by The Bargain
"Father in Heaven, it's Ashleigh!" cried Megan. "Now, darlin', don't say a word. It's Megan who's found ye, and everythin's goin' t' be all right, colleen. Ye're home."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Brett looked at the woman sitting across from him and smiled, but it was a cynical smile. No warmth shone in his eyes. "Then, if I am to understand you correctly, Madame, you not only intend to keep the handsome sum my grandfather's solicitor paid you for a totally inexperienced woman—indeed, you admit, a total nonprofessional who was sent by mistake—but you are now asking an even greater sum for her return."
Madame's gray-green eyes leveled with his for a moment before their lids half closed and she answered him with bored indifference in her tone. "It would appear to me, Your Grace, that the mistake you speak of was entirely in your favor. Ashleigh Sinclair was a virgin when she left these premises several days ago. Now she sits upstairs sobbing that she is one no longer. Do you have any notion of the price commanded by young virgins these days? And this is not to mention one as beautiful as our lovely Ashleigh. Let's be honest, Your Grace, you have already received a bargain."
"It was a bargain we did not request."
"Ah! Just so," nodded Madame. "And so now you feel you have every right to come here and demand further use of this 'unrequested bargain'?" It was Madame's turn to smile cynically.
"Touché," Brett returned. "But the fact remains, if what you have told me of the girl's background is true, the mistake you were responsible for has caused a great deal of embarrassment on both sides and—"
A sharp trill of laughter cut him off. "Come, come, Your Grace, surely you can do better than that! What you really mean is that it is you and your family's lofty reputation that stand to suffer a great deal of embarrassment—ah, that is, should word get out as to how you used the poor child." One red-gold eyebrow arched in shrewd assessment. "I'm told she has several bruises on her person—one, in fact, on her sweetly rounded little—"
"Enough!" snapped Brett with a look of disgust. "I realize it's pointless to assure you I could not have been responsible for such physical damage to her person, so I suggest we come to the heart of the matter. What if I were to walk out of here without accepting your terms? What would happen to the girl then?"
Madame's eyes widened in a look of arranged surprise. "Why, I'd assumed that was obvious, Your Grace. She'd be put to work here, of course. I have a soft enough heart, but I cannot afford to run a house of charity, sir—ah, Your Grace."
"And I suppose that by 'work' you don't mean to signify her previous position as a menial?"
"Really, Your Grace." Madame smiled. "What kind of a businesswoman do you take me for? The girl is young, beautiful and orphaned. When she was still untouched I allowed myself to be persuaded to send her away from here to secure—ah—honest employment of a common sort. But now..." She shrugged. "As I have said, she is a bargain."
"To you, you mean."
"To me, to you, to whoever can afford her, Your Grace."
Brett sighed. He knew when he'd been bested. He wanted the girl, and this woman knew it, although what she did not know was that it was not the exorbitant price she was asking that made him hesitate; no, nor was it the threat of scandal she'd implied that drove him to accept her terms. What caused him his dilemma was the astounding story she'd told of how Ashleigh Sinclair came to be a ward of this house and the reaction this engendered in him. The girl had been a true innocent, and he had run roughshod over her; violated her, despite her protests. This did not sit well with him, to say the least. Indeed, when he had first come here this evening, it had been for the sole purpose of resecuring the "diversion" he'd felt he needed. That, and perhaps a restoration of his pride that had been slighted somewhat by the girl's running away from him after he'd made her a handsome offer.
But now something more was at work. He'd always been abrupt in his treatment of women, knowing what they were like by their very nature, but he felt it had always been with a sense of utmost fairness. Never had he trifled with a female who hadn't asked to be trifled with; indeed, to a woman, they had all sought him out first.
But this Ashleigh was another story. True, she was a woman, and therefore someone to be taken not altogether seriously, but still.... If he were to sleep with a clear conscience, he would have to make some amends, even if it meant meeting this creature on her own terms!
Sighing a second time, Brett rose from his seat. "Very well, Madame, I'll meet your demands. Do you require my promissory note now or—"
"That will hardly be necessary, Your Grace." Madame was smiling as she too rose from her chair. "You can have your solicitor come around in the morning." She gave him a side-wise glance. "I suppose you realize your reputation for prompt payment in this city is without blemish? Quite a recommendation, I assure you! There are not many of your set that can boast—"
"Yes, yes. Now, where is the girl, and how soon can I have her?"
