. “In fact they're indispensable. Permit me to remind you that at your instigation I hold the reins in that game; therefore, you'll accept my ruling. As of today you adopt women's clothes.”

  “But… but we are to ride to Lisbon presumably, to take ship. How can I do that in women's clothes?”

  “The way other women do,” he said. “Unless you'd rather travel in a spring wagon.”

  “Oh, don't be absurd.” She turned back to the door with an impatient gesture. “I'll manage as I am until Gabriel arrives. He'll be bringing all my clothes.”

  Julian took her arm, swinging her back to face him.

  His eyes rested with calm certainty on her flushed face. “You wish to cancel the contract, Violette?”

  Her flush deepened and her eyes flared. “You would renege, sir?”

  He shook his head, still maintaining his hold, still regarding her calmly. “I warned you that we're going to play this by my rules. If you don't like those rules, you can back out any time you wish.”

  Tamsyn bit her lip in chagrin, wrestling with herself.

  She knew he was just waiting for her to give him an excuse to end their agreement. She'd told him she could take anything he threw at her. Was she going to crumple at the first hurdle? And it was a hurdle that would have to be taken at some point, sooner rather than later. She just wasn't ready to cease to be Violette in these circumstances. Plenty of time for that transformation when they reached the peaceful, verdant English countryside that Cecile had so often described.

  “Well?” Julian said, aware that the senhora was starring in unabashed curiosity, unable to understand what was clearly an acerbic exchange.

  Tamsyn made up her mind. She shook her arm free of his hold, saying with icy indifference, “I see no difficulty.” She began to unbutton her shirt.

  “Ay… ay!” The senhora gave a squeak of dismay and hustled her unusual customer behind a worked screen.

  Tamsyn stripped, tossing her garments over the top of the screen as she removed them. Shoes, stockings, drawers, shirt, and britches fell in a heap on the floor, while the senhora hastily produced a selection of undergarments, offering them with some reluctance for the colonel's inspection.

  “Do you prefer silk or lawn?” Julian asked in the direction of the screen, riffling through a heap of lace-trimmed smocks.

  “Silk.” Tamsyn stuck her head around the corner.

  “But I don't want any frills or ribbons. They catch on things.”

  “Try this.” He tossed her a cream silk chemise and turned his attention to the drawers. “Silk drawers, too, I imagine.”

  “No, lawn,” Tamsyn said perversely. “And no frills.”

  “That might be difficult,” he mused, shaking out delicate garments under the aghast eyes of the proprietress. “These are about as simple as I can find. They have pink ribbons.”

  “Ugh!” Tamsyn appeared from behind the screen, clad in the chemise that reached the tops of her thighs. “Let me look.”

  “Ay de mi,” the senhora moaned as the colonel stood aside to let the scantily clad girl examine the offered selection.

  A saint couldn't have resisted. She was leaning over the counter, her body brushing against his. Julian's hand slipped to her thigh. He felt her stiffen, but she affected to be unaware, studiously searching through the filmy pile of silk and lawn. His hand moved upward beneath the chemise, over the bare damask curve of her bottom. Tamsyn cut him a quick sideways up-from-under look and grinned wickedly.

  He was aware that his breathing was somewhat ragged. What had happened to his resolution to resist the brigand's enchantment? He pinched the firm flesh of her backside with a degree of vigor and heard her quick indrawn breath. Then he turned with a businesslike expression to the senhora.

  “Show me some gowns, senhora. I doubt you have anything small enough. I should think something to fit a child would be suitable.”

  Tamsyn lost all interest in seductive play at this patent insult. She turned to protest but saw that they'd moved into the rear of the shop and were deep in discussion. She seized a pair of relatively unadorned drawers, a lawn petticoat, silk stockings, and garters and returned behind the screen.

  “This, I think.” Julian held up a gown of cream muslin with puffed sleeves, belted below the bosom with a violet sash. Violet embroidery edged the hem and the curving neckline.

  Tamsyn emerged from the screen, her expression one of resigned distaste. She examined the gown with wrinkled nose. “It's so flimsy. It'll tear at the first catch.”

  “Hopefully, you won't go around catching it on things,” he declared, dropping the gown over her head, standing aside as the senhora hastened to attend to the hooks and buttons and the sash.

  “It needs to be shortened about two inches,” the senhora said, restored to equanimity now that her customer was decently clothed. “I can have that done in half an hour.”

  Tamsyn took a couple of steps, kicking the folds out in front of her as she did so. “This is ridiculous. How can one move around with all this stuff twisting around one's legs?”

  “Most women seem to manage without the least difficulty,” Julian said. “And it'll be better when it's shorter.” He examined her with an involuntary smile. Despite the fact that Tamsyn looked thoroughly uncomfortable, the gown created the most amazing transformation. Her slight figure appeared fragile rather than wiry, accentuating the curve of her bosom and the gentle flare of her hips. The small head with its bright cap of pale silky hair sat atop a long, slender neck rising gracefully from the low, curving neckline.

  “Buttercup,” he said with a chuckle. “That's what you look like. No longer Violette, but a buttercup in the sun.”


  Tamsyn's expression showed him exactly what she thought of this revolting description. She took another turn around the room and came to a halt in front of the long cheval glass. “Santa Maria,” she muttered. “I look ridiculous. I'll be the laughingstock of the town.” She glared at Julian in the mirror. “I suppose that's what you want… revenge.”

  He shook his head. “Not so. Anyway, why should you imagine people will laugh at you just because you look like a woman instead of a some androgynous creature from the mountains?”

  “Well, I'll laugh at me,” she declared.

  “Get used to it,” he advised. “Because this is the way it's going to be for as long as you and I are involved in this contract.”

  “And you're not going to lose an opportunity to get even, are you?” She turned to face him.

  “No,” he agreed. “Not a single one.”

  Chapter Ten

  TAMSYN SAT IN THE BACK ROOM OF THE MILLINER'S SHOP while a young seamstress took up the hem of the muslin gown, and Julian, armed with one of her boots for size, went off in search of shoes that would match her new image.

  She'd been neatly outmanoeuvred, Tamsyn reflected morosely, watching the girl's nimble fingers darting through the material. And it rather looked as if the colonel had the perfect weapon to ensure his victory in all such contentious issues. She was more interested in the arrangement's continuing than he was; therefore, she must keep him happy.

  There were areas in which she wouldn't at all mind keeping him happy, and she'd rather assumed that he'd consider love play adequate compensation for inconvenience. Unfortunately, Lord St. Simon seemed determined to resist seduction. Although he hadn't been doing too well at resistance up to now.

  The thought lightened her mood somewhat, and she stood up to allow the seamstress to try the dress on her. The length was pronounced satisfactory, and Tamsyn went to examine herself again in the mirror.

  She didn't look in the least like herself; it was most unsettling, rather as if her head were sitting atop some other body. But she wasn't going to give the colonel any further satisfaction. He would find her cheerfully accepting of this new costume, and if people laughed at her, then she'd laugh with them.