by The Bargain
I shall be arriving by carriage at precisely five o'clock on the evening of the third, expecting to wait discreetly in the street outside your residence for no more than five minutes, for the young woman to join me.
Moreover, as discretion is ever of foremost consideration in these matters, I would ask you to return this missive to me by way of your young employee. She is to hand it to me when she enters the carriage; it will thus further serve as her identification on that occasion.
Thanking you in advance on behalf of His Grace, I remain
Your Obedient Servant,
Robert Adams, Solicitor
on Behalf of His Grace,
The Duke of Ravensford
The gleam in Monica's eyes dulled with disappointment as she finished perusing the letter. There was no help here. She was thoroughly familiar with the practice among certain members of the aristocracy in hiring those of her profession to tutor their sons—and grandsons, it would seem—in the ways of Eros. She herself had even performed this function a few times. But the duke and his solicitor were specifically requesting a young woman—"under twenty," the letter said. (Why, Monica couldn't imagine; she herself would have thought that the more experienced the instructress, the better the outcome of the "lessons.") But Monica was twenty-eight years old— twenty-nine on her next birthday, and no matter how well preserved her beauty might be, no matter how much rest she took the night before, there was no way on earth she was going to pass for a girl of less than twenty.
Ever the practical opportunist, Monica shrugged, preparing to set aside the solicitor's letter as she reached for Baron Mumford's, when suddenly an idea took hold, and her resigned expression gave way to a feline smile. Of course! Here was the perfect opportunity to both cover her tracks in the theft of Mumford's letter and hand that little bitch, Ashleigh Sinclair, her comeuppance at the same time!
Chortles of glee emanated from Monica's throat as she scanned the solicitor's letter one more time. Ah, it was perfect! There was nothing in the contents to specify the nature of the "task" the woman was to perform. Now, all she had to do was fabricate a suitable explanation for Dorcas as to the reason for the offer of employment to be coming from the duke of Ravensford instead of Baron Mumford. Moreover, she had to devise a way of seeing the letter fell directly into Ashleigh's hands on the evening of the third, and not allow it to be seen by the cook or—God forbid—Megan O'Brien! Ashleigh was naive enough to assume the letter spoke of a governess's position, but Dorcas and Megan had been around and were nobody's fools.... Ah! She had it! She would concoct the tale that Madame had instructed her to tell Dorcas to have Ashleigh await the arrival of her new employer's solicitor on the third, just as the letter stipulated, but omitting the business about delivering the letter by hand. She would say that Madame had herself been delighted by the duke's superior offer (his position alone would attest to that) and had accepted it over Mumford's on behalf of the girl, that it was clearly in Ashleigh's best interests to take the duke's offer of employment. Then, only at the last minute on the evening of the third, she would personally press the letter into Ashleigh's hand as she prepared to go out to meet the carriage....
Again and again, Monica went over these plans in her mind as she stood in Madame's antechamber holding the two letters. Oh, it was going to work—it was! In just a few days' time, she would be delightfully installed within the household of old Mumford as an upstanding employee while Ashleigh Sinclair... Monica nearly choked on her own suppressed laughter. She could just picture Ashleigh's face when she at last discovered what sort of instruction His Grace's grandson desired! Oh, it was rich, it was!
A sudden recognition of the need to be away from Madame's chambers spurred Monica to action. Grasping both letters, she secured them carefully out of sight in the folds of her dressing gown and turned toward the door. She opened it and peered carefully down the hallway in both directions and, finding no one about, exited, a look of triumph on her face. She felt she was at last on her way as she entered the haven of her own chamber. "Ashleigh Sinclair," she whispered as she closed her door behind her, "your days of sweet innocence are numbered!"
* * * * *
Ashleigh sat beside the distinguished-looking gentleman who had identified himself briefly as Mr. Adams while the richly appointed carriage carried her steadily away from Hampton House and all she had known there for the past twelve years. In view of the obvious dignity and businesslike mien of her escort, she tried valiantly to hold back the tears that threatened to spill from her eyes at any moment. She knew she should be happy to be where she was—on her way to a brand-new way of life, one that would relieve her of the uncertain future that had awaited her in the house where she'd spent the major portion of her formative years—but she felt only sadness instead. Hampton House had been her home for so long! And if she wasn't pained at the thought of leaving behind the place itself, or what it stood for, she was more than miserable at bidding farewell to some of the friends she had made within its walls.