Now Madame sighed. "I'm afraid it isn't going to be that easy. I'm informed she arrived rather badly shaken, and she's upstairs now in the care of one of my other employees who refuses to leave her side." She cocked her head to one side, looking up at him. "There may be some—ah—problem in prying her loose from this self-appointed watchdog, Your Grace. And... I'm afraid I'm going to leave the business of getting her to go with you, up to you."
Brett gave a grimace of displeasure. He hadn't thought of how to get the chit to come with him! He was silent for several seconds while he pondered this dilemma. At last he met the gaze of Madame, who waited with the patience that could only be ascribed to one who is wholly satisfied with her bargain.
"Very well, Madame," he told her. "Lead the way."
Upstairs in Megan's private chamber Ashleigh sat before a satinwood dressing table as she allowed Megan to towel-dry her hair. "Really, Megan, you needn't put yourself to all this fuss," she scolded good-naturedly. "You've been wonderful enough to me already."
"Sure, and I'd be doin' far more than the meager business o' helpin' ye bathe and the like, darlin' girl, if I thought it might help ye forget the ordeal ye've been through," said Megan as their eyes met in the mirror above the dressing table. Then the redhead's eyes narrowed to slanting green slits. "Faith, I don't know which I'd like t' get me hands on first, yer wicked duke or that stinkin' piece o' blond slime, Monica!"
Ashleigh shuddered, as much from the venom in her friend's voice as her mention of the two people who had recently done her so much injury. Then she shook her head while her eyes held the green ones in the mirror. "Oh, Megan, never think I consider him my duke!"
"Softly, darlin'," Megan replied. "'Twas merely an expression." She cast aside the towel she'd been using and reached for a mother-of-pearl-backed hairbrush, then carefully began pulling it through Ashleigh's long hair. "'Tis odd," she continued, "but with all I've heard o' the former Viscount Westmont, I've never actually laid eyes on him. He certainly avoided showin' his fancy face around here!"
Growing increasingly uncomfortable with the subject under discussion, Ashleigh was about to try changing the topic when a frantic onslaught of scrambling and shuffling sounds drew both women's attention. Suddenly the door swung open, and three figures burst into the chamber.
"No, ye don't, ye hairy beast!" Dorcas's voice rang through the room as she wielded a stout broom in the direction of a gray blur that was heading straight for Ashleigh. "'Tis bad enough ye found yer way up here where ye're not supposed t' be, but I'll not have ye herdin' yer little beastie as well!"
Ashleigh's arms were encircling Finn's muscular neck as she heard this, and she was just puzzling over what Dorcas had meant by "yer little beastie" when a loud, high-pitched squeal answered her question.
There, trying frantically to burrow under the velvet skirt of the dressing gown Megan had lent her, squirmed a small pink pig!
"Saints preserve us, 'tis the pesty porker!" cried Megan. She bent forward to thrust a wagging finger in Finn's direction. "Don't ye know better than t' be br
ingin' yer friend up here?"
Ashleigh watched in amazement as Finn withdrew from her embrace and bent to give the piglet a swipe with his long tongue. And her amazement grew when she saw the small, plump animal immediately begin to calm at the gesture, settling down with a series of contented grunting sounds onto the carpet. "Megan, Dorcas, what on earth—?"
"Ah, lass!" Dorcas exclaimed as she slowly lowered the broom she'd been brandishing. "I'm so sorry t' be troublin' ye with this interruption at such a difficult time, but ye know how quick Finn can be when he—"
"Yes, but—" Ashleigh's glance shifted from Dorcas to the softly grunting form at her feet "—the pig?"
"'Tis a long tale," Megan offered, "but I'll try t' make it brief. Shortly after ye left, himself here—" she cast a disapproving glance at Finn "—took up with makin' his own trips t' Mr. Tidley, the butcher, fer handouts. Well, all went smoothly enough the first few trips. Mr. Tidley seemed well-disposed t' be sendin' Finn back with all kinds o' scraps, and Finn seemed pleased as a leprechaun with his gold over the whole business. But then—" Megan's eyes returned to the wolfhound who was in the process of bestowing yet another lick on the contented pig.
