Sattler, Veronica

by The Bargain

  Of course, Ashleigh now recalled with a shiver, His Grace's expression had grown darkly ominous at this last impertinence, and she had been forced to deliver a well-placed nudge to Megan's ribs with her elbow when she'd seen it; it was one thing to enjoy a joke at the duke's expense as a means of getting some small recompense for what he'd done to her; it was quite another to provoke the carefully leashed anger she now realized lurked just beneath the surface of that cool, seldom ruffled exterior, especially since he was now to be her employer for at least a year.

  Later, when she and Megan had been shown to their chamber in the town house and were at last alone, Ashleigh had questioned her friend about the entire business. "Aren't you afraid of pushing him too far, Megan? And what was it you meant to accomplish by avoiding his questions that way?"

  Megan had smiled before taking Ashleigh's hand and giving it a warm squeeze. "Ah, Ashleigh," she'd said, shaking her head, "have ye no faith in me judgment? 'Tis me, Megan O'Brien, ye're talkin' t', and I've made me way fer the better part o' five years by makin' it me business t' know men, remember? Don't ye fret, me lass, I'll not push him too far—although, I must admit," she'd added a bit softly, and more to herself, "that one does appear t' be a bit more complicated than most. I wonder what divil it is that irks him so..." Then, her tone immediately lightening, she'd looked Ashleigh in the eye, saying, "As fer the other, I can only tell ye that it never pays t' tell a man too much about yerself. Take me word fer it, me lass, a woman can go ever so much further in dealin' with her men when there's a wee touch o' the mysterious about her."

  "Oh..." Ashleigh had said, bemused. Then, picking up on one phrase, she'd hastened to protest, "But Megan, His Grace is not one of my men, as you seem to put it! Why, he's merely my employer, and—"

  "Hush now, Ashleigh, darlin', 'twas merely an expression... a way o' puttin' things, ye might say." Their discussion ended with this last pronouncement, but as Megan finished, Ashleigh wondered at the flicker of craftiness she could have sworn she'd glimpsed in those green Irish eyes.

  "Well, we're here." Brett's voice swept aside the curtain Ashleigh had drawn about herself with her ruminations, and she looked at him with a start, thrown back into the present.

  "Madame Gautier is the foremost dressmaker in London at the moment, or so I am told." He eyed the plain black cotton pelisse Ashleigh wore over an even plainer gray dress. Then his gaze traveled to the emerald-green silk evening cloak that covered most of Megan's statuesque form, and he bit back a grimace of distaste. He hadn't been able to get them here fast enough to suit his liking this morning, his new charge with her elfin beauty all but marred by the drab attire she'd been forced to wear as a menial, and her companion, outrageously accoutered in overdone finery that fairly shouted what her profession had been.

  Seeing their wardrobes suitably altered had, in fact, been a primary motive in his making it to Almack's last night— something he'd hardly have done under ordinary circumstances so soon after his grandfather's death. But he'd gone under the pretext of accepting condolences from friends who'd not been able to extend them personally, owing to the fact that his grandfather's had been a small, private funeral. At least, this is the story he'd offered Lady Jersey when she'd approached him with raised eyebrows and questioned the propriety of his appearing there at such a time. Of course, she'd looked at first as if she weren't about to believe him, but when he managed to go the entire evening without a single dance, not to mention spending most of it in conversation with her, she'd finally relented with a twinkle in her eye. Brett after all, along with his friend Lord Byron, was one of her favorites, and although her standards were strict, she was ready to forgive him much.

  It was during his talk with the formidable patroness of Almack's that he'd been able to ferret out that Madame Gautier was still the only modiste used by the fashionable ladies of the ton; Pamela, his recent mistress, had left by the time he'd arrived, a close five minutes before eleven, and, he now decided, he'd actually been relieved at not having to ply such information from her; she might have taken it into her head that he was suggesting he buy her some new additions to her wardrobe, and this was the last thing he intended to do. Pamela Marlowe was quickly growing tiresome to him, and if anything, he intended to deluge her with hints that their association was drawing to an end. Perhaps this had even already been accomplished; if what Lady Jersey had hinted at were true, Lady Marlowe had spent most of the evening searching him out and finally left in a huff of annoyance a quarter hour before he'd arrived. "Tell His Grace when you see him," she told the patroness, "that I find my patience at last at an end this evening."

