Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  "As you might have guessed," Madame was saying, "by virtue of your return to Hampton House this evening, you have again come under the aegis of my protection, or my employ."

  Ashleigh nodded uncertainly, unsure of what she was leading up to.

  "But you must know, Ashleigh dear, that under the circumstances, I can no longer afford to keep you in the position you enjoyed while you were growing up. You are a lovely young woman now, with far more—ah—assets than a menial's position might make use of. However, it has been made more than clear to me by certain other members of my staff that you would be opposed, if not ill suited, to a—um—position such as that occupied by the majority of the women in my employ. Is that not so?"

  Again, Ashleigh nodded, but her eyes locked with Madame's as she awaited further elucidation.

  "Moreover, His Grace informs me that he sorely misses your company, that you left his employ without his leave, therefore—"

  "His 'employ'!" cried Ashleigh aghast. "I arrived at his home to assume a governess's position, only to find myself violated and—and held prisoner! How can you—"

  "My dear Ashleigh," Madame cut in, "it is neither here nor there to me, what the nature of your employment at Ravensford Hall was! The fact remains that you are once again in my hands and His Grace has—ah—need of you. Since you are unwilling or unable to perform the only acceptable function I have need of here, I have been forced to conclude a bargain with His Grace, regarding your services—services, my dear, which His Grace has already purchased."

  There was a shallow gasp from Ashleigh before the room fell deadly silent for several seconds. Then Ashleigh raised tear-flooded eyes to meet the gray-green gaze of the older woman. "How much?" she asked in a voice that quavered somewhere above a whisper. "How much did you sell me for?"

  "That," answered Madame, turning toward the half-open door, "is privileged information—unless, of course, His Grace should decide to inform you. I suggest," she added as she moved through the door with a careless wave of a bejeweled hand, "you take it up with him." And with a swish of rustling taffeta, she was gone.

  Staring into the wake of her departure, Ashleigh was silent for one tension-filled moment, then whirled to face Brett. "How very clever of you, Your Grace!" she sneered through the tears that threatened to choke her speech. "Having found you couldn't buy me outright, by a direct offer, you made straight for the one person from whom you could!"

  Brett watched the lovely face streaked with tears and cursed inwardly. Damn! He'd known this wouldn't be easy! "Miss Sinclair," he murmured softly, taking a step toward her.

  "'Miss Sinclair'!" Ashleigh cried. "Oh, that's wonderfully proper, that is! Tell me, Your Grace, do you always use such unstintingly fine manners to sugarcoat your debauchery?"

  Stung, yet feeling somehow he'd earned it, Brett moved a step closer. "Now, see here, Ashleigh, I—"

  "No, you see here!" came the harshly bitter retort. "There is nothing on God's good earth that will make me become your mistress! Your bought-and-paid-for mistress! Do you hear? Nothing! I'm leaving here and somehow I'm going to find honest employment. I don't care what it is—scrubbing floors, selling flowers, whatever—so long as it is clean and honest work! And you had better tell me what it is you paid that— that—woman—" she gestured half hysterically toward the open doorway "—so that I can repay it. And I will! Every rotten shilling!"

  Brett heard all this with as much patience as he could muster. No one had ever berated him in this fashion, and least of all, a female! Nevertheless, there was a certain amount of uneasiness residing within him where this female was concerned, and besides, he'd already made up his mind what to do here, and he was anxious to make it clear to her.

  "Ashleigh," he said calmly, trying not to let the note of chagrin he felt creep into his voice as he viewed her tear-stained face, "suppose I were to tell you that I have no intention of installing you in my home as a mistress. Suppose it was I who was offering you a chance at this 'honest employment' you speak of. What then?"

  He was standing very close to her right now, and, even before she was able to digest the full import of his words, Ashleigh thought she caught a look of sincerity in the turquoise eyes, shimmeringly visible through her tears. "You—you mean...?" Her eyes scanned his face, hovering on the brink between doubt and hope. "Wh-what kind of employment?" she asked tentatively.

  "Aye, Yer Grace," came a bold female voice from the doorway. "What kind, indeed?"

  Both Ashleigh and Brett turned to see Megan's tall, emerald-clad form leaning against the doorjamb. She was toying desultorily with a long lock of red hair that had fallen over one shoulder, but the look in her eyes was canny and intense.