"But then, what?" encouraged Ashleigh.
"But then the most outlandish thing happened." It was Dorcas's voice that had taken up the story. "I might as well tell it, as I was there!" she added with a glare at the tail-wagging Finn. "It was the day Mr. Tidley asked me t' come by and approve the choice he'd made fer the main course fer Madame's special spring banquet—a main course o' roast sucklin' pig! Well, Mr. Tidley had just gone out back t' fetch the little bugger, when all of a sudden, we customers in the shop heard the most ferocious growlin' comin' from the back o' Mr. Tidley's shop, and a moment later, the poor butcher's frightened voice. 'Dorcas,' cries he, 'Dorcas Ainsley, come here and help— please!'
"Well," said Dorcas, her blue eyes bright in her rosy face, "ye could have knocked me over with a feather, I was that surprised t' be hearin' him callin' me! But still, I wasted no time answerin' the poor man's request, and in a minute I was runnin' t' see what the trouble was. And I did." Again a damning glare in Finn's direction. "What I saw was yer beastie there, standin', with all his hackles raised, squarely over this pork chop! And he was barin' his fangs and growlin' in a menacin' way at Mr. Tidley, who was shakin' and backed against the wall!
"Well, it took me only a moment t' size up the situation, I can tell ye! 'Finn,' says I, 'ye leave this place at once! That pig is Madame's dinner!'" Dorcas gave an exasperated sigh. "And what do ye think that outrageous beast did next?" She paused to bestow a disgusted look upon the object under discussion. "Oh, he left the premises, all right. But only after lookin' me square in the eye and then proceedin' t' pick that four-footed piece o' pork up carefully in his great jaws and take it with him!"
Ashleigh's jaw hung open for a moment as she digested Dorcas's words. "Finn kidnapped a pig?"
"Aye," nodded Megan, "and there's been no separatin' them since. Kidnapped him and adopted him, all in the same minute."
There was a moment of astonished silence as all three women looked at Finn. As for the wolfhound, he was looking mighty pleased with himself; indeed, Ashleigh would have sworn he was grinning as he sat there with his mouth widely agape, his great tail thumping and his eyes bright and happy.
It was Megan who broke the silence. "Ye needn't look so pleased with yerself, me boy! 'Tis bad enough we've had a problem keepin' one beast out from under Madame's skirts. With two o' ye, 'tis well nigh impossible! And then there's poor Mr. Tidley! How, in the name o' the saints are we t' continue traffickin' with him when ye're daft enough t' keep goin' back there fer more handouts—and after what ye did?" She turned to Ashleigh. "Why, last evenin' it nearly scared the life out o' me t' be glancin' out the back window and seein' Finn makin' a beeline straight fer home, with the butcher hot on his heels, wavin' a meat cleaver like he meant business!"
"'Tis true," echoed Dorcas. "I saw it too, and heard it! 'Keep that thievin' animal out o' my shop!' says Tidley, 'or ye'll be buyin' yer meat across town!'"
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Ashleigh. She bent her gaze on Finn. "You certainly have made a hash of things, haven't you?" Then, to the two women across from her, "Er—what does Madame have to say of all this?"
"Those animals have until tomorrow morning to be gone from this house," said the adamant voice that came through the partially ajar door.
All three women's heads turned sharply toward the sound, and at the same moment the door swung open to reveal an angry looking Madame and the tall, striking figure of the duke of Ravensford.
Ignoring Ashleigh's gasp of shocked surprise and the low canine growl that followed, Madame snapped, "Dorcas, remove those two animals at once!"
As Dorcas hurried to obey, Madame fixed her gaze on the tall redhead. "Megan, I allowed you a free evening to tend to your friend, but I'm afraid I must now ask you to take over for me as hostess downstairs." She glanced briefly at the man on her left. "His Grace and I have business with Ashleigh."
Megan's focus shifted from the begowned figure of Madame to the man beside her. Slowly, and with a composure that went far beyond anything Ashleigh had ever seen her affect before, she allowed her gaze to traverse the tall man in impeccably tailored evening dress. When her perusal had run its course, she turned back to Ashleigh. "Are ye up t' seein' this... visitor, darlin'?" she queried softly, though loudly enough for the two in the doorway to hear.