  Brett smiled with this thought as he helped Ashleigh and Megan down from the coach, but the smile was short-lived, for whom did he spy exiting Madame Gautier's exalted establishment but Lady Jersey, followed close at hand by Lady Bess-borough and Lady Castlereagh! Groaning inwardly, he quickly pasted a facsimile of a smile in place of the vanished genuine article and strode forward to greet the three.

  "Ravensford! Fancy meeting you here, Your Grace!" Lady Jersey's look was artful, and Brett saw her glance dart immediately to the pair of women beside him.

  "M'lady," Brett murmured as he bowed over her extended hand. Repeating the gesture with Lady Bessborough and Lady Castlereagh, he turned toward the two beside him. "Ladies, allow me to introduce my—ah—my new ward, Miss Sinclair, and her companion, Miss O'Brien."

  "Indeed?" intoned Lady Castlereagh. She was easily known as the grande dame among the patronesses at Almack's, and her "indeed" implied much as she peered down her haughty nose at Ashleigh.

  Guessing from the looks on the faces of the three women, Brett knew he would need to move quickly if the appearance of the other two in his life were to be accepted. "Miss Sinclair is the daughter of an old family friend who died years ago. My grandfather, just before he died, learned she'd been raised in an orphanage all these years and took steps to bring her to live with us. We were just about to see Madame Gautier about exchanging her—ah—institutional garb for something more... suitable." He stared boldly back at Lady Castlereagh's questioning gaze, as if daring her to doubt him, inwardly cursing the constraints society sometimes forced him into. An image of the unfurled sails of his ship, the Ravens-crest, flashed into his mind, and he sincerely wished he were on it, the salt breeze blowing through his hair and society be damned!

  "Sinclair... hmm..." murmured Lady Castlereagh. "And just how do you spell your surname, Miss Sinclair? Is it S-I-N-C-L-A-I-R or S-T.-C-L-A-I-R or S-T.-C-L-A-R-E? One never knows with spellings of common names, you know. Dr. Johnson did a great deal to fix the spellings of the common nouns with his Dictionary of the English Language but with proper nouns one can never be sure. And occasionally the variations can even lead to the most execrable mispronunciations. Why, in America, I'm told, they've actually begun to call the latter two spellings I've cited by the atrocious pronunciation of Saint Clare! As a matter of fact," she added with a pointed look in Lady Jersey's direction, "there is a young lord who has just recently been admitted to Almack's who uses such an abomination. Had it been up to me, the upstart would never have been allowed access!"

  The censure in her gaze as it fell upon Lady Jersey left no doubt as to who had admitted the "upstart," but a second later her attention was focused once more on Ashleigh. "And which spelling is yours, my dear?"

  Ashleigh licked her lips nervously before replying in a small voice, "The first, m'lady."

  "Ah," nodded the grande dame, "then in your case there can be no corruption.... Hmm... I knew a Sinclair family once. Tell me, did your parents—"

  "Ah, I don't believe I've expressed my appreciation over the kind letter of condolence you sent at my grandfather's passing, Lady Castlereagh," Brett hastily interrupted. Anything to get her off the scent of Ashleigh's background! "Allow me to do so now."

  "How pretty you are, my dear," Lady Jersey was saying to Ashleigh, and Brett was grateful for the change of subject. "I agree it is high time you were
attired to show off such beauty. You will find Madame Gautier up to snuff in that arena, I daresay."

  Ashleigh blushed under the compliment and felt more than a little relieved when the scrutiny of all three ladies passed from her to Megan.

  "Miss O'Brien, is it?" Lady Bessborough was asking Brett.

  "Ah, yes. Miss Sinclair's companion is also in need of a new wardrobe," Brett said quickly, at the same time throwing Megan a look of warning. "It seems hers was lost in a fire at the inn where she was staying, and the only clothes the poor woman was left with were the evening attire she was wearing while dining with some friends."

  "How perfectly awful for you, Miss O'Brien," Lady Bess-borough murmured sympathetically.

  "Yes," added Lady Jersey with an appraising glance at the tall redhead, "but on the other hand, how perfectly fortunate that you were not with your wardrobe when the fire broke out." She turned toward Brett. "Don't you agree, Your Grace? I mean, life does have a way of balancing ill fortune with good, does it not? Take the situation of your new ward, here." She inclined her head briefly in Ashleigh's direction but kept her shrewd gaze focused on him. "Finding oneself an orphan at a tender age must indeed be a terrible blow, but being—ah— rescued by none other than the duke of Ravensford himself! Well, that, I should say, is an inestimable stroke of good fortune!"

  Just then a second grand coach pulled up behind Brett's, and Lady Jersey noted it with a scowl. "Ah, well, it seems my coach has arrived." She turned to Ashleigh. "So good to have met you, my dear. You must come to call someday soon for tea. We shall find a great deal to chat about, I'm sure."

  With briefly murmured farewells the three were soon ensconced within the handsome blue and gold coach and off down St. James's. The silence that fell in the wake of their departure was broken by an audible sigh of relief from Megan.

  "Sure and 'twas the color o' me shift they'd have been after knowin' next," she declared. "Faith, Yer Grace, are they always that pryin'? I've seen hounds on the scent give up more easily!"

  Brett chuckled as he led the two women to the door of the dressmaker's. "Never underestimate the investigative capabilities of those women or the power they wield, especially Jersey and Castlereagh! As patronesses of Almack's, their social influence is unlimited. For some years now, vouchers of admission to Almack's have been the yardstick of social acceptance in this country. Without it—and by that I mean without the nod of those half-dozen or so dear ladies who function as Almack's patronesses—no one who aspires to be included among the ton can really say he has arrived."

  Brett was holding open the handsome green and gilt door of the shop for them, and as they passed through, Ashleigh commented, "But surely such social assets as birth and position have more to do with this selectivity than—"

  An explosive chuckle met her ears as Brett closed the door behind them. "Don't you believe it!" he told her. "As of this year's standing, for example, I'm told that out of some three hundred officers of the Guards, only a half dozen have been honored with vouchers of admission."

  "No!" exclaimed Megan. "But the Guards are considered the cream—"

  "Exactly," countered Brett. "And not only are the standards for admission high; once admitted, there are still the very strict and somewhat arbitrary rules that can exclude. Take the sacrosanct edict that forbids anyone entry after eleven in the evening. Guess what happened to none other than the duke of Wellington himself when the poor man had the misfortune to arrive at seven minutes past that prescribed hour."

  "But of course, 'e was excluded!" said a French-accented female voice from across the room.

  Ashleigh turned and saw a small, birdlike woman of about forty advancing toward them. She was modishly, but not elegantly, attired in a simple day frock of gauzy black cotton. It matched the black hair she wore severely pulled back from her angular face in a chignon and the black eyes that darted over the two younger women in quick, assessing fashion.

  "Bonjour, monsieur le duc." She nodded at Brett with a smile.

  "News travels fast in London," Brett returned.

  "And nowhere faster than in ze places where ze favored go to decorate zemselves," said the Frenchwoman. "And while we are about eet, allow me to convey my deepest sympathy to you on your grand-père's passing. All of London ees shocked by ze news."

  Brett nodded his appreciation and watched the woman's attention shift to the somberly clad figure of Ashleigh beside him. "Madame Gautier, allow me to present my new ward, Miss Sinclair."

  As Ashleigh smiled shyly in greeting, Madame Gautier's glance shifted briefly back to Brett. There was a knowing, contemplative look in the dark eyes before they returned to Ashleigh. "Hmm," she murmured. "Eet would seem not all ze news 'as made eet zrough my doors. I congratulate you on your... ward, monsieur le duc. She ees exquisite." She looked back at Brett. "But of course, what ees needed ees to transform exquisite into superbe, by way of ze appropriate costume, eh? And for zat, you 'ave come to me, n'est-ce pas?"

  Assuring her they would have used no one else, Brett launched into a brief recapitulation of the story he'd given Lady Jersey, thus assuring its rapid installation into the channels of gossip that London thrived on. As he finished, he watched Madame Gautier's eyes dart to the figure of Megan who, until now, had been standing behind him, taking everything in.