  "Ye'll pardon me, Yer Grace, but I don't think we've been properly introduced. Me name's Megan O'Brien, and me line o' work—" she shrugged "—has just altered. I am newly appointed Miss Sinclair's—ah—business agent, and I'd be interested in hearin' what it is ye're proposin' t' her."

  "Newly appointed...? Megan, what on earth are you talking about?" Ashleigh exclaimed.

  "Well, newly self-appointed ye might say, Ashleigh, darlin'. Ye see, I just caught wind o' what Madame's done t' ye, and I've up and quit me post. No, none o' yer protests, me lass. 'Tis time I did it! Now," she added, turning her eyes on Brett, "as I was sayin', Yer Grace, what kind o' work did ye have in mind fer the wee colleen, and, by the way, while we're at it, ye'd better know that wherever she goes, I go too!" Megan's perfect white teeth flashed in a smug, satisfied smile.

  With an inward groan, Brett appraised the situation as he glanced from Megan to Ashleigh, and then back to Megan again, and for the first time in his life he cursed the sense of honor his grandfather had raised him with. Now he'd be forced to deal with two useless women, one of them a childlike near virgin, the other, a newly retired whore! He fixed Megan with a look of reproach. "Am I to take it you don't trust my honorable intentions, Miss O'Brien?"

  "Ye may, if ye wish, Yer Grace. But far more than that, I'm after seein' that the little colleen here has a friend beside her this time, when she goes off t' this new work ye mentioned. And again, Yer Grace, if ye don't mind... the type o' work...?"

  Hearing the adamant tone in her deceptively lilting voice, and suspecting it was restrained fury he caught in the green eyes, Brett sighed, deciding he'd probably have to go along with her. "Miss Sinclair," he then began slowly, "would be installed in my household as a hostess of sorts—or assistant hostess, if you will. My great-aunt has performed that function for years, inasmuch as my grandfather was a widower, but she is getting on in years and would, I'm sure, appreciate the help." Brett paused for a moment with this lie; if there were anyone in the world who could be counted on not to appreciate such unsolicited assistance, it was Lady Margaret, but since this in no way fit in with his plans, he decided to go right past it. Time enough to deal with Margaret later!

  "Your duties would be simple and clear-cut. I shall be entertaining friends both in Kent and in London on occasion, and at such times, I shall require a hostess. From what I have seen, and learned of your breeding and background, you should be able to carry out such responsibilities admirably, Miss Sinclair."

  Ashleigh's mind whirled with this proposal, for it caught her completely unprepared. Did he really mean what he was saying? Could he be trusted? After all, duke or not, he'd been no gentleman before, and once she was back in his clutches, what was to prevent him from... Her mind balked at the horrible possibilities, and she felt the blood rising to her cheeks.

  Of course, she would not be alone this time—Megan would be there, bless her heart. And then, too, what other choices did she have? To remain here and become one of Madame's stable of fallen women? To go into the streets, seeking God-knows-what? She cast a brief sidelong glance at Brett who stood, waiting patiently for her response, but his expression was shuttered and gave her no further clues. Finally she looked at Megan.

  "Well, Ashleigh, darlin', what do ye think?"

  "I was about t
o ask you that question, Megan."

  "Hmm," said her friend as her glance darted from Ashleigh to Brett. "And ye'd be havin' no objections t' Ashleigh havin' a couple o' friends along in the bargain, Yer Grace?"

  "A couple?" Brett queried.

  "Ah, well, yes," said Megan, the green eyes suddenly hinting at merriment. "There's meself, as I've already plainly stated, and then there's Finn...."

  "Finn?" Brett's eyebrows rose suspiciously.

  "The fine Irish wolfhound ye laid eyes on but a short while ago. Ye see, Yer Grace," she added with a smile that indicated she was now enjoying herself tremendously, "he's the only male Ashleigh trusts these days."

  Brett made a sound that was somewhere between a snort and a protest, but then glanced at the small porcelain clock on the mantel and, seeing the hour, said hurriedly, "Yes, yes, I'll find a place for you all"—although a momentary consideration of what Margaret's reaction would be when she learned of the redhead's background caused a small inward shudder. He shifted his gaze to Ashleigh. "Well, Miss Sinclair?"