Ashleigh had also been taking in the figure of Brett Westmont, and from the instant he'd appeared in the doorway, she'd been fighting to ignore the feelings that welled up inside her. Her clenched hands had gone white at the knuckles and her heart seemed to be beating so furiously, she fancied they all could hear it. The last thing on earth she wanted just now was to be subjected to his presence and its shameful reminders, but as she took in the poised stance of her employer and the set features of her face, she felt she had little choice but to capitulate to the older woman's wishes.
Forcing her words out over a tongue suddenly gone dry, she answered Megan in halting tones. "I—I'll be all right, Megan. You... you run along."
Hearing the uncertainty in her voice, Megan hesitated for a second and gave the pair in the doorway one more glance. Then, looking as if she'd made her mind up to something, she nodded to Ashleigh, saying, "Very well, mavourneen, I'll be goin', but if ye should change yer mind, ye've but t' call." Then, with a swish of emerald-green skirts, she left, parting the two figures in the doorway as she did so.
Madame swept into the room, saying, "Do come in, Your Grace."
As Brett followed her invitation, Ashleigh's eyes followed him. Dressed immaculately in perfect Corinthian fashion, he appeared every inch the duke he now was. The chestnut curls that closely hugged his finely shaped head were clean and shining; the snowy cravat under his strong, chiseled jaw would have done Brummell proud; a dark blue evening coat fit him to perfection as it covered those wide, muscular shoulders and tapered without a wrinkle down to his lean, masculine waist and hips; a white waistcoat and skintight pantaloons completed the picture of sartorial splendor, echoing both the modish dictates of the day and his long, lean and decidedly virile shape.
But Ashleigh had only a split second to note all of this; she quickly found herself under the well-remembered scrutiny of that turquoise gaze, its intensity forcing her to shift her eyes hurriedly away while she felt the heat creep into her face.
"Ashleigh, my dear, where are your manners?" Madame was asking. "You are hardly to remain seated when a duke of England enters the room!"
"It's really not necessary," Brett replied, but Ashleigh was already rising from the delicately curving X-frame Regency stool she'd occupied in front of Megan's dressing table; being of such diminutive stature, she felt herself at enough of a disadvantage beside the towering Brett and had no wish to compound this by remaining seated while His Grace stood!
With a flickering glance at Madame, Ashleigh made a brief
curtsy in Brett's direction, hating herself for feeling so intimidated. Where were her manners! What she'd like to be doing this very minute was to hurl every object within reach at her arrogantly smiling tormentor, and then be darting from the room, never to lay eyes on the man again!
As for Brett, the slow smile that had dawned on his handsome features may not have been exactly arrogant, but it was prompted by the look of ill-concealed rebellion he caught in Ashleigh's sapphire eyes. Then, too, he'd been absorbing the delicate beauty of the girl; it was, for some reason, almost as if he'd never seen her before—the finely sculpted, heart-shaped face that was framed by a cascade of blue-black hair, softly curling now that it had begun to dry, over her back and shoulders; the perfect, straight little nose that complemented a beautifully shaped mouth that seemed to tilt upward at the corners, despite her glum expression; the creamy complexion, offset by a tiny mole high on her right cheek; and, of course, those incredibly blue eyes with the barest hint of violet in their depths when she grew angry, as now. Somehow it all seemed fresh and new to him, as if he hadn't really looked at her before—and yet, of course, he knew he had....
"You... spoke of having business with me, Madame?" Ashleigh purposefully kept her eyes on her employer as she spoke, for Brett's presence in the chamber was intensely unnerving. The way he had looked at her! Why, if her hands weren't nervously fiddling with the deep periwinkle folds of the borrowed dressing gown she wore, she'd have sworn she'd been undressed!
"Ah, yes, child," said Madame. "That is, both His Grace and I, to some extent, do." She threw a glance at Brett. "I shall state the nature of our business, so far as it involves me, as succinctly and briefly as possible, Your Grace. From then on, you are on your own."
Catching Brett's nod through the veil of her downswept lashes, Ashleigh felt a frisson of apprehension course through her as she pondered Madame's words. What did she mean by "on your own"?