There was Dorcas, dear old thing that she was, who had functioned almost like a mother to her all these years. Oh, how the two of them had wept in each other's arms late this afternoon when the moment of parting had become imminent!
And Megan, wonderful, wildly beautiful Megan, who had a heart of gold and the soul of a poet, no matter what she did to earn a living! Megan O'Brien, for all her worldly ways, had become her friend and her foremost protectress at Hampton House, teaching her how to defend herself from bodily harm and just as deftly teaching her the words to many a Gaelic song once she'd learned Ashleigh was half Irish, insisting it was her right as well as her duty to awaken and keep burning the flames of that noble heritage. Megan had spent half last night sitting up with her and talking of the good times they'd shared together under Madame's roof, and then, too, the tears had flown freely....
And then there was Finn. In some ways leaving the great wolfhound had been the hardest of all, for the big dog somehow seemed to sense she was going without any need for parting words or gestures, and the sad, soulful look in his eyes had told its own story.
Now, as she sat beside the immaculately groomed gentleman on her right, blinking back her tears, Ashleigh wondered if she hadn't made a mistake. Who was this duke of Ravensford, after all, or the grandson he seemed eager for her to instruct? Oh, she'd heard Megan's account of the rumors about the man—his fabulous wealth, the importance attributed to his particular title and its power, and she'd seen the looks of envy in the eyes of several of the women when word got around as to who her new employer would be. Then, too, Dorcas's friend, Roger, had told them that the duke of Ravensford had a reputation for being morally upstanding—straitlaced, even— so Dorcas and Megan had given their blessings to the arrangement when they'd heard, and here she was....
She glanced surreptitiously at the silver-haired man beside her. He hadn't said very much to her after she'd handed him the letter Monica had given her on her way out to meet the carriage, though he'd taken a good, long moment to look her over from head to toe when she'd appeared. This open perusal of her person brought the suggestion of a blush to her cheeks even now as she thought about it; it had been a more thorough examination than any she'd ever received, with the exception of a few unwelcome looks she'd gotten from some of Hampton House's visiting "guests" on the few occasions when she'd inadvertently been seen by such gentlemen. Her thoughts fastened with distaste on the look she'd seen on the young lord Monica had been entertaining the evening she'd forced her to help her out of her gown; the look had not been intended entirely for Monica, she knew, and what bothered her now was something—she wasn't sure what, exactly—but there was a flicker of similarity in the expression of Mister Adams when he'd studied her out there in the street before turning away with a nod and bidding her enter, apparently satisfied.
Now, as she again glanced at the man's distinguished profile, she wondered if she ought to say something to him, question him, perhaps, about the nature of the household he was
taking her to, or the daily routine her duties would involve. But suddenly Adams himself turned toward her, and while she blushed at having him catch her looking at him, he saved her the trouble by addressing her instead.
"I wonder... Miss Sinclair, isn't it?" At her shy nod he smiled and continued. "I wonder if I might ask how old you are, Miss Sinclair?"
Surprised by the question, but beginning to relax somewhat under his benign gaze, Ashleigh smiled back. "Nineteen, sir, or I shall be, at the end of the month."
A nod, coupled with another smile. "Very good. Now, I should like to ask you only a couple more questions, Miss Sinclair, and then perhaps I can be of some service if you should have questions of your own."
At her smile he continued. "Although my letter stipulated it, I cannot underscore enough the necessity that you meet His Grace's foremost request. Are you certain that you—ah—enjoy excellent health?" He watched her face carefully as he awaited Ashleigh's response.
"Oh, yes, sir!" she replied eagerly. "I am, as they say, in the very pink and can assure you, I've never been sick enough to lose a day's work—um—since I've been old enough to do work, that is, sir."