  Ashleigh's indecision registered in her eyes. "I... I'd have to have some sort of—of income. That is, I meant it when I said I intend to repay what you spent to—to have me, and I don't see how I'm to do it unless... unless..."

  "I'll have my solicitor deposit five hundred pounds with the Bank of England in your name, first thing in the morning. We'll consider this your yearly stipend. In addition—"

  "Ah, I was after thinkin' a thousand pounds a year would be more like it, Yer Grace," came the interruption from the doorway.

  Brett's frown of displeasure was blatant. "A thousand pounds is a lot of money, Miss O'Brien."

  "Aye." Megan nodded. "But since 'tis the very amount ye paid Madame fer Ashleigh's—ah—services..." She shrugged. "After all, Yer Grace, ye'd wish her t' be able t' repay ye, wouldn't ye?"

  Brett's sigh was nearly a groan. He nodded. "A thousand yearly."

  Megan returned the nod. "Now, Yer Grace, as ye were sayin'...?"

  "As I was saying, in addition, there will be fifty pounds for each specific occasion—a dinner party, whatever, wherein you perform the duties of hostess. And of course, all of your expenses will be borne by me. Does that suit?"

  "Ex-expenses?"

  Brett made an impatient gesture. "Food, clothing—living expenses."

  Wide-eyed, Ashleigh nodded. She hadn't dreamed the offer would be so generous. But then her eyes went to Megan who remained in the doorway, taking all of this in with a look of total satisfaction on her face. Returning her eyes to Brett, she ventured one more request. "There—there would have to be some—some compensation for my companion, too," she managed to tell him.

  Brett let out an exasperated rush of breath. "Three hundred pounds a year and she doubles as your abigail." He cast an appraising glance at Megan, then at the hairbrush on the dressing table. "She was helping you with your toilette earlier this evening, was she not?"

  Ashleigh looked uncertain and glanced at Megan. "I'm not sure—"

  "It'll be fine fer me, darlin'," Megan put in. "Companion and abigail... aye, I like the sound o' that!"

  Brett was glancing at the clock again. It was after ten, and if he was to make Almack's before they closed the doors at eleven... His eyes focused on Ashleigh's. "Well, Miss Sinclair? Are we agreed?"

  As Ashleigh met his gaze she was still far from deciding. It seemed like such a risk-ridden thing to do! But then a sharp burst of drunken laughter from a chamber down the hall and the sound of a door slamming reminded her of her alternatives. With a brief glance at Megan, she took a deep breath and answered him. "Very well, Your Grace, we'll go."

  CHAPTER NINE

  The following morning Ashleigh sat across from Brett and Megan in a carriage bearing them across town. It was a grand vehicle, far larger than the light, open barouche into which their motley group had been squeezed when leaving Hampton House the evening before. And as Brett had given her and Megan a hand up into the present vehicle, she had glimpsed the handsome black, gold and crimson Ravensford coat of arms emblazoned on the door and been properly awed. Now, as she sat comfortably ensconced in the rich, soft leather interior as they were whisked around Hyde Park, Ashleigh felt that awe growing.

  What, she at last dared ask herself, was she doing here, riding in a duke's carriage in the midst of London's most fashionable district? She, Ashleigh Sinclair, who only one short week ago had been unquestioningly discharging her duties as a scullery and serving maid. Somehow, despite the cementing presence of the cool-visaged man across from her, the reality of the bargain she had entered into last evening hadn't seemed quite real—until now. Now, with London's late-spring sunshine filtering through the carriage's clean, shiny windows, the enormity of what she was presently involved in became apparent to her, almost as if in the bright sunlight there could be absolutely no pretense. Now she had to admit her life had suddenly changed, and in ways unalterable and all too real.

  She allowed herself a covert glance at the man sitting across from her. He seemed totally impervious to the presence of the two women with whom he shared the carriage. Immaculately groomed, as always, he wore a morning coat of deep blue superfine, a perfectly tied cravat above his tan waistcoat, and buff-colored breeches that snugly covered the muscular lower reaches of his tall frame until they met a pair of blue and gold Hessians. The profile he presented to her as she chanced a second glance from beneath lowered lashes might have been carved of stone as he fixed his turquoise gaze on the scenery outside the window; the wide, handsome forehead fringed by a chestnut brush of curls, the straight, well-chiseled nose, the arrogant mouth that perfectly complemented a square, strongly carved jaw—all could have been made of granite.