  The Frenchwoman took only a moment to assess the appearance of the tall redhead, then exclaimed, "Mon Dieu! I can 'ardly believe eet! Suzanne! Suzanne, come 'ere at once!" She turned toward the rear of the shop as she called, and as all four of them looked in that direction, a tall figure emerged from a doorway there.

  Ashleigh gasped as they all beheld the source of Madame Gautier's excitement. Walking toward them was a tall, redheaded young woman who resembled Megan so closely, they might have been sisters. Lovely, slanted green eyes lit up the young woman's strikingly beautiful features as she too saw the reason she had been so enthusiastically summoned.

  "Saints preserve us!" breathed Megan.

  "My daughter, Suzanne Gautier O'Sullivan," Madame Gautier said proudly. She gave a small apologetic smile in their direction. "I use my maiden name because eet ees much better beesness to be a French modiste wiz a French surname. But my poor dead 'usband was as Irish as you are, Mademoiselle O'Brien," she added.

  "Yes, well, Miss O'Brien will be needing a new wardrobe as well," said Brett with a brief glance at his pocket watch. "I was—"

  "Say no more about eet, monsieur le duc," Madame Gautier told him with Gallic assuredness. "Suzanne ees my ablest assistant. I myself 'ave been training 'er for years. And oo better to understand ze needs of zis tall beauty wiz ze exotic coloring, eh? Alors! Take Mademoiselle O'Brien to your fitting room, Suzanne. You can begin showing 'er some fashion sketches while I attend to ze little one 'ere."

  As a bemused Suzanne showed an equally bemused Megan to the rear chambers of the shop, her mother turned toward Ashleigh. "Now, Mademoiselle Sinclair, tell me, what ees eet you are in need of, eh? A couple of new ball gowns? A walking dress or two? Some morning gowns, per'aps?"

  "Oh," murmured Ashleigh, at a loss. She was hardly accustomed to ordering anything in the way of elaborate, specifically designated attire. In all the years at Hampton House, she'd had only two frocks at any one time—the one she was wearing and a spare when that was being laundered—and these she had always stitched herself, with Dorcas's help. She could vaguely recall some fittings she'd had as a child, upstairs in the sewing chamber as Mother had watched while a local seamstress had draped and pinned fabric about her, but these recollections were clouded by time. Moreover, she had no idea what gowns and the like cost these days, and inasmuch as Brett would be paying for whatever was ordered today, she felt awkward over making any decisions in that regard.

  But as the silence grew and Madame Gautier continued to look at her questioningly, she forced a response.

  "I... that is..." She glanced apprehensively up at Brett who appeared absorbed in the myriad bolts of cloth and pieces of ribbon and lac
e that were scattered haphazardly about. No help there. "W-would one of each be too much to expect?" she asked timidly.

  "One of each? One of each what, chérie?" Madame Gautier asked as she gestured about her. "One of each color? One of each fabric? One of each—"

  "I—I meant one of each kind," murmured Ashleigh. "You know, one morning gown, one—"

  "She'll need at least a dozen of each sort, Madame Gautier," Brett interrupted. "I plan to do quite a bit of entertaining, and Miss Sinclair will be acting as my hostess."

  Ashleigh's head swung around as he spoke, her mouth forming an O of surprise. A dozen of each! She'd had no idea...

  "But of course you are right, monsieur le duc." Madame Gautier was beaming as she began to move toward the rear of the shop. "Excuse me for just one moment, please. I must collect my sketchbooks.... Hmm... a dozen ball gowns... a dozen day gowns... a dozen carriage dresses... a dozen walking dresses..." They heard her murmuring to herself as she disappeared through the door through which Megan and Suzanne had gone earlier.

  When the door had shut behind her, Ashleigh turned and glanced at Brett. This was the first they had been alone together since he had charged back into her life—was it only last evening? And she wasn't exactly comfortable with this sudden realization. Standing beside her, looking ever so tall and broad-shouldered and spectacularly handsome, was the man who had arrogantly invaded the privacy of her body not so long ago, who had forced intimacies she had not even guessed could exist between male and female; and now, all at once, she was expected to appear beside him as if none of this had happened, to be escorted about like a lady and introduced as his ward! This last thought brought with it a sharp gust of anger at the story he'd concocted. His ward, indeed!