"Ah, yes, well, I'm glad to hear it," replied Adams, perplexed by the nature of her reply. He wasn't sure why, but he was beginning to feel slightly uncomfortable in the role he was playing. He wondered if it had anything to do with the girl's youth. Of course, he had been expecting someone young after the letter he'd sent, but Ashleigh Sinclair somehow did not fit the picture he'd had in mind. To begin with, she looked not only young, but actually innocent! He supposed it had something to do perhaps with a kind of studied allure she affected. There must be some call in these brothels for women who gave off the appearance of innocence, and so, he assumed, any shrewd madame who knew what she was about would cater to such tastes, as well as to heaven only knew what others among her clientele. Yes, that must be it: it was a pose.
But moreover, the girl was a stunning beauty. Oh, he'd long come to expect physical attractiveness among women of her ilk; hadn't some of the greatest beauties of the past been courtesans? Du Barry? De Pompadour? Or on England's own soil, Castlemaine in Charles II's time, not to mention Nell Gwyn? But the beauty of the girl sitting beside him now had almost robbed him of breath when he'd first seen her: hair of a midnight hue, so thick and lustrous it almost begged to be touched; delicate, chiseled features of perfect proportions, covered by creamy, flawless skin; and those eyes! Incredibly large and deep blue in color, they truly resembled sapphires—only there was far more warmth in their depths, and when they turned on a man, as they were regarding him now, they affected such a perfect image of unblemished innocence, of allure without guile....
And then there was the rest of her! She wore a high-waisted cornflower-blue walking dress, well displayed when she'd loosened her pelisse in the warmth of the carriage's snug interior; it was in no way immodest or overly revealing, but he could easily discern, through its soft, gauzelike folds, the outlines of a high, rounded and well-endowed bosom as well as other lithe curves and lissome lines of feminine loveliness on her diminutive, almost fragile-looking young body.
And that brought him to the final aspect of Ashleigh Sinclair that was so disconcerting: she appeared for all the world like a delicate, fragile flower, all freshness and youth, coupled with a look in the eyes that said, "Be gentle with me... handle me with tender care, lest I snap and break like some poor faerie creature's child." Even now, as she sat looking at him with those wide, lovely eyes, he thought he saw the brightness of unshed tears in their depths....
My God! he almost exclaimed aloud. She makes me feel all at once tender and protective, as though she could be my own daughter! What am I doing, procuring her for—
Quickly Adams cleared his throat and addressed Ashleigh with sudden haste. "Your employer has assured us you come with all the necessary—ah—skills and qualifications for the position, Miss Sinclair. Do you feel she is correct in this assessment?"
Ashleigh's face lit up. Madame had been generous, indeed, to make such a recommendation! "Oh, yes, sir! I've been fortunate enough, you see, to have the ablest of tutors to prepare me—"
"A tutor, you say!" exclaimed Adams. The girl had been taking lessons!
"Oh, yes," replied Ashleigh. "I was tutored for twelve years."
"Twelve years!" Adams choked. "You had a tutor for twelve years!"
"Yes," responded Ashleigh, a little puzzled at Adams's surprise. "He was a Frenchman, you know—"
"Ah! A Frenchman!" exclaimed Adams with a nod of comprehension.
"Yes," smiled Ashleigh, "fresh from the court of Louis himself, poor man." She shook her head sadly, suddenly filled with compassion at the recollection of all she'd heard of the terrible Reign of Terror from Monsieur Laforte.
Adams nodded and smiled weakly, uncomfortable again. Here it was once more; just as he'd begun to think he knew and understood what she was, she presented him with a look of tenderness and compassion so sincere, so believably filled with concern for others less fortunate, that he was hard put to think of her as anything less than good—wholesome and pure in a manner that totally conflicted with his knowledge of what she was.
Dammit! he swore to himself. She's only a whore—nothing more! And you'd better not let yourself forget it, old man! He took another deep breath and addressed Ashleigh again. "Well, then, Miss Sinclair, now it is your turn to ask questions. Is there anything you would care to know of the—ah, arrangements that await you?"