  Ashleigh sighed inwardly. She had no need, actually, to be glimpsing those handsome, formidable features. Their every line had been unwillingly committed to memory during that awful twenty-four hours when she had been his plaything, etched and re-etched there during those hours when he had used her so cavalierly and then again, later, when he had held her prisoner. Even now, when she dared allow herself to think of it, her body burned with shame, her cheeks feeling as if they were on fire.

  Despite this recollection, she found herself stealing yet another glance at Brett's profile, this time with the hope of assessing his mood and guessing at his thoughts. He seemed not to have moved an inch over the past minutes and appeared to her cool and distant, even brooding. There was no hint of the lazy smile she knew could transform his entire aspect; with that smile his face took on inestimable charm, with its flashing white teeth and a pair of deeply grooved dimples. No, this morning she saw a different man altogether from the rakish captor who had dishonored her; different even from the brisk, efficient man of business of last evening.

  Recalling a scene from the evening before, Ashleigh suddenly found herself biting her lower lip to keep from giggling, for there had been one instant when His Grace had lost his businesslike aplomb. It had been the moment when they were about to enter his barouche. Actually, Brett had already handed her up and was turning to assist Megan in similar fashion when the redhead had suddenly whirled about, crying, "Wait! We've forgotten a couple o' things, Yer Grace!" And Ashleigh had watched the duke's face change from a look of annoyed impatience to one of horrified disgust as Megan had emerged from Hampton House a few moments later with a tail-wagging Finn behind her, and, bringing up the rear, a happily grunting pig! Oh, but it had been difficult to keep from laughing aloud as His Grace's "What in hell do you take me for, Miss O'Brien, a Gypsy circus master?" had cut across the warm night air! Nor, she merrily reflected now, was it any easier to stifle her giggles when she saw the look on his face as Megan had peremptorily marched her little ensemble straight past him and into the waiting carriage with a look of smug disdain on her beautiful Gaelic features.

  Ashleigh's gaze shifted to Megan, and as their eyes met, she could tell from the answering twinkle in the green eyes that Megan must have read her thoughts, for after a qui
ck glance at Brett's averted profile, the corners of the redhead's mouth began to twitch with amusement.

  "I've been givin' it a great deal o' thought, Ashleigh, darlin', and I've at last come up with a solution," Megan suddenly said aloud. At Ashleigh's look of puzzlement she hastened on. "'Tis over what name t' give the wee lady piglet, o' course! Ye recall, we were after findin' one last night?"

  Ashleigh nodded, but couldn't help darting a glance in Brett's direction. His Grace hadn't moved a jot during this exchange, but Ashleigh thought she detected a slight tightening of the muscles about his mouth and perhaps the barest flaring of those arrogant nostrils as well.

  "The wee porker, ye may have noted," Megan was saying, "has the loveliest pair o' dimples gracin' her sweet little rump, and bein' she's a lady pig, what would ye think about callin' her Lady Dimples?" It was Megan's turn to glance at the rigid profile of their carriage companion, but unlike Ashleigh's, her glance was bold and saucy, and when she returned it to Ashleigh, it was accompanied by a wickedly wide grin.

  Again Ashleigh had to stifle a giggle, for the grin reminded her of yet another episode from the evening before. Once their unlikely ensemble had been crowded into the barouche and Brett began driving them to his town house, he had plied Ashleigh with a host of questions about her background. He'd learned from Madame that her father had been a minor nobleman of some sort; what was his title? Did she have any living relatives? Where had her family home been located? But each time he had set forth one of these inquiries, it had been Megan who'd answered or, rather, parried a response. Giving Ashleigh's hand a surreptitious squeeze to indicate she should be still, the Irishwoman's replies had been deftly evasive: "Well, now, 'tis a long time since the poor colleen's tragedy, and herself bein' such a wee lass when it all happened, I'm sure she only recalls callin' her da 'Papa' or 'Father,' Yer Grace.... Sure and ye'd not be wishin' t' dredge up all those tragic memories fer the poor lass by askin' her t' recall a home that is no more!"... and, finally, "Ah, 'tis a poor, homeless orphan she was, ladylike down t' her bones, and the soul of virtue! Anyone with half an eye could've seen that!" And this last had been accompanied by, first, the most accusing of looks aimed directly at His Grace and then a wide, devilish grin.