Ashleigh thought for a moment. Questions! She had dozens of them! How old was the duke's grandson, for example; she hoped he was about six or seven—an age at which she could instruct him most comfortably. And what was the duke, his grandfather, like? Would she be seeing much of him as well? And what of the boy's parents, and the rest of the household? Yes, she had all too many questions, and she suddenly felt as if, perhaps, it might be rude or seem too forward of her to bombard this poor man with all that weighed on her mind. It wouldn't do to make a nuisance of herself before she'd actually begun her stay or assumed the governess's position. So in the end she settled for merely one query, and a rather innocuous one at that. "What is His Grace's grandson's name, sir? I'd like to know that."
Adams's eyebrows lifted mildly at the question. For some reason he hadn't thought such a female would be interested in the identities of her clients, and certainly not to the extent that it would be her first question regarding the task she was to perform. He'd rather expected questions about money, for example, or the nature of the amenities she would enjoy while staying at Ravensford Hall—the size of her chamber, perhaps, or the number of servants at her disposal. Well, she had surprised him again, and with a shrug to try to dispel the aura of perplexing intrigue she'd begun to weave, he answered her. "His lordship's name is Brett Westmont—Lord Westmont to you, Miss Sinclair. He currently holds one of His Grace's lesser titles. That is, he is officially known as Viscount Westmont. Of course, on the day his grandfather passes away, he will become His Grace, duke of Ravensford. He is the heir, you see."
"I see," said Ashleigh, somberly nodding her head. She was recalling the now faraway world of her own early upbringing, where the daily use of such titles was automatic and taken for granted. Her own father had been a peer with the lesser hereditary title of baronet, but his line had been an old one, reaching back to the days of William the Conqueror, and their small but closely knit family had enjoyed many of the privileges she felt she could expect to witness under the roof of her new employer. Suddenly a lump formed in her throat and she felt the sharp sting of tears threaten her eyes as, for the first time in years, she allowed herself a keen sense of longing for the life and family she had once had.
Oh, Mother, Father! her heart cried out. Why did you have to die so young? I can barely recall your faces, yet sometimes, like now, I miss you terribly! And Patrick... how could fate be so unkind as to rob me of you as well? Sweet brother with the devil's own mischief in your eyes! What I wouldn't give to b
e going into this new adventure with you by my side!
But as the hoofbeats of the carriage horses and the turning of the wheels moved steadily onward, Ashleigh's longings faded and she knew she must face her future alone. Closing her eyes, she forced herself into a state of calm acceptance, laced with just the barest hint of a plea. Oh, let them be kind, she prayed. If they will just be kind and decent, I shall surely manage the rest!
CHAPTER FOUR
Robert Adams looked down at the drawn, pale face on the pillows and felt a rush of pity overwhelm him. So this is how it all ends, he mused darkly. Here is this man who in his time represented the best his era had to offer—intelligence, strength, power, wealth, all of it, and yet, being so richly endowed, he managed to use all of his gifts well, making the most of what he'd been given. How we used to envy him, we common folk who had the privilege of knowing and serving the man—and did so happily, yet always with a twinge of regret that we were not in his place...
Adams closed his eyes for a moment, anxious to ward off the tears that threatened, and which he, for all the world, would not have his old friend awaken and see. There came to mind the time, in the past century, that the duke had made a speech in the House of Lords, defending the rights of the American colonials to fair representation in parliament, considering the taxes they were being asked to pay their mother country. Adams smiled to himself. You were so very astute, old friend. You were among those who warned of dire consequences if no one took heed of what was happening in America, and time bore out the truth of those prophetic warnings. Sir Edmund Burke's speeches notwithstanding, yours were the best and wisest of that time. Would that the nation had listened to you!
Ah, yes, Adams continued, the best his era had to offer... and yet, now here he lies, taking his final breaths and looking for all the world like any common grandfather on his deathbed.... Well, John Westmont, duke of Ravensford, I shall be saddened to see you go, and I shall miss your undeniable presence in